September 25th: Erev Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning D’var Torah: Mitzvot and Thinking for Ourselves:
There was a time, back in the 1700s and 1800s, when the words Jew and Jewish were considered derogatory—insults, and we Jews chose not to use them. The names used for various groups—be they religious, racial, cultural, or gender groups—carry implications, and it is reasonable that members want to be identified with respect. In our case, we opted to use the terms Hebrew and Israelite, and these preferences are reflected in diaries, letters, and Jewish institutions. Thus the Rabbinical School founded in 1875 was The Hebrew Union College, and the charitable Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society was founded in 1881. A few decades later, however, things had changed. So, for 20th Century organizations like The Jewish Theological Seminary and The American Jewish Committee and Congress, we used the words Jew and Jewish positively and proudly.
It is so interesting how terms come into and out of popularity.
I find it a fascinating aspect of human social thinking.
Another example within Judaism is the term Misnagdim. When Hassidism began in the 1700s, the Rabbinic authorities considered the early Rebbes rebels and trouble-makers. In turn, the Hassidim referred derogatively to the established Rabbis, calling them Misnagdim, Opposers who obstinately blocked holiness. It was insulting but only for a while. Soon, the Misnagdim turned the insult into a badge of pride. They did indeed oppose the non-traditionalism of the Hassidim, and they turned a slur into a label of steadfast faith.
A similar thing happened with the term Orthodox, a word originally used as an insult to the Rabbinic authorities who opposed the Reformers of the 1800s. After a while, many Orthodox decided that the term fit their belief that Judaism has an ortho-dox, a single Jewish belief that all Jews should follow. They too turned an insult into a point of pride.
The funny thing however is that the term Orthodox has never been accurate. Judaism has never had a single, monolithic stance on anything. The Talmud shows us in hundreds of cases, and the diversity of opinion continues in modern times. In 1858 in New York, for example, a fledgling Orthodox group wanted to buy an old Christian church and convert it into a synagogue. They solicited opinions from two of Europe’s most respected poskim (Halachic authorities). Both cited the Talmud but came to completely different conclusions, one permitting the conversion and the other forbidding it.
[Rabbi Joseph Saul Nathanson of Lvov, and Rabbi Jacob Ettlinger of Altona, in present-day Germany. See “Turning a Church into a Synagogue: Jewish Law Meets Communal Politics on New York’s Lower East Side,” by Oran Zweiter, The American Jewish Archives Journal, Volume lxxi . 2019 . number 1.]
Another example came several decades later when the Kashrut of a new and popular drink was called into question. Jews loved Coca Cola, but one of the ingredients, glycerin, was a by-product of non-kosher meat processing. One prominent Orthodox Rabbi quoted the Talmudic principle that chemical processes can transform the essential nature of things, and he ruled that what was once non-kosher meat had been chemically transformed into just a chemical: no longer meat and thus no longer non-kosher. Other Orthodox Rabbis disagreed and insisted that non-Kosher meat could never be rendered Kosher, no matter what the processing. Fortunately, the controversy faded when, in 1935, Coca Cola changed their ingredients and started using vegetable glycerin.
The term Orthodox may suggest a single Jewish approach—one that is Torah miSinai, given by God to Moses on Mount Sinai, but the fact is that there are many different “Orthodox” groups and many different “Orthodox” poskim. It turns out to be a hard “brand” to control.
By the way, this term Torah miSinai can be understood in a less literal way. As taught by the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist movements, Torah miSinai is more a spiritual sensibility. Our ancestors experienced God’s Presence at Mount Sinai, but that experience has been interpreted, enhanced, and edited by many generations of Jews who worked with the Tradition they received. Sinai is better understood as a mystical tradition—and not as a set of immutable and permanent orders.
Of course, Orthodoxy disagrees, and to bolster their argument, some Rabbis point to the Tzitzit paragraph of the Shema and warn us against thinking for ourselves. Why are to to wear the Tzitzit/ Fringes, look at them, and remember God’s mitzvot?
וְלֹא תָתוּרוּ אַחֲרֵי לְבַבְכֶם וְאַחֲרֵי עֵינֵיכֶם אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶם:
“So that you go not about after your own heart and your own eyes
after which you have gone wantonly astray.” (Numbers 15.37-41)
Worried that our hearts and our eyes could lead us astray, many Orthodox teachers urge us to accept the mitzvot quickly and without condition. To them, the only Jewish decision is to obey.
This interpretation got rather personal back when I was a student in Jerusalem. I was visiting an Orthodox Yeshivah, and one of the Yeshivah Buchers was trying to convert me—to get me to leave Reform Judaism and join his Yeshivah. He told me that my Reform Judaism is not real Judaism, but that his, what he called “Torah True Judaism,” is the real thing. His Judaism, he argued, is Torah miSinai: Torah as revealed to us at Mount Sinai. Everything his Rabbi says is from God.
I listened to him and thought seriously about the claims of his Yeshivah world. He seemed to have the weight of Jewish Tradition behind him, but, as he admitted, sometimes the Torah miSinai dogma was hard to believe. That is why, he found it necessary to fortify his belief—forcefully, and he showed me how. He hit his head into his fist and repeat, “Torah miSinai, Torah miSinai, Torah miSinai...” For him, Jewish Faith requires submission and acceptance.
As I was watching him forcing his belief, a deep truth came to me. Though he claimed that “Torah True Judaism” insists that I suspend my judgment for the sake of Jewishness, one thing I know for certain is that God gave me a mind for thinking—a mind for seeking both wisdom and piety. His position could be beguiling, but I knew in my soul that I could not be part of a faith that demands the sacrifice of my mind.
So I returned to my Rabbinical School, and as my studies in Bible and Talmud progressed, I learned that my visceral insight was actually very traditional. Judaism has always been a religion in which Jews think, discuss, and use the minds God gave us. Our quest for wisdom and spirituality is communal, and, as they teach at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, Judaism has always been a chorus: a chorus of Jewish voices.
Some of these Jewish voices do stress obedience to God’s Will and warn against breaking free of the herd, but Tradition itself shows diversity and spiritual creativity. We even have sacred stories to celebrate and encourage this chorus approach to Jewish thinking. One of the most famous is about an ongoing difference of opinion between Bet Hillel, the House of Hillel, and Bet Shammai, the House of Shammai. The founders of these groups, the Hillel and Shammai, were friends and colleagues, but they often found themselves on opposite sides of Halachic discussions. In this Talmudic story, a machlochet (argument) has been under discussion for three years, and it is clear that no decision will ever be made. Finally, a Bat Kol, heavenly voice, interrupts the Rabbis and says: “Elu v’elu Divray Elohim Chayim: Both opinions are the words of the living God, but this Halachah needs to be in accordance with the opinion of Bet Hillel.” [Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b] A working decision has to be made, but even God understands that both sides are valid: that there may be more than one correct answer.
This same Divine expansiveness can be seen in the Torah itself, where there are differing versions of both stories and mitzvot. And in a few cases, we even have God adjusting the Halachah, changing it to make it more fair or practical. When one looks at the entirety of Jewish history, it is plain that there has never been unanimity—and thus terms like Torah True or Orthodox Judaism are more hyperbole and wishful thinking than historically accurate. If we read the mitzvah of Tzitzit as the Torah trying to quash individual religious thinking, then we are treating Jewish Tradition in a very peculiar and narrow manner.
What then is the Torah’s warning in the mitzvah of Tzitzit? How are we to understand the concern about “going about after our own hearts and our own eyes?” Look at the next clause:
אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶם:
“after which you have gone wantonly astray.”
There are times when certain impulses come upon us and drive our behavior. When we act solely on these impulses—doing without thinking, we can inadvertently cause real damage. However, when we pause and think about our urges—and consider their long-term effects, then that moment of strategic and moral thinking can divert us from really regrettable things.
There are, of course, those times when we really need to let go and vent our frustrations at the strictures of life, but the Tzitzit remind us that some ways of blowing off steam are less likely to result in physical, emotional, or moral problems. The Tzitzit ask us to take a moment and think about what we are doing—and perhaps choose consequences that are less problematic.
Thinking for ourselves is a precarious endeavor. We could make mistakes, but we could also bring good into the world. God knows this because God created us, creating in each of us a unique and precious version of humanity. What God wants is to find out how each one of us understands and navigates the world. This means that our task is to bring our thinking, our insights, and our unique holiness to both our blessings and our challenges. God may be taking a chance on us, but this is why we are needed in the grand scheme of Creation. We are needed to pay attention and bring forth our unique godliness. This is what God needs, and this is why the work we have to do is holy.