Seperate but Equal?

Separate but Equal?

Max Segall

            Recently, here at Ma’ale Gilboa, we had the pleasure of being taught by Rav Dov Linzer, Rosh Yeshiva at Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, for a special shiur klali, and were privileged to gain insight into the learning process at his Yeshiva in New York. He expounded upon a particularly difficult topic found toward the end of the tractate of Bava Metzia that deals with issues of t’zar ba’alei chayim (animal cruelty).

            I was told that after Mincha, he would give another shiur. However, I was not informed as to what the subject matter would be. Intrigued by his earlier shiur, I was eager to hear what he had to say about any topic. He began his second shiur by addressing the Israelis in particular. He said that he would be attempting to give a concise but accurate illustration of the current status of Modern Orthodoxy in America.

            Not terribly interested in this topic, and figuring that there couldn’t possibly be anything intellectually stimulating about this shiur, especially since it was on a subject that as an American I was already quite intimately familiar, I was about to leave. But, something in the end compelled me to stay, and I am glad I did. Now I confess, at first, I felt a lot like Hermoine Granger from Harry Potter, sitting in on Muggle Studies: after all I was a complete insider, a Yankee totally familiar with the subject material, amongst outsiders for whom America remains an enigma.

            Rabbi Linzer briefly touched upon the dichotomy between religious American Jewish women and religious Israeli women and, in a broader sense, women’s general respective role in Halakha. He explained that in America, the shul is the center of religious life, while the beit midrash is the center of religious life in Israel. As a result, women in America have a desire to contribute to religious services, while the women in Israel are more interested in contributing to the intellectual conversation.

            The timing of this shiur couldn’t have been better, as I had recently engaged in a lengthy email exchange with my father, Mark, apropos this topic. This was prompted by an exchange my father had with Rabbi Daniel Fridman in response to a d’var Torah Rabbi Fridman gave a few weeks ago at my shul in New York, the Jewish Center. 

            My father relayed to Rabbi Fridman that when he was in law school, he once got into a very heated debate with a fellow law student about racism. This student, a black male, told my father that, by definition, even if my father didn’t want to be a racist, he was.  He contended that this was because my father’s entire upbringing, with regard to the complete cultural framework of his life reference, made him a racist. 

            My father found this to be an offensive position to take. He maintained that, in his own words, “such a belief suggests a pre-determinism in human nature and a fundamental inability of any person or society to rise above his or its own point of self-reference.”

            On a bit of a tangent, he continued that this was also where he thought the Exodus story affirms the Jews uniqueness in the world; after all, he wrote, “we ‘invented’ the ‘freedom narrative’ and are commanded to relive it every day. We have been persecuted more than any other culture throughout history. Therefore, coupled with our obligation to be kind to the stranger, because again, we were once slaves ourselves, how could we possibly not understand what it means to be slaves and then free?”

            Concurrently, he also mentioned that he learned something from Arthur Herzberg, during his college years, relevant to the issue. Dr. Herzberg asserted that the fundamental difference between Jews in America and Jews in Europe, with regard to each respective “freedom” story, is that the Jews in Europe, France in particular, were emancipated by their “superiors”: they were recipients of emancipation, while the Jews in America were free from the outset of their time there. In America, freedom was incorporated into the very fabric of the society from its inception. In America, the Jews were born as free people, together with everyone else.  In France, however, Jews had freedom bequeathed upon them, and therefore owed a debt of gratitude to their emancipators.  

            While these two points are seemingly disparate, they are very relevant to the topic at hand. My father explained that,

            “While [he] very much enjoy[s] learning about the currents throughout Jewish history that ascribe important involvement and participation of women in Jewish life and culture, and that grant them an equal seat at the table of Jewish history and practice, the very fact that we HAVE to even have a conversation about this suggests we begin our entire perspective from one that is ‘skewed’, one that suggests there IS an argument that women are not equal to men and their role in Judaism is somehow subservient to ours.  We are like the white people in [his]    law school classmate’s world.  Our ‘male’ cultural reference is by definition off- kilter because of the everyday context of ritual practice that ‘favors’ us, and therefore we, as men, are incapable of having a truly objective view on the role of women.”

            Similarly, when we advocate a more active role for women in daily ritual life, the dialogue reflects the feeling as if we are bestowing it: that is to say, we are emancipating women. As “emancipators”, we have, by definition, not created a level field of play. As men, it seems as if we are emulating the European model of emancipation. The Gemara, for example, is a dialogue of men talking about the role of women; there is never an instance where men and women discuss the issue together. We cannot escape the cultural reality of human history: men have been the “dominant” sex in most human societies for millennia. My father mentioned, for example, the Rambam: think about how this genius- the consummate “rationalist”- thought of the presence of women in daily Jewish life. He joked that the Taliban might want to quote liberally from some of his pronouncements! Finally, the question being: “how does that jibe with the universality that we ascribe to Divine law?”

            A few weeks ago, I attended a shiur given by Rav Gilad, during which he spoke about the nature of women's role in Halakha. He said that if you take a look at the early chapters in the book of Genesis, you will find that there’s a seemingly paradoxical inconsistency concerning the creation of woman. Initially, the Scripture says, “And G-d created man in His image, in the image of G-d He created him; male and female He created them” (Gen. 1:27). In the subsequent chapter, however, the text reads, “And the Lord G-d fashioned the rib that He had taken from the man into a woman; and He brought her to the man” (Gen. 2:22). The former verse seems to imply that G-d created man and woman simultaneously, which would indicate that the two are equal in stature, while the latter verse could be interpreted as implicitly showing that woman is to be subservient to man.

            However, as Rav Gilad demonstrated, supported by a similar drasha given to me last year by Rav Meir Soloveitchik in a high school class at Ramaz, both verses clearly maintain that men and women were created equally. Some commentators believe that the former verse implies that man was created androgynously. When G-d created woman, the female characteristics of man were used to fashion her. As a result, woman and man were one in the same. When they were separated, there is nothing to suggest that they did not remain equal in stature. So the proverbial question remains: why does it seem as if women are considered inferior in the eyes of Halakha?

            The fact of the matter, at least according to Rav Gilad, is that there needs to be a distinction between the normative truth, and the actual one. Society has traditionally relegated women to an inferior status, a belief that continues to be made more and more antiquated. Rav Yoel Ben Nun, for example, says that the women that Chazal speak about are completely different from the ones that Halakha deals with today. The women of our day and age are more confident and assertive than the women of ages past. We try, as a result, to find more allowances, based on Halakha, to enable women to participate in the congregation.

            Why, for example, does a minyan require ten men? A majority of the Poskim say that it’s a normative thing, as ten seems to constitute a legitimate group. Why men? Again, it’s a reflection of societal norms and precedents: men were, for many years, considered to be superior to women. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel says that prayer was something that was initially, at least upon its institution, a spontaneous and individual act. There needed to be a separation between the sexes to ensure the possibility to optimize humility and modesty when approaching G-d. The fact of the matter is that women distract men and men distract women.

            Even the prohibition against teaching girls (Torah) seems to be a normative and societal one. When the commandment to learn to Torah is given, the Scripture says “and teach them to your children” (Deut. 11:19). The male subject is used, and as a result, the Gemara infers this to mean that only men are obligated to learn and teach Torah. However, you even have opinions in the Gemara, like Ben Azai, who maintain that a father is obligated to teach his daughter Torah (Babylonian Talmud Tractate Sotah 87b-Fourth Mishna).

            There are also more contemporary commentators and rabbinic authorities who maintain that girls are permitted, and perhaps even obligated, to learn Torah. The Likutei Halachot of the Chafetz Chayim says that the “prohibition” to teach girls was a societal one. When the Torah says, “ask your father and he will tell you”, this shows that it was only men who learned. Again, this was a normative issue. He asserts that if women, nowadays, are going to learn the indigenous language of the country in which they live, then of course they should be learning Torah. He does recommend, however, that they learn Tanach and the tractates that pertain to women, in particular.

            The responsa of the Mikveh Hamayim also calls for women to learn Torah. He says that women in contemporary society are fully integrated and comprise a large part of the intellectual community. They need to know Torah so that they can properly uphold its stipulations and be proper adherents.

            However, even these purportedly more liberal Poskim all seem to suggest that the only reason that women are to be given equal status as men is because of the change as to what’s accepted in contemporaneous society. Rabbi Eliezer and the Rambam both believe that there is no reason to teach Torah to women, as they will be incapable of comprehending the material. The Rambam goes as far to suggest that women should remain at home and tend to their husband’s domain constantly. So, how do we reconcile this issue?

            In response to my father’s inquiry, Rabbi Fridman replied that he was very taken with the distinction that my father raised in the name of Arthur Herzberg regarding American Jewry and French Jewry, and the relationships, which they had, even subconsciously, with the majority populations in their respective countries.  He believes that it is very important that no Halakhist operate with even the subtlest sense of 'liberator/emancipator.' 

            Finding himself in complete agreement with my father, with regard to his law school dispute, apropos the capacity of the individual to transcend any cultural forces, Rabbi Fridman said that he would simply add that this kind of determinism, which was being advocated by my father’s fellow student, is irreconcilable with our cherished notion of free will and would apply the very same concept of expansive free will to the question of one's Halakhic analysis of women. 

            “When we, meaning you and I, and hopefully many others, learn sugyot, which deal with the Halakhic status of women, hopefully we do so without a trace, conscious or subconscious, of any form of superiority.  As I mentioned on Shabbat, that sense of superiority is entirely at odds with the Torah's insistence on the axiological equality between men and women.  Just as I agree with you that one can relate to black people without any subconscious racism, despite the fact that there may happen to be many white racists, at least in certain contexts, I would insist that the same is entirely possible in terms of one's perspective on women in halacha; it is true that there are many sexists, I am sorry to say, in the  world, and also in the Jewish world, but I would like to think that we are not trapped by their prejudice any more than you were trapped in law school by the biases of white racists.”

            He believes that it is important for our community to articulate a vigorous position regarding the contribution of women to Jewish life through the ages, going all the way back to the era of the Matriarchs, and in his opinion, Jewish women certainly do not need anyone's approval or validation. Pointing out that women have played, and must play, a huge role in the transmission of mesora (tradition) does run the risk of implicitly giving credence to a position, which would deny that.  At the end of the day, however, when all is weighed on the ledger, it is imperative that men still, “speak forcefully regarding the axiological equality of men and women, etc., while still managing to convey the message that women to do not need men to make them equal, as the Almighty has already done so.”

            I find the ideas that Rabbi Fridman espouses to be most compelling. However, the opinions he presents represent the ideal, and the sad truth is that the ideal is often optimistic in nature, in that it's virtually unobtainable. 

            While Rav Gilad maintains that men and women are of equal stature socially, culturally, and biologically, I believe, and bear in mind these are extrapolations I've made from inferences of his, that he asserts that, despite the need to be progressive and more accommodating, within reason, Halakhically, women will not be completely equal to men within the foreseeable future. Halakha is determined by tradition and precedent, which was established by the very same men who dealt with these "issues" in the Gemara. These men were almost incontrovertibly "sexist" in some form or another, no doubt. As a result, women will sadly, I believe, continue to be relegated to the roles that Judaism has established for them. 

            While it's true, and again this is something that Rav Gilad produces consistently when the topic arises, that you can find a plethora of contemporary Poskim, commentators, and biblically verses that assert that women are equal to men when it comes to other important aspects, they aren't equal in the eyes of Halakha. Even the Matriarchs and other important biblical female figures, whom I'm sure even the most radical Charedi would contend were holy, were still confined to the predetermined roles that their religion and gender, in earlier epochs, set for them. 

            Even if by some miracle that today's radical Poskim or even the Charedim of Beit Shemesh for that matter, unanimously and emphatically agreed that women are equal to men in all facets of life, Halakha isn't the most malleable code of law. Even with the great strides made to "modernize" Halakha and make it applicable to contemporaneous issues, it's still relatively intractable and requires nuance (chidushim) to alter it. These come from serious deliberation based on the opinions of erstwhile Poskim. Even then, you'll have those who maintain that there was neither a need nor was it the intention of G-d/the Torah to make women obligated in Halakha like men. As a result it does indeed become an issue of "emancipation" when anyone makes allowances for women to have a greater role in Halakha and the Jewish community. 

            Now, you could assume that since men have a more “overt” ritual and legal role in daily religion, than women, and considering that they cannot participate “equally”, that means that they are “less” equal.  As my father put it, “we see that through the crucible of ‘modernity’ that insists equality has to mean equal roles and responsibilities.”

            However, perhaps our point of reference is wrong?  Is it unreasonable to presume that just like men and women inexorably differ on a physical level, there are inescapable societal differences that we have to respect?  Just because a woman can’t be counted toward a minyan or be an ayd (witness) doesn’t mean that she is considered to be, in the eyes of G-d or society, inferior, just like a man is not considered to be inferior due to his inability to conceive and bear children. 

            The issue is, however, once you start expounding upon and designating what constitutes those differences, you create a barrier between the sexes, which in turn engenders a sense of disaffiliation and disunion. People will, in my opinion, always argue that parity is about equal roles and responsibilities. Is separate but equal truly equal? 

            If you are to accept that human history is a broad arching experience, then seeing it only from the perspective of 21^st Century American secular humanist culture is not necessarily the “universal truth”. However, wouldn't it be within reason to say that the notion of complete religious parity is a by-product of 21st Century American secular humanist culture, specifically the feminist movement? As a result, there is always going to be a faction of people who maintain that notion of equality mandates that there be no distinguishable differences between the sexes.

            This issue goes back to the rather incontrovertible nature of Halakha. When asked if women were permitted to wear talit and teffilin, Rav Moshe Feinstein responded that it was not permissible because their desire to be included in the mitzvah stemmed from a feminist desire to be equal to men. If you look at the issue in that regard, then one could make the argument that any recent provision to allow women to have a greater Halakhic role in Judaism is erroneous and inappropriate.

            As my father put it so eloquently,

            “The conclusions we reach through this analysis are critical:  as society evolves and the role of women overall becomes ever more “equal”, how do we function halachically in a way that recognizes the crucial role of women, while also accepting that our law still demands important distinctions and separations, many of which we cannot help but feel as never quite making women truly equal.  Whatever conclusions we reach, we cannot be left with the feeling that, as George Orwell would say, ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others…’”

            The Akeidat Yitzhak, I believe, has a wonderful response to this very notion. He says that women have a dual role/personality as is reflected by the fact that they have “two” names, as demonstrated by Chavah (Eve). Her name, as we all know, was Chava, but he was also called an isha (woman). The etymology of isha implies that she was a “by-product” of man. As a result, she has the ability to comprehend anything a man can, as demonstrated by the Matriarchs and all the other female leaders heretofore (eishet chayil demonstrates thusly). On the other hand, Chava denotes fertility and implies that she is the mother of all living things. It’s the woman’s job to rear and raise the children because she is the one that brings them into the world. However, as I said earlier, that is not her only purpose, which is why Jacob got so angry at Rachel when she said she’d die if he didn’t give her sons: that is not a woman’s only function in life.

            My hope is that, as Rabbi Fridman said, "a male can still speak forcefully regarding the axiological equality of men and women...while still managing to convey the message that women do not need men to make them equal, as the Almighty has already done so." One day, ideally, women will be attain greater Halakhic status and be allowed to have more consequential and profound roles in the Jewish community. What I believe to be somewhat of a consolation is that women have indeed come a long way from where they used to be. While it would be nice to allow women to have a greater role in leading the congregation in tefillah, for example, it is still amazing and important to acknowledge that women do have a profound impact and influence on their community and religion.

            However, as many Rabbeim will assert, the issue, from a Halakhic perspective, remains: Halakha constantly grapples with issues of nuance, advancement, innovation, and tradition. If any major changes are to be enacted, I believe that it is crucial that they be incremental and glacial in speed. We need time to absorb each change. Our religion has survived for so long precisely because we are so careful about preserving the core of our faith. In order not to allow a single generational preference to determine Halakha, it makes sense that you would need the perspective of a number of generations to be able to distinguish between a cultural fad and a fundamental change in human nature. That is why we do not just change Halakha as soon as the “need” arises, and it is also why Minhag (custom) is so important. While certain Poskim like Rav Feinstein may seem insensitive or impassive about such issues, it is within reason for them to be dubious and ambivalent about the nature of and the desire for change. We need to be careful to balance a 3,500-year-old mesora with the inexorable progress of human society.

Halakhah Through the prism of Maale Gilboa's Rabanim

 By Bradley Goldstein    

Over the past few weeks, a topic of hot discussion in our shiurim (classes) and sichot (conversations) has been Halacha. What is its place? Can it change? If so, by what means does it change? Although I can not give a definitive answer to these questions, I hope to explain several perspectives on Halacha and show how these theories have been present at least since the time of the Gemara.

     In Rav Yehuda Gilad's weekly class on modern, spicy issues in the Halachic world, we recently discussed feminism within the context of Judaism. In defining how Halacha changes over time, he presented us with his view of the structure of Halacha. On one hand, we have 'normative principles', which are timeless values. Whereas we change our lives to accommodate these principles, there is no room for altering them to fit to our liking. On the other hand, we have 'applicable principles' which guarantee the Torah's relevance in every generation by changing, based on the rules of Halacha, to fit the structure of society, the specific community and any other relevant detail.  Each sugya (topic) must be studied to determine which of its principles are normative, and which are applicable.

    According to Rav Gilad, this formulation of the structure of Halacha would be accepted by any Orthodox rabbi. Halacha must be relevant to be effective. For example, in Rambam's Halacha code, Mishnah Torah, he states, "and do not let [her] go out [of the house] except once or twice a month" (laws of women, chap. 13). Not even those who live in the heart of Meah Shearim abide by this Halacha. How can we disregard a rule given to us by Rambam, foremost post-Talmiduc Halachic master? Clearly, Rambam was living in an Islamic society in which it was unacceptable for women to be seen outside of the house. These days, when women are allowed to roam the streets, thank G-d, this Halacha does not fit. But just as in northern Africa, where Rambam was trying to maintain the normative principle of tzniut (modesty), we still have laws pertaining to modesty that make sense in the modern day and age. Based on the rules of Halacha, normative principles are maintained by evolving applicable principles which fit to every generation.

     Now, if Rav Gilad explained the structure of Halacha, a recent chutznick (foreign student) conversation with Rav Bigman clarified the essence of what Halacha is. Unlike Rav Gilad's seemingly all-encompassing ideas, Rav Bigman presented three different takes on Halacha:

     The first view, as supported by thinkers such as Yeshayahu Leibowitz and Rav J.B. Soloveitchik, claims that Halacha is totally metaphysical, and because G-d commanded us to do the mitzvot, we must "sacrifice ourselves on the altar of Halacha" to Him. The law is the law. Only after the law code is established is the question raised of how to accomdate human needs into the system. This idea became central after the Enlightenment, coming largely as a response to the Conservative movement, which modified offensive Halachot outside of the Halachic process. In Rav Elisha Ancselovits' Halacha class, we discussed several criticisms of this approach. Most obviously, the law is not occupied with accomodating human life. (Eg.  "How do we know that one may not add to the Lulav or Tzitzit? For it says: 'Do not add to it'" (Sifrei Devarim, piska 82).) This view assumes that we do everything "because He said so," and for no other reason.   There is no room for change to address human needs!  This take on Halacha, therefore, does not fit within Rav Gilad's idea of applicable principles which allow for change. Because this idea of Halacha least resonates with me, I will focus mostly on the two other views presented to us by Rav Bigman.

     The second view, which I have become very familiar with from Rav Elisha's class, is that Halacha totally reflects human needs. Halacha is a law code which takes into account the human psyche, trauma and every part of human nature. As Halachic writings clearly can not possibly address every situation that can arise in reality, Halacha presents us with archetypes reflecting human values. Halacha, with these values as its backbone, presents us with practical guidelines to live life. In this view, there is no tension between Halacha and reality; rather, the archetypes of Halachic theory are engineered to set up practical laws fitting the reality in each and every age and society. This idea fits perfectly with Rav Gilad's Halachic structure in which the applicable principles, if read as values, adapt with each new change in society to purvey the timeless normative principles (or values).

    The final view we discussed, which Rav Bigman most identifies with, falls somewhere between the totally metaphysical Halacha and the totally man-centered Halacha. The service of G-d is deeply intertwined with the service of fellow man. The law is only meaningful because it is divinely given, but G-d also gave the rabbis the right to mold the law to fit human needs. On one hand, the right of the rabbis ensures that human values remain reflected through the laws, and that they don't become a 'Leibowitzian' divine code that we follow "because He said so".  On the other hand, there is a need to keep traditional laws so that Halacha retains its authority and does not become open-ended and not divine. This tension between the ideal theory of Halacha and the modern world determines what becomes practical Halacha.  Note that Rav Bigman advocates this view as a model of Halachic ruling, and while it may fit many cases, it is only a model and does not necessarily encompass every case.  I think in Rav Gilad's language, the modern changing world, with its new norms and ethics, drives the applicable principles to change, whereas the traditional laws temper this unrestricted growth.

     In my opinion, although Rav Elisha and Rav Bigman would agree with each other in their conceptions of Rav Gilad's normative principles, they essentially differ in how they think that the change in applicable principles comes about. Rav Elisha, who believes that Halachic theory is fit to be an archetype of all realities, would say that applicable principles are simply the application of the constant normative values to the specific situation. Alternatively, Rav Bigman would say that the tension between Halacha as theory and as reality determines what the applicable principles look like in practice.

     I think that this argument is not just a contemporary discussion, but also one that has been around for over a thousand years, dating back to at least time of the Gemara.  My beiyun (in-depth) Gemara class taught by Rav Meir Rubinstein on the tractate "Baba Metzia", has been focusing on 'hashavat aveida' (returning a lost object).  There is a general rule that if someone loses an object in a very public area mainly inhabited by non-Jews, (who presumably don't know the laws of hashavat aveida and would not return a lost object), then he should give up any hope of finding the object. Losers weepers. The object is free to whomever finds it. The Gemara (page 24b) brings an interesting case in which Rav Yehuda finds a wallet in a public, Goyishe area and rightfully takes it. But not so fast! The Gemara continues the story and complicates the case when a Jew comes and claims that the wallet is his. Rav Yehuda is caught in a pickle. On one side, he should be Halachically allowed to keep the wallet. On the other side, a panicking Jew confronts him and pleads for it back.  Does Rav Yehuda have an obligation to return the wallet? Halachically? Morally?

     Before looking at the Gemara's response, let's think of how Rav Elisha and Rav Bigman might address this problem. According to Rav Elisha's view, Halacha is the application of general human values to practical situations. What human needs must be addressed in this specific case? There is: 1) the need of someone who lost an object to get it back, but there is also 2) the need of someone who found an object not to be completely burdened by going to the ends of the Earth to return it. In a case when someone finds a lost object in a public, gentile area, we say that it would be a huge burden on him to return it, and therefore don't force him to. However, in is specific case, where we have the 'loser' of the object confronting the finder, suddenly there's a much larger need for the 'loser' to get the object back, and now, the finder isn't even burdened by going out of his way to return the object. Of course he must return the object!

     According to Rav Bigman's model, there is the tension between the Halacha -"keep the object"- and the real world, which begs for the finder to return the object. Morally, there seems to be a clear obligation to return the object. However, if we overturn this specific Halacha, Halacha as a whole loses its divine obligation because we can overturn it at will. Who knows what kind of slippery slope this may start? It is safer to keep the Halacha as is, and advise being a good, just person, and return the object anyways.

     As we have just seen, both views lead to the same conclusion that the finder should return the wallet. The difference is in how they reached this conclusion, and whether or not the ruling is in tension with Halachic theory.

     Finally, let's see how these theoretical responses compare with the Gemara's response.  Further along in the story, Rav Yehuda learns that he is chayav (obligated) to return the object and go "beyond the letter of the law". Does this mean that Rav Elisha's view would be right because Rav Yehuda is obligated to return the object as part of the law?  Or maybe Rav Bigman's view would be right and "going beyond the letter of the law" is just that: above the law itself? Various commentators ask the same question, and comment on the ambiguous phrase. Rambam seems to be in the same camp as Rav Bigman. "One who wants to go in the good and right path and go beyond the letter of the law should return the lost object" (Mishnah Torah, laws of stolen and lost objects, ch. 11, law 7). Like Rav Bigman might say, Rambam emphasizes that there is no obligation to return the object, rather only "one who wants to" can.  Hagut Maimonit, Rav Meir bar Yekutiel HaCohen's commentary on the Rambam, takes Rav Elisha's side and writes, "We force him to practice beyond the letter of the law". By forcing Rav Yehuda to return the object, it necessarily means that returning the object has become part of the law.

     This distinction, of whether to deal with Rav Gilad's applicable principles as legal principles or value principles, was present not only among thirteenth-century commentators, but also goes back even to the time of the Gemara itself. The most simple reading of the story of Rav Yehuda and the wallet implies that he is obligated to return the wallet and go beyond the letter of the law. However, in almost an identical case a few lines later in the Gemara,   Rava finds a wallet, and is instructed that even if a Jew comes to claim it, he does not need to return it. Rava replies in shock, "and isn't he standing in panic!?". No, "It's just like he would be yelling as if his house collapsed or if his ship sunk," and there is nothing to do about it. Losers weepers. While the first case, after a simple reading, indicates that Rav Yehuda must return the wallet, here, in a very similar case, Rava has no Halachic obligation to return the wallet. In the first case, the Halacha conforms to this confrontation with reality in a Rav Elisha-style thinking. However the second case, in a more Rav Bigman-style, finds that maintaining the authority of the existing Halacha is more important than changing to include this specific case. While in both cases we would probably advise the finder to return the lost object, the way by which we approach the place of "change" in Halacha determines whether or not we include this law into the Halachic codes. Therefore, this machloket (argument) was present not only among the commentators of the Gemara, but even within the process of the Talmud itself.

     In addition to learning about Halacha here at Maale Gilboa, I have enjoyed learning Gemara, Tanach and philosophy, and I hope to continue investing my year in a meaningful and productive way. The Ramim here are especially helpful in answering any questions or talking about anything that comes to mind, and I want to express my appreciation to them for all their time committed to teaching young Yehsiva students.

To be(come) or not to be(come Israeli).

Joshua Pitkoff

November 2011

Behind Cultural Lines

Two weeks ago, my camper from last summer asked over Facebook chat, “So are you a part of Israeli culture yet?” This is my response.

    Eighty percent of my high school graduating class is in Israel right now participating in various and diverse programs throughout the country as a gap year before college. Most are in Jerusalem. Most are in American programs. Most have little, if not zero, contact with Israelis on a daily basis. Thank God, many Jewish students are electing to spend a year here, clearly necessitating attractive and comfortable options for us. But, is it possible to imagine such a place where Hebrew is spoken among Americans in the State of Israel? Can a place be envisioned where Americans participate in an Israeli program--living, learning, and experiencing the year truly different from their American life? Say, for example, signing up for an actual Israeli program instead of an American program in Israel.

    Since I am one of The Few, The Proud (trademark, US Marines; l’havdil) nine affectionately named chutznikim (hailing from chutz ha’aretz, outside of the land of Israel) at my Israeli yeshiva, I fall under this category. Let’s start at Ben Yehuda Street, the epicenter, the heart of American gap year social-life. Make a few short turns, continue on Sultan Sulieman, a right onto Yitzchak Hanadiv, through Derech Har Hatzofim tunnel which turns into Route 1, left onto Route 90 N, cruise for 80km and turn left onto Route 667 up the 11km winding mountain road. Your tremp will leave you at the gate of Yeshivat Ma’ale Gilboa, a two hour trip from the center of Jerusalem and the social center of American Jewish gap year students.

    So I choose to isolate myself from the American experience for the overwhelming majority of my time. This year, I enjoy a little timeout from tests and stress and homework and pressure of high school to recharge, as some would put it, before I drain my battery in college overdrive. A year to drink warm tea over Heschel between ceaseless years of caffeine abuse in the science library. Quite different, I must say, than the yeshiva experience of the Israelis. In the very near future, approaching steadily and surely, is their military draft. Meaning this year is one of preparation, testing, being profiled, pulling whatever strings possible to merit a spot in a more respected combat unit or a special intelligence program. They are nervous. They are scared. They will be bringing home their guns for weekends at home. We will be bringing laundry on weekends we go home. Yes, I chose the road less traveled by, but I dare not say it is the same as the Israeli way.

    Unsurprisingly, making the choice we did leads to certain assumptions. “Are you fluent yet? Have you dreamt in Hebrew yet?” “No, we’ve been here three weeks. You don’t get fluent in three weeks.” Some students feel pressure to impress their visiting friends and relatives with their newly improved Hebrew skills, as if to say, “Yeah, I made this hard decision and it’s paying off. Be jealous.” On the other side of the coin, I personally have found that students in American yeshivot, where the Hebrew they have to speak is to direct (psycho) cab drivers and order falafal, have entirely different standards of fluent. I have heard them award themselves the title of “fluent Hebrew speaker,” but I doubt they have tried to discuss Rav Kook’s philosophy or Rav Shagar’s post-modernism in Hebrew, an entirely different experience than “One pita with falafel, hummus, and salad.”

    My Israeli suite-mate, while bemoaning such tragedies of annoying Americans thinking they can just pop in for the year and blah blah blah, made sure to qualify, “But you guys are different.” In what way? “You are making an effort to learn hard Hebrew words, learn about the army, isolate yourselves with us.” In his eyes, we are different from those Americans. Yet, we enter a room and something about us--our clothes, our mannerisms, our less Mediterranean skin-tones--something gives us away and we are thrown right back into the melting pot of all Anglos.

Much like the American college application process (without any of the stress), the gap year yeshiva and seminary application process includes interviews, often as valuable for the students as for the institution. Yeshivat Ma’ale Gilboa, as the rabbi in charge of interviewing always clarifies, is not about coming to Israel for a year, it’s about being Israeli for a year. That is the pitch, but is it accurate? Certainly, we separate ourselves from the rest of our friends for a year, but does that mean that we have become Israeli? Where is the line one has to cross from being non-American to actual Israeli?

    Maybe we should start by examining the qualities, the dead giveaways, of our American roots. “How do I know you’re Americans? By the way you dress, obviously,” one of our rabbis told us. Clothing, check. We tend to wait on lines. Patience, check. We panic at least slightly as the passengers of an Israeli driver. A shiver also runs down my spine when army planes fly very low. General sense of nervousness, check.

    Certainly, there are smaller-scale tensions between our cultural tectonic plates. Milk is 3% and comes in bags. (From this was born the “shoko b’sakit,” chocolate [milk] in a bag, the greatest invention of Israel’s food industry.)  Americans tend to enjoy small breakfasts, moderate lunches, and heaping plates of dinner. Israelis favor large breakfasts, larger lunches, and, at least in yeshiva, practically no dinner whatsoever. Hitchhiking is part of everyday life for some, extremely common in the more remote, public-transportation-lacking, regions of the country. And naturally, who could forget the complete elimination of late wake-ups and delicious brunches on Sunday morning?

    I find the big kahuna of the American/Israeli divide, to be the language barrier. Not only fluency in Hebrew, but idiom-use as well as, probably the biggest hurdle to overcome, the Israeli accent. Even among the Americans in the yeshiva, there are several ways of attempting to bridge that gap. Some will make a careful effort to speak the language as they hear it. Meaning, Israelis, to our American ears, pronounce the lamed (L-sound) and the reish (R-sound) essentially the same, which Americans attempt to emulate, some more successful than others. Some saturate their sentences with Israeli idioms and slang, frequently using words such as k’eilu (like), achi (my brother), b’keif (with pleasure), gever (loosely, “a man,” usually endearing), and walla/why (wow). Perhaps they mumble a little, deepen their voices, anything to attempt to drown the voice screaming out, “Look at me, I’m American.”

    Others, including myself up until now at least, have kept their American accent purposefully. Probably a subconscious response to the failed attempts of others to “fake” the accent, I find no shame in others knowing my American roots. Unfortunately, my whole life there have always been classmates of mine who faked the accent in Ivrit (Hebrew) classes with a definite stigma attached. Maybe while amongst Israelis in a situation such as ours it is generally more accepted, but upon returning to America, it would likely be considered strange for me to have an Israeli Hebrew accent. People would certainly judge me, justifiably or not, for “faking” it because that is not really who I am.

    Several weekends ago, I spent Shabbat with my friend from home who has been buzz-cutting his own hair as well as several of my friends’, for a few months now. I needed a haircut and figured, “Why not? My hair is usually short anyway, it’s easier and cheaper than a barber.” His American, electric razor--plugged in though a converter that could have blown up on my head at any minute--trimmed down my thick hair to half an inch on top and the sides a mere ⅜ inch. “Oh, look at Josh all Israeli now.” And I reacted defensively because, well, I don’t want to be judged negatively for false reasons. I’m truly not trying to fake who I am and be someone I’m not.

    I am very unsure whether or not I envision my future as one of an Israeli citizen. Sometimes I visit communities and feel like I can definitely see myself raising a family with such a warm neighborhood and thriving B'nei Akiva (Israeli youth program); but sometimes I wander the area and feel a clear and unbridgeable divide between its residents and myself. I read Time magazine's descriptions of America's failing economy, education system, and government, considering Israel more and more as solid option; but then I attempt to switch Israeli phone companies and use customer service and realize nothing in this country works how it should and I have no desire to voluntarily deal with that. Or will it be an ideological decision based on my desire to build the Jewish State versus developing the American Jewish community? For me personally, this discussion of culture all depends heavily on how I view my future. If I plan on returning to America and spending the rest of my life striving to achieve the American Dream, then keeping an American accent poses no problems and I will certainly not be judged. However, if in time, I envision myself making aliyah, maybe this year is the time to incorporate those more Israeli aspects into my personality, including “developing” my accent. One free Shabbat which I spent in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Ramot, we met a woman who made aliyah many years ago, but still had her American Hebrew accent. Do I want to still seem, like that woman, obviously American even after living here for many years? (And of course get ripped off accordingly at the shuk and in taxis.) On the other hand, I would be faking it, essentially trying to be Israeli. Would it be considered legitimate to get buzz-cuts and change my accent if I planned to eventually include myself as part of this culture?

    The question is where exactly is the line between faking and changing--being something you aren’t and this being who you now are? At a certain point, you are incorporating this aspect into a part of you. Not putting on a mask to disguise, but rather changing the face itself. In a more current example (by the Israeli entertainment media standards lagging roughly a decade behind American), Michael Jackson getting plastic surgery to make himself actually white instead of just pretending to be white. Maybe that’s a little extreme, but the general idea. To a large extent the issue is at its core, a discussion of intent. Do you trust another person is changing for himself and not to affect how others view him?

    Once we assume this individual’s change to be well-intentioned and to develop him or herself, congratulations we have just passed go, collected 200 NIS, and are right back at the beginning: at what point does that individual actually become Israeli, or is it even possible? Even if I make aliyah, can I ever truly be Israeli with such strong American roots?

I don’t have answers to these questions and I certainly won’t pretend to. I wanted to provide a small insight into tension most people take for granted when thinking about the yeshiva/seminary year and even making aliyah. For me at least, it is a remarkably complicated issue and is relevant day in and day out, whether we consciously recognize it or not.

Only at the end of the year will we know how we have been transformed by the experiences of our time in yeshiva. There is, however, one person I met who already knows. Our guide for a tour with a mission from my shul heard I am a student at Maale Gilboa and made sure to tell my dad, “That’s an amazing place. I hope you know you’re going to lose your son.”

Maybe when all is said and done, who cares about the differences?

Reflections on the Transition to Israel and Maale Gilboa by Kal Victor

It is hard to fathom that it was a little over two months ago that I arrived in Israel as a stranger, just barely proficient in Hebrew, not yet sick of falafel, not yet addicted to persimmons, not yet having experienced firsthand Gilad Shalit’s momentous return; the list could go on for ages. To be entirely honest, I had no idea what to expect when I got here, and no idea—beyond some illusive, vague combination of obligation and craving—why I had decided to come.  That is to say, I came here with no real idea what to do or where to begin.  I think I can say more certainly now that why I’m here is precisely to think about those questions, as they relate to my decision to take this gap year, my broader Jewish identity, and my own personal dogma.  I’ll try not to wax too sentimental in this post, though, don’t worry.  Maale Gilboamanages to simultaneously cultivate my already hardy New-York-Jew cynicism, as well as my romantic, idealistic side.  I think it takes a place that could, on the Day of Atonement, interrupt a somber six hour morning service with half-an-hour of impassioned dancing and shouting to do that.          

The months that have passed have been filled, just like all others, with peaks and troughs: excitement, learning, thinking, exploring, but also, of course, worrying, time-wasting, and goofing off.  I had some small challenges adjusting in the beginning—nothing too major, though.  Israelis are funny creatures.  Their being obsessed with Western culture (even though their tastes are always lagging about a year behind what’s vogue in the States), one can often forget that Israeli society has its own deep-rooted tradition and etiquette, which have to be addressed sensitively and conscientiously.  For example, just because it may not be customary for Israeli male youth to bathe or change their clothes more than a few times a week, doesn’t mean one can hold his nose and wave his hands in front of his face in dramatized disgust when they walk by.  So too, when one’s roommates blast Mizrachi love songs (this one is a favorite of mine:

or the Macarena, recommending them as great, innovative, fresh music, one can’t gag or even pantomime suicide with a finger-gun to the head. 

On a more serious note, though, I have noticed that my Israeli peers are approaching yeshiva from an entirely different mental context. Not only was their education different in the sense that they focused on Israeli rather than American literature and history, and that their schools were catered more to math and science (because it’s good for the army), but that this year is, for them, defined in ways I couldn’t ever really understand.  Yeshiva, for them, is defined in relation to their looming military service, defined in relation to a religious culture that exists in step with the national culture, defined by a strict secular-religious dichotomy (that I have begun to see dissipate at Maale Gilboa, at least, but that still thrives in Israeli religious life), defined in the shadow of the religious-Zionist dream.  While I have certainly formed my own beliefs about Israel—its politics, religious dynamics, people, and culture—I find that keeping an open mind to the opinions of those who experience life here firsthand is by all means a worthwhile endeavor.

Over vacation, I was all over the land: Chaifa, Yehudiya, Rechovot, Yerushalayim, Tel Aviv, and Eilat with the Americans from Maale Gilboa (literally almost a full circle around the entire country).  And it really occurred to me—most clearly when I was on the move, hiking, hitchhiking, seeing the sights—that Israel can be an alien place, even though it is meant to seem, and certainly can feel like, my home.  Luckily, the hospitality of relatives and friends from the yeshiva has been nearly overwhelming, in the best sense, reminding me that people can transcend superficial barriers and relate to each other on an essential level.  It helps to have a joint system of beliefs, of course, but even though Judaism is lived and dealt with very differently in the Jewish State than in the Melting Pot, openness and welcoming have bridged the gap, and I’ve noticed the presence of international students in yeshivot is a very important beacon, on both sides, that Judaism is interconnected and alive throughout the world.

The gaps and difficulties on the macro scale have seemed to narrow with time and kindness, but my personal acclimation has been centered more on my emotional response to a new environment: my being away from New York and its vibrancy and diversity, being away from friends with whom I’ve experienced many of my fondest memories, not being in the direct comfort and care of my family, and most importantly, not knowing exactly what it is I hope to gain from this experience.  I think my dad explained it best in brief pep-talk before I left, although it didn’t really sink in until recently.   He explained to me that this year is not about turning my life around on a dime, and that I shouldn’t expect that I will undergo some sort of precipitous religious metamorphosis, necessarily.  He told me it was about experiencing the year for what it is as it it’s happening in real time, and I realized that the experience of learning and living in an environment centered around Torah and its dynamism, my own choices and ideas, and the land of the Jewish people, has extreme intrinsic value.  My biggest hurdle was dealing with the reflexive need to compare my own story to those of friends in college and other gap year programs.  Once I realized that my purposes here were unique and my own, incomparable with what others were doing and seeking elsewhere, my dad’s advice for taking this year in stride and letting time work out its meanings and implications has become a much more relatable bit of parental wisdom.  I’ve had the desire, before working out the ins and outs of my Jewish observance, to see what tradition has being saying the past millennium about the issues I’m dealing with.  And believe me there’s a treasure trove of opinions and insights out there that I have only just begun to examine in my time here.

What have I been learning?  Well, there’s been Talmud, specifically the tractate of Baba Metzia; there’s been Halakhic theory; there’ve been Chassidic and Kabalistic parables; there’s been Levinas and Kierkegaard; Prophets and Pslams; Maimonides; Israeli politics; and the list goes on. A lot of what’s amazing about the learning here is precisely how diverse and unpredictable it is.  In discussions, rabbis will shout at rabbis, students at rabbis, rabbis at students, and students at students, because so many people, especially (thankfully) among the faculty, are genuine and unique thinkers who approach Judaism in radically different ways.  Albeit sometimes chaotic, sometimes reminiscent of epically intense Pokémon battles (at least in my mind), I really feel like this is the Judaism that is meant to be: the kind that is intellectual, thoughtful, individualistic, but still open, inclusive, and anchored in community and tradition.  Of course, I couldn’t really convey effectively what it is I’ve been doing without some recent examples, though.

The other day in a Bible lesson on the Book of Exodus, our teacher, Chezi, guided us through Moses’s personal growth and development, which culminated, of course, in his Divine appointment to leader of the Israelites.  Chezi’s approach is fascinating and a personal favorite of mine: a modern and exciting literary lens held up to the Bible, its characters, structure, and meaning.  He argued that Moses’s development was a personally guided trajectory, one impelled by his need to seek justice in the world, that eventually created a man worthy to lead the Jewish people outside of Egypt and experience God “panim el panim,” face to face.  It was Moses who earned his position, and in no way was he born a leader.  He spoke about how Moses’s need to chase righteousness and justice straddled all levels of his existence and interaction with the world.  First, Moses leaves Pharaoh’s palace and sees and Egyptian taskmaster oppressing a Hebrew slave.  His moral instinct, in its least refined early stage here, immediately kicks in and he kills the taskmaster.  The next incident reported in the narrative is when Moses sees two Hebrew slaves fighting amongst themselves, and he immediately rebukes them for it.  Next, he encounters the daughters of Re’uel, also known as Jethro, according to commentators, who are hassled (the text is vague about exactly what occurred) at a well by shepherds who Moses fends off valiantly.  It is after this chain of events that Moses settles down in Midian, marrying one of Re’uel’s daughters, and becoming a shepherd, which one day leads to his discovery of the Burning Bush.  Moses’s entire journey is marked by the initial words “va’yetzei el echav,” and he went out to his brothers, denoting that Moses actively decided to leave the comfort and wealth of an Egyptian home in order to fight for the oppressed, his Hebrew brothers.  After he fights for the rights and safety of a slave, he is then dealt an even harder task, rebuking his fellow Hebrews for infighting, shifting his idealized notions of good and evil to a much more complex, troubling place.  After that, Moses still has the incredible inner strength to turn outward and fight for the weak at the well, even though they are not his kin and even though he knows now that things aren’t as black and white as a zealous Moses immediately thought when he left the palace. 

A big part of Maale Gilboa’s ethos is the emphasis on being worldly, absorbing wisdom not only from Jewish sources, but from secular ones, incorporating crucial insights and wisdom into your Jewish observance and overall worldview, independent of their origins.  Just like Moses’s penchant for seeking right was not limited to his Jewish brethren, so too do we believe that our quest for truth and right is not confined to Jewish tradition alone.  An oft quoted adage here is “Chochma ba’goyim ta’amin, Torah ba’goyim al ta’amin,” you shall believe the wisdom of the nations, but not their “Torah” (Eicha Rabbah 2:13).  While it is mostly only the first half of this verse that makes it into a quote, I think there is something to be said in the second clause, as well.  But I’ll get there in am moment.  To demonstrate the first half of the verse, I wanted to share a thought I came across in an extremely interesting, albeit in my mind somewhat flawed, book called All Things Shining by Hubert Dreyfus, Sean Dorrance Kelly, which cites a commencement speech given to the 2005 graduating class at Kenyon College by David Foster Wallace.  In it he said, “Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal-arts cliché about ‘teaching you how to think’ is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: ‘Learning how to think’ really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience” (the whole speech, amazing and much food for thought: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122178211966454607.html). 

Maale Gilboa seems to share a similar goal in their education: to teach you how to think.  They have no desire to brainwash or indoctrinate you by defining what’s right and wrong and how this and that are done correctly, their purpose, as it’s revealed itself to me, is to give each of their students the tools and inspiration to connect with their own needs and desires, to learn how to think and search for meaning in life and Judaism as they can in their own way at their own pace.  Implicit in this approach is the trust in students to make wise, carefully considered choices.  Although this is certainly not the easiest or prettiest way to preach religion, for me, and I think I speak for a lot of Maale Gilboa when I say this, its fruits are the sweetest. They become, instead of a store-bought, generic crop, those grown and toiled over in one’s own orchard. 

I think this is where the “Torah ba’goyim al ta’amin” comes in.  Learning Torah (literally meaning instruction or law), beyond the world of Halakha and faith, is about cultivating one’s ability to learn, analyze, think, and seek meaning, fostering what I have heard termed by a few students and faculty, “reading with yirah,” literally meaning “reading with fear,” loosely corresponding to a notion more commonly known as “reading with charity.” What I mean by this is that rather than read texts critically, using my individual, modern sensibilities to search for flaws or anachronisms, I need to try as best as I can to inhabit the world and mind of the author, to see the truth and wisdom in what he or she saying and get as much as I can from it in its context before I decide whether its insights will apply to me and my own ideologies.  Although this is a near Herculean task, the goal is to try, to try and gain wisdom by respecting that the author may actually know better than you, by opening your mind to possibilities of insight where a selfish, solipsistic mind would willfully exclude it.  Although the ultimate goal is to apply this method of studying and reading to all texts, it is a skill that, at least for me personally, is seldom absorbed from sources outside of Judaism. This is what has to be learned by reading holy texts, be they Talmud, Maimonides, Bible, what have you, because, for me, there is an element of awesomeness and wisdom in such texts that seems to both necessitate and enable reading them with yirah. 

Now the time has come to tie my ramblings together and relate this all to some of my own personal reflections and apotheoses. In some ways Maale Gilboa has come to be my own “va’yetzei,” my own journey into the world at large.  In attempting to read with yirah, in attempting to extract wisdom from all sources indiscriminately this year, I’m starting to venture into a world of ideas and opinions that can be overwhelming sometimes.  But like Moses, I think that an essential guiding force through this vast tumultuous sea of thought can be found in the yearning for morality and justice, in the most universal, but also the most particular sense it can be understood, applying both to those closest to you and to those who you may not be able to relate to at all.  Just as my challenges here, in Israel, a foreign place, have been greeted with an equal and opposite reaction by the kindness of others, so too do I hope to begin my quest to work out a Jewish identity that, among other things, exists in a way that it can achieve just that—a transcendent, all-inclusive kindness.  Rav Bigman once gave a short speech about a man who walked an old lady across the street.  Why did he do it?  Because he pitied her in her old age and frailty and felt she needed taking care of.  Rav Bigman proceeded to ask why we need a Divine commandment to love our neighbor as we would ourselves.  He answered that if we did not have God in the equation, a Being who can look down at all of humanity and recognize their equality, we would never be able to achieve a love of others that stems from a sense of equality, because humans dwell on differences and relate to other humans largely on what distinguishes them rather than what unites them.  The man who pitied the old woman was wrong—he should have helped her across the street because she was human and because God sees her as his equal, not because she was elderly. 

I know these might be some lofty goals, but this year I’ll certainly have time to think about them, at least a little.

Kal

Lamdanut and Cheshbon Hanefesh -- Avi Buckman

Reflections on Rabbi Bigman’ discussion: “Lamdanut and Cheshbon Nefesh”

Avi Buckman

Around two centuries ago, Rabbi Yisrael Salanter observed that yeshivot in Eastern Europe produced some of the highest caliber Talmudic thinkers, but not the most upstanding human beings. He believed that part of the yeshiva student’s education should be dedicated to improving character and moral fiber. This idea sparked a controversial movement at the time called Mussar. Traditional yeshivot in Eastern Europe were originally quite resistant to the Mussar movement. To them, yeshiva students improved their character through their connection to the Talmud and its logic, and dedicating  time to Mussar was merely a waste of time. Nowadays, Mussar has found its way into most yeshivot, and most have a Mashgiach Ruchani who conducts classes on Mussar and checks on students’ spiritual health. 

Cheshbon nefesh, introspection, is a main aspect of Mussar because reflecting upon one’s actions is of the first steps to improving character. Rabbi Bigman does not see mutual exclusivity between cheshbon nefesh and lamdanut, analytical Talmud skill, as generations had in the past. He argues that, in fact, lamdanut, lends itself to introspection. The following comparisons can be drawn between these two concepts:

1)     Objectivity- Though introspection is by nature a personal experience, it is important that one perceive his deeds objectively. For one, when people become too personally attached to their deeds, they begin to rationalize unacceptable actions or flatter themselves with an action’s good consequences (though most times the consequences are not so harmless.) In general, the best approach to meaningful introspection is to look at one’s deeds simply and objectively. There are clearly good deeds and bad deeds; once nuance is considered, people lose sight of what is proper and what is not.

2)     Perspective- Through the course of Talmud study, a person learns to be able to take on different opinions that often attack a specific issue from many angles. In order to appreciate Rav’s position you must understand Shmuel. In fact, a Talmudic concept is also not fully investigated until it is attacked by different conceptual angles. So too, cheshbon nefesh requires looking at every action from numerous angles and vantage points. One should ask “Who is affected by this act? What does this person feel about what I did? How does this action affect me?” This technique is especially important when reflecting on a conflict with another person. Someone stuck in his own perspective does not realize why an argument even exists because he does not recognize the other’s position. Without recognizing that other people have legitimate concerns people cannot meaningfully coexist.
 

3)     Continuity- The Talmud states that when a person goes to Heaven, God asks man what he has made of his life. One of His questions is “Have you set time for Torah?” Jews are obligated to make Torah study part of their routine. So too, introspection is a continual act; if a person only does cheshbon nefesh during the High Holidays, he has missed the point.   The other hand, Rabbi Bigman noted that there is such thing as too much cheshbon nefesh. Some people reflect too much on their actions’ ramifications that they cannot live life and thus cannot grow.

4)     Practice- Though the study of Talmud b’iyun, in-depth, is not focused on Halachic practice, part of analyzing a sugya and differing opinions is considering the nafka minah, practical ramifications. Though we do not determine our halachic practice based on the dispute between Rav and Shmuel, focusing on practical differences heightens our conceptual understanding of their views. Ultimately, cheshbon nefesh is a process that needs to focus on practical ramifications. Introspection is not merely a theoretical exercise- it must lead to positive action, whether in the form of asking for forgiveness, or building up character. 

Though Talmud study at yeshiva focuses on training the mind to think critically, it is important to realize that the content itself is important beyond the cognitive realm. We are now learning the ninth chapter of Bava Metzia in the section that deals with the laws of taking collateral. This section of Talmud is nuanced and complex, but beyond its use as a tool to sharpen the mind, the Talmud offers serious moral lessons. The Rabbis in the Talmud are torn between two different forces. On the one hand, a loan, by nature, is a crucial part of a free capitalist economy. On the other hand, the Rabbis try to defend the dignity of the poor who cannot pay back a loan, and thus sacrifice the rights of the one lending money. At a certain point, the Rabbis assert that a loan is even a kind of charity! The Sages’ pity for the destitute on such a large economic scale certainly makes me consider how much sympathy I need to show people when the ramifications are small in comparison.

The truth is that there are many ways to sharpen the mind outside of Torah study. It is crucial that especially during the season of intense introspection we use all our intellectual power and creativity to reflect on our behavior and improve our character.

Making Torah Our Own -- Max Segall

       It’s been a little more than two weeks since I arrived here in Israel and made my way to the north of the country to begin the seemingly daunting task of spending a year here at Yeshivat Ma’aleh Gilboa in the pursuit of Torah knowledge. The matriculation process is at first a little overwhelming, as it was necessary for me to acquiesce to the fact that I would have a difficult time, initially, understanding and communicating with all the other yeshiva bachors here. Unless your native tongue is that of the Hebrew language, it is a veritable shock to the system. Coupled with that, the thought of engaging in the complex discipline that is Torah in a language that isn’t entirely your own sounds like a fool’s errand!

            However, almost immediately after arriving at the yeshiva, my fears were swiftly assuaged. The Israelis are beyond amiable and engaging. Luckily for me and all the other chutznikim they are great about forcing us to speak in Hebrew to help us improve upon the vernacular we came here to perfect. Nevertheless, it’s nice to know that if you’re frustrated and want to speak in English for a bit, you’ll have no dearth of people with whom to talk—some of the other Israelis have even picked up some English. Maybe television is good for something.

            Similarly, the Rabanim are very sensitive to the needs of the chutznikim---really, all the students, and you can always approach them with any concern and question you may have. While it may be difficult at first to attend only Hebrew shiurim the Rabanim are spectacularly eloquent and articulate when they speak which makes the transition easier.

            Now, you may be curious about the difficulty of the actual material we spend all day learning. I was really nervous at first. Again, this fear was quickly put to rest by one of the most succinct and beautiful insights into Torah I have ever heard.

            For his introductory class, Rav Yosef Slotnik told us that the Torah is the divine word of the Lord and is at times an ostensibly incomprehensible text. In response to any aversion you may have to it as a result, the Torah assures us that its vast troves of knowledge are absolutely not unattainable. The Torah tells us, “Surely this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us, and impart it to us that we may observe it?’ ” (Numbers 30: 11-12). This Holy Scripture can be ours but only if we truly desire it and endeavor to obtain it.

            Now, you may ask, “Who am I to even dabble in the word of the Lord?”. The Torah has an answer for that as well. True, the Torah is the God’s holy text, but it is just as much ours as it is his, as it says in Psalms, “Happy is the man… [For whom] the teaching of the Lord is his delight, and he studies that teaching day and night.” (Psalms 1: 1-2). The wording of the text here uses the possessive when it refers to the Torah of the Lord, citing that it is indeed His. However, once we engage in its study, the wording changes to reflect that now we possess it; we’ve made it ours through its study. Upon hearing this, I was ecstatic and incredibly excited to spend my year here at the yeshiva; my anticipation and expectations were incalculable. Although it has only been a mere two weeks, I have already seen the Rabanim and students live up to those expectations, as they help make me a better and more learned Jew. I look forward to spending the rest of the year here.

by Max Segall