National Scholar Updates

The rabbinic roots of the Fetaya family can be traced back to Hakham Reuven David Nawi (1770–1821). Hakham Reuven was disciple of Hakham Moshe Haim, the father of the Ben Ish Hai, and was described by the latter as “the great scholar, master of the Torah, our master….” Hakham Reuven passed away at a young age, and only one of his halakhic works, Yehi Reuven, has been published. His grandson Hakham Moshe Yeshua Yehezkel Fetaya (1830–1905) was a mystic and a poet. He founded one of the first printing houses in Baghdad in 1866, with his brother Aharon and their partner Rahamim ben Reuven. Fifty-five books were printed by the printing house until 1882, but Hakham Moshe’s own poems, covering a range of themes from mysticism to stories of personal miracles and prayers for redemption, were printed only in 1909 by his son, my great-grandfather, Hakham Yehudah.

I have heard the following story from my grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya, regarding the initiation of his father into the wisdom of Kabbalah. Hakham Yosef Haim, better known as the Ben Ish Hai, who was 25 years Hakham Yehudah’s senior, used to deliver a sermon on Shabbat afternoon at the great synagogue of Baghdad, Midrash bet Zilkha, also known as Slat il-Kbiri. The Ben Ish Hai was a mesmerizing orator, and his sermons lasted several hours and included halakha, Torah commentary, ethical teachings, and Kabbalah.

In 1869, when Hakham Yehudah Fetaya was only nine years old, he came home crying one Shabbat afternoon. To his father’s inquiry, he answered that he attended the Ben Ish Hai’s sermon and felt frustrated that he could not understand the Kabbalah part of it. His father was moved by his son’s genuine interest and promised him that he would teach him Kabbalah. He did so until his son Yehudah turned 12, at which point his father told him that he has taught him all that he knows and that the time had come to search for a greater master. Young Yehudah duly enrolled in the Rabbinic Seminary of Hakham Abdallah Somekh (1813–1889), the most prominent of Baghdad’s rabbis in the nineteenth century.

In 1876, four years into his studies with Hakham Abdallah Somekh, the Hakham asked 16-year-old Yehudah to be the Hazzan for Minha at the Rabbinic Seminary. One of the older rabbis who was present protested, claiming that a Hazzan must be a married man with a full beard, but Hakham Abdallah Somekh insisted that the teenager he chose will be the Hazzan. “I cannot make his beard grow,” he said, “or marry him off right now, but since everyone agrees that a rabbi can serve as a Hazzan, I will now ordain him.” And so young Yehudah Fetaya was ordained, as a rabbi, at the age of 16.

The honor bestowed upon Hakham Yehudah by his great master did not quench his thirst for knowledge. Alongside his studies of Talmud and halakha under Hakham Abdallah, he learned Kabbalah under Hakham Shimon Agassi and the Ben Ish Hai, eventually becoming their colleague.

Hakham Yehudah was a prolific author, who wrote his first commentary on Kabbalah at the age of 23. The book, which he called Afiquei Mayim, is a commentary on Rabbi Haim Vital’s Etz Hayim, and was only published in a facsimile edition. He later expanded the commentary to what has become his magnum opus, the two-volume commentary on Etz Haim known as Beth Lehem Yehuda. This commentary was praised when first published and is still considered by leading scholars in the field as “The Rashi” on Etz Haim. Hakham Yehudah also wrote commentaries on portions of the Zohar, Yain HaReqah, on the portions known as Idera Raba and Idera Zuta, and Matoq LaNefesh on the Zohar of Parashat Mishpatim. He chose to write a commentary on those portion because they were widely studied during anniversaries for the deceased, and he wanted people to better understand what they were reading.

In general, one could say that despite his lofty field of study, Hakham Yehudah was very much down to earth and involved with the people. His house was open for all and he addressed questions and counseled people constantly. In his private diary, which is kept by my family, he describes a period in his life in which he experienced great closeness to God, a meditative state known as Devekut. He writes how his legs would carry him to his destination, while his mind and soul were elsewhere, but when he got to the yeshiva to deliver a class on Talmud, he reconnected with reality. I find that story intriguing not only because of the meditative state it describes, but for the ability of Hakham Yehudah to detach himself from this state of spiritual bliss for the sake of his students.

Among the many books of Hakham Yehudah, there are anthologies of commentaries on the Torah and Pirkei Avot, original prayers, and mystical writings, but the most popular of his works is no doubt the one he calls a notebook. That book, Minhat Yehudah, is basically a kabbalistic commentary on the Bible, but in several places, the author segues to discuss the interpretation of dreams and issues related to reincarnation. In the introduction to the book he writes that his main purpose in writing the book was to inform people of the full spiritual scope of their life in this world and the world to come and to encourage them to repent.

Among the many disciples in the field of Kabbalah were H. Sasson Mizrahi, H. Yitzhak Khadouri, H. Salman Moutzafi, and H. Salman Eliyahu, father of H. Mordecahi Eliyahu, Chief Rabbi of Israel and a very close friend of my grandfather and my family, but although his printed works focus on Kabblah, H. Yehudah’s activism and teachings were not limited to the esoteric. In one of his few halakhic responses that were preserved, he uses harsh words to criticize men who take advantage of women desperate to get married. He calls on the other judges to amend the situation where all the power was in the man’s hand, saying that women should not need to suffer by being summoned to court, or by feeling that they are tied in marriage to a man against their will.

He was also concerned with the physical and mental health of the people who came to him for a blessing or to seek help. My mother, who was eight years old when her grandfather passed away, told me that people used to say about him in Arabic “idou khudhra”—his hands are green—meaning that they felt special spiritual energy when he blessed them. She herself felt it, and I have experienced it as a child when my grandfather, H. Shaul, took care of me after I was frightened by a dog and could not sleep several nights. He sat me on his lap, placed his hand on my chest and recited verses, and I felt a pleasant warmth spreading through my body and soul. Years later, when my own children went through similar experiences, I tried to do the same, thinking that it might have been a placebo effect, but I failed.

There are many stories about H. Yehudah as a miracle worker, but the one that is close to my heart is one that can be emulated by all of us, and does not require an expertise in Kabbalah. The story is about one of his students in Baghdad, whose wife was expecting. H. Yehudah was concerned that the due date had passed, and asked the man about his wife’s health and whether she gave birth already, but his student dodged the question. The Hakham understood that something was wrong and kept pressing, until finally the man admitted that his wife was acting in a strange manner after she gave birth, and so she was sent by the embarrassed family to live with a Muslim foster family in a village outside the city. H. Yehudah asked for the name of the family and their whereabouts, and then immediately left the Rabbinic Seminary and went home. He asked his daughter Lulu, who was 17 at the time to join him, and together they traveled several hours until they arrived at the foster family’s house. They found the woman, who suffered from what today is known as postpartum depression, in a miserable condition. Besides the shock of being rejected by her family and separated from her young daughter, she was weak and emaciated, since she refused to eat non-kasher food.

H. Yehudah promised the woman that he would help her. He then traveled with his daughter Lulu to the nearest Jewish settlement and went directly to the local rabbi’s house. The rabbi was amazed to see the great hakham at his door. H. Yehudah explained that he was traveling with his daughter to Baghdad and that they were very hungry, and asked if the rabbi can offer them a hearty meal. Once the meal was ready, however, Hakham Yehudah said that he cannot delay and asked the perplexed host to pack the food “to go.” The Hakham and his daughter returned to the woman’s bedside where they fed and took care of her until she was strong enough to travel back to the city of Baghdad. When they arrived there, the women in H. Yehudah’s household took care of the woman for several months until she recovered physically and mentally. H. Yehudah then called the husband and reintroduced him to his wife, not before rebuking him for abandoning her at her darkest hour.

This story, which I have heard at a very young age, is engraved in my mind in a way which overshadows all the other stories about miracles attributed to H. Yehudah Fetaya. It is important because it teaches something that we are all capable of doing, even if we are not prodigies or great mystics. The Hakham’s great sensitivity and understanding of human nature shines through this story.

He was concerned not only with the learning of his students, but with the well-being of their families; and when he heard of the crisis he dropped everything and rushed to the woman’s help, but did not rebuke the husband yet, knowing that he would not listen to him. He traveled with his daughter, because he wanted the woman to feel comfortable with Lulu taking care of her. When visiting the rabbi’s house, he did not reveal the real reason he was asking for food, and would rather cast himself in a negative light, barging into a home and asking for food to go, in order not to embarrass the woman who needed the food. Finally, after returning to Baghdad, he made sure that the woman has fully recovered and then orchestrated her reunion with her husband and daughter.

The many halakhot that can be gleaned from this story cannot be found in any halakhic compilation, and they should be for us a guiding light in our dealings with others. This is but one example of his tireless work for the people of Baghdad and Israel.

Hakham Yehudah’s fame reached the Iraqi diaspora in India, and he was offered a position with that thriving Iraqi community, an offer that he rejected since his aspiration was to migrate to the Land of Israel. He settled in Israel in 1905, but returned to Baghdad after several years. He made a second attempt at aliya in 1923, and finally fulfilled his wish in 1934, at the age of 74. He initially lived in Ramat Gan, where there was a concentration of Iraqi Jews, but eventually moved to Jerusalem, where he was actively involved in the study circles of the kabbalist school Beth El, as well as Shoshanim LeDavid and Ohel Rahel, not far from Mahane Yehudah.

Bound by Hope

Hakham Yehudah Fetaya passed away the 27^th of Menahem Av, 74 years ago. My grandfather told me that during the funeral the sky was covered with dark clouds and heavy rain started pouring. Being that this is very atypical to the Israeli summer, people felt that the heavens were weeping for his death. Since then, each year on the anniversary of his death (except between 1948–1967), hundreds of people ascend to his grave on Har HaZetim (Mount of Olives), to read the special prayers he composed for tumultuous times, and specifically the Holocaust. He kept abreast of the news from Europe and conducted prayers for the Jews of Germany years before the Holocaust. When the war started, Hakham Yehudah’s efforts intensified. Besides running, with his son, Hakham Shaul, a center for distributing basic food staples to poor families, he wrote and published special prayers in a booklet he titled Asirei haTikva, Bound by Hope, a name that conveys the message that despite all the difficulties, we are still bound to God by our faith and hope.

The introduction to the first edition, printed in 1940, reads:

The order of prayers in this booklet is what we had to do, with great sorrow, in the holy city of Jerusalem, in the year 1940 (corresponding to the Hebrew date alluded to in the verse: Sound a great shofar and bring forth our freedom), as we were drowning in the tidal waves of disaster [in Europe]. We had to publish it to make it available for all, so we can join together, with one heart, to plead with prayer and supplications before God, and hope that He will have mercy for the remnant of his flock and will not let their blood spill like water….

Those special prayers, which Hakham Yehudah conducted almost daily at Rachel’s Tomb and other sites, were not his only effort in trying to help the Jewish People. At one point, he procured an airplane from the RAF, and with a minyan of kabbalists performed a service of Kapparot over the Land of Israel.[1]

One of the dramatic stories I heard from my grandfather was of the time his father summoned God to trial. Hakham Yehudah gathered all the sages and kabbalists of the famed Beth El and Ohel Rahel academies in Jerusalem, and summoned God to a Din Torah, a trial, with the specific purpose of acquitting the Jews and proving that God must stop the massacre in Germany. In order to have a fair trial, he appointed both a prosecutor and a defense attorney [himself, obviously] for the Jews. My grandfather told me emphatically of the warning his father issued to the prosecutor: “Speak briefly. Do not cast the Jews in a negative light. After all, they all are good people.” The trial came to an abrupt stop when the prosecutor went on a blaming rampage against the Jewish People, and would not stop despite threats and supplications. My mother added to that story that the man lost his sanity afterward. The message of that story guided my grandfather, and since he was my master, guides also me until this very day in dealing with questions of halakha, education, and working with the community. This unique event is typical of Hakham Yehudah, as well of his son, Hakham Shaul, who did not shy away from confrontations with God Himself.

The booklet Asirei haTikva offers an example of his unabated love for the Jewish People, his deep pain for their suffering, and his willingness to argue with God.

When people visited his grave on the anniversary of his death, these gatherings did not include dancing, eating, or lighting candles at the grave. Rather, the prayers he composed were read by the public in what was an awe-inspiring event that left a very deep impression on me as a young child. My grandfather, Hakham Shaul, our cantor, Gurji Yair, and many elders of the Iraqi community would go around the grave seven times, reading the prayers Hakham Yehudah composed during the Holocaust.

Hakham Shaul, following in the pathways of his great father, felt the pain of the needy and the poor, the Holocaust survivors whose spirit was broken, and those who felt imperfect, whether spiritually or physically, and his prayers echoed his pain.

The pinnacle of the prayers at Hakham Yehudah’s gravesite were the special poems he composed in honor of our Mothers, Sarah, Rivka, Rahel, and Leah. He wrote these poems in the early 1900s as an addition to the traditional Haqqafot, which mention only men. One might say that he wrote the first modern feminist Midrash. Hakham Yehudah wrote four poems, one for each one of the mothers, but Rahel received a special treatment. Her poem, Zekhut Rahel, is three times as long as all the others combined. The special affinity of Hakham Yehudah for Rahel was a product of his kabbalistic background, and of the special attention given to her by the prophet Jeremiah and the midrashic literature, but it also had a personal element. His wife’s name was Rahel (affectionately, in Iraqi Arabic: Chahla), and they had lost several children in their infancy. They had also suffered the blow of losing their married daughter Simha and her husband Shimon during the plague of 1914, and had taken the couple’s little orphaned daughter, Haviva, under their wing. The tragic life of our matriarch Rahel, was for him much more than a biblical image and a mystical metaphor for the Shekhina, it was the real-life story of a bereaved father sharing the pain with his beloved wife Rahel.

In the poem, he pleads with God but also argues bitterly with Him, demanding a better treatment for the nation and the individual. Here is the full text of the poem with my translation:

For Rahel’s Sake

 Recall, God, the merit of Rahel, for her wandering children.

She who has brought her adversary under her own bridal canopy in a sleepless night.

She hid under the bed and responded from there [instead of her sister].

Please, from your seat on high, hear her bewail and lament.

Her thundering voice, shattering walls, can be heard from great distances.

She who was buried at the crossroads, is wailing and asking:

“Where is Joseph, where is the one who hugged me? Woe to me for my sweet child!

Where is Ben Oni, who never saw me, who never rested on my chest?”

She went and asked the Patriarchs: “Where are my dear children?”

[They said:] “Go ask ben Amram, who is buried on Mount Avarim!”

“My son Moshe, please speak up, where have you abandoned the flocks?”

From the grave, speaking to her, rose a mournful, lamenting voice: 

“Why are you wandering on the mountains, what are you searching for, dear aunt?”

[She answered:] “Now is not a time for idle talk, as I have to mend the broken wall.”

Moshe, in deep sorrow, answered: “I have handed them to your son, Yehoshua.”

 [She told him:] “Yehoshua my son, please answer me, where are the tribes?”

Faced with her agony and lament, he responded with his own tears

And the voice of their crying and wailing rose to the heavens.

“Please mother” [cried Yehoshua], “please stop, before I die and perish;”

“I have handed them to the elders and to the shepherd kings of the House of David.”

 She left him and rushed to the grave sites of the city of Zion.

[The kings] told her: “On the Temple Mount, there they shall be sought and found.”

Alas, when Rahel saw that there are no walls nor fences,

And the Temple has been burnt to the ground,

And that there are no priests nor Levites, and no Ark nor Cherubim,

She shrieked in agony, and cast away her shoes.

She tore the striped robe, and her scarf, and her dresses.

She wore sackcloth and rolled on the rocks,

Slapping her flesh to mourn her lost son.

Clad in sorrow for God’s people, she was howling in grief.

 Hurriedly she leapt above, towards God, sitting on high,

Speaking for the People of Zion, and raising her voice with tears, [she demanded:]

“Please Father, see my pain, and heed my plea with mercy!

 My Rock, My Hope, will Your people be forever lost?

How could You tear a bride from her husband’s lap and send her into exile?

How could You shoo the nesting mother, but not take care of the fledglings?

How could You abandon Your sheep among devouring lions?

How can you remain quiet while the People of Edom [Germany] turn them into sacrifices?

Were they not punished enough, were they not engulfed by vicious waters?

Are a thousand years not enough for You?

The sun is already setting on the second millennium, and the pain is not letting.

Where is the miraculous sign? When is the Time of Times?

When will you have mercy? When will you console us?

You keep putting us away, day after day!

Almighty God, redeem us already! Do not soothe us with words!”

 A voice was then heard from the Divine Throne: “Hush my daughter, oh bride of the mighty!

Let your eyes stop crying; Let your voice rest from supplications.

Because of your tears and lament, the heavenly worlds are now in exile.

And He rose up above, and mercy has been invoked.

 I shall not rest until I revenge the spilled blood of my servants,

And shortly I will sever and destroy the wicked.

I will cut the stone, smash the idol, breaking it to shards.

I will open the sealed coffers and release the swallowed souls.

Rise up, shake away your sorrow, and wear your precious clothes.”

I hear the voice of my nation saying:

“Though we are sinners, do for Your great name’s sake!”

The Midrashic Origin of Rahel’s Merit

This poem, in which Hakham Yehudah Fetaya casts Rahel as a defense attorney for her children, is based on two midrashic sources, which are in turn inter-connected. The first Midrash[2] has been made famous by Rashi, who included it in his commentary on Genesis,[3] in order to explain the mystery of how Yaakov was tricked into marrying Leah instead of Rahel. According to that Midrash, Yaakov and Rahel suspected that Lavan would attempt a deception, and so decided on a secret password to enable Yaakov to identify his bride. At the last moment, however, when Rahel realized that her father was determined to lead her sister down the aisle, she felt sorry for her and gave her the password so as not to shame her.

The second, less-known Midrash, is found in the introduction to Eikha Rabbah,[4] the midrashic commentary on the Book of Lamentations, and is based on a verse from Jeremiah[5] which describes Rahel’s agony after the destruction of the Temple:

A voice is heard in Ramah [also: a strong voice is heard]. It is the sound of wailing and bitter tears. It is the voice of Rahel, mourning her children, refuses to be consoled for her sons who are now gone!

In the dramatic narrative of the Midrash, Abraham, Yitzhak, Yaakov, and Moshe are pleading with God on behalf of the Jewish People. Each of the men steps forward and asks God that as a reward for his many sacrifices and dedication to God, the Jewish People will be forgiven and redeemed, but none of them is answered. Rahel then jumps the line, apparently uninvited, and speaks to God about her own experience with her sister. She describes how despite her great love for Yaakov she was willing to let her sister Leah take her place because she did not want her to suffer disgrace, and then levels this question at God:

I am but flesh and blood, dust and ashes, yet I was not jealous of my rival [Leah] and did not cause her shame and disgrace! You, Eternal and Merciful King, why were You jealous of idolatry, which has no value? How could you send my sons go in exile, be killed by the sword, and handed over to their enemies to do with them as they wish?

Unlike God’s treatment of the men who spoke before Rahel, He hears her request and promises redemption, using the subsequent verses in Jeremiah:[6]

Let your voice mourn no more, let your eyes shed no more tears, for your deeds are rewarded… they shall return from enemy lands… your destiny is filled with hope… as the exiled sons will come back home….

Feminine and Masculine Perspectives

At first glance it seems that Rahel’s argument follows the same pattern as the men, and that the only reason the midrashic author makes God answer her and not the others, is that Jeremiah spoke of the dialogue between Rahel and God. A more thorough and comparative reading, however, will reveal deep insights on the nature of men and women and on our understanding of divine justice.

Abraham, Yitzhak, Yaakov, and Moshe, appear before God as if they were in court. They maintain decorum, and each one presents a similar argument: “I did this and that, so I deserve a reward.” Each one of them is ignored, and they interpret it as a sign that their request is turned down, and do not argue any more. Rahel, the bereaved mother, breaks the rules. Like a wounded lioness, she pushes her way past the men and speaks uninvited, as if rebuking them for giving up and retreating.

Rahel is not asking for a reward, but rather lectures God, telling Him that He should learn from her. She suggests that she, a mortal woman, was able to overcome her natural selfishness and jealousy, and that God should follow her example and not be jealous of the “second wife” of the Israelites—the idols.

The audacity of the author of the Midrash is shocking. He questions one of the fundamental prohibitions of the Torah, arguing that God should not punish His children so harshly for worshipping idols. The author speaks more as a loving mother than as a disciplinary leader we know from the stories of the judges and the prophets. I am certain that my great-grandfather understood the pain of all mothers, and of course of his own wife Rahel, and that he took the role of defender of the Jewish people to new levels.

Mother Rahel = Hakham Yehudah

Hakham Yehudah uses the midrashic Rahel to present his theological dispute. From behind Rahel’s mask we can hear the voice of Hakham Yehudah, who conveys both his personal pain and his shock at the terrible massacre of Jews in Europe, while emphasizing the different approach of the forefathers and the one mother.

The poet uses Rahel as a symbol for the nation, and in few lines, sketches Rahel’s tragic life. He speaks of her grief for her lost descendants, and simultaneously of the grief of her immediate sons Joseph and Benjamin. Joseph is described as a toddler who is very close to his mother. In the original Hebrew, he is said to be hovering, conjuring the image of a mother and child huddling together, deriving comfort and joy from each other’s company. Benjamin is referred to here as Ben Oni, the name given to him by Rahel at birth. The name has a double entendre; it could mean the son of my sorrow, or the son of my [last] strength. Rahel is lamenting not being able to breastfeed her son, depriving him, as if it were, of the important role of the mother for the child, that of a nurturer and giver of life. Finally, as if to add insult to pain, she is buried at the crossroads, as if she were not important enough to be have proper burial.[7]

After her initial shock and mourning, she rises from the dust and takes action, going from one male leader to another to inquire about her children. In the original Midrash there is no interaction between the men and Rahel, but Hakham Yehudah creates a dialogue which intensifies the image of Rahel the bereaved mother. She uses terms of endearment when talking of her children, and includes not only her direct descendants, Joseph and Benjamin, but all 12 tribes. She uses harsh words when talking to Moshe, first accusing him of abandoning his people, and then telling him that he is wasting his time in trying to calm her.

In Rahel’s encounter with Yehoshua there is a new element. Not only does she exchange words with him, but her tears and mourning affect him so powerfully that he pleads for his life, even though the readers are aware that he speaks from the grave. The protagonists address each other as direct relatives: aunt, mother, son, showing that a true leader cares for the people the way relatives care for each other, with unconditional love. The poem shows gradual progress as Rahel moves from one man to another. The patriarchs shake away the responsibility and refer her to Moshe. Moshe tries to talk her out of worrying but she would not hear of it. Finally, Yehoshua is influenced by her emotions but it is too much for him to bear and he pleads with her to stop.

Rahel finally arrives at the Temple Mount and witnesses the destruction and desolation. Her spirit broken, she expresses her grief by slapping her flesh, a practice mentioned in the Bible[8] and still common in the Middle East. She tears her striped robe, a reference to Joseph, as well as the attack on Tamar by her brother Amnon.[9] The robe embodies the suffering of Rahel as a mother whose son was torn from her arms.

The following stanza is a turning point in the poem, and it is based on the line in the Midrash which describes Rahel as “jumping” and speaking out of turn.

 Hurriedly she leapt… she demanded… Father, see my pain, and heed my plea with mercy… How could You tear a bride from her husband’s lap and send her into exile? How could You shoo the nesting mother, but not take care of the fledglings?

Unlike the men, who remain passive in their grief, Rahel is able to rise from the crushing pain and take action. She approaches God with harsh words that are, of course, the words of Hakham Yehudah Fetaya. He again uses the language of blood relations, as he makes Rahel address God as “Father” and speaks of the Jewish People as a bride who is driven away. Of all the arguments presented here, the boldest is the analogy Hakham Yehudah draws between the people in exile and the nesting bird. This analogy refers to the commandment of sending away a nesting bird while taking its eggs or fledglings.[10] Obviously, the Torah did not mean to say that one is obligated to separate the mother from its offspring, but rather that if one needs the eggs or fledglings, he should spare the mother. The analogy Hakham Yehudah makes is bold and daring because the talmudic sages specifically said about this commandment that one is not allowed to use it to invoke divine mercy:[11]

If [the one leading the services] says: May You show mercy to us as toy did to the nesting bird… he must be silenced.

The Talmud offers two explanations that seem to suggest that the rabbis feared that such statements will encourage a discussion of theodicy, or divine justice, which was a very sensitive issue for post-destruction Judaism. Not only does Hakham Yehudah Fetaya not shy away from this issue, practically accusing God of treating Jews unfairly and of abandoning them, he very cleverly changes the dynamics of the analogy, making it more dramatic. Whereas the commandment calls for releasing the mother and taking the eggs or fledglings for consumption, in the analogy the mother is sent into exile and the fledglings become the responsibility of the hunter, which in this case is God.

Here, the evolution of Hakham Yehudah’s Rahel is complete. She first transitioned from a bereaved mother to a wandering mourner, and she now becomes a fierce advocate for the Jewish people, firing a rapid succession of 14 arguments against God’s treatment of her children. Through Rahel, Hakham Yehudah speaks of his deep pain over the Holocaust, using midrashic Edom to refer to Germany. He pleads with God but does not hesitate to use an accusatory tone, saying that God has abandoned us and that He does not keep His promises.  

The poem concludes with a promise of redemption with many mystical elements, but its essence is a replay of what has transpired between Rahel and Yehoshua. Just as Yehoshua begs Rahel to calm down because he is overwhelmed by the emotions she stirred in him, God now tells Rahel to stop crying, using the verse from Jeremiah. The reason for that request, according to Hakham Yehudah, is that her powerful prayers caused the Divine worlds to commiserate with her suffering and as a result they are now in exile. Using Rahel as a mask, Hakham Yehudah issues a call to all Jews to be relentless in their efforts to usher in the redemption.

The way to do it, as he signaled in his poem about Rahel, as well as in his teachings and leadership, is to be active and not sink into depression, indifference, and apathy. He taught us that we cannot keep quiet when people suffer and that we must constantly challenge ourselves, and God, until we have a perfect world.
 

Halakha and Kabbalah

Hakham Yehudah Fetaya is considered one of the leading kabbalists of the twentieth century, both in terms of his outstanding disciples and colleagues, and his very important commentaries. It is therefore extremely important to hear his view on the role of Kabbalah in Jewish law, as was conveyed by his son, Hakham Shaul Fetaya. My grandfather explained that halakhot influenced by or instituted by Kabbalah were never meant for the public, but rather only for the true kabbalists. That is because the idea at the basis of these laws and practices is that by performing a certain act in this world, one impacts and changes the divine worlds. Let us consider a famous example of a practice stemming from this kabbalistic approach.

Sweetening the Harsh Judgment

The Talmud says in the name of Rava that one must add water to the wine of Kiddush, or else it will be undrinkable and undeserving of being called wine.[12] Rava’s rationale is that without adding water the wine is too strong. Rava’s opinion was not accepted as binding but rather as a recommendation, and Rabbi Yosef Karo writes that one is allowed to make Kiddush with a very strong wine. He does add that it is preferable to dilute the wine, as long as it is done properly, meaning that the final product is better than the original. Rabbi Moshe Isserles, the Rema, comments on that: “Our wines are better as they are, without diluting.”[13]

According to both Rabbi Karo and the Rema, the practice of diluting wine with water should have disappeared in the modern age, as most wines are drinkable, without any addition of water. This is indeed the case for most Ashkenazim; but the Sephardic world, under the influence of Kabbalah, took a different course. The practice of adding water to wine was explained by kabbalists as an act which weakens, or sweetens, the harsh judgment, as water represents mercy and wine represents rigor.[14] To avoid extreme dilution of the wine, the Kabbalists recommended adding three drops of water to the Kiddush cup, a practice kept in many Sephardic households.

The idea that a person can change God’s mind by adding three drops of water to the Kiddush cup could be deeply disturbing to anyone who is familiar with Maimonides’ principles of faith, and specifically the one that states that God is immutable.

There are several ways to reconcile this contradiction. One is to reject all Kabbalah-influenced practices, while another is to find deeper symbolism and meditative tools in the kabbalistic principles. In the case of water and wine, for example, when one adds the water to the wine, he should contemplate his behavior and decide to make a special effort to override his anger and be more kind and sensitive.

The third approach, that of Hakham Yehudah Fetaya, is that there might be a way in which humans induce change in God’s world. However, this is a role reserved for people with a very high spiritual level, namely the true kabbalists. Hakham Shaul, faithful to his father’s teachings, taught us not to add water to wine and not to wash our hands with Last Water, another practice that would have disappeared if not for Kabbalah. In general, Hakham Shaul was uncomfortable with the popularization of Kabbalah study, as he felt that the study is technical and superficial, and that no attention is paid to spiritual growth and interpersonal relationships. He was also opposed to the phenomenon of seeking blessings from “kabbalists” and rabbis who charge for their services. He told me that Hakham Yehudah Fetaya had a very clear opinion on this issue, which is that one is not allowed to seek advice, guidance, blessings, or prayers, from anyone who expects something in return for those services.

He explained that God does not need middlemen, and if there exists a person who was invested by God with special powers or access to Him, that person should care enough for others as to offer prayers and blessings without asking for a penny. My grandfather added that even if the rabbi does not ask for a payment, but says that he will bless a couple with a child on the condition that he will serve as the Sandak, one should decline the offer.

My grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya (1910–1982), refused to serve as a rabbi, and instead dedicated his life to help people from all walks of life. He was a member of the Etzel underground and helped organize caravans to Jerusalem during the War of Independence. He fought for the inclusion of Iraqi and Sephardic Jews in the administrative offices of the newly born State of Israel, and continued his father’s tradition of helping the poor and needy.

He took care not only of material needs, by personally delivering supplies to immigrant families, but also of spiritual needs, counseling and advising thousands in his little store-office near Mahane Yehuda. His method of dream interpretation was studied by Dr. Yoram Bilu, who was astounded to discover a whole world of symbolism in the mystical teachings of Hakham Shaul and his father.

In the late 1970s Hakham Shaul launched a new initiative with his daughter Simha, my mother, and Dr. Hannah and Israel Openheimer, who were Holocaust survivors. That initiative was an occupational habilitation center in which people with physical and mental disabilities learned new skills or revived old ones, in order to integrate into the regular work market. My grandfather’s motto was the verse from Job (31:15): “His maker made me as well, and we were formed in one womb.” Hakham Shaul extended his belief in equality to the religious realm as well and taught his disciples and grandchildren not to use words such as religious and secular to describe factions in Israeli society. To our question what term to use, he replied that all Jews are observant, but each one chooses to observe different mitzvoth. He taught us that religiosity is not judged by external elements, and that there is much we need to learn about others. In the spirit of equality, he also encouraged my older sisters to have a Bat Mitzvah, as early as 1969, when this was not a popular practice among observant Sephardim in Israel.

My grandfather was the epitome of a Sephardic Hakham. He knew the Bible by heart; he read and wrote poetry; he was an activist, a philanthropist, and a philosopher. He did not believe in leading from above, and preached for loving and respecting one another. His approach to halakha was accommodating and understanding. He never forced anyone to drink wine or eat matzah on Seder night, and he tried to avoid Kabbalah-influenced practices.  I remember very well how on Yom Kippur, when I was seven years old, when speaking about Shabbat observance, he said that he knows that many people watch television on Shabbat, and that he just asks them not to switch channels or play with the volume. His approach of understanding and respect has guided me in my halakhic writings and my community work.

Here is a passage from his book Hirhurim (Musings), in which he addresses the religious elected officials and Knesset members, whom he viewed as enslaved to their seats:

…Enough PR, arguments, and animosity… instead of the noise and storms, come down to the people, walk with the people. It will not take away from your honor, it will only augment it. Didn’t God Himself come down on Mount Sinai, and doesn’t it say that Moshe came down to the people? But you… you rest on the comfortable chairs in your offices and never come down… and when you do you go to synagogues and study halls, but not to the “commoners”…

Please, if you ever decide to come down to the nation, don’t go only to those who know the values and principles, who apparently do not keep them, and who despite all this are called holy people…

Because this nation is wise, intelligent, and willing to listen, they will understand you, they are thirsty for knowledge, especially the youth, the knowledge of Jewish insight, the principles, values, and Israeli tradition. Speak to the youth. Speak to their heart. Explain gently, with love, sensitivity, and attention, and they will listen…

Teach the rabbis, the newly minted and the veterans, to be wise and not use the Torah as a tool to aggrandize themselves, so people will learn from them noble and worthy values.

Talk to the rock—it will give forth water… do not cause pain…

These words epitomize my grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya. My grandfather’s love for scholarship, Bible, poetry, and music, as well his activism has deeply influenced me and my siblings, who all continued aspects of his legacy in one way or another. My oldest sister Haviva Pedaya is a professor of Jewish Philosophy and Kabbalah and a poet, and the second, Hannah, is the founder and manager of the Firqat al-Nur orchestra, and she spearheads the revival of Sephardic music and liturgy in Israel. My brother Yehudah is the rabbi of my grandfather’s synagogue in Jerusalem, Minhat Yehudah, and he teaches and maintains the unique Baghdadi traditions of Hakham Shaul. My sister Ayyala is an activist, a playwright, and a poet.

As a family, we feel now that there is an awakening, a thirst and longing for the legacy of Sephardic and Mediterranean Jews, and we hope that this legacy will contribute to the creation of bridges of understanding and mutual respect.

Few would deny that what differentiates Orthodoxy as a standpoint is largely the boundaries it places. These boundaries are notably stricter and more delineated than those of the non-Orthodox movements. This is not to deny the role of beliefs, ideals, and other emphases in structuring Orthodox life; however, even these rely to some extent on a set of strong borders to preserve them.

            Borders are critical in defining identity. Orthodox Judaism’s relatively clear parameters can appear to good advantage, especially when placed against a background of Western culture, which arguably often fails its adherents, leaving them adrift in a sea of contradictory recommendations from scientific and cultural mavens. When one’s personal borders of behavior and creed are firmly established, one is freed from the need to constantly create and adjust them. One can then focus on creating the content rather than the vessel in which to hold it.

            In an ideal world, Orthodox parameters would serve to minimize confused wandering and searching. Furthermore, while some measure of dynamic dialogue is unavoidable as individuals change and grow, the overall picture would be one of a stable, rich lifestyle in which one’s religious, intellectual, and behavioral impulses are in synch, both within oneself and also vis-à-vis the surrounding community. And indeed, many are drawn to Orthodoxy precisely for this kind of clarity. Yet limits, boundaries, and borders may also be extremely stifling, and may in fact—especially when driven by fear rather than existing organically as part of a secure identity—overly curtail individual autonomy and choke off important spiritual and existential processes necessary to religious life.

            The Orthodox classroom or other study forum reflects the above truths. I’d like to explore briefly some of the boundaries—both of content and form—placed within the Orthodox classroom. Some of the questions to be dealt with include:

• In terms of content, what is studied and embraced as positive, and what is deemed inappropriate or dangerous and is kept out of the classroom, either by omission or by active suppression?
• In terms of form, in what fashion do the students learn? How much control does the teacher appropriate or relinquish, and how much autonomy and self-expression is granted to the students within the learning process?

            For the purposes of this discussion, I will borrow two categories applied by Dr. Marla Frankel (who in turn utilizes Professor Michael Rosenak’s educational terminology and theory) in her analysis of the work of Nehama Leibowitz z”l. An examination of Leibowitz’s work will demonstrate for us a model of a lesson that contains both openness and limits; and through it we can arrive at a general discussion of the limits of the Orthodox classroom.

            Frankel suggests that Leibowitz wore at least two teaching “hats,” and that this granted her a large measure of flexibility, a trait critical to good educating. The first “hat,” or role, is that of the facilitator. This kind of teacher steps back from the students, enables discussion, challenges them intellectually, and trains them in problem-solving. It is the process, not the solutions, that is important. The facilitator’s religious focus is on existential, emotional dimensions rather than on enforcing norms and laws. The second “hat” is that of the pedagogue. This type of teacher presents a discourse or lecture, using rhetorical and analytical skills to answer his or her own questions instead of letting the students answer them.

            In the first model, the individual student is important; in the second, it is the community and the content that matter as vehicles for belief and practice. These two broad roles (though obviously other models are possible) will help us organize what otherwise appears a confusing patchwork of contradictory elements in Leibowitz’s pedagogy, and to see that ultimately she implemented what may be termed “pluralism within limits.”

            This was true of both the content of Leibowitz’s classes and also their form. In terms of content, we see both the facilitator and the pedagogue in action. Leibowitz believed in offering a diversity of interpretation, and the method she invented of presenting different commentaries side-by-side was very much a facilitator’s technique. It activated the students—and also taught them that many options existed, and that their questions were not heretical. As Leibowitz states: “It is important to include this opinion too so that the students will not assume that Rashi’s explanation is the only one possible, and anyone who is bothered by it… is, so to speak, an utter heretic who has no part in the Torah of Moses.”

Overall Leibowitz’s method was pluralistic relative to her contemporaries and to the traditional approaches that preceded her. The Tosafists, for example, aimed to reconcile discrepancies, while Leibowitz loudly broadcasted them. When educators expressed to her their concern that students, especially children, could not easily grasp that multiple opinions may co-exist, she retorted: “We are not Catholics! We have no Pope to decide who is right!”

            Furthermore, Leibowitz opened up the limits of her classroom and writings to include non-Orthodox and non-Jewish sources in the study of Torah. These sources were not only used to bolster traditional sources (an agenda palatable to conservative elements, as it served to show “how correct our sources are”) but also to unearth new layers of the Torah. This was far more radical, implying that thinkers outside Orthodoxy can reveal dimensions in the Torah overlooked by traditional commentators. Leibowitz believed she could eat the “fruit” of these thinkers, while throwing away the “peel.”

            However, Leibowitz took the facilitator role only so far before putting on the pedagogue’s hat. The students were allowed to choose, but only from a certain range of sources selected by her. She placed constraints on the use of universal sources—worldly wisdom was not to be equated with Torah, and the non-Orthodox sources referred to always remained a precisely selected minority, approached with caution and never given the pride of place that the traditional commentators claimed.

            In terms of form, Leibowitz encouraged open discussion in her classroom. She paid personal attention to each student as far as she was able, and she was seen as an accessible teacher. She hated the idea of lecturing, believing that when the teacher talks too much it limits the interaction essential to learning. Instead, her lesson consisted largely of group discussion of a topic, with the teacher interspersing her comments and never talking for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Students forgot that they were being educated, as the discussion flowed as naturally as a conversation. Though not lacking in personal charisma, Leibowitz did not rely on it as the driving-force of the lesson. Rather, she chose questions that would open up discussions, and she deferred her own opinion until after the students had had a chance to reflect. In permitting such interactivity, she relinquished control to the students, functioning as a facilitator and anticipating contemporary trends to a certain extent.

            Today’s students are encouraged to express their opinions and to create personal connections to the subject matter, whereas the teacher’s role is to validate the students, not to critique them or guide them too strongly. Leibowitz’s lesson partly conformed to this model, in its encouraging of maximum participation and lively discussion. Ultimately, however, she kept a tight rein on what was considered the correct answer, using a formula of positive and negative reinforcements and not hesitating to announce “Bikhlal lo!” (“Totally incorrect!”) when she disagreed, an experience that could be mortifying for the student. Few educators in tune with today’s trends would read a student’s answers out in front of everyone and then declare, “That’s completely wrong!” She ran a strict classroom, not permitting the lesson to stray off on random tangents and insisting on punctuality and proper preparation. She expelled students who did not have a basic understanding of the material, or who arrived empty-handed, sans Tanakh. When two young yeshiva students admitted they had brought neither Tanakhs nor notebooks, Leibowitz announced to the roomful of students, “It’s the TV generation! They come to sit and watch!” Many found her harangues somewhat intimidating; some even left, never to return. In all this, she acted as the pedagogue; and some might even label Nehama’s style authoritarian, though she herself would be repulsed by such a term.                

            In her approach to the text, Leibowitz also demonstrated such mixed tendencies. While on the one hand she encouraged her students to read the text closely and directly, ultimately the commentators’ lead was to be followed when studying text critically, with the student’s own ideas in second place.

            Students’ responses to Leibowitz’s classroom varied, in line with the diverse elements mentioned above and with the students’ own personalities. For many, her teaching techniques were their first experience of the teacher as facilitator. The fact that her class was founded upon dialogue between commentators of different periods and spirited discussions between participants constituted a breath of fresh air. Unlike old-school lecturers, Leibowitz was open to diverse viewpoints in her lessons, and students were even allowed to contradict her, though not the text. She was interested in the individual student and in nurturing original thought; her aim was active learning.

            Yet she also firmly steered her class, rigorously training her students to approach the text correctly as she saw it. There were limits to her tolerance of critique of faith-based principles in her lesson. Those who studied with her remember occasions when students disagreed with her—and it was obvious to all present that such “insolence” was out of place. Leibowitz was controlling the class, and for a student to introduce some new agenda was completely inappropriate. Students were there to learn from the teacher, not to advance their own theories. She countered opposition with responses such as: “You didn’t understand,” “You need to learn more about this issue,” or “This is off the topic.” One student challenged: “But Nehama, aren’t there seventy facets to the Torah?” She replied, “Yes, but what you said is not one of them!”

            Many students liked the balance Leibowitz struck between her two roles. They enjoyed the discussion, while also appreciating her firm control of the class, which, by preventing too much digression, allowed mastery of a specific topic. She allowed arguments to continue for just so long, knowing exactly when to interrupt and return to the original point that she had made. For these students, what Leibowitz lost in openness of discussion, she gained in sharpening the student’s mind. With a firm hand, she invited them into a new way of looking at a text, beyond their existing opinions, and she restrained overimaginative students with unsupported interpretations. In her class, even highly opinionated and voluble people learned to defer to her in order to gain what she could give. One charismatic educational figure, today the director of several institutions, recalls, “She would tell me what she thought, and I learned to keep quiet.”

            But this policy frustrated those who wished to broaden the field of inquiry, or who thought along different lines than hers. A free-spirited person might feel uncomfortable in her class; individualistic or critical students might experience the classes as rigid, with her constant demand to justify oneself using strict and rational tools serving to cramp a looser, more associative relationship with the text. Leibowitz was also not (barring a couple of isolated statements, not backed up in practice) interested in personal and emotional reactions to the text. On the contrary, she believed that they interfered with correct interpretation: “When analyzing or interpreting a literary work… [there is a risk] that the interpreter will speak about himself… about his own elevation of spirit, about what is going on inside himself… instead of about the text.” She cared greatly about general relevance, but not about the personal relevance for each individual. Class time was reserved for the correct answers, of which Leibowitz had a very clear idea. Personal issues and questions, even those of existential urgency for the student, must be saved for outside the classroom walls.

            One last significant point to be made is the fact that Frankel, along with Erella Yedgar, discovered through careful analysis that the limits of Leibowitz’s classroom changed depending on the students. The more knowledgeable and committed students generally were allowed more leeway.

            The picture that emerges from all of the above is that of a complex approach, enabling Leibowitz to reach many different kinds of people simultaneously. It appears that Leibowitz achieved a good balance of elements in the classroom, creating openness and space and yet firmly setting limits so that various lines would not be crossed. She gave the impression of teaching from within a secure, non-defensive, open Orthodoxy (except perhaps when it came to biblical criticism and the historicizing of the Bible, around which she had extremely strong feelings that might lead to defensiveness); and that the limits she set were simply those of a teacher invested in guiding students to think in a certain way, rather than creating the free-for-all that sometimes passes for pluralism today.

            We must, however, be careful before applying the Leibowitz model as an ideal for contemporary Modern Orthodox education, so many decades after it was developed. In the hands of the wrong (read: insecure, unimaginative, or authoritarian) teachers, or as part of a rigid system—for example, as widely applied through the Israeli matriculation exam—there is a risk of it becoming dry and mechanical, with the more limiting and inflexible aspects dominant. Moreover, today’s educational mindset, in line with changes in general global sentiments, has shifted in the direction of the facilitator. Hence, the elements of the pedagogue in Leibowitz’s style run even more risk today of alienating creative and independent-minded students, who expect and desire to be allowed to express their opinions and have them considered with respect. For this reason, some of her students who continued her method in their own teaching chose to modify it and extend its limits; for example, allowing more direct access to text without mediation by commentaries.

            We can argue, on the other hand, that precisely because the world of education has shifted so far toward interactive discussion and away from making definitive statements, Leibowitz’s model of pluralism within limits has much to offer. Those educators for whom pluralism means never disagreeing with someone’s interpretation—however illogical or textually inconsistent—for fear of offending, would do well to take a leaf out of her book and learn to make firmer statements and guide toward a worldview. These, however, are often the problems of the non-Orthodox, while Orthodoxy by its nature risks the opposite, namely excessive ridigity and over-imposed limits.

            This article has not set the ideal borders for the Orthodox classroom; such an aim would be too ambitious—and also arrogant. This is a multi-faceted, ongoing discussion, and will vary from educator to educator, institution to institution, and sector to sector. My purpose has been to raise the issues and show some of the prices to be paid for moving too far in one direction or another; and to present at least one model that incorporates both poles, so that educators may work out for themselves what proportion of “facilitator” versus “pedagogue” role is worthwhile adopting in their own lessons. I would also challenge the educator to introspect and ascertain how many of the limits he or she imposes upon the classroom derive from personal fears (such as that of relinquishing control), and how many constitute a thought-out a priori model.

            On a final, personal note, as a product of an Ultra-Orthodox high school and some elite Modern Orthodox institutions of higher learning, I personally suffered greatly from the cramped limits of Orthodox classrooms. There was little space available for my questions and self-expression. My opinions were at best tolerated, rather than engaged or valued, and at worst seen as threatening, though they stemmed from an entirely genuine searching place. As for my creativity and imagination, it found no place at all. Many of the lessons strait-jacketed and silenced me rather than allowing me to emerge feeling more engaged, more connected, and more self-appreciating.

            As an educator, I have since tried to rectify this by engaging in open debates where I value my student’s opinions as a genuine source of wisdom for me. I try to engage with them with respect for their insights, while at the same time not abrogating the value due to my own knowledge. I have also adopted creative techniques that encourage self-expression and free the mind to go broader and deeper than is generally accepted in Orthodox circles. One example of the latter is Bibliodrama, a marvellous role-playing technique of “spontaneous midrash” that, when done correctly, with firm steering and with faithfulness to the text, can achieve superb results in terms of deepened identification with the Torah, without straying from what feels comfortable for an Orthodox population. Here, I aim to stretch the limits but not breach them—and I feel it is important to do so. I trust that this question of what the limits are, and when and how to expand them to their maximum, may spark discussion in the right quarters.

Mishlei 1:2-3

“To know wisdom and discipline, to comprehend words of understanding; To receive the discipline of wisdom, righteousness, justice, and equity; To give prudence to the simple, knowledge and discretion to the youth. Let the wise man hear and increase learning. The understanding man shall acquire wise counsels to understand an allegory and a figure, the words of the wise and their riddles. The fear of Hashem is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and discipline.”

Introduction

One of the last conversations I had with my paternal grandmother before she passed away changed my life in ways that I initially could not imagine. At the timeת my grandmother was 94 years old and her memory was starting to fade a bit. From her 80’s into her 90’s she was a bastion of family history and information with a memory that spanned decades and generations. I grew up far from most of my family and after my father died my contact with my grandmother was my main source of connection to them.

In her last years, my grandmother’s conversations were often repetitive due to her advanced age with “How have you been, where have you been, I have’t seen you in a long time, etc.” being the most common points of return for her. Yet, from time to time an almost eerie sense of clarity would come over her and she would say things to me that were often profound; things that she had never told me in the past.

During one such conversation my grandmother kept returning to trivial matters until all of a sudden out of the blue she asked me, “What do you believe in?” The question caught me off guard because it was sudden and had nothing to do with the subject of the conversation. The reality was that time of my life I was in a state of flux, intellectually, even though I thought I had it all figured out.

I stumbled through various ways of trying to answer grandmother’s question, not sure why I couldn’t find the words to explain myself. After a few moments of not giving her a clear and conclusive answer she stopped me and made one of the most profound statements anyone has ever made to me.

“Let me tell you that a day is coming where you will have to be something and believe in something not because of anything I told you, not because of anything your mother has told you, and not because of anything anyone has told you. No, the day is coming when you will have to be something and believe in something because you have investigated it and you know it to be true!”

With that statement her memory faded and she fell back into the trivial conversation we were having before. From that moment forth nothing was ever the same and even though I spent many years trying to come to grips with her statement eventually it came front and center when I chose to dedicate my life to the truth like she told me. That choice led me to ground myself in the reality of Torath Mosheh to the best of my personal ability while learning how to divest myself from falsehoods.

“Through the intellect man distinguishes between the true and the false. This faculty Adam possessed perfectly and completely. The right and the wrong are terms employed in the science of apparent truths (morals), not in that of necessary truths, as, e.g., it is not correct to say, in reference to the proposition "the heavens are spherical," it is "good" or to declare the assertion that "the earth is flat" to be "bad": but we say of the one it is true, of the other it is false. Similarly our language expresses the idea of true and false by the terms emet and sheker, of the morally right and the morally wrong, by tov and ra’. Thus it is the function of the intellect to discriminate between the true and the false--a distinction which is applicable to all objects of intellectual perception.” [1]

A Minority Report

The truth, speak about it in the wrong sectors and you can get strange glances. Have a conversation about the truth with someone in modern-western based society and you may end up in argument about how there is no such thing as absolutes. I can’t even count the number of times someone, with no real experience a particular topic, would tell me something is an absolute truth when in reality due to my own research I knew it was theoretical. Some of the same people, while discussing a topic they term as “religious,” have treated my presentation of facts as problematic when they can’t find contradictions. In many of these cases they often fall back on the, “How can anyone know what the truth is?” or “Nothing can be established as the truth” method of avoiding the issue. In many cases the people who fall into this category are often are not able to see any further than their own perspectives because they are often using the wrong tools for the wrong job while not recognizing the fault in their philosophical approach.

What I mean by this is that if one wants to know if there is a possibility that the Source of Creation spoke to Am Yisrael, as the Torah describes[2], one would not pull out arguments on theoretical physics, chemistry, or mathematics. These fields of study may answer the “how” such an event may have taken place but they cannot answer “if” something actually took place. No, one would first use a historical model which is sometimes termed as a “convergence of facts” or a convergence of evidence.[3] [4] On the other hand, if one wants to make sense of the various statements made by Hazal about human perceived natural events and extra-natural events that Torath Mosheh describes as having sources from Hashem, one would not use the models for historical analysis and instead would use what is currently known in the various sciences.

Thus, when I approach any challenge or any question as to what I hold by[5], what I don’t understand, or what I desire to establish I use my experience as an electrical and an EMC Engineer in line with my studies of Torah to make decisions and come to conclusions. This, as a practice, does not take place once or a few times but is something that I interact with every day as someone who is focused on trying to understand the truth of every matter that affects my personal life and my daily philosophy.

"Adam the first, majestic man of dominion and success, and Adam the second, the lonely man of faith, obedience and defeat, are not two different people locked in an external confrontation ... but one person who is involved in self-confrontation. ...In every one of us abide two personae - the creative majestic Adam the first, and the submissive, humble Adam the second." [6]

Truth – A Daily Companion

My confrontations and struggles with living out the truth, many times as the as a singular individual from a minority or as a minority within that minority, have been varied and numerous. They have spanned my travels in America, Israel, Ethiopia, Italy, and Japan and covered numerous topics. My ammunition has been the study of texts and keeping aware of how one determines the truth in realistic situations; using the right tools for the right situation. An unexpected result of this way of life is that at times it has caused me to stand alone in a crowd, even when surrounded by people who are also Jewish. The truth and one’s dedication to it can sometimes be a lonely place but the benefits of such a stance are well worth it.

It is important note that the point here is not what about one thinks or believes about a particular matter, because both thought and belief are subjective, but instead what one “knows” to be true and can with high level of confidence and certainty establish.[7] This is something substantiated by the Tanakh and the writings of Hazal, such as the comment made by Saadya HaGaon:

“And knowledge has two sides, truth and falsehood, the knowledge of truth is known as a matter that is “from the many is many, the few is few, black is black, white is white, available/established is available/established, and lacking is lacking. Falsehood is known as a matter that is from the many are few, the few are many, black is white, white is black, available/established is lacking, and lacking is available/established.” [8]

In order to unpack these ideas and place them into real word applications, I will detail of number of situations from my life.

Struggling with the Past – New York

For seven years while living between New Jersey and Manhattan I worked at a high tech company in Pearl River, NY. During my day to day functions the truth of the Torah was an integral part of my interactions with my coworkers both Jewish and non-Jewish. I was not the only Jew working for the company but I was the only Jew who openly wore a kippa and tzitziyot. Further, within a group of about ten Jews out of about 200 non-Jews I was one of three Jews who kept Shabbat and Haggim[9] and I was further the only Jew who kept kosher. Given these facts it didn’t take long for me to become the resident answer man for Judaism and it was due to this status that I came into contact with a coworker who took much interest in discussing life issues with me.

He was a Jew with a Christian name and though that may not be so strange in the U.S. it does speak to some of the inner conflicts and contradictions he had. Over the course of the seven years we worked for the same company I had many conversations with him, many of which addressed whether or not the concept of Hashem was logical or not. Because of my willingness to address any topic without reservation or coercion he felt comfortable enough to let down his guard on many personal topics.

During one of his visits to my lab he told me that he was angry because his wife was forcing him to start preparations for their eight year old son to eventually have a Bar Mitzvah. My coworker was actually perturbed by his wife’s request since in his mind this involved years of financial expense, joining a synagogue – another expense, and personal stress for him. I listened to his complaints and when he was finished I responded in the following way.

“I am sorry to hear about your turmoil but let me ask you one question. Is this your Bar Mitzvah or your son’s? Based on what you described you obviously feel strongly about this but your son is a Jew. Do you really want to possibly face him ten or twenty years from now with him asking you why you didn’t give him a Bar Mitzvah? What if he comes to you and states that all of his friends had Bar Mitzvahs and he wants to know why he didn’t receive one? What happens when you give him your answer and he may be angry with you because you robbed him of an experience of his youth? Are you willing to face the possibility of him telling you that this was his experience and not yours to deny him?”

I told my co-worker that if the expense was the problem that there are a number of options that would cost him either nothing or close to nothing. I even offered that I could talk to people at the local Yemenite synagogue in Manhattan where I prayed because all children under the age of 13 receive the 6^th aliyah.[10] As a joke, I even told him to call the local Chabad and tell them he is giving up on all of Judaism unless his son gets a Bar Mitzvah. The joke being that there would shiluchim knocking on his door within minutes to help him for free. I stressed that the important thing is that if we are Jews and if we value our culture and history to deny his son an essential part of the normal modern development would be a sad and shameful thing for a father to do.

After my response my coworker had a silent moment and before leaving he thanked me for my response. A few weeks later he came to me and told me that after speaking with his wife he wanted me to come by their house to help get their son interested in learning Hebrew; to put him on the path of a Bar Mitzvah. I in fact did help teach his son some basic Hebrew after which his daughter proclaimed the she also wanted to learn.

My co-worker eventually opened up even more to be and I began to understand where his anger over thנקe issue of the Bar Mitzvah came from. He explained to me that he grew up in an “extremely secular” Jewish household with a mother who was a scholar and researcher.  What I mean by “extremely secular” is that he once told me that his mother the scholar made it clear that the Torah was utterly and emphatically “wrong.”

My co-worker further explained that he never realized how distant he was from his culture as a Jew until he recently attended a Passover Seder with his wife’s family. His wife’s family were at various stages of the Reform Movement but he said that he felt bad at the seder because he was the only attendant who didn’t know what they were doing. They would sing songs or perform actions as a part of the seder and he was not aware of what to say or do. He explained that during his childhood, while every other Jewish families were doing a seder on Pesah, his mother would sit he and his siblings down to explain how the haggadah was wrong and that there was no Yetziath Mitzrayim (Exodus).

Even with all of that, he was conflicted because he had an appreciation for the importance of being a Jew and he saw the relevance in the existence of the modern state of Israel but no matter how he felt he was always in the shadow of the way he was raised. My words to him were the same as what my grandmother once said to me about the importance of knowing from self-evaluation the truth. His critical decision was to determine and develop his understanding of what is the truth – Torath Mosheh vs. the path that his mother placed him on.

It is interesting to note that I had the opportunity to meet his mother at an art exhibit for his father and upon seeing my kippa and tzitziyoth her first words to me were, “You do know that whole exodus in the Haggada is wrong!” Thus began a classic debate with her stating that she had traveled to Egypt and performed research there finding no sign of any proof of such an event and that the haggada had been invented within the last 2,000 years. I course was not willing to let her statement stand unchallenged since I knew she had not done her researching using Jewish sources written in Hebrew and Aramaic from across the spectrum of the ancient Jewish world. As the argument heated up my coworker stepped in by changing the topic knowing that neither his mother nor I would give ground on the topic.

In 2007, after seven years of work I left that job in order to take on the ultimate challenge of my life - making Aliyah. After moving to Israel I only had a few sporadic contacts with my former co-worker. He left me a short message once on my former blog wishing me luck and thanking me for our interactions. I have no way of knowing what effect I had on him or his family but the truth of the matter is that maybe by being that one Jew out of several to try to walk the path of Torah publically and privately I may have been a part of a shuva process for him or maybe his children.

We Don’t Need the Har HaBayit! – Nachshonim, Israel

Thinking back on my time living in America, it is not hard to imagine situations where a Torah based Jew can feel like a singularity simply due to the lower percentage of Jews to the majority population. It is also a given that the social and professional pressure to be loose on areas of Torah such as Kashrut and Shabbat can be intense even when a handful of Jews are present. In situations where more Torah based Jews are present it isn’t so strange to have someone else who won’t eat with everyone else when business and restaurants excursions take place. In those kind of environments a Jew may feel like less of a minority in a minority but simply like one Jew of several in a non-Jewish environment – just a minority.

By like token, one would expect that it would be a lot easier to not feel isolated with these topics in Israel. We are talking about the modern state with a Jewish majority and a place where supposedly there is more respect for Torah based Jewish values, right? All I have to say is for those who have never spent more than a year here at one time you may be surprised.

I have worked in both hi-tech and in patent law here in Israel, I have also lived in at least 3 different regions of the countries, traveled at least 4 different sectors of the country, and the reality is that there can be situations where Jews who keep Torah are the minority within a secular Jewish majority; after which in contrast to the rest of the Middle East we are thus a minority within a minority.

From my professional experience here in Israel there have been numerous times when secular Israelis have called my kippa “that thing on your head” or my tzitzyoth “that stuff you are wearing.” Of course with Shabbat being an official day where no one is required to work[11] as well as the abundance of “kosher” restaurants Torah in every city; Torah based life is a lot easier to maintain in Israel than outside of it.[12] Yet, there is still the reality that the majority of the Jewish population here does not keep Torah and there are conflicts at times between so called “religious/Hereidi/Daati Leumi” interests and secular interests.

I find myself being in a weird type of middle ground where I don’t feel the need to personally enforce the Torah I hold by on others but at the same time I don’t accept, on any level, encroachment on the standard that I hold dear. At the same time, I have also felt the reach of secular elements of Israeli society which at times does everything it can to distance itself from Torath Mosheh.

I also recognize that the modern state can’t continue as it is and fulfill the prophecies that talk about Yamoth Mashiah, the establishment of an official Sanhedrin in Jerusalem, the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash, and the return the exiles to Eretz Yisrael. The truth for me is that something major would have to change in all facets of Israeli governance, life, and thought to facilitate such a complete worldwide social change and thus this is the contradiction of the situation.

This brings me to 2006 when I took part in a volunteer program on two military bases in the Mercaz region of Israel. During my interview process for the program it had been noticed that I wore a kippa, tzitziyoth, and also that I spoke about Torah. I was informed by the person performing the interview to not talk about “religion” when I arrived on the base since it would be frowned upon. I agreed and upon arrival when I entered my room at the barracks and met my room-mates I changed into a uniform while trying to hurry and remove my tallit katan but it was noticed by some of the guys in the room.

By chance after being asked to say the bracha for lighting the candles for Hanukha I became the answer guy since the majority of people in the area didn’t publically wear tzitziyoth. On one occasion I was asked about whether halakha allowed the use of marijuana, on another about male and female relationships, at times why does the Torah say this or that, and on another occasion why I would wake up every day at 04:00 a.m., shower, and head out.

My response to that last question led to interesting situation when I told my roommate that I was heading to the Beith Keneset to pray Shachrit at netz. He asked me, “There is a Beith Keneset here? Where is it?” I described the location to him and then I packed up my things and left. As usual, at that time of the morning there was only two of us praying in the Beit Keneseth but after finishing I noticed my roommate sitting in the back of the Beit Keneset without a tallit and without tefillin. He simple crouched himself over the chair in front of him and prayed. I went to him and asked if he wanted to borrow my tallit and tefillin but he quietly said that that was okay and he continued.

Yet, the highlight of that time was during a conversation with two younger soldiers in a conversation that turned into issues against Arabs. One of them mentioned how he hated Arabs and didn’t trust them for of course obvious and realistic reasons. Yet, before he could go any further the other young man chimed in and asked if we could change the subject because his mother was Jewish and his father was Arab/Muslim.

It was that same young man who turned to me and said he had a question for me. He asked, “You have a kippa and tzitzityoth. Tell me do you believe what the Torah says about the Luchoth HaBrith, the Aron HaQodesh, etc.” I responded, “Yes I do.” He in turned, “If all that stuff is true how come we have never found any of it?” Without pause I responded, “Let me ask you a question. The Har HaBayith (the Temple Mount), is it important or is it not important? Do we need it?” He responded, “No we don’t’ need the Har HaBayth we only need the Kotel.” It was then that I returned with the following statement.

You know it is interesting that you say that because there was a time when for the most part no Jew would have agreed with you. Today you say we don’t need the Har HaBayit, we only need the Kotel, and tomorrow your children will say we don’t need the Kotel we only need Jerusalem outside of the old city. After them your grandchildren will say that we don’t need Jerusalem we only need Tel Aviv. Finally, their children will claim that we don’t need Tel Aviv or Eretz Yisrael at all. You know if that is the case I don’t blame Hashem for hiding things from us because based on what you are telling me we don’t want them.

From there the conversation had to stop since their commanding officer walked in and things had to go back to normal. Yet, the truth of the matter is that maybe it didn’t. In reality, who knows what effect the conversation had on all involved.

Close Encounters, Palestinians vs Israelis – A coffee shop in Jerusalem

Several years ago I had the opportunity to meet with a professor from the United States who was researching how mixed ethnicity is viewed around the world in comparison to the U.S. We met at a coffee shop in Jerusalem and she arrived with a friend whose background I did not know and for most of the initial conversation her friend only listened attentively while taking notes. I explained my perspectives to the professor about how family background, language, and passed down traditional practices plays a major role in how one defines Middle Eastern cultures. I detailed, from my view, how the social affects, parameters, and issues of being mixed in more ancient traditional societies has more far sweeping implications than what exists for the most part in the U.S. for reasons that I spoke at length about.

As an example, I asked the professor’s friend about her family background since she had been quiet during the conversation. She responded to me that I may not want to know her background, to which I expressed no reservations. She identified herself as an American born Palestinian – her parents having been born in the Shomron region and having moved to the U.S. before she was born. I responded that I still had no problem and from there the conversation took a different turn into the realm of politics. She expressed to me that even though she identified with being a Palestinian and she was a very vocal advocate for a Palestinian state, as a secular American Palestinian she was terrified of such a state becoming Islamic and thus being no different than the existing extremist Islamic countries in the region.

I expressed that I could not imagine such a “potential Palestinian state” without some form of Islamic focus as it the only cultural background I have seen any Palestinian attach themselves to. Sure, I have heard some anti-Israel types claim that modern day Palestinians are descendants of Canaanites and the like but I have yet to see any linguistic or cultural practices in their societies that can identified as Canaanite. Further, during the entire time I have lived in Israel and traveled in the Shomron, Gush Etzion, and the Negev I have also never met a an Arab who used this claim.

The young woman had personally never heard of the claim that Palestinians were Canaanites and I explained that the reason was that the claim started as a grasp at straws to make any claim why Jews have no right to be here. Further, I asked her what kind of culture can override the one that currently exists and what common ground does it have the current Israeli one. I could tell by her facial reactions that these were also considerations she had never taken into account and to this point she had no answer.

Her response was to return to the political perspective and she stated that she could not understand why we could not all just live in peace. My retort to her was to ask the obvious questions of, “What exactly is peace, how do you maintain/obtain it on a day to day basis, when was the last time in world history that such a peace was achieved, and why does it not still stand now?” She did not have answers to my questions, and on one some level I think she had never even considered them before. It is also possible that no Jew had ever interacted with her in this way so I continued with the following statement:

“As you can hopefully see that situation is a lot more complicated than what you have considered. Yet, in all honesty I can’t tell you that you don’t have a right to fight for PA State that you or others envision using whatever means you see fit. That would be hypocritical to some degree since I have no divine mandate to dictate what you should dedicate your life to.

I do know that in reality if we Jews can’t maintain ourselves and if we don’t build the society that can withstand claims to the contrary or attacks on our perceived rights to be here then maybe we don’t have a right to be here – using basic rules of survival of the fittest.

Yet, if we can survive all of the claims against us and if we can overcome all those who are against us and if we Israelis can build a society that makes sense, what right does anyone have to oppose the reality as it would stand in that situation?

You though face a different problem; you face the challenges of authentic history and straight forward logic. Historically speaking there has never been an independent and locally elected government which defined itself as “Palestinian” here in this region. If such a nation did exist what was its currency, who were its locally elected officials, what was its local language, what ancient cultural elements can still be seen today, and why is Islam and Christianity the only two religions found being practiced by virtually all Palestinians, even by those who are secular, when these religions are respectfully between 2,000 to 1,400 years old?”

As she considered my questions, I went even further by asking her what her family’s last name is. She responded that it is “Hamdani” to which I asked what was the Hamdani family’s cultural and religion prior to the entrance of Islam in the region from Arabia. She shifted a bit and stated that she didn’t know but a moment later she claimed that more than likely they were a religion-less people. I stated that I didn’t believe that such a people existed here given the fact that we only receive rain during the winter with a delicate eco-system that can be disrupted by either too little or too much rain. That alone may cause any ancient/traditional people to pray to something, even if they didn’t do so on a regular basis.

Lastly, I informed her that Egyptian, Babylonian, Syrian, Greek and Roman accounts describe the local culture for the last few thousand years being Israeli/Jewish and during the 2^nd Temple period in the region of Shomron were the Samaritans so “if” the Hamdani family is of local ancestry, and not by import, they must have at one time been Jewish or Samaritan, one of the two. This statement seemed to shock her because it was not a part of the historical picture she had ever considered; if she had every considered one at all. So, seeing an opening I closed our conversation with the following:

What you need to do is go back to your family in the Shomron and ask the oldest members what were the Hamdanis before the entrance of Islam into this region. You may find some answers in that question that may make your future more focused.

You talked about peace. Maybe, just maybe, if we Jews and you so called Palestinians sat down and talked about ancestry and history we may find that we are from the same source, prior to the entrance of Islam in this region. We may find that at one time a number of so called Palestinians had Jewish or Samaritan ancestry – which is something that is already known to be true in a number of towns in the “so called West Bank.” [13] [14]

Yet, if this is the case this means that you and others may have a decision to make. If you find out that prior to the rise of Islam in this region the Hamdanis were either Jewish or Samaritan this may change the focus of what you are looking for on the national level. This may mean that a conflict between us is fruitless and a coexistence based on our common ancestry shouldn’t be a problem. Yet, who is willing to take these kinds of steps? It takes a bravery that some people may not want to take on because of their personal political agendas.

Listen, it is not my intent to sway you in one way or the other but if the two of us can sit here and discuss history and ancestry and do so in a civil manner why can’t those who are our so called leaders? Maybe, if they were to take this approach we could either settle this over coffee or worse, the other thing.

We parted ways that day agreeing to be who we chose to be – whatever that may have meant for her. In truth, I am not sure where her life has taken her since that point but I did sense that she walked away with a different perspective than what she entered the conversation with.

I also know, looking back, that very few people would have approached the conversation the way I did and there was a time in the past when I would have not been so “open” as I was with her. Yet, even if I am alone in how I handled the situation the truth dictates that I hold by it even if it may seem like an uneasy position to take.

Further, as much as I may have been teaching her I was also taught a lesson about the importance of making the truth the source of one’s perceived political stances and how even in the most unexpected places the pursuit of the truth can bring understanding.

Torath Mosheh vs. Unsourced Religionism

As a last consideration, I feel it necessary to discuss the times I have been at odds with my responsibility to the truth as it relates to the people whom I come into contact from the nations on the internet. I mean this in the sense of both non-Jews and even at times Jews who follow what I term as “Unsourced Religionism.”

I define Unsourced Religionism as the practices and customs that one comes up with which do not adhere to any proven historical or logical methodologies. The truth is of course in stark contrast to this method of living and often Unsourced Religionisim is the source of some of the strife found in the world. Whether it be false religious concepts that lead people astray, worthless Atheist vs. Religious debates, or the various forms of fanaticism - the lack of contact with the truth has had devastating effects on human history.

This can be seen in the various cults throughout history that have risen up and convinced both the rational and irrational to throw away their logic and replace it with feel-good brain-washing. There was a time when I would have believed that it was not worth the time to confront the falsehoods of such groups but that changed when I came to know several individuals who had been drawn into religious cults – forcing me to use the truth of the Torah to fight an intellectual war against the falsehoods.

One such incident involves one of several cults that falls under the rubric of the title “Sacred Name Movement.” This movement is made up of former Christians who have come to believe that the more prevalent forms of Christianity are influenced by paganism and that specifically the four letter name of Hashem must be pronounced/uttered in order to have salvation. Though these cults believe that the various forms of historical Christianity practices have pagan origins, they use of the New Testament and their culture involves some type of belief in Jesus being divine although they believe his name originally had the two letter name of Hashem in it.

I recognize full well that debating this type of cult is an activity that most Jews would not engage in; especially given the fact that most Jews have never even heard of them. The time and energy needed to confront these types of falsehoods can take a certain toll on a person’s personal life and often the question may be asked, “is this thing I am doing having any true effect of the world at large?” Yet, even with all the reservations I have had in the past about my involvement in this type of activity I have learned that there are times when not expressing the truth can have a negative effect on the world around us.

With that in mind, I once spent an entire year defending a book review I did against a Sacred Name cult’s supposed translation of the Tanakh due to having personally known several non-Jews who were considering involvement in these cults.[15]

The back story of this situation is that more than a decade ago I came into contact with a non-Jewish friend who had purchased a supposed translation of the Tanakh produced by said cult based on Abiline, TX. I skimmed over the book and noticed that this cult was taking huge liberties with the text with no basis in Tanakh and accurate mesorah. Because the cult used a flashy apocalyptic end of times message and prided itself on revealing things to Christians who were already exploring the so called “Jewish roots of Christianity” I realized that I needed to do something to warn those who may be tricked into joining them.

At a certain point I decided to write a review against the so called translation, spending much time on methodically breaking down how unfaithful this cult’s book was to both the original Hebrew Tanakh and also to the historical mesorah[16] of the text. I ended my review by advising all who were interested in the book to instead spend time trying to learn Hebrew and Aramaic since the people who I knew who were interested in the sacred name cults were searching for the truth but had little or no tools to determine it.

My review garnered numerous positive responses as being helpful, several personal emails requesting help with finding a more accurate translation, and requests for assistance in finding resources to learn Hebrew but it also drew the attention of the cult that created the text. Several of them, and even one of them that someone informed me was most likely the cult’s leader, wrote nasty messages to me in the comments section. I wasted no time in responding to their false accusations and claims by using both textual and historical proof to make my points. As the back and forth continued the cult members resorted to name calling and condemnations of hellfire against me and anyone who favored my review. The language they used and their refusal to prove the accuracy of their work, by providing the source text they supposedly translated from, caused a number of parties who were originally interested in their text to abandon their interest while thanking me from preventing them from wasting their money and time.

As the cult’s members descended into even more non-sense with their responses, such as calling me a Catholic at one point, the next calling me a Pharisee, and later a Saducee, the site that the review was found on started deleting the cult member’s comments since they had received so many marks as being useless in the review process of the book. As more and more potential victims of the cult began to see that joining said cult would have been a waste of time I was reminded of the Rambam’s comment in his responsa concerning teaching Torah to Christians.[17]

Yet, even with this victory there is another side of this issue and that is when I have had to do mental battle with missionary/messianic cults and organizations. Most of them are evangelical types but in one case I was approached by an Islamic organization that focuses on trying to convince Jews to convert to Islam. In the case of the latter I was engaged in a two month back and forth with a member of said Islamic organization concerning what they claimed were inaccuracies in Judaism that are only understood correctly in Islam. Having had a background in Islamic studies, I knew the claims and was able to counter them in an honest and respectful manner. I had to do so though remembering that though the truth can break through any argument the Rambam advised in one of his responses against teaching Torah to Muslims since they could in turn use that information against us.[18]

The Truth: For What It’s Worth

Whether it is being responding to falsehoods on the internet or defending the truth of Torath Mosheh against falsehood the question at times may be – what is the benefit? For what reason would a person need to interact in this way with these types of people? The answer to me comes in two forms – one for Am Yisrael and the second for all of humanity. In several instances through my responses I was able to convince missionaries to become Noachides and in a couple of instances those who debated with me became interested in becoming Jewish. Even in situations where neither of these outcomes happen I feel that I have a responsibility as a Jew to stand for the truth when possible for the sake of being an active participant in Tikun HaOlam. Further, I know of situations where Jews have been lost to Torah completely simply because no one in their immediate area stood up for the truth in a strong, public, and dignified way. To this point, I was once pleased to come across a video of a famous Kiruv rabbi here in Israel who was asked by a secular young man why should a person who is good and doesn’t do anything to hurt people make teshuva to the Torah. The rabbi calmly but boldly declared, “There is no reason except for the sake of the Truth.”

[The deception is so great] that even the best of the chasidim [faithful] among our men [scholars] of Torah, think that they are true but forbidden because the Torah forbids them. They do not realize that they are nonsensical false things that the Torah warned against, just as it warned us against [believing in] falsehoods.[19]

In Closing

Years ago I would never imagined that my grandmother’s words would have the type of effect they have had on me for all of these years. I could not have imagined the path her words would have set me on or the completeness it brought me. She passed away before I could thank her but in a small way she may have known the result. The last time I saw her, before she passed away in 2002, she stated that there were things that she told me that she never told anyone else because when my father passed away she knew that I needed something more than everyone else.

When I open my eyes and take a look around I see that there are numerous others who are also seeking to have a love affair with the truth that Hashem has placed upon us. No matter how isolated I may feel at times I must remember to look to the hills where there are others waving the banner of truth; lighting the fires of Torah to draw the attention of any willing to observe. In reality, a life dedicated to truth has a way of changing the world whether it be in passive observance or active participation.

That when judgement is made of truth it is the truth that establishes the world. It brings peace to the world. Thus Hazal teach in the Misnhah on three things the world is established, on the judgment, on the truth, and the peace. The three of them are spoken of in the pasuk (Zecharyah 5) “Truth and justice of peace you will judge your gates.” Because when judgement is done/established, the truth is done/established. And because when the truth is done the peace is done/established. [20]

Thus, I must close with saying that the truth no matter where it places a person has a way of making them jump for joy when they know they have it. The truth has a way of turning sadness to content. It can make conflict into compromise and it has the ability to empower the lonely.

With this constant wrestling with truth of the Torah we in turn fulfill the prophecy that one day Hashem would cause us to become a light to the nations because as the prophets tell us, “ten men from the nations will grab the garment corner of a Jew and state: We have received falsehoods from our fathers. Take us with you because we have heard that Hashem is with you.”[21]   

“Tzedeq, tzedeq [Correctness, correctness][22], pursue; on account you will inherit the land which Hashem your Elokim is giving to you.” (Devarim 16:20)

[23]

Violence Is Not Grounds for Divorce

by Batya Kahana-Dror

(Batya Kahana-Dror is an attorney at Mavoi Satum, an organization that assists agunot who have been denied a divorce (get) from their husbands. Mavoi Satum ("dead end") provides social and legal support as well as conducting lobbying efforts on behalf of agunot. This article was originally published in Hebrew in issue 46 of Eretz Aheret magazine, with the title "The Chief Rabbinate vs. the Jewish People.")

The approach to women's rights in the rabbinical courts today is pitting Jewish values against the democratic reality we live in. It is not a pretty picture. In the rabbinical courts the chasm between dayanim and litigants is widening. The dayanim, under the guise of democratic self-expression, refute civil law as an authoritative source, and litigants are helpless to act. The civil rights revolution has been bypassed.

The struggle of mesoravot get poses one of the greatest challenges to the religious legal system, a system that functions within a democratic reality. Points of contention include halakha versus civil law, rabbinical courts versus civil courts, theocracy versus Western liberalism, Jewish feminism versus spreading fundamentalism, and conservative, reactionary Orthodoxy versus modern liberal Orthodoxy. 

In the State of Israel, marriage and divorce between Jews is only performed, in accordance with religious law, by the Rabbinical Courts, under the authority granted by the Law of Jurisdiction in the Rabbinical Courts. In the last few decades, the handling of issues of women's status by the rabbinical courts has sorely tested Jewish values against the liberal, democratic values of the State. In the rabbinical courts, the chasm widens between the dayanim and those who stand before them, as the two sides do not speak the same language. The dayanim, using the facade of democratic discourse, refute civil law as a source of authority, and litigants are helpless. There is no synthesis between Orthodoxy and modernity that would provide a solution.

[H1] Human Rights and the Rabbinical Court

Human rights—such as the right of a person to his or her life, body, honor, property, freedom and privacy—have been determined by the Basic Law of Human Rights and Freedom. Concurrently, this law allows for legal restrictions on an individual's human rights in cases where the values of the State of Israel are challenged. Time and time again, the rabbinical courts create a schism between the halakha they believe they are applying and the values that the Basic Law represents.

This begs the question of whether the violation of a mesorevet get's rights is a case in which personal freedom is justly restricted, akin to that of a tax evader or the arrest of a criminal suspect. Is the violation of the rights of a mesorevet get, whose only crime is to ask for a divorce, a reasonable infringement, one that is deemed necessary by law? What is the benefit to the general public of a woman being denied the right to have children or being freed from a failed marriage? Is this the way to implement the Jewish values of the State of Israel?

For example, the rabbinical court in Tel Aviv granted a recalcitrant husband compensation of 60,000 NIS in exchange for his consent to grant a divorce. "The husband deserves compensation in return for his consent to grant a divorce against the position that he has expressed throughout the years" (six years). The Beit Din Hagadol [the religious supreme court] added that, "The husband had the halakhic right to continue being married. The husband agreed to abdicate this right in exchange for the right to sue for damages" ("HaDin ve-haDayan"—The Law and the Judge—edited by Dr. Amichai Redziner, published by the Rackman Center for the Status of Women, and Yad L'Isha, 4[8] and 11[10]). The court recognized the man's right to marriage and completely ignored the woman's right to freedom and her right to choose whether or not she wanted to live with this man. In addition, not only was this recognition of rights one-sided, but the court also violated the woman's basic economic rights in order to protect the man's right to be married.

In another example, the rabbinical court does not view "regular" violence—defined as “beatings that cannot kill”—as grounds for divorce. The Ashdod rabbinical court imprisoned a man because of violence and his refusal to grant a divorce. Yet the court differentiated between "regular beatings" which does not merit a hiyuv get [a rabbinical mandate to force the man to grant a divorce], and beatings that can kill, which does in fact merit a hiyuv get (see haDin ve-haDayan 4[3]).

In the opinion of the rabbinical court, it seems that "regular" beatings are something that a woman is capable of living with, and in any event, divorce should not be imposed because of it. An act that constitutes a criminal offense in the State of Israel does not constitute grounds for divorce in the rabbinical court.

[H1] "The Altar Sheds Tears..."

Like every legal system, halakha is naturally conservative by nature, and aspires to maintain ancient legal traditions. Since halakha is a religious legal system that considers itself to be of Divine origin, it is even more conservative than the secular legal system. Despite the fact that over the centuries there has been room for creating mechanisms for halakhic change and renewal (such as edicts, special rulings, needs of the day) nevertheless, objective circumstances prevented major halakhic renewal in Orthodox society, in particular over the past 200 years.

The ongoing changes in issues of personal status create a serious challenge for halakhic adjudication in the modern age. Even those who generally favor the approach of "sit and do nothing" cannot help but apply some minimal halakhic thought to modern-day situations. How much more so, religious judges in the State of Israel, whose authority rests on the principle "rise and act," must deal with the new reality in which most of the people in need of their services are not religiously observant.

The huge immigration to Israel and the establishment of the State raised expectations among certain sectors of the Orthodox community that there would be a religious, halakhic renewal with varied and broader interpretations of the Torah. However, this has not been the case. Although solutions to some halakhic issues such as kashruth and shemita were created, the scope of halakhic jurisdiction in Israel shrunk compared to its jurisdiction in the Diaspora. All civil and criminal legislation was given to the State, which rules according to civil law. Personal status remained in the hands of the religious judges, yet it was defined and placed under the auspices of the rabbinical court system by the State.

Over time, as a result of the increasing political power of the Hareidi sector, the rabbinical court took on the character of the Hareidi community, which succeeded in positioning its own people as dayanim, judges. Only the protest of women's organizations stirred the religious-Zionist public to act, but it was too little too late. This situation created a dearth of Modern Orthodox halakhic rulings that recognize women's suffering and women's rights. In practice, the religious-Zionist community accepted the authority of the rabbinical court and did not establish an alternative model of halakhic jurisdiction.

Why did the Modern Orthodox community accept this situation? First, the rabbinical court is a national entity working on behalf of the State of Israel. The Modern Orthodox sector is predominantly Zionist and thus maintains a loyal attitude toward State institutions even though the rabbinical courts do not represent State policy. An example of this attitude can be found in the actions of Zevulun Orlev and Rabbi Yitzhak Levy, Knesset members from the now defunct National Religious Party (NRP), who continue to introduce bills to expand the judicial power of the rabbinical courts—the same court that they claim does not have enough Modern Orthodox judges. Another reason is the religious-Zionist community's narrow focus on settlements. Finally, there is a fear of opening the door to Reform and Conservative Judaism.

Women's organizations filled this void. At first they concentrated on representing women seeking divorce whose rights were being compromised. Only later, after the magnitude of the injustice came to light, did they embark on a public campaign. The accessibility of halakhic knowledge coupled with the revolution in women's religious learning enabled women to promote halakhic solutions that the rabbinical courts chose to ignore. Orthodox women's groups started calling for change. The women themselves, most of whom belong to "Kolech," slowly adopted the feminist lexicon and became flag bearers of the struggle for women's equality in the rabbinical courts. Their positions caused a furor and their actions were viewed by the Hareidi and even the Modern Orthodox as undermining halakha. Women's organizations were trapped. Their members stopped believing in the rabbis and in their ability to institute change, but at the same time did not dare to take action without rabbinic consent (although the more radical among them claimed that a struggle that relies on rabbis actually empowers rabbis and thus makes the situation worse).

While expanding the struggle for women's rights, two steps were taken. The first was recruiting the civil courts, (whether through appeals to the Supreme Court or through lawsuits in the family court) claiming compensation for damages caused by the rabbinical court. The second step was investing more resources in bringing the issue into the public arena. Lawyers, religious pleaders, and social workers were joined by women campaigners who publicized the procedures of the rabbinical courts and worked to promote legislative change that would restrict the rabbinical courts' authority.

The fact that Orthodox women's organizations are leading the campaign has its disadvantages. First, the women's campaign is viewed in the religious world as a feminist issue and not in its broader context—as a struggle between liberal and conservative attitudes—and as such does not enjoy the support of most religious men, who tend to support the rabbis. Second, the push by Orthodox women is perceived by the general public as an internal religious issue and not as a battle against the violation of human rights, so the secular public and human rights organizations are barely involved in the campaign.

[H1] The Response of the Rabbinical Courts

The threat of reducing the judicial powers of the rabbinical courts, along with the growing opposition to court rulings that do not support Western liberal tenets, have led the rabbinical courts to issue more defensive and conservative rulings.

One example of this is the ruling by the Bet Din haGadol on an erroneous get. A get was cancelled as the rabbinical court decided that it was a "mistaken get" and insisted on arranging an additional get—regardless of the fact that the rabbinical court believed that there were enough halakhic options and explanations to view it as a valid get (HaDin ve-haDayan, 16th edition, 5 [17] 8). The rabbinical court clarified that "the rabbinical court does not rush to annul a get, and in fact this happens very rarely," but they added that they are annulling the get because "in this new reality, in which [the civil courts] want to bind the hands of the rabbinical courts so that they will be unable to continue to rule on agreements that they ratified [Sima Amir's appeal to the Supreme Court], and in which civil courts enjoy easily nullifying decisions of the rabbinical courts, this situation has the potential to cause serious harm...".

It is clear from the judges' language that they obviously weigh issues that have nothing to do with the specific case before them—considerations that take into account the erosion of their authority by the civil courts. Similar statements were made by the rabbinical courts with respect to the civil courts to explain the decision to become much more stringent in this particular case and invalidate the get: "The problem is that the civil courts created an opening for parents to sue on behalf of their children in order to evade the commitments of parents toward one another in their agreements, even though we are dealing with a case in which the parents themselves are suing. This trend distorts the law and the halakha and its only purpose is to undermine the authority of the rabbinical court and is exploited by family court judges."

[H1] Halakhic Pluralism

It is important to emphasize that pluralism does exist within halakha, both intellectually and in its practical application. It developed through the geographic dispersal of the Jews, and had evolved over time since its development in Mishnaic times. If we take into account the entirety of halakhic rulings and the span of literature connected to it, we can see that the dayanim have wide avenues to maneuver within halakha. In this respect, dayanim have a broader range of choices than civil judges who are limited to one legislative codex. As such, the dayan's beliefs and attitudes have a very significant and determining influence on his choices in his rulings.

The famous ruling of Maimonides states that, "If [a woman] says, “[my husband] is repulsive to me”... he is pressured until he gives it of his own will..." In other words, according to Maimonides, a woman who claims "he is repulsive to me" will be granted an immediate get by pressuring the husband. Rabbeinu Tam, who gave more weight to the fear of "forced get" over the principle of leniency, abolished this approach. However, of all the available halakhic rulings, the rabbinical courts chose to reinstate the halakha of the Maharashdam, Shemuel ben Moshe de Medina, who lived in Salonika in the sixteenth century. The rabbinical courts have accepted his position that one has to accept the husband's conditions if the court considers them reasonable, even when the husband has already been halakhically obligated or forced to grant the get. Consequently, the man's bargaining power is increased—even though he had significantly more power than the woman to begin with—as he is entitled to absolute free will during the divorce process.

In one case, the district rabbinical court decided not to discuss forcing the husband to grant his wife a get because he agreed to grant the get if she complied with a number of conditions. In this case, the rabbinical court listed what they considered to be reasonable conditions: "We want to clarify that the right to set conditions exists, not only in the financial realm, but also in the behavioral realm, for example, she will not be allowed to eat certain foods or wear certain items of clothing. Even the rabbinical court cannot force the woman to agree to these demands, but they are binding as conditions for a get and have to be implemented even in the situation where a husband has been obligated or forced to grant the get" (HaDin ve-haDayan, 7[5]). The rabbinical court thus sees as legitimate and even reasonable to violate the freedom of choice and the dignity of women by imposing the husband's conditions on her, even after the two are completely disconnected from one another, in order not to force the husband to give the get.

Reliance on this Maharashdam ruling with its current religious-court interpretation absolves the rabbinical court of all responsibility and abandons the woman to the husband's caprices. The rabbinical court thus reduces the woman's power and makes her efforts to obtain a hiyuv get from her husband irrelevant, since the hiyuv get loses its effectiveness if the husband's conditions have to be accepted. The use of the Maharashdam's halakha leads to unprecedented extortion of the woman, and legitimizes the phenomenon of get denial.

[H1] Between "Din Torah" and "Giving Advice"

In contrast to the Maharashdam's halakha, the judges have another, just as easily accessible ruling by Rabbi Haim Palachi (an adjudicator of Jewish Law who lived in Izmir in the nineteenth century). He ruled that in a case of a couple living apart for eighteen months, the husband has to be forced to give the get. This pragmatic ruling could have solved many cases of get denial, but for the most part this ruling is not used in the rabbinical courts. Furthermore, the court warned against applying Rabbi Palachi’s halakha: "It is not his intention to force the couple to divorce but is merely a piece of advice to adjudicators" (HaDin ve-haDayan, 18[8]). Redefining Rav Palachi's ruling as "a piece of advice" rather than "Torah law" suits the increasingly stringent bias in the rabbinical courts. The juxtaposition of these rulings—that of the Maharashdam versus that of Rav Palachi's—and the ways in which they are used or not used, epitomizes the ways in which dayanim make choices, the influence of a dayan's personal outlook on his rulings, and the outrageous situation in the rabbinical courts today. Another practice that is often used in many rabbinical courts today is to recommend that the couple come to an agreement instead of the court making a decision and imposing a get. This practice is upheld even in cases where it is clear that a couple will never be able to reach an agreement because the case has dragged on for many years. In this way the dayanim encourage the prolongation of proceedings and increase the possibilities of blackmail. To emphasize the philosophy behind these procedures, MK Moshe Gafni in the State Audit Commission stated: "There is a vested interest that the rulings should not be implemented. I said this in the legislative commission as well. The altar sheds tears for a man and a woman who separate". It seems clear that the rabbinical court has its own agenda, and is not at all concerned with the parties’ needs. There is a disregard for the wishes or the rights of an individual to divorce, as halakhic conservatism will always override those individual wishes.

[H1] Expansion of the Judicial Powers of the Rabbinical Courts

In a 2006 ruling (Supreme Court ruling 8638/03 Sima Amir vs the Higher Rabbinical Court in Jerusalem), the Supreme Court ruled that "legislative principles" dictate that the authority of the rabbinical courts to rule on plaintiffs outside of the issue of marriage and divorce needs to be legislatively effectuated. The Supreme Court thus explicitly determined that it is illegal for rabbinical courts to act as arbitrators with authority on civil matters and personal status disputes that erupted as a result of their own rulings.

As a result, Knesset members from the religious parties re-proposed a law to set this expansion of jurisdiction in law. A few months after this Supreme Court ruling, the new Kadima-led government was formed, based on a coalition agreement with Shas that included a commitment to legislate on the expansion of the rabbinical court authority. Until the Sima Amir Supreme Court ruling, and even afterwards (according to the State Comptroller), the rabbinical court acted as an arbitrator on all matters.

This practice demonstrates that the rabbinical courts see themselves as an independent judicial body with added authority—a judicial body that deviates from the mandate given it by the law (personal status) and converts itself into an autonomous body. This is similar, however inconceivable, to a case in which the Labor Courts, for example, might begin judging cases under the jurisdiction of the magistrates' court because they have declared themselves arbitrators. Moreover, the rabbinical courts did not distinguish between the authority they were given and the authority they simply took for themselves. When the dayanim would act as arbitrators, they would often use the rabbinical courtrooms and stationery with the State of Israel's letterhead. The hours they dedicated to arbitration were also considered part of their regular working hours.

The dayanim were also inclined to send refusal notices to parties who refused to appear before them—in direct defiance of the arbitration law that states that a condition granting authority to the arbitrator is consent of both sides—and in this way they expressed their view that the rabbinical court is in essence the defining authority for the religious community, with no need for that society's consensus. Incidentally, the Supreme Court ruling in the case of Joseph Katz put an end to these practices (Supreme Court ruling no. 95/3260, Joseph Katz vs. the Jerusalem District Rabbinical Court [4], 590).

The rabbinical court is trying to use the governmental authority it has been given over one specific matter in order to establish itself as a court that rules on Torah issues as well as civil matters, and to promote itself as a substitute to the Israeli Justice System. These ideas find expression in the ruling of the Jerusalem Religious District Court by which the  halakha forbidding litigation in courts also applies to litigation in the Israeli Civil Courts system "as it stands today" (file 38/2824, 11 [259]).

 The rabbinical courts do not allow room for error. This is a halakhic ruling of the rabbinical court in the State of Israel that takes on a role and authority that was not granted to it, and emphatically forbids one to be judged in the Israeli Court system "as it stands today." This attitude of the rabbinical courts also finds expression in the disapproval that judges convey toward women who have opened cases in the family courts, and in their support of the demand (usually from the husband) to transfer cases from the civil to the rabbinical courts, and even to reopen cases that have already been settled. Even graver are cases in which the wife presented a damages claim against the recalcitrant husband. In these situations, the women are subjected to threats by the dayanim who claim that they will not continue to judge the get cases until the women withdraw their damages claims.

In their campaign to expand their judicial authority, the rabbinical courts found a supportive argument from an unexpected source: postmodern theory on pluralistic systems of law, which recognizes the rights of religious sects to live and be judged according to their own beliefs. These postmodern Hareidi groups want to have their cake and eat it too. On the one hand, they hold on to their own mandatory role on all issues of personal status, and are unwilling to open another rabbinic court. They are also unwilling to forego their unequivocal authority on all issues related to divorce (Law of the Jurisdiction of Rabbinical Courts, section 3, marriage and divorce, 1953). On the other hand, they demand judicial pluralism for their own people, claiming, "There is nothing wrong with people wanting to live according to their beliefs and be judged by a different set of laws."

Leaving aside the inherent contradiction, I would like to focus on the issue of judicial pluralism. From the perspective of a democratic society, there are problematic issues in this approach: voluntarism and basic values. The nagging questions generally and in this specific case are: how to ensure that only those who want to be part of a separatist legal system will be included in it; how to ensure that neither social pressure nor any other pressure will cause people to seek out the rabbinical courts; and how to ensure that basic democratic values, such as human dignity and freedom (for example, the right not to be beaten), will be preserved.

Even those who support pluralism cannot ignore the fact that religious rulings as they are applied today in rabbinical courts often do not recognize phenomena that are considered criminal—such as violence, drugs, gambling, and more—as grounds for divorce.

[H1] "I Am Satisfied"

An important tool for establishing democratic norms in the rabbinical courts is assistance from the State Comptroller's Office and the Knesset Comptroller's Committee. In contrast to other courts, the religious courts "excel" in their high number of procedural and disciplinary irregularities.

The latest State Comptroller's report, published in May this year, paints a particularly distressing portrait: reports of breaches in 83 percent of the cases in Petach Tikva, and in 75 percent of the cases in Tel Aviv; reports of excessive foot-dragging and abuse of the law; 26 percent of hearings that took place in the absence of a full panel of dayanim (which causes delays in receiving a get); 257 cases of arbitration opened in direct contravention of a clear Supreme court ruling, (decision of Sima Amir, see above); irregularities in dayanim's attendance records; dayanim taking up residence outside their area of jurisdiction, which unequivocally violates the conditions of their contract— even after being issued warning letters regarding this practice. In addition to these facts and figures, the report creates a dismal picture regarding the attitude of the management of the rabbinical court toward civil law and the rule of law. The rabbinical courts and their judges do not view the State, the law, and the body that elects them—The Committee for Appointment of Dayanim—as a source of authority over them, despite the fact that, outwardly, they present themselves as a system willing to accept criticism and to correct any improprieties.

The common attitude in the rabbinical courts about the source of their authority is that Israeli law is man-made but the rabbinical courts rely on divine authority. Former Chief Rabbi Avraham Shapiro wrote, "Courts of law derive their authority from State law, they make their rulings based on the administration of the day, what the members of the elected house of government happen to legislate. By contrast, we, the judges of the rabbinical courts, rule with the power of the authority of the Torah for all of Israel, according to the laws of the Torah" (quoted by Judge Menachem Elon in "Jewish Law", Magnus, 5733/1973).

Particularly surprising was the position taken by the Chair of the State Comptroller's Committee, a member of the now defunct National Religious Party (NRP) that examined the report's findings. Besides the compliments he showered on the management of the rabbinical courts and on the Chief Rabbis for their streamlining and efforts at improvement, he expressed a clear discomfort with the content of the report to other participants in the meeting. It seemed that there was an incomprehensible gulf between the complacency felt at the meeting and the outrage felt by the public.

Religious Zionism and its Knesset representatives have adapted themselves to ultra-Orthodox practice, and not only in halakhic matters. They accept guidelines on a range of issues from rabbis—including from Chief Rabbi Shlomo Amar, a member of Shas, who himself is susceptible to the pressures of the ultra-Orthodox Lithuanian stream. The Chief Rabbis' office and the rabbinical courts, despite the fact that they are completely controlled by the ultra-Orthodox, are still supported by the religious Zionist camp, who views them as one of their own. Religious Zionist Knesset members and religious Zionism views the issue of State authority as a centerpiece of their ideology (even though after the disengagement from Gush Katif, an increasing number of voices within the Religious Zionist camp began challenging this assumption). The national religious public is still reluctant to openly come out against State institutions, even though it is clear to them that little if any national awareness exists in the present religious establishment. The national religious public is unwilling or unable to come out systematically and offer an alternative to the State establishment. Therefore, at the end of the State Comptroller's Committee meeting, Knesset member Orlev placed the primary blame for the problems in the rabbinical courts squarely on issues of funding and legislation, and concluded, "I am satisfied."

[H1] "It Is Not Your Responsibility to Finish the Work, But Neither Are You Free to Bypass It"

We have reached the peak of evading accountability. The conversion crisis exposed the differing approaches to conversion within Orthodoxy. The gap between the progressive approach and the more defensive, conservative approach within Orthodoxy has not been so clearly delineated in a long time. The public is beginning to gain an understanding about halakhic alternatives that are unavailable in today's religious establishment. The tensions between the religious legal system and the system that propounds equality and human rights are starting to show.

Two bills to improve the processes of conversion and divorce were recently proposed and then rejected. The laws intended to give communal rabbis the authority to convert potential individuals and correct the law on division of property. (This article was written in August, and since then the law on division of property before the giving of the get has passed after years of campaigning by groups such as ours.) When it comes to the injustices in the religious courts, not only does the political system avoid helping, but political pragmatism and coalition concerns overcome the need to resolve the problem of divorce in Israel. It seems that the apathy of the general public enables the emissaries of the law to displace this issue with their own political, economic and security interests

The inability to effect change has caused sectors of society to lose faith in the political system that tends to regularly cave in to ultra-Orthodox demands. This capitulation is not only politically motivated, but also emanates from the belief that ultra-Orthodox Jews are the true guardians of the Book, who see their unofficial role as maintaining the Jewish character of the State.

A Modern Orthodox alternative does not exist. The ultra-Orthodox have access to the State rabbinical courts as well as their own private courts. The Reform and Conservative movements have their own organizations. It is only the Modern Orthodox, national religious public that has no alternative. Since many traditional people identify with the national religious camp (that is, the synagogue they do attend is Orthodox), this is not a struggle between various factions, but rather the creation of an alternative that will serve a large portion of the Israeli public, and would therefore have tremendous societal importance.

The State's position, which disallows an alternative Orthodox voice, is leading us to disengagement. We have not yet healed from the wounds of the first disengagement, and we are on the brink of another huge rift in Israeli society. The degree of aversion to the religious establishment is only deepening, both in the national-religious and the secular population. The Israeli public finds it difficult to come to terms with the personal suffering caused by conservative and inflexible halakhic thinking. At the same time, the popularity of religious marriage ceremonies, which are not conducted by the rabbinical establishment, is rising among religious and secular couples- a clear show of distrust in the rabbinical establishment and the rabbinical courts.

It is up to the national religious community to publicly break away from the apologetic, defensive, conservative Orthodoxy of today, a break that would mean establishing a new Israeli Orthodox stream that would, among other things, establish its own religious courts.

Modern Orthodoxy must propose and build this alternative in an organized, systematic way. It must propose an alternative that includes broad halakhic thinking, which, while based on halakha, recognizes the greater good and modern day needs. It must propose an alternative that incorporates the knowledge acquired through the twenty-first century, including civil rights, changes in women's status, and public consensus, and seek to find solutions (including recognizing civil marriage) for the entire public.

This stream of Orthodoxy cannot define itself merely through Zionism and settlement of the land, but has to embrace halakha and its modern-day development against a backdrop of liberal Western values. It is not enough to create lenient rulings versus stringent rulings. A clear line must be drawn between halakha and its relationship to contemporary times and the society in which it operates.

The creation of an alternative religious establishment will integrate an additional halakhic outlook within the Jewish mainstream—one that has a body of followers among the religious and traditional sectors. Its institutions will return halakha to its essential dynamic state, reconnecting it to our everyday lives and at the same time reconnecting all of society to the essential character of the State of Israel as a Jewish state.

In his Yad haHazakah, Rambam writes:

If someone is bitten by a scorpion or a snake it is permitted to recite a charm over the wound, even on Shabbat, in order to calm the patient and give him encouragement. Although such a thing is of no [objective] benefit whatsoever, since a life is in danger they [the rabbis] permitted it lest the victim suffer mental anguish [should it appear that not every effort was being made]. (Abodah Zarah 11:11)

This ruling of Rambam was adopted by Rabbi Yosef Karo (Shulhan Arukh, Y.D. 179:13)—to the great annoyance of the Vilna Gaon, as evidenced by his following comment:

This opinion is the Rambam’s [as expressed in the latter’s Laws of Abodah Zarah 11: 11–16]. He also wrote [similarly in] Perush haMishnah, A. Z. 4:7. But all subsequent authorities disagreed with him because of the numerous charms recorded in the Gemara. He, however, was drawn by the accursed philosophy, and that is why he wrote that witchcraft, names, charms, demons and amulets are all deception. But he has been thoroughly refuted on the strength of the innumerable stories found in the Talmud such as that of the matron who uttered words and immobilized a ship [Shabbat 81b, Hullin 105b] ... or that of the rabbis who every Friday studied the halakhot of creation, and would create a “tertiary calf” [Sanhedrin 67b] and R. Joshua who pronounced a name and was suspended between heaven and earth [Bekhoroth 8b] ... But philosophy with her blandishments misled him to explain all such stories allegorically and to uproot them from their literal meaning. As for myself, Heaven forefend that I should accept any of those allegorical explanations...” (Biur haGra Yore De‘ah, 179:13).

            The foregoing dispute reflects an age-old clash between two worldviews. Rambam reads the texts of the Talmud in a manner that does not violate reason or contradict the results of empirical knowledge. Rabbi Elijah of Vilna, on the other hand, prefers to uphold a literalist reading of the same texts. Indeed, his evident commitment to literalism propels him to accept superstition! As for the “accursed philosophy,” Rabbi Elijah blames for Rambam’s metaphorical interpretations of difficult aggadot, we cannot be sure what he had in mind. Certainly Rambam himself shows no awareness of being a victim of philosophical deception when he expounds his opposition to literalist readings of improbable aggadot. No, if Rambam is to be believed, his anti-literalism arose from deep convictions regarding the Sage’s essential rationality:

Know that the words of the Sages of blessed memory, are understood differently by three groups of people.

Regarding the first, from observing them, reading their books and hearing about them, they are the largest [group]…. They understand the teaching of the Sages only in their literal sense, in spite of the fact that some of their teachings, when taken literally, seem so fantastic and irrational that if one were to repeat them literally, even to the uneducated... their amazement would prompt them to ask how anyone in the world could believe such things true, much less edifying.

The members of this group are so poor in knowledge that it pains one [to think] of their folly. Their very effort to honor and to exalt the Sages in accordance with their own meager understanding actually humiliates them! As God lives, this group destroys the glory of the Torah and darkens its light, for they make the Torah of God say the opposite of what it intended. God said in the perfect Torah, “The nations who hear of these statutes shall say: ‘Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people’” (Deut. 4:6). But this group expounds the teachings of our Sages in such a way that when the other peoples hear them they say, “How foolish and worthless is this insignificant group of people!” The worst offenders are preachers who preach and expound to the masses what they themselves do not understand. Would that they keep silent about what they do not know, as it is written: “If only they would be utterly silent, it would be accounted to them as wisdom” (Job 13:5).

The second group is also a numerous one. It too consists of persons who, having read or heard the words of the Sages, understand them according to their simple literal sense and believe that the Sages intended nothing else than what may be learned from their literal interpretation. Inevitably, they ultimately declare the Sages to be fools, and hold them up to contempt...

There is a third group. Its members are so few in number that it is hardly appropriate to call them a group—except in the sense in which one speaks of the sun as a group of which it is the only member. To this group the greatness of our Sages is clear. They recognize the superiority of their intelligence from their words, which point to exceedingly profound truths.... The members of this group understand that the Sages knew as clearly as we do the difference between the impossibility of the impossible and the existence of that which must exist. They know that the Sages did not speak nonsense....Thus, whenever the Sages spoke of things that seem impossible, they were employing the style of riddle and parable, which is the method of truly great thinkers. (Rambam, Hakdamah lePerek Helek. Cf. Isadore Twersky, A Maimonides Reader, West Orange, NJ: Berman House, 1972, 407–409)

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi shared Rambam’s fear of the threat to Torah posed by excessive irrationality.

See that we are not any different than our ancestors. If the details of ancient idolatrous practices were widely known today, we would also be lured astray—just like we are [at present] by other popular vanities such as astrology, incantation, talismans, and other actions [alchemy?] that mean to change physical nature—despite the fact that the Torah has commanded us to stay far away from these practices! (Kuzari, end of 4:23. Cf. Sanhedrin 102b; Rambam, Guide, III:37)

It is meet to come clean and state up front that I incline toward the Maimonidean position. That is to say, the Sages’ acknowledgment of nature’s basic predictability and their manifest scientific curiosity do not allow me to think of them as irrational. It is hardly necessary to add that such keen study of nature’s laws in no way debars a person’s openness to miracles and the power of God to change the world. That holds for the Sages, for Rambam, and for us humble latter-day folks. Yet, because they studied nature so closely, the Sages were in the best position to recognize miracles for what they are—the exceptional intervention on the part of the Creator for God’s own moral purposes.

            You may be wondering what this literalist debate has to do with the topic I’ve been invited to write about, namely Torah education from the perspective of a parent. Answer: the debate per se, nothing; its ramifications, plenty. A major pedagogic disappointment I have encountered over and over again is the seemingly indiscriminate way teachers in many Day Schools introduce young children to material far above the average child’s intellectual and emotional age. I know that some parents read Grimm’s fairy tales to their kids in the hope that a child will understand it as mere fancy. Be that as it may, sacred texts are another story. It seems to me that because the child approaches these texts with a different level of receptiveness, the educator needs to exercise extra care about what material to teach. Particular perturbation is caused to children when hard aggadot are set before them in the raw.

Let’s take the following text from Megillah 12b as an example:

“And Queen Vashti refused” (Esther 1:12). Since she [too] was immodest, as the master said above, that both of them had an immoral purpose, why then would she not come? Rabbi Jose bar Hannina said: This teaches that leprosy broke out on her. In a Baraitha it was taught that Gabriel came and made her a tail.

What goes through a teacher’s mind before deciding to share such an aggada with his or her class? Surely the teacher has considered at least the obvious questions it raises: Why did this great miracle of the tail occur—even if Vashti’s vanity was off the charts?! Or was the tail’s advent something less than a miracle? We recall that in the rabbinic corpus, a human changing into an ape is not precluded.

Rabbi Yirmiyah bar Elazar said: They [dor haPalagah] split up into three parties. One said, ‘Let us ascend and dwell there;’ the second, ‘Let us ascend and serve idols;’ and the third said, ‘Let us ascend and wage war [with God].’ The party that proposed…‘Let us ascend and wage war’ were turned to apes, spirits, devils, and night-demons… (Sanhedrin 109a).

So maybe our Sages believed that humans were created with the potential to turn into (revert to?) apes—but back to the question about Vashti. What was the size of her tail? It would have to be imagined as too long and voluminous to hide under the normal train of a queenly robe. What was it about Vashti’s sin that merited so vile a metamorphosis? If, on the other hand, humans were not endowed with simian latency, then why would the Creator choose to revise creation?

Unless the teacher has thought all this through, surely he or she is ill-advised presenting it to impressionable children, even if he or she emphasizes its sociological aspect. (There are those who see this aggada’s point as an attempt to downplay non-Jewish Vashti’s virtue in order to boost our collective Jewish ego.) Still, whether presented as entertainment, myth, or anthropology, this aggada, with its inescapable grotesqueness, is best saved for advanced students who are able to articulate any problems they might have with it.

            Another aggada, though seemingly innocuous, can cause considerable bafflement. Noah is told to provide the Ark with a “tsohar” (Genesis 6:16). This rare word, tsohar, is generally understood as a porthole by writers ancient and modern. However, one aggada identifies tsohar as a light-giving gemstone. Now, although jewels can sparkle and reflect light, they cannot generate it. Therefore telling children that stones can be luminous is plain wrong.

Besides choosing their material wisely, teachers would do well to prepare themselves both intellectually and emotionally for questions their students might throw at them. Years ago, my daughter was paying attention to a lesson about kapparot that her elementary school teacher gave in advance of Yom Kippur. When the teacher had finished explaining the mechanics and purpose of that practice, my daughter asked, “If all the sins of a person went into the chicken, was it not unfair to give the chicken to the poor? They would be inheriting all those very sins that had been purged from the first person!” The teacher gave the child a blank stare, and without any response, moved on to another topic.

Of course one is not advocating the sanitization of texts—or even an avoidance of charged ones. Most teachers are responsible, but often labor under the notion that anything found in our sacred literature must be edifying for all and sundry. The Mishnah thought otherwise: “[A child of] five years [is ready] for Scripture, ten years for Mishnah…fifteen years for Talmud…” (Aboth 5:21). Entrusted with the stewardship of Torah for the next generation, it behooves every one of us educators to rethink many current pedagogic practices.

“I tell you, all the madness of the human race is in the sanctification of that book. Everything going wrong with this country is in the first five books of the Old Testament. Smite the enemy, sacrifice your son, the desert is yours and nobody else’s all the way to the Euphrates. A body count of dead Philistines on every other page—that’s the wisdom of their wonderful Torah.” (Philip Roth, The Counterlife, p. 75)

I

            As a yeshiva boy in Forest Hills, New York in the 1980s (this was at Ohr Torah Institute—otherwise known as “the Institution,” as in house of detention), the closest thing to a Jewish American novel we were ever required to read were the aggadic sections of rabbinic fantasy we occasionally studied in Talmud class. It should be mentioned, however, that the rabbis almost always skipped over these “story” passages as unimportant. We routinely turned the Talmud page when we came upon what my ninth-grade rebbe called “these worthless passages,” and jumped headlong into the text’s pilpul and halakhic discussion of a gored ox or a disputed tallit.

            Growing up in Cedarhurst, Long Island, in the 1970s and 1980s as an “aynekel of the Modzitzer” was a strange and heady experience. Every winter we would get in my father’s beat-up car and drive all the way to Brooklyn, to a shteibel in Flatbush where, as the only non-black-hatted Hassid in the room, I would be rewarded by being seated between my grandfather and the current Modzitzer Rebbe. I would listen with rapt attention as my grandfather’s cousin, Ben Zion Shenker, sang the beautiful and haunting niggunim of my great, great grandfather, Rabbi Yisrael Taub of Modzitz. Each niggun came with a story that my grandfather would whisper into my ear as the hundreds of loyal Hassidim swayed to the mournful strains of Ben Zion’s voice; I heard history, both his and mine, unfold in each note. One niggun, called a “song of the homeless,” was written in response to the thousands of refugees streaming through the Modzitzer’s shtetl in the aftermath of World War I. Another terrifyingly beautiful niggun was penned while the Rebbe (my grandfather’s grandfather) had his right leg amputated. The song, which is sung only twice a year, once at the yarzeit of the Rebbe and again during the Ne’ilah service on Yom Kippur, is a gentle reminder to God pleading with him not to forsake his people during their times of sorrow.  

            Needless to say, our family never davened at a Young Israel; my father managed to find the one shabby shteibel in all of Long Island—and he made fast work to move the family directly across the street from Congregation Beis Medrash—an insider’s joke of an appropriate name for a Long Island synagogue—a shul without a pool (but, with plenty of Vilna shases for consolation). My father must have believed that proximity to a real honest-to-goodness bearded Rebbe, one who strolled down Central Avenue wearing a shtreimel and kapotah no less, would somehow keep me from losing my Modzitzer bearings. As it turns out—he couldn’t have been more right.

            Shabbos in our home not only meant traditional Jewish foods: challah for motzi, thick Malaga wine for kiddush, gefilte fish and chrain, but, as importantly, it also meant a new hands-breadth of Jewish American fiction—my reading for the coming week. Once the last strains of benching were sung, my father would wordlessly rise from the table and quietly descend the steep basement steps and disappear, sometimes for a half an hour or more. When he came back up to us all, his arms would be filled with dusty old paperbacks of Jewish American novels—his old yellowing musty texts from his youth growing up in Kingsbridge in the Bronx, the second son of Holocaust survivors. Other texts he had culled as an English major up in the Harlem hills of City College, that “poor man’s Harvard” of the mid-1960s.

            From my father’s overflowing arms, I first discovered my life as a Jew in Long Island—these books spoke far more powerfully and poignantly to me than the pilpul sections of Gemarah we labored over each morning in yeshiva. From Bernard Malamud’s poor shopkeepers and decrepit grocery stores, I learned deep in my soul what rachmones meant and the difference mercy could make in poor people’s lives; Saul Bellow’s thwarted intellectuals warned me of the perils of only living in one’s own head, Herzog-like, as so many of my genius relatives had done and were still doing in the new world; from Philip Roth’s angry bar-mitzvah boys or quisling army privates and jaded upper-class Jewish WASP wannabes, I saw transcribed in print the vain material strivings that I witnessed from a back-row seat each week at Rabbi Speigel’s Long Island shteibel—where the yearly celebration of the glory of the ancient Torah included the selling of atah hareta to the highest bidder; or where each Shabbos aliyah in the layning was an opportunity to get someone to donate twice hai—every prayer it seemed was an opportunity not to draw closer to God, but an occasion to pander to the wealthy patrons seated comfortably at the shteibel’s front table. Through these many Jewish American writers whom my father bequeathed to me, I discovered the meaning of commitment to a Jewish world of ideas and ideals: tsedakah—charity, gemilut hassadim—acts of lovingkindness; with each new novel devoured by the fading light of my mother’s Shabbos candles, I learned deeply Rabbi Akiva’s message: veAhavta leRaiakha kamokha, love your neighbor as yourself.

            Shalom Aleichem, I. L. Peretz, Mendele Mokher Seforim, Franz Kafka, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Israel Joshua Singer, Chaim Grade, Edward Lewis Wallant, Bernard Malamud, Philip Roth, Cynthia Ozick—each Friday night I would turn to these brilliant writers and learn again what it meant to be a Jew: torn, conflicted, angry, compassionate, loving, argumentative, generous. My weekly reading expanded my understanding not just of what my grandparents had gone through in Europe, but what I might at some time be required to do, think and believe as a Jewish man in the not too distant future—a future that, as I got older, seemed rapidly to be approaching the present.

            Needless to say, during all my time being schooled in yeshiva—thirteen years to be exact, I was never once asked to read or reflect on a single work of Jewish American fiction. I suppose we once read Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman—sneaked into our tenth-grade world drama curriculum by Mr. Joseph Cohen, a lovely man who walked with a distinct limp, his left knee having been shattered when, as a young boy, a horse from a Lower East Side ice truck kicked him as he tried to pilfer something cold to suck on during a particularly sweltering August day on Avenue C.

            So what gives? Why is Jewish American fiction not taught in the yeshiva world? Is it fear of ridicule? Fear of allowing young, impressionable minds to be influenced by secular (read: treyf) thinkers? More importantly should this literature be taught in the yeshiva world or in the hundreds of Jewish Day Schools across America?

            Many of the rabbis I studied under in yeshiva would dismiss such books as shtuss—nonsense that would lead to bitul z’man, a frivolous waste of time. Worse, many would label this glorious literary heritage as apikorsus—heretical teachings, forbidden to read let alone to savor and enjoy. Which begs the question: Why should Jewish American fiction be taught in the yeshiva world?

II

            In her recent biography of the greatest of all Jewish philosophers, Betraying Spinoza: The Renegade Jew Who Gave Us Modernity, Rebecca Goldstein tells of the ways that she was discouraged in her Bais Yaakov yeshiva to even say Spinoza’s name—let alone be permitted to study his philosophical treatise, The Ethics. This would not only be bitul Torah, but it would be heretical as well, giving the girls illicit ideas not conducive to marrying a good yeshiva bochur.

            Much like Goldstein’s grim Bais Yaakov experience a generation earlier, from the many rebbes I came across in my years of yeshiva in New York, I was told time and again that it would be better to sit in a room and do nothing than to waste my time filling my head with illicit ideas from that self-hating Jew, Philip Roth. One rabbi at OTI, a man who was also the English Studies Principal (I kid you not) at the major Satmar yeshiva in Brooklyn, became so enraged upon seeing me reading Philip Roth’s latest offering, The Counterlife, he knocked the book out of my hand grabbed me by my shirt and, shaking me violently, screamed: “Cappell—you should at least read Shakespeare or the Greek myths—there is true poetry, not this filthy garbage from a self-hating Jew! If you keep reading Roth, what will your children know about Judaism?”

            Not that there wasn’t a library in our modified office building on 108^th Street that served us hundred and twenty Jewish boys as The Cohen Educational Center. There was, in fact, perched high on the top floor in a dark corner of the building a large steel door with the word “LIBRARY” scratched into the industrial paint. During my four years at the school, I cannot recall ever seeing that door open. When we literary-minded talmidim complained to the administration, we were told that in theory they supported the idea of a library hour once or twice a week, but the problem was they had no funding for a librarian—hence the room remained dark and sealed.

            One morning while we were studying a particularly difficult talmudic passage dealing with the numerous issues of shehitah (ritual slaughter), our tenth-grade rebbe, being a top-flight educator, the type of teacher who was up on the very latest pedagogical techniques, filed us into the library, which unbeknownst to most of the boys, contained a TV and a VCR. The idea was for us to watch a rather gory video of a schoichet wrestling with a large animal. I vividly recall a recalcitrant goat being the star of this particular after-school special; I will also never forget my classmate David getting ill and vomiting all over the library floor when the schoichet, after explaining to his video audience the sharpness of his knife, quickly pulled his prized implement across the goat’s throat. Just as a stream of hot, steaming blood shot forth so did David’s lunch fly across the library floor. During all of the excitement with the vomit, my good friend Ari swiped the Rabbi’s keys and quickly ran down the street to Queens Boulevard and bribing the bemused Israeli locksmith who at first (before Ari handed him a folded $20 bill) pretended to be outraged at the request, refusing to copy the official school keys which were clearly marked “DO NOT COPY.” Of course, with the $20 in his pocket he did make copies of all of the yeshiva keys. Now after the shehitah video was over most of the boys were interested in the office keys (grade changing and other assorted mischief). But Cal, Jonathan, Shlomo, and I had other plans: we had our eyes on that shiny brand-new brass library door key.

            And so began our “Rescue a Book” program from the shuttered OTI library. My friends and I would at opportune moments, while one of us acted as the lookout down the hall, sneak into the dank dark corner of the library and with just a dim natural light filtering in from 66^th Street, quickly scan the dusty shelves for books worth reading. At first we made random selections: Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, Thomas Hughes’s Tom Brown’s Schooldays. As we got more bold in the dark library (an old 6 Volt flashlight helped with our courage), more thought went into the process: we systematically went through the Russian masters (a shelf not too far from the door should a quick exit be required): Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and my favorite from this lot—Nikolai Gogol. We soon worked out a system: the actual book thief (borrower) would get first dibs before passing the book(s) around our small literary club. When we were all done reading the person going in for the next book would return the previous book. We even voted Shlomo as our first underground librarian, tasked with keeping track of who had which rescued book.

            Back from the Riverdale days of “The Institute”—when it had a top-flight educational program founded by Rabbi Shlomo Riskin (before he abandoned the education of New York’s finest young minds in deference to the settler movement in Efrat, Israel), the library had a focus on great works of European literature. There was even a large section with French titles. Of course we, the young men of the 1980s Queens version of OTI were, amazingly, not offered any foreign language instruction: not French, not Spanish, nothing. When it became apparent to the upper administration of OTI that we needed a foreign language exam to obtain a New York State High School Diploma with the Regent’s Seal of Approval, our rather enterprising principal came up with the solution that the entire yeshiva should study Hebrew language one hour a week during the rebbes’ lunch hour. This way we could pass the Regents and help our Talmud and Mishnah study at the same time—thereby avoiding yet one more hour of “wasted time.”

            One afternoon as I was looking through the French section of the library, picking up a copy of Stendhal’s The Red and the Black, I noticed a misshelved book among the French classics. There staring up at me from behind the pale glow of my flashlight was the impish grin of a man. I flipped the book over to discover a beat-up first edition of The Adventures of Augie March (as the dust-jacket proclaimed—by the author of Dangling Man and The Victim). I grabbed the two volumes: Bellow and Stendhal, and quickly made my way back down the hall. It sounded more like a kid’s book (certainly in comparison to Crime and Punishment), but I opened the first page and began to read aloud quietly to myself in the near darkness:

I am an American, Chicago born—Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. But a man’s character is his fate, says Heraclitus, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles. (Bellow, The Adventures of Augie March, p. 3)

            And I was hooked.

III

I began this essay with a quotation from The Counterlife, one of Philip Roth’s most important novels. Taken at face value, it seems like a rather angry and one-sided attack on ancient and holy Jewish texts. Why would any yeshiva or Jewish Day School principal want his or her students to study a text that contains such seemingly hateful words and ideas? Well, of course, one could find just as hateful ideas (taken out of context) in that (recently) much-maligned Hebrew Bible itself. After all, “an eye for an eye,” sounds pretty scary and hateful as well—that is without interpretation. Once we understand that the Torah is speaking of the value of labor lost through blindness we can begin to see the wisdom and morality of this ancient biblical passage. No yeshiva principal or rebbe worthy of the title would suggest that his or her students should go study the Torah without commentators such as Rashi or the Rambam. So too one must delve more deeply into Philip Roth’s novel before we may interpret his work. This isolated quotation, while extremely provocative, does no justice to the larger aims and deep moral underpinnings of each of Roth’s novels. Without interpretation of the Torah we could easily end up like Karaites sitting in the dark all Shabbos long, afraid to turn right or left. Similarly, without any critical understanding of Philip Roth, many religious leaders over the years labeled Roth as a self-hating Jew.

The truth about Roth, as well as about the many dozens of brilliant contemporary Jewish American writers, could not be further from this idea of self-hatred. Writers like Roth, those who have been satirizing the exploits of their Jewish American characters for decades, are actually the self-appointed guardians of the morals and values of the very culture they may be skewering in their fictional portrayal. Philip Roth never denigrates Judaism in The Counterlife or in any of the other thirty or so novels he has written in the past fifty years. Instead, he is attempting to push American Judaism (and America for that matter) toward a more perfect union of study and pragmatism, idea, and ideal.

In this quotation from The Counterlife, the speaker is one of Roth’s most amusing characters, an Israeli journalist named Shuki Elchanan, who in this scene is goading his old friend, Philip Roth’s alter-ego Nathan Zuckerman. They are out at dinner, discussing the current difficulties of Israeli politics, when his anger and frustration comes to a boil:

“I tell you, all the madness of the human race is in the sanctification of that book. Everything going wrong with this country is in the first five books of the Old Testament. Smite the enemy, sacrifice your son, the desert is yours and nobody else’s all the way to the Euphrates. A body count of dead Philistines on every other page—that’s the wisdom of their wonderful Torah.” (Philip Roth, The Counterlife, p. 75)

In this scene, Zuckerman and Shuki are discussing the dangerous right-wing leader of the Israeli settler movement, Mordecai Lippman—a man who perverts the Torah to bolster his message of hate and fury. More than likely, Roth modeled Lippman on Rabbi Meir Kahane, whose real-life party “Kach,” was first listed as a terrorist organization back in 1994 (as well as their splinter group, “Kahane Chai,” which is still labeled to this day as a terrorist organization by Israel). A short while after this conversation with Zuckerman, Shuki corrects these distorted ideas in a heartfelt letter to Zuckerman in which he explains that he doesn’t want to be misunderstood—nor does he want Zuckerman to mistake the zealots of the settler movement for the majority of peace-loving Israelis. (Lippman espouses a platform of fear and hatred: “There is nothing the American goy would like better than a Judenrein United States…”[p. 124].) Shuki explains in his letter to Zuckerman that he is on edge because his son, a musical prodigy who has been given an opportunity to study under the tutelage of Daniel Barenboim in New York City, would rather do his military service than continue his studies in New York. The reader of Roth’s novel soon learns that Shuki is really quite a dedicated father who loves the Jewish State and loves being a Jew. We also hear from his father, a Holocaust survivor, now a welder in Israel, who pleads with Zukerman to make aliyah. That drunken rant against Israel and the Hebrew Bible is in fact a manifestation of Shuki’s frustration with the horrors of war and the many hatreds unleashed by the Middle East conflict. Shuki, we discover, is a veteran of the Yom Kippur War, where

he’d lost his hearing in one ear and most of the sight in one eye when an exploding Egyptian shell threw him fifteen feet from his position. His brother, a reserve paratroop officer, who in civilian life had been [an] architect, was taken prisoner when the Golan Heights were overrun. After the Syrian retreat, they found him and the rest of his captured platoon with their hands tied behind them to stakes in the ground; they had been castrated, decapitated, and their penises stuffed in their mouths. Strewn around the abandoned battlefield were necklaces made of their ears. (p. 63)

After all this fighting and horror, Shuki is tired of warfare and tired of people who, like Lippman, believe that they have God on their side and therefore all of the answers. In fact, having witnessed numerous atrocities committed on both sides of the conflict, as these disturbing passages demonstrate, Shuki remains somewhat shell-shocked by his experiences.

What Roth gives his readers in The Counterlife (and in each and every one of his novels) is a complex view of a multi-faceted religion and culture. There are no easy answers in The Counterlife; like the best literature, it offers us difficult questions we must contemplate alone and communally. Do not Jewish schools and yeshivas owe it to their students to present complex thinking on the many complications of Jewish life in America and Israel? Do yeshiva principals think that by barring these discussions from the Beis Medrash and the yeshiva classrooms that their talmidim do not know of the existence of alternate perspectives, varied identities, shifting levels of religious observance to Judaism and a “Torah-true” life? Do these same rebbes and principals not know of the high attrition rate of students who have been denied opportunities to discuss the complexities of individual faith and understanding of our tradition? How many of these students had Roth novels (or, like Rebecca Goldstein in her yeshiva experience being denied Spinoza’s Ethics…) knocked out of their hands? How many of these students who were frustrated in their attempts to gain a deeper more meaningful individualistic understanding of Judaism are no longer affiliated with the faith or no longer consider themselves “practicing” Jews? How many of these thoughtful students are now “off the derekh”?

IV

At the end of one of Saul Bellow’s most important stories titled, “Something to Remember Me By,” the narrator—now an old man preparing for his own death, but barely sixteen years old in the frame of the story—is trying to prepare himself for the imminent death of his mother, a woman who has suffered for many months from cancer and who is in the midst of the very last throes of her disease. After several misadventures in the frigid cold of a Midwestern storm, the narrator has been robbed of his sheepskin overcoat; he knows he must return home, where his furious and often violent father awaits him. These are the boy’s thoughts as he rides on the Chicago streetcar home:

If my father should catch me I could expect hard blows on my shoulders, on the top of my head, on my face. But if my mother had, tonight, just died, he wouldn’t hit me.

    This was when the measured, reassuring, sleep-inducing turntable of days became a whirlpool, a vortex darkening toward the bottom. I had had only the anonymous pages in the pocket of my lost sheepskin to interpret it to me. They told me that the truth of the universe was inscribed into our very bones. That the human skeleton was itself a hieroglyph. That everything we had ever known on earth was shown to us in the first days after death. That our experience of the world was desired by the cosmos, and needed by it for its own renewal. (Bellow, Collected Stories, p. 436)

The boy gets off at the North Avenue stop and that is when Saul Bellow’s pithy drash on Jewish mourning rituals begins:

I got down on the North Avenue stop, avoiding my reflection in the shopwindows. After a death, mirrors were immediately covered. I can’t say what this pious superstition means. Will the soul of your dead be reflected in a looking glass, or is this custom a check to the vanity of the living? (p. 437)

            A cynical reader might say, “Why should yeshiva students have to put up with this angry dismissal of an important shiva ritual?” After all, Bellow’s narrator dismisses this minhag, or custom, as “pious superstition.” Yet the narrator’s next two questions suggest a far more nuanced appraisal of this custom. In fact, Bellow himself is not at all dismissive of these Jewish rituals. “A check on vanity of the living”—this is in fact a brilliant interpretation of this mysterious ritual of uncertain origin. More importantly, Bellow’s entire story is focused on key ideas of Judaism and our relationship with this tradition: how to honor one’s dead parents and what is bequeathed from one generation to the next.

V

            Why study Jewish American literature in the yeshiva classroom? Because without it we have a very limited idea of the varieties of Jewish life in America. We cannot hide from the difficult questions Jewish writers in America ask of our community no more than we can fend off the many barbed critiques that much twentieth century and contemporary Jewish American literature presents to an early twenty-first-century practicing “Torah Jew.” Nor should we. Any serious appraisal of Jewish life in America (the aim of a yeshiva education?) would be incomplete without these varied Jewish American voices weighing in. We as a community need to contend with these key ideas. So whether stolen by its students or willingly given, this body of imaginative work created by Jews in America during the past century of experimentation on these shores desperately needs to be contemplated. I have often thought that it is a yeshiva audience, those readers classically trained in the traditional Jewish texts and culture, who truly have the knowledge to “unpack” all of the hidden meanings contained in Jewish American writing and who constitute the ideal readers for Jewish American fiction writers. How sad that this perfect audience has, with an angry flick of the hand (Shtuss!), so often rejected this body of post-rabbinic literature, work that might be thought of as a complex commentary on traditional Jewish sources: the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud.

VI

Many of the new Jewish American writers are former yeshiva students formally schooled in Torah and mitzvoth: Allegra Goodman, Tova Mirvis, Gary Shteyngart, Shalom Auslander. Yet many of these former yeshiva students seem to use their hard-earned knowledge of Judaism as fodder for satire and ridicule. Early on in Gary Shteyngart’s funny and culturally vital 2006 novel Absurdistan, his protagonist Misha Vainberg, a recent immigrant from Russia, is maimed in a botched adult circumcision by a group of Hassidim in Brooklyn. Late in the novel, Misha is traveling on an airplane when he spots a large Hassid sitting in first-class getting into an argument and acting rudely to a flight attendant. He enters into the first-class cabin and begins shouting at the Hassid: “Beware of their mitzvah mobiles, fellow Jews among you. Beware of circumcision late in life. Beware of easy faith…” (p. 109). Similarly, Shalom Auslander puts his knowledge of yeshiva to work in almost each of his stories collected in his 2005 book Beware of God. In “The War of the Bernsteins,” the eponymous character becomes so obsessed with the mathematics and mechanisms of Jewish reward and punishment that he spends most of his waking hours calculating the number of negative commandments versus the positive mitzvoth—missing the spirit of the Torah in the process and completely ignoring and alienating his young wife, who eventually divorces him:

The spiritual mathematics consumed him.

Was obeying a negative prohibition worth the same amount of reward in the World to Come as fulfilling a positive commandment? Would the inaction of negative prohibitions really be as rewarded as the deliberate action of positive commandments? (p. 3)

Of course, all of Bernstein’s anti-social behaviors are actively encouraged by his rabbis who think of his increasing concern with mitzvoth as a positive sign of his becoming a much better Jew—a true “master of repentance.” Perhaps no contemporary Jewish American writer better exemplifies the need to study this literature in the yeshiva than Shalom Auslander. While his writing is uproariously funny—it is also a wry commentary on the importance of not losing track of the true meaning of the Torah as a way of living a life filled with meaning and concern for our fellow human beings. The Torah is not a ledger sheet of virtues and demerits. Auslander’s stories point out the shortcomings of a yeshiva education that does not focus on how all this Torah observance should strive to make better human beings.  

Reading Auslander’s stories brings me back to some of the more unsavory aspects of my own yeshiva background. At Ohr Torah Institute the rabbis would greet us in the morning with a big bear hug combined with a back rub. What was the purpose of this morning ritual? Had the rabbis missed us so much since the previous afternoon? Was this a true emotional exchange between rebbe and talmid—an emotional overflowing of powerful feelings? It was not long before we each realized that this outburst of physical warmth was really a slick rabbinical maneuver to do a quick once over for each boy: I refer to what became known in our yeshiva as the “tsitsith-check.” During this morning ritual hug, if you were discovered to not be wearing your four-cornered, fringed garment under your button-down dress shirt, you would be required to purchase just such a ritual object proffered by the more enterprising rabbis of our school right out of their attaché cases. 

            As in Auslander’s story “The War of the Bernsteins,” these rabbinical machinations did more to alienate the recipients of all this religious attention than they served to draw people closer to God and an increased level of ritual observance. One way to read Auslander’s stories would be as a cynical perspective on the yeshiva world—stories best left out of Jewish Day School and yeshiva high-school curricula. Yet I would argue that the most important audience that Shalom Auslander is writing for is precisely the world of tsitsith-checking rabbis—complete with frozen smiles and false embraces. Perhaps a Jewish educator reading this story, or as importantly, one of the poor unfortunate tsitsith-checkees like myself—just might be brought back to an awareness, a deeper sympathy with the true spirit and beauty of Judaism. At the same time Auslander’s fiction forces his readers to recognize how that beauty has been perverted by numerous unthinking and uncaring religiously-motivated actions. After all, tsitsith are supposed to bring the wearer to an understanding and an appreciation of God’s omnipresence. As it says in Numbers 15:40, you wear tsitsith so “that ye may remember, and do all My commandments, and be holy unto your God.” Ironically, the Torah goes on to explain that tsitsith are supposed to serve as a reminder of God’s granting the Israelites their freedom: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt” (Numbers 15:41)—probably not the first thought on each manhandled boy’s mind during a morning tsitsith check. I can say with certainty that God’s commandments were the furthest thing from my mind during (and long after) those demeaning (and often expensive) exchanges.

            In contrast, my reading of contemporary Jewish American fiction has afforded me a deeper understanding of Jewish ritual, and it has inspired in me an appreciation for the true beauty of Judaism—an aesthetic that was often marred in my yeshiva experience. After all, satirists have always been the self-appointed moral guardians of their culture. Whether it is Philip Roth, who way back in the 1950s had his young character Ozzie Freedman scream down at his rabbi: “Promise me, promise me you’ll never hit anybody about God” (p. 158), or Shalom Auslander’s twenty-first century vision of a sterile Jewish Orthodoxy, these brilliant works of fiction engage young minds both in and out of the yeshiva. What great literature does is force its readers to think and reflect on their lives, their roles in shaping their culture and universe. This is especially true of literature that engages readers on their own native grounds—in this case in an Orthodox or Torah setting. It is most important to allow students within the yeshiva world to be engaged by Jewish American literature to allow their imaginations to run over the possibilities that engagement with the modern world from a traditional perspective and lifestyle entails. We owe it to ourselves and to our students not to stifle the important discussions that would ensue from these readings.

VII

One of those dusty books I rescued years ago from my moldering yeshiva library was a seminal work of literary realism: Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. Late in that book, Stendhal famously defines the novel as: “a mirror that strolls along a highway. Now it reflects the blue of the skies, now the mud puddles underfoot” (p. 479). Morris Dickstein, one of the most important critics of contemporary Jewish culture, in his recent survey of American literature, The Mirror in the Roadway: Literature and the Real World, claims that in this passage

Stendhal only appears to be invoking the mirror as an impersonal mechanism, a carbon copy that displays the world as it actually is. The image itself, as he positions it, belies this simplistic claim. This is not a stationary mirror fixed upon the passing show, observing the parade as from the viewing stand, but a dynamic reflector shifting position as it moves down the road. (p. 8)

            Dickstein goes on to suggest that the mirror “must be held or carried by someone, and the images it provides will be framed, constantly changing, a series of partial views contributing to a larger picture” (p. 8).

            Surely the world of the yeshiva and the young minds it seeks to shape deserves just such a “dynamic reflector” to gauge its progress and its shortcomings. Thankfully this reflector already exists in the body of work Jewish American fiction writers have produced during the last one hundred years of experimentation on American shores.

In this essay, I am proposing that the yeshiva world institute a curriculum of study that not only reflects the beautiful blue sky but also the mud puddles of the contemporary Jewish American community. Our vast literary inheritance does just that—all we need to do is open the books ourselves and make them available to the youth studying in our yeshivas and Jewish Day Schools across the country. We deny our young questioning scholars of the yeshiva a glimpse into this mirror at the peril of the community. The yeshiva world is fearful of allowing young impressionable minds to delve into the dangers of contemporary fiction. But in fearing the “reflected mud and muck” of the Jewish community, the beautiful image of the blue sky is obscured as well.

VIII

Throughout her 1998 novel, Kaaterskill Falls, Allegra Goodman engages numerous Jewish philosophical questions. How restrictive must an Orthodox life be? Does kosher always mean kosher? What are the true ethics of kosher food? (In the midst of the horrors of Postville, Iowa, can the Orthodox Jewish community really afford not to fully engage their students in a meaningful debate about the letter of the law and the true meaning of the spirit of kashruth and holy eating habits?) How can an individual adhere to a stringent code of Orthodox behavior yet concurrently remain a committed individualist? How do twentieth-century feminist ideals jive or conflict with a Torah-true life? Goodman forces her readers to ponder and meditate on these difficult questions. Precisely because of Goodman’s engagement with these tough, thorny issues, she is able, at the novel’s conclusion, to powerfully evoke the Shabbos ritual of havdalah. Many of the main characters of the novel gather around the lit candle to mark the conclusion of the Shabbos and debate the meaning of ancient Hebrew prayer. I could not ask for a better talmudic or midrashic interpretation that would form the basis of a better understanding of this important ritual.

            Goodman’s novel also perfectly “reflects” Stendhal’s metaphor of fiction being a “movable mirror.” Throughout Kaaterskill Falls, Goodman’s characters question their adherence to the strict laws and traditions dictated by their leader Rav Elijah Kirshner and, after his death, by the Rav’s puritanical son Isaiah (who reveals more than a few mud puddles); however, by the conclusion of the novel, Goodman’s protagonist, Elizabeth Shulman, finds her own place within that beautiful “blue sky”—the culture and life of Orthodox Judaism.

            Kaaterskill Falls concludes with numerous characters ending their Shabbos with the traditional havdalah service:

They get up and go inside the house to make havdalah. The Landauers get out the spice box and kiddish cup. Brocha holds the braided candle, and Isaac says the prayer marking the end of the Shabbat. After he says the last words, Hamavdil ben kodesh lihol, Nina asks, “What do you think is the best translation for that?”

            “Blessed be he who separates the holy from the profane,” Isaac says.

            “The sacred from the secular,” puts in Elizabeth.

            “The transcendent moment from the workaday world,” suggests old Rabbi Sobel in his quavering voice.

            “Mm.” They pause around the smoking candle. (p. 324)

Just imagine the debate that would ensue in a yeshiva classroom after reading this scene. What do we make about this separation between the secular and the sacred? Just imagine the conversation a group of students highly educated in traditional Jewish texts, talmudic and midrashic, might have after reading this powerful novel. Let’s debate it—is Jewish literature outside the realm of holy and in the realm of the profane? Through engagement with traditional Jewish sources, I would argue that the literary production of Jews in America should be seen as one more stage of rabbinic commentary on the scriptural inheritance of the Jewish people.

Goodman draws her readers’ attention to the distractions of American popular culture and the importance of continuing to make those distinctions, those vital demarcations between holy and mundane, Holocaust memory and the noise (and comfort) of American popular culture. For pre-Haskalah Jews, this was not a personal concern—Judaism itself made these distinctions. However, much of contemporary postmodern Jewish American fiction seems to ask the all important question of how do we make these distinctions in a post-Holocaust world?

            I, for one, after reading Goodman’s novel back in 1998, would never think of havdalah quite the same way again. These days, when I perform this ritual, it is no longer as mere rote repetition of an ancient text. Goodman’s novel began a personal questioning of just what this separation we celebrate entails. How can we truly sanctify the Sabbath as separate yet a part of our weekly lives? How do we truly sanctify the Sabbath so that the havdalah service can be truly felt as a demarcation of difference? As I argue in my recently published book: American Talmud: The Cultural Work of Jewish American Fiction, I believe that this is precisely the type of work that Jewish American literature performs for its readers. What Jewish American fiction does is open the many ancient Jewish texts and rituals to a contemporary audience so that we become a part of a living breathing tradition—one that may in fact augment our contemporary American lives and not stand in opposition to it.

Instead of requiring its pupils to steal the promethean fire of contemporary Jewish literature, the yeshiva world ought to be celebrating this body of work, willingly incorporating it into its curriculum as a means of conveying ancient tradition to their contemporary Jewish students. In doing so, they will secure the relevance and primacy of ancient Orthodox Judaism for many more generations, ensuring the mesorah or great chain of tradition continues in a contemporary American setting.

In American Talmud I quote an aggadic section from tractate Menahot:

Rabbi Judah said in the name of Rab: When Moses ascended on high (to receive the Torah) he found the Holy One, blessed be He, engaged in affixing taggin (crown-like flourishes) to the letters. Moses said: “Lord of the Universe, who stays Thy hand?” He replied: “There will arise a man at the end of many generations, Akiba ben Joseph by name, who will expound upon each little letter, heaps and heaps of the laws.” “Lord of the Universe,” said Moses, “permit me to see him.” He replied: “Turn thee around.” Moses went (into the academy of Rabbi Akiba) and sat down behind eight rows of Akiba’s disciples. Not being able to follow their arguments he was ill at ease, but when they came to a certain subject and the disciples said to the master “Whence do you know it?” and the latter replied, “It is a law given to Moses at Sinai,” he was comforted. (Menahot 29b).

            This aggadic short story might seem peculiar to those not regularly engaged in the study of the Talmud. Although the Talmud is often perceived as being a rigid book comprised of legal maneuverings designed to codify the intricate Mosaic laws, it might more accurately be thought of as a blueprint for modern and postmodern fictional play.

Far from being a dry legal document, the Babylonian Talmud, particularly its aggadic sections, revels in the fantastical and the ambiguous. Not merely capable of tolerating dissent, the Talmud honors and celebrates a difference of opinion; time and again the Talmud honors radical rethinking, even about its foundational concepts. In the previous passage, for example, the Talmud tells a seemingly heretical story in which Moses, the greatest leader of the Jewish people, cannot follow the basic logic of even a simple talmudic argument.

            This foregoing aggadic passage reveals the storytelling aspects, the cultural work performed by the Babylonian Talmud. Through its literary passages the Talmud reinterprets the Torah anew for its own generation. This open-endedness, this celebration of multiple perspectives, is not only a characteristic of the Babylonian Talmud; it is also a hallmark of twentieth-century and contemporary Jewish American fiction. There are so many analogues between the two that Jewish American fiction writers embracing modern and postmodern life are often mistakenly perceived as radically breaking with their traditional past. Yet they are one more link in the great chain of rabbinic thought conveyed to us through the centuries as a means of interpretation designed to ensure that scripture will remain vital and new for each generation.

IX

            At the end of one of his greatest novels, The Adventures of Augie March, Saul Bellow’s hero reflects on his many-faceted identity, wondering to himself how a poor orphan from the wrong side of Chicago ended up tramping across the frozen postwar fields of Normandy. He begins to laugh, and Bellow writes: “that’s the animal ridens in me, the laughing creature, forever rising up” (p. 536). Bellow refers to Aristotle’s designation that to be human is to be able to laugh. Augie’s associative mind then goes on to reflect on Christopher Columbus, who, five centuries before Augie came on the scene, set all of his personal discoveries in motion: “Columbus too thought he was a flop, probably, when they sent him back in chains. Which didn’t prove there was no America” (p. 536).   

Shutting out contemporary Jewish American voices from the yeshiva syllabus does not prove that these students will grow up without doubts—forgetting that there is an America swirling in all its contemporary glory and horror right outside the beis medrash doors. For me, 108^th Street led directly to Queens Boulevard and Jacey’s Billiards when, at the age of 16, I preferred shooting pool to being denigrated by my rebbes for reading a body of work that even back then I thought of as post-rabbinic literature. Yet, hineni: here I am twenty years later engaging in traditional Jewish texts through the very literature that was branded as shtuss by my supposed spiritual leaders—the well-intentioned but wrong-headed rabbis in my yeshiva.

Much of contemporary Jewish American writing eloquently voices the perils of unfettered assimilation, the withering of roots and the loss of memory that is often attendant with pursuing the dream of America. Jewish American fiction writers’ morally serious work warns of the political misuse American popular culture has often made of Holocaust commemoration and tradition. Their work continues to dramatize the complex lives of their Jewish American characters, while powerfully rendering the conflicts that inevitably arise between tradition and modernity, memory and history.

            That “dynamic reflector” of contemporary Jewish American literature is extremely important. It might reflect some of the less-savory aspects of our culture; writers like Philip Roth have been doing that since their first published works. But they also reflect the sky—the great promise of a life lived by an ancient code of understanding, belief, faith, and compassion. Shutting off discussion does not lead to blind adherence—and it does in fact lead to its opposite. When we stifle that discussion we threaten our viability in a contemporary world of myriad identity choices and, in the process, we destroy our own textual tradition. It didn’t work in the shtetl as the Haskalah blew winds of enlightenment through the dusty shtetl streets with its intoxicating air of freedom—it certainly will not work in the freest society the world has ever known. We ignore Philip Roth’s blue sky and puddles of mud at our own peril.

Works Cited

Auslander, Shalom. Beware of God: Stories. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2005.

Bellow, Saul. The Adventures of Augie March. New York: Viking, 1953.

———. Collected Stories. New York: Penguin, 2001.

Ben Isaiah, Rabbi Abraham, and Rabbi Benjamin Sharfman. The Pentateuch

            and Rashi’s Commentary: A Linear Translation into English. New York: S.S.

            & R., 1949.

Cappell, Ezra. American Talmud. Albany: SUNY Press, 2008.

Dickstein, Morris. The Mirror in the Roadway: Literature and the Real World. New

            Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2005. 

Epstein, Rabbi Dr. I., ed. and trans. The Babylonian Talmud in 18 Volumes.

            London: Soncino, 1961.

Goldstein, Rebecca. Betraying Spinoza: The Renegade Jew Who Gave Us Modernity.

            New York: Shocken, 2006.

Goodman, Allegra. Kaaterskill Falls. New York: Dial, 1998.

Malamud, Bernard. The Assistant. New York: Avon, 1957.

———. The Complete Stories. New York: Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1997.

Roth, Philip. The Counterlife. New York: Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1986.

———. Goodbye, Columbus and Five Short Stories. New York: Vintage, 1987.

Shteyngart, Gary. Absurdistan. New York: Random House, 2006.

Stendhal, Henri Beyle. The Red and the Black. New York: Penguin Classics, 2002.

Stern, David, and Mark J. Mirsky, eds. Rabbinic Fantasies. New Haven: Yale University

            Press, 1998.

I have always aspired to be a Jewish leader. The specific shape that this kind of service might take has never been clear. Since I was young, the future of service that I have envisioned is one combining teaching, halakhic decision-making, pastoral counseling, social activism, and spiritual guiding. However, as I grow older it has become increasingly clear that the greatest impediment to the actualization of this dream is neither communal attitudes nor halakhic considerations. Rather, the fiercest obstruction is education.

In Judaism, certainly in Orthodoxy, no single form of religious expression is more emphasized and valued than Torah education. And this makes sense. We are a people shaped by the texts we produce and subsequently study with fervor. It goes without saying, then, that we expect our religious leaders to not only be familiar with our intellectual canon but also to be creative innovators of Torah themselves. Surely religious leadership takes many shapes, but none can themselves be divorced from serious Torah study; “greater is study, for study leads to action.” Although Torah study takes many forms and each style is itself comprised of various methods and manners, few can dispute the centrality that Talmud study has played and continues to play in the shaping of our communal intellectual identity and, by extension, expression of our Judaism. In fact, unfamiliarity with Talmud is a crippling scar on anyone who hopes to serve one’s people from within a normative religious framework and signifies the greatest impediment to women’s ascension to leadership of this kind.

Don’t get me wrong—we have certainly come a long way. Women have been granted unprecedented opportunities and exposure to text study in recent years. It is now taken as a given that young girls, like young boys, will be taught Torah throughout their childhood, well into their adulthood and beyond. Midrashot for women abound as do classes, lectures, and hevruta opportunities geared specifically toward them.

Nevertheless, the highly knowledgeable and scholarly women educators and leaders that we have are few and far between. Who can name a sefer authored by a woman outside of the realm of Tanakh, when even within that niche there are so few? When we have a halakhic query (outside the domain of taharat haMishpahah), how many of us will turn to a woman for guidance? And even when we have a question or confront a difficulty while learning, we inevitably run to ask a man. How might this reality be accounted for?

            I was twelve years old when my mother first introduced me to the rigor of Talmud study. It was about that time that my twin brother began studying Talmud seriously with our father. However, as we progressed in grade school and then in high school the disparities in our education began to emerge. And, although I excelled in my high-school Talmud and halakha classes and studied scrupulously with my father in the evenings, by the end of my Shanah Aleph, the first year of study in Israel, at Migdal Oz of Yeshivat Har Etzion, it was clear that I was too far behind my male peers to ever catch up.

            This realization was very difficult to swallow. It just did not seem to make much sense; I was banking in roughly the same amount of time for Talmud that my male friends were and I was a devoted student, at the top of the class. Yet, by the end of Shanah Aleph, and certainly Shanah Bet, my second year of study, these boys were light-years ahead of me and my female friends. This realization led to a series of frustrated conversations amongst my friends and a handful of meetings with our teachers devoted to figuring out how to raise the bar during our preparation and class time. It seemed as if we were hitting a brick wall, but I was unwilling to let this awareness slow me down. Returning from Israel, I attended Stern College for Women, where I enrolled in its Honors Advanced Talmud course and later began studying in the Graduate Program for women in Advanced Talmudic Study at Yeshiva University. By then, my male friends were so far ahead of me and my female friends in “learning” that the attempt to catch up seemed simply futile.

            Although the Talmud itself cautions against teaching women Talmud, calling it “tiflut” (and there is no shortage of disparaging remarks in our traditional canon about women’s cognitive abilities), arguments of this kind are not palatable to the twenty-first century ear. That is to say, blaming the gender disparity in learning on women’s intellectual capacities is simply ludicrous. Clearly there is something more here, but what?

             Years ago we could have blamed this on the fact that women were uneducated. But now, when we have so many schools and study opportunities for women there seem to be no excuses for this reality. Certainly not all women are taught Talmud from a young age, but some of us are exposed to these texts at the same time that boys begin to explore them because we study in co-ed classrooms. Often, when we have separate gender classes in grade school the curricula are different, with men’s studies emphasizing Talmud text learning while women’s classes focused more on Tanakh. This differentiation carries over into the yeshiva and midrashah world and helps explain the deep disparity between men’s scholarship and women’s, and thereby accounts for the dearth of competent and proficient female educators and by extension leaders. For, although some of us attend co-educational schools throughout high school, studying Talmud alongside our male peers, once we graduate and go to Israel for our years of study, we are placed in separate environments, which inevitably bear different products and account for my own experiences and that of my friends as well.

Obviously there is no single reason that might account for these disparities, but surely a combination of factors explains them. For one, most women’s institutions do not offer Talmud courses and even in those that do, the time allotted and the quality of the study is significantly lower than that found in men’s yeshivot. Sometimes this is because the women entering these institutions do not have the requisite background to jump in and learn in the same way that their male counterparts are able to. Additionally, even in schools that do provide women with the choice to spend many hours studying Talmud, it is nevertheless a choice and not a requirement as it is in most men’s institutions. The choice to study Talmud for women is taken at the expense of other important areas of study such as Tanakh, halakha, and philosophy. That is to say, for a woman to choose to study Talmud is itself a choice of sacrifice. On the other hand, for men, for better or for worse, it is taken as a given that they will consecrate most of their studying time specifically to Talmud. Moreover, even in the institutions that offer women significant courses of study in Talmud, this is seldom the bread and butter of the experience as it is in men’s yeshivot.

Teachers also play a major role in this reality. The most competent and knowledgeable teachers of Talmud both for men and women tend to be men. At times, though not across the board, the most competent among these choose to teach in men’s institutions and inevitably women students are left with second-rate educators.  Additionally, male teachers cultivate relationships with their male students that they are unable to nurture with their female students. This rebbe-talmid bond and even pressure, coupled with a certain element of competition amongst the students, often push the student to maximize his learning, which engenders a unique environment not replicated in women’s institutions of higher learning.

            Another major factor contributing to the disparity between women’s and men’s learning is that there are few women role models for girls and young women to aspire to be like. When a girl grows up and all of her most knowledgeable Talmud teachers are men, this sends her a message that this domain is not something women can ever have a portion in. And so, as studies have shown in the corporate world, this has a discouraging affect on women, telling them this is not something they might ever accomplish. The obvious solution to this would be to produce more competent women educators. But how might we accomplish this? Clearly, the current formula in having different institutions for men and women has not succeeded in building women scholars comparable to men.

            Although the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868, it was not until 1954 that the Supreme Court overturned precedent establishing the racial doctrine of “separate but equal” as unconstitutional. The Court argued, referring to racial segregation that “Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal” (Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 347 U.S. 483 (1954)). It is time that the Orthodox community confronts this reality and recognizes not only that separate-gender yeshivot are inherently unequal, but that because of this and until this is rectified we cannot hope to ever have women religious leaders on par with men.

            Some might argue that blaming the gender disparity in learning on separate educational facilities is pinpointing the symptom but not the cause. That is to say, it is clear that these institutions are not equal but this reality reflects the values of our community—if we valued women’s education more than we do now, surely we would build better curricula for them, give them more skilled teachers, and encourage them from a younger age to pursue Talmud study. Or more, this disparity is a reflection of the fact that men are obligated in the commandment of Torah study while women are not. Although there is no way to escape the reality of the latter argument, with regard to the former, certainly there are factions within our community who do very much value women’s Torah study and would like them to have the same educational opportunities awarded men. And even if this is not the case, integrating women into our yeshivot, like forced desegregation, might be ahead of the times, but nevertheless a necessary move.

            Integrating women into our yeshivot is the first step to producing competent and knowledgeable women leaders. Moreover, once the community sees that women are as able as men are in terms of scholarship and skills, this will likely affect their views not only on women’s education but on the possibilities of women’s leadership as well.

Recently, there have certainly been exciting developments for women’s education and, by extension, their leadership. However, until women learn alongside men in their yeshivot, women will continue to be the recipients of different materials, methods, and even values than their male counterparts. Consequently, women will forever be less competent and less impressive Jewish leaders.

It is difficult to think about my own future. Although there are a handful of institutions dedicated to advanced Jewish studies for women, and I am grateful to have studied and to continue studying in these places, there is nowhere for women to advance beyond these schools. Moreover, because all Orthodox institutions are gender-separate, they are inherently unequal. This means that practically it will be very difficult for me and my peers to ever achieve the same level of competence in text and knowledge as our male counterparts do. Must my dream of becoming a Jewish leader wait until we have the same educational opportunities as men, until we collectively demand, “Give unto us a possession among the brethren of our father?” (Numbers 27:4).

And it was after these things that God tested Abraham and said to him, “Abraham,” and he replied, “Here I am.” And He said, “Please take your son, your only one, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the land of Moriah; bring him up there as an offering upon one of the mountains which I shall tell you.” So Abraham woke up early in the morning, and he saddled his donkey. He took his two young men with him and Isaac, his son….(Bereishith 22:1–3)

Isaac faces the supreme test of his religious obedience: the Akeida, the “binding of Isaac.” Countless articles and books have been written to describe Abraham’s test of faith. Most surprisingly, however, is the fact that there is no textual reference describing Sarah’s response to the Akeida. From the moment God commands Abraham to heed Sarah’s voice following her directive to send away Hagar and Ishmael, “Whatever Sarah says, listen to her voice,” (Bereishith 21:12), not only does Sarah never speak again, but she is not even mentioned again in the Torah text until it records her death. (Bereishith 23:1) Her entire life has been bound up with her passion to mother the covenantal son; now, that dream—and her son’s very life—appear threatened, yet we hear not one word from Sarah herself, or even a textual mention of Sarah during those endless days that Abraham and Isaac are away.

The commentaries themselves are aware of this thunderous silence and attempt, with various explanations, to fill in the gap. The commentaries differ on what Sarah “knew” and how she responded to that knowledge. Sefer Tosafot haShalem proposes that Sarah knew nothing of Abraham’s plans. Worried about Sarah’s response to his true mission, the commentary states that Abraham told Sarah he was taking Isaac away in order to educate him. Ohr haHayyim concurs, stating that Abraham entreated Sarah to allow Isaac to accompany him to learn Torah. Rashi adds that by the text’s placement of the event of Sarah’s death in the chapter immediately following that of the Akeida, we learn that there exists a cause and effect relationship between the two events.

The relationship between Sarah’s death and the Akeida is imagined by several commentaries. Pirkei d’Rabi Eliezer describes a disgruntled Satan who had sought Isaac’s death—perceiving that Isaac is alive and well—turning his evil intentions to Sarah. He approaches her saying, “Your old man took your son, Isaac, and sacrificed him on an altar to His God. And the boy was crying out and wailing, and there was no one to save him.” Assuming that her son was slaughtered, Sarah cries out three times, her soul departs, and she dies. The commentary states that the blasts of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah immortalize Sarah’s anguished cries. According to Siftei Hakhamim, the messenger of doom need not have been Satan, who convinces Sarah, incorrectly, that her son is dead, but only an ordinary wayfarer from Mount Moriah, who relates the true story of the Akeida. Before he could finish the story, however—with the happy ending that Isaac was saved from death—he pauses for a brief instant to catch his breath, and in that instant, Sarah is overwhelmed by his tale, her soul departs, and she dies. In both of these interpretations, Sarah is led to believe that her beloved son Isaac is dead. Rashi posits another story. According to Rashi, Sara in fact learns that Isaac has survived the Akeida, narrowly escaping death. In that instant, Sara realizes that although Isaac survived, her entire life could have been annihilated by the razor’s edge of Abraham’s sword. According to Rashi, this knowledge resulted in extreme anguish and existential angst, which caused her death.

These three commentaries give Sarah a presence during the time of the Akeida. Ultimately, with these interpretations, however, one must certainly wonder about Sarah’s faith—or rather lack of faith—at this most important moment. The Akeida confirms Abraham’s supreme faith in God, and by inference from these scenarios, Sarah dies by what appears to be a supreme lack of faith! Sefer Tosafot haShalem, however, draws the opposite conclusion, by asking rhetorically, “How could Sarah, a woman of such enormous faith in God, have grieved over God’s choice of her son as a sacrifice. On the contrary, her faith is so great, that she was able to extract undiluted joy from the fact that, for whatever reason, God had chosen her son.” According to this commentary, Sarah then dies of the powerful flood of emotion, which resulted not from grief, but from overwhelming joy.

In all these scenarios, however, Sarah appears to be a passive bystander to the Akeida—the Akeida is Abraham’s test of faith—not Sarah’s. What I would like to suggest is that Sarah is not passive in this story—quite the contrary. She is actively by Abraham’s side—as she has always been—if not physically, then emotionally and spiritually. The Akeida, therefore, becomes her own test of faith as well.

From the very first, Sarah is an equal and active partner at Abraham’s side. She is his counterpart in his mission to introduce his God to the Canaanite world. The text states that Abram takes his wife, Sarai, Lot, his brother’s son, all their possessions, and the souls they made in Haran. Midrash Rabba explains the use of the plural—they. The midrash states that the souls they made were converts. Abram converted the males, and Sarai converted the females. Thus, the text credits them equally in the creation of converts to monotheism. Although God has promised Abraham a child to continue the covenant between Him and Abraham, time passes and Sarah remains barren. Sarah realizes that despite God’s promise of fertility, she remains unable to conceive. She offers her handmaiden, Hagar—the first surrogate—to her husband, hoping that Hagar will bear Abraham’s child for them. “And Abraham listened to Sarah’s voice” (Bereishith 15:3). Sarah hopes that she and Abraham will raise this child as their own. Perhaps God’s promise was to be fulfilled biologically through Abraham only, and was not to be Sarah’s biological child.

In contrast to Sarah’s lifetime of barrenness, Hagar becomes pregnant immediately with Abraham’s child. Hagar ridicules Sarah about her infertility compared to her own success in conceiving a child, and Sarah complains to Abraham. Abraham instructs Sarah to deal with the matter as she sees fit. The relationship between Sarah and Hagar becomes untenable for Hagar, and she flees. An angel accosts Hagar in the desert, promising her a strong nation from the son she will bear—and Hagar returns. A child, Ishmael is born of that pregnancy. It is following the birth of Ishmael that God changes their names from Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah, and instructs Abraham that the covenantal child will not be Ishmael, but will be born from Abraham and Sarah. God sends messenger angels who reiterate His promise; within the year, Sarah is blessed with her only child, Isaac. As the boys grow, Sarah observes a negative influence that Ishmael, Hagar’s son, has on Isaac, and wants to banish both Hagar and her son. Abraham is greatly distressed at Sarah’s desire to banish his firstborn son—and perhaps the mother as well—but God clearly commands him, “All that Sarah says, listen to her voice.” Abraham obeys God’s command to listen to Sarah, and sends away Hagar and Ishmael. It is only twelve sentences later—after a brief description of a covenant of peace between Abimelekh and Abraham—that the test of the Akeida appears.

Abraham listens to Sarah when she offers him a surrogate, Hagar, to bear him a child. He is reluctant, however, to listen to Sarah, when she urges him to banish Hagar and their son, Ishmael. It is here that God actually commands him to listen to “all” Sarah says to him—and Abraham does listen to Sarah, and expels Hagar. God does not say to Abraham to listen to Sarah in this instance only—expelling Hagar—but explicitly states, “All that Sarah says, listen to her voice, for your offspring will be perpetuated through Isaac.” Thus, God tells Abraham to accept Sarah’s advice always, for through Isaac will Abraham’s seed be recognized. Rashi fleshes this sentence out further, playing on the Torah text’s unusual use of the preposition “Be” meaning within, rather than “Le” meaning, to. Rashi would then read the sentence as, “Listen to the voice of divine inspiration from within her.” Analyzing this amazing sentence, we see two apparently disparate, but connected thoughts. First, God commands Abraham to listen to whatever Sarah says. The first part of the statement is, by itself, an astounding proclamation by God to Abraham. God commands him to listen to everything that his wife says! In addition, the second half of the sentence, usually considered less revealing and often omitted when the first part of the sentence is quoted, may be even more astounding—“for your offspring will be perpetuated through Isaac.” Not only is God giving Abraham a general command to obey Sarah, but He is stating the reason—because all that God has promised Abraham—the blessing and the covenant, will be passed down through Isaac’s—not Ishmael’s—progeny, through the child that Abraham has conceived with Sarah, not the child he has conceived with Hagar.

Surprisingly, after this explicit command to Abraham, until the death of Sarah, there is nothing written about Sarah advising Abraham, or of Abraham accepting Sarah’s advice. It seems strange that God tells Abraham to do whatever Sarah says, and then, she says nothing! It would seem therefore to be reasonable to assume that Sarah did in fact give Abraham advice regarding their son Isaac, but for some reason the Torah alludes to it, without explicitly stating it.

In the Torah text, Sarah is portrayed as a woman of words. Interestingly, however, there are two episodes, other than the Akeida, when her voice is not heard. In the two episodes where Abraham describes Sarah as his “sister” rather than as his wife, Sarah is mute. In these stories Sarah’s own honor and existence as she has known it are at stake. She is carried off into the bedchamber—first—of the Pharaoh, King of Egypt, and at a later date to that of Abimelekh, King of Gerar. She does not cry to Abraham, nor plead for herself before the kings, nor even raise her voice in prayer to God. We are not privy to her innermost thoughts. Here, as later at the Akeida, we thirst for her thoughts and words, but we only hear the sounds of silence.

Shofetim, the book of Judges (Chapter 4) relates the oppression of the Israelites by Yabin, king of Canaan and his general, Sisera during the time of the reign of Deborah, the prophet, and her general, Barak the son of Abinoam. At Deborah’s command, Barak assembled ten thousand able bodied men and confronted Sisera’s entire force, which was equipped with nine hundred iron chariots. In the ensuing battle, Sisera’s army was decimated. Sisera abandoned his chariot and escaped by foot, fleeing for his life. War weary, tired and thirsty, he arrived at the tent of Yael, the wife of Hever the Kenite.

“Come in, come in to me; fear not,” she said, offering him refuge. And he pleaded, “Give me a little water, for I am thirsty.” Yael gave the shivering man a blanket to warm himself, and a jug of milk. And he said to her, “Stand in the doorway of the tent, and if anyone asks you if there is a man here, say, ‘There is not.’” Weary from battle fatigue, he fell asleep. Yael quickly took a hammer and an iron tent-pin, thrust the pin deep into his temple, and he died. (Shofetim 4:18–21)

Pursuing the escaping Sisera, Barak arrived at Yael’s tent. Yael came out to meet him. “Come and I will show you the man whom you seek.” And behold, Sisera lay dead, the pin in his temple. Upon his return, Deborah and Barak exalt God with a song of victory, an expression of cognizance and gratitude to God. The song encompasses the entire period of the Judges up to Deborah’s time, including the battle of the defeat of Sisera. In the song, Deborah blesses and praises Yael’s deed. Surprisingly, in this concise ballad of their recent Jewish history, Deborah devotes several sentences to the response of Sisera’s mother to the delayed return of her son from the battlefield.

Through the window, Sisera’s mother looked out, and peered through the window. “Why is his chariot late in coming? Why tarry the wheels of the chariots?” The wisest of her friends answered her, and so she consoles herself, “He is finding and dividing the spoils of war—one woman, no, two, to each man, valuable embroidered garments….” (Shofetim 5:28–30)

Why does Deborah incorporate these sentences into her victory song? What are we to learn from the reactions of Sisera’s mother and her friends?

Two mothers—Sarah, Isaac’s mother, and the unnamed mother of Sisera: both mothers have sons who have left the safety of their homes and their mother’s protective watch. Sisera’s mother has watched her son, regal in military attire go off to war in his iron chariot in the service of Yabin, the Canaanite King. Sarah, whether she actually saw Isaac leave with Abraham, or does not realize they had gone until she awakes later that morning, must know that her son has gone off somewhere—in the service of God. Both mothers wait expectantly at home, not knowing what is happening to their sons, or when they will return. Will a sacrifice be made, or will they return safely, each to his waiting mother’s arms?

I would suggest that the responses of the mothers represent the secular and the religious responses to the anxiety of the unknown—to existential angst.

Staring out of the window, as seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes seem like hours, Sisera’s mother is unable to live with this heart-wrenching anxiety. She bursts forth, verbalizing her innermost thoughts, “Where is he? Why don’t I hear the sound of his chariot? Why the total silence on the road?” What she is expressing is her deep worry that something has happened to her son—something that has stopped that iron chariot from returning home, something that has stopped it from bringing back her victorious son with rowdy cheering crowds accompanying him. She knows, deep in her innermost soul, that something is very wrong. Unable to live with that thought, and with the help of her well-meaning friends, she considers an alternative ending. The chariot must be delayed because her son is busying himself with the rewards of war—raping young women, stealing the valuables of the men. He will of course be home later—now is the time for celebration. She tries to find a measure of peace with that alternative rationalization.

I would suggest that the secular or psychological response to not knowing the outcome and moreover, being unable to affect it—absolute helplessness in an intolerable situation—is exemplified in the response of Sisera’s mother. One can imagine the worst or one can imagine the best. One can become deeply anxious and depressed, or one can perhaps delude oneself into accepting a more satisfying ending. Neither depression—anticipating the worst, nor delusion—anticipating the best, will affect the outcome. The outcome is beyond oneself, whatever one’s temporary response is while waiting to hear what has ultimately transpired.

Contrast Sisera’s mother’s response to that which we can glean from the biblical text and commentaries regarding Sarah’s response. Isaac has gone off with Abraham. The midrashic sources cited above relate varying hypotheses as to the depth of her foreknowledge. Certainly, at some point Sarah knows that Isaac is not home—and that she does not know when he will be home. How odd, it appears that the Bible relates the response of Sisera’s mother to her son’s absence, and not Sarah’s response to her son’s absence! Why should we learn of a heathen’s response, and not the response of that of our Matriarch Sarah? I would like to suggest that perhaps Sarah’s response is there. We only have to look carefully for it.

Perhaps the answer is her silence—the divine inspiration within her. It is this inspiration, this faith, that let her be led away—twice, into the bedchambers of kings. And it is this faith that now enables her to watch her son being led away by her husband. Sarah knew that her God would protect her, as she was led away by foreign kings, and as she now knows that He will protect her son.

Notwithstanding that most of the commentaries and midrashim state that Sarah knew nothing of Abraham’s plans, and in fact relate her death to her hearing of the Akeida, I suggest that Sarah knew everything about God’s command to Abraham to take Isaac up that famous mountain and to bind him upon the altar. Sara and Abraham were partners. They converted multitudes of people to monotheism together; they travelled together; they welcomed and fed travelers in their tent together; they took action to have a family together. It is inconceivable that Abraham would not discuss God’s ultimate command with his life partner, Sarah—seeking her wise advice, and listening to all that she would say, knowing that God Himself would accept his consulting with Sarah, and obeying her decisions.

So, where can we hear Sarah’s words about the Akeida? Certainly not before Abraham sets out with Isaac early that morning—but then, we hear no words from Abraham either. God commands him to take his son and bind him upon the altar, and Abraham immediately obeys, in silence. He awakens early, saddles his donkey, splits the wood for the offering, and sets out with his son Isaac, and his two aides. Isaac looks at his father, questioningly, “Father?” “I am here, my son,” Abraham answers. “Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?” Abraham answers, “God will show him—lo—the lamb for the offering, my son. And the two of them went together.”

“God will show him the lamb for the offering, my son.” These are the only words uttered by Abraham during the Akeida. The pronouns are confusing. Abraham does not say, “God will show both of us, or you Isaac, or me, the lamb; rather, Abraham says, “God will show him the lamb.” Whom will God show? Given the confusion of the pronouns, several commentaries explicate the Hebrew word “lo” as reflexive—“God will show Himself the lamb for the offering.” Perhaps that solves the problem, but I wonder if that interpretation adds to the confusion? How does God’s showing Himself the lamb answer Isaac’s question? I would suggest, with some trepidation, that perhaps the pronouns fit better if Sarah initially said this sentence to Abraham. Perhaps she said these words to him at the end of an all night discussion before his early morning departure with Isaac. Abraham’s own faith intact, perhaps he discussed with Sarah how to answer Isaac if he asked the question. Sarah then answers—“God will show him—meaning Isaac—the lamb for the offering.”

Sarah, then, knowing that God has commanded Abraham to listen carefully to the inner meaning of her words, comforts him with her faith—the faith that is strongest at those moments of existential crisis in her life. Sarah’s faith is deep and strong. She is neither depressed nor delusional. She accepts that her son’s fate is in God’s hands, and she conveys this acceptance to Abraham. She knows it must end well, for God has promised that the covenant would be fulfilled through Isaac. “Don’t worry about how to allay Isaac’s fears,” she may have told Abraham. “God will show him the lamb for the offering.” It is perhaps her words of faith and encouragement that Abraham quotes verbatim to Isaac, as he answers his question—the words from within her, the words of divine inspiration—revealed to her husband Abraham as he sets out on the trial of his life.

As he approaches the mountain he orders his two aides to remain behind, and Abraham goes forward with Isaac. In silence, Abraham places his son on the firewood, and ties him to the altar. A voice cries out, ordering Abraham not to lay a hand on Isaac or hurt him in any way, for now God knows of Abraham’s awe of God, that he has yirat Hashem. He too, has passed the test.

The Bible has topped the best-seller list every week since the invention of printing. It has directed the course of human civilization and has served as the foundation of faith for billions of people. Its content and style are recognized by believers and non-believers alike as the most profound and inspirational writing in the history of humankind. For observant Jews, Tanakh is nothing less than the Word of God. With these credentials, one might expect that teaching Tanakh would be an easy sell.

            However, as in all teaching, bridging the gap between the subject and the student is a task that requires careful thought and continual reimagining. Students must overcome not only a language barrier when studying Tanakh in Hebrew, but also historical, cultural, and philosophical differences between the world of Tanakh and that of modern Western civilization. The teachings of Tanakh are certainly eternal; but their relevance is not always obvious to children and teenagers immersed in the digital age.

            In previous generations, teaching Humash and Rashi sufficed to imbue students with the fundamentals of Jewish faith and law. Advanced students would also study the Ramban and—especially in Sephardic lands—pride of place was given to Ibn Ezra. However, I believe that our students today deserve and require a greater range of commentaries and methodologies. We have already seen this expansion of the canon take place in the past few decades in Modern Orthodox education, primarily through the writing and influence of two people:

1. Professor Nehama Leibowitz has opened up for us the full range of traditional Jewish commentaries, ancient and modern, with a talent for zoning in and clarifying the differences between them on various exegetical issues and their methodological considerations. Nehama also had a unique ability to make those issues relevant to modern society to the point where her classes could be appreciated by a wide range of Israeli society—both religious and secular.
2. The effort spearheaded by Rav Yoel bin-Nun and continued by the many talented faculty members of Yeshivat Har Etzion and Makhon Herzog to bring a literary appreciation for Tanakh in terms of structure, themes, and parallels within a context dedicated to peshat.

These are but two prominent examples of individuals who have advanced our understanding and appreciation of Scripture through their innovative methodologies that successfully combine traditional and modern sensibilities. Many others have similarly made remarkable contributions to our understanding of Tanakh in a way that is respectful of its integrity. This is especially true in the recognition of the value of setting Tanakh in its ancient Near Eastern context, not only for the similarities but more importantly for the differences. The revolutionary messages of the prophets of monotheism and morality shine when viewed on the background of ancient paganism. Such efforts abound in the halls of Yeshiva University, Bar-Ilan University, and many other institutions.[1]

These developments have opened a pathway toward selectively integrating modern Bible scholarship into mainstream Judaism. It is true that biblical scholarship presents certain challenges to traditional Orthodox belief, and recent thinkers have proposed a number of ways of dealing with these challenges. However, these issues are mostly irrelevant in a yeshiva high school setting where the goal is to inspire students about the eternal lessons of Tanakh and provide them with a basis upon which to build a lifelong commitment to Judaism and continued study.

Rather than focus on the problems of academic Bible, the approach of the writers mentioned above is to take advantage of the array of ways recent scholarship can enhance our appreciation and teaching of Tanakh. David Berger has argued that literary analysis of the Bible can help deal with problems of the morality of the Patriarchs as well as issues of higher criticism.[2] But we should teach such literary approaches not only in order to “provide the cure before the calamity” but also because it reveals more of Tanakh’s prophetic depth.

Unfortunately, these wonderful discoveries and helpful methodologies developed in academic circles in recent decades do not always trickle down into traditional educational settings. Nehama Leibowitz has certainly transformed generations of Modern Orthodox teachers and Makhon Herzog is also making a major impact on teachers who study there and who access their resources. Nevertheless, there is much more to be done in this regard, and there is especially a need to create curricula specifically designed with a classroom teacher in mind and that can guide a teacher as to how to transform this material into a structured and effective lesson.

Curriculum Development

            A few years ago, I started a project to prepare curricula for teaching Tanakh in high school. So far, my colleagues and I have written teacher’s guides for all or parts of Shemot, Devarim, Yeshayahu, Yirmiyahu, and Tehillim. Each lesson includes a step-by-step guide of suggestions for how to present the material, including worksheets, source sheets, PowerPoint presentations, and other multimedia resources. All of this material is freely available at www.teachtorah.org, and many dozens of teachers in schools around the world have successfully made use of this material. Below, I present a small selection from these lessons that highlight the approach we have taken to integrate use of multimedia, derive insights from archaeology, make the subject matter relevant to contemporary sensibilities, and use analysis of structure to discover the essential lesson of a given chapter.

Using Multimedia

            With most high school classrooms now equipped with projectors and Smart boards, teachers can enhance their lessons with pictures, music, and interactive presentations. One way to vivify Tanakh is to show medieval paintings of biblical scenes.

The Finding of Moses by Orazio Gentileschi (1633)

For example, Shemot 2:5 narrates: ^“The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe in the Nile, while her maidens walked along the Nile. She spied the basket among the reeds and sent her slave girl to fetch it.” The question arises, what role do the maidens play in this story? A wonderful trigger for this discussion is The Finding of Moses by Orazio Gentileschi (1633). This painting depicts tension between the princess and her maidservants. While the princess and one of the maidservants point to the circumcision as evidence for the need to murder the baby, the maidservants on the other side show caring and seem to plead for compassion.

Compare this painting to the Gemara at Sotah 12b, which says that all but one of the maidservants were punished for encouraging the princess to follow her father’s orders and murder the baby. Sforno explains that by God’s providence, the maidens, who would have murdered the baby, did not see the ark; instead only the princess saw it and she sent her personal maidservant to save it. While most Christian paintings of this scene depict a reluctant princess who is urged by her compassionate maidens to save the child, Jewish commentators take the opposite position. This viewpoint can lead to a conversation about peer pressure and doing the right thing even when those around us may encourage us not to.

It is noteworthy that one opinion in the Gemara takes amatah to refer not to her maid but to her arm, which stretched forth to take hold of the ark. This is a creative poetic way to portray the enthusiasm of the princess in wanting to save the baby and the miraculous nature of the event. However, this is obviously not the peshat, as Rashi and Ibn Ezra prove.

            When learning Tehillim, we should emphasize their performative aspect. Just as one cannot appreciate the experience of being at a live concert if all you have are the lyrics, we have to try to reconstruct what it must have been like to experience the Leviim performing Tehillim in the magnificent Bet ha-Mikdash, Temple. Archaeologists have actually found the earliest musical notation in ancient Ugarit and have reconstructed what is sounded like. They have also uncovered mosaics with pictures of ancient instruments and figurines playing those instruments. Here, for example is a kinor, an eight stringed lyre, as depicted on a Bar Kokhba coin:

A kinor depicted on a Bar Kokhba coin

            By playing recordings of ancient world music, as well as Tehillim chanted by modern Hazzanim according to the te‘amim, one can get some sense of how Tehillim may have been sung in the Bet ha-Mikdash. Modern musicians have also set many Mizmorim to music and playing these recordings in class can help make the study of Tehillim not only intellectually interesting but also emotionally inspiring.

Archaeology

            Archaeologists in the Middle East have made amazing discoveries in the past century—both of material remains and inscriptions—that can help shed light on the Tanakh. These findings can also be a valuable pedagogical tool for filling in the context of biblical times and making the events come to life.

A drawing at Beni-Hasan from the tomb of Khnumhotep, who served in the royal court of pharaoh Senusret II in the nineteenth century BCE. This drawing depicts a group of Semitic people entering Egypt.

To cite a couple of examples, the Hyksos were a conglomeration of Semitic people who infiltrated Egypt starting from the twenty-first century BCE. They then gained supremacy in 1700 BCE and ruled Northern Egypt until 1550 BCE, when the Egyptian Pharaoh Ahmose I chased most of them out of the country and reestablished native Egyptian rule. Although these events are too early to identify the Hyksos with the Israelites, as Josephus did, this history nevertheless does help fill in the context for several aspects of the biblical story:

• The migration of Jacob’s family to Egypt was part of a larger movement of Semites making the same trip.
• Hyksos rule of Northern Egypt explains how Joseph, a foreigner, could rise to great power and marry an Egyptian noblewoman since he was a Semite just as they were.
• It further explains why Pharaoh was so paranoid about the Israelite nation increasing and joining enemies to conquer the Egyptians. Such an event had already happened with the Hyksos and the memory of their revolt would still be prominent in his mind.

            The second example is from Dr. Shawn-Zelig Aster’s teacher’s guide for Yeshayahu and is based on his own original research. Isaiah 6 has the prophet experience the sights and sounds of God’s throneroom. Isaiah sees God seated on a throne and six-winged angels attending Him and pronouncing His holiness. One of the angels purifies the prophet by touching a hot coal from the altar to his lips. What is the meaning of this deep prophetic vision?

            In 879 BCE, King Ashurnasirpal II of Assyria built a magnificent palace that was still in use over a century later in Yeshayahu’s time. Like all other nations in Assyria’s power grip, Israel and Judah had to send emmissaries to the Assyrian palace with protection money if they wanted to avoid being conquered. Such an emmisary would have been impressed by the many scenes of Assyrian battle victories etched in the palace hallways. In the Assyrian throneroom, he would see this relief:

Drawing from throne room of Ashurnasirpal II

• In the center is the tree that represents the world. At its top is a winged image of the god Ashur, the chief Assyrian god. The message is that the god Ashur is in charge of the world.
• On either side of Ashur is an image of the Assyrian king (with beard), whom the Assyrians consider king of the world.
• On either side of the Assyrian king is the four-winged figure that protects the king from impurity.

The emmisary would probably have concluded that the Assyrian king is more powerful than Israel’s God and would have reported this when he returned home. This would lead the nation to give up its hope, faith, and identity. Isaiah’s prophecy counters this false impression. In fact, it is Hashem who sits on the throne and is king of the world: “His presence fills all the earth” (Isaiah 6:3). Significantly, while the Assyrian king is himself susceptible to impurity and requires protective angels to keep him pure, the angels in Isaiah’s prophecy are necessary only to remove Yeshayahu’s impurity. Hashem requires no protection for He is Eternal, Holy, and beyond all human power.

            Dr. Aster suggests that teachers connect Yeshayahu’s prophecy to their own lives. Teenagers can often feel a sense of sensory overload and be impressed by the power of technology, movies, rockstars, international politics, and big business. This prophecy of Yeshayahu, however, which the rabbis incorporated into the daily siddur, can help students re-evaluate their priorities and loyalties and thereby reset their moral compass.

Contemporize

Every lesson in a high school setting should have an enduring understanding so that students can relate it to their own lives and contemporary society. By contemporizing the Tanakh we not only ensure that students will internalize its teachings but we also provide a motivation for studying Tanakh and a way to make it relevant to their life concerns.

Studying the opening chapter of Shemot provides a fitting opportunity to understand dictators, ancient and modern alike. As Ramban points out, Pharaoh gradually enacts harsher and harsher decrees against the Israelites in order to slowly turn the Egyptian populace against their Israelite neighbors. How can people who were on good terms with their neighbors for generations suddenly become enemies? We see the same phenomenon occur in our own times in the Bosnian war and in Nazi Germany.

A teacher can provide to the students a few sources on the history of the Holocaust and ask students to find parallels in Shemot. For example, Goebbels refers to the Jews in Germany as “guests” who are “misusing our hospitality,” and Julius Streicher spreads propaganda that the Jews are responsible for World War I and are enemies of the state. This reminds us of Pharoah’s accusation in Shemot 1:9–10: “The Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us.”

We must be vigilant in recognizing propaganda whenever we read a newspaper, watch television, or listen to speeches. A teacher can easily find examples from current events whether relating to local news, Israel, or pop culture. Politicians, businesses, religious leaders, and intellectuals of various kinds constantly try to convince us that their view is correct and all other views are wrong. It is up to us to distinguish between the sincere and the self-serving, between good and evil, between accuracy and propaganda.

It might seem that nothing could be further from the lives of American teenagers than Moshe’s prophetic encounter in the middle of the desert at the burning bush. In fact, however, this can be a foundational lesson for students about finding themselves and achieving their own leadership potential. Many elements went into the emergence of Moshe as a leader: his family, background, birth and childhood, a strong sense of justice, and passion to take action. While these attributes took many years to develop and mature, there was one single moment at which they all came together. In Shemot 3:4, we read that Hashem only calls to Moshe after He sees that Moshe turns to examine the bush. In order to hear the divine calling, one must be attentive and on the lookout for it. This is when the hero finds his calling and resolves in earnest to follow a plan to accomplish his or her set goal.

Although we are not prophets, each of us can receive a divine calling at his or her own level. A teacher can ask students to identify issues in their own schools, communities or in the world where there is injustice or something that needs attention. What talents and tools would someone need to help that problem? How can we develop ourselves to develop our own talents and be sensitive enough to take notice of the “burning bushes” all over the world today? How can we develop the confidence to step up and become leaders?

Structure

            Mizmor 145, known as Ashrei, is a highly structured alphabetic acrostic. That it is missing a pasuk for nun therefore stands out as a glaring omission. The classic answer given in Berakhot 4b explains that nun is omitted because it represents the fall of Israel as seen in Amos 5:2, “Fallen is the virgin of Israel,” which begins with a nun. This answer is not convincing for a few reasons. Just because there is a negative verse in Amos which begins with nun does not mean that nun is forever tainted. There are many positive verses that begin with nun and many negative verses that begin with other letters. If nun really is unusable, why is it found in other acrostic Psalms such as 111, 112, and 119? As I explain further in the teacher’s guide, this midrash is not meant as a commentary to psalm 145 as much as a way to deal with a difficult verse in Amos.

Most scholars think there was originally a verse for nun but it was mistakenly omitted by sloppy scribes. For evidence, they point to a copy of this Psalm found in the Dead Sea scrolls, which does include a verse for nun: “ne’eman Elokim bi-dvarav ve-hasid be-khol ma`asav—God is trustworthy in His words and faithful in all His works.” However, it is highly unlikely that this is the original missing nun verse considering that its second half is a duplicate of verse 17. More likely, an overzealous scribe invented this verse to “correct” what he thought was a mistake.

Rather, we should seek out a literary explanation for why this psalm intentionally omitted a verse for nun. This emerges upon analysis of the structure of this Psalm. This Psalm begins and ends with the word tehillah/tehillat. Verses 1 and 2 both end with “Your name forever and ever” and the last verse similarly ends with “His holy name forever and ever.” The verb brk–bless occurs four times in the mizmor in vv. 1, 2, 10, and 21. Taking all these words together, we find that the first two verses and the last verse form an envelope around the rest of the psalm. Since the only other occurrence of brk is in v. 10, this middle verse too is linked to the opening and closing. Once we compare these pesukim side by side we find that there is a progression from one to the next:

¹ I will extol You, my God and king, and bless Your name forever and ever.

²Every day will I bless You and praise Your name forever and ever.

¹⁰All Your works shall praise You, Hashem, and Your faithful ones shall bless You.

²¹My mouth shall utter the praise of Hashem, and all creatures shall bless His holy name forever and ever.

In the first two verses, the singer blesses Hashem by himself. In the middle verse, a small group of faithful ones bless Hashem. By the end, all creatures bless His Holy Name. We can picture someone beginning to sing by himself, then being joined by a few devotees, and finally rallying everyone to sing together. These four verses act as a refrain at the beginning, middle, and end of the Psalm.

There are four sections in the mizmor: two before the refrain and two after it. Section 1 consists of vv. 3–6 and focuses on God’s greatness. The key words in this section are: greatness, might, glorious majesty, splendor, wondrous, and awesome. All of these words praise the great works of God in creation and nature. They relate to God as transcendent, powerful, and beyond reach.

Verses 7–9 comprise section 2, which is a celebration of God’s goodness. The key words in this section are goodness, beneficence, gracious, compassionate, kindness, and mercy. Verse 8, in particular, paraphrases God’s 13 attributes of mercy (Shemot 34:6). In this section we feel Hashem’s closeness to us, His care, and His accessibility.

Section 3 spans vv. 11–13, and its key words are: majesty, kingship, might, majestic glory, and dominion. This section shares many of the words and themes from section 1 but emphasizes God’s kingship in particular. Like section 1, this section also gives off the sense of Hashem as transcendent just like a human king is beyond the reach of the ordinary citizen. Remarkably, the three verses of this section begin with the letters כ, ל, and מ. When read backward, these letters spell מלך—king!

Section 4 is the largest section at vv. 14–20 and parallels section 2 in its theme. This section describes how God provides help and sustenance to the needy (vv. 14–16) and responds to and protects the deserving (vv. 18–20). The middle verse of this section sums up its central message—“Hashem is beneficent in all His ways and faithful in all His works” (v. 17). The predominant word in this section is “kol­–all,” which is repeated 10 times. It emphasizes that Hashem is not just selectively good to some people sometimes but rather all-good all the time to all living beings.

Some philosophers speak of God as a transcendent, infinite, all-powerful being about whom we can know nothing and from whom we would not expect special favors. Others think of God as a close, ever-compassionate father-like figure who thinks about us and cares for our every need. In philosophy, it is difficult to reconcile these two conceptions. However, when meditating or when in a state of prayer, our emotions can often shift from one to the other and back. The four sections of this mizmor similarly vacillate between these two extremes. Sections 1 and 3 conceive of God as transcendent and therefore call to proclaim His greatness and kingship. Sections 2 and 4, on the other hand, consider God to be near at hand as they praise His goodness.

We can now trace the movement of the reader as he or she experiences this mizmor. At first alone, the reader begins by thinking of God’s greatness and awesomeness in section 1 but does not feel close to Him. Once the reader begins to fathom God’s mighty acts in creation, the reader begin to think of acts He performs for the world. In section two the reader begins to sense God’s mercy. The reader now reaches a higher level where he or she feels connected with a group of “faithful ones” in the refrain. We then think about God as an infinite king in section 3. But even a king must take care of his subjects, and the infinite king provides infinite care for all beings. It is significant that the last section is the longest and most detailed. It is clearly the climax of the mizmor and contains its most essential message.

            Getting back to the missing nun, we now see that this verse is omitted right at the juncture between sections 3 and 4. This omission makes the reader pause and serves as a literary device to indicate a section break. In fact, as we saw from the structure above, section 4 is the climax and essence of the mizmor and so it is fitting to mark a section break between it and everything that precedes it. In fact, vv. 1–13 are also marked off as a unit by the envelope created by the word melekh in v. 1 and the repetition of the same word in section 3, vv. 11–13. Furthermore, when reading the acrostic backward from the end, the absence of the nun verse calls attention to the beginning letters of section 3, mem, lamed, kaf—king.

The main idea of the mizmor is a total praise of Hashem by all people at all times. This is summed up in the progression of the refrains and in the repetition of the key word kol. The psalm takes the form of an alphabetic acrostic in order to poetically convey this message. By using every letter of the alphabet, we sense that we are praising God using all possible language. It is complete praise from A to Z. This is a truly magnificent example of how appreciating structure, even—or especially—when it deviates from our expectations, is a necessary and inspiring method for uncovering the wisdom and perfection of Tanakh.

I hope that this selection of lesson summaries will suffice to prompt the reader to visit www.teachtorah.org. I would further request that readers provide feedback on this material and I invite teachers to join in participating in and contributing to this project.

Notes

Despite the rhetoric emanating from certain camps of Orthodox Judaism, studying secular knowledge lishmah—knowledge for knowledge’s sake—is a widely accepted notion among Jewish thinkers. In fact, virtually none of the great Jewish personalities who discuss the value of secular knowledge—from Rav Saadiah Gaon and Rambam to Rav Kook and Rav Soloveitchik—speak of its utilitarian value. Rambam does not praise Aristotle’s philosophy for its salary-increasing powers, nor does Rav Kook laud university studies because of their utility in getting into a good law school.

            Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch is a classic example of this knowledge-lishmah school of thought. Not only does he extol the spiritual value of secular studies, he explicitly derides those who see knowledge as a tool in advancing one’s career. Two quotations (many more can be adduced) from his essays should suffice to establish this point. In “The Relevance of Secular Studies,” Rav Hirsch writes:

[A]ny supporter of education and culture should deplore the fact that when these secular studies are evaluated in terms of their usefulness to the young, too much stress is often placed on so-called practical utility and necessity. Under such circumstances, the young are in danger of losing the pure joy of acquiring knowledge for its own sake, so that they will no longer take pleasure in the moral and spiritual benefits to be obtained by study.

            And in “The Joy of Learning,” Rav Hirsch has this to say:

[W]e forget that by hurrying to impose the yoke of the materialistic, or, as we like to put it euphemistically, the practical aims of life upon the dawn and springtime of childhood and early youth, we only deprive our children prematurely of the bloom of flowering youth and nip our children’s spiritual yearnings in the bud. Instead of encouraging our children to get wisdom for its own sake, we raise them to become only clever and shrewd, judging everything in the light of self-interest and respecting only those intellectual and spiritual pursuits that are likely to yield the highest dividends in terms of material gain. A generation raised on such a philosophy of life will never be able to experience that true joy of learning, which regards knowledge itself as the supreme reward.

            Rav Hirsch also stresses that educators must not give their students the impression that their secular studies are simply a necessary concession to modern times. Such an impression is both incorrect and harmful, for “[o]nly ideas rooted in genuine conviction will be received with enthusiasm. Products of compromise can expect no more than grudging acceptance forced by considerations of expediency.”

Thus far, Rav Hirsch merely emerges as another proponent—albeit an enthusiastic and vocal one—in the long line of Jewish thinkers who see inherent value in studying secular knowledge.

What distinguishes Rav Hirsch, however, and what makes him a fascinating case study is that more than once in his essays on education, he cites statements of Hazal, our Sages, regarding learning Torah lishmah to bolster his position that one should study secular knowledge lishmah.

For instance, in an essay discussing general—not specifically Torah—education, “Ethical Training in the Classroom,” Rav Hirsch cites Pirkei Avot 2:6, “v’lo am ha’arets hassid” and remarkably translates this aphorism as “[A]n uneducated man will not attain the moral grandeur of selfless devotion to duty.” Traditionally, the term am ha’arets applies to someone ignorant vis-à-vis Torah, not general, knowledge. And yet, Rav Hirsch either ignores or pretends not to know this.

Even if Rav Hirsch understands am ha’arets in a nontraditional sense, he also applies other statements of Hazal to secular knowledge that almost certainly apply exclusively to the study of Torah. For example, he cites Kiddushin 40b, “Limud gadol she-haLimud meivi lidei ma’aseh,” and translates this statement as “Knowledge has priority because only the right kind of knowledge can give rise to the right practice.” Two sentences later he paraphrases Pirkei Avot 4:7 as “[I]t was considered a desecration of knowledge and the striving after knowledge to use learning as a ‘crown of self-glorification’ or a ‘tool for making a living.’” Rav Hirsch applies these quotations to secular studies without even hinting that in their original context they refer specifically to the study of Torah.

Nor does Rav Hirsch limit himself to select quotations. In the same essay he makes this general statement about Hazal:

[O]ur Sages were enemies of ignorance. They regarded education, intellectual enlightenment, and the acquisition of knowledge as the first of all moral commandments. They viewed the dissemination of intellectual enlightenment among all classes of the population as the prime concern of the nation, and the training of a child’s mind as the first and most sacred duty of fatherhood. They considered it a matter of conscience for every Jewish father to see that his child should not remain a boor and am ha’arets; no Jewish child must be allowed to grow up as an ignorant, uneducated person.

            Frankly, this is staggering. Rav Hirsch talks of Hazal as enemies of ignorance, generally speaking, not as enemies of Torah ignorance—even though most of Hazal’s statements concerning education surely apply to Torah education only. Nor does Rav Hirsch apparently feel the need to explain himself (and an explanation is desperately needed, especially keeping in mind the vast difference between Torah study and other fields of knowledge in the minds of many Orthodox Jews). Rav Hirsch never says something to the effect of, “Although our Sages speak of Torah education, we can apply the principle behind their statements to other fields of study as well.”

            While Rav Hirsch’s employment of Hazal in speaking of secular knowledge is most pronounced in his essay, “Ethical Training in the Classroom,” he blurs the lines between Torah and secular knowledge in other essays as well. For example, in “Education in the Rabbinic Era,” which concerns the educational values of the mishnaic and talmudic sages, Rav Hirsch concludes by asking, “If the pure delight in knowledge for its own sake should, once again, become the common heritage of an entire nation, might it not contribute, in some fashion, to the uplifting, the healing, and the greater happiness of all mankind?” Again, Rav Hirsch speaks of “knowledge”—generically—even though the mishnaic and talmudic sages’ educational values concern Torah knowledge.

            In “Talmudic Judaism and Society,” Rav Hirsch, citing Shabbat 31a, writes that the second question Heaven asks a person after he or she dies is “[D]id you set aside a fixed time each day for continuing your studies?” The actual question, as found in the Talmud, is “Kavata itim laTorah?—Did you set aside fixed times for the study of Torah?” Rav Hirsch somehow morphs “Torah” into “studies.” Further blurring the lines, Rav Hirsch cites this statement of Hazal among a series of other talmudic statements, all of which concern generic knowledge, not Torah knowledge.

Finally, in “The Joy of Learning,” Rav Hirsch attempts to convince parents of the need to instill a love of learning in their children even though he describes his era as “so materialistic, and materialistic concerns are given such prominence…”. He contrasts his age’s attitude to knowledge with “the spirit of true scholarship, which, until very recently, was cherished by the members of the Jewish nation.” Of course, this “true scholarship” cherished by Jews was Torah scholarship. Indeed, in subsequent sentences in this essay Rav Hirsch writes specifically of “Jewish scholarship.” Nonetheless, Rav Hirsch is less than crystal clear in this essay when he employs, without qualification, the words “scholarship” and “knowledge.”

            With this fascinating discovery in hand, what now? How does one explain what appears to be an intriguing misuse of Hazal and Jewish history?

            My short answer to this dilemma is “I don’t know.” One can write this apparent distortion off to Rav Hirsch’s lifelong goal of winning hearts and minds to Orthodox Judaism. However, such an answer is less than satisfactory in that it assumes a certain dishonesty on Rav Hirsch’s part. Therefore, I offer the following possible explanation.

Rav Hirsch obviously knew that he took a logical jump in applying statements of Hazal regarding Torah study to the study of general knowledge. Nonetheless, he considered the step more of a logical “skip” than a logical “leap.” In other words, unlike the vast chasm many Orthodox Jews currently see between Torah and general knowledge, Rav Hirsch views the two fields of study as basically similar to one another. Both concern God’s wisdom. The student of Torah studies the Divine word and the student of nature, history, and the people in it studies the Divine design. Both are divinity students.

            Moreover, in his essays on education, Rav Hirsch repeatedly posits that discovering the laws governing nature should inspire people to search for the laws given to govern their lives—the moral law. In Rav Hirsch’s terminology, the laws of the Creator should lead people to the laws of the Lawgiver. And by “obeying this moral law of his own free choice, man joins the great chorus of creatures that serve God.”

If, then, the proper study of Torah, nature, and history (where one sees God’s guiding hand) are all closely intertwined with the study of God’s moral law, and if “[i]n the view of Judaism, truth is one and indivisible,” Rav Hirsch’s out-of-context utilization of Hazal’s educational statements becomes more understandable. In his mind, secular studies represent another path in one’s Divine service. If so, truly how can one misuse such knowledge as a “crown for self aggrandizement” or as “a tool for making a living”? May Hazal not have had these studies in mind when they argued, “lo am ha’arets hassid”? Jewish learning is, after all, in Rav Hirsch’s opinion, “so broad and universal in character that it happily welcomes any other fields of study that aspire toward an understanding of the realities of nature and history.” And if Hazal did not have such studies in mind, are the two not similar enough to, in good faith, apply a quotation said regarding Torah to general knowledge? Very likely, Rav Hirsch felt the answer to this question was an emphatic yes.