Tradition and Diversity

The argument of the preceding chapters can now be summarized. Enlightenment and emancipation set in motion deeply fragmenting forces within the Jewish world, forces whose full disintegrative potential is as yet unexhausted. It set before Jews the question asked with brutal clarity some two hundred years ago by the Count of Clermont-Tonerre. Are Jews individuals who have in common no more than a private religious belief, or are they a people, a nation? The question, of course, could not be answered, for both were true. Judaism was the religion of a people, and Jews were a people constituted by a religion. Judaism essentially contradicted the terms of the either-or. But the question could not be evaded, not only because it formed the political choice Jews were called on to make in the nineteenth century, but because at a deeper level it is the choice posed to all religions by secularization. As the institutions of the public domain are progressively removed from ecclesiastical power, society itself becomes differentiated into a secular state and an increasingly private religiosity. In which category, therefore, did Jewish identity belong?

Either answer involved a revolution. Secular Zionism predicated Jewish identity on secular nationhood and the state to be formed by the return of Jews to their land. Liberal, Reform, and to a lesser extent Conservative theologians saw Jewish identity as essentially religious, not national. But the accommodations they felt were necessary to ensure Jewish integration within a non-Jewish society led to either a formal break with halakhah or a radical reinterpretation of the halakhic process. Orthodoxy, bound by the covenantal tradition, resisted the terms of the question. Judaism was both religious and national. A non-religious nationalism and a non-national religion both misrepresented Judaism’s historic character. But by the end of the nineteenth century Reform and secular Zionism were powerful forces, and Orthodoxy was bound to part company with both.

But there were profound divisions within Orthodoxy itself. There were movements to hold together what secularization was driving apart: Torah and secular culture, Judaism and Zionism, and the Jewish people. Paradoxically these three movements – torah im derekh eretz, religious Zionism, and communally involved (Gemeinde) Orthodoxy – have often been grouped together under the name “Modern Orthodoxy.” Strictly speaking, however, they were the opposite, for they were an attempt to go against the grain of modernity. Contemporary culture replaces the traditional “and” with a disjunctive “or”: Torah or secular culture, Judaism or Zionism, Orthodoxy or the Jewish people as a whole. In each case religious principle suggested that the former must take precedence over the latter. So modernity favoured those branches of Orthodoxy that made the choice, rather than those that resisted it. While in principle they retained their commitment to derekh eretz, the return to Zion, and Jewish unity, in practice the full implications of these tenets were neutralized. So the cluster of attitudes associated with secessionist Orthodoxy – rejection of secular culture, an attitude of detachment towards the State of Israel, and a refusal to engage in joint action with the non-Orthodox – has prevailed. Modernity has been hostile to “Modern Orthodoxy.”

The past two centuries have therefore been profoundly destructive of the coherence and integrity of Jewish peoplehood. We have analysed the processes historically and sociologically, since it is only from these perspectives that the phenomenon is fully visible. From the vantage-point of philosophy, theology, or ideology it tends to be hidden. Thus, for example, there is hardly a contemporary version of Judaism or Jewish identity which does not stress the central value of Jewish unity. From this one might conclude that unity was either actual or possible, since all sides desire it. In fact, though, what we possess is a series of radically incompatible conceptions of unity which could not, in principle, be simultaneously realized. Religious unity as conceived outside Orthodoxy, for example, depends on a pluralism which cannot be stated within the terms of Orthodoxy. The tragic impasse to which this leads is that the pursuit of Jewish unity is inherently divisive, and the faster we move towards it, the further it recedes.

I have had recourse to terminology drawn from the sociology of religion. That terminology sounds strange and not a little alien in a Jewish context, developed as it was from the study of Christianity. But it helps in stating the dilemma with some precision. The key terms have been “church” (for which we used the phrase keneset Yisrael), “denomination,” and “sect.” Using Roland Robertson’s cogent analysis, we can see these terms as lying along two axes. The first is the principle of inclusivity or exclusivity. Does the religious body under review aim to embrace as many members as possible within its ranks, or does it propose high standards of admission, necessarily excluding many? The second is the principle of unique or pluralistic legitimacy. Does it hold itself to be the only legitimate interpretation of the faith, or merely one of several acceptable options? A “church” is uniquely legitimate and inclusive. A “sect” is uniquely legitimate and exclusive. A “denomination” is pluralistically legitimate and inclusive.¹ (Oxford: Blackwell, 1970). See also John Milton Yinger, The Scientific Study of Religion (London: Collier-Macmillan, 1970); Hill, A Sociology of Religion.

footnotes: ¹ Roland Robertson, The Sociological Interpretation of Religion

The dilemma of Jewish modernity is this. Jewish tradition is predicated on the idea of “church,” which is to say, keneset Yisrael. It is inclusive of all Jews. To be sure, it was possible to leave Judaism by apostasy, or to join it by conversion. There were exits and entrances, but these were the exceptions, not the rule. There is a line of thought that runs through the Middle Ages which seeks to include even the Jewish apostate within the rule that “though he sins, he remains a Jew.”², 28 (1958), 84–85; id., Exclusiveness and Tolerance, 67–81; Aharon Lichtenstein, “Brother Daniel and the Jewish Fraternity,” Judaism, 12:3 (1963), 260–80; Blidstein, “Who Is Not a Jew? The Medieval Discussion.” What is more, even Isaac Arama (1420–94), living in Spain at a time of unprecedented Jewish conversions to Christianity, was able to take it as axiomatic that the majority of Jews will remain faithful to their tradition. This for him had the status of natural law. As natural as it is for living things to desire life, so it is for the Jew to desire Judaism.³ (Salonika, 1522) s.v. “Nitzavim.” Arama calls the internalized imperative of the covenant a chok mutba, a “natural law” of Jewish character. On Arama and the conversos of Spain see Paul Johnson, A History of the Jews (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1987), 224. Though it is normal for Jewish writers in the Middle Ages to bemoan the “many sins” of their generation, none prior to modernity conceives the possibility that Jewish tradition might be adhered to by only a minority of Jews. Sa’adia Gaon’s axiom, that “Israel is a people only in virtue of its religious laws,” held true.⁴, 3:7. For an English version see S. Rosenblatt’s translation, The Book of Beliefs and Opinions (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1948). The laws of Torah might occasionally be as honoured in the breach as in the observance, but there was no doubt that they constituted the basis of peoplehood. Tradition was thus inclusive and uniquely legitimate. It embraced all Jews, and denied the possibility of any alternative basis of identity. Torah was essentially linked to the idea of keneset Yisrael.

footnotes: ² Sanhedrin 44a; Jacob Katz, “Af Al Pi Shechata, Yisrael Hu,” Tarbitz ³ Akedat Yitzchak ⁴ Sa’adia Gaon, Emunot Vede’ot

Judaism cannot be translated without remainder into the language of denominations or sects. It cannot be translated into denominations because, however loosely interpreted, it has dogmas or constitutive beliefs. There were many arguments over Maimonides’ specific formulation of the “Thirteen Principles” of faith, but all parties agreed that there were principles of faith.⁵ (Oxford: Oxford University Press for the Littman Library, 1986). It was precisely over such principles that the great schisms were formed between Pharisees and Sadducees, Jews and Christians, Rabbanites and Karaites. Judaism is not pluralist as between acceptance and non-acceptance of its fundamentals. It cannot accord legitimacy to movements that deny revelation, the binding force of the commandments, or the authority of rabbinic interpretation. It cannot, consistently with its beliefs, accept the validity of Reform and Conservative Judaisms as alternative readings of Torah. Pluralism here founders on the rock of Orthodoxy.

footnotes: ⁵ See Menachem Kellner, Dogma in Medieval Jewish Thought

Nor can Judaism be translated into sects. To be sure, its history is punctuated with elite forms of spirituality – sometimes philosophical, sometimes mystical, sometimes pietistic. The most common was the elite of learning, which set the talmid chakham (disciple of the wise) against the am ha’aretz (common man).⁶ (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1975), 630–48. But there were always countervailing tendencies, aimed at preserving the dignity of the non-elite and the integrity of the people as a whole. Jewish taw recognized a distinction between din and lifnim mishurat hadin, “law” and “beyond the letter of the law,” and Jewish life generalized it. The saint, the mystic, or the philosopher represented exceptional piety, to be admired but not to be prescribed as a universal norm. The Torah was “not given to the ministering angels.”⁷ It was necessarily within the reach of the ordinary Jew. There were exclusive circles of elite piety, but they were not constitutive of Judaism. Rather, they were heroic deviations from the norm. The primary bearer of Jewish identity – halakhah – was addressed to the “majority of the community.”⁸ 2:5. It was law, which is to say – as Maimonides noted – the constitution of a people.⁹, ii. 40; iii. 34. One might go beyond the letter of the law, but one might not confuse supererogation with the law itself. Halakhah was inclusive as Judaism itself was inclusive. The exclusivism of secessionist Orthodoxy therefore, though it commends itself as a survival strategy, runs counter to a – perhaps the – basic Jewish value. Sectarianism here founders on the rock of keneset Yisrael.

footnotes: ⁶ See E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs ⁷ Berakhot 25b. ⁸ Avodah Zarah 36a; Yad, Mamrim ⁹ See Guide of the Perplexed

The paradox of Jewish modernity, then, is that Jewish religious life is organized into structures into which tradition does not fit. This is an outcome willed by no one, which emerged from the varied responses to social, political, and cultural challenges that seemed to threaten Jewish continuity at its foundations. That past cannot be unwritten, nor is it profitable to engage in counter-factual speculation as to whether it might have happened otherwise. “What was, was,” as the rabbis said. The only meaningful question concerns the future. Does the tradition itself contain the resources to handle diversity without disunity? My argument in this and the next chapter is that it does. It rests on three phenomena which we must now explore: aggadic pluralism, halakhic universalism, and Jewish inclusivity.

AGGADIC PLURALISM Orthodoxy is not a denomination. It encompasses astonishing variations. Partly, these are geographical: Russian, Polish, British, French, Italian, Yemenite, and American Jews all evolved their own syntheses of Jewish tradition and local culture. Partly, they are institutional: from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries, each of the many Hasidic groups and each, too, of the major yeshivot developed its distinctive and indigenous style, from manners of dress to ways of analysing biblical and talmudic texts. Partly they are temperamental: the rational confidence of Samson Raphael Hirsch, the urgent mysticism of Abraham Isaac Kook, and the introspective conflicts of Joseph Soloveitchik could not be less alike. And partly, as we have seen, they are ideological, for different groups evolved widely different responses to modernity.

Orthodoxy, then, is diverse. While it does not recognize the existence of alternative denominations, it does embrace a wide variety of different constructions. To what might we compare it? Perhaps the best analogy is a language. A language is determined by rules of syntax and semantics. But within that language an infinite number of sentences can be uttered or books written. Within it, too, there can be regional accents and dialects. Orthodoxy is determined by beliefs and commandments. These are its rules of syntax and semantics. But within that framework lies an open-ended multiplicity of cognitive, emotional, spiritual, and cultural styles.

The community of faith shares a language. Because it shares a language, it can have conversations and arguments. This, at any rate, was the traditional pattern. A sharp distinction was made between the rules that determine the language and the many different sentences that can be spoken within the language. The rules that determine the language of Judaism are fundamental beliefs on the one hand, halakhah on the other. Of course, there was some latitude for disagreement on both. There were differing interpretations of some of the principles of Jewish faith, and differences as to what was a principle of faith. There were different halakhic schools, most noticeably between Ashkenazim and Sephardim, but also to some extent between Hasidim and their opponents. But these disagreements, of necessity, were marginal. They split the language into several dialects. Had they been other than marginal they would have split it into several languages.

Because there was essential agreement on the rules that constituted the language of faith, conversation and argument were not only possible; they celebrated the fact of shared language. The Christian spokesmen at the Barcelona Disputation of 1263 were frankly astonished at the ease with which Nachmanides, the Jewish representative, took issue with some of the classic rabbinic texts on the subject of the messianic age. Nachmanides patiently explained to them the difference between halakhah and aggadah, law and exegesis. Law was binding. So too was belief in the fundamentals. But there were areas of interpretation where argument was open-ended.¹⁰, vol. i, ed. C. D. Chavel (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1964), 308. An English version can be found in Hyam Maccoby, Judaism on Trial: Jewish-Christian Disputations in the Middle Ages (London: Associated Universities Presses for the Littman Library, 1982), 115–16. See the notes of Chavel and Maccoby, ad loc. See also in this context Marvin Fox, “Nahmanides on the Status of Aggadot: Perspectives on the Disputation at Barcelona, 1263,” Journal of Jewish Studies, II:I (1989), 95–109. That the messiah would come, all Jews believed. But as to how and when, there was no normative Jewish view.¹¹ 12:2.

footnotes: ¹⁰ Kitvei Ramban ¹¹ So Maimonides rules in Yad, Melakhim

In terms of the analogy I have been drawing, belief in the messianic age was one of the ground-rules of the language; but detailed explication of the messianic age belonged to a range of many sentences possible within the language. This was not because the subject was trivial or marginal. On the contrary: the messianic age is the end-point to which all Jewish history is a journey. The distinction between halakhah and aggadah is not between the major and the minor or the central and the marginal. It is the distinction between those things on which it is necessary to agree for there to be a community of faith, and those things on which it is not necessary to agree.

This distinction was not unique to Nachmanides. In one form or another it was shared by all the medieval thinkers. Maimonides, both in his law-code and in his philosophical writings, feels free to provide explanations of Jewish law other than those expounded in the classic rabbinic texts.¹² [1767] (New York: Bet Hasefer, 1974), 182 (Kelalei Harambam, rule 4). Rashbam and Ibn Ezra were the most conspicuous examples of a general tendency among the biblical commentators to give interpretations which conflicted with midrashic tradition.¹³ (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1975). See also the speculation of David Weiss Halivni, Midrash, Mishnah, and Gemara (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 105–16, who suggests that “medieval exegesis is...another manifestation of an abiding concern for explaining and justifying the law.” Commentators such as Rashbam, Halivni argues, believed that studying the plain sense of the text was part of the command of Torah study, even where it conflicted with the accepted halakhic interpretation. The explanation is intriguing, but it is more likely that this kind of exegesis grew out of the challenge of Karaite and Christian polemics against rabbinic readings of the text. Rashi, perhaps the most traditional of the medieval commentators, does likewise at a number of points. There are, he says, midrashic interpretations, but the plain sense of the text is otherwise.¹⁴ Nachmanides’ own work in this respect is stunning in its sophistication. In his Bible commentary he will cite the rabbinic tradition, together with Rashi’s understanding of it, defend it, provide alternative interpretations at the level of plain sense, and then allude to mystical dimensions of the same words. Reading Nachmanides is an object-lesson in seeing a text from multiple perspectives – first traditionally, then historically, then mystically.

footnotes: ¹² See Malakhi Hacohen, Yad Malakhi ¹³ For a general survey see Ezra Zion Melammed, Mefarshei Hamikra ¹⁴ See, e.g., Rashi on Gen. 3:8, 23; 35:16; Ex. 6:3.

In short, the post-talmudic tradition recognized that there were matters on which a normative consensus was crucial, and others on which many different stances could be taken, and from many points of view. Maimonides formulated the general rule that any issue of attitude or interpretation that did not have direct legal consequences did not call for a definitive resolution.¹⁵, Sanhedrin 10:3. The point is frequently made in the rabbinic literature. The Talmud interprets Jeremiah’s phrase “Is not my word like fire and like the hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?” (Jer. 23:29) to mean that every word of Torah split into seventy languages or interpretations (Shabbat 88b, Sanhedrin 34a). Aggadah represents speculative possibility rather than received and normative tradition; see Hai Gaon, Otzar Hageonim, Chagigah 67 (vol. iv, ed. B. M. Lewin [Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1931], pp. 59–60, paras. 67–68). It is open-ended (Sherirah Gaon, ibid. 68). There are “seventy faces to the Torah”: Radbaz, iii. 643 and see Nachmanides on Gen. 8:4. Accordingly, ein meshivin al haderush (“One does not attempt to refute a midrashic exegesis”): Isaac b. Judah Halevi, Pane’ach Raza [1607] (Warsaw, 1860), ch. 7:1. For the sake of clarity let us give this territory a name, aggadah, and define it negatively as that which is not halakhah.¹⁶, printed at the end of the Vilna ed. of tractate Berakhot. See also Entziklopediah Talmudit, i. 60–62. Traditionally, aggadah referred to non-legal parts of the early rabbinic literature: homiletical or ethical interpretations of biblical narrative. For our purposes I shall use the term “aggadah” more widely to include also the areas of philosophy and mysticism, and historical or ethical evaluation. But the essential quality of aggadah, however understood, is that it is not halakhah. It designates, in other words, the domain where rabbinic tradition refrained from issuing authoritative rulings applicable to all Jews at all times. When two halakhic opinions conflict, we must decide between them. When two aggadic opinions conflict, we need not.¹⁷, 48.

footnotes: ¹⁵ Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishnah ¹⁶ See Shmuel Hanaggid, Mavo Hatalmud ¹⁷ Hyam Maccoby, writing in the context of Nachmanides’ remarks at the Barcelona Disputation, puts the matter finely when he says: “In Judaism, the centre is occupied by the Law, which regulates the behaviour of the community and the individual. It is in the sphere of law that the serious effort towards definition and precision occurs. Here it was that methods of formal logic and dialectic were developed in order to arrive at hard-and-fast solutions of any problems that arose. But there was no such logic or dialectic for dealing with matters which Christians would have called ‘theological’... There was no real argument on such matters, for in this area contradictory propositions could both be true”: Maccoby, Judaism on Trial

The distinction becomes clear when we consider two apparently parallel talmudic passages. In the first we read that for three years there was a dispute between the schools of Shammai and Hillel. Each claimed that the halakhah was in accordance with its views. “A heavenly voice was heard, announcing: These and those are the words of the living God, but the halakhah is in agreement with the school of Hillel.”¹⁸ In the second, Rabbi Abiatar and Rabbi Jonathan disagree as to the interpretation of a biblical passage. Rabbi Abiatar is then graced by a revelation of the prophet Elijah, who tells him that the Holy One, blessed be he, is presently studying that very text. The Talmud then records the following dialogue. “Abiatar: ‘How does he interpret the passage?’ Elijah: ‘He says, my son Abiatar says this and my son Jonathan says that.’ Abiatar: ‘Can there be doubt in Heaven?’ Elijah: ‘These and those are the words of the living God.’”¹⁹

footnotes: ¹⁸ Eiruvin 13b. ¹⁹ Gittin 6b.

Both passages assume that two conflicting positions can both be the words of the living God, which is to say, legitimate interpretations of Torah. This is itself a sublime vindication of the ethic of argument. Disagreement need not always be between truth and falsehood. It may be between truth and truth. But at this point, the two passages diverge. The first concerns halakhah. The second concerns aggadah, a point of biblical interpretation that does not have direct legal consequences. When the conflict concerns halakhah, there must be a normative resolution, in this case in favour of the school of Hillel.²⁰ and halakhah lema’aseh, respectively a defensible halakhic opinion and a binding halakhic ruling. But when no issue of halakhah is directly at stake, there need be no resolution. Both Rabbi Abiatar and Rabbi Jonathan are right, each in his own way.²¹, on Ein Ya’akov, Gittin 6b.

footnotes: ²⁰ Later rabbinic terminology was to distinguish between halakhah ²¹ See the comments of Chanokh Zundel in Etz Yosef

The rabbinic literature, early and medieval, is full of instances of arguments left open-ended, as if to say that each position is warranted within the tradition. Was the education a parent must give his son vocational or purely religious? Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Nehorai disagreed.²² Was the Roman empire to be admired for its technological prowess or shunned for its ethical shortcomings? Rabbi Judah bar Ilai and Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai disagreed.²³ Should an accommodation be reached with a repressive Roman regime, or should one choose to die rather than cease teaching Torah in public? Rabbi Jose ben Kisma and Rabbi Chaninah ben Teradion disagreed.²⁴ Was the messianic age an event within natural history or a supernatural break with history? Rabbi Jochanan and Shmuel disagreed.²⁵ These arguments call for, and receive, no final resolution. That is not because they are of secondary significance. On the contrary, they concern ultimate issues of evaluation and ideal. None the less they belong within the broad category of aggadah, which is to say, matters on which the rabbinic tradition did not find it necessary to issue a definitive ruling.

footnotes: ²² Mish. Kiddushin 4:14. ²³ Shabbat 33b. ²⁴ Avodah Zarah 18a. ²⁵ Berakhot 34b.

Why? Several answers are possible. It may be that some disagreements concern matters where religious truth is not monolithic, where its fullness is perceived only through a multiplicity of perspectives.²⁶ (2 vols.; Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1962), i. 330–31. Some may involve judgements that are specific to the place and time: now one, now the other is appropriate.²⁷ on Yad, Shekhenim 14:4). Some may represent an ongoing tension between the demands of realism and pursuit of the ideal.²⁸ Some may involve differing evaluations of history or society, such that only the passage of time will vindicate one view against another.²⁹ on Yad, Megillah 2:18. The fact remains, however, that within the rabbinic tradition not every question of religious import called for a single normative answer. Some did, and thus became halakhah. Others did not, and thus by definition remained within the category of aggadah.

footnotes: ²⁶ Kook, Olat Rayah ²⁷ “It was not appropriate in all this [the domain of ethics] to command details, for the commandments of the Torah are obligatory for every period and all time and in every circumstance, but the virtues of man and his conduct vary according to the time and the people”(Magid Mishneh ²⁸ On the argument between Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and Rabbi Ishmael, for example, as to whether one should study all the time or engage in a worldly occupation also, the Talmud (Berakhot 35a) records the pragmatic judgement, “Many acted in accordance with the view of Rabbi Ishmael and succeeded. Some acted in accordance with Rabbi Shimon and did not succeed.” ²⁹ See Magid Mishneh

Aggadah, then, is rabbinic Judaism’s domain of pluralism, the realm in which the truth of one side of the argument does not entail the falsity of the other. It too may be true: in a different sense, or from another perspective, or at another time, or for another kind of person. The existence of such a domain points to a fundamental distinction between halakhah and the fundamentals of faith on the one hand, and matters of attitude and evaluation on the other. The former are normative for all Jews at all times, the latter are not. Halakhah constitutes the rules of the language of Judaism. Aggadah represents the many different statements possible within it.

Peter Strawson has proposed a general philosophical analysis that illuminates this distinction.³⁰ (London: Methuen, 1974), 26–44. He differentiates between “social morality” and “individual ideal.” Social morality refers to the “rules or principles governing human behaviour which apply universally within a community or class.” This, in Judaism, is the domain of halakhah. Individual ideal refers to the “region of diverse, certainly incompatible and possibly practically conflicting ideal images or pictures of a human life, or of human life.” It is, he says, the region in which “there are truths but no [single] truth.” This is the domain of aggadah. True, the two are not watertight categories. There is a rich and complex interplay between them. But the basic distinction is clear. Halakhah constitutes the Jewish people as a community of faith and action. Aggadah provides it with a vocabulary of diverse and sometimes conflicting ideals. Halakhah is the domain of consensus and norm. Aggadah is the territory of legitimate difference.

footnotes: ³⁰ P. F. Strawson, “Social Morality and Individual Ideal,” in his Freedom and Resentment

ALTERNATIVE INTERPRETATIONS To which category, then, are we to assign the conflicts we have studied in the previous two chapters, over Orthodoxy’s response to Zionism, secular culture, and Jewish peoplehood? There can be no doubt that they belonged to aggadah, or as it has more recently come to be called, hashkafah (worldview, outlook). They involved attitude and interpretation. They concerned philosophical orientation and sociological strategy. They were, in their way, paradigms of those issues of evaluation and ideal that in Judaism lend themselves to multiple readings. As we saw, all parties to the disputes agreed on the fundamentals of faith and the inviolability of halakhah. They differed in their interpretation of social processes and priorities. These are not differences that call for definitive resolution.

The point was made early on in the debate over Samson Raphael Hirsch’s programme of torah im derekh eretz. It was, claimed the revisionists – among them, as we have seen, Hirsch’s own daughter – merely a hora’at sha’ah, a temporary ruling, a concession to time and place. Hirsch himself certainly believed otherwise. But the revisionists were correct. Where they erred was in seeing the alternative – Torah without derekh eretz – as a permanent ideal. As we have seen, it was not. The rejection of secular education was equally a response to the times. The argument over whether Torah was to be combined with derekh eretz – variously conceived as secular knowledge, vocational training, or a worldly occupation – has persisted since the earliest rabbinic literature and continued unabated through the Middle Ages. It was debated by Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai in the second century CE,³¹ by Maimonides and Rabbi Shimon ben Zemach Duran in medieval times,³², Av. 4:7; Yad, Talmud Torah 3:10; Tashbetz, i. 142–48; see also Kesef Mishneh on Yad, Talmud Torah 3:10. and by Rabbi Moses Isserles and Rabbi Shlomo Luria in the sixteenth century.³³, 5–7. Which side prevailed depended on cultural circumstance and evaluation. The debate was left open-ended. Rulings on both sides were invariably hora’ot sha’ah, specific to their time and place.

footnotes: ³¹ Berakhot 35b. ³² Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishnah ³³ Rema

One twentieth-century authority, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Bloch, head of the yeshiva in Telshe, stated the point explicitly. In 1934 he, along with three other leading halakhists, had been asked by Rabbi Simon Schwab to give a ruling on the issue of torah im derekh eretz as it related to the education of young Jews at the time. Rabbi Bloch prefaced his responsum with the following comment:

In these matters it is difficult to give a clear halakhic response, because they concern issues which are largely based on ideological stances and opinions which are linked to aggadah, and which are therefore governed by the specific character of aggadic issues, as is the case in matters of opinion and ethics. Even though this is an area where there are several positive and negative biblical commands, nonetheless one cannot here establish fixed positions, as is the case in halakhah, and establish rulings that are appropriate to everyone. For the matter depends to a large extent on the temperament of the person concerned and his particular circumstances, as well as the variables of time, place, situation and environment.³⁴ (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1981), 296–301. It is summarized in the English translation of this work: id., Torah Study (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1990), 275–77.

footnotes: ³⁴ The responsum is cited in full in Yehudah Levi, Sha’arei Talmud Torah

At most, Jewish law can yield boundary rules in such matters. There are positions that lie outside Judaism, and cannot be assented to by any halakhic authority. But within these boundaries there are legitimate differences. The debate about torah im derekh eretz was one such case. The controversies over Zionism and secession were others.

The arguments that have divided Orthodoxy in the last two centuries, then, are not new. What is new is their allocation into movements and ideologies which tacitly or vociferously exclude one another. The differences of opinion between what are called “Modern” and “traditionalist” Orthodoxy, between one school of thought and another, sometimes between one Hasidic group and another, have hardened into irreconcilable conflicts and mutual delegitimation. The fruits of modernity are sectarianization and adjectival Orthodoxy. And we are now in a position to define the transformation more precisely. It is the application of halakhah to the realm of aggadah. Halakhic positions exclude one another; aggadic positions do not. When arguments that have traditionally been open-ended become split between institutions and ideologies, each of which excludes alternatives, aggadic pluralism has been lost. In its place has come the concept of a single normative Torah view.

THE SEARCH FOR AUTHORITY Why has this occurred? One of the most profound effects of secularization has been its assault on the concept of authority. Traditional societies are those in which many of the choices which individuals are called on to make, from religious affiliation to choice of occupation or marriage partner, are shaped by norms, customs, and values embedded in the society of which they are a part. They preceded their birth; they will outlive their death. They are the given of their situation. Traditional thought is marked by the way in which conflict between the individual and society is seen as a marginal and deviant phenomenon. It knows that there are lawbreakers, rebels, apostates, and renegades. But for the most part there is a congruence between the ethos of the individual and that of society.

This congruence is torn asunder by the social and intellectual processes of modernity.³⁵, esp. 30. See also Berger, Berger, and Kellner, The Homeless Mind, for a sociological study of the same phenomenon. Much of what was hitherto given is now chosen. Individuals construct their own life-plan, not least their choice of values. Kantian ethics introduces this radical development in terms of a distinction between heteronomy (legislation from outside) and autonomy (self-legislation). To be ethical is to be autonomous, to accept only the authority of self. A consistent motif of post-Enlightenment ethics is the rejection of religious authority as an external command to which one submits. For this reason Hegel is sharply critical of the Jewish structure of law. “Of spirit,” he writes of Judaism, “nothing remained save obstinate pride in slavish obedience.”³⁶, trans. T. M. Knox and R. Kroner (1948), 178. Quoted in Don Cupitt, Crisis of Moral Authority (London: SCM Press, 1985), 111. Much of Nietzsche’s work is a deepening set of variations on this theme. Judaism, he says, introduced “a God who demands.”³⁷ and The Anti-Christ, 136. The autonomous self, central to modern ethics, is radically incompatible with the structures of Jewish spirituality, built as they are on the concept of mitzvah, command.

footnotes: ³⁵ See the pertinent comments of MacIntyre, After Virtue ³⁶ On Christianity: Early Theological Writings of Friedrich Hegel ³⁷ Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

The threat to tradition has therefore been not simply the dethronement of halakhah in favour of some other source of authority, but the loss of authority altogether. Against a cultural background in which religious authority was taken for granted, a distinction could be made between areas where Torah issued authoritative commands and those where a range of options was left open. In the modern situation it has seemed increasingly necessary to emphasize authority as such, even on questions to which authority had not hitherto been brought to bear. This was quickly apparent in the emergence of a new style of leadership amongst the Hasidim of the eighteenth century: the tzadik or rebbe. It appeared in the early nineteenth century in non-Hasidic East European Jewry in the form of the rosh yeshivah. Though, as is evident from a famous letter from Maimonides to Rabbi Shmuel ibn Tibbon,³⁸, trans. Leon Stitskin (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1982), 130–36. the practice of consulting a Torah sage on matters outside halakhah is not new, its institutionalization was.³⁹, to know what to do in matters pertaining to the physical [i.e., secular] world. Questions of this kind were not asked of even the greatest of the early sages of Israel, the tannaim and amoraim, ‘from whom no secret was hidden’ and ‘all the paths of heaven were clear to them’”: “Igeret Hakodesh,” Tanya, ch. 22. Rabbi Shneur Zalman adds that a sage can give advice only in matters of Torah and the fear of heaven. Only a prophet can give advice in other things. Opponents of the Hasidic movement often argued that the bond between a rebbe and his followers went beyond the bounds of the traditional relationship between teacher and disciple.

footnotes: ³⁸ English version in Letters of Maimonides ³⁹ This is evident in the comments of one of the early Hasidic leaders. In his “Igeret Hakodesh” Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady, leader of what came to be known as the Chabad or Lubavitch movement, writes as follows: “Has this ever happened since the beginning of time, and where have you found a precedent for this custom in any of the books of the early or later sages of Israel, that there should be a custom and practice of asking for advice in mundane matters

The issue of authority lay at the heart of Samson Raphael Hirsch’s exchange of correspondence with Rabbi Seligmann Baer Bamberger on the question of secession. Hirsch argued that Bamberger had no right to interfere with his decision, and quoted the halakhic rule that “One cannot permit what one’s colleague has forbidden.” Bamberger replied that the rule was irrelevant to the case in hand. Hirsch’s decision had not been accepted by the community. Moreover, there were scholars of equal or greater weight in Frankfurt who disagreed with it. Hirsch had cast aspersions on his opponents, men of unquestionable learning and piety. Bamberger in effect accused Hirsch of improper authoritarianism, and argued that he should have placed the issue before other rabbinical authorities rather than decide it himself.⁴⁰, 76–79; Liberles, Religious Conflict in Social Context, 221–24. The controversy turned not so much on the substantive issue of secession as on the authority of a congregational rabbi as mara de’atra, “master of the locality,” empowered to make binding decisions on its behalf.

footnotes: ⁴⁰ Schwab, The History of Orthodox Jewry in Germany

The collapse of the traditional kehillah meant that, in organizational terms, the power of religious authorities was greatly circumscribed. Functions which had previously been the responsibility of the Jewish community were taken over by the state. Others, though they were administered by the community, came increasingly under the control of secular or non-Orthodox majorities. As we saw, it was in response to these developments that secession seemed the only route to preserve the integrity of Orthodoxy. Traditional religious authority could be recreated within the enclosed environment of the Hasidic group or the yeshiva. Hirsch sought to do likewise within the highly integrated synagogue-school nexus he created in Frankfurt. In retrospect we can see his battle with Bamberger as an attempt to endow the congregational rabbinate with an authority roughly equivalent to that which had emerged in Hasidic and yeshiva circles.

Secession meant sacrificing community-wide influence in favour of a heightening of the rabbi’s powers within the narrow ambit of his disciples. Jewish tradition had spoken of three modes of leadership, practical, intellectual, and ritual – the crowns of malkhut (kingship), torah, and kehunah (priesthood) respectively – which were standardly distributed among different groups within the community.⁴¹ (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1985). See also Stuart Cohen’s more recent and detailed study, The Three Crowns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). Within the total environment of the Hasidic group or yeshiva these functions were often concentrated in a single person, so that separatism, while fragmenting Orthodoxy, greatly intensified its focus of authority on charismatic figures.

footnotes: ⁴¹ For a historical survey of Jewish political organization, in terms of the “three crowns,” see D. J. Elazar and Stuart A. Cohen, The Jewish Polity

This new authority found expression in a concept that surfaced with increasing prominence from the late nineteenth century onward: da’at torah, “a, or the, Torah view.”⁴² is found in the Talmud (Chullin 90b). Its usage in the sense of authoritative ideology is, however, recent. See the controversial comments of Lawrence Kaplan, “Rabbi Isaac Hutner’s ‘Da’at Torah Perspective’ on the Holocaust: A Critical Analysis,” Tradition, 18:3 (1980), 235–48, esp. nn. 5, 7. Da’at torah bridged the gap between aggadah and halakhah. It lent unqualified authority to the views of a sage on precisely those issues of interpretation and evaluation that lay beyond the parameters of halakhah. The idea itself is deeply rooted in tradition. But it contains a fateful ambiguity. It may mean a Torah view or the Torah view. In principle, since the subjects with which it deals are not given to halakhic resolution, it means a Torah view. But in practice, since the institutions in which it is voiced are usually monolithic, it has come to mean the Torah view.

footnotes: ⁴² The phrase da’at torah

What da’at torah signifies is not always clear. One writer has defined it as “a special endowment or capacity to penetrate objective reality, recognise facts as they really are, and apply the pertinent halakhic principles. It is a form of ruach hakodesh [quasi-prophetic insight], as it were, which borders if only remotely on the periphery of prophecy.”⁴³ (Oct. 1963), 11. Others see it as an extension of halakhic ruling; yet others as the consensus of the great sages of the generation, considered authoritative in virtue of their role as the collective conscience of the Jewish people. This much, however, is clear. First, da’at torah is invoked in areas where the halakhic guidelines are not unequivocal. Second, it is appealed to on precisely those matters which have been, in the past two centuries, the subject of ideological debate within the Orthodox community itself. It has been brought into the arguments, for example, over secular studies, attitudes to the State of Israel, national service for yeshiva students in Israel’s armed services, Orthodox participation in rabbinical associations which include non-Orthodox members, and whether or not Israel may exchange land for peace. Third, a da’at torah view is usually presented as intuitive, oracular, and prophetic, rather than in the normal form of a halakhic ruling with sources, inference, argument, and rational consideration of contrary positions. Da’at torah is, in short, the extension of halakhic authority to matters which are not halakhic only but include elements of evaluation, ideology, and communal policy.

footnotes: ⁴³ Bernard Weinberger, “The Role of the Gedolim,” Jewish Observer

Da’at torah in a restricted sense is surely a Judaically well-founded idea. There are matters which lie outside halakhah which the sages none the less called Torah.⁴⁴ In such matters one might seek the advice of a sage, or emulate his example.⁴⁵ 2:1, 6:2. But in its unrestricted modern usage it is more problematic.⁴⁶ (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1991), 78–93; Yehuda Amichai, “Da’at Torah Be’inyanim She’einam Halachti’im Muvhakim,” Techumin, 11 (1991), 24–30. The status of intuition or prophetic insight in the halakhic process is highly controversial.⁴⁷, 18 (1947), 1–27. The Talmud contains the principle that the Torah is “not in Heaven,”⁴⁸ meaning that rulings are to be determined not by prophetic insight but by the majority vote of the sages. Maimonides adds that in a matter of Jewish law, a thousand prophets would be outweighed by a thousand and one sages.⁴⁹, Intro. Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Chajes differentiates between the legislative power of the sage and the prophet precisely in that while both have the power to make enactments “to protect” the institutions of Judaism, the sage must demonstrate the clear and beneficial consequences of his rule, while the prophet may rely on his intuition.⁵⁰, ch. 5.

footnotes: ⁴⁴ Berakhot 62a. ⁴⁵ See, e.g., Yad, De’ot ⁴⁶ See J. Simcha Cohen, Timely Jewish Questions, Timeless Rabbinic Answers ⁴⁷ The classic study is Ephraim Urbach, “Halakhah Unevuah,” Tarbitz ⁴⁸ Bava Metzia 59b. ⁴⁹ Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishnah ⁵⁰ Chajes, Torat Hanevi’im

Equally problematic is the concept of authority that da’at torah embodies. A rabbi certainly has authority over his disciple; a constituted Sanhedrin has authority over Israel; the great sage of a generation has authority in virtue of the informal consensus which recognizes his unrivalled erudition and judgement. The idea of da’at torah is, however, often used to make larger claims: to undercut the authority of other halakhists or to negate other Orthodox approaches.⁵¹ must be distinguished from such concepts as the command to heed sages generally (Deut. 17:11), the authority of a rabbinic court of law, emunat chakhamim (“faith in the sages”), and so forth. The question behind da’at torah is precisely how far these concepts extend, and how far they authorize one rabbinic opinion against others. Its development has gone hand in hand with an extension of the influence of the rosh yeshivah and the Hasidic leader as against the local rabbi and, in Israel, the chief rabbinate. It is not clear that Jewish tradition recognizes such authority in the absence of discipleship or formally constituted powers. Nor is it certain that Jewish law recognizes the exclusive authority of rabbinic bodies in policy issues that were traditionally the preserve of keter malkhut, monarchy, or takanot hakahal, communal governance.⁵², s.v. Takkanot hakahal, xv. 728–37. At the very least, these are controversial issues which call for clarification.

footnotes: ⁵¹ The idea of da’at torah ⁵² For a good survey in English of the concept of communal governance in Jewish law see Encyclopaedia Judaica

The extension of authority implicit in modern uses of da’at torah means, in effect, excluding tradition’s alternative voices. It leads to a view of Judaism from which what we have called aggadic pluralism is missing. It negates the idea, in other words, that there are areas of policy and evaluation where more than one view is possible and legitimate. It reduces all matters of Judaic significance to the status of halakhah, which is to say, matters on which there is one correct ruling applicable to all Jews in all times and all places. The areas where da’at torah have been invoked have been precisely those where different evaluations were possible within Orthodoxy and where different rulings were appropriate to different groups and circumstances. Torah im derekh eretz, for example, may have been the correct response for nineteenth-century German, but not Hungarian, Jewry. Different responses to Zionism were appropriate at different stages of its evolution. The “seamless robe” view of Judaism, whereby all questions faced by Jews have the same character and call for the same mode of resolution, is a modern phenomenon rather than a traditional one, and does injustice to rabbinic Judaism’s internal subtlety. Above all, it suppresses its most effective means of handling diversity within the framework of unity.

It abolishes the distinction between what I have called the rules of the language and the many sentences possible within it. It means that all difference becomes fundamental and schismatic. The organizational and intellectual forms of sectarianization are mutually reinforcing. For the members of a given institution or group, a Torah view of social process and policy comes to seem the only authentic one. In extreme cases it leads one revered Torah sage to accuse another of heresy,⁵³, 115–26. or traditionalists to speak of modernists as idolaters.⁵⁴ (New York: Ktav, 1983), 253. In most cases it means a marked lack of contact, dialogue, and kinship between the various Orthodox sectors who may be differentiated by nothing other than their affiliation to a particular yeshiva or Hasidic group. In the process, halakhic norms of personal relationships are either circumvented or abandoned.

footnotes: ⁵³ This occurred before the Israeli general election of November 1988, when a rosh yeshivah levelled this accusation against the distinguished head of a Hasidic group. He refused to be associated with a political party, Agudat Yisrael, which had any connection with the group or accepted its advertisements in its party newspaper. Exclusion of other Orthodox rabbis on ideological grounds has marked Agudat Yisrael since its inception. See Schwab, The History of Orthodox Jewry in Germany ⁵⁴ See the remark of Rabbi Elya Meir Bloch quoted in Chaim Dov Keller, “Modern Orthodoxy: An Analysis and a Response,” in Reuven Bulka (ed.), Dimensions of Orthodox Judaism

Tradition clearly has the resource to handle diversity without disunity on the kind of issues which have divided Orthodoxy since the nineteenth century. Indeed, Orthodoxy’s fragmentation has occurred precisely because traditional distinctions have been eroded in the search for new bases of authority. The invocation of da’at torah in the sense of a uniquely and universally correct solution to questions that admit of none is untraditional and destructive of other values that are unquestionably central to Torah, not least of keneset Yisrael itself. Its use could only be justified as a concession to crisis. That crisis existed in the early twentieth century, as Orthodoxy seemed to be facing defeat by the forces of secularity throughout central and eastern Europe. It existed in the decades of painful reconstruction after the ravages of the Holocaust. It is doubtful whether it exists today, at a time of unprecedented Orthodox revival. We can hope for aggadic pluralism gradually to be restored.

HALAKHIC UNIVERSALISM A similar process has occurred in the domain of halakhah itself. This is not the place for a detailed investigation of halakhic decision making. It is sufficient to note that Jewish law, grounded as it is on revelation and precedent, is not open-endedly flexible. On many questions there is a spectrum of halakhic opinion, but to be well founded, an opinion must be based on the canonical sources of Jewish law as interpreted by accepted principles of inference. The opinions themselves are subject to the narrowing process of consensus. And when doubt prevails, there are higher-order rules of when to be lenient, when strict.

This suggests that there is ultimately only one normative answer to any halakhic question. In many cases this may be so, but not in all. As in any legal system, hard cases arise. Sometimes they involve considerations of policy as well as precedent.⁵⁵ (London: Duckworth, 1978), 81–130; id., A Matter of Principle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 72–103, 119–77; id., Law’s Empire (London: Fontana, 1986). Not only past decisions but also future consequences must be taken into consideration. The question then arises: What are the values by which halakhic policy is to be judged? In its broadest sense, the answer is relatively clear. The sages are the guardians of the halakhic system. They act to ensure its realization and continuity through the vicissitudes of time. Maimonides states the aim of rabbinic legislation to be “to strengthen the religion and improve the world.” The rabbis have power temporarily to suspend biblical laws “to bring the masses back to religion or save them from corruption.”⁵⁶ 1:2, 2:4. But these propositions may be too broad to provide an answer to difficult questions. To pose a key dilemma of modernity: Which takes precedence, defence of the content or of the constituency of the halakhic system? If a strict ruling will enhance the commitment of the few but alienate the many, is it to be preferred to a lenient ruling that will include the many but compromise the religious intensity of the few?

footnotes: ⁵⁵ I have dealt with this subject at greater length in the fifth Jakobovits Lecture, “Three Approaches to Halakhah” (unpublished). On the general jurisprudential point, Ronald Dworkin has suggestive things to say in his Taking Rights Seriously ⁵⁶ Yad, Mamrim

Put in the context of the past, the question can probably have only one answer. Halakhah conceived as the constitution of a people necessarily aims at including all. A rabbinic decree to which the majority of the community was unable to adhere was *ultra vires.*⁵⁷ Many of the leniencies introduced into Jewish law – including those circumventing the prohibition on taking interest, and formalizing the sale of chametz (leaven) during Passover – were overtly or implicitly justified on the basis of economic necessity, itself considered a factor in halakhic policy on the ground that “the Torah treats protectively the money of Israel.”⁵⁸ (New York: Jewish Education Committee, 1967), 106–13; Eliezer Berkovits, Not in Heaven: The Nature and Function of Halakhah (New York: Ktav, 1983), 14–19. A Judaism economically unviable for many of its adherents would be exclusive. Wherever possible the halakhah was inclusive. Among the principles by which the Talmud justified its rulings were: “so as not to close the door to borrowers,”⁵⁹ “so as not to discourage penitents,”⁶⁰ and “so as not to put to shame those who lacked means.”⁶¹ Rabbi Shimon ben Adret justified one ruling on the grounds that it would “open the door to those who wished to perform mitzvot.”⁶², 581. Those who wished to adopt a higher standard could do so voluntarily. The standard rubric was: “He who wishes to be strict with himself will receive blessing, but he who is lenient has not lost thereby.”

footnotes: ⁵⁷ Ibid., 2:5. ⁵⁸ See Mish. Nega’im 12:5, Yoma 39a and references cited there. For further examples of such legislation see Leo Jung, Human Relations in Jewish Law ⁵⁹ Sanhedrin 3a. ⁶⁰ Gittin 55a; Bava Kama 94a–95a. ⁶¹ Ta’anit 31a. ⁶² Rashba

Until the threshold of modernity, halakhah was the constitution of a people, in fact as well as theory. But throughout the nineteenth century this formulation became increasingly problematic. Emancipation meant that Jewish communities lost their coercive powers to secure adherence to halakhah. The spread of secularism and Reform meant that by the end of the century a majority of Europe’s Jews saw themselves as outside its ambit. De facto, halakhah had become not the law of a people but the code of a voluntary elite. Nor was this all. The concentration of Torah in yeshivot, the separation of the yeshivot from the general community, and the independence of yeshiva heads and teachers from the congregational rabbinate meant, in effect, that Torah’s primary constituency had become an elite of the elite.

What then had become of Maimonides’ guiding objectives of the halakhic system? “To improve the world” had become in part the responsibility of the state, in part the province of Jewish communal organizations that were often unanswerable to Jewish law. “To bring the masses back to religion” had, in the frank assessment of many rabbinic leaders, become impossible. The masses were in full flight from religion. Rabbi Israel Meir Hacohen (the Chafetz Chayyim, 1838–1933), a leading halakhist and a figure of outstanding saintliness, put the dilemma simply. The honour of God, he writes, is being daily desecrated. The Torah and its commandments are being abandoned. He who cares for the sanctity of Torah cannot be silent. But what can he do? If he protests, he will not be heeded. The Chafetz Chayyim’s response is to distinguish between those who are already effectively lost to the faith, and those who still have some kinship with it. One must attend to the latter. For the former, nothing can be done.⁶³, i.

footnotes: ⁶³ Israel Meir Hacohen, Chizuk Hadat

For many halakhists, then, “to strengthen the religion” was the sole objective that remained, and it could best be achieved by strengthening she’erit hapeleitah, the faithful “remnant” that survived. The sense of being lonely survivors in a hostile world, born in the social and intellectual assaults of the nineteenth century, was immeasurably deepened by the experience of the Holocaust which all but completely destroyed the vast hinterlands of East European traditionalism and its outstanding centres of learning. The context and constituency of halakhah had been transformed. It was now being preserved by a minority to whom the outside world, Jewish and non-Jewish, had been uniformly hostile, and in whom lay the conscious, lonely task of ensuring Torah’s survival. Necessarily, the guiding objective of halakhah was, under these circumstances, not the perfection of society or the Jewish people as a whole, but the perfection of the individual. The aim of inclusivity, which had moderated the system in favour of leniency, was in abeyance. The aim was now intensity for the faithful who remained.

THE SEARCH FOR STRINGENCY Strict rulings have therefore come to dominate the halakhic system in recent decades. Norms that were halakhically acceptable to previous generations have come to seem inauthentic and compromising. In the 1960s Rabbi Simcha Elberg, editor of the Orthodox journal HaPardes, gave a name to the phenomenon. He called it “Bnei Braqism,” after the religious township in Israel. “The Bnei Braq concept embodies a major revolution in the very structure of religious life. Bnei Braq is looking for increased rather than decreased stringency.... A young yeshiva student...will, when approaching the Shulchan Arukh [Rabbi Joseph Caro’s code of Jewish law], search out that opinion which forbids, which restricts, which is more stringent. He will not look for the phrase, ‘and there are those who are more lenient’ nor will he abide by that sort of decision, but will be on the watch for the words, ‘there are those who are stricter.’” When he finds a new stringency, Rabbi Elberg adds in Yiddish, the student iz zekh mechaye nefesh; he “refreshes his soul.”⁶⁴ (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1987), 235–36.

footnotes: ⁶⁴ Cited in Menachem Friedman, “Life Tradition and Book Tradition in the Development of Ultra-Orthodox Judaism,” in Harvey Goldberg (ed.), Judaism Viewed from Within and from Without

In some respects, this development runs not only against the overall tenor of the halakhic system but also against its traditional vehicles of continuity: family and local community practice. The halakhic literature generally embodies a respect for extant traditions, and tries where possible to vindicate them.⁶⁵ The revolution to which Rabbi Elberg refers implicitly involves a reversal of this process: a willingness to criticize the standards of previous generations. That this was possible is due to the confluence of several historical and social factors. First has been the growth, in Israel and America, of yeshivot on the East European model. Here, during the critical period of maturation, the student is separated from his family and local community. The yeshiva and its head act in loco parentis and the influence of local custom is lost. Second was the geographical dislocation of world Jewry – the mass migrations of 1880–1920 and 1930–40 – which ruptured the continuity of Jewish community life. Third was the impact of the Holocaust itself on the next generation. Lost worlds were being rebuilt by those who had themselves not experienced them. The living past, embodied in family and communal traditions, was thus replaced by a reconstructed past.⁶⁶, ii (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986), 74–96.

footnotes: ⁶⁵ See, e.g., Rivash, 158. ⁶⁶ See Friedman, “Life Tradition,” and id., “Haredim Confront the Modem City,” in Peter Medding (ed.), Studies in Contemporary Jewry

As a result, stricter norms have developed on such issues as modesty of dress, separation of the sexes, and kashrut (dietary laws). Traditional shiurim, measurements of size, weight, and volume in relation to Jewish law, have been displaced by the more stringent rulings of Rabbi Avraham Karelitz (the Chazon Ish, 1878–1953). The construction of eiruvin – devices to allow carrying in the streets on Shabbat – hitherto regarded as a religious imperative,⁶⁷, 99. has increasingly come to be viewed as a dangerous leniency. Deepening scepticism has prevailed on the religious significance of secular education and the State of Israel. The bearers of contemporary culture – secular newspapers⁶⁸ (2 vols.; Tel Aviv, 1971), i. 138, 163. and television – are forbidden. Factors which in the past tempered religious exclusivity – mixed neighbourhoods, and the need to earn a living – have been less in evidence. The urban ghetto facilitates homogeneous neighbourhoods. The development of the welfare state and rises in living standards have enabled the period spent in yeshiva study to be considerably extended.⁶⁹, 119–37.

footnotes: ⁶⁷ See, e.g., Chatam Sofer: Orach Chayim ⁶⁸ The Netziv was an avid reader of newspapers. See Meir Bar-Ilan, Mivolozhin ad Yerushalayim ⁶⁹ See, in addition to Friedman’s studies, Liebman and Don-Yehiya, Religion and Politics in Israel

An élite religiosity has thus developed within Orthodoxy itself, in opposition not only to non-Jews and non-Orthodox Jews, but to Orthodox Jews who temper their spirituality with an involvement with the world. A sharp contrast is drawn between benei torah (scholars) and baalebatim (laymen) in such remarks as “the opinion of the baalebatim is the reverse of the opinion of the Torah,” or “the truth is the opposite of what is believed by the masses.”⁷⁰ Halakhic practice becomes emblematic of membership of the élite.⁷¹, 89–120. Stringency reinforces the conception of Judaism as an act of segregation from a corrupt and corrupting world.

footnotes: ⁷⁰ Friedman, “Life Tradition,” 243, 253. ⁷¹ This, of course, is a characteristic of sectarian religious organizations. See Wilson, Religion in Sociological Perspective

MODERATION AS A RELIGIOUS NORM Charles Liebman, a sociologist of unusual insight, has concluded from these phenomena that “extremism” is a “religious norm.”⁷², 22 (Mar. 1983), 75–86. He argues that “a propensity to religious extremism does not require explanation since it is entirely consistent with basic religious tenets and authentic religious orientations. It is religious moderation or religious liberalism, the willingness of religious adherents to accommodate themselves to their environment, to adapt their behavioural and belief patterns to prevailing cultural norms, to make peace with the world, that requires explanation.” On this interpretation, the unexpected rise of centres of Orthodox intensity in the last two decades is not an anomaly. It is the reinstatement of classic Jewish values.

footnotes: ⁷² Charles Liebman, “Extremism as a Religious Norm,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion

There is truth in this view, but not the whole truth. Jewish law aimed at the perfection of both society and the individual. To be sure, these did not wholly coincide. Maimonides developed two different typologies of the religious personality. He called them the chakham and the chasid, the sage and the saint.⁷³, 4; Yad, De’ot, 1; see also Guide of the Perplexed, iii. 53–54. The sage embodied in his character Judaism’s social ideals. He mediated between conflicting claims. He pursued the “middle way,” which Maimonides identified with the way of God. The concept of the chakham is closely linked with Maimonides’ understanding of Jewish law and prophetic leadership as essentially political.⁷⁴ (Philadelphia: JPS, 1987), 79–110; Lawrence V. Berman, “Maimonides on Political Leadership,” in Daniel Elazar (ed.), Kinship and Consent (Ramat Gan: Turtledove, 1981), 113–25. A religious leader must be able to “regulate the actions of man; he must complete every shortcoming, remove every excess, and prescribe for the conduct of all, so that the natural variety [of temperament within a society] should be counterbalanced by the uniformity of legislation, and the order of society be well established.”⁷⁵, ii. 40. Reconciling opposites and resolving conflicts are the art of governance, and it is through governance that man strives to imitate God.⁷⁶ The sage is one who has developed this skill, handling the conflicts within himself and his environment judiciously and with emotional detachment. He is the ideal type of the halakhic system considered as a social code.

footnotes: ⁷³ Maimonides, Shemoneh Perakim ⁷⁴ See on this Leo Strauss, Philosophy and Law ⁷⁵ Guide of the Perplexed ⁷⁶ Ibid., 54.

The chasid or saint is altogether different. The term, for Maimonides, denotes excess.⁷⁷, Av. 5:6; Guide of the Perplexed, iii. 53. The chasid does not base his ethic on imitating the ways of God. His virtue arises from the imperfections of the human personality. Because man is more easily inclined to cowardice than courage, or to miserliness than generosity, the chasid maintains a psychic equilibrium by tending somewhat to the opposite extreme. The sage acts according to the law, and the law maximizes social perfection; but the saint acts “beyond the letter of the law.”⁷⁸ 1:5. His saintliness is the product of victory in a constant struggle against baser emotions, something unnecessary for the sage, who acts out of judgement, not passion. The chasid is the ideal type of the halakhic system considered as a code of individual, not social, perfection.⁷⁹ (New York: Sanhedrin Press, 1978), 102–23. Lichtenstein understands the chasid in terms of supererogation, but fails, I think, to do justice to Maimonides’ general preference for the chakham over the chasid. On this point see Igerot Harayah, i, nos. 89, 99–100, on the distinction between chakhemei and chasidei umot haolam. For other interpretations see Norman Lamm, “Hechakham Vehachasid Bemishnat Harambam,” in Samuel Belkin Memorial Volume (New York: Yeshiva University, 1981), 11–28; Marvin Fox, “The Doctrine of the Mean in Aristotle and Maimonides: A Comparative Study,” in id., Interpreting Maimonides (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 93–123.

footnotes: ⁷⁷ Commentary on the Mishnah ⁷⁸ Yad, De’ot ⁷⁹ It will be clear that I understand Maimonides in a somewhat broader context than does Aharon Lichtenstein, “Does Jewish Tradition Recognize an Ethic Independent of Halakhah?,” in Menachem Kellner (ed.), Contemporary Jewish Ethics

Considered in isolation, the saint is greater than the sage. But the halakhic system does not encourage us to consider individuals in isolation. The way of the sage is therefore normative – “We are commanded to walk in these middle ways, which are the good and right ways, as it is said, ‘And you shall walk in his ways’”⁸⁰ 1:6. – while the way of the saint is a concession to human emotion. But there are times, says Maimonides, when the way of the sage is unavailable as an ideal. The sage embodies social virtue. When society is irretrievably degenerate, social virtue is impossible. “If [virtuous men] saw that due to the corruption of the people of the city they would be corrupted through contact with them...and that social intercourse with them would bring about the debasement of their own moral habits, then they withdrew to desolate places where there are no evil men.”⁸¹, 4. In his law-code Maimonides envisages the possibility that all societies at a particular time might be corrupt, “as is the case now.”⁸² 6:1. Compare the closing passages of Maimonides’ Epistle on Martyrdom and his letter to the sages of Lunel. When social perfection is impossible, individual perfection remains. When the times are out of joint, one must live as a saint.

footnotes: ⁸⁰ Yad, De’ot ⁸¹ Shemoneh Perakim ⁸² Yad, De’ot

We can now assess Charles Liebman’s claim that extremism is a religious norm. It is so only from the point of view of the chasid. Strict rulings which go beyond the letter of the law, segregation from secular society, and total immersion in institutions of Torah are consummations devoutly to be wished from the perspective of individual perfection. Indeed, the vocabulary of the contemporary yeshiva ethic, stressing as it does personal “completeness,” consistency, and a rejection of practical compromise, is intently focused on the individual. The flourishing today of institutions capable of producing such individuals in abundance is, after the assaults of the previous two centuries, little short of miraculous.

But the ethic of the chasid takes precedence over that of the chakham only in circumstances that are themselves deviant. Maimonides’ philosophy of halakhah is a compelling statement of moderation as a religious norm. Jewish law is coextensive with the Jewish people. It is the constitution of Jewish society. It is therefore constrained from extremism. So seriously did Maimonides take this fact that he argued that biblical law itself was gradualist and made many concessions to the weaknesses of the Israelites in the wilderness. Every law, even divine law, must reckon with the human situation and must legislate for a real society, even as it aspires to an ideal one.⁸³, iii. 32.

footnotes: ⁸³ Guide of the Perplexed

Liebman correctly notes that “in the past, rabbinical authorities, responsible for the entire community, were reluctant to interpret religious law in such a manner that the vast majority of Jews would find its observance excessively burdensome.”⁸⁴ This was the primary moderating influence on halakhah. Where Liebman errs is in seeing this as accidental rather than essential to the halakhic enterprise. The halakhah of the sage aims at universality: it is bound by a desire to keep the entire community within the framework of law. The saint, who acts beyond halakhic duty, is constrained by no such limitation. He aims at personal intensity, not a universal order. Halakhah itself will only reflect the ethos of the saint under conditions of social breakdown, when rabbinic authorities are convinced that the majority would not observe Jewish law however leniently it was interpreted.

footnotes: ⁸⁴ Liebman, “Extremism as a Religious Norm,” 82.

Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries there were halakhists of distinction who were less pessimistic. Rabbis David Zvi Hoffmann, Yechiel Weinberg, Yitzchak Elchanan Spektor, and Ben-Zion Uziel were among those who developed a more measured approach to Jewish realities, understanding the need for leniency wherever possible. Rabbi Yechiel Michal Epstein, author of the monumental halakhic code the Arukh Hashulchan, frequently defends extant practice even where its permissibility is tenuous. Others, most notably Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn, advocated more radical halakhic accommodations, but the consensus was against them.

Just as we distinguished between halakhah and aggadah, then so we must distinguish between halakhah and the essentially extra-halakhic ethos of the saint. Tradition described the latter as going lifnim mishurat hadin, “beyond the letter of the law,” and in other phrases of similar import. Halakhah aspires to universality, society-wide adherence, and “improving the world.” Especially when the law lacks coercive sanctions, it must wherever possible prefer a lenient ruling that embraces many to a strict decision that is observed only by the few. Beyond halakhah there is unlimited scope for personal piety, but this is not to be confused with the halakhic norm itself. Only the most negative assumption that the majority are beyond the reach of the law, presently and potentially, would justify a systematic preference for the strictest available ruling. That assumption conflicts with a rabbinic faith that declared that “even the emptiest of Israel is as full of mitzvot, religious deeds, as a pomegranate is [of seeds].”⁸⁵

footnotes: ⁸⁵ Berakhot 57a, Eiruvin 19a, Sanhedrin 37a.

The present tendency to conflate law and “beyond the letter of the law,” like the tendency to conflate halakhah and aggadah, is a response to and evidence of religious crisis. But that crisis has reached its peak and already lies in the past. Halakhic Judaism no longer faces extinction. Its populations flourish. Its institutions thrive. We can expect the recovery of a more universalist approach to halakhah, and a renewal of the necessary distinction between halakhah and personal piety.

BEYOND SECTARIANISM The two resources of tradition so far considered, aggadic pluralism and halakhic universalism, have a bearing only on Orthodoxy. The present Orthodox schisms are not unprecedented: we have only to recall the conflicts between supporters and opponents of Maimonides in the Middle Ages and between Hasidim and their opponents in the eighteenth century. But they are deeply destructive of traditional values and distinctions. Halakhah embodies the idea that the Jewish people is constituted as a community of belief and action. The primary content of revelation is law, not personal salvation or individual ethical choice. The primary function of law is to shape a society. The function of Jewish law is to bind and direct the Jewish people considered as an indivisible covenantal entity.

Halakhah unites. It is the Jewish equivalent of what Strawson called “social morality” as against “individual ideal.” Above the community-forming structure of halakhah, one could build aggadic visions and voluntary codes of piety, both of which were pluralist by their nature, specific as they are to time, place, person, and perspective. But a confusion of the two, of halakhah with aggadah on the one hand, halakhah with lifnim mishurat hadin, or voluntary stringency, on the other, is to confuse the rules of the language with the sentences spoken within it. This destroys community and distorts the essential nature of the halakhic enterprise. Recovering the traditional distinctions would restore Orthodox unity without restricting Orthodox diversity.

But it would not address the deepest fissure of modernity, that between Orthodoxy and others. To this, therefore, we must now turn.