Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Horace Mann School of Cherry Hill, NJ,  is still living in the dark ages. It is ironic that the original Horace Mann opposed corporal punishment in the classroom. He was an early advocate for teaching moral values in the classroom, and that the character formation was as important as reading, writing, and arithmetic. Just as he opposed corporal punishment, he also opposed ridiculing children in the classroom.

Horace Mann would be turning over in his grave if he could see the things being perpetuated by the institutions that bear his name.

Our school system has a serious with respect to bullying. With respect to bullying, there is a good deal of bullying without violence, e.g., bullying by words, gestures, treating the bullied person as a pariah. Many children have committed suicide because the taunting they experience in the class room by their peers. When a teacher resorts to bullying, the problem is exponentially worse since children view adults as role models. That is exactly what happened in Cherry Hill, this past month.

When I read about Stuart Chaifetz’s ordeal with the Horse Mann School, I felt sorry for his poor son, Akian. I felt sorry for all the autistic children who might have had similar experiences. Their lives are hard enough without adults making their lives more miserable.

For those of you unfamiliar with the boy’s odyssey, the story began when the parent heard some complaints about his son acting violently in the class. The father related that this was out of character for his autistic ten year-old son, who always had a pleasant disposition. The father decided to wire his son, so he could hear exactly what was going on in the classroom.

The father was shocked by the degree of abuse his child had received from his teachers. The tenured teachers of Horace Mann began talking about their drinking binges, sexual exploits, gossiping about students and their parents. As if that wasn’t enough, they began taunting, shouting, and swearing at his son.

The teacher and her aides did their best to “make a living hell for my son,” Chaifetz said. After being insulted by the teacher and her assistants, Akian began to cry. The teacher began mocking him and yelling: “Shut your mouth . . . ‘Go ahead and scream because guess what? You are going to get nothing until your mouth is shut.’” After a few minutes, the teacher screamed, “Oh Akian, you are a bastard.”

The father’s decision to Youtube the conversation was a brilliant stroke.

Embarrassed by the incident, the school immediately fired one of the teachers; the other teacher is still remaining in the school.

But Chaifetz does not agree. ‘What you did was so disgusting that you should be walking around with your head in shame… And you’re still teaching children today,’ he said. He added, “I want an apology not for me,  so one day, I can play this video back for my son and say, ‘Akian, you did not deserve anything that happened to you. These people are at fault… This is to reclaim my son’s dignity.’”

The absence of human compassion is shocking. The Horace Mann School is probably not the only school that operates this way. Perhaps the time has come for the local school districts to start video-taping the classes that are believed to have serious problems like the case we mentioned above.

It seems to me that it might not be a bad idea for members of the clergy and other civic leaders to consider moral education into the curriculum, much like Horace Mann envisioned in the 19^th century. True, Horace Mann believed that the Bible was the best source for ethical values, but in the 21^st century, we may want to take ethical values from many traditions, e.g., basic teaching from Epictetus, Epicurus, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Aesop’s Fables, Buddha, Hillel, Jesus, Proverbs, Ben Sira, Ramakrishna,  and the Native American tradition.

A course in the Golden Rule should be a part of any ethics, philosophy, or psychology class in high school.

Our public schools need to teach values about respect, altruism, consideration, empathy, compassion, patience, and prudence. True, one might argue that it is the parent’s responsibility to teach these values, but historically—our country’s schools realized that teaching ethical values (not necessarily religious values) serves to help create a better citizen for society as whole.

If we wish these values to take root, they must be instilled from the pre-school and up, one year at a time. If we wait for children to start learning these values by the time they get to middle school, I am afraid we may be too late. By the time the children become older, bad habits become engrained in their character.

As for Stuart Chaifetz, a lawsuit against the Horace Mann School may be one of the best ways to teach the school a lesson in accountability. It is unfortunate that we have to use lawyers, but this is no frivolous lawsuit. Society needs to learn the hard way that there are serious financial consequences in abusing children—especially those children who have no voice to advocate for them. Continue Reading

Shepherding is inextricably related to the wilderness. In its broadest sense, the wilderness represents a realm of chaos that threatens human civilization and consciousness. In psychological terms, the wilderness may be found in the depths of the unconscious; it is a region that leaves one feeling helpless, alone, and out of control, which threatens all orderly existence. This pattern occurs again and again throughout the Tanakh. Yet, despite the dangers one faces in the wilderness, it is always the place of revelation and transformation. As a result, the wilderness frequently functions as a vehicle for conversion.

Since wilderness imagery figures prominently in the narratives of the Israelites found in the Pentateuch and later in the life experiences of King David, it is important to examine why the wilderness metaphor became one of the enduring root metaphors of ancient Israel, as well as in numerous prophetical passages. One might further assert that wilderness and shepherding connote a spiritual and psychological nexus that is often ignored by biblical theologians. Five general themes emerge out the wilderness imagery: abandonment, revelation, covenant, miraculous provision, and judgment.

To begin with, the Hebrew word מִדְבַּר (midbar) is usually rendered as either “wilderness”[1] or “desert.” Several translations render מִדְבַּר as “wilderness,” while other translations prefer “desert.”[2] Although both terms are similar, there are some distinctive connotative differences. Among the definitions of the word “wilderness,” the American Heritage Dictionary states:

1. An unsettled, uncultivated region left in its natural condition, especially:

a. A large wild tract of land covered with dense vegetation or forests.

b. An extensive area, such as a desert or ocean that is barren or empty; a waste.

c. A piece of land set aside to grow wild.

2. Something characterized by bewildering vastness, perilousness, or unchecked profusion: the wilderness of the city; the wilderness of counterespionage; a wilderness of voices.

In contrast, “desert” means:

1. A barren or desolate area, especially:

a. A dry, often sandy region of little rainfall, extreme temperatures, and sparse vegetation.

b. A region of permanent cold that is largely or entirely devoid of life.

c. An apparently lifeless area of water.

2. An empty or forsaken place; a wasteland: a cultural desert.

3. Archaic A wild, uncultivated, and uninhabited region.

[ME , OFr. < LL. desertum, neut. p. part of deserete, to desert.

In Hebrew, the noun   מִדְבַּר includes both definitions. According to a number of modern scholars, the Sinai technically is not a desert. Professor Jacob Milgrom notes, “Although its scant rainfall cannot support cultivation, it can provide adequate pasturage for the flock.”[3] While the term מִדְבַּר can mean a wilderness, uninhabited land[4], pastureland[5], and sometimes it can denote a desert. When used as a geographical term, the מִדְבַּר is the opposite of the settled life characterized by urban or semi-urban existence.

One modern Biblical Hebrew lexicon explains, “The wilderness is often described negatively as without grapes, fountains, pools of water, rivers, pleasant places—or as in a notable statement: ‘Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?’” (Ps 78:19).[6] Regardless which definition one prefers, the wilderness, as its English etymology indicates, is a place of bewilderment, peril, isolation, detachment, wandering, desolation, and homelessness.  In the מִדְבַּר we feel cut off from the world; it is a place of loneliness and desertion. For the Israelites the wilderness is the place where they discover God’s capacity to support and sustain amidst harsh living conditions. For the Israelites, foraging through the wilderness involved making a journey into the unknown.

Elsewhere in the Tanakh, the wilderness metaphor is sometimes used to connote the realm of chaos and nothingness (cf. Deut. 32:10, Job 6:18). Understandably, the ancients regarded it as a place of demons, confusion, and wild creatures that prey on its helpless victims.

For the unwary traveler, danger lurked whenever one may passage through the wilderness—especially since there are no short-cuts and ready-made paths. Earlier, one of the definitions for wilderness was “profusion,” since it was commonly feared that the wilderness might invade and threaten their ancestral land.

No wonder it was regarded as a symbol of chaos and disorder! It is easy to lose a sense of time in the wilderness. Yet, in terms of shepherding, shepherding is inseparably related to the wilderness. In a spiritual and metaphorical sense, the wilderness represents the feeling of homelessness and confusion.

Throughout the Tanakh, the Torah narratives dealing with the wilderness are often contrasted with the memories of life in Egypt. Surprisingly, the members of the Israelite nation often preferred the fleshpots, the free fish, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic to the manna of the wilderness. Being a slave in meant that Egypt would guarantee the Israelite three meals a day but only at the cost of their human dignity and their spiritual well-being.

For many, security—even if it meant living a life of bondage— seemed more  preferable to the insecurity of freedom. Confronted with a choice, the Israelites could either accept their special destiny as God’s people, or bravely face whatever challenges this would entail, or else they could forfeit their spiritual destiny by submitting to a totalitarian regime that guarantees food.

The wilderness experience serves as a paradigm for all subsequent experiences dealing with the trauma of destruction and exile. The imagery of the Exodus served as a symbol that out of the ashes of  destruction, God will orchestrate a new future that would restore the Jewish people back to their ancestral home—despite the prevailing political conditions and realities.

Over three thousand years later, the images of the wilderness still remain vivid and real. In today’s terms, the wilderness can serve as a metaphor for those who have experience loss, sickness, homelessness, loneliness, divorce, transition, substance abuse, and especially of life of meaninglessness.

Viktor Frankl, the founder of logotherapy, believes that the central human need, more basic than the drive for pleasure, food, or power, is the need for meaning. Human beings require a pattern and purpose that will make sense of our experiences and of the world around us. Meaninglessness threatens not only the inner world of the individual, but also threatens the identity of a society.

It’s a pity many Hasidic Jews do not study or take to heart the Ba’al Shem Tov’s ethical message about loving one’s neighbor as oneself. It’s also a pity when outstanding Lithuanian scholars don’t live by the ethical imperatives found in the Talmud and Midrashic literature.

The ancient Sages of Israel often debated about the ethical hierarchy of precepts. Such debates existed even in the first century. In the NT, a Pharisee asks Jesus:

• “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”[1]

In the Halachic midrashim of the second century, the early Sages also occupied themselves with similar questions.  They asked: What is the most fundamental ethical principle of the Torah? Rabbi Akiba derives his ethos from the verse, “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19:18). Ben Azzai differs: “Do not say, ‘Since I have already been put to shame, it does not matter to me, whether somebody shamed my neighbor!’ “Not so,” says Ben Azai, “Shaming is wrong, for God has made every person in his likeness.”

Put in more contemporary terms: Self-respect begins with realizing the unique image of God that each human being possesses. Recognizing this ethical reality holds the key to recognizing this quality in others. Even when someone shames you, such disparaging treatment does not entitle you to reciprocate in kind—even in the face of provocation. All forms of human degradation harm the divine image, while denying the essential brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind. Affirming the Divine image is by far the most comprehensive principle of the entire Torah—it is the essence of all biblical morality.[2]

For R. Akiba, love is the highest value for interpersonal relationships. However, for Ben Azzai, human society depends upon respecting the divine image in oneself and others. Without this principle, how will the human community survive? Elsewhere, Ben Azzai extols the uniqueness of the human individual, “Do not despise any human being and do not consider anything as improbable—for there is not a man who does not have his hour, and there is not a thing which does not have its place.”[3]  There is no human being in this world that does not have the capacity for excellence and spiritual growth.

Going one step further, there is a rabbinic poignant story which deepens this point of Ben Azzai:

• Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar had returned from a trip in Migdal Eder, from his teacher’s house. As he was riding on his horse, he met a certain man who was exceedingly ugly. Rabbi Shimon said to him, “Raka (simpleton), how ugly are the children of Abraham our father.” The other man replied, “There is nothing I can do about this! Why do you not complain to the Craftsman who made me?” Rabbi Shimon immediately alighted from his horse and bowed before the man saying, “I apologize to you, please forgive me.” He replies to him, “I will not forgive you until you go to the Craftsman Who made me and say, “How ugly is the vessel which You have made.” Rabbi Shimon walks behind him for three miles. When the townspeople heard of Rabbi Shimon’s arrival, they came out and met him; they greeted him with the words, “Peace be unto you, rabbi.” The other man says to them, “Who are you calling rabbi?” They reply, “The man who is walking behind you.” He then exclaims, “If this man is a ‘rabbi,’ I sure hope he is the last of his kind in Israel!” He told the people the whole story, and the townspeople begged him to forgive the rabbi, and he agrees, only on one condition—he must never act in this manner toward anyone again.[4]

As is the case with so many of the rabbinic anecdotes dealing with ethics and human nature, this story is a good example of how the Jewish community understood the image of God in practical and ethical terms. According to R. Abraham Isaac Kook, the love of humankind and God are insuperably related. One cannot love God and hate His creation.  According to Kook, the love of humankind must transcend the narrow confines of tribal loyalty; it is all-inclusive of every religious and ethnic grouping. In Kook’s description, one sees the complete synthesis of Ben Azzai and R. Akiba:

• Love for humankind must be alive in one’s heart and soul—love for each individual separately, and love for all nations, [together with] desire for their advancement and for their spiritual and material progress—… an inner love from the depths of one’s heart and soul, to be beneficent to all nations, to add to their material wealth, and to increase their happiness.…The highest form of love for all creatures is love for human beings, and it must include all people . . .For only when one is infused with love for God’s creatures and all humankind can one elevate love of country to its most noble level, both spiritually and materially. Narrow-mindedness, which results in seeing everything outside the boundaries of one’s own country—even if that country is Israel—as repulsive and unclean, is extremely contemptible; it leads to wide destruction of every valuable spiritual resource to which every decent person looks for enlightenment. [5]

Notes:

[1] NT. Matthew 22:36-40.

[2] Sifra, Kedoshim 4:12. In Genesis Rabba 24:7, the order is reversed, but there can be little doubt that the Sifra represents the older of the two traditions.

[3] Mishnah Aboth 4:3.

[4]  Tractate Derech Eretz  (Chapter 4).

[5] Cited from M. Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources,Principles = Ha-mishpat ha-Ivri (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1994), Vol. 3, 1852.

The other day, I came across an interesting story, worthy of a Sherlock Holmes tale based on this past week’s Torah parsha.

The time:  Feb 12, 2010.

The place: Somewhere in Brooklyn.

Lubavitcher women sponsored a special collection for Shaarei Zedek Hospital in Jerusalem. Deena Yellin writes, “The herd of brightly-colored stuffed animals filled our front porch with all the panache of an overblown Muppets production. They arrived by the dozens in gargantuan bags and boxes – Elmo, Kermit, Big Bird, Mickey Mouse, Winnie the Pooh, and enough Beanie Babies to strike envy in collectors everywhere. The cuddly creatures soon covered so much of our home that the cleaning lady surmised we were opening a toy store. In fact, we planned to give them out for free.”[1]

There is more to this story than what meets the eye. Acts of kindness are always appreciated, whether altruistically motivated or not. In this case, the collection conceals an attitude that is not apparent to a bystander reading this story. The real reason the ladies made this collection has more to do with a taboo regarding the depiction of unclean animals.

Now you will hear the rest of the story . . .

Mickey Mouse has been a friend of children for many generations. However, for the Lubavitcher Rebbe  and his Hasidim, Mickey and Minnie are persona non grata.

Mickey is not alone; Goofy, Porky Pig, Road-runner, Tweedy Bird, Kermit the Frog, Winnie the Pooh, Big Bird, are also forbidden to enter your typical Lubavitcher home. In fact, the Rebbe encouraged his followers to use only kosher animals in all their educational materials and play-toys.

At first blush, most of us reading this are probably wondering: What’s the matter with Mickey? Why did the Rebbe come out against many of the Disney characters? At first I thought it might be due to the fact that some people claim Walt Disney was an anti-Semitic. The evidence is inconclusive. For the record, Walt Disney received the B’nai Brith Award in 1955.

Admittedly, Disney sometimes got carried away with some of his caricatures. In his original version of “The Three Little Pigs,” the Big Bad Wolf comes to the door dressed as a stereotypical Jewish peddler. Disney changed the scene after Jewish groups expressed their criticism. In his short 1929 film, “The Opry House,” Disney portrays Mickey Mouse dressed and dancing as a Hasidic Jew.

Portraying Mickey as a Hasid probably irked Rabbi Schnersohn. The Rebbe cites “Halachic” reasons for ruling that Mickey is unkosher for young children. The Rebbe felt that cartoons about impure animals had a spiritually damaging affect upon a young child’s psyche. If you ask most Lubavitchers Hasidim, you will find that most of them feel uneasy about this ruling. Unfortunately, none of the blogs I have read on this topic seems to deal with the wider ecological implications of the Rebbe’s messianic vision of a world without impurity. This is also the one of the reasons why Lubavitchers do not have dogs or cats in their homes either. Impure animals “spiritually” harm the child.[2]

In one passage, the Rebbe introduces his rationale:

“Concerning the Days of Moshiach (of the Messiah) it is written, ‘I shall remove the spirit of impurity from the earth.’ As the footsteps of Moshiach approach ever closer, we should now enjoy a foretaste of the revelations which will be ours in future time, just as concerning Shabbat it is written, ‘Those who savor it shall merit eternal life,’ a phrase which inspired the Friday afternoon custom of tasting the delicacies prepared for Shabbat. Accordingly, it would be advisable to use illustrations only of pure subjects. When choosing toys for infants, buy only representations of kosher animals. Children illustrations and booklets must have only kosher animals, and so on.”[3]

The Rebbe’s exposition raises an important question: Does the Rebbe seriously envision a time when all unclean animals will cease to exist on the planet? Does this mean we have to say farewell to Flipper and Lassie too? Are they also doomed to extinction once the Messiah arrives? What about all the countless insects that are ritually unclean, not to mention the unclean fish? This is a bizarre scenario, one that is alarming for most people concerned with the preservation of endangered species.

There is some evidence the Rebbe subscribed to such an idea, “Why is the pig called ‘chazir’? For in the end-times, the swine shall return to a pure state (le’ha’chazir‘) to us.” Rabbi Schnersohn writes, “In the Messianic Era, when the true Divine nature of every creature will be openly revealed, the pig will be vindicated as a kosher animal.”[4] Possible antecedents for this idea derive from a variety of Midrashic texts. There is a famous verse from the Psalms (146:7) “The Lord sets the prisoners free (matir assurim).” With the help of a pun, God will permit dietary prohibitions (matir issurim). One Midrashic text even notes that the pig will someday become kosher.[4]

Based on this reading, the good news is Porky Pig will someday become kosher. But what about Mickey and Minnie Mouse? What about the Lion King? Biblical and rabbinical literature suggests otherwise.

More seriously, will all animals undergo a physical rebirth to become kosher for the Messianic era? Hardy. No matter how one looks at the Rebbe’s idiosyncratic theology, all of us who love our dogs, cats, hamsters, birds, and fish—may have a serious problem living in a Messianic world without such delightful creatures—all because they are “impure.”

The Rebbe neglects to explain that the terms “pure,” or “impure” are not necessarily a moral indictment on the animal. These terms are only relevant in terms of what is ceremonially permitted as a sacrifice, or for human consumption. Where would we be without bees playing an important role in our planet’s ecology, besides making just honey? In addition, the corpse of an animal only defiles for one day, whereas the corpse of a human being lasts seven days (Mishnah Kelim 1:1). The Mishnah’s logic is compelling. Human beings defile nature more than animals, and this is obvious to anyone who is familiar with the ecological problems of our time.

One of the most beautiful ancient works is the Perek Shira—“The Chapter of Song,” which celebrates the song of Creation, where every creature—clean and unclean—join in melodic harmony. There is a lovely story about how an unclean frog once taught King David a lesson in humility. The story goes something like this:

He exclaimed to God, “Master of the universe, is there any other creature in Your world that utters more songs and paeans of praise than I? In that instant a frog appears and meets him. The frog then says to David, “Don’t act so boastfully. I utter more songs and paeans of praise than you.”[5]

Even if one subscribes to such a peculiar view, where in rabbinical tradition does it state that all animals, including Mickey Mouse’s relatives will become kosher?

Toward the end of Genesis, in Jacob’s blessings, the aged patriarch compares four of his sons to unclean beasts, e.g., “Judah is a lion’s whelp . . .” (Gen. 49:9); “Issachar is a strong donkey, lying down between the sheepfolds” (Gen 49:14); “Dan shall be a snake by the roadside, a viper along the path that bites the horse’s heels so that its rider falls backward” (Gen. 49:17); “Benjamin is a ravenous wolf, in the morning devouring the prey, and at evening dividing the spoil” (Gen. 49:27). Of all the sons,  Naphtali is compared to a doe, which is a clean animal, “let loose that bears lovely fawns” (Gen. 49:21).

In light of the Rebbe’s disdain for unkosher animals, it would seem his legions of followers ought to ask themselves why the Torah has no problem using unclean animals to represent the tribes. Why doesn’t Jacob use only kosher animals instead? Ironically, the Messiah himself is destined to ride a donkey, “Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zec. 9:9). Of course there is the famous passage from Isaiah 11:6-8, which foresees a peaceful arrangement for all of God’s creatures–pure and impure alike!

The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze,
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp . . .

Historically, the Hassidic movement followed the teachings of Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezeritch (דוב בער ממזריטש‎) (1700- 1772). His name, “Baer,” means “bear,” in English. [6]

Lastly, with respect to pets, animals provide us with many wonderful things, e.g., companionship, love, devotion, happiness, laughter. Most importantly, they teach us how to care for living beings. One must feel great sorrow for generations of Lubavitcher children who have never experienced a loving response from a beloved pet. Children–whether Jewish or otherwise–can learn many wonderful social skills from having “unkosher” pets; animals greatly contribute toward the development of compassion and respect toward all of God’s creatures.[7]

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As we mentioned above, the Jewish vision of Alexandria was original and unique, until early Christianity co-opted this vision and made it their own.

If you look at Judaic history, you will find that Judaism actually tried to make Judaism more spiritually appealing to the non-Jewish world. One of the first attempts at making Judaism more universal occurred when the Jews of Alexandria first translated the Bible into Greek. The end-product of this venture was a literary masterpiece known as the “Septuagint,” deriving from the Greek word “seventy,” named after the seventy elders who helped articulate Moses’ message to the people after the revelation at Mt. Sinai.

From the view of its original team of translators, these Alexandrian Jewish scholars believed that the translation of the Bible would serve to not only make the Bible more understandable to predominantly Greek speaking Jewish audience, it would also serve to make Judaism more intelligible and respectable to the gentile community.

But there may have been a more subtle goal. More than anything else the Alexandrian Jewish leaders wanted to promote an image of Judaism that did not suffer from parochialism. These men possessed a global-minded vision of Judaism as an international faith that could attract the best minds of the Hellenistic and pagan worlds. They believed that as a universal faith, Judaism could unite all the families of humankind. In fact, many Greeks came to embrace Judaism as their new faith. If you examine many of the rabbinic names in the first century C.E., there are quite a number of Greek sounding names, e.g., Antigonous, Alexander, Dosa, and Onkelos–attesting to the fact that Judaism expanded its population growth in the days of Late Antiquity by welcoming proselytes.

Philo of Alexandria, Judaism’s greatest Jewish philosopher of the first century (an older contemporary of Jesus), used the Septuagint to expound the message of ethical monotheism that is the foundation of Jewish ethics and theology.

Just imagine what a curious non-Jew must have thought when he heard Philo expound these famous words in his short but poignant work, “Nobility.” In this pericope, Philo stresses the importance of equal treatment of the outsider who comes to embrace the Judaic faith; the mark of the pious man is not “good birth,” but rather the individual’s virtue. Anyone familiar with the biblical narratives knows that even some of the greatest men of antiquity often sired sons like Cain, Ham, Esau, and others. In short, if Abraham could become a convert to the monotheistic belief in an ethical God, then surely other people could also make that same decision. In his closing paragraph, Philo adds:

• We should, therefore, blame those who spuriously appropriate as their own merit what they derive from others, good birth; and they should justly be regarded as enemies not only of the Jewish race, but of all mankind; of the Jewish race, because they engender indifference in their brethren, so that they despise the righteous life in their reliance upon their ancestors’ virtue; and of the Gentiles, because they would not allow them their need of reward even  though they attain to the highest excellence of conduct, simply because they have not commendable ancestors. I know not if there could be a more pernicious doctrine than this: that there is no punishment for the wicked offspring of good parents, and no reward for the good offspring of evil parents. The law judges each man upon his own merit, and does not assign praise or blame according to the virtues of the forefathers.[1]

There can be no doubt that Philo envisioned a day when Judaism would win the hearts of humankind, and would eventually prove to truly become a light unto the nations of the world, as Isaiah foretold (Isaiah 49:6).

The NT bears witness to the phenomena of Jewish proselytizing and one can easily see how early Christianity incorporated much of first century’s Jewish activity, making it a part of their own modus operandi. The Gospels attest that the Pharisees “compass sea and land to make one proselyte” (Matt. 23:15). Most Christian scholars see this passage as a rhetorical exaggeration,[2] but one must seriously wonder whether this observation is indeed correct. Josephus himself observes that Judaism in his day appealed to Greek and barbarian cities alike.

Historians observe the even in the centuries that followed the great destruction of the Temple, 10% of the Roman population was Jewish—an astounding statistic! Based on the number of Jewish catacombs found in Rome, there were about 100,000 Jews who had either settled or converted to Judaism in the early centuries both before and after the Common Era. [3]

Judging from the literature of that era, one may surmise that the Roman population probably found the Jews to be an intriguing ethnic group in their encounters. The Romans, much like Americans today, probably found the Shabbat discussions on the Torah to be interesting and provocative.  The Jewish community proved to be cordial and hospitable with their Latin and Greek speaking guests. The intellectual ambiance evidently attracted many new converts to the faith. The early Christian church once had some real competition from the Jewish community—of all people!

Roman philosophers, writers, and politicians often complained about how the conquered people of Judea behaved more like the conquerors! According to the Roman historian Tacitus, he was very disturbed at the proselytizing efforts made by Jews which he regarded as a threat to the Empire. One Roman Empress, Poppaea Augusta Sabina (the second wife of Emperor Nero)  was a close friend of Josephus and she is credited with building a synagogue; in addition, contrary to Roman custom, she was buried instead of cremated—more in line with Jewish tradition.[4]

The Roman satirist Juvenal (60-130 C.E.), likewise expresses outrage at the spread of Jewish families among the aristocracy of Rome. He regarded Judaism as a mystery religion, and believed the Jews worshiped the clouds on the Sabbath.  The Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca and adviser to Emperor Nero was hardly any better and noted, “ The customs of this accursed race have gained such influence that they are now received throughout the world. The vanquished have given laws to their victors.”[5] Some Roman thinkers considered Judaism on par with atheism since the God of Judaism is not visible.

As mentioned before in the “Groucho Marx Syndrome” posting, the time has come for modern rabbis to let go of the traumatized memories of Late Antiquity. In an open society, Judaism can greatly benefit from the energy, passion, and love of Judaism that so many of today’s Jews by Choice possess. In my Shul, over 40% are dedicated Jews by Choice. Anyone interested in learning about Judaism, feel free to contact me by sending me an email at this website.

For every Jew-by-Choice I welcome, I feel as a rabbi I am recovering lost souls taken away from us by Hitler and his eternal legion of Hitler-wannabees.

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For Jewish Values Online:

Question:I am taking a college course on Politics and Religion. Why don’t Jews, like Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses and other faiths go out and spread the word?

Answer: Your question is an excellent one. People often ask me, “Why doesn’t Judaism openly try to spread its message of faith to the non-Jewish world like other faiths? Why does Judaism discourage new perspective converts?”

Historically, there was a time when Judaism went out of its way to encourage proselytes. Prior to the Temple’s destruction and even for about a century afterwards, Judaism really did its best to spread the message of Judaism as the religion of philosophical and ethical monotheism. The city of Alexandria purposely tried to make Judaism more meaningful by translating the Bible into Greek. This proved to be a great success and many people from all nationalities and ethnic groups started to study and embrace Judaism as a viable spiritual path. After the destruction of the Temple, most of the attitudes toward the non-Jews continued to be somewhat positive, although not uniformly. Many of the Sages of the first and second century came from families of proselytes. Their family names bear witness to this development, e.g., Antigonous, Alexander, Ben Bag-bag, or Onkelos–and numerous others bears witness to how deeply accepted proselytes were for a time of our history. Here is one of my favorite stories:

• “And the Levite . . . and the proselyte shall come” (Deut. 14:29). Moses spoke up to the Holy One, “Do You really consider a proselyte as important to You as a Levite?!” God replied, “He is even more important to Me, since he became a proselyte for My sake. A parable of a stag that grew up in the wilderness and on his own joined the flock. The shepherd not only gave him food and drink, but loved him more than any of the other animals in his flock. Someone asked the shepherd, “How is it that you love the stag more than any other in the flock?” He replied: I had to perform many kinds of labor for my flock until they grew up: I took them out in the morning and brought them back in the evening. But this one, who grew up in the wilderness and forests, came into my flock—all on his own! Should I not love him very much?” Likewise the Holy One said, “Much did I have to labor for Israel: I brought them out of Egypt, lit the way for them, sent down manna for them, swept in quail for them, made the well gush up for them, and encompassed them with clouds of glory before they were willing to accept My Torah. But this one came on his own volition. I consider him to be not only the equal of an Israelite, and even as equal to a Levite!” [1]

However, the changes began to unravel with Emperor Constantine I, and especially later on when Emperor Constantine II assumed control of the Roman Empire, for it was under his reign Jewish proselytizing became a crime punishable by death.[2] Some historians claim he was worried that the Jews might possibly force a slave or a Christian spouse to convert, but the animus he felt toward the Jews was aimed at marginalizing them as a potential competitor.  Instant liberation was granted to any Jewish or Muslim slave who declared his intention to become Christian. Similar policies were adopted by subsequent Christian emperors who later prescribed the death penalty for any Jew attempting to proselytize a Christian. Similar decrees were also made in the Muslim communities, where the penalty of proselytizing was–and still is (in several contemporary Muslim states)–death. Conversion from Islam to Christianity is considered apostasy (kefirah)—a religious crime that is punishable by death.

Throughout this period of time, the rabbis were concerned with the survival of Judaism; anyone coming to them who expressed a desire to convert was understandably viewed with suspicion. What else would anyone expect from a traumatized people who have experienced terrible persecutions? Had these changes not occurred, who knows how large the Jewish people might have been?

On the other hand, the greatness of a people is not contingent upon its numbers. The Jewish people—despite their size—has produced in our day more Nobel Prize winners, 25% of the total winners.[3]

That’s nothing to sneeze at!

Over the last few decades, Rabbi Alexander Schindler, president of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations, proposed in 1991 that Reform Judaism actively seek converts among non-Jews. In 1996, Rabbi Harold Schulweis, a prominent Conservative leader posted an advertisement in the LA Times welcoming all non-Jews to come and discover Judaism. This is a change for the better.

One last note, more and more rabbis, like myself, are doing whatever we can to encourage anyone who is interested in converting to Judaism. The time has finally arrived for us to re-embrace the Alexandrian tradition that won the hearts of many spiritual seekers of the 1st century and beyond. Our world today reflects more the kind of cultural pluralism that epitomized the great city of Alexandria. It’s time we learn to welcome the spiritual pilgrim that comes our way.

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With rare theological insight, Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) was among the first of modern thinkers to suggest that infancy, in a sense, represents a re-dramatization of the Fall from the Paradise story. At the infant’s earliest stage of psychological development, the infant experiences an “oceanic oneness.” As the baby nurses from its mother’s breast, it does not distinguish between itself and the world, but rather the world is an extension of itself, “in which the infantile ego is sufficient unto itself.”^[1] The infant’s world, however, is only temporary. All parents—sooner or later—will impose restrictions, eventually severing the infant’s continuous pursuit of carefree indulgence and desire toward pleasure. As the child matures, s/he develops a sense of self-identity. Soon, the child realizes the impossibility of its former existence. For all practical purposes, paradise has been lost.

C. G. Jung and Erich Neumann add that the Paradise parable points to a preconscious stage of infancy in which the ego’s center of human consciousness has not yet been activated.^[2]  Neumann refers to the bond of mother and child as “existence in unitary reality” that embraces both mother and child. Neumann believes that at this stage of the child’s evolving consciousness, the image of the mother is not perceived as a separate and independent entity. The mother is seen as an extension of the child’s body and consciousness. There is no subject, object, ego, or self; the infant has no individual experience or perceptions, except for the one experience with the mother—one of total connectedness.^[3]

While the child is within the womb, the unborn enjoys the bliss and serenity that may be compared to Paradise. According to Neumann, Adam was like an infant in the womb waiting to be psychologically born. Had he not “sinned,” Adam would never have experienced pain or pleasure as we know these experiences; one would be the same as the other. He would have existed in a neutral state, a condition without desire, and a state of being that would embrace the opposites. It could, indeed, be called a state of Paradise or what Joseph Campbell (1904–87) referred to as “bliss.” In speaking of the birth trauma as an archetype of transformation, Campbell states:

• In the imagery of mythology and religion this birth (or more often rebirth) theme is extremely prominent; in fact, every threshold passage—not only this from the darkness of the womb to the light of the sun, but also those from childhood to adult life and from the light of the world to whatever mystery of darkness may lie beyond the portal of death—is comparable to a birth and has been ritually represented, practically everywhere, through an imagery of re-entry into the womb.[4]

The “re-entry into the womb” is what may be identified as a psychological return to the function of intuition, whether it is immediately after birth or in any later experience of transformation. It is a way of returning to the mother while in the world, rather than in the womb, which was the original experience. This particular experience is one of the recurring themes of Genesis as is evident in the Akedah of Isaac, and the individuation of Jacob and Joseph. Each crisis they experience becomes a crucible for change and spiritual transformation.

• Mircea Eliade’s View of the Fall: The Emerging Contours of Profane Existence

Mircea Eliade also expands the Paradise story in a way that goes far beyond anything Freud, Jung, and Neumann propose. He asserts that it would be wrong to assume that “religious man” existed only in an infantile state of being; Adam was created with intelligence to manage and take care of the Garden. Archaic man believed he contributed to the maintenance of the cosmos. All his interactions with the inanimate, vegetative, and animal worlds made a cosmic difference. The secular man, who lives in a purely profane mode of existence, lives only for himself and society. “For him, the cosmos does not properly constitute a cosmos—that is, a living and articulated unity.”^[5]

Eliade asserts that the Paradise story characterizes a reality in which Heaven and Earth exist in perfect harmony; it is a place where man could communicate with all of nature. Primordial man lived with a closeness that was full of spontaneity and freedom. He did not see himself as distinct from nature; within his being he embraced all the forces of nature of which he considered himself to be a part. However, as a result of the Fall, primordial man’s super-consciousness receded into a state of unconsciousness. Adam becomes more of a terrestrial being than a spiritual being—out of touch with his ultimate sense of reality, alienated from God, nature, his wife, and finally, himself.

Memory of the Fall exists in myths of all peoples around the world. Every civilization and culture has regarded the human condition as if it were under a spell of unnatural limitations and separateness. All religions try to correct this through   dreams of Utopia and Messianism. Even secular humans yearn to reconnect with the world as their ancestors did. Retreats into the country and mountains away from the urban jungles reflect the deeply rooted yearning of moderns to rediscover the cosmic unity that pervades human existence, albeit unrealistic if not impossible to achieve. With respect to the modern secular consciousness, Eliade writes that a new type of “Fall” has occurred in our world—one where human beings are even more disconnected from the depths of their own beings than ever before:

• From the Christian point of view, it could also be said that nonreligion is equivalent to a new “Fall” of man—in other words, that nonreligious man has lost the capacity to live religion consciously, and hence to understand and assume it; but that, in his deepest being, he still retains a memory of it, as, after the “Fall,” his ancestor, the primordial man, retained intelligence enough to enable him to rediscover the traces of God that are still visible in the world. After the first “Fall,” the religious sense descended to the level of the “divided consciousness;” now, after the second, it has fallen even further, into the depths of the unconscious, it has been “forgotten.” ^[6]

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