Japan, Itamar, and Amalek Meet at a Checkpoint

Howdy folks,

I would like to share with y’all a few thoughts and experiences regarding this past week’s shocking events.

The catastrophic tsunami that hit Japan claiming thousands of lives and the horrific murder of a family in Itamar were the topics causing sighs at many a Shabbat table this past week. Personally, I did not hear about either the tsunami or the attack until Motzei Shabbat and therefore had a completely different conversation at the Shabbat table.  

This past Thursday and Friday, Gideon (the author of last week’s blog post) and myself were taking part in a program called “Encounter” that serves to bring groups of current and future Jewish leaders to the West Bank, in order to listen to Palestinians and digest their personal narratives together, as a Jewish group.

It was difficult for me as a person who grew up with the Israeli Zionist narrative to hear the immense personal pain and suffering on the tails-side of the coin. Previously, I could justify articles dealing with the conflict, on grounds of security and protection but after encountering the people involved the issue takes on a different dimension for me. It isn’t so simple to waive them away. The individual and collective anguish permeated the accounts of each speaker whether they were university professors, businesspeople, UN workers or activists for non-violence. When I heard Hijazi Eid, a 50-year-old boisterous and flamboyant tour guide, furiously describe the humiliation of being stuck in his car at a checkpoint, stalled for hours, and then being forced by a soldier to smile as if nothing happened - I couldn’t help but picture my Israeli friends at Yeshiva, taking the place of that soldier. How do I deal with that? On the one hand my friends are going to serve our country, to protect our nation, yet on the other, this lovely individual is humiliated like no person should ever be. Does my security justify such deeds? What happens when in order to prevent my own pain, I cause so much pain to another? How much can another human suffer so that I don’t have to? Can I sympathize with such universal grief and still believe what I grew up with?

I returned, confused but optimistic, to [West] Jerusalem for a pleasant Shabbat. I took the time to recollect, think, pray and schmooze. I seized the opportunity to share the hopeful message that threaded through each of the Palestinian speakers, with little exception. Despite living under conditions of continuous daily misery, they kept the faith. The mere knowledge that Jewish people, who don’t share their particular angst (and may even stand in contradiction to it), could acknowledge and empathize with that same angst, drives them forward to keep fighting for a more tranquil future. I was surging with optimism; just a few more encounters like this, just the recognition of each-others’ wounds and fears, and there is bound to be progress! I was sure of it.  

And then, after Havdallah, I turned on the TV.

Devastated and even more confused than before, I returned to Yeshiva in time for Rav Shmuel Reiner’s parashat ha’shavua sicha. “Erev Shabbat, the land shook… thousands lost their lives, thousands more lost their homes. We all felt so small, so helpless… we all cringed from the unimaginable disaster, we all felt the terrible suffering; we all wanted to reach out our hand and help our human brothers and sisters… and this past Friday night, the grief hit a lot closer to home. The land was shocked… How can human beings, in the Image of God, be capable of such cruelty, such terrible and disgusting acts? How do we respond? What can we do other than avenge?”

Can I sympathize with their grief while grieving myself?

In Parashat Zachor God commands us to wipe out the memory of Amalek. The Rambam in his Mishneh Torah explains this commandment: “It is a positive commandment to destroy the memory of Amalek… [by] constantly remember[ing] their evil deeds and their ambush of Israel to arouse our hatred of them…” (Book 14, Ch. 5:5) Amalek refused to recognize our suffering; the hardships and slavery from which we had only just escaped. They saw us as a weak people, and instead of being compassionate they were vicious and inhumane. It is this lack of sympathy, this refusal to acknowledge and identify with universal human suffering that the Torah commands us to hate. This is what we must eradicate.   

“We cannot restrain our passion, we must avenge,” continued Rav Shmuel, “but how do we avenge? How do we fight back against inhumanity? By wiping out Amalek. By destroying evil and sowing good. By learning Mesilat Yesharim (Jewish moral teachings) instead of reading Mishnayot in the memory of those killed. By facilitating positive actions, becoming better people, doing good deeds. This is how we avenge. This is how we remember.”

We must not let our personal grief distort the collective pain we share with all humanity and any being. We must have compassion for the agony and distress of all, even a strange nation in the desert. We must weep for Tamar Fogel, we must despair for the Japanese farmer and we must ache for the Palestinian at the checkpoint. We must.
Only then we can fulfill the commandment in Dvarim: “…Thou shalt blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; thou shalt not forget.”

-- Eli Philip

These and Those are the Words of the Living God

  One of the highlights of my study in yeshiva was Rav Bigman’s shiur “Toshba al Toshba,” or  “Oral Torah on Oral Torah.” In this shiur we studied different approaches in rabbinic literature to various issues like the nature of Halakha and the Halakhic process, the relationship between Oral Law and Written Law, and the tension between Halakha and ethics.

Recently, I read Avi Sagi’s “The Open Canon” which was an excellent continuation of these themes. The book is framed as a survey of three approaches to the famous Talmudic saying in BT Eruvin 13b “אלו ואלו דברי אלהים חיים הן, והלכה כבית הלל—these and these are the words of the living God, but the Halakha follows the rulings of Bet Hillel.” The book grapples with the question of multiplicity in Halakhic discourse and the nature of Halakhic “truth.” How can two contradictory opinions both be the words of God? Did God command one thing and its opposite? Does the fact that we consider many Halakhic opinions the word of God mean that there is no single, conclusive Halakhic truth?  If both opinions are the words of God, how is one accepted and the other rejected—how can the dictum continue to say “and the Halakha follows the rulings of Bet Hillel?” 

Sagi offers two basic approaches which he titles the “Monistic Outlook” and the “Pluralistic Outlook.” Both of these are represented in various post-talmudic interpretations of the BT Eruvin source and offer different answers to the kinds of question elucidated above.

The Monistic Outlook assumes that there is “one correct decision in normative dilemmas (Sagi 13).”  This means that Bet Hillel was really right and Bet Shammai was really wrong. What is the significance of Bet Shammai’s ruling then? In other words, for the Monistic Outlook, what is the significance of rejected opinions and why are they characterized as the word of God? This is a particularly thorny question because other sources characterize Bet Shammai as “closer to the truth (BT Yevamot 14a)” How can a more truthful ruling be rejected? 

Sagi offers two answers, one emphasizing the rejected opinion’s theoretical value and the other its practical value. For the former, multiple opinions are part of a dialectic Halakhic process that tries to determine a single Halakhic truth by narrowing down options. By rejecting one possible ruling, we sharpen the right one. In Sagi’s metaphor, white looks whiter when contrasted with black (ibid. 18). Thus rejected opinions have the character of “Hava Aminot”, which contribute to the life of study and clearer determination of the right Halakha.  And in this very dialectic, they are the words of God.

The practical view, explicated by Rashi, sees rejected opinions as potentially viable Halakhic options in future circumstances. This is close to the Mishna in Eduyot 1:5    “ולמה מזכירין דברי היחיד בין המרובין הואיל ואין הלכה אלא כדברי המרובין שאם יראה בית דין את דברי היחיד ויסמוך עליו–Why are the minority rulings recorded alongside the majority rulings when the Halakha follows the majority? So that a [future] Bet Din may rely on minority rulings.” Although there is only one right Halakhic opinion in any given circumstance, alternative rulings may be right for other circumstances and in that, they may be the words of God. This makes sense of the Yevamot source when we consider the Talmud’s notion of Bet Shammai’s applicability in Messianic times. The “more truthful” opinion will actually be followed when the circumstances call for it.   

Both views try to understand how rejected opinions can be the living words of God—for the former, God speaks through “limud”; for the latter, through the generations.

            The Pluralist approach fundamentally disagrees with the Monistic one and suggests that more than one option is possible in normative dilemmas. This means the Bet Hillel is not inherently more correct than Bet Shammai, even though supported by a “Bat-Kol” or a heavenly voice. Sagi argues that the basic problem of Halakhic pluralism is theological—what is the revelatory basis of Halakha in a pluralistic outlook (ibid. 71)? Does God reveal more than one truth? If so, can he reveal opposing truths? Is revelation indeterminate, offering contingent options that are not essentially right or wrong? Or is there another way to understand revelation which gives rise to multiple, mutually exclusive yet mutually legitimate options?

Sagi again offers a few models—The realistic, anthropological, and authoritative. Each tackles revelation a little differently. 

The realistic model, attributed by Sagi to the Ritba, defines revelation as the bestowal of Halakhic options rather than a defined corpus of laws. As the famous Talmudic saying suggests, for every object there are forty-nine ways to declare it tahor (ritually pure) and forty-nine ways to declare it tameh (ritually impure). This means that no generation’s ruling has precedence over another’s because contemporary rulings are implicit options in revelation itself. This also implies a sharp distinction between revelation and practical Halakha in that no Halakhic decisions were ever given, and thus explicit rulings and “makhlokot” are a product of a strictly human realm.

The anthropological model argues that humanity is an essential part of revelation. Therefore, in contrast to the realistic model for which revelation was a one-time event, revelation is continuous and an inherent part of the human exercise of Halakhic discourse itself. And if the realistic model understood revelation to be unitary and practical Halakha fragmentary, the anthropological model stresses the multiplicity of revelation itself due to the multi-faceted nature of humanity as a vessel of revelation. 

This leads to two trends of thought, one conservative and the other progressive. The conservative, represented by Meir Ibn Gabbai, forbids autonomous human discretion in the Halakhic process because everything it consists of is divine and beyond human reason. “Intellectual activity is the organon of revelation (ibid. 74)” and thus it is denied of any independent value in itself. The fact of Halakhic multiplicity is explained as the limited absorption of the revelation throughout different time periods. For Ibn Gabbai, the prophet and sage are one (74).

A more progressive way of understanding perennial revelation is evinced by Solomon Luria. For Luria, revelation does not deny human reason, but attests to its supreme value. If God is revealed in the human processes of Halakha, then those processes are of divine importance! In my opinion, Luria’s conception makes more sense of the BT text. We can decide to rule like Bet Hillel over Bet Shammai if he appeals to our reason, because human reason is valuable. And this is the very meaning of the Bat-kol or heavenly endorsement—the divine dictates of our reasoning! 

The authoritative model, understands revelation as the bestowal of authority in the hands of the sages to do what they please with Halakha. This is represented by Ramban, who states, “It was subject to their judgment that He gave them the Torah even if it [the judgment] appears to you to exchange the right for left (Nahmanides, Commentary on the Torah, Deut. 17.11).” This is also paralleled in the famous story in BT Eruvin where R. Joshua exclaims in the face of a Bat-Kol, “It is not in Heaven!” Contradictory ruling, then, is the natural consequence of the entirely human fact of disagreement. On the face of it, the authoritative model seems similar to the realistic model. Again, revelation is unitary and Halakhic fragmentation is a product of the human realm. There are fundamental differences however. In the realistic model where halakhic considerations are revealed, all options are implicit in revelation and thus every ruling is in some sense the “word” of God. Further, Halakha can be determined only by the preexisting considerations revealed at Sinai. In the authoritative model, rulings are not implicit in revelation rather only our authority to rule autonomously: Halakhic opinion does not represent the word of so much as his will that we rule however we want. Further, there are no specific Halakhic considerations to follow and human discretion is supreme.  

These three models present varying answers to the theological questions presented by the “Pluralistic Outlook”

In general, Sagi’s book was compelling because of its philosophical virtuosity and clarity, and the intellectual erudition it displayed, both in traditional and modern sources. It was exciting to see the dynamism of Halakhic thought, and how there are completely different ways to account for Halakhic multiplicity representing widely divergent worldviews. One thing that particularly struck me was how every option raises its own questions and in fact no single direction is totally self-sufficient—rather, the sum of the opinions and the conversation itself is the most meaningful thing about Halakhic discourse. 

 -- Gideon Weiler

Maale Gilboa meets Bnei Brak!

On the Shabbat of parshat Truma, the yeshiva travelled down to the epicenter of Hareidi Judaism in the world, the lovely city of Bnai Brak. Entering the city expecting the familiar images of the narrow, rubbish filled streets so common in Mea Shearim, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself walking on clean streets lined with modest apartments. Despite being both the poorest  and most densely populated city in Israel, it does not seem to the passerby to be a city wallowing in its poverty.

Our host yeshiva was on the perimeter of Bnai Brak, close to Ramat Gan, yet it was a relatively short walk to all our destinations through the entire Shabbat. Although its students were not there (having occupied Maale Gilboa’s dorm rooms in an exchange of sorts for Shabbat) we found all remaining staff at the Yeshiva extremely warm and helpful. However, our activity within its facilities was (self) restricted to meals, Kabbalat Shabbat, and Shabbat afternoon rest. The remainder of the time, we were led by Zevik throughout the city to various yeshivot, synagogues, and rabbis’ houses.  Our first stop was at the World Wide Headquarters  for the Nadvorna Hasidim. We had a conversation with Rav Kovlski, founder of “Me’orot Hadaf Hayomi” (http://hadafhayomi.co.il/index.php?l=en) which engages millions of Jews everyday in the learning of a daf of Gemara daily. Through his guiding hand, stories, and wealth of knowledge, we delved into whether intentions truly matter or whether it is only the outcome that is the deciding factor in Jewish Law. Afterwards, we participated in a Tische with Chasidai Nadvorna. We entered a long room bracketed on the sides by rickety wooden bleachers with a long table in the middle. At the head of the table sat the Rebbe -- An elderly, fragile looking man dressed in beautiful silk blue robes with silver crescent moon designs.  On his head sat a large fur shtreimel. The other chasidim wore black robes with white knickers. The majority wore shtreimels as well but there was some variety of hats. This tische was a very communal affair with food and drink being distributed to everyone and everyone enjoying it immensely. We then left to visit Yeshivat Beit Aharon, a yeshiva for students with religious-Zionist backgrounds who want to enter the Haredi world. We had a talk with their Rosh Yeshiva, the dynamic Rabbi Took. He gave us a beautiful dvar torah and taught us a new niggun: “Amar Abaya,” now a favorite among both the rabbis and students of  Maale Gilboa. From here, the majority of the Yeshiva opted to continue our adventure at the Tische of Vizhnitz Hasidim. There is currently a power struggle between two brothers for control of the sect. We went to the more popular and dynamic (according to Zevik) brother’s tische. We walked in an impressive building and immediately were blown away by the site. In essence it was the same as the last tische just on steroids. The bleachers were both higher and longer, the large square table was perhaps the largest I’ve seen in my life fitting by my rough estimate at least 60 people (and that’s only on 3 sides of it, the fourth is for the Rebbe). Even the singing and grandeur seemed more than the last. Imagine a few hundred Chasidim on bleachers, dressed in their Shabbat best jumping and singing in unison. I’m still amazed that the bleachers didn’t collapse under the sheer volume of people stuffed on, let alone the pressure exerted on the seemingly unstable structure as they all jumped and swayed as one. Now imagine the same thing again but on the other side of the table. And again on the third side. And again in all areas surrounding the table. It was truly an amazing sight. Slowly, the stands started filling with some colorful shirts and kipot srugot as the students of Maale Gilboa climbed up. The rabbi once again sat at the head of the table, this time flanked by his son and son-in-law. When he spoke, somehow his voice carried throughout the entire room despite the fact that he spoke in a seemingly normal  tone. Unlike the past tische, the rabbi gave the food to specific people. Each plate of fruit, or challah, or grains went directly to the person he called out. “An apple for Yankele” and the apple was passed hand to hand until it reach it’s desired recipient. During his dvar torah, every person in the room stood at rapt attention as he carried on for at least 20 minutes. I’m told it was quite impressive but unfortunately didn’t understand a word seeing as it was in Yiddish. Eventually, around 2 a.m., fatigue overwhelmed me and I decided to return for some sleep. However, others stayed much later thoroughly enjoying it. 

The next morning we all woke up and scattered across the city to daven wherever the wind blew us. We also met with Zevik’s Uncle, a major rabbi in Bnei Brak. We also had a quick tour of the famed Ponevezh Yeshiva. We then returned to Mishkan Shimeon for lunch remained there the rest of the day until the we returned to Maale Gilboa that night. The shabbat was a true eye opener into the a world that most of the students had never experienced. While there are many points that Maale Gilboa and the Hareidi world will never agree on, we all left Bnei Brak impressed by their intense Ahavat Torah and Ahavat Yisrael. It was truly a Shabbat to remember.

-- Nacham Shapiro