The Best Passover Reads, 5772

A large part of what I do for JID is sift through hundreds and hundreds of items posted online in an effort to find the good stuff (which is then sifted further to post the best stuff). You would not believe how much Pesach-related material appears every year. Every local newspaper, Jewish and general, has something on it. There's not a lot to get excited about, but there is the occasional piece that makes you sit up and pay attention. Here are this year's Pesach pieces that quickened my pulse a bit:

1. 1. Leon Wieseltier's review of the New Ameratzishe American Haggadah. Yes, it's a hatchet job and he overstates the case, but the central critique seems to be that re-inventing the wheel (in this case composing a brand new translation of the haggadah) does not necessarily mean doing it better. It's part of a larger debate about innovation and conservatism (see, for example, Zak Braiterman's response to Wieseltier, and the earlier exchange between me and Braiterman).
2. Judith Shulevitz has a Levinasian reading of the Talmud's derivation of the requirement to seek out hametz with a light. The contrived scriptural acrobatics point toward a deeper theological anthropology. Terrific.
3. Howard Jacobson muses on the poem "Dayenu". Jacobson is the greatest living Jewish writer (in English). Here, he comes up with witty and profound sentences like: "The Dayenu is a series of self-generating conditional clauses, composed, if you like, in that most kop-dreying of all tenses, the Judaeo-hypothetic-preconditional, in which problems are imagined in advance of their occurring, imagined, indeed, in spite of their having been averted, and there is no fathoming the sequence of causation: Do our travails precede our giving thanks, or does our giving thanks occasion our travails?"
4. Thanks to S. of On the Main Line and Dr. Paul Shaviv of CHAT, we can now listen to Pesach tunes of 370 years ago. Read the whole story here.
5. This is not limited to one article, but it is certainly a trend: Pesach has long had a culture of chumra, but it seems that things may be starting to change (or maybe it's a function of my shifting vantage point). This year, I've seen popular pieces about a kezayit being the size of an olive, about scaling back what is included in kitniyot, about going easy on the Pesach cleaning, and about not using horseradish for maror (see also this earlier article; this last one is not really a kula, but when I was growing up the general sense was that horseradish was the "real" stuff and that lettuce was some sort of leniency). Trend or no?

That's it (so far) for 5772. Take a look at some posts of Pesach past for more goodies.

Yizkor

I'm flabbergasted that Ha'aretz can, with a straight face, argue based on "tradition" that we should keep it the way it was, and not the emendations of R. Goren in a "thrall of messianic fervor." If only the secular establishment had so much respect for tradition while they were pissing on it (pardon my French, but I see this as jarringly ironic).
This really goes back to the issue that Ha'aretz, as well as some other media and the High Court, are really the last bastions of secular Ashkenazi culture. As I noted on Lag B'Omer, secular Israeli civic religion is slowly eroding, and Judaism is making space for more civic observance. I find this to be a heartwarming trend. On the specific issue of Yizkor, see Menachem Mendel's excellent piece.
One of the great writers of early secular Zionism, Haim Hazaz, concluded his "The Sermon" with the line: "When a man can no longer be a Jew, he becomes a Zionist" (in this context, "Jew" meant the religious and passive Jew of the exile, and "Zionist" meant secular kibbutznik). Apparently the opposite also holds true, at least on the broader scale: When a man can no longer be a Zionist, he becomes a Jew.

Stalemates and Doubts

Take a look at Gil's post on the idea of using "teiku" on questions of faith. He attempts to show that not only do chareidi rabbis like R. Matisyahu Salomon use it when running up against apparent contradictions and difficulties in the realm of faith, but so did R. Soloveitchik. Therefore, he concludes, critics of R. Salomon are being disingenuous.

Back when the controversy about R. Salomon broke out, there were indeed bloggers who criticized R. Salomon for using the idea of teiku as an ideological cop-out, to avoid dealing with Torah and science issues. In other words, they saw what R. Salomon was doing and judged it to be bad or wrong, arguing that in matters of faith every effort must be made to know and to answer whatever possible.

To that end, R. Gil's excerpt from RYBS (who is himself invoking Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling) indeed demonstrates that there are instances in which the man of faith must throw up his hands and say "teiku." There are theological questions and contradictions so profound that the true man of faith must accept that some questions will not be answered.

He could have cited the example of R. Yehuda Amital as well. A cornerstone of his post-Holocaust theology was resignation without any attempt at justification. This was the basis for his critique of those - from R. Zvi Yehuda Kook to R. Yoel Teitelbaum - who rationalized the Holocaust within a larger ideological scheme (see, for example, pp. 127-133 of By Faith Alone).

Yet my critique then, as now, focused on what I believe to be a common misunderstanding of the idea of teiku. Teiku is said not when I don't know something and not even when nobody knows something. It is used when something cannot be known (note that in the RYBS quote he shifts from the real meaning of teiku to the colloquial meaning of teiku just before the end of the quote; I wouldn't put too much linguistic stock in the rhetorical jab at the end).

Resignation in the face of the unknown should never be a long-term solution. It may be prudent in some instances, but it must never become policy. It stunts all discovery and progress. At the same time, recognition that some things-like the reason for the binding of Isaac and the Holocaust-are unknowable is a desirable trait. It means knowing that man can never know the answer, or that there is no answer - not that someone of superior intellect will eventually come and answer it for me.

Fallacy or Ideology? On the ArtScroll Translation of the Siddur

Cross-posted to Hirhurim

The recent publication of The Expanded ArtScroll Siddur: Wasserman Edition gives occasion for a renewed look at various aspects of the Siddur that has won pride of place in American Orthodox synagogues over the past quarter century. The present review will address ArtScroll’s English translation.

The Preface to the new edition indicates that the earlier ArtScroll translation was merely “reviewed and adjusted,” and a comparison of several randomly selected paragraphs more than bears this out.

There are a total of three adjustments in the translation of Psalm 92, Mizmor Shir le-Yom Ha-Shabbat. In verse 3, “to relate Your kindness” has been altered to “to tell of Your kindness;” in v. 6, “exceedingly profound are Your thoughts” is now rendered “Your thoughts are exceedingly profound;” and in v. 14, “in the courtyards of our God they will flourish” becomes “they will flourish in the courtyards of our God.” In the berakha of Kiddush Levana, the original has “A decree and a schedule did He give them,” which has been changed in the new edition to “He gave them a law and a schedule.” This is the only change in the entire paragraph. There are no changes at all in the half-Kaddish.

Three of these four changes reverse the order of the original sentence to reflect the more conventional English subject-verb-object structure instead of the object-verb-subject structure that is common in pre-Modern Hebrew. However, not every such sentence is modified: “with praiseful songs let us call out to Him” (Psalms 95:2) is not altered. Thus, it seems that the O-V-S structure of the Hebrew is preserved in the English unless it causes some confusion or ambiguity, in which case the more conventional S-V-O structure is employed. The other changes seem to be similarly motivated by interests of clarity and comprehensibility. The remainder of this review will therefore address both versions of the translation as a single work.

ArtScroll’s reproduction of Hebrew sentence structure is part of a literalist conceit that pervades the translation. The translation maintains a close correspondence to the original to the degree possible while remaining comprehensible in English. The following chart demonstrates just how closely the ArtScroll translation adheres to the order and literal meaning of the original:

ArtScroll Translation	Hebrew Original	ArtScroll Translation	Hebrew Original
HASHEM	ה'	Restore	השיבה
Alone	לבדך	Our judges	שופטינו
With kindness	בחסד	As in earliest times	כבראשונה
And compassion	וברחמים	And our advisers	ויועצנו
And justify us	וצדקנו	As at first	כבתחילה
Through judgment	במשפט	Remove	והסר
Blessed	ברוך	From us	ממנו
Are You	אתה	Sorrow	יגון
HASHEM	ה'	And groan	ואנחה
The King	מלך	And reign	ומלוך
Who loves	אוהב	Over us	עלינו
Righteousness	צדקה	You	אתה
And judgment	ומשפט

The Hebrew is parsed here word by word and placed next to the corresponding English word or phrase. The significant point is that the English of the Siddur is in precisely the same order as the Hebrew – no paraphrase, no elimination of redundancy (Hebrew is far more tolerant of redundancy than English), no reordering of the sentence structure. This is actually the stated goal of the translation; as noted in the Preface, “occasionally we had to stray a bit from the literal translation in order to capture the essence of a phrase in an accessible English idiom.” If anything, the straying is a bit too occasional. In the above chart, translating “va-anacha” as “and groan” is hyper-literal. The Hebrew anacha often serves as a collective noun—the cumulative groaning of many or the cumulative cause of the groaning. The English “groan” does not serve in that sense. In this case, ArtScroll’s translation is literally accurate but awkward. It is clear, then, that the literalist conceit is strong. In fact, the defining characteristic of ArtScroll’s English translation of the Siddur.

It would be easy—too easy—to criticize the ArtScroll translation for falling into what Edith Grossman calls the “literalist trap”:

To my mind, a translator’s fidelity is not to lexical pairings but to context—the implications and echoes of the first author’s tone, intention, and level of discourse. Good translations are good because they are faithful to this contextual significance. They are not necessarily faithful to words or syntax, which are peculiar to specific languages and can rarely be brought over directly in any misguided and inevitably muddled effort to somehow replicate the original. This is the literalist trap, because words to not mean in isolation.

Why Translation Matters, pp. 70-71

Upon further reflection, however, it is clear that ArtScroll’s literalist conceit is not the result of poor translation technique or of the espousal of Vladimir Nabokov’s more literalist theories of translation, largely ignored by the community of translators. Rather, ArtScroll’s translation reflects a particular ideological stance on the text of the Siddur, its composition, and its artistic value.

This stance is articulated in Rabbi Nosson Scherman’s Overview to the earlier version of the ArtScroll Siddur, in the section entitled “The Holy Tongue” (pp. XV-XVI). The thrust of this section is that Hebrew, Leshon Ha-kodesh, is nothing like other languages: it is literally the language that God used to create the world. Its words do not merely signify their objects, they embody the very essence of the object. God used the letters shin-vav-resh to create the ox. Rabbi Scherman thus concludes:

The Men of the Great Assembly had the ability to combine letters, verses, and ideas in ways that unlock the gates of heaven. Their composition of the tefillah is tantamount to an act of creation, which is why it is so important not to deviate from their language and formulation. This is not to denigrate the importance of comprehension and emotional involvement. Prayer in the language one understands is sanctioned by the Sages themselves, and surely, a well-understood prayer is immeasurably more worthy than one that is merely mouthed as a string of uncomprehended sounds. Nevertheless, this does not detract a whit from the importance of praying in the Holy Tongue; it merely points up the responsibility to understand the prayers in their original, holiest form.

In other words, the goal of the translation is solely to enable the reader to understand the original Hebrew. To that end, the closer to an exact correspondence the translation adheres, the easier it is for the reader to keep one finger on the original and one on the translation, using the latter as a lexicon for decoding the meaning of the former. All questions of style, idiom, and art—any literary element beyond that of basic comprehensibility—are rendered largely irrelevant in comparison with the main objective of facilitating comprehension of the metaphysically charged original.

Thus, any critique of the ArtScroll translation must either address it on its own terms and demonstrate that it fails to live up to the objectives it sets for itself, or address ArtScroll’s ideological assumptions directly. Criticizing the style of a work that admittedly ignores style is frankly unfair. Moreover, ArtScroll’s translation of the Siddur does an excellent job meeting its own goals. As the chart above demonstrates, ArtScroll excels at translating in a lexically coordinated manner while remaining reasonably comprehensible. The ideological assumptions, however, remain fair game.

Ideological disputes about the nature of the Holy Tongue go back at least to the times of the Rishonim. Rambam and Ramban famously argue (both positions appear in Ramban’s commentary to Shemot 30:13) about what makes the Holy Tongue holy: Ramban antecedes Rabbi Scherman by viewing the Hebrew language as the language with which God created the universe. Rambam, on the other hand, views the holiness of the language as stemming from its lack of explicit words for sexual acts and organs.

Similarly, Prof. Uriel Simon outlines the ideological and polemical positions that motivates various classical approaches to Tehillim. In his view, R. Sa’adiah Ga’on paid little to no attention to literary form—indeed, he rejected its presence—in his commentary to Tehillim, whereas Ibn Ezra granted a great deal of weight to its poetic and literary elements.

Although ArtScroll’s stance on these issues is clearly rooted in the Jewish tradition, it is crucial for the potential reader to become aware of those underlying ideological positions and their alternatives, and then to honestly appraise the degree to which these assumptions reflect his values.

With regard to the nature of the Holy Tongue, there are many reasons to prefer a non-metaphysical, non-essentialist explanation such as Rambam’s to Ramban’s. The discovery and decoding of other Ancient Near Eastern languages has shown that Biblical Hebrew did not live on a linguistic island, rather, it emerged from and was related to other Semitic languages and absorbed words from distant languages. The modern study of linguistics shows that Biblical Hebrew can itself be periodized and behaves in the way that languages are expected to behave. Findings in the Cairo Genizah have shown the astounding volume of alternatives to the liturgy that eventually became the Siddur, indicating that the editorial selection of what ultimately went into the liturgical rite that became the Siddur was motivated by aesthetics in addition to, or instead of, metaphysics. Philosophically, the idea that the letters shin-vav-resh literally embody the essence of what it is to be an ox belongs to a Platonic duality in which this world is but a reflection of some ideal world, in this case a world of recombinant Hebrew letters forming the essences of all objects in the universe. One may honestly question whether the potential Siddur-buyer would be satisfied by that dichotomous and essentialist worldview. Theologically, the notion that God literally used a language that had yet to ever be spoken, and that emerged at a specific time and place and obeyed the rules that govern all languages, might not resonate with everyone in the market for a bilingual Siddur. Thus, ArtScroll’s motivation for rigidly adhering to a literal translation may not be terribly convincing to a large segment of its potential readership.

With regard to the poetic and literary aspects of the liturgy, the present generation has witnessed the rise of a cadre of Torah teachers who read and learn Torah as literature and poetry—sacred literature and poetry, to be sure—and who have revolutionized the study of Tanakh in the Orthodox community and beyond. Considering that so much of the Siddur is from Tanakh, and that even those sections that are not biblical contain vast amounts of biblical allusion and are literary constructions in themselves (see, for example, Rav Ezra Bick’s brilliant series on the Shemoneh Esrei), it can be expected that many contemporary readers would prefer a translation that pays more attention to the Siddur’s art: literary structures, intertextuality, and poetic devices, complexity, and density, to name a few. Such a translation would, of course, be anything but literal.

Context plays a large role in the choices a translator makes. When translating a will, for example, maximum fidelity to the original is necessary, even if it will result in a very awkward rendering. Literature, on the other hand, must be reproduced in the new language with as much of the original’s nuance, rhythm, and tone as possible. This gives the translator a great deal of leeway to rewrite and recreate, with the goal of achieving something equivalent or close to it in the new language. Regarding a text like the Siddur, different ideological attitudes will naturally constrain the translator’s choices and allow for vastly different renderings of the same work. A reader who is aware of these ideological constraints and his own ideological proclivities will be able to make an informed choice when seeking the bilingual Siddur that will most enhance his experience of prayer.

Negotiations

[I wrote most of this on Erev Yom Kippur, but ran out of time and was unable to post it beforehand]

The parsha of Ki Tavo coincides annually with the second Shabbat before Rosh Hashana. The most prominent feature of the parsha is the blessing and curses that God promises for upholding or failing to uphold the Torah. A superficial look will show quite obviously that the curses, the tokhecha, is much longer than the promised blessings. In fact, there is a general pattern that the warnings against breaching God’s covenant are generally much longer and more detailed than the promises of reward for obedience.

Negotiation is a tricky business. It involves getting two (or more) parties to consent to some kind of mutually beneficial association. In order for negotiations to succeed, the agreement must be in the best interest of each side. The more each party feels that it has no choice but to come to an understanding, the greater the chance that the negotiations will succeed. This is true of any and every negotiation.

As a result, the reward for upholding an agreement should be self-evident – if it were not worth my while to enter into the association, I would not have done so. Sure, there can be incentives along the way, but the real benefit of the agreement should be part and parcel of the agreement itself, not some external sanction or incentive. On the other hand, building sanctions into an agreement can keep each party honest. The greater the penalty for backing out of an agreement, the less likely a party is to have a change of heart and breach the contract. This accounts for the length of the tokhecha as well as the small print on any contract.

Currently, the NFL Players Association and the NFL owners are in the initial stages of negotiating a new collective bargaining agreement. Though there may be a lockout, everybody knows that the players and owners will eventually come to an agreement. After all, the players and owners desperately need each other. The owners can’t play, the players don’t have the resources to run a team, and the benefit that accrues to both when a team is fielded is way too great for either side to terminate the relationship for any extended period of time.

Contrast that with the current negotiations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority. The recent articles by Karl Vick and Roger Cohen about whether Israelis are truly invested in the peace process point to a reality that I think is accurate, even if the authors did not necessarily unpack it correctly: Israelis want peace, no doubt. But things are good enough in Israel right now that the incentives offered by peace do not justify the risks that peacemaking entails. Israelis are not desperate for peace, because, frankly, life is pretty darn good without it. And so the price they’re willing to pay for peace is not so high (I’m not judging whether this prevailing attitude is good or bad, or whether it has any bearing on the actual negotiation process, which much address a far more complex reality – those are much longer posts).

This is all by way of introduction to the intense negotiations that Jewish people all over the world will hold with their God over the next day. The primal, mythic core of Yom Kippur is the re-enactment of God’s selection of Israel and His entry into a covenant with them (the most potent symbols of this are the se’ir La-Shem and the second Luchot). Our basis for negotiations (see here) is that our collective relationship with God is akin to that of the players vis-à-vis ownership; we are powerless yet indispensable to His goals (Rav Ezra Bick has a wonderful discussion of this concept here), and He therefore must renew His covenant with us.

The Orthoprax Rabbi – Revisited

I’ve changed my mind about the Orthoprax Rabbi. I think that what he’s doing (let’s assume that he is what he says he is, a fact that is never truly verifiable while the blog remains anonymous) is a vile offense against those who pay his salary. Even if he is a rabbinic superstar and an absolute gem of a human being, it would be inexcusable. I predict that he will be outed within a few months by some clever baalebos, and then I hope they terminate his contract. At that point, he will learn, like I learned, that even though going through a career change can be hell, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and life will go on.

I do not have a problem with doubt. I have struggled with doubt in its various forms myself (and continue to, though as a baalebos and not as a rabbi). If you look at the comments on that old post, though, you will see that they are very different from the reactions to the Orthoprax Rabbi. This is because the Orthoprax Rabbi does not have doubts. He has it all figured out. The transformation is complete. He is not giving us a window into his inner conflicts, past and present, but is presenting us with a fait accompli of atheist belief and, perhaps more obnoxiously, complete lack of any sort of guilt about pulling the wool over the eyes of his flock.

Said rabbi compares himself with R. Leon di Modena, arguing that the former was a closet atheist. This sounds an awful lot like the maskilim (starting with Spinoza, in fact) who saw Ibn Ezra as a sort of closet Bible critic. I mean, if he wants to play games, why doesn’t he simply accept the Straussian reading of the Moreh Nevukhim and claim that the Rambam was a closet atheist. I mean, if the midget wishes to stand on the shoulder of giants, why not pick the tallest giant?

In fact, though, I think that he can be compared with other more contemporary rabbis. I recall that about 14 years ago PBS ran a series on Genesis, and the “star” of the series was Rabbi Burt Visotzky. He made headlines by calling God a “mean son of a bitch.” Rabbi Shalom Carmy recounted to me that when a major news magazine (I believe it was Time or Newsweek) called him for a response, he told them, “I would not want him leading ne’ila at my shul.” He then started acting it out for me: “Psach lanu sha’ar, You mean S.O.B.” [As an aside, I like R. Carmy’s idea that humor is often the best response when asked a question for which there is no good ‘sound-byte’ answer. I put that lesson into practice, somewhat, here.] R. Carmy’s point was that one cannot fulfill the role of shaliah tzibbur, representing the community before God and vice versa, if one feels antipathy or apathy toward either of the parties. Similarly, a kohen, who stands between Israel and God, may not duchen if he has experienced some kind of rupture with man – i.e., he is a shofekh damim – or with God – i.e., a heretic.

Another example would be David Gruber. He was a rabbi and Orthodox Torah educator in several small communities in the US (ironically, he succeeded my wife as Jewish Studies Coordinator at Yavneh Academy in Dallas - but he got the title "Rav Beit Sefer" while my wife did not) before he decided to officially leave the fold. There may have been some point where he had stopped living the life of an Orthodox Jew but still held the job of an Orthodox rabbi, but that overlap was short-lived. Though I’m no fan of his brand of self-promotion, and I’m certainly no fan of what he’s doing, at least he no longer identifies as an Orthodox rabbi and instead exploits his familiarity with Jewish ritual to make a living without pretending to be what he’s not. Rabbi Orthoprax can go do interfaith weddings, too, or if he doesn’t want to infringe, he can do interfaith funerals. As Rav Lichtenstein said about Motti Elon (not comparing what Rabbi Orthoprax is doing with what Motti Elon did), “she-ya’asok be-plada” – “let him get a job in a steel mill.” Just get out of the Orthodox rabbinate.

On the other side of the ledger is Mordechai Kaplan, who began expressing misgivings about Orthodoxy in 1904 and only finally broke with Orthodoxy in 1922 (this is an excellent book on the subject). There are several differences, though. Kaplan did not make any bones about his belief and was writing and publishing criticisms of Orthodoxy – under his own name – starting in 1909. Furthermore, he also was trying to reform Orthodoxy, and therefore actually had an agenda of staying in the Orthodox community. When he was hired to be the rabbi of the (Orthodox) Jewish Center, he no longer identified as Orthodox. But the decision to hire him remained with the congregants, who were certainly not subjected to a mekah ta’ut.

The Gospel According to Steven

I honestly do not understand why people are looking to, um, crucify Rabbi Riskin for his recent "Rabbi Jesus" statements. I mean, did people really think that he's some kind of closet Christian? He was clearly propounding his view of what he calls the "historical Jesus". Of course, we all know that the 'historical Jesus' is inaccessible, but that does not undermine the legitimacy of a Jewish 'take' on Jesus. Toldot Yeshu is one such 'gospel'.
Point is, as Christian rethink Jesus and begin to think of him as having emerged from a Jewish milieu, it's desirable for Jews to rethink Jesus as well.

A few years ago, I was asked by a Christian group at UMD to give the Jewish 'approach' to Jesus. I basically said that the main issue with regard to the Jewish approach to Jesus is that he was not the Messiah and not the son of God. Everything else is commentary. He may have been a villain or a saint, but he was, at the end of the day, a human being like you and me. I went on to say that I had no problem saying that he was a great man who had a tremendous amount to offer. I do not need to believe that he is eternally boiling in a vat of semen, as the Talmud suggests in Gittin - he's just not the Messiah.

There may have been a time - not even so long ago - that the name of Jesus inspired visceral reactions of hatred: Yoshke yemach shmo. There was good reason for it, too. Christianity was the enemy, or, at the very least, Christians were. I cannot help but believe that the demonization of Jesus was related to that history. In a more positive relationship, Jesus can be Jewishly re-read in a positive light - he just wasn't the Messiah.

Imagining a Conversation with my Former Self

I had Shabbat lunch with a KBY “shana alef” student (as well as several others) today. We ended up engaging in a prolonged and broad discussion about a number of issues, from Rambam’s view of women and R’ Yehuda Halevi’s essentialism to the Brisker Derech to the authorship and structure of classical rabbinic tests. In many ways, I felt like I was having a conversation with a former version of myself (that’s obviously a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point). That’s probably why I was much more patient and understanding of some of the positions this student espoused: I remember my own evolution, how my own worldview evolved during my years at Yavneh (and through the years in YU, Gush, and since; intellectual restlessness is, in my opinion, one of the greatest advantages and disadvantages of having ADD).

I remember latching on to certain ideas that became monoliths in my maturing mind, only to have them replaced at some later date with another. I remember the constant construction and demolition of these conceptual edifices; having a hammer and thinking that the whole world looks like a nail (more yeshivish version: having a chakira and then seeing it in every Tosafos in the mesechta); thinking that it’s really possible to find the unified theory of life/ Torah/ Judaism/ God, that all of halakha, history, and Torah can be somehow merged into a seamless and harmonious whole, and that finding that grand harmony is somehow within reach; stewing in my own juices as I bounced ideas off of Rabbeim and, more importantly, friends.

I know that this kid’s thinking will evolve. There were ideas that I hesitated to present to him because, frankly, I know how I would have reacted to them (i.e., negatively) had I been in his shoes. It will come, but in due time.

This actually got me thinking. What would I have thought of my current self had I met me 15 years ago? Or even 10 years ago? Had I met that later version of myself walking down the street, how long would it have taken for me to realize “Hey, that’s future me!”? Would I have liked what I saw? Would I have been disappointed that many of the grandiose dreams (that we all had in our late teens and early 20s) seemed to have died? Would I have been shocked that I became a baalebos – one who no doubt learns a good amount, often gets to work with Torah on a professional basis, and even maintains an entertaining and well-read religious-themes blog – but a baalebos nonetheless? Would I think that I’m an apikorus? Would I be shocked that I’m living in a bourgeoisie hell (I had the opportunity to make a ha-Tov ve-haMeitiv at lunch today, and before the bracha I made a ‘l’chaim’ to having good friends and neighbors to suffer with in our bourgeoisie hell, so the phrase is on my mind)? Would I be disappointed that I’ve given up the search for the unified theory of everything and become content that certain questions are unanswerable, that dissonance and difference lurk everywhere, that Jewish meaning is constructed in a manner that, to recycle an old saying about women, can be beautiful or faithful, but rarely both?

I’m not going to lose any sleep over these questions. This is a thought experiment – perhaps conditioned on the fact that I’ve recently read both The Time Traveler's Wife
and The Five People You Meet in Heaven
. I ultimately think that, for most of us, to meet an older, fatter, balder, and less passionate version of one’s self would be like a cold shower. I’d want to give myself food for thought, a way to expand horizons, and maybe some good books to read. I would definitely not want to be too dismissive, obnoxious, or condescending (which I totally would have been had it been nearly anyone else, especially a shana alef Gushie).

And I’d tell myself to enjoy the ride.

A Question Regarding Chassidus and Russian Folk Religion

I'm currently rereading The Brothers Karamazov. I think that Freud was onto something when he called it the greatest novel ever written. It's certainly the greatest novel that I've ever read (not the most entertaining, mind you, but the greatest).
This time around, I've been noticing many things that I missed the last time around (about 8-9 years ago). In particular, I'm getting a lot more out of Dostoevsky's descriptions of the religious sensibilities of Russian Christianity - amongst the bourgeoisie, the peasants, the intelligentsia, and even various clerical groups.
I've noticed that there are many themes that would have been relevant in a Jewish context as well. In particular, I've found that Dostoevsky describes his heroes in a manner that would easily transpose onto certain figures from early Chassidus (the Besht and Reb Zusha come to mind).
I was wondering if this issue had ever been studies, namely, the Russian context of the rise of Chassidut. As Russia became a world power in the 18th and 19th Centuries, Jewish communities would have confronted Russian Orthodoxy for the first time - until then it had mostly been a Catholic context. I wonder if that had any impact on he contours of the nascent momvement.
Whatever. Just thinking out loud.

I: The Israeli Chanukah – A Celebration of Jewish Might

Last year, I wrote a short post about how the Chanukah narrative is shaped by the group celebrating, and that different Jewish groups celebrate, essentially, different Chanukahs.

Three years ago, I wrote a different Dvar Torah on each night of Chanukah (all of them can be viewed under this label, or in the archives for December 2005). This year, I will combine the two elements, and write about a different form of celebration each night.

Early mainstream Zionism adopted Chanukah as a celebration of the victories of a Jewish army. In its vigor to create the “New Jew”, the Zionist movement enlisted every example of a Jewish military hero and celebrated him as a Zionist or proto-Zionist figure. It gave the nascent state and pre-state a sense of continuity and tradition with a distant but glorious and heroic past. This ardor to generate a new Jewish narrative of “strength” is best expressed (and caricatured) in Hazaz’s famous short story, The Sermon (1942):

Jewish history is so dull, so uninteresting. It has no glory or action, no heroes and conquerors, no rulers and masters of their fate, just a collection of wounded, hunted, groaning and wailing wretches always begging for mercy. I would simply forbid teaching our children Jewish history. Why the devil teach them about their ancestors' shame? I would just say to them: `Boys, from the day we were driven out from our land, we've been a people without a history. Class dismissed. Go out and play football!’

This ethos was projected onto the Jewish holiday of Chanukah, and is even reflected in several very popular Israeli folk songs for Chanukah. This first one is the Hebrew rendition of the Yiddish Oy, Chanekeh or English Oh, Chanukah:

,ימי החנוכה חנוכת מקדשנו
בגיל ובשמחה ממלאים את ליבנו
לילה ויום סביבונינו יסוב
.סופגניות נאכל בם לרוב
!האירו ! הדליקו
נרות חנוכה רבים
על הניסים ועל הנפלאות
.אשר חוללו המכבים
,ניצחון המכבים נספר, נזמרה
על האויבים אז ידם כי גברה
ירושלים שבה לתחיה
.עם ישראל עשה תושיה
!האירו ! הדליקו

The key point lies in lines 7-11, which describe the miracles, wonders, and victories wrought by the Macabees. The other example, perhaps even more classic, is entitled Mi Yimalel (Who Can Retell?)

?מי ימלל גבורות ישראל אותם מי ימנה
העם הן בכל דור יקום הגבור גואל

!שמע
בימים ההם בזמן הזה
מכבי מושיע ופודה
ובימינו כל עם ישראל
.יתאחד יקום ויגאל

Here, the Zionist ethos comes to the fore right off the bat: “Who can retell the strengths of Israel, who can count them? Yea, in each generation the hero, the nation’s redeemer, shall arise”. It is significant that both of these popular songs transpose epithets that the Jewish tradition reserves for God onto human Jewish heroes: The “miracles… and wonders that You have done for our ancestors” (ha-nissim... ve-al ha-nifla’ot she-asita la-avoteinu) becomes “the miracles and wonders that the Maccabees wrought”. In the saying “Who can retell the strengths of God” (Mi yimalel gevurot Hashem) “Israel” replaces “God”.

This general transposition is reflected in many other ubiquitous (and therefore barely noticed anymore) elements of Israeli culture. Israel’s Olympics are called the Maccabiah Games, and many of its sports clubs are named Maccabi.

There is no doubt that this celebration of the Jewish military victory drew from traditional sources. One cannot but help get the feeling, however, that the conclusion of Yudke’s speech in Hazaz’s story underlies this Zionist Chanukah narrative:

Zionism and Judaism are not the same. They are two very different things entirely, maybe even opposed to one another. When a man can no longer be a Jew, he becomes a Zionist.

Ethical Dilemma

I know it's been a while. I've been super busy. Which is good.
At the same time, I have not really missed blogging all that much. For whatever reasons.

Something happened today, however, that I simply much get off my chest.

I got a translation job on Thursday. It's a 20 page series of documents. Suffice it to say, that after completing about 60% of this job (I get paid by the word), I noticed that the documents had been tampered with. Dates had been changed in a manner that works out to the bearer's advantage (I cannot go into any more detail). I know this to be the case because some dates were in a slightly different font, and, more incriminating, the documents contained records of purchases in Israel when the VAT rate was 18%, well before the dates on the documents.

To make a long story short, I told my client (who is not the perpetrator of the fraud, and in fact is at least 2 degrees separated from the tamperer) that I could not, in good conscience, participate in this. I had spent the whole freaking day working on this project, which would have earned a decent chunk of change (but it this way - 2 or 3 projects like this every week, and I'm making a very good living by Israeli standards). My readers know that I have struggled to make a living in this country. Forfeiting this job, and possibly this client, was one of the hardest things that I have done in a very long time.

I was not concerned about getting into legal trouble. A disclaimer (i.e. "I'm translating the document, not vouching for its authenticity", or some such) takes care of that. I could easily find a halakhic loophole as well (I do not want to get into it because it would necessitate revealing too many details of the case). It's just the wrong thing to do. It's unethical to be involved with fraud. End of story.

At a different stage in my life, I would have taken solace in the fact that God would somehow pay me back, right here in this world, for my behavior. I don't think like that anymore. I tend to think, rather, that "No good deed goes unpunished." So where's the comfort? I spent a whole day working on a project, and ignoring my kids who, like me, had the day off.

I wish to make it perfectly clear that this decision has not given me some type of inner peace. I do not feel good for having "done the right thing." If anything, it has made me very agitated. I wasted a day and pissed away about $350. And I am not blessed with the gift of absolute certainty that, in this case, would at least have granted me the confidence that I am doing what is right in the eyes of God and man. No such luck.

Rabbis and Doubts

There was a certain theme contained within various reactions to my 'burka' post which I think is worth mentioning. The reaction pertained to the fact that in it I, an ordained orthodox rabbi, expressed some form of doubt in the veracity of the mesorah. I get the impression that some of the reactions would not be as strong if I were 'just a balabus'. So I ask, why?

There's a current thread on the Lookjed Educator's Forum discussing how to deal with students who have doubts. What if the teachers have doubts? Do people who themselves have doubts find it in any way comforting when their ostensible spiritual leaders admit that they have issues with the national meta-narrative, a la 'imo anochi be-tzarah'? If a rabbi has doubts, should he stop calling himself a rabbi? Should he just keep his mouth (or pen, or keyboard) shut, and not agitate the unwashed masses?

For those wondering, I'm not about to pull a David S. Gruber (who, incidentally, was hired to replace my wife when we went to UMD) . Though some of his questions resonate, I don't like his answers, and really don't like the implications that he draws from them. I'm not trying to erase or rewrite Jewish history, or say that anything that happened in the past x number of years in inauthentic. I'm just trying to find some type of taxonomy, some way of looking at things which can validate that which should be validates, and jettison that which should be jettisoned. Like I wrote about Rashb"i, I'm really just interested in finding a path through the graveyard.

An Ecumenical Reading of Kiddushin 31a?

I wanted to follow yesterday's Christological Talmudic reading with an ecumenical Talmudic reading today. The narrative in question is recorded in Kiddushin 31a, as part of a longer halakhic/aggadic treatment of the mitzvah of kibbud av va-em. The components of the sugya cannot really be divorced from their overall context; perhaps I'll get to the entirety of it some day:

תלמוד בבלי מסכת קידושין דף לא עמוד א

דרש עולא רבה אפיתחא דבי נשיאה, מאי דכתיב: +תהלים קלח+ יודוך ה' כל מלכי ארץ כי שמעו אמרי פיך? מאמר פיך לא נאמר אלא אמרי פיך, בשעה שאמר הקב"ה +שמות כ+ אנכי ולא יהיה לך, אמרו אומות העולם: לכבוד עצמו הוא דורש, כיון שאמר +שמות כ+ כבד את אביך ואת אמך, חזרו והודו למאמרות הראשונות.

The great Ullah sermonized at the door of the Patriarch's house: What is meant by 'All the kings of Earth will acknowledge You, for they have heard the statements You spoke' (Tehillim 138); it does not say 'statement', rather 'statements'? When God uttered 'I am God' and 'You shall have no others', the nations said 'He seeks his own honor'. But once he said 'Honor your father and mother', they recanted and acknowledged the first statements.

Before addressing the unique setting, let's note the content. The first four 'dibrot', at least as formulated in the first version (in Yitro, where Shabbat contains no explicit social element), all pertain to man's relationship with God. The fifth, honoring parents, begins the transition to the 'bein adam le-chaveiro' commandments. From elsewhere in this sugya it is clear that kibbud av va-em was viewed as something in between man-man and man-God.

This mitzvah, then, is the first one (in the dibrot, anyway) which begins to show that the man-God mitzvot imply a certain social order as well. This is the beginning of what we call 'ethical monotheism' - that belief in a Deity requires the absorption of His values and not a simple obedience. This was one of Judaism's great contributions to the world, and forms the basis of our covenant with God ('keil rachum ve-chanun, etc.). The formulation of this mitzvah opens the door for a theology with moral implications. The Gemara is saying just that. The 'nations' heard the first mitzvot, and they sounded just as familiar as the purported commandments of any other self-serving deity. The shift toward the ethical and moral plane changed their opinion, even causing the re-evaluation of the original dibrot.

The process which Ullah reads into this verse parallels the theological development of the Western world. At some point, paganism was replaced by systems whose cores were ethical monotheism. The Roman world, especially its upper classes, began a love affair with Judaism and, eventually, Christianity.

Ullah lived during this interesting time. Christianity had already taken a turn away from its Jewish roots, and was gaining steam amongst the Roman nobility. Relations between Jews and Christians were stable - the schism with the early Judeo-Christians had ended, but Constantine had not yet made Christianity a true power, with its effective license to persecute non-believers. The last great Roman persecution of Christians happened at the end of the reign of Diocletian.

Ullah was never the head of any of the Yeshivot in Eretz Yisrael, and this is the only time he is called 'Ullah Rabbah'. I believe that he obtained this moniker specifically for this occasion since he was, by this point (late 3rd-early 4th Century) an 'elder statesman' of the rabbis. It seems that he delivered this sermon at some sort of public event; the door of the Patriarch's house seems to be an honored venue (perhaps like the White House Lawn?). I would like to suggest that there was some sort of gathering of Roman nobility, by then heavily Christian, and Jewish nobility at the Patriarch's residence in Tiberias. It seems far-fetched to suggest that Diocletian himself was there, although we know that he visited Tiberias on his way to and from campaigns against the Sassanian Persians. In any event, Ullah addresses the crowd and speaks about the emerging world-order, where the nations of the world acknowledge God and His morality.

If God had a Facebook page…

…His relationship status would be ‘It’s complicated with The Jews’.

The “Miracles” of Beitar: A Reading of Brachot 48b

Today is was the 15^th of Av, which is a minor Jewish holiday. Last year, I wrote about some of its calendrical significance. This year, I want to relate to the Gemara at the tail end of Taanit which discusses the different reasons why Tu B’Av became a holiday. The reasons I outlined last year correlate to the opinion that it was a wood-gathering festival. Right smack in the middle of the hottest, driest season is a ripe time to gather dead wood for the Beit Ha-Mikdash, and in general would be a good time for wood-gathering in preparation for the winter.

There’s another reason, which also comes up in Masechet Brachot; we know from the Mishna at the end of Taanit that Beitar fell on Tisha B’av. One opinion in the Gemara maintains that Tu B’Av was the day that the corpses of the fallen soldiers were finally allowed to be buried. This day became a holiday because God’s hand was seen twice in this event – in that the bodies had not begun to decompose, and in that the Roman authorities granted permission in the first place. Similarly, these two reasons are offered to explain why the Bracha of ‘Ha-tov Ve-hameitiv’ was added to bentching. God is ‘tov’ in that the bodies didn’t decompose, and ‘meitiv’ in that He arranged for the authorities to permit burial.

In the long list of holidays and miracles that the Jewish people celebrate, this one might rank all the way at the bottom. Beitar was an out-and-out massacre. The estimates for the number of dead from the Bar Kochba revolt are staggering – perhaps the greatest massacre of Jews until the Holocaust. Yet, the day that the Roman authorities permitted dead soldiers to be buried was a holiday. It was seen as divine intervention, despite the fact that it was those same Romans who perpetrated the massacres. This is like thanking God for influencing Germany to pay reparations.

Then there’s the fact that the bodies did not decompose. While this fact is admittedly quite miraculous, it hardly seems like the type of miracle that merits commemoration through a holiday or frequent blessing. If one is looking for some signal of Divine intervention in the wake of a national massacre, this seems to be a grasp for straws.

Looking at the Gemara in Brachot in a larger context can provide the key to understanding Chazal’s attitude toward the Beitar massacre. I wrote about it partially here (at the end), but the Gemara in Brachot (48b) stands on its own:

אמר רב נחמן משה תקן לישראל ברכת הזן בשעה שירד להם מן יהושע תקן להם ברכת הארץ כיון שנכנסו לארץ דוד ושלמה תקנו בונה ירושלים דוד תקן על ישראל עמך ועל ירושלים עירך ושלמה תקן על הבית הגדול והקדוש הטוב והמטיב ביבנה תקנוה כנגד הרוגי ביתר דאמר רב מתנא אותו היום שניתנו הרוגי ביתר לקבורה תקנו ביבנה הטוב והמטיב הטוב שלא הסריחו והמטיב שניתנו לקבורה:

Rabbi Nachman said: Moshe instituted the bracha of ‘hazan’ when the manna descended. Joshua instituted the bracha on the land when they entered the land. David and Shlomo instituted ‘boneh Yerushalayim’: David instituted ‘al Yisrael amecha ve-al Yerushalayim irecha’ and Shlomo instituted ‘al ha-bayit ha-gadol ve-hakadosh’. ‘Ha-tov ve-hameitiv’ was instituted at Yavneh for those who fell at Beitar, as R’ Matna said: ‘The day that the Beitar dead were allowed to be buried they instituted ‘ha-tov ve-hameitiv’ at Yavneh. ‘Ha-tov’ ­because they didn’t rot, ‘ve-hameitiv’ because they were allowed to be buried.’

Each bracha is linked by the Gemara with a certain event. These events capture the ultimate theme of each bracha. Never was it more clear that God feeds us than when the manna was descending on a daily basis. Never was our appreciation for the Land of Israel greater than when we first entered it (though 1948 would certainly come close). The newly built Jerusalem, and the newly built Temple, symbolized all of our hopes for God’s indwelling amongst us. Furthermore, there is a clear progression in the theme of each bracha. In the first one, God provides direct nourishment. As the brachot progress, we acknowledge God’s hand in the very productivity of our land, and ultimately in the epitome of our civilization, Jerusalem. The brachot move from the more basic through the higher levels of culture.

The fourth bracha is an abrupt shift from the themes of the first three. Halakha recognizes this shift (‘Amen’ after third and it’s not considered ‘semucha le-chaverta’), but it is clear in the theme as well. The first three are all optimistic, pertaining to an increasingly greater fulfillment of our ultimate vision. The fourth bracha was born in exile. The events that form the basis for this bracha are the product of a people who are searching for God’s Presence when it seems to be glaringly absent. It’s a worldview which seeks out God’s hand in the political machinations of powerful empires and in the silver lining of the darkest clouds.

Beitar was the final glimmer of redemption before the exile which has lasted two millennia. More than the Destruction of the Second Temple, the failure of the Bar Kochba revolt spelled the end of Judea, and eventually the land of Israel, as the center of Jewish life. This mandated a theological shift toward a search for God within the exile. The bracha of ‘ha-tov ve-hameitiv’ is that bracha which was never supposed to be, but which Our Sages instituted to mark that shift.

According to the Talmudic opinion that Tu B’Av commemorates this ‘double miracle’ of Beitar, this minor holiday is intimately connected with Tisha B’Av. If Tisha B’Av is the day when we lost God’s Presence, when we lived our own destruction, then Tu B’Av marks the day when we begin the quest anew, when we begin to pick up the pieces and to try to thrive despite an exilic existence, and when we begin our search for God despite His apparent absence.

Midrash and Fan Fiction

(Moderate spoiler warning: some details of the conclusion of the 7^th book will be revealed in this post, though the primary theme of the post is Torah-oriented))

Many of us now know how the Harry Potter series ends. We have followed the story of this young man from his birth all the way until fatherhood, a span of 36 years, with special emphasis on the seven years of his upper schooling. We have grown to love him.

Despite the thousands of pages that tell Harry’s story, there are gaps and unanswered questions. There are meanings which remain unclear, relationships which remain undeveloped, and back stories which remain unexplored. To fill that gap, hundreds of fans around the world have composed their own supplemental stories to fill in those gaps. This genre is known as ‘fan fiction’.

There are different attitudes that one can take toward fan fiction. One might say, as I do, that an issue that is not addressed has no answer. Questions like: “What happened to Harry’s grandparents? Did Neville and Luna wind up together? What did Harry do for a living? Who are Hugo and Rose named for? Do they have middle names?” are unanswerable. The author gave us no indication, so the answers don’t exist. The reality of the ‘Potterverse’ is a fictional one, and only elements that it contains are the ones created by its author. Attempts to fill in details or resolve contradictions are meaningless and fruitless – the story’s meaning it what it is. There are no answers.

Nevertheless, there are elements which can be penetrated, because they pertain to the storyline itself and either its internal meaning or its relationship with history and literature. For example, one may entertain whether the symbol for the Deathly Hallows, which Grindelwald used as his own symbol, is comparable to the swastika, given Krum’s reaction upon seeing it. One may ask what the turning point of each book is, when Harry became an adult, the degree to which names broadcast significant information about a character (like Xenophilius means ‘Lover of the strange’), and the like.

Others may counter that it indeed possible to fill in missing details of the book. The stories, once published, become the property of its readers, who may advance alternative theories, which remain valid unless dispelled by the author in a subsequent work. The fictitious universe may have been created by one person, but many inhabit it.

Of course, these same musings apply to Torah as well. Although this type of interpretive endeavor extends to every text, the most obvious parallels are with the attempts to fill in the details and meanings of Biblical narrative. What happened during the first 75 years of Avraham’s life, or the first 80 of Moshe’s? What went through Avraham’s mind during the three days of traveling toward the Akeida? What type of identity did the Israelites preserve in Egypt? And the list goes on. This is fan fiction at its best; the reader is so completely drawn into the world created by this work of literature that he feels compelled to complete it, to address loose ends. The Torah is not fiction, but it is not history either. It remains a work of literature and t invites readers to participate in the construction of the narratives, to relive its drama both through what is written (’black fire’) and that which remains unwritten (‘white fire’). Although the Torah is different from other works of literature – intrinsically and in the mind of its readers – it should come as no surprise that the types of response generated by these works are similar.

Harav Shagar, z”l

Harav Shagar (Shimon Gershon Rosenberg) passed away last might at the age of 57, after a battle with illness. He was the head of Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak, a Hesder Yeshiva in Efrat affiliated with Ohr Torah Institutions. The funeral is taking place as I write these words, and he will be laid to rest on Har Ha-Zeitim.

Rav Shagar was known as a very innovative Rosh Yeshiva. That he was one of the first to bring academic Talmud into the Beit Midrash masks the fact that his goal was for students to be able to “feel” the Gemara – to get at the ethics and values which underlie the sugya, that he was trying to find the soul of the text. In general, he brought a very personal type of spirituality into Torah study and personal development. His yeshiva was one of the first in the ‘kipa serugah’ world to incorporate elements of Chassidut, meditation, and introspection.

Several volumes of his works have been published. For the most part, they consist of lectures that he delivered in his yeshiva, which his students later reworked into book form. I own and have read part of the book ‘Keilim Shevurim’ (broken vessels). The book is exciting because it looks honestly at the at the postmodern condition as it relates to Israeli society and the ‘Dati Leumi’ community in particular, and sincerely attempts to construct a religious alternative within that world. It may be several generations before the mainstream catches up with him.

An article that Haaretz did on him a few years ago emphasized the fact that he did not allow politics to become a core part of his religious personality. He had his political views and opinions, and they may have even been informed by his religious sensibilities, but he adamantly refused, and considered it dangerous, to look at political dilemmas under the rubric of issur ve-hetter. See here and here for other English-language descriptions of his unique approach.

Yehi Zikhro Baruch.

Nazirism and Pluralism

Since discovering this phenomenon about 4 years ago, I’ve been fascinated by it. The Gemara in Taanit 11a records a machloket between Shmuel and R’ Elazar about whether one who fasts is a sinner (‘chotei’) or a saint (‘kadosh’):

תלמוד בבלי מסכת תענית דף יא עמוד א

אמר שמואל: כל היושב בתענית נקרא חוטא. סבר כי האי תנא, דתניא: רבי אלעזר הקפר ברבי אומר: מה תלמוד לומר +במדבר ו'+ וכפר עליו מאשר חטא על הנפש, וכי באיזה נפש חטא זה? אלא שציער עצמו מן היין, והלא דברים קל וחומר: ומה זה שלא ציער עצמו אלא מן היין נקרא חוטא, המצער עצמו מכל דבר ודבר - על אחת כמה וכמה. רבי אלעזר אומר: נקרא קדוש, שנאמר +במדבר ו'+ קדוש יהיה גדל פרע שער ראשו. ומה זה שלא ציער עצמו אלא מדבר אחד נקרא קדוש, המצער עצמו מכל דבר - על אחת כמה וכמה.

Shmuel said: One who sits in fast is called a sinner. He agrees with the tanna who taught: Why does the Torah say “And it will atone for his sin on the life” (Bamidbar 6, regarding the Nazir)? Against whose life did he sin? Rather, he tormented himself by refraining from wine. And this is a fortiori reasoning; if this person, who only tormented himself by refraining from wine, is called a sinner, how much more so one who refrains from everything.

Rabbi Elazar says: He is called a saint, as it says, “He will be holy, as the locks of his hair grow.” If one who only mortified himself through wine is called a saint, how much more so one who refrains from everything!

Each relies on the Torah’s view of the Nazir to support his position – the Nazir is called a kadosh, but also must bring a sin-offering (‘chatat’) at the end of his period as a Nazir. A somewhat parallel Gemara in Nedarim 10a-b lists a group of pre-Talmudic sages who took a negative view of Nazirism (I blogged about one of them in a discussion of ‘Nazirism and Narcissism’ in an old post). In either case, we have an instance where on the same page of Talmud you have what essentially diametrically opposite views on asceticism in general and Nazirism in particular. Within four lines of each other, the abstinent is called both sinner and saint.

The impact of this dispute can be much further-reaching than other machlokot. Firstly, because it is not merely a dispute about a particular action or object, but about a lifestyle in general. Secondly, because the opinions are in complete opposition. It’s not a machloket about whether something is assur mi-d’orayta or mi-d’rabanan, or whether something is pattur ve-assur or pattur u-muttar

Fast forward to medieval times. The greatest of the Rishonim seem to ‘pasken’ this dispute, as it were. Rambam writes in Hilkhot De’ot 3:1 that:

רמב"ם הלכות דעות פרק ג הלכה א

שמא יאמר אדם הואיל והקנאה והתאוה והכבוד וכיוצא בהם דרך רעה הן ומוציאין את האדם מן העולם, אפרוש מהן ביותר ואתרחק לצד האחרון, עד שלא יאכל בשר ולא ישתה יין ולא ישא אשה ולא ישב בדירה נאה ולא ילבש מלבוש נאה אלא השק והצמר הקשה וכיוצא בהן כגון כהני העובדי כוכבים, גם זה דרך רעה היא ואסור לילך בה, המהלך בדרך זו נקרא חוטא, שהרי הוא אומר בנזיר וכפר עליו מאשר חטא על הנפש, אמרו חכמים ומה אם נזיר שלא פירש אלא מן היין צריך כפרה המונע עצמו מכל דבר ודבר על אחת כמה וכמה, לפיכך צוו חכמים שלא ימנע אדם עצמו אלא מדברים שמנעתו התורה בלבד, ולא יהא אוסר עצמו בנדרים ובשבועות על דברים המותרים, כך אמרו חכמים לא דייך מה שאסרה תורה אלא שאתה אוסר עליך דברים אחרים, ובכלל הזה אלו שמתענין תמיד אינן בדרך טובה, ואסרו חכמים שיהא אדם מסגף עצמו בתענית, ועל כל הדברים האלו וכיוצא בהן צוה שלמה ואמר אל תהי צדיק הרבה ואל תתחכם יותר למה תשומם.

“Lest a person say, ‘since jealousy, lust, glory, and the like are an evil path which destroy a person, I will excessively withdraw from them and distance myself by going to the opposite extreme’ – to the point that he does not eat meat, drink wine, get married, live in a nice home, or wear decent clothing other than sackcloth, burlap, and the like, in the manner of pagan priests; this is also an evil path which it is forbidden to travel. One who follows this path is called a sinner, since it says about a Nazir “And it will atone for his sin on the life”. Oir Sages said, “if a Nazir, who only refrained from wine, requires atonement, how much more so one who holds back from everything. Therefore, Our Sages instructed that one should not hold back from things unless the Torah forbade them… (Rambam, The Book of Love, Laws of Character, 3:1)

Rambam goes on to describe the evils of asceticism and to famously idealize the ‘middle path’ which leads man to God. Note, however, that Rambam completely ignores the position of R’ Elazar.

Ramban ignores the position of Shmuel. In Bamidbar 6:14 (and more briefly in Vayikra 19:1) he emphasizes the sainthood of the Nazir and explain that he must atone for descending from his lofty perch. Similarly, Ramcha”l in the beginning of Chapter 13 of Mesillat Yesharim, where he explains the trait of ‘Prishut’ (asceticism), he ‘rules’ like R’ Elazar in favor of Nazirism and asceticism.

The interesting thing for me is how this issue engenders such strong feelings. When talking about a lifestyle, it is very hartd not to adopt one position or the other. I think it’s clear that nearly everyone has an opinion about whether asceticism is a good thing or a bad thing. It was simply striking to notice that the Gemara is perfectly capable of recording both opinions on the same page, but the Rishonim in general did not. Granted, the Rishonim were generally writing monographs, not compilations, and were therefore less disposed to recond disputes. Nevertheless, each of these records the position as though it is THE Torah position, and with regard to a matter which need not be ‘paskened’.

In today’s world, I think that this machloket is both important and a good example of pluralism within Judaism. Each side, as we’ve seen, feels very strongly that the position they adopt corresponds with the lifestyle that the Torah envisions. We, too, can adopt one side or the other and feel just as strongly that this is what the Torah wants from us. Nevertheless, one cannot ignore the alternative position nor can one say that the other position is ‘not Jewish’. Asceticism has Jewish manifestations, as much as we’d like to believe that mortification of the fless is a Christian concept rooted in original sin and ‘pie-in-the-sky’. As much as some would like to believe that there is something wrong with enjoying this world too much, or that one must feel like the angels are forcing him when experiencing pleasure (ve-hamaven yavin), there are other voices in our religious tradition. I can pick a side, even adopt it strongly, without delegitimizing the alternative. I prefer to stick with Talmudic Judaism – Judaism with dialogue, associative thinking, and ‘comments enabled’ as it were, than to the monographic and monologic renditions of our Rishonim. Not to minimize their contribution in any way – Rambam and Ramban can now appear alongside Shmuel and R’ Elazar, in opposition to each other, but on the same page nonetheless.