Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

An old former congregant and friend of mine (who happens to be a Cohen) recently lost his father, and he asked me the following question. Is a Jewish Priest’s ritual purity compromised by coming into contact with ashes of a cremated person?

Your question could also be parsed in a philosophical way: Do the ashes of a cremated person retain a residue of a person’s humanity? In practical terms, are we obligated to the ashes, or are do we regard the ashes as being bereft of anything considered “human”?

The Mishnah in Ohalot 2:2 discusses this intriguing question. Here is the text:

The ash of burned people—

A     R. Eliezer says, “Its measure is a quarter-qab.” (1 log = 0.506 lit.)

B     And the Sages declare the ashes ritually clean.

The commentaries state this only applies if the body is completely cremated; however, if the body is partially cremated, then even the Sages concur the cremated body conveys ritual impurity.  The Halacha follows the view of the Sages.  Although there is no legal obligation to bury the ashes in a cemetery—in the event someone died in a fire—nevertheless, a number of halachic authorities rule that it is considered meritorious to bury the ashes in a Jewish cemetery (cf. Gesher HaHayim 16:8:5).

R. Isaac Klein rules:

• A great number of authorities forbid the burial of ashes in a Jewish cemetery because this would encourage the practice of cremation (see Dudaei Hasadeh, sec. 16; Mahazeh Avraham, vol. 2, Y.D. 38; and Lerner, Hayyei Olam). Others permit it and even permit a service at the burial (Rules of the Burial Society of the United Synagogue of London, quoted in Rabinowicz, A Guide to Life, p. 29; see also Rabbi Eliyahu ben Amozegh, Ya’aneh Vaeish). The Law Committee of the Rabbinical Assembly has ruled that cremation is not permitted. When it is done by the family in disregard of Jewish practice, a rabbi may officiate only at the service in the funeral parlor; the ashes may be buried in a Jewish cemetery and appropriate prayers may be said, but not by a rabbi, lest his participation be interpreted as approval (Rabbinical Assembly Proceedings, 1939, p. 156; Law Committee Archives). [1]

Not all halachic scholars agree on this issue, and most Orthodox cemeteries will deny the burial of cremated ashes  for the reasons mentioned above. Conservative Jewish cemetery boards  tend to be more lenient on this issue and this has been my personal position as well.

Over this past week, the question regarding the charred remains of the 9/11 victims came up in the news. According to a new Pentagon report, the government sent the remains of several of the bodies that were gathered from the Shanksville crash to a local bio-medical waste disposal contractor. The contractor later incinerated the remains and used the bodies as landfill. Apparently, this has been the practice of the military for quite some time.

Using people’s bodies for landfill is not much better than what the Nazis did with the Jews in the concentration camps. For example, a woman named Isle Koch was the superintendent of the Nazi concentration camps Buchenwald (from 1937 to 1941) and Majdanek (from 1941 to 1943). As a consummate sadist, Koch took great pride in the lamp shades she made from the skin of Jewish inmates whom she had killed if they had distinctive looking tattoos. In case you did not know, the Nazis also cooked the flesh of Jews in order to separate the fat out and made soap from their bodies. The “Beast of Buchenwald” was one of the first prominent Nazis to be tried by the US military for her crimes against humanity.

According to the Jewish philosopher Emanuel Lévinas and Jacques Derrida, human existence always leaves what’s called a “trace,” of a person. On the one hand, the trace signifies the absence of that person’s presence, but it  also paradoxically preserves a residue of the person’s existence that still remains present.

From their philosophical observation, we may deduce an important ethical principle—one which has profound halachic implications. When dealing with the human remains of a cremated person, the little “trace,” of that person’s humanity does not disappear into a state of oblivion. So long as even the smallest fragment of that person remains, one needs to treat that “trace” with ethical sensitivity. Hence, what we have here is what Derrida calls, “the metaphysics of pure presence,” which I would argue, commands us to treat life with value and with respect.  In simple terms, the human being can never be reduced to an impersonal object, for even the “trace” bears witness to the invisible transcendence of the Other.

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.

For Jewish Values Online:

Are Haredim changing the face of Traditional Judaism? Is the divide between the ultra-Orthodox and other denominations (Modern Orthodox, Conservative and Reform) too great to promote a better understanding and respect between each other?

Stories about the Wise Men of Chelm convey profound wisdom about the human condition, told through the medium of irony, sarcasm and dark humor.

Here is one of my favorite stories. In the town of Chelm, two Rabbis were once seen arguing late into the night about the existence of God. Each one vociferously argued from the Scriptures to prove God’s existence. However, by the time they finished, both of them ended up indisputably disproving His existence! The next day, one Rabbi was surprised to see the other walking into the Shul for morning services.

“I thought we had agreed there was no God,” he said.

“Yes, what does that have to do with it?” replied the other.

The story is not as weird or unusual as it may sound. Unlike our Christian friends, Jews struggle with their faith. God-wrestling is something we have been doing since the night Jacob first wrestled with a mysterious being. As a scion of Israel, grappling with God is something Jews do best. The Talmud is one of Judaism’s greatest gifts to the Western world —not because of the answers that are found in it, but because of the questions it raises.

Christians are uncomfortable with ambiguity, but as Jews—we love the didactic search for truth. Truth has to be self-authenticating. People observing from the outside might conclude that the Jews are crazy. Over the years I am often amazed at the number of “atheist Jews” who love talking about God. God is a passion—even for non-believers! I know, for My son, Moshe, is among them! He is hardly alone. I often like to tell him the words of Maimonides in his famous “Guide for the Perplexed,” Before we can arrive at what we truly believe, we must first define what we won’t believe.” This path is called via negativa—the path of negation.

According to negative theology, every idea—however lofty and spiritual—nevertheless remains a mental picture and thus limiting. Without it, God becomes a creature of the human imagination.[1]  Maimonides warns his readers about the dangers of defining God in any image or metaphor.[2] All positive affirmations of God when pushed to the limit must always bow in silence before God’s mysterious nature and being. Maimonides recalls a Talmudic story about how once the rabbis heard a man praying:

• “God that is great, powerful, awesome, strong, forceful, feared, courageous, reliable, and revered.” After he had finished, the rabbi told him a parable. Suppose a king owned a thousand myriads of gold coins, and someone were to praise him for owning some silver coins, would it not be perceived as an insult?[3]

For Maimonides and his followers, human speech and all forms of “God-talk” are woefully inadequate. It is not enough to merely “talk about God,” one must have a contemplative experience of God that enraptures the depths of our being:

• What is the path to attaining love and awe of Him? Whenever you contemplate His great, wondrous deeds and creations, and see through them His boundless, infinite wisdom, you cannot help but love, exult, and be filled with ecstasy—your passion leads you to want to know God’s great Name.  That is what King David meant when he said, “My soul thirsts for God, for the living God” (Psalms 42:2). Whenever you think about these things, you will immediately become awed-inspired and abashed. You will realize that you are but an infinitesimal creature, lowly and unenlightened, standing with a puny intellect before the Most Perfect Mind. David thus said, “When I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers … I ask: What is man that You consider him?” (Psalms 8:4‑5).[4]

Faith is not meant to be easy and neither is prayer. Prayer in Hebrew is called “tefilah,” a noun that comes from the root “pallel,” meaning, “to judge” or “reflect.” The act of prayer says something about our values and beliefs, but how can one pray to a Being one feels ambivalent about?  Rav Nachman of Bratzlav often speaks about the dark moments of uncertainty we inevitably encounter along the spiritual life. God is there, even in the places we never expected. Yet, even in the dark corners of our soul, a ray of light can dispel an ocean of darkness. You see, it was never meant to be easy. Prayer in Hebrew is often called “avodah,” which also means, “hard-work.” It’s a process that engages our whole being—whether we realize it or not.

One of the most beautiful lessons from the Torah illustrating this is when Jacob flees from his brother Esau, who is looking to avenge his loss of the parental blessing. Like a thief in the night, Jacob skedaddled. He looks for a secure place where he can collect his thoughts. After witnessing a deeply spiritual dream, he awakes from his sleep exclaiming, “Truly, the LORD is in this spot, although I did not know it!” (Gen. 28:16).

What does the passage teach us? Our lives are part of a journey—a spiritual odyssey that demands we be at our best at all times. The experience of God is not something that is limited to the confines of a synagogue. Unfortunately, there are many synagogues where the pulse of faith has flatlined. Prayer is a journey that begins with our questions and searching for Ultimate Truth.

The Chinese say that the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. To find that relationship with God, we must take the first step. The search for God in Jewish tradition can occur in one of two ways. Sometimes it begins with our movement toward the Divine. The other way occurs when the Divine moves toward us. As in a dance, one partner will come closer to the Other and dance “cheek to cheek” with the beloved. But with any dance, there are moments when the partners experience the space of the “in-between.” Lovers embrace that space which exists between them rather than each other. Faith is thus like a dance, and to experience it, all we have to do is to take the first step . . . Continue Reading

Question: Why do we say “baruch dayan ha’emet” when someone dies?

Answer: Since the days of the Mishnah, Jewish tradition prescribes a special blessing for nearly all aspects of Jewish life. There are blessings said over new fruits; there are blessings said before the performance of a religious precept; there are blessings even for when you see the President or the Czar! Every aspect of life is bound up with the theme of blessing. In fact, the fundamental meaning of the word, “Jew” means in Hebrew, “to give thanks.”

With this thought in mind, the Sages teach there are blessings for happy occasions, and there are blessings for sad occasions. The exact nature of a sad occasion is a matter of discussion. According to the Talmud, when hearing bad news one must acknowledge God as the “Just Judge,” (Dyyan HaEmeth—literally, “the Judge of Truth”). Originally, this blessing was not limited to death per se, but applied to any kind of tragic news, e.g., the loss of one’s home due to a natural disaster or fire, the loss of the Temple, or the loss of a friend or valued family member who has died, and so on . . . [1]

The specific time to say this blessing is at the time of death itself. In practice, it is traditionally said before performing the kri’ah (the rending of the garment for an immediate family member or a spouse).[2] Note that there is no blessing ever said for tearing a garment since blessings are never said for acts of destruction. Some authorities hold that the kri’ah should be done in public—which is when the feelings of grief are strongest and most visceral.[3] The blessing should be said with God’s Name, i.e., Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech HaOlam Dyyan HaEmet.

The Talmud teaches in the name of Rabbi Akiba, “A person should always accustom himself to saying, “Whatever the All-Merciful does, is for the ultimate good.” To illustrate the truth of this principle, the Talmud tells an anecdote about Rabbi Akiba. Once he arrived at a village and looked for a local hotel. To his dismay, there were no vacancies to be found. So, Rabbi Akiba decided to camp out in a quiet field; he brought with him a rooster, an ass, and a lamp for the evening. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew out the lamp! Then a weasel suddenly attacked and ate the rooster. A lion appeared and ate the ass! In every instance, Rabbi Akiba affirmed, “Whatever the All-Merciful does is for the good!” Later next day, Rabbi Akiba discovered that some robbers attacked and kidnapped several of the townspeople![4]

As mentioned above, in Jewish tradition, upon hearing about the death of a loved one, it is customary to say this blessing. Obviously, it is not easy to acknowledge God in a time of death; in fact, it’s probably much more natural to feel resentment toward God for taking a loved one away–especially when the person who just died happens to be a young child or adult. Nevertheless,  the blessing teaches us on some psychological level to acknowledge that the binary opposites of Creation, e.g., light and darkness, good and evil, suffering and prosperity—all serve a higher purpose and contribute toward the overall welfare of the world. Were it not for death, the world could not contain or sustain all of the world’s inhabitants; there would be food shortages, war, and countless other social evils. Death is what we share with all that has ever lived.

When consoling someone, it is important to acknowledge their pain and loss. Mouthing platitudes about “God is just,” or telling someone, “I know how you feel,” are inappropriate ways to express condolence. The simple truth is, you don’t know what the mourner is experiencing. One might ask, “How appropriate is it to tell the mourner to say something he or she might not be willing to acknowledge?” Perhaps it is best to follow the sensible advice of R. Simeon b. Eleazar  who says, “Do not try to comfort our fellow when the corpse of his beloved is lying before him . . .”[5] Ecclesiastes also offers some practical advice as well: “A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak” (Eccl. 3:7). In the beginning of the Jobian story, Job’s friends “offered sympathy and comfort” (Job 2:11). They expressed no verbal criticism of him. Sometimes we have to simply “let it be.”

When we lose someone to an illness, it is worth remembering that it is better to live a good life than to live a long and meaningless life. Death is sometimes preferable to a life of pain and incessant suffering. From this perspective, death is a release. Although none of us know the amount of time we have, we must make the most of the precious gift of time that God has allotted us. The blessing teaches us to be grateful for the gift we were entrusted with, but no gift of life can last forever. Sooner or later, we will lose what we have loved until we meet again with our loved one in the world of Eternity. Continue Reading

• R. Yochanan observed, “If the Torah had not been given we could have learnt modesty from the cat, honesty from the ant, fidelity from the dove, and good manners from the cock which first coaxes and then mates.”– BT Eruvin 100b

“Had the Torah never been given,” say the Sages, “humanity could have learned its values from the animal world.” Jewish tradition has long recognized the importance of animals as companions to humankind. According to the early chapters of Genesis, Adam named all the animals (Gen. 2:19). The act of naming—whether it be our children after they come into this world, or whether it be naming a pet, or even the “pet” name we give to our significant Other, says something intensely personal about our identities and existential predicament. In our aloneness, we crave somebody or something to help us get in touch with the feelings that make us feel human. The melodic sound of cat’s meowing at our presence, or the exciting barking of a dog that senses our presence—these simple pleasures remind us that someone really cares about us, even when the whole world seems as though it has turned against us.

An animal’s capacity to show love teaches us on a visceral level that animals have moral standing in our tradition. Whenever I hear a Jewish intellectual or a rabbi claim that animals do not possess a soul, I like to remind the person of the biblical verse, “The just man knows the soul of his beast, but the heart of the wicked is merciless” (Prov. 12:10).

The author of Proverbs stresses an important ethical lesson: a humane person considers the needs of his animals and acts kindly towards them. The world of Creation is full of sentient beings, which also experience many of the joys and blessings that people commonly enjoy: like humankind, these creatures also experience pain. Suffering is also a common language that links humanity with other species of animal life.

Therefore, Jewish ethics take sharp issue with French philosopher Rene Descartes (ca. 1596–1650), who compares animals to machines that service people, stating that their suffering “means nothing more than the creaking of a wheel.” In physiological terms, according to Descartes, what human beings and animals share are that their bodies function by the laws of mechanics. One might respond: How then do human beings differ from animals? Descartes argues that the Creator endows human beings with a divine soul and a moral conscience. “These qualities,” he argued, “are lacking in animals.” In addition, unlike animals, human beings possess the ability to conceptualize and verbalize ideas. Most importantly, only human beings are capable of conscious and rational thought since they are uniquely endowed with the ability to be self-reflective. Only a human being is capable of exclaiming, “Cogito ergo sum” (“I think therefore, I am.”).

However, humanity is not just defined by its cognitive processes. Perhaps a greater quality than our capacity to think is our capacity to feel empathy and sympathy toward those who are suffering. However, do not delude yourself into thinking this quality is limited to only human beings. Animals often show an emotional intelligence that sometimes dwarfs our own as an intelligent species.

Consider the following comparison.

Where would we be without friends? Leo Buscaglia once said, “A single rose can be my garden… a single friend, my world.” Yet, how many times have we seen friends become estranged? One of the uniquely human characteristics that many of us know, is the painful experience when a friend becomes an enemy. Sometimes we begrudge others the gift of success;  there is a jealous or envious part of our psyche that wishes them either ill-will. It’s not a thought or a feeling we would ever admit, but we live in an age of envy. On some pre-verbal level, we say to ourselves, “If I cannot be successful, then I hope you will not be successful either”—just ask Martha Stewart.

And then there are children . . . Oscar Wilde once said, “Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.” How many times have we seen children turn against an aged parent, steal a parent’s money and income with no remorse whatsoever? Fair-weather friends are another good example. Someone once defined friendship as “a ship big enough to carry two in fair weather, but only one in foul.”

But there is one friend who will never abandon you. There is one friend who will never act treacherously or betray you for another.

Who am I referring to? I am referring to your dog. Whether in good times or bad times, whether sickness or in health, your dog will love you.

A dog’s memory baffles me at times. Dogs seem so much more sentient than most human beings I know. There are countless stories from all over the world about how a dog visits its master’s grave, even though both master and dog are separated by an ocean of time. One story I found on the Internet speaks about a dog named Greyfriars Bobby, who visited his master’s grave for fourteen years.

A similar story appeared in the Huffington Post (Nov. 22, 2011). Somewhere in China, a man named Lao Pan died. He had no family, but he did have a loyal dog. After dying at age 68, Lao Pan’s dog stayed by his master’s graveside; it refused to eat for seven days. The townspeople finally brought food and water to the animal, and some are planning to build a kennel for the dog to sleep in.

It’s a pity Rabbi Yochanan forgot to include, “Man would have learned loyalty from the dog . . .”

And let’s not forget cats!!

Cats also possess some of these same characteristics found with dogs. I recall how one cat nearly starved herself to death because her mate had suddenly died. The veterinarian had to put her on a special diet to regain the seven pounds she had lost.

The philosopher Emanuel Lévinas felt that the human face obliges us to respond in an ethical manner. Martin Buber and more recently, the postmodernist thinker Jacques Derrida took umbrage with Lévinas. They contend that the face of a faithful pet also commands an ethical response from us, as human beings and as God’s stewards of Creation. When the eyes of our pet look at us, how can we not reciprocate with love? Continue Reading

After the wonderful exodus of the Israelites from Egypt, a king of Arabia sent an artist to Moses, to paint his portrait, that he might always have the likeness of the divine man before him. The painter returns with his handiwork before the King.

The King proudly displays the picture and asks his wise men to comment on the artistic work of Moses. What did the picture reveal? The artist depicts an evil looking man, disfigured by all the worse possible human attributes. The wise men said, “This looks like haughty, sensual, and evil man.” They added, “But the picture is still a masterpiece!”

“What a cheap consolation,” exclaimed the King, “How can I show it to Moses?” Feeling frustrated, the King of Arabia went to Moses and apologizes to him for showing such a disrespectful portrait.

Moses replies “Don’t be upset! Your artist and your experts alike are truly gifted masters. Their depiction is accurate. However, if my fine qualities were a product of nature, I would be no better than a log of wood, which remains forever as nature originally produced it.

He continued, “Let the truth be told, I must confess, I truly possessed all those reprehensible traits your wise men read in my picture and ascribed to me. They were more accurate than they could have possibly realized! However, over time I have learned to master my evil impulses, and I eventually learned to replace these evil habits with good habits so that I would finally become a new human being—Through these changes, and lots of hard work, I have become a respectable and commendable human being in the eyes of mortals as well as well as in heaven.”

This old medieval legend teaches us an important truth:  Each of us has qualities we may not be proud of possessing. However, nobody is born a saint. Besides, every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

Redemption begins with facing our own inner darkness, which Carl G. Jung identifies as the “shadow.” Shadow defined by Jung, the archetype of the “shadow” represents the hidden or unconscious aspects of oneself—both good and bad—which the ego either represses or never recognizes, as he notes: “The shadow is the thing a person has no wish to be.”[1] The more unaware we are about this darker and amoral side, the less likely we will mindfully confront and change our inner nature.[2] To become self-aware, it is imperative that each of us find a way to integrate our “shadow” nature. This spiritual and psychological task is not without its challenges and difficulties, as Jung explains further:

“The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the darker aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the real existential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and therefore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance.“[3]

Awareness of these internal psychological forces can enable a person to be deliberate in thought, word, and deed, while unawareness of the shadow can often lead to the scapegoating of others. Shadow projections are among some of the most pernicious attitudes evident in many social and racial biases. Misogyny, for example, is due to a man’s refusal to recognize his own inner feminine nature that yearns for a conscious expression. The same dynamic is present in any kind of social prejudice.

Conversely, it would be a mistake to identify the shadow with forces of evil; the shadow reflects the underdeveloped good that has yet to become fully realized and conscious. There is another element of the shadow that represents the repressed goodness each of us has which yearns to emerge into consciousness.[4] Jung refers to this presence of the psyche as the “Golden Shadow.” This manifestation of the psyche is always present in the heroes and heroines of the Genesis story. God refuses to give up on His chosen ones; Divine creativity turns inward, the human spirit is a work in progress. Jung explains further: “The shadow is not, however, only the dark underside of the personality. It also consists of instincts, abilities, and positive moral qualities that have either long been buried or have never been conscious. The shadow is merely somewhat inferior, primitive, unadapted, and awkward; not wholly bad. It even contains childish or primitive qualities which would in a way vitalize and embellish human existence, but—convention forbids!”[5]

Admitting that the shadow exists is a crucial step in breaking its compulsive hold on the individual. One of the best illustrations of this in the book of Genesis is the story of Jacob, a man who is in every sense a creature fashioned from the forces of Creation itself—light and darkness commingled as one. As a young man, Jacob feels spiritual yearnings within his heart, but acts ruthlessly in achieving his goals. Jacob’s transformation occurs once he becomes consciously aware of what he has been, and chooses to become something altogether different. By developing an awareness of his spiritual center, Jacob finally learns to shed the fears that commandeer his soul and discovers an inner center of peace. He discovers that blessings can only be obtained through just and honest means—without fanfare or manipulation. Continue Reading

Religious societies probably grapple with the problem of shame more so than your typical secular community. Rigors of ordinary Orthodox Jewish life are daunting enough. When compared to the members of the Haredi community, Orthodox Jews might just as well consider themselves, “Reform,” or even Unitarian. The Haredi live as though they belong in the 18th century. The modern world with all of its technological wizardly threatens to unravel the foundations of their society. Bombarded by an endless stream of Internet images, they feel as though their world is collapsing—and it is.

Technology is only part of the problem. The world has changed; feminism has redefined the role of a woman in society.  In premodern times, Jewish women  usually spent their days cooking and cleaning the house. She was wholly devoted to raising her family. Today’s Haredi woman often finds herself forced to find work in order to support her family. She does it without fanfare. Today’s Haredi woman behaves like a classical “woman of valor,” mentioned in the book of Proverbs.

• She is like the ships of the merchant, she brings her food from far away . . . She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard. She girds herself with strength, and makes her arms strong. She perceives that her merchandise is profitable. Her lamp does not go out at night (Proverbs 31:14-18).

What does the Haredi husband do? He sharpens his mind through the study of Talmud. He asserts his position as the man of the house, while everyone cringes in fear. Behind the bravado of the Haredi male is a person who suffers from low self-esteem. On some level, he feels ashamed he cannot provide for his family like other Haredim in the United States or in Europe. Most Haredi men lack the most basic skills to hold a job down; they are barely literate. Most of what they study in yeshiva is impractical. Their wives, on the other hand, interact with the modern world. These women have proven to be capable, personable, and successful. Haredi women are their family’s primary breadwinners and they are proud of their accomplishments! The men are jealous of their wives–and for good reason.

So what do these men do? They marginalize and bully the woman—not just their wives, but all women and girls. When they see a young and confidant Orthodox woman, they cringe with pain. They fear such women might actually inspire their wives to choose strength over weakness. They emphasize the “inferiority” of women by excluding them from aspects of public life, and segregating them in the back of the bus.

Why are the Haredi men doing this? The answer is simple: in their hierarchical society, they feel as though the walls of tradition are crashing down upon them from the force of modernity–and indeed they are!

Are the Haredi men completely responsible for this dilemma?

Not entirely.

Their rabbis enabled this kind of behavior for decades.

Prominent Hassidic (and Haredi) rabbis insist that none of their followers study in colleges for an education. As a result, their followers remained trapped in limbo between two opposite worlds: the pre-modern and the postmodern. Karl Marx warned us about the dangers of religious corruption when he said, “Religion is the opium of the masses.” The Haredi structure has a very strong Hassidic constituency,[1] but the Lithuanian and Sephardic components also support this mindset, howbeit to a lesser degree.

Hassidic rebbes, like Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin (1796-1850), developed a new trend that continues today. According to the Israeli scholar David Assaf, this Rebbe unabashedly demanded enormous sums of money from his Hasidim (presumably without offering kickbacks or illegally inflated tax-receipts). His garments consisted of outrageously lavish, silver and gold-laced outfits, favored royally and decorative walking-sticks. The Rebbe even had an orchestra to serenade him to sleep. He traveled in gilded chariot drawn by dozen white stallions (some say six Arabians, while others argue three Rumanian nags). And he infamously was fond of declaring, as a kind of personal motto, “All the money in the world belongs to me.”

You probably heard the old song, “Oy, diamonds are a Rebbe’s best friend!”

Rabbi Yisrael of Ruzhin was not the only one to behave this way. Many of today’s Rebbes have sometimes resorted to crime, money-laundering, and other terrible crimes in order to maintain their lavish lifestyle.

Although scholars like Martin Buber love to write stories about a Rebbe’s piety, not all of them were pious. In fact, many weren’t. Today’s successors in Jerusalem have no financial difficulty providing for their own families. Yet, they begrudge their followers to go out and get a college education. Contact with the outside world remains taboo. Their gullible followers live in squalor, and they take out their angst on their poor women, who are too fearful of the consequences if they fail to comply. An educated person knows how to think for oneself. Knowledge is power; it also creates an opportunity to succeed.

Christopher Hitchens once said, “Shepherds don’t look after sheep because they love them—although I do think some shepherds like their sheep too much. They look after their sheep so they can, first, fleece them and second, turn them into meat. That’s much more like the priesthood as I know it.”

Hitchens’ remarks especially apply to the Hassidic and Haredi rabbis, as well.

All the Halachic prohibitions and stringencies cannot prevent their world from imploding. What the Haredim really need are genuine leaders who deeply care for the flock God has entrusted them. They need leaders to encourage them to take responsibilities for their families; they need to encourage them to become givers, and not mere takers of society’s dole.

California — Whenever I read the Lubavitcher website, it seems as if we are reliving history.  The Lubavitcher lynching of Shmuley Boteach reminds me of how the 17th century Dutch Jewish community treated one of its heretical spirits and his name was Uriel da Costa (1585-1640).

Not all Pharisees of the Talmud are worthy of our admiration. No, this statement is not one I personally originated; this idea actually comes from the Talmud itself.

Two thousand years ago, the Jewish community had an entire class of people who delighted in such feats of piety. The Talmud heaps scorn on the religious pretentiousness of these “foolish Pharisees.”

The Jerusalem Talmud writes, “Who is a man of piety that is a fool? “He, for example, who, if a woman is drowning, says, ‘It is unseemly for me to look at her, and therefore, I cannot rescue her. . . . Who is the pious fool? He who sees a child struggling in the water, and says, ‘When I have taken off my phylacteries, I will go and save him.’ By the time he arrives to rescue him, the child has already expired. Who is the crafty scoundrel? R. Huna says, ‘He is the man who behaves leniently toward himself, while teaching others only the strictest rules.’”[1]

“Our Rabbis have taught: There are seven types of Pharisees: the ostentatious Pharisee[2], the Pharisee who knocks his feet together and walks with exaggerated humility[3], the Pharisee is one who knocks his face against the wall rather than gaze at a woman[4] The Pharisee who feigns religious piety while constantly exclaiming, ‘What is my duty that I may perform it?’”[5]

You have just returned from Memory Lane.

Imagine a Haredi convention where the great rabbis come up with their latest technological and religious innovations designed to keep men and women apart. Wait until you see the latest fashions the Haredi rabbis decreed upon their enthusiastic followers. Mind you, I am not saying that all Haredi are lunatics–however, the Belzer, Satmar, Gerer Hassidim have hundreds of thousands of lunatics following some very shady religious leaders. I did not include the Lubavitch or the Bratzlav, for both of these movements operate on a principle of ahavat Yisrael–for the most part (but not always). This is obviously a topic nobody in the Haredi world want to talk about. Like most dysfunctional families, family “secrets” are necessary to allow the dysfunction to continue.

Now, back to our subject . . .

Last year’s innovations included:

• A  ban on mannequins.
• The Personal Mechitza, which is a small partition Haredi Jews wear around their heads when travelling on El Al Airlines. The PM prevents Haredim from gazing at the lovely El Al Stewardesses. It comes in only one color: black.
• Women must sit at the back of the bus!
• How to attack Modern Orthodox girls walking to elementary school.
• How to attack wheelchair bound children on Shabbat!
• Rock concerts for Haredim during the Shabbat, where non-Haredim get stoned!
• Separate sidewalks!

This year’s innovations include:

• Use only “BLACK” rabbinically certified baby carriages!
• Using gangs to intimidate other Haredi Jews.
• Living like the Coneheads—special headgear for women designed to out-Taliban the Taliban burka!
• Separate elevators for women as of 1/18/2012![6]

The Taliban are probably experiencing envy as you read this article. “Why can’t we become more religious, more fanatical like the Haredim?” asks a child to her mother.

Most of you have probably heard of OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I personally prefer identifying this acronym as, “Orthodox Compulsive Disorder.” Hey, if the shoe fits, wear it!

OCD is a very common kind of anxiety disorder. Haredi behavior makes sense when you realize that all these new “halachic” acts of piety involves ways of coping with underlying anxiety, tension, anger, and guilt.

Most modern psychologists and therapists probably are not deeply in love with Freudian psychology, but I have a pretty healthy respect for Freud’s view of religion as an obsessional type of neurosis. Unlike Jung, Frankl, Rodgers, Fromm, and others who saw religions as serving a potentially positive function in society and in the life of the individual, Freud only concerned himself with the pathological aspects of religion that constricts rather than liberates the human spirit from its shackles.

When Freud wrote “Religion as Obsessional Neurosis” in 1907, he observed how religious people suffered from an overwhelming feeling of guilt:

• We may say that the sufferer from compulsions and prohibitions behaves as if he were dominated by a sense of guilt, of which, however, he knows nothing so that we must call it an unconscious consciousness of guilt, in spite of the apparent contradiction in terms. This sense of guilt has its source in certain early mental events, but it is constantly being revived by renewed temptations which arise whenever there is a contemporary provocation. Moreover, it occasions a lurking sense of expectant anxiety, an expectation of misfortune, which is linked, through the idea of punishment, with the internal perception of the temptation. . . [7]

Freud was right. Religion for many people is a mental disorder. Continue Reading