Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

• 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 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. Often when we see the people we know succeed in life, 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. If I cannot be successful, then I hope you will not be successful—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 master.

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.

Emanuel Lévinas felt that the human face obliges us to respond in an ethical manner. Martin Buber and more recently, the philosopher 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

The identity of Nimrod continues to be an enigma. Five different approaches have been pursued.  The first identifies Nimrod as a god, usually the Mesopotamian god of hunting and war Ninurta or Marduk; both these names are phonetically similar to the Nimrod’s name. Jewish tradition connects Nimrod’s name נִמְרֹד (literally “we shall revolt”) with the verb מָרַד (m¹rad = “to rebel” or “revolt”). The rabbis regarded Nimrod as the mastermind of the Tower of Babel. Under Nimrod’s rule (v. 10), all the various Mesopotamian city-states became consolidated. Other speculations include:

Some scholars think that Nimrod was Gilgamesh, the legendary leader who ruled the S. Mesopotamian city of Uruk around 2600 B.C.E. and was thus a contemporary of Agga, the ruler of Kish.  Gilgamesh was believed to be two-thirds god and one-third human. According to some of the Sumerian legends about Gilgamesh, he was a Semitic, who lived during the Second Early Dynastic period who fortified Uruk (biblical Erech, modern Warka) and went on to defeat King Agga of Kish (cf. ANET, pp. 44–52).

Gilgamesh is also mentioned in the Sumerian list of kings as reigning after the flood and parallels Nimrod as the first king to rule after the Flood.  In terms of Assyrian mythology, Gilgamesh was regarded as a demigod who imposed his will upon his subjects, reducing them to forced labor, causing them to suffer under his tyranny. Like Nimrod of later rabbinic tradition, Gilgamesh was said to be a mighty builder. Gilgamesh’s subjects prayed that the gods would send him a rival who would curb Gilgamesh’s harsh rule. Among his exploits, Gilgamesh would fight against monsters and wild beasts alike.

In the third approach Nimrod has been equated with an historical personage, possibly Tukulti-Ninurta I, an Assyrian king who reigned c. 1238-c. 1197 B.C.E. Tukulti-Ninurta I established  Assyrian supremacy over King Kashtiliash IV, ruler of the Kassites to the southeast  of his country (about the Persian Gulf), and subjugated ancient Armenia to the northeast. For a short time, Tukulti-Ninurta became the first Assyrian king to rule over Babylon. Among his accomplishments, Tukulti-Ninurta I erected a noted ziggurat temple to the goddess Ishtar-Dinitu (“Ishtar of the Dawn”) that served as a model for Assyrian architecture.[1]

Wiseman has suggested a possible fourth approach, namely, that Nimrod resembles Sargon I of Akkad (reigned c. 2334-2279 B.C.E.), who was one of the earliest of the world’s great empire builders. The extension of Nimrod’s kingdom from southern Mesopotamia (Gen.10:10) to northern Mesopotamia (Gen. 10:11) parallels the growth of the first known empire in history, the dynasty of Akkad.

According to the Sumerian king list, the first five rulers of Akkad (Sargon, Rimush, Manishtusu, Naram-Sin, and Shar-kali-sharric. 2305-2000  B.C.E.) ruled for a total of 142 years;  Sargon and Naram-Sin (about 2300  B.C.E.), were among the greatest of the heroic kings of old.  Sargon I conquered all of southern Mesopotamia as well as parts of Syria, Anatolia, and Elam (Western Iran) The Sumerian king list has Sargon I reigning for 56 years. He established the region’s first Semitic dynasty and was considered the founder of the Mesopotamian military tradition. Although his throne name was Sargon I, he may have had other names.[2]

Lastly, Nimrod may be related to the Akkadian word for the Amorite kingdom, Amurru. Cassuto thinks that Nimrod may have been an Amorite conqueror who conquered the city of Asshur, the capital of the Assyrian kingdom c. 19^th century B.C.E.   The Ammaru were also believed to have been partly responsible for causing of the downfall of the 3rd dynasty of Ur and Akkad at the beginning of the second millennium (c. 2112 — 2004 B.C.E.).  The Amorites are believed to have originated from the great tribal federations of Arabia who immigrated en masse to Babylon, as well as to the mid-Euphrates region, and Syria-Palestine.

Whether Nimrod was indeed the same person as Gilgamesh, Sargon I or Tukulti-Ninurta I, is subject to conjecture, but one thing for certain — Nimrod became the  true archetype of  Assyrian monarchs who followed and belongs to the sphere of Babylonian mythology.[3]

It might seem odd that Nimrod, a son of Cush, a Hamite would establish the region’s first Semitic dynasty, but one must remember that there was considerable intermingling in the families of Shem and Ham and all the peoples of Mesopotamia as seen in the languages and in the architecture. If the Table of Nations was written 7^th- 10^th centuries B.C.E., then the biblical writers probably had in mind the mighty Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian emperors who ruled the world with an iron fist. That explanation seems like the most plausible. Continue Reading

Although the Torah does not directly speak about willful destruction of the fetus as a “right,” nevertheless, the sanctity ancient Israel attributed to human life probably made abortion unimaginable.

The reason for this is simple: Infant mortality in biblical times was close to 50% and it is only natural that attitudes about voluntary abortion probably met with horror and disapproval. Arguments drawn from Scriptures seem inconclusive at best. The lone Pentateuchal source dealing with the legal status of the fetus comes from a section of Exodus dealing with the problem of miscarriage:

• When men have a fight and hurt a pregnant woman, so that she suffers a miscarriage, but no further injury, the guilty one shall be fined as much as the woman’s husband demands of him, and he shall pay in the presence of the judges. But if injury ensues, you shall give life for life” (Exod. 21:22–23).

The verse may be interpreted in a two ways:

It would seem that the Mosaic legislation considered the fetus property, and should not be viewed as living person, like its mother.  Financial compensation to the woman’s husband is determined by the judges, based on the development of the fetus. Such an interpretation has a parallel in the Hittite Laws, 17, in its treatment of the miscarriage. Most biblical translations regard verse 22 as referring to a miscarriage:

• Some scholars[1] translate v. 22-23 differently, “If men fight and hit a pregnant woman and her child is born prematurely, but there is no serious injury, he will surely be punished in accordance with what the woman’s husband demands of him, and he will pay what the court decides” (NET). The term אָסוֹן (˒āsôn) does not mean “death,” as interpreted in the Mechilta, but ought to be rendered as, “health complications,” or, “serious harm,” to the child. Accordingly, if the v. 23 may be speaking of the death of the fetus as well, and the assailant is subject to the death penalty.

Based on the latter deconstructive reading, the death of a well-developed fetus could be viewed as a capital offense. Moreover even v. 22 may not necessarily be speaking about miscarriage as such, but a pre-mature birth and would involve lesser injuries to the mother and the baby—depending upon its physical development. Thus, according to this view, the fetus could be viewed as having a status similar or identical to that of human beings.

Other ancient codes of the ancient Near East (ANE) viewed voluntary abortion in grave terms. According to the Middle Assyrian Laws dating back to 1600 B.C.E., observes that if a woman died as a result of having induced her own abortion, her body was publicly impaled and denied a proper burial.[2] Assyrians viewed this act of impaling as a form of tallionic justice on account of the mother’s murdering of her fetus. According to the laws of Lipit-ištar, as well as the Middle Assyrian Laws, if the woman dies, the man himself will be put to death.[3] The Code of Hammurabi also includes laws regarding miscarriages and determines a monetary settlement based upon the mother’s social status.[4] The Hittite laws do not deal with the cases where the mother dies. Continue Reading

* This is an older article I wrote back in 2009. So, if there is any overlap of ideas, please forgive me.

Abortion, as such, is not discussed in the Tanakh. Explanations  as to why it is not legislated or commented are at best speculative. The biblical world was much more concerned with the survival of its members, rather than with the willful termination of its unborn. Archaeological evidence suggests that in ancient Israel the infant mortality rate was about 50%.

Discussions concerning abortion are ancient indeed. The Torah imposes a fine on the assailant for causing abortion of a woman’s fetus in the course of a quarrel, and the penalty of death if the woman’s dies as a result of the assailant’s attack. “When two people who are fighting injure a pregnant woman so that there is a miscarriage, and yet no further harm follows, the one responsible shall be fined what the woman’s husband demands, paying as much as the judges determine. If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe” (Exod. 21:22-23).

Ancient Discussions

If the Code of Hammurabi is of any indication, the Torah had in mind only financial damages but did not advocate the death penalty for the death of the fetus—regardless how premature or maturely it was. In Section 209: Hammurabi writes, “If a man strike a free woman and cause her fruit to depart, he shall pay ten shekels of silver for her fruit.”

Perceptions regarding the status of the embryo changed centuries later during the days of Greek culture. A new interpretation was introduced that radically transformed our understanding of the biblical text. According to the ancient Greek translation of the Scriptures, the Septuagint, the Torah decreed that under certain circumstances, the death of the fetus could be imposed for causing an abortion:

ἐὰν δὲ ἐξεικονισμένον ἦν δώσει ψυχὴν ἀντὶ ψυχῆς

[And if two men strive and smite a woman with child; and her child be born imperfectly formed, he shall be forced to pay a penalty: as the woman's husband may lay upon him, he shall pay with a valuation.] But if it be perfectly formed, he shall give life for life . . . (Exod. 21:22)

Philo of Alexandria comments on this passage of the Septuagint, “But if anyone has a contest with a woman who is pregnant, and strike her a blow on her belly, and she miscarry, if the child which was conceived within her is still unfashioned and unformed, he shall be punished by a fine, both for the assault which he committed and also because he has prevented nature, who was fashioning and preparing that most excellent of all creatures, a human being, from bringing him into existence. But if the child which was conceived had assumed a distinct shape in all its parts, having received all its proper connective and distinctive qualities, he shall die; for such a creature as that is a man, whom he has slain while still in the workshop of nature, who had not thought it as yet a proper time to produce him to the light, but had kept him like a statue lying in a sculptor’s workshop, requiring nothing more than to be released and sent out into the world.[1]

Philo juxtaposes abortion with the ancient practice of exposure. He writes: “On account of this commandment he also adds another proposition of greater importance, in which the exposure of infants is forbidden, which has become a very ordinary piece of wickedness among other nations by reason of their natural inhumanity . . .”

Josephus also regards abortion as morally akin to murder.[2] Nevertheless, in practice, he followed rabbinical tradition, “He that kicks a woman with a child, so that the woman miscarry, let him pay a fine in money, as the judges shall  determine, as having diminishing the multitude by the destruction of what was in her womb.”[3]

Josephus and Philo may have been of the opinion that the assailant had to pay two fines, one to the husband, and the second fine to charity for depriving the human race of one less person. It is also possible the Hellenistic understanding did run contrary to what later became Talmudic Halacha. Nevertheless, it does reflect the disdain Jews have had throughout history concerning abortion—at least as a method of birth-control. Given the high degree of infant-mortality, this reaction was quite understandable.

Unlike the Septuagint, Talmudic scholars maintained that the word אָסוֹן (´äsôn) “harm” refers to the woman and not to the fetus, since the scriptural injunction, “He who fatally strikes a man shall be put to death” (Exo. 21:12), did not apply to the killing of a fetus.[4] Ancient rabbis did not consider abortion a sin unless the fetus was viable בן קיימא  (ben keyama)—still and all, if the infant was so much as only  one day old , his killer is guilty of murder (Niddah. 5:3).[5]

According to the view of R. Ishmael, only a Gentile, to whom some of the basic transgressions applied with greater stringency, incurred the death penalty for causing the loss of the fetus (Sanhedrin 57b). Though abortion was frowned upon in the ancient world, it did not constitute murder.[6] In one well known Responsa of R. Yosef Trani (14th century), the author argued against a Jew assisting in an abortion, because it “places a stumbling block before the blind (Lev. 19:14).” This Halachic attitude did not apply to therapeutic abortion.

All this doesn’t necessarily mean that the rabbis had a permissive attitude concerning abortion. Clearly, it wasn’t. Thus we find in one medieval Midrashic work that Israel is praised because in spite of Pharaoh’s genocidal decree, in Egypt, “Every boy that is born you shall throw into the Nile,  (Exod. 1:22), “Not one Israelite woman so much as harmed her foetus, much less after its birth. By virtue of their reverence for life, Israel merited the exodus” (Zohar II 3b).

Abortion is permitted if the fetus endangers the mother’s life. The Mishnah reads: “When a woman travails to give birth [and it is feared she may die], one may sever the fetus from her womb and extract it, member by member, for her life takes precedence over his”[7 This is the case only as long as the foetus has not emerged into the world, when it is not a life at all and “it may be killed and the mother saved.”[8] Once the birthing process has begun,  if the greater part of the fetus has emerged into the world-either its head only, or its breach—it may not be touched, even if it endangers the mother’s life  אין דוחין נפש מפני נפש (ein dohin nefesh mi-penei nefesh) “one may not discard one life to save another.”

In another passage of the Talmud, a newborn child is not considered to be viable, until it has lived for 30 days![9] How do we reconcile this passage with the above?

Back to the Future: Contemporary Perspectives

Rav Ben Tsion Uziel, the late Chief Sephardic Rabbi, observes in his Responsa, “When a child dies within 30 days, it is considered as if it was a stillborn and is not mourned for like a person who has died. It becomes evident only in retrospect, that it was stillborn [nofale] and that the period of its life was only a continuation of the mother’s vitality. Since there was no way to ascertain whether the foetus was indeed stillborn or not, it is not a crime one can be executed for because of doubt. Nevertheless, it is certainly prohibited to kill it because of doubt.”[10] This passage of Ben Uziel does have ramifications to another area of Halacha pertaining to discontinuing life-support mechanisms for a  seriously impaired newborn baby. A more contemporary  scholar, Rav Abraham Steinberg, notes “when in doubt, it is better to error in favor of life.”

Just to digress, it is interesting to note  that in a similar way, Christian theologian Augustine raised a key question in his own time, as it is now, was “at what time the infant begins to live in the womb; whether life exists in a latent form before it manifests itself in the motions of the living being.” Augustine admits that he cannot assuredly say at exactly what point human life begins. He seriously questions whether any human has the power to decisively say. Nevertheless, he asserts that anyone who looked at the cut-up remains of an aborted baby would have to recognize that this had been a human life. Although Augustine apparently had a firm belief that a developing foetus participates in human life, he argues equally strongly here that a conclusive proof is outside our human ability. There is some leniency if for example, the abortion will save the mother from an  illness deriving from an inflammation not connected with the pregnancy, or a poisonous fever . . . in these cases the fetus is not [per se] the cause of her illness.”[11]

Among modern Halachic authorities, psychological reasons are also a factor to allow abortions. The great 18th century Halachic giant,  Rabbi Yaakov  Emden, permitted abortion “as long as the foetus has not emerged from the womb, even if not in order to save the mother’s life, but only to save her from the harassment and great pain which the foetus causes her.[12]

One early 20th century scholar, Rav Ben Tsion Uziel, rules in favor of allowing an abortion in order to save the mother’s hearing, even though her life was not endangered. Disgrace and the quality of life are a very important factor to take into consideration when deciding whether one is undergo an abortion.[13] In the case of pregnancy resulting from incest, or any adulterous union, the 18^th century savant, R. Yaakov Emden, permitted abortion so that the stigma of bastardy be attached to her offspring.[14]

With regard to the dreaded Tay-Sachs disease, Rav Eliezer Waldenberg permits the abortion, since as he writes in his Responsa: “One should permit abortion as soon as it becomes obvious from the results of the test that the child is indeed, a Tay-Sach’s baby will be born—even until the seventh month of pregnancy. If we are able to permit abortion according to the Halacha because of great need and because of pain and anguish, it seems reasonable that this is the classic case for extending such permission. And it is irrelevant in what way pain and suffering is expressed; whether it be physical or psychological—It is all the same. Indeed, psychological suffering in many ways in greater than the bodily suffering.”[15]

R. Eliezer Waldenberg also notes that whenever possible, all such abortions should be performed within the first forty days of the pregnancy or at least within the first three months.[16] Pope Gregory XIII [1572-85) expresses a similar view, and wrote that an embryo less than forty days was not yet considered human. Incidentally,  it was only in 1869, Pope Pius IX who along with this doctrine of infallibility, decreed that the destruction of an embryo—even to save the mother’s life — was a mortal sin that merited excommunication from the Church.[17]

Many Orthodox scholars differ and are of the view that Jewish law prohibits abortion when its sole justification is to prevent the birth of a physically deformed or retarded baby. Likewise, abortion—on demand—purely for the convenience of the mother or even society is considered morally repugnant.”[18]

Suffice it to say as in any Halachic matter, there is no carte blanche answer for every conceivable case in Halacha—especially with regard to abortion.  Every case must be determined by its own unique circumstances. A competent rabbi should be able to help guide any person who is wrestling with this important decision. There is no one answer for such a complex issue as abortion. Continue Reading

There can be no doubt rabbinic tradition took a dim view of capital punishment. Mishnahic law required that those accused be warned by witnesses immediately before they commit the offense, and that they acknowledge such warning—a clear indication of the rabbinic distaste for capital punishment, explicitly found elsewhere.[1] Life imprisonment did exist for cases that could not technically be legally prosecuted, even though the evidence left no room for doubt[2]; such a person had to subsist on sparse diet of barley bread and water, and the Talmud indicates the criminal usually died from starvation. There may be a Scriptural allusion to this practice: the prisoner was condemned to eat “the bread of misfortune and the water of distress” (Isa. 30:20). Other rabbinic statements express even greater ambivalence:

• R. Yose says, “Under no circumstances is one put to death unless both witnesses against him have given warning to him,” as it is said, ‘At the testimony of two witnesses’ (Deut. 7:6).”[3] He whose trial ended and who fled and was brought back before the same court—they do not reverse the judgment concerning him and retry him. He whose trial ended and who fled and was brought back before the same court—they do not reverse the judgment concerning him and retry him . . . A Sanhedrin which imposes the death penalty once in seven years is called murderous. R. Eleazar b. Azariah says, “Once in seventy years.” R. Tarfon and R. Akiba say, “If we were on a Sanhedrin, no one would ever be put to death.”[4] Rabban Simeon b. Gamaliel says, “So these Sages would multiply the number of murderers in Israel.”[5]

Moreover, the defendant may not be put to death unless two (or in some cases three) eyewitnesses testify against him or her.  Each witness must be so certain of his testimony that he personally would be willing to carry out the execution.  A passage from Deuteronomy 19:13-21 asserts that a plotting witness is subject to the same punishment as the defendant—including, presumably, death. Although the Torah prescribes the death penalty in the case of adolescent rebellion (i.e., “the rebellious son” of Deut. 21:18-21), the Sages admit, “Such a case never occurred, and it never will happen.” The entire passage is heuristic, so, “That you may study [the Torah for its own sake] and receive reward.”[6] The rabbinic angst and reticence to implement the death penalty, and its alternative system of imprisonment is of great relevance for modern biblical scholars and laity.

Rabbinic law is pretty straightforward about such cases. Maimonides writes, “The following rules apply when two groups of witnesses offer conflicting testimonies. If one witness from one group came together with one witness from the other group and they both delivered testimony concerning another matter, the testimony is of no consequence for it is obvious that one of them lied, but we cannot ascertain which one.”[7]Likewise Maimonides also notes, “Should a court err with regard to a case involving capital punishment and convict an innocent person, ruling that he is guilty, and they discover a rationale that would require that the ruling be nullified and he be vindicated, they nullify the ruling and retry the case. If the Court erroneously ruled and acquitted a person liable to be executed, then the judgment is not nullified and the case is not retried.”[8]

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.

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

“I will send rain on the earth for forty days and forty nights.” —(Gen. 7:4)

Forty  is a portentous number, for it represents the fullness of time. In general, it is usually a round number or estimation more so than an actual precise chronological measurement of time. As the medium of purification in the Torah, water has a unique power in that it can dissolve all the sundry forms it encompasses. In the realm of ritual, the waters of purification determine a new status, hence a new creation. Rabbinic literature develops this concept concerning the various laws pertaining to ritual purification and conversion.

In the Mishnah, for example, the waters of the mikvah (a “ritual bath”) must contain 40 se’ah (approximately 120 gallons) of water—the amount that is necessary to completely cover the human body as it undergoes ritual purification.[1] Ritual immersion represents a symbolic death for the person undergoing ritual. Upon arising, s/he becomes like a new person, as indicated by the Talmudic dictum, “Anyone who has become a proselyte is likened to a newborn baby.”[2]

Ritual immersion always introduces a change in status. For a priest, immersion enables him to eat from the priestly tithes; for the leper, immersion terminates his ceremonially impure  status and facilitates his reintegrate to the community. In the same manner, the Flood lasted for 40 days and 40 nights and served as a means of purifying and purging the world of the violence that had infected it.[3]

Throughout the Tanakh and much of early rabbinic tradition, the number 40 is also associated with dramatic change, upheaval,[4] judgment [5] , hardship, affliction and censure, temptation and punishment, probation, [6] purification, forgiveness,[7] wisdom,[8] redemptive rescuing (as evidenced here) and finally, revelation.[9] The Jewish mystical tradition also sees a profound relationship among all these seemingly disparate nuances associated with the number.

On a psychological level, the number 40 seems to suggest that it is only when we are most broken and humbled we become spiritually open and receptive to God’s revelation and promise of renewal. From a Jungian perspective, 40 also corresponds to the period of life commonly known as midlife, when one often experiences turbulent changes as one comes to grips with mortality and the meaning of human existence. At midlife, that is when we start asking the great questions–even now as we wade our way through the current economic deluge our country is experiencing. Use this time to rediscover the real “You.” Continue Reading

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.