Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics 2017030198, 9781138230460, 9781315385747

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Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics

Twentieth century continental thinkers such as Bergson, Levinas and Jonas have brought fresh and renewed attention to Jewish ethics, yet it still remains littlenoticed in the Anglophone academic world. This collection of critical essays brings together the work of established and up-and-coming scholars from Israel, the United States, and around the world on the topic of Jewish religious and philosophical ethics. The chapters are broken into three main sections – Rabbinics, Philosophy, and Contemporary Challenges. The authors address, using a variety of research strategies, the work of both major and lesser-known figures in historical Jewish religious and philosophical traditions. The book discusses a wide variety of topics related to Jewish ethics, including “ethics and the Mishnah,” “Afro-Jewish ethics,” “Jewish historiographical ethics,” as well as the conceptual/philosophical foundations of the law and virtues in the work of Martin Buber, Hermann Cohen, and Baruch Spinoza. The volume closes with four contributions on present-day frontiers in Jewish ethics. As the first book to focus on the nature, scope and ramifications of the Jewish ethics at work in religious and philosophical contexts, this book will be of great interest to anyone studying Jewish studies, Philosophy and Religion. Curtis Hutt is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, USA. His Ph.D. is from Brown University in Religion and Critical Thought. He works primarily on the ethics of the representation of the religious past with a focus on the history of Judaisms and Jerusalem. Halla Kim is Professor of Philosophy and Jewish Studies at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, USA. He specializes in Kant/German Idealism, modern Jewish thoughts and Korean philosophy. He is the editor (with Steven Hoeltzel) of Kant, Fichte, and the Legacy of Transcendental Idealism (2014). Berel Dov Lerner received his Ph.D in philosophy from Tel Aviv University. He is an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Israel’s Western Galilee College and has authored the book Rules, Magic, and Instrumental Reason (Routledge 2002) and many articles in philosophy and Jewish studies.

Routledge Jewish Studies Series Series Editor: Oliver Leaman University of Kentucky For a full list of titles in the series: www.routledge.com/middleeaststudies/series/ JEWISH

Studies, which are interpreted to cover the disciplines of history, sociology, anthropology, culture, politics, philosophy, theology, religion, as they relate to Jewish affairs. The remit includes texts which have as their primary focus issues, ideas, personalities and events of relevance to Jews, Jewish life and the concepts which have characterised Jewish culture both in the past and today. The series is interested in receiving appropriate scripts or proposals. Ethics and Suffering Since the Holocaust Making Ethics “First Philosophy” in Levinas, Wiesel and Rubenstein Ingrid L. Anderson Abū’l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī’s Scientific Philosophy The Kitāb al-Mu‘tabar Moshe M. Pavlov Abū’l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī’s Metaphysical Philosophy The Kitāb al-Mu‘tabar Moshe M. Pavlov Contemporary Sephardic and Mizrahi Literature A Diaspora Edited by Dario Miccoli Religious Studies and Rabbinics A Conversation Edited by Elizabeth Shanks Alexander and Beth A. Berkowitz Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics Edited by Curtis Hutt, Halla Kim and Berel Dov Lerner The Bible and the ‘Holy Poor’ From the Tanakh to Les Misérables David Aberbach Violence and Messianism Jewish Philosophy and the Great Conflicts of the Twentieth Century Petar Bojanić

Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics

Edited by Curtis Hutt, Halla Kim and Berel Dov Lerner

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Curtis Hutt, Halla Kim and Berel Dov Lerner The right of Curtis Hutt, Halla Kim and Berel Dov Lerner to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hutt, Curtis, editor. | Kim, Halla, 1964– editor. | Lerner, Berel Dov, 1958– editor. Title: Jewish religious and philosophical ethics / edited by Curtis Hutt, Halla Kim and Berel Dov Lerner. Description: New York, NY : Routledge, [2018] | Series: Routledge jewish studies series | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017030198 | ISBN 9781138230460 (hbk) | ISBN 9781315385747 (ebk) Subjects: LCSH: Jewish ethics—Philosophy. Classification: LCC BJ1285.2 .J495 2018 | DDC 296.3/6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017030198 ISBN: 978-1-138-23046-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-38574-7 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

To the memory of Moshe Gershovich (1959–2017)

Contents

Notes on contributors Foreword

ix xi

Introduction

1

PART I

Rabbinics 1 Angels vs. humans in the moral psychology of R. Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk

11 13

B E R E L D O V L E RNE R

2 Angels, humans, and the struggle for moral excellence in the writings of Meir Simhah of Dvinsk and Simhah Zissel of Kelm

27

G E O F F R E Y C L AUS S E N

3 Wise hukkim and the Byzantine sermonic ideology of a Divine fiat

51

E L I S H A S . A NCS E L OVI T S

PART II

Philosophy 4 Is Maimonides a moral relativist?

85 87

L E N N E . G O O DMAN

5 Spinoza’s baffling view of biblical morality

107

MICHAH GOTTLIEB

6 Hermann Cohen on the concept of law in ethics HALLA KIM

119

viii Contents 7 Expressions of caring: relational virtues in Buber’s ethics

139

LAURA GRAMS

8 Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics: Adorno, Levinas, Derrida

153

E R I C S . N E L S ON

PART III

Contemporary challenges 9 Textual morality: on the neglect of ritual in applied Jewish ethics

173 175

ARI SCHICK

10 A critical reading of American liberal Jewish engagement with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict

191

YA K I R E N G L A NDE R

11 Afro-Jewish ethics?

213

L E WI S R . G O R DON

12 Jewish history and memory: historiographical ethics after Yerushalmi’s Zakhor

229

C U RT I S H U T T

Index

241

Contributors

Elisha S. Ancselovits is Senior Lecturer at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies as well as Senior Fellow at Emory University Center for the Study of Law and Religion, USA, Research Associate at Liverpool Hope University’s Centre for War and Peace Studies, UK, and Postdoctoral Researcher in Jewish Education, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel. Geoffrey Claussen is Associate Professor of Religious Studies and Lori and Eric Sklut Scholar in Jewish Studies at Elon University, USA. Yakir Englander is a visiting scholar at Rutgers University, USA, and a Shalom Hartman Research Fellow. Lenn E. Goodman is Professor of Philosophy and Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities at Vanderbilt University, USA. Lewis R. Gordon is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Connecticut, USA. Michah Gottlieb is Associate Professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York University, USA. Laura Grams is Chair and Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, USA. Curtis Hutt is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, USA. Halla Kim is Professor of Philosophy at Sogang University, South Korea, as well as Professor of Philosophy and Jewish Studies at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, USA. Berel Dov Lerner is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the Western Galilee College, Israel. Eric S. Nelson is Associate Professor of Humanities at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. Ari Schick is currently a Fellow-in-Residence at the Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics at Harvard University.

Foreword

Some of the chapters contained in this volume were originally presented as papers at a symposium on Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics sponsored by the Schwalb Center for Israel and Jewish Studies at the University of Nebraska at Omaha in April 2013. We are saddened by the recent passing of the Schwalb Center’s director, Dr. Moshe Gershovich of blessed memory, and we appreciate his support for this project and thank the Center for continuing that support. We also thank Karen Pollack for editorial assistance, the funding for which was provided by the Goldstein Supporting Foundation of the Jewish Federation of Omaha. Berel Dov Lerner’s work on this volume was partially supported by a Templeton Foundation Senior Research Fellowship at the Herzl Institute in Jerusalem.

Introduction

This anthology is a collection of previously unpublished essays by both wellestablished as well as budding scholars. The editors aim to present exciting explorations into a series of topics broadly belonging to either Jewish religious or Jewish philosophical ethics. Each of these sometimes distinct but clearly intertwined fields currently enjoys a state of rapid growth, evolution, and advancement. We divide the papers into three categories: Rabbinics, Philosophy and Current Challenges. This is, of course somewhat artificial, since rabbis can cite and argue with philosophers, and philosophers return the favor by citing and arguing with rabbis. Both traditions are utilized by those coping with modern and postmodern predicaments. Writers of historical and contemporary Jewish ethics often stand on the shoulders of giants, yet innovations are introduced with surprising regularity. In the twenty-first century, the study of Jewish ethics is a vibrant pursuit. In this volume, we assemble a series of essays on well-known as well as relatively uncharted themes. Some chapters revisit sacred texts. Others examine new and relatively neglected developments. Two of the essays address the work of the late nineteenth/early twentieth century sage, Rabbi Meir Simhah of Dvinsk, a figure not widely known outside of Orthodox Jewish circles. Other chapters stand alone, unique not only within the limits of the book but even within scholarly literature more generally. One chapter lays out the relevance of Martin Buber’s writings for virtue ethics and the feminist ethics of care. Another calls for the recognition of the role of ritual in ethical life. Whether treating early rabbinic literature or the politics of contemporary Jewish communities in the United States, the goal of these studies has remained the same – to forward innovative explorations of Jewish ethics. We defend in this introduction no single definition of what makes Jewish ethics “Jewish,” religious ethics “religious,” or philosophical ethics “philosophical.” However, these essays broadly address two fundamental concerns for the construction of any Jewish ethics: the relationship between religion and ethics, and the role and compass of Jewish particularity for Jewish ethics. These two broad sets of issues meet at a higher level with questions surrounding the relationship between particularly Jewish practices and universal – purportedly rational – morality. The chapters by Berel Dov Lerner and Geoffrey Clausen address the role of interpersonal morality in the Jewish spiritual quest, while Ari Schick

2

Introduction

insists on the relevance of ritual practice for Jewish ethics. Elisha Ancselovits argues that the rabbis of the Talmud viewed even the most apparently mysterious ritual commandments as informed by rational wisdom, while Lenn E. Goodman demonstrates Maimonides’ belief in the rational objectivity of morals. Halla Kim describes how Hermann Cohen reconstituted Kantian ethics upon the more traditionally Jewish foundations of law (halakha) and congregation (Kahal), while Michah Gottlieb explains how Cohen’s bête noire – Spinoza – devalued those parts of scripture (largely concerned with Jewish ritual) which he thought were merely aimed at preserving the ancient Hebrew polity, while valorizing those he deemed to reflect a genuine philosophical ethics. Other chapters more directly confront the issue of particularity and universality, with Lewis Gordon challenging dominant demarcations of the terrain of Jewish thought to make room for an Afro-Jewish ethics and Eric S. Nelson exploring cosmopolitan tolerance in the thought of three Jewish thinkers of great standing in mainstream contemporary philosophy. Laura Grams shows the relevance of Martin Buber’s ethics for feminist thought and how its compass includes the non-human world. Yakir Englander describes how American Jewry uses the Israel-Palestine conflict to maintain communal identity and Curtis Hutt insists that Jewish historical memory submit itself to critique as expected in the broader discipline of historical research. Readers of our anthology will encounter the multifaceted ethical thought and practices of changing and diverse historical Jewish communities from the ancient world until the present. We do maintain that Jewish religious and philosophical ethics occupy a special place not only in the history of religious ethics but also in the history of philosophy itself. This stance serves several goals: (i) to improve appreciation of Jewish ethics as a highly diverse and complex constellation of beliefs and practices that can be fruitfully examined from a variety of different perspectives, (ii.) to demonstrate Jewish ethics’ continued relevance to a number of major religious/philosophical doctrines and movements, and (iii.) to mark out Jewish ethics as a strikingly innovative and still highly relevant tradition in the history of ideas in the West. Now let us present a more detailed description of the contents of the book. The opening two chapters of the Rabbinics section are concerned with the philosophical anthropologies and psychologies developed by a pair of Eastern European Jews, Rabbis Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk (1843–1926) and Simhah Zissel Ziv of Kelm (1824–1898). The authors of these chapters offer important examples of how this-worldly moral action can be radically valorized within the framework of traditional rabbinic thought. Berel Dov Lerner explicates the ideas of Meir Simhah, a revered rabbinic scholar best known for his work on Maimonides’ Code and who also composed the Torah commentary Meshekh Hokhma, which combines profound erudition with exceptionally original, and sometimes theologically daring, exegesis. One theme in the latter work makes a sharp break with the Maimonidean ideal of the contemplative philosophical life and instead insists that human spiritual development is a communal affair which is largely driven by action – especially moral action – in the material world. Furthermore, right action is superior to

Introduction 3 contemplation because only action can sanctify the material world of creation. Meir Simhah gives expression to his view by weaving together various motifs from the midrashic and latter rabbinic traditions to set up a contrast between human beings, who are social and can evolve spiritually and morally, as against angels, who are asocial and whose natures remain fixed in a given mode of perfection. The earthly social and economic interdependence of human beings sets the stage for human interaction, and human interaction affords people the possibility of constant change and improvement. Meir Simhah’s insistence on the role of social interaction in spiritual development has practical consequences for Jewish life. Positive social interaction can only take place in the context of a harmonious society, which in the Jewish case requires Jewish national solidarity. This need for solidarity must temper disagreements within the Jewish community, and it also explains the role of holy places for Judaism. Sites such as the Temple Mount in Jerusalem are not intrinsically holy, rather they gain their importance from their crucial role in connecting Jews with each other via their historical national heritage. Lerner completes his expository account with a speculative suggestion as to how Meir Simhah might have defended one of his most radical (and least defended) claims: that philosophical excellence can only be achieved by those engaged in moral action. In a nutshell, he suggests that if philosophy is ultimately concerned with understanding the just nature of God’s providence, and personal engagement in moral action offers the individual otherwise unavailable insights into the nature of justice itself, then moral action becomes a prerequisite for full philosophical enlightenment. In chaptefr two, Geoffrey Claussen builds upon Lerner’s paper to reveal the commonalities and differences between Meir Simhah’s moral psychology and that of Simhah Zissel Ziv of Kelm. Simhah Zissel did not make major contributions to traditional rabbinic scholarship; rather he was an important figure in the Musar movement, a relatively late development in Orthodox Judaism which stressed character building and correct action, somewhat to the detriment of the traditional focus on Talmud study. While Simhah Zissel shared Meir Simhah’s insistence on the importance of moral action in the material world, he took a more radical stance and explicitly demanded that Jews be prepared to set aside their religious intellectual pursuits when called upon to address this-worldly human needs. Such acts of loving-kindness constitute the highest form of spirituality. Thus, Simhah Zissel instructs his son to imagine himself engaged in a glorious study session with Rabbi Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman Kremer, the great Gaon of Vilna, paragon of rabbinic intellectual excellence, and then tearing himself away from study to see to the material needs of passing wayfarers. Indeed, it is our human ability to emulate God’s love for His creatures through such acts that grants us our spiritual advantage over the angels. Simhah Zissel’s view of human nature is darker than that of Meir Simhah. He holds that the natural evil inclination of human beings must be reined in by techniques of behavioral self-control and character building, such as guided meditation, which were advocated by the Musar movement. These treatments are not always pleasant, and people must be prepared to swallow “bitter medicine,” such as fasting, in order to give their better inclinations the upper

4

Introduction

hand. Interestingly, Simhah Zissel’s jaded view of human nature leads him to a more universalistic attitude towards humanity than that implied by Meir Simhah. While Meir Simhah seems to suggest that some kind of inherent spiritual advantage allows Jews to achieve spiritual excellence by simply following the laws of the Torah, Simhah Zissel holds that all humanity – Jews and gentiles alike – share the same struggle against evil and are in need of the same “bitter medicines.” Indeed, while usually critical of philosophy, Simhah Zissel shows great respect for the systems of moral training produced by gentile philosophers, and while he rejects the philosopher’s ideal of the contemplative life, he also claims that the laws of the Torah represent a supremely rational way of life whose rationality is intelligible to all humanity. Chapter three turns to early rabbinic literature – specifically, the approach taken by the ancient Tannaim and Amoraim towards Divine fiat in their discussions of biblical hukkim (“laws”), whose rationale is often viewed today as inaccessible to human reason. Elisha Ancselovits argues that that the Tannaim and Amoraim treated biblical law and halakha as practical wisdom. As explained by Ancselovits, these early rabbis did not believe in the existence of Divine fiats of the kind encountered in later Medieval Christian traditions. There are two main steps in his argument. First, Ancselovits discusses a well-known but misread Tannaitic midrash (Sifra, Aharei Mot 9:13:10) that discusses hukkim. He focuses on two elements of Jewish Law: the proscription against the consumption of ham and the processes of ritual defilement and corrective purification surrounding the encounter with a human corpse. These laws, the author claims, are not viewed by the rabbis as instances of Divine fiat but instead as “hoary and wise examples of law.” Secondly, Ancselovits shows that the homiletic notion of inexplicable Divine fiat that later developed in Early Medieval Byzantium arose only in connection with a specific isolated detail of ritual purification from contact with the dead. That law had long fallen into desuetude, and when the rabbis portrayed it as a Divine mysterium they were not referencing some broader legal ideology, but rather only making a tactical move in their polemic against Byzantium’s Christian ideology of Jesus’ mysterium (redemption from death). Chapter four opens a series of papers treating Jewish philosophical ethics. Lenn E. Goodman’s chapter rejects Rav Joseph Soloveitchik’s understanding of Maimonides’ meta-ethics, attributing the popularity of the latter’s line of interpretation to Shlomo Pines’ widely-used translation of The Guide for the Perplexed. Soloveitchik and others have assumed that by apparently referring to morality as “convention,” Maimonides has adopted a relativist understanding of ethics and halakha that foreshadows the modern fact-value distinction. Goodman clarifies matters by explaining that these views represent a misreading of the ethics both of Maimonides and of his great philosophical forebear, Aristotle. When Aristotle seemed to speak derisively of the possibility of a moral science, he was merely applying his methodological rule that we should always seek knowledge bearing a degree of precision appropriate to its topic; thus, we should not expect moral knowledge to be similar to that of mathematics. That, however, does not disallow true moral knowledge of an appropriate type. Goodman presents passages from

Introduction 5 his own forthcoming translation of the Guide (produced in partnership with Phil Lieberman) to argue that Maimonides uses the term “convention” to underscore the way subjective emotions and interests can undermine true moral knowledge. Maimonides’ point is not that there is no such thing as true morality, but rather that human beings are incapable of generating moral truths through their decisions. Goodman suggests that Maimonides, like Aristotle, anchors human happiness in human needs and nature. Instead of choosing Rav Soloveitchik’s path of “rehabilitating” Maimonides by emphasizing his praise of a kind of “post-rational,” “Prophetic/Ecstatic experience” that trumps reason, Goodman fully embraces Maimonides’ rationalism and naturalism. Countering Rav Soloveitchik, he argues that the mysticism he praises is fully rational in nature. Goodman argues that any attempt to vindicate Maimonides that undermines his rationalism or “open-ended naturalism” is illegitimate. Goodman’s championing of an objective Maimonidean ethics resonates with Elisha Ancselovits’s insistence that the rabbis understood Jewish ritual law to be grounded in intelligible wisdom, and his explanation of Maimonides’ complaint that subjective factors debase true moral knowledge is echoed in Curtis Hutt’s argument that Jewish historical memory must not be corrupted by emotion or propagandizing. In chapter five, Michah Gottlieb addresses Baruch Spinoza’s highly complex and oftentimes “baffling” attitude towards biblical morality. The confusion tackled by Gottlieb is not new. He begins by citing the 1680 book On the Three Great Traitors, in which Christian Kortholt called Spinoza “an accursed hypocrite . . . [for] asserting that he taught nothing that can injure piety, good morals and the orthodox training of his youth.” By the epithet “hypocrite,” Kortholt was alluding to Spinoza’s tendency to both commend Judeo-Christian morality while otherwise belittling certain biblical teachings. For example, he lauds the morality of the New Testament while criticizing that of the Old Testament, and even rejects some values common to both, such as “hope” and “pity.” Gottlieb brings order to apparent confusion by arguing that Spinoza distinguishes between different types of moral teachers in the Bible. The least among these was Moses, who established Judaism as a merely political religion designed to maintain social stability. As such, it was unconcerned with moral virtue and simply saw to the flourishing of the Jewish state by promoting obedience to the law through a regime of social rewards and punishments. Since Moses was concerned with political flourishing, he did not teach universal morality but rather a particularistic social morality grounded in love for fellow Israelites and hatred of foreigners. Greater than Moses were prophets like Jeremiah and Jesus who preached universal ethics and love of enemies in accordance with philosophical virtue. However, their enlightened biblical ethics did not actually spring from a deep philosophical understanding of moral virtue. Rather, they were motivated by the political exigencies of life among the nations after the fall of the Jewish polity. Paul and Solomon are the figures occupying the apex of biblical moral thought, for they taught that true philosophical moral virtue focuses on peace of mind and the inner blessedness of the individual, which they grounded in reason. Nevertheless, the words of even these most enlightened of biblical sages were addressed to the unsophisticated masses. They continued to

6

Introduction

promulgate affects such as pity, humility and repentance as virtues, even while these emotions are counted as vices by true philosophy. Halla Kim, in chapter six, discusses the concept of law in the German-Jewish philosopher Hermann Cohen’s critical idealist ethics and examines the extent to which it echoes, and goes beyond, Kant’s ethics. For Kant, human action is an external manifestation of inner willing. Moral action is explained in terms of inner freedom, the capacity of the human individual to reject external influences and exert their inner capacity to act or will. Cohen instead proposes a way to think about morality that eschews Kant’s radical separation of the inner from the outer, employing the concept of action (Handlung) found in jurisprudence/halakha towards this end. In his attempt to go beyond the venerable tradition of the Kantian transcendental project, Cohen drew further upon his Jewish background to mobilize the notion of congregation (kahal) alongside that of law (halakha) in his new theory. Departing from common opinion, Kim emphasizes the communitarian aspect of Cohen’s thought. According to Kim, Cohen would deem it impossible for an individual isolated from communal life to fulfill their moral obligations. Nevertheless. Cohen does not really overcome the Kantian legacy. It is true that in his sophisticated account of suffering and compassion, Cohen emphasizes the need to view the Other as Mitmensch (a fellow human with me) and not simply Nebenmensch (the human beside me, the second man). But even in his final analysis, there is clearly a sense in which suffering and poverty remain abstractions as Cohen assimilates large numbers of individuals to a single category and seeks to find its essence. Has Cohen really recognized the genuine individual in his/ her individuality or has he merely invented a new Kantian general category? For Kim, both Kant and Cohen fall short in addressing the status of feelings in their ethical systems. While Cohen sometimes describes the feeling of compassion as a “motor” or “instigator” of the will, he is vague on how this works, leading us to ask: In what sense are feelings of any kind a legitimate objective ground for action? While Halla Kim shows us how Hermann Cohen incorporated Jewish elements into his reworking of Kant’s universalist ethics, in her chapter, Laura Grams takes up the significance of the great Jewish philosopher Martin Buber’s dialogical ethics for contemporary feminist ethics of care and virtue theory, as evidenced by the writings of scholars such as Virginia Held, Pamela Vermes, Nel Noddings and others. In his work, Buber claims that, as beings in the world, persons find themselves engaging in one of the two modes of being, the “I-Thou” (or, as Grams prefers, the less formal and more intimate “I-You”) and the “I-It.” The first involves concrete, fulfilled encounters between beings who meet in their authentic existence without qualifying or objectifying one another. The latter is the opposite of the “I-You”; it invites no inclusive meeting or encounter with the other. Instead, the “I” dictates the confrontation with the other and treats that being as an object. While, for Buber, both types of relationships play necessary roles in our lives, he urges that we strive to expand the realm of the I-You, thus promoting key virtues of feminist ethics: inclusion, mutuality, respect, love and trust. Grams explains and rebuts two possible criticisms of the applicability of Buber’s thought to

Introduction 7 feminist ethics of care: 1) his repudiation of the centrality of emotions and empathy in the “I-You” relation, and 2) his claim that every “I-You” relationship points towards one’s relationship with the ultimate “You,” i.e., God, a claim which would seem to pose the danger of collapsing the concrete reality of all other “Yous” into that of the Divine. Grams explains that emotions take hold in the individual, while Buber insists on the primacy of the inclusive relation between individuals. The notion of empathy criticized by Buber involves one person trying to take into themselves the existence of another, thus denying the unique concreteness of the other. Furthermore, Buber’s understanding of the human-God relationship and his insistence on the uniqueness of each “You” does not allow the human-God relationship to overshadow other “I-You” relations. Grams also defends Buber’s extension of the “I-You” relation to encompass human encounters with animals, plants, and other non-human beings from Walter Kaufmann’s condemnation of the “romanticism” of such notions. How could Buber find it possible to enter into relationships of reciprocity with inanimate objects or with animals devoid of speech? Grams explains that the “I-You” relation need not depend on communication, but rather the sheer being of the “You”, when encountered fully, can lend a kind of reciprocity to the relationship. In chapter eight, Eric S. Nelson explores the critiques of cosmopolitan tolerance found in the works of three seminal Jewish thinkers of the twentieth century: Theodore Adorno, Emmanuel Levinas, and Jacques Derrida. Tolerance has been construed as a basic virtue of modern liberal societies and of a universal cosmopolitan moral and legal order. Such societies are contrasted with “traditional” communities that presuppose an exclusive common identity. Contemporary liberal theorists such as Rawls and Habermas interpret tolerance as a fundamental part of a conception of justice that does not insist upon one specific vision of the good or good life. This conception of the priority of the right over the good endorses a plurality of forms of life providing they are compatible with universal justice. Despite the modern assumption that tolerance is inherently a force for justice, a number of twentieth century thinkers, indebted to the Jewish prophetic tradition concerned with the suffering of the concrete other, have criticized the potential intolerance and repressive ideological function of tolerance itself. Early Frankfurt School thinkers such as Adorno and Marcuse critiqued the repressive aspects of universal tolerance as part of the logic of advanced capitalist societies. Levinas and Derrida examined the aporetic limits of tolerance as a neutral indifference towards the other in contrast to the asymmetrical encounter of self and other in generosity and hospitality. Nelson traces their works in relation both to the Jewish dimensions of their thinking, whether in religious or secularized form, as well as to the broader philosophical arguments about particularity and universality that informed their contexts and our own contemporary interpretive situation. The oeuvres of these three philosophers are haunted and permeated by their interpretations of modern Jewish conditions and the disaster and horror of the Holocaust. They interrogated the problematic of the complicity and betrayal of the universal aspirations of the “Enlightenment project” in modernity, analyzing how the promise of universal emancipation, equality, and peace for all could be complicit with anti-Semitism

8

Introduction

and the processes of subjugation, exclusion, and annihilation which climaxed in the Holocaust. The delineation of this complex historical situation helps elucidate the critical and diagnostic dimensions of Adorno’s social theory and the ethics of alterity in Levinas and Derrida. Chapter nine opens our book’s concluding section, Contemporary Challenges. In it, Ari Schick argues that modern approaches to Jewish ethics generally pay little attention to ritual beyond acknowledging its existence as an area of Jewish law from which some ethical content can sometimes be distilled. This neglect of ritual rests upon the idea that ethics is a distinct discourse within the Jewish tradition separable from various other aspects of religious life – that ethics and ritual move along different axes. Ritual is thereby generally pushed far to the margins in what is ostensibly a discourse on religious ethics. Universalizing tendencies, according to Schick, have unfortunately led to a thin conception of Jewish ethics instead of one thickly embedded within the fullness of individual and communal life. Rejecting this approach, Schick views ritual and morality as inseparable, and argues that ritual helps to create the shared moral space in which ethics can operate. Schick considers the issue of brain death and organ donation as the subject for a case study. By turning away from the “arguments” and focusing on the situated perspectives of oftentimes confused and traumatized donor families, he shows how rituals – adapted for use in the real world – can help them cope with the extended liminal situation of a loved one who is dead but does not appear so to the layperson. Rituals also offer means for families to express their concern for the dignity of the dead without jeopardizing the performance of organ harvesting procedures necessary for life-saving transplants. The great challenge of Schick’s call for the inclusion of ritual in ethics is that, as he emphasizes, the full significance of ritual as practiced is often inexpressible in the discursive medium of talk about ethics. Yakir Englander, in chapter ten, formulates an original and unique understanding of liberal American Jewish support for the state of Israel. Englander, an Israeli scholar who also works as a peace activist, argues that this support is not only about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and more about Jewish life in the United States. He argues that advocacy of Israel serves as a tool for the preservation of American Liberal Jewish identity. In support of this provocative claim, Englander introduces the reader to a new way of understanding contemporary Jewish identity in the United States and Israel. Englander proposes a distinction between what he labels “Expressional Jewishness” and “Tensional Jewishness.” Englander, in this paper, explores the varieties of Expressional Jewishness present in the United States and the various ways that Jewish communities adapt to the dominant culture. While otherwise embracing a generic American liberal worldview, it is only by choosing to act against some of the general society’s values that Expressional Jewishness can stave off ultimate assimilation. Acting contrary to values of the majority society, in this sense, preserves a distinct Jewish identity. Support for the state of Israel, Englander claims, serves as the contrarian element which allows for the creation and preservation of Jewish identity among Expressional American Jews who have otherwise adopted the values of the broader liberal community.

Introduction 9 In chapter eleven, entitled “Afro-Jewish ethics?,” Lewis Gordon not only asks a provocative, probing question, but he also undermines dominant racist narratives about what it means to be Jewish. From the outset, Gordon highlights the tensions embedded in our inherited rituals and conceptions between being “Afro” and “Jewish.” In many ways, the two go naturally together. The Passover Seder, paradigmatically, is a ritual celebrating freedom from slavery and this is something African Americans can identify with, but today we often find non-Afro-Jews imposing a disconnection between the memorialization of a profound distant past and the recognition of “real and recent slavery.” Indeed, the very idea of the “AfroJew” is anathema, escaping the classificatory systems of white European and Euro-American Jews. This exclusionary mindset has led the academy to produce “blind-sighted historiography.” Gordon marshals several lines of argument to defend the authenticity of Afro-Jewish identity against its deniers, pointing to the African element in ancient Israel and the existence of Afro-Jewish communities into the present day. He also applies concepts coined by the great early 20th century African American thinker W.E.B. Du Bois to the analysis of the predicament of Afro-Jews: their status as a “problem” and their need to develop a “double perspective,” always seeing the world through the eyes of the dominant group as well as through their own. The unique challenge and contribution of Afro-Jewish ethics goes beyond a rethinking of the compass of Jewish identity and history. Rather, Gordon claims, it directs attention to three great issues faced by Afro-modernity more generally: “(1) What it means to be human or, simply, humanity; (2) freedom and human dignity; and (3) the search for justification in a world patently unjust and, for the most part, unreasonable.” In the final chapter, Curtis Hutt’s “Between history and memory: Jewish historiographical ethics after Yerushalmi’s Zakhor,” readers are drawn into a vibrant and ongoing contemporary debate over the representation of Jewish pasts. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, in his landmark work Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, describes a troubled relationship between academic historians and the traditional religious guardians of Jewish memory. For Yerushalmi, the contemporary Jewish “historian” dedicated to the retrieval of the past “as it actually happened” is a recent invention. Present-day critical historical work is fundamentally alienated from the machinations of collective Jewish memory encountered in rabbinic traditions. Contrary to popular opinion, Jews have not always been consumed by the desire to secure and preserve accurate accounts of what happened in the past, but rather only to remember and re-apply a certain type of inheritance – in effect, to provide believers with ahistorical guides to action. The intellectual discipline of Jewish history is in fact a young science born of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. It is not devoted to retelling the authorized past of a single religion or nation, but rather studies a diversity of historical peoples. Following Yerushalmi, Hutt describes the inherent conflict between secular, scientific approaches to the past and those championed by beleaguered religious historians. Likewise, Zionist criticisms of the “assimilationist” historiography linked to the Wissenschaft des Judentums are discussed. In the shadow of an astounding increase in knowledge about historical Judaisms, the keepers of Jewish memory have not only been

10

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surpassed but challenged, and only “little driblets” (Kafka) of former traditional pasts survive into the present. Faced with such a dire situation, Yerushalmi, like the Christian philosopher Van Harvey, counsels Jews to hermetically seal off academic history from religious belief about the past for the benefit of both. After outlining some problems with Yerushalmi’s solution, Hutt, in keeping with his former work on the ethics of historical belief, outlines an alternative path forward. We trust that this quick survey of the contents of our book will convince all readers that in its pages await new knowledge, deeper understanding, and challenging perspectives on Jewish ethics in its broadest sense. Despite our insistence on the pluralistic nature of Jewish ethics, we conclude by noting that already two thousand years ago the great Rabbi Hillel claimed to state the essence not only of Jewish ethics, but of the entirety of the Torah in one brief maxim: “Do not do to your fellow what is hateful to yourself.” We offer this volume in the spirit of the less-quoted yet crucial continuation of his dictum: “All the rest is commentary; go forth and study!” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a).

Part I

Rabbinics

1

Angels vs. humans in the moral psychology of R. Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk Berel Dov Lerner

Rabbi Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk (1843–1926) was a leading Ashkenazic rabbi of his generation and renowned in life as the author of Or Same’ah, (2014) his collection of novellae on Maimonides’ Code.1 The posthumous publication of Meshekh Hokhmah, Meir Simhah’s commentary on the Torah, furthered his reputation by combining encyclopedic knowledge of rabbinic literature with exegetical daring and theological creativity.2 The publication of a popular Englishlanguage biography some sixty-four years after his death offers some indication of Meir Simhah’s enduring stature in the Orthodox Jewish world.3 Among its many halakhic, exegetical, and philosophical ideas, Meshekh Hokhmah presents a powerful account of the roles of society and interpersonal relations in religious and moral life. Of course, earlier Jewish thinkers were well aware of the importance of societal influences for personal piety. As Maimonides makes clear in his Code,4 people are profoundly affected for better or worse by their social environments. He states that one must strive to reside among righteous Torah scholars and, if necessary, to simply emigrate from lands whose inhabitants have been thoroughly corrupted. Furthermore, by definition, Judaism’s many commandments concerning interpersonal morality obviously assume a social reality to which they may be applied. Meir Simhah, however, makes the more radical point that human spiritual and moral development is largely generated by interpersonal interactions and the reciprocal interdependency between individuals. Rather than talking in abstract terms, let us dive directly into the appearance of these ideas in Meshekh Hokhmah’s comments on Deut. 32:1–3. Here Meir Simhah is commenting on the introduction to the long historiosophical poem taught by Moses to the Israelites before his death. The relevant biblical verses are rendered as follows by the New Jewish Publication Society translation: Give ear, O heavens, let me speak, let the earth hear the words I utter! May my discourse come down as the rain, my speech distill as the dew, like showers on young growth, like droplets on the grass. For the name of the Lord I proclaim; give glory to our God!

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Meir Simhah comments:5 For the name of the Lord I proclaim. In Sifri (chapter 3) [we read that] the angels mention [the Tetragrammaton] after three words, so Moses said, “It is enough for me to be at a seventh of the angels’ [level],” and therefore he mentioned it after twenty-one words [In the Hebrew for this verse, twentyone words appear before the Tetragrammaton is mentioned]. And thus we find in the chapter Gid Hanasheh (bHullin 91b) that Israel mentions it after two words; this is referring to the collective, but the angels are singletons who do not cause each other to ascend [to higher levels], that is, they do not affect one another, and that is what He [God] answered (bShabbat 89a) [when the angels asked that they receive the Torah instead of Israel]: “Does murder occur amongst you, etc.?” For as a class they [the angels] are singletons who do not need each other and do not ascend through [membership in] the community. Not so with man; he needs his fellow and as Ben Zoma said (bBerakhot 58a), “Adam, etc.” Therefore the Torah’s telos is the collective and the communality in which each individual is affected by his fellow and ascends through him. Therefore the community ascends more than ten times as much as the individual, for [otherwise] Moses should have mentioned [the Tetragrammaton] after ten times two words, i.e., twenty words, but he mentioned it after twenty-one words.6 Meir Simhah assumes that his erudite readers will instantly recognize his Talmudic citations and highly truncated quotations; allow me to unpack the passage a bit. He opens by citing a dictum from the midrash halakhah Sifri on our verses. Sifri wants to demonstrate Moses’ humility by pointing out that in our passage he utters twenty-one words in preparation before speaking God’s name, while, in the famous verse from Isaiah (6:3), the angels merely say the three words kadosh, kadosh. kadosh [holy, holy, holy] before uttering the Tetragrammaton. The midrash explains that Moses feels he needs seven times the preparation required by the angels before pronouncing God’s name. Next Meir Simhah cites a seemingly contradictory midrash, this time one taken from the tractate Hullin of the Babylonian Talmud. Here the midrash seeks to demonstrate that God cherishes the Jewish people even more than He cherishes the angels (as we shall see, Meir Simhah often uses angels as a conceptual foil against which he analyzes human existence). While angels require three words of preparation before pronouncing the Divine name, Israel makes due with just two: shema Yisrael – Hear. O Israel [the Lord is our God] (Deut. 6:4).7 Applying the transitive law of inequalities we find a seeming absurdity. If Moses is, as he implies, inferior to the angels, and the angels are inferior to Israel, we must conclude that Moses, who for Jewish tradition was the greatest of the prophets and all-around most perfect human to walk the earth,8 was spiritually inferior to regular Israelites! Meir Simhah resolves this apparent paradox by pointing out that while Moses spoke as an individual human, the verse Shema Yisrael is uttered by the entire nation as a collective body. Here we have finally reached the first element in Meir

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Simhah’s socially-oriented theory of spiritual development. For Meir Simhah, the collective is spiritually and morally superior to the individual, because members of the collective enjoy the advantage of continuous growth which is inspired through their interaction with each other. Humans in society can even become superior to angels, since the individual angel, while perfect in its own manner, is incapable of achieving further development. This notion of the angels’ static spiritual level is associated in rabbinic literature with the verse from Zachariah 3:7, in which the High Priest Yehoshua is promised the reward of I will permit you to move about among these attendants, which might also be translated as and I shall give you walkers [humans on-the-go who change their spiritual condition] among these standers [the angels who remain standing and fixed at their original degree of perfection].9 Meir Simhah also alludes to the rabbinic notion that each individual angel is charged by God to achieve its own particular mission, apparently without the help of others.10 Since each angel acts alone, none of them enjoys the advantages of sociality and Meir Simhah proposes that the angels’ inability to grow spiritually is the outcome of their asocial character. Contrastingly, human activity is naturally and necessarily social, and it is that social interaction which promotes spiritual growth. Meir Simhah drives home his point by citing the story told by R. Yehoshua ben Levi in bShabbat 88b-89a in which the angels ask God why they were not given the Torah in Israel’s stead. God answers that the Torah’s commandments relate to the non-angelic activities and propensities of human beings. Meir Simhah also mentions Ben Zoma’s paean (bBerakhot 58a) to the convenience of living in a society boasting an efficient division of labor in which each person enjoys the specialized products and services of the others. Meir Simhah takes the functionally determined necessity for humans to live interdependently in a system of economic exchange and cooperation as providing the social framework in which people can influence each other morally, allowing each other to ascend to ever greater spiritual heights. Moses, however, speaks here as an individual and temporarily shares the angels’ lack of social interaction that traps them at whatever degree of perfection they possessed when first created. The Torah itself is intended as a guide for social life and not for the life of the isolated individual. What do we have so far? Meir Simhah has neatly woven together several traditional rabbinic notions to create a new moral psychology. Tradition holds that angels are both fundamentally asocial as well as incapable of development. Meir Simhah proposes a connection between these two traits and concludes that angels are incapable of spiritual development because they are not social. He then uses his conceptualization of the angels as a foil against which to define the fundamental condition of humanity: people can develop because they interact with other people. What is the mechanism through which human interaction promotes spiritual progress? Meir Simhah gives us a partial explanation in another passage which again demonstrates his homiletic brilliance and originality. The accusatory first chapter of Isaiah serves as the haftarah for the Sabbath immediately preceding the fast day of the 9th of Av, which memorializes the destruction of the two Temples in Jerusalem. One of its themes is that sacrificial worship is pointless when those offering the sacrifices behave wickedly. Meir Simhah expounds upon the chapter’s

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13th verse,11 which reads as follows: Bringing oblations is futile, incense is offensive to Me. New moon and Sabbath, proclaiming of solemnities, assemblies with iniquity. I cannot abide. He gives this passage what might be called a hyperhalakhic reading. The Hebrew word used here for “oblations” is minhah, which technically refers to meal offerings. Meir Simhah points out that according to Jewish ritual law, meal offerings can be presented either by individuals or by the entire community of Israel, but not by contingent groupings of individuals. He proposes that the entire community can give a meal offering when its members are joined in solidarity and act as a single collective body, becoming similar to an individual worshiper. However, in the moral and social disarray described by Isaiah, that solidarity has vanished. God has no interest in the futile and illegitimate minhat shav offered by a community which has dissolved into a happenstance collection of unrelated individuals. In a further homiletic move, Meir Simhah uses traditional sources to explain that (at least some of  ) the individual ingredients of the Temple incense stank when smelled on their own even while each contributed to the success of the general recipe when the ingredients were thoroughly mixed to produce a new entity. So too with the People Israel. Many of its individual members are deficient in themselves but, under conditions of social solidarity, each can make his or her unique contribution towards improvement of the nation as a whole. Without solidarity, the shortcomings of individuals come to the fore. Similarly, when the incense is not properly mixed one can smell the stench of its less pleasant individual ingredients; and, as Isaiah states, the incense becomes an abomination. In this passage of Meshekh Hokhmah, Meir Simhah also explains the mechanism through which social interaction drives individual improvement. In a situation of social solidarity, each individual undergoes moral education by being influenced by the good traits of the others. Without true solidarity, each learns from the worst traits of the others and society and its members sink to the lowest common denominator. Meir Simhah identifies the latter social process (in which the shortcomings of individuals are adopted as behavioral norms) with Isaiah’s “assemblies with iniquities” – situations of false solidarity where individuals appear to be unified through their common adoption of immoral traits and behaviors. What makes this a situation of false solidarity? I think it would be fair to say that moral behavior takes into account the needs of others and of society in general, while immoral behavior is generally egoistic. The fact that members of a society all agree it is best for each to merely look to their own interests is hardly a formula for genuine social solidarity! Meir Simhah also discusses a further aspect of the sociality of morality. Commenting on Jer. 32:19, Meshekh Hokhmah brings up a consideration reminiscent of what the philosopher Thomas Nagel calls “circumstantial moral luck,”12 that is to say, the way historical and social circumstances beyond an individual’s control can strongly influence their moral behavior. Meir Simhah writes: Judgment of a single individual person varies depending on whether he lives in a place of the righteous or of the wicked, and also times differ, for a person is greatly affected by the behavior of others and [by] the world’s sense of

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righteousness and justice . . . the individual person can only be judged with a view towards the general ways of people in respect to the time and the place.13 This notion may help us further understand the sense in which Meir Simhah claims the Torah’s telos involves the collective, since, after all, it is the norms of the collective which largely determine the behaviors of individuals. Meir Simhah’s insistence on the importance of social solidarity influenced his stance on issues in the contemporary Jewish world. Take, for example, his attitude towards the break-down of Sabbath observance in modern times. Meir Simhah contends that as long as the community is not socially disrupted, such sins will not invite catastrophe. In his comments on Ex. 14:29,14 he points out that punishments meted out by the ancient courts to individual Jews for transgressions of ritual laws such as the prohibition of work on the Sabbath were usually more severe than were punishments associated with transgressions of criminal and civil law.15 However, the reverse is true regarding divine punishment meted out in reaction to the general condition of Jewish society. A religiously pious yet ethically corrupt society will suffer much harsher divine punishment than will an ethical society which has turned its back on the performance of specifically religious duties. Meir Simhah cites a number of midrashim to support his contention, the first being found in the Jerusalem Talmud Peah 4b. It implies that divine protection in battle depends upon society’s level of interpersonal morality rather than on religious piety: Rabbi Abba bar Kahana said: All those of David’s generation were righteous, but since there were informers among them, when they went out to battle some [Israelite warriors] would fall. In Ahab’s generation, there were many idolaters, but because there were no informers among them they would go to battle and triumph.16 Meir Simhah goes on to mention a midrash stating that while the First Temple was restored soon after its destruction, the Second Temple remains in ruins due to the baseless hatred rampant among Jews at the time Jerusalem was captured by Rome (bYoma 9b). A further citation refers to the idea that the generation of the flood was destroyed because they committed crimes of violence, while the builders of the Tower of Babel were merely dispersed since they retained social solidarity even as they practiced idolatry (bSanhedrin 108a). Again, the general message here is that social ethics is more important than social piety, and one main reason for this is that positive social ties are a prime mechanism of spiritual development.17 Let us now return to the comments on Isaiah 1:13, which, I should remind you, explain how, under conditions of social solidarity, each member of the community can be positively influenced by the others. This passage does not tell us the entire story of Meir Simhah’s moral psychology. Consider his comments on Genesis 32:1. Here we find Jacob, who had tended the flocks of the devious Laban for many years, finally escaping his grasp. Jacob has fled with his wives (Laban’s daughters) and children and set off to Canaan. Laban catches up with

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him, but after some tense moments and ironic speechifying, Jacob and Laban end up agreeing to a reciprocal non-aggression pact and go their separate ways in peace. Scripture tells us: Early in the morning, Laban kissed his sons and daughters and bade them good-by; then Laban left on his journey homeward [literally: returned to his place]. Jacob went [literally: walked]18 on his way, and angels of God encountered him. (Gen 32:1–2). Once again, Meir Simhah utilizes the traditional dichotomy between the changing and the unchanging, between those who walk and those who don’t, but this time instead of contrasting humans with angels he contrasts righteous humans with evildoers: The interpretation of this is that when someone has a holy man such as Jacob in his home, wouldn’t it be proper to be positively influenced by his good deeds and wisdom and to realize through him [the message of the verse] He who keeps company with the wise becomes wise (Prov. 13:20)? But it was not so, and when Jacob left, Laban returned to his original place, i.e., to his wicked opinions and character traits; a swindler and a lover of wealth. But Jacob went on his way, for the true righteous man and Torah scholar goes [“walks”] from his original place to greater stations, and as they said [bBerakhot 54a) “Torah scholars have no rest in this world or in the World-to-Come” for they grow higher and higher each day. And so immediately [in the continuation of Gen. 32:2, we read of Jacob that] angels of God encountered him etc. Understand this.19 Laban is condemned for not taking advantage of Jacob’s presence, which should have afforded him a positive example for imitation through the process described in the comments on the verse from Isaiah. It is more interesting for our purposes that Jacob is described as constantly undergoing a process of change for the better. What was the engine of his change? I find it hard to believe that Meir Simhah thought Laban, who is portrayed in a rather negative light, could have offered Jacob any positive lessons. Perhaps Jacob’s wives Leah and Rachel taught him a thing or two? Meir Simhah is fully aware of his difficulty. We can understand what run-ofthe-mill people have to gain from interaction with others, but what about prophets and the genuinely righteous? Who has anything to teach them? Or, to express the difficulty in terms of Plato’s famous parable, we can understand what the common folk in the cave have to gain from the philosopher, but what does the philosopher have to gain from returning to the cave? These classical philosophical concerns are clearly echoed in Meshekh Hokhmah‘s comments on Genesis 9:20. Noah, who, previously to the flood, had been called an ish tzadik, a righteous man (Gen. 6:9), survives the deluge and plants a vineyard. Now, instead of calling him an ish tzadik, scripture refers to him as an ish ha’adama, a man of the earth (Gen. 9:20). To explain Noah’s demotion from righteousness to being a man of the earth, Meshekh Hokhmah contrasts Noah unfavorably to Moses. Early in Moses’ story, he kills the Egyptian who had beaten a Hebrew (Ex. 2:12) and then flees to Midian (Ex. 2:15). There he meets

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Reuel’s daughters at the well and protects them from the male shepherds. When the daughters tell Reuel about Moses’ intervention, they refer to him as an ish mitzri, an Egyptian man (Ex 2:19). Nearing the end of his life (Deut 33:1) Moses is referred to as ish ha’elohim – the man of God. While Noah began his story as a righteous man but was eventually demoted to being a man of the earth, Moses started his career as an Egyptian man but was eventually promoted to being called a man of God. What was the difference between the two biblical figures? Meir Simhah explains: There are two paths in the service of the blessed Lord; one is that of he who devotes himself to His service and isolates himself, while [in contrast] there is one who is busy with the needs of the community and abnegates himself for the good of the community and forsakes his soul for their sake. . . . reason would demand that he who isolates himself would ascend higher and higher while the other [the public servant] would descend from his [original] level.20 So far Meshekh Hokhmah tells us that mainstream medieval Jewish philosophy would have it that the life of the contemplative philosopher, freed from the chains of social responsibilities, is best for achieving spiritual development, while the public servant is held back by his involvement with the needs of the community. As Maimonides wrote in his Guide of the Perplexed: The fourth species [of human perfection] is the true human perfection; it consists in the acquisition of the rational virtues – I refer to the conception of the intelligibles, which teach true opinions regarding the divine things. This is in true reality the ultimate end; this is what gives the individual true perfection, a perfection belonging to him alone; And it gives him permanent perdurance; through it man is man. . . . This ultimate perfection . . . pertains to you alone, no one else being associated in it with you in any way. . . . Therefore you ought to desire to achieve this thing, which will remain permanently with you, and not weary and trouble yourself for the sake of others.21 In apparently open contradiction of Maimonides, Meir Simhah contends that Noah descended to the level of a man of the earth precisely because he failed to serve the public by warning them of the flood, while Moses ascended because he was willing to risk his life for his people by killing the Egyptian taskmaster: And despite all this we find that Noah, who isolated himself and did not rebuke the people of his generation . . . descended from his station and was called man of the earth, while Moses, who devoted himself to Israel by killing the Egyptian, was called a man of God and he reached the greatest perfection available to a human being.22 Here we see Meir Simhah positing another mechanism through which social interaction can bring about spiritual ascent. The comments on Isaiah only mentioned

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that the individual can be positively influenced by his fellows. Now we hear that the very act of serving the interests of the community generates spiritual growth. An additional passage in Meshekh Hokhmah treating the spiritual ascent brought about through altruistic behavior relates to the story in which Abraham is visited by three angels who inform him of the future birth of his son Isaac (Gen. 18). After the angels leave, Abraham is left in an encounter with God during which he negotiates to save the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah from God’s wrath. Finally, the remarkable experience comes to its end and we read: When the Lord had finished speaking to Abraham, He departed; and Abraham returned to his place (Gen 18:33). Abraham returned to his place! This is exactly the expression used in connection with Laban and which Meshekh Hokhmah read as implying a kind of spiritual backsliding; people should always move forward rather than “return to their place”! How could the saintly Abraham “return to his place”?23 In order to appreciate the radical humanism of Meir Simhah’s answer, I will first quote for comparison a more conventional rabbinic explanation, one offered by the classic medieval Jewish biblical exegete R. Bahya ben Asher ibn Halawa (1255–1340). In his commentary on this verse, Bahya writes: And it could be interpreted [as saying] to his place, i.e., to hospitality, his [characteristic] virtue, for after he had fulfilled his duties towards these [three visitors] regarding food, and drink, and escort he went back to look for more guests. That is [the meaning of  ] returned to his place, for Abraham’s soul emanated from the [divine] attribute of loving kindness, and that attribute is his place. And it can be further interpreted [that] to his place [refers to] the limitations of his senses and bodily dimensions, for as long as the Divine Presence remained with him he was pure mind devoid of any materiality and his senses were void. Nothing was left standing before the Lord but the form and soul, i.e., the mind, pure and clear. When the Divine Presence left him, he returned to his senses and the limits of his bodily dimensions.24 Bahya describes Abraham as returning to his place, that is, to his search for guests to whom he could show hospitality, but the return is also to his place of lowly material existence following his experience of essentially neo-Platonic rapture during his encounter with God. Meir Simhah mentions similar elements, but turns them on their head. He writes on the verse: When the Lord had finished speaking to Abraham, He departed; and Abraham returned to his place – This alludes to the dictum of the Sages of blessed memory (bShabbat 127a): “Hospitality is greater than receiving the face of the Divine Presence.” Here Abraham was busy being hospitable to guests. Then he went to speak with the Divine Presence and [afterwards] returned to his place, that is to say he moved to his higher station which he had occupied earlier. But if it weren’t for this [interruption by the Divine Presence] Abraham would move from high station to higher station; he is always walking and it could not be that he would return to his place.25

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Meir Simhah has completely reversed the usual philosophical understanding of these events. Abraham does indeed return to his place after encountering God, but that place is superior to the condition of prophecy – it is the extension of hospitality towards visitors! Participation in the positive human encounter is of greater value than the mystical encounter with the Divine! Abraham had lowered himself in order to receive prophecy and then returned to his more exalted station of hosting guests. So where are we? Meir Simhah claims that humans are superior to angels because unlike the latter, humans are capable of spiritual development. Sociality is the engine of human spiritual development, be it through exposure to the positive traits of fellow humans or through the seemingly mysterious intrinsic value of moral action in serving others. But what is it about moral behavior that generates a kind of development unavailable to angels? I believe the answer to this question may be at least partially found in Meir Simhah’s attitude towards this-worldly materiality more generally. He devotes an essay-long passage to this topic in his comments on Ex. 20:18. There Meir Simhah argues for the superiority of the vita activa (life of action) over the vita contemplative (life of contemplation). He attacks the traditional philosophical view which understands spiritual ascent and encounter with the agent intellect as the natural and necessary outcome of philosophical understanding. Meir Simhah associates these views with the philosophical heresy according to which the creation was part of a necessary and involuntary divine effluence. He insists that God voluntarily chose to create the world and that, similarly, He can also freely determine who will achieve immortality and spiritual perfection, regardless of their self-achieved philosophical accomplishments. Meir Simhah complains that it would have been disastrous for the great majority of humanity had God deemed philosophical enlightenment the sole path to immortality. The average person, burdened with the responsibilities of everyday life, would never have the leisure to engage in sufficient philosophical contemplation. “Only a single person in a few generations would achieve it.” Instead, God has ordained immortality and spiritual eminence for those who observe His Torah. While the philosopher merely perceives the Ideas, the Torah observer realizes God’s will by voluntarily striving to break free of natural human inclinations so as to imbue this material world with holiness. In return, God also bypasses the natural order of things and grants such people enlightenment and eternal life. I quote: “This is the more decisive way of drawing near to the blessed Lord, and for it one receives the true perfection.” Meir Simhah writes: One who clings to the Ideas, one who isolates himself and abstracts his soul from the materiality of the world through the Ideas, only his soul [and not his body!] will achieve the level of eternality. By comporting oneself in accordance with the ways of the Torah, the material [body] will become a bright light . . . and will be eternal and existing.26 And also: “Heaven’s purpose is for man to recognize his Creator and to devote everything [all activities] to the blessed Lord, then he [man] becomes the telos

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of creation.”27 Furthermore, the lone sage, separated from humans and materiality, contributes nothing to the perfection and sanctification of the Jewish People, rather, “Only the righteous one who makes peace between man and wife and between man and his fellow can thus teach them of the power which adds to the power of divine illumination.”28 Meir Simhah’s insistence on the primacy of this-worldly social life is most strikingly expressed in his portrait of an ideal Jewish existence found in Meshekh Hokhmah on Deut. 32:3. There he writes: The principle goal is that the nation comport itself in a natural way under individual providence, that is that they will harvest and collect their grain and all the first [fruits] shall be brought to the House of the Lord and to His holy servants . . . and with every act and step they will mention and bless the name of the blessed Creator, and such life is spiritual life, and one hour of it is more precious than all of life in the world to come.29 All of these sources express Meir Simhah’s claim that proper action not only sanctifies material existence, but rather also leads to spiritual enlightenment as well. It appears that the connection between public service and philosophical enlightenment is a matter of Divine fiat: God simply wills the profound enlightenment of those whose actions please Him. However, I will end this discussion by offering a speculative filling-out of Meir Simhah’s written works that will attempt to explain a plausible causal connection between ethical action and knowledge of God. Let us return to the final chapter of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed. Notoriously, after devoting much effort to explicating the virtues of philosophical contemplation, Maimonides concludes his Guide with a sudden return to the world of ethical action. He cites these famous verses from Jer. 9:22–23: Thus said the Lord: let not the wise man glory in his wisdom; let not the strong man glory in his strength; let not the rich man glory in his riches. But only in this should one who glories glory, that he understands and knows Me, that I am the Lord who exercises loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness. Maimonides explicates the passage: . . . when explaining in this verse the noblest ends, he does not limit them only to the apprehension of Him, may He be exalted. For if this were his purpose, he would have said: But only in this should one who glories glory, that he understands and knows Me and have stopped there; or he would have said: that he understands and knows Me that I am one; or he would have said that I have no figure, or that there is none like Me, or something similar. But he says that one should glory in the apprehension of Myself and in the knowledge of My attributes, by which he means His actions . . . he makes it clear to us that those actions that ought to be known and imitated are loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness. . . . Thus the end that he sets forth in this verse

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may be stated as follows: It is clear that the perfection of man that may truly be gloried in is the one acquired by him who has achieved, in a measure corresponding to his capacity, apprehension of Him, may He be exalted, and who knows His providence extending over His creatures as manifested in the act of bringing them into being and in their governance as it is, The way of life of such an individual, after he has achieved this apprehension, will always have in view loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness, through assimilation to His actions, may He be exalted.30 Maimonides is saying that the final goal of philosophical contemplation is to understand the ethical basis of God’s actions as expressed in the order of nature and to realize those ethical virtues in one’s own life. I would like to suggest that Meir Simhah’s insistence that ethical involvement in social life can produce philosophical enlightenment turns Maimonides’ doctrine on its head. If the goal of the contemplative life is to understand the ethical nature of God’s actions, then an appreciation of interpersonal human ethics should help us achieve that goal. Life in society develops our ethical understanding by forcing us to deal with the ethical dimensions of reallife situations. We can then make good use of that hard-won moral understanding in our hours of contemplation so as to better understand God’s moral providence. On this reading, Meir Simhah would have it that by returning to Plato’s cave the philosopher becomes a keener observer of the sunlight.

Notes 1 For further biographical details, see the first chapter of Cohen (2013) and Rabbi Isaac Halevi Herzog’s (1927) Jewish Chronicle obituary of Meir Simhah. 2 Meshekh Hokhmah has appeared in various editions through the years and in the present paper I have relied on R. Yehudah Kuperman’s extensively annotated edition, Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen (2002). For more on the philosophical ideas expressed in Meshekh Hokhma, see R. Yitzhak Blau’s (undated) online series of articles, Modern Rabbinic Thought. Hebrew readers may consult Ben Sasson (1996) and Kalcheim (1999). All of these works have been of assistance in the writing of this paper. 3 Rapopport (1990). 4 De’ot 6:1–2. 5 Translations of Hebrew sources are my own with some assistance from passages appearing in the Netivot Shalom-Oz VeShalom website www.netivot-shalom.org.il/. Biblical passages are from the New JPS translation. 6 Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Devarim pp. 429–430 in Kuperman’s edition. 7 This refers to the Shema, the fundamental proclamation of monotheism which Jews are required to recite twice daily. The juxtaposition of the angels saying holy, holy, holy and the People Israel reciting the Shema is a central theme of the Kedushah prayer in Sabbath and festival Musaf services. 8 The notion of Moses’ prophetic superiority was formally authorized by Maimonides as one of the thirteen principles of faith. 9 This interpretation of Zachariah is mentioned explicitly by Meir Simhah in Meshekh Hokhmah on Deut 34:6. 10 See Genesis Rabbah 50:2, “A single angel does not perform two missions and two angels do not perform the same mission.” 11 See Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Devarim pp. 10–11 in Kuperman’s edition.

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12 See Nagel (1979). 13 Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Devarim pp. 422–423 in Kuperman’s edition. The passage appears towards the end of the commentary on the haftarah for Parashat Vayeilekh. 14 Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Shemot pp. 115–118 in Kuperman’s edition. 15 I should point out that he is referring to the regime of punishments in force 2000 years ago when the Sanhedrin high court was still active. 16 Quoted in Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Shemot pg. 116 in Kuperman’s edition. 17 Recognition of Meir Simhah’s valorization of social solidarity sheds a critical light on recent attempts to appropriate his writings for political purposes. During the past few decades, Meshekh Hokhmah‘s comment on Ex. 32:19 has been repeatedly mobilized in arguments between different factions of religious Zionism. For instance, it frequently appears on the website of the Netivot-Shalom /Oz VeShalom movement (http://www. netivot-shalom.org.il/) from which I borrowed its translation below. The passage contains Meir Simhah’s account of why, when Moses descended from Mount Sinai carrying the Tablets of the Law and saw the Israelites worshiping the Golden Calf, he threw the Tablets on the ground. Meir Simhah explains that by worshipping the Calf, the Israelites had demonstrated their profound religious confusion; they thought that a physical object could be intrinsically holy and thus worthy of worship. Recognizing the people’s state of mind, Moses knew that if he brought them the Tablets, the Israelites would have simply worshipped them in the Calf’s stead. Accordingly, Moses broke the Tablets in order to demonstrate that they even they lacked intrinsic holiness. Meshekh Hokhmah makes a larger claim: The point is that the Torah and faith are what is essential for the Israelite nation. All of the types of holiness, [that of] the Land of Israel, Jerusalem and the Temple, they are but details and branches of the Torah, and they are sanctified through the Torah’s holiness. Therefore, there is no distinction between different places in regard to matters of the Torah, and it is the same both within and without the Land of Israel, except for the commandments that depend on being in the Land . . . there is nothing in the world to which holiness can be attributed and which can be an object of worship and submission, except the Holy One blessed be He, Who is holy in His necessary existence, and to whom praise and worship is fitting. (Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Shemot pg. 292 in Kuperman’s edition) This passage is often cited by groups such as Netivot-Shalom/Oz VeShalom which seek to downplay the religious importance of holy sites and of the Land of Israel in general with the hope of making territorial compromise more palatable for religious Zionists. The late Yeshayahu Leibowitz, who for years was Israel’s leading public intellectual, was very fond of Meshekh Hohkmah and of this passage in particular. He used it to attack the followers of R. Zvi Yehudah Kook, who insisted on the inherent sanctity of the People Israel, the Land of Israel, and even the State of Israel. I can still remember hearing Leibowitz speak at Kibbutz Saad thirty-nine years ago, and how he described two traditions in Judaism: the true way of Abraham, Moses, Rabbi Akiva, Maimonides, and Meir Simhah, and the confused path of the biblical Korah, Judah HaLevi, and Rav Kook. In his book on the weekly Torah readings, Leibowitz (2000, 401) writes: Our Rabbi Moses instantiated this notion when, the moment he saw the people had transgressed the command you shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, or any likeness (Ex 20:4) he broke the Tablets. We must understand that the expression sculptured image, or any likeness applies not only to the golden calf made by Israel, but to every natural entity: people, land, homeland, flag, army, idea, a particular person, and the like, whenever they exalted to the level of holiness.

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Leibowitz fails to mention that elsewhere Meir Simhah rounds out his doctrine concerning the role of the Land of Israel. Consider this passage from Meshekh Hokhmah on Ex. 12:21, which explains that the Torah must bolster philosophical analysis with apt emotions in order for it to achieve its goals: the holy places are not grounded in religion, but rather in the nation and its roots. As [in the case of  ] Mount Moriah, where Adam was created (bSanhedrin 38b), and there Abraham sacrificed Isaac (Gen. 22), and so it was chosen by a prophet [as the site of the Temple]. Religion only writes about the site that the Lord your God will choose (Deut. 12:5). As for Mount Sinai, the place of religion, as soon as the Divine Presence left it, the sheep and cattle could ascend it (Ex. 19:13)! God forbid that emotions mislead us to attribute any image to religion. Rather the significance of Jerusalem, and all the Land of Israel, and Mount Moriah is built upon their relation to our fathers, the roots of the nation; and to unite the nation, so that all emotions be directed to the unity of the nation. And this is a very deep homily, and there is not room here to expand. (Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Shemot pg. 76 in Kuperman’s edition)

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

One might think that by saying the Land of Israel lacks intrinsic religious value and merely serves to create national unity Meir Simhah is implying that it plays no significant role in his religious world view. However, given everything I have mentioned earlier about his insistence on the significance of communal solidarity for spiritual and moral progress, it would be disingenuous to mobilize Meir Simhah as an authority who downplays the importance of the Land of Israel. Only when the members of the People Israel are unified – by their relationship to holy places, for instance – can they rise above the angels. The word here translated as “went” can also be rendered “walked.” It shares the same root with the “walkers” of the homily on Zachariah’s vision. Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Bereishit pg. 145 in Kuperman’s edition. Ibid., pg. 39 in Kuperman’s edition. Guide III:54 pg. 635 in Pines’s translation. Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Bereishit pg. 40 in Kuperman’s edition. Interestingly, in the story of Abraham’s divine encounter, God is literally said to have “walked” away, a detail left undiscussed by Meir Simhah. I deal with this in a forthcoming paper. Pg. 180 in vol. 1 of Chavel’s edition. Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Bereishit pg. 86 in Kuperman’s edition. Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Shemot pg. 165 in Kuperman’s edition. Ibid. Ibid., pg. 167 in Kuperman’s edition. Meshekh Hokhmah Sefer Devarim pg. 428 in Kuperman’s edition. Guide III:54 pg. 637 in Pines’s translation edited to more closely match the New JPS translation of Jeremiah.

Bibliography and references Bahya ben Asher ibn Halawa. Bi’ur al Ha-Torah (ed. C.D. Chavel). Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1977. Ben-Sasson, Yonah. Mishnato Ha’iyunit Shel Ba’al “Meshekh Hokhmah”. Jerusalem: Hamakhon Hatorani Le’idud Yozmot Ve’yetzirot Mekoriyot Sheleyad Michlellet Lipshitz, 1996. Blau, Yitzhak. Modern Rabbinic Thought, undated. http://etzion.org.il/en/topics/modernrabbinic-thought?combine=&page=1

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Cohen, Yitzhak. The ‘Or Sameah’- Halakhah and Jewish Law: R. Meir Simcha Hakohen’s Writings on Maimonides’ Code. (Hebrew) Beer Sheva: Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2013. Herzog, Isaac Halevi. “Obituary for Rav Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, 1927.” The Jewish Chronicle, February 25, 1927. http://onthemainline.blogspot.co.il/2010/04/rav-herzogsobituary-for-rav-meir.html, accessed April 20, 2010. Kalcheim, Uzi. “Klal Yisrael Vehilkhot Tzibur Bemishnato shel Hagaon R. Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen Midvinsk ztz”l al pi Sifro Meshekh Hokhmah.” In I. Warthig, ed. Minha La IY”Sh. Jerusalem: Beit Knesset Beit Yaakov, 1999, pp. 323–336. Leibowitz, Yeshayahu. Sheva Shanim shel Sihot al Parashiyot HaShavu’a. Jerusalem: Keter, 2000. Maimonides, Moses. The Guide of the Perplexed (trans. Shlomo Pines). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963. Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk. Sefer Meshekh Hokhmah al HaTorah, 4 vols. (Edited with annotations and introductions by Yehudah Kuperman). Jerusalem: Published by editor, 2002. ———. Or Same’ah al Mishneh Torah (ed. M.D. Kreitzler). Bnei Brak: Kreitzler Family, 2014. Nagel, Thomas. “Moral Luck,” In his Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979: 24–38. Rapopport, Yaakov M. The Light from Dvinsk – Rav Meir Simcha, the Ohr Somayach. New York: Feldheim, 1990.

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Angels, humans, and the struggle for moral excellence in the writings of Meir Simhah of Dvinsk and Simhah Zissel of Kelm Geoffrey Claussen

In his contribution to this volume, Berel Dov Lerner thoughtfully explores how Rabbi Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk (1843–1926) saw human excellence culminating not in philosophical contemplation (the vita contemplativa) but in social engagement (the vita activa), bringing human beings to a level above the level of angels. I will seek to bring Meir Simhah’s vision of human excellence into dialog with a strikingly similar vision offered just a few years earlier by Meir Simḥah’s rabbinic colleague, Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv of Kelm (1824–1898). Like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel was a rabbi and teacher within the Lithuanian-Latvian region of the Russian Empire, and the two figures apparently met.1 Both were traditionalists who fiercely defended the perfection and divinity of the written Torah and the oral tradition as they understood it, and both harshly criticized Jews who sought to deviate from traditionalist norms of thought and practice. Both, however, showed a certain level of openness towards non-Jewish learning, as both angered their fellow traditionalists by supporting Torah scholars studying Russian and other secular subjects.2 The two of them were also among the Lithuanian-born traditionalists of their era who were most sympathetic to the legacy of medieval Jewish rationalist philosophy and to Maimonides in particular.3 Rather than echoing Maimonides’ praise for the contemplative life of philosophy, however, both stressed the importance of moral concern and social engagement along the lines of what Lerner describes. The two differed, however, in their sense of how difficult it is – and how much work is required – to attain the levels of moral excellence that they both stressed in their writings, and Simhah Zissel put a greater emphasis on how contemplative activities can play a role in helping Jews to engage in moral action. In this chapter, I consider ways in which the themes in Meir Simhah’s writings on which Lerner focuses echo themes in the writings of his older contemporary, while also considering how Simhah Zissel’s concerns about the difficulty of moral development offer a challenge to the more mainstream traditionalism that Meir Simhah represents. While Lerner appropriately describes Meir Simhah as “renowned in his life” and as a rabbi who has now gained “enduring stature in the Orthodox Jewish world,” Simhah Zissel has achieved some acceptance but has been less readily embraced by mainstream Orthodoxy. Whereas Meir Simhah was embraced by the rabbinic elite of his era (and continues to be widely embraced today), Simhah

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Zissel was a figure who challenged and antagonized the rabbinic elite of Lithuania and Latvia. Simhah Zissel was a leader of the Musar movement, a sectarian movement of Orthodox Lithuanian pietists that sought to focus Jews on the formation of moral character and the development of moral discipline (“musar”). Meir Simhah also stressed moral formation and discipline, and he did not denounce the Musar movement as many other traditionalists in the region did, even if he may have had concerns about its sectarianism, pietism, and insufficient attention to Talmudic learning. On the whole, Meir Simhah’s writings reflect many of the ideas shared by the Musar movement as Simhah Zissel articulated them, and even support some of the methods of studying musar literature that Simhah Zissel advocated. But Meir Simhah did not embrace the idea championed by Simhah Zissel and others in the Musar movement that all human beings are extremely resistant to change and in need of making serious efforts to repair their souls.

Abraham and his angelic guests I will begin by considering how some of the ethical teachings of Meir Simhah that Lerner singles out are paralleled in the writings of Simhah Zissel. For example, Lerner points to Meir Simhah’s discussion of how, in Genesis 18, Abraham turns away from an experience of God’s prophetic revelation in order to show hospitality to the wayfarers (who turn out to be angels) passing by his tent. With reference to the Talmudic statement that “hospitality is greater than receiving the face of the Divine Presence” (bShabbat 127a), Meir Simhah suggests that Abraham reaches new heights of excellence during this episode. In his writings on the episode, Simhah Zissel makes a similar point, explaining that the purpose of human beings is ultimately to perform deeds of lovingkindness that allow God’s commandments to be realized in the material world – and that Abraham achieves new heights when he realizes that he must engage with the needs of others rather than simply engage in contemplation. Such acts in the physical world, Simhah Zissel concludes, are in fact the highest form of “spirituality” (ruhaniut) available to human beings. As he writes: A person like [Abraham] fulfills the ultimate purpose of creation, as a material being who is ready to join together physicality and spirituality, for “the beginning of the Torah is with deeds of lovingkindness and the end of the Torah is with deeds of lovingkindness” (bSotah 14a) – and it is all spiritual. This is the secret of the Eternal One, providing a path also for materiality, joining physicality and spirituality in accordance with human nature. Our father Abraham (peace be upon him) exemplified this in all of his ways, for he was very much a master of spirituality, and he was a master of acts of lovingkindness, joining the physical and the spiritual in accordance with the nature of creation. Scripture comes to tell of his test, how he reached this exalted level. . . . [Even while he was in physical pain] he stayed at the entrance [of his tent], seeking with all of his strength to act with lovingkindness, with a great longing to welcome wayfarers – like the supreme Exemplar of lovingkindness

The struggle for moral excellence 29 who does not cease for even a moment, continually, without end. Such was the desire of our father Abraham (peace be upon him) to walk in the path of the Eternal One, as it is written, “you shall walk in [God’s] ways” (Deut. 28:9) – acting without ceasing. This exalted desire burned within him so greatly until out of great joy he fell before [his guests], spreading out his arms and legs to the ground. . . . Come and see the epitome of beneficence and generosity in our father Abraham (peace be upon him). . . . It would seem that our father Abraham (peace be upon him) was at the height of value in godliness, such that certainly his thoughts would always be such exalted thoughts and he would need to forget thoughts of physicality altogether – but this was not the case for him. For he walked in the paths of the Torah, the beginning of which and the end of which are with deeds of lovingkindness, joining together physicality and spirituality.4 Like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel sees God as beyond materiality, and imagines that some people would conclude that the highest level of human achievement would be for a human being to transcend the material world. But, like Meir Simhah, he cautions that this is not the way of the Torah, which is concerned with bringing God’s transcendence into the material world – above all, bringing God’s primary attribute of loving-kindness into the world through deeds of lovingkindness for those in need. In Simhah Zissel’s view, to act in a way which realizes God’s attributes in the world is in fact the epitome of “spirituality,” a notion echoed by Meir Simhah. And, like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel goes on to explain that Abraham’s decision to turn away from a prophetic encounter with God and towards his guests brings him to a greater level of human excellence: Moreover, at this very time the prophecy appeared for him, as it is written: ‘God appeared to him’ (Gen. 18:1), and nonetheless he requested of the Holy Blessed One: ‘Please do not pass by your servant,’ and he put aside the prophecy and went to greet his guests. Why? Surely prophecy is a wonderful pleasure, for the substance of prophecy is knowing God and there is no pleasure like knowing God – but nonetheless he left behind this pleasure on account of his guests, for ‘the central thing is not the study [midrash] but the deed [ma’aseh]’ (Mishnah Avot 1:17). And our sages of blessed memory learned from this: ‘Receiving guests is greater than receiving God’s presence’ (bShabbat 127a).5 Remaining in a place of prophetic intimacy with God would seem to guarantee even greater pleasure than engagement in acts of loving-kindness, but Simhah Zissel sees Abraham as making the right choice to value moral deeds over the pleasures of prophetic contemplation. Similarly, those living in the post-prophetic era should realize that moral deeds – rather than immersion in contemplative study – are the ultimate expression of human excellence. Study is certainly essential, just as prophetic revelation is essential – but prophetic revelation and the study of that revelation should teach the need to put one’s learning into practice.

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Simhah Zissel appears to be critiquing those Lithuanian traditionalists who saw immersion in study as the ultimate human achievement and who disparaged those who instead devoted themselves to good deeds. The Vilna Gaon, the hero of the traditionalist, rabbinic elite of Lithuania, was sometimes praised by traditionalists precisely because of his dedication to study and his refusal to be interrupted by others in need.6 In one letter to his son, Simhah Zissel considers the image of the Gaon immersed in study, and he notes that joining the Gaon would produce an experience of bliss that one would surely not want to interrupt. However, Simhah Zissel instructs his son, one should take guidance from Abraham’s example, and realize the imperative to interrupt even such a blissful experience of study in order to perform acts of loving-kindness: It was right in [Abraham’s] eyes to request from the Holy Blessed One that he interrupt this immeasurable pleasure, and that he would tend to them patiently, without rushing, as is written explicitly [in Gen. 18:2–8]. Please imagine, were we to be immersed in such wondrous pleasure as this, beyond measurement, and we saw someone coming along the road, would it occur to us to interrupt and run to him and perhaps plead that he come to us and that he heed our plea to come and eat and drink. . . . Moreover, would it occur to us, that if a person were immersed in study with the Vilna Gaon of blessed memory, and people were walking on their way – would it occur to him to interrupt his study with his study partner, the Gaon, and plead with the wayfarers that they agree to come in and eat and drink? I am always astounded how it could occur to him to make this request: ‘do not go on past your servant’ (Gen. 18:3). Because he sought out the performance of practical commandments, it occurred to him to seek permission from the Holy Blessed One for this interruption, and not to rush but to give it time and to act deliberately and with a pleasant countenance as is appropriate for guests, and interrupting immeasurable pleasure was easy for him because of the pleasure of performing commandments which are the will of the Creator . . . [and because] ‘the purpose of wisdom is repentance and good deeds’ (bBerakhot 17a).7 Study, here, must lead to deeds of loving-kindness, and one should aspire not only to sit and study with the greatest of sages – but to sit and study and then be interrupted by an opportunity to perform a good deed. Simhah Zissel ends his letter by urging his son to heed this wisdom – “be sure that you immerse yourself in the commandments of deeds of loving-kindness, very much so.”8 In order to encourage that end, the letter indicates, Simhah Zissel’s son should actually seek to engage in the thought experiment his father is suggesting: he should imagine great pleasures like the intellectual pleasures of sitting with the Vilna Gaon and then imagine the ideal of turning aside from such pleasures. Simhah Zissel’s writings are filled with instructions for guided meditations such as this one; such meditations were among the activities he viewed as at the heart of the work of “musar,” the work of bringing discipline to one’s soul. Though many

The struggle for moral excellence 31 other traditionalists in the region ridiculed Simhah Zissel and his Musar movement for urging even scholars to turn aside from the study of Talmud to engage in such activities, Simhah Zissel insisted that turning aside from the study of Talmud was sometimes an imperative.9 Like Abraham, scholars should turn aside to those in need in order to engage in good deeds; additionally, scholars should turn aside in order to engage in the meditative activities that could help to train them to be sensitive to the need to engage in good deeds in the first place.

The errors of philosophers Simhah Zissel’s published discussions of Genesis 18 are more extensive than Meir Simhah’s, and they include elements typical of Simhah Zissel’s writings: instructions to engage in a musar visualization, stress on loving-kindness as a virtue that should be deeply embedded within human hearts, and an emphasis on the pleasures of virtue. But Simhah Zissel’s main point is the same as Meir Simhah’s: both emphasize the dignity of deeds and social responsibility and reject the model of the philosopher whose goal is detached contemplation. Like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel also caricatures and polemically critiques the neo-Platonic or Aristotelian philosophers whom he sees as upholding this goal. Part of Simhah Zissel’s polemic involves a claim that such philosophers’ detachment from the public realm is motivated by self-love and selfish pleasure-seeking. Simhah Zissel uses the passage from Jeremiah 9:22–23 that Lerner references at the end of his chapter, and indicates that while philosophers may glory in their own wisdom, Jewish sages are dedicated to emulating “the Lord who exercises lovingkindness, justice, and righteousness” (Jer. 9:23) – following “the will of the Lord, and not one’s own happiness.”10 Among other examples, Simhah Zissel invokes the figure of the Vilna Gaon, who “said that he would give away all of his [reward in] the world to come for one moment more of serving the blessed Lord.”11 As much as Simhah Zissel emphasizes that the pleasures of virtuous action in the world are in fact greater than the pleasures of detached philosophical contemplation – and, as he noted in his discussion of Abraham, realizing this makes it “easy” to choose the path of virtuous action – he insists that one should value morality over pleasure and not ultimately be motivated by the pursuit of pleasure. Even more frequently, Simhah Zissel joins Meir Simhah in critiquing philosophers for devaluing action. Like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel portrays neoPlatonic/Aristotelian philosophers as they are caricatured in Yehudah Ha-Levi’s Kuzari – lost in realms of contemplation and certain that contact with the otherworldly realm of pure spirituality can only be attained through utilizing the rational (non-material, spiritual) aspect of the human being. And like Meir Simhah, Simhah Zissel sees the Torah offering a path of action, attainable for non-philosophers, that allows for even greater levels of spirituality to be found within physical reality. In one passage, Simhah Zissel writes that one should respond to “philosophers who challenge the performance of commandments [ma’aseh mitzvot]” by pointing out “that, truly, the material world, the world of deeds, is also a spiritual world, and

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in fact according to our understanding it is more spiritual.”12 Misguided philosophers, Simhah Zissel writes in another passage, do not see how the material realm of human action would create a link with that realm of pure spirituality: All the philosophers agree that it is through concepts [muskalot] that we come to eternal life. But as for deeds, human understanding does not grasp how eternal life could come through them. If the [physical world of  ] action was made through God’s word, this is not impossible for God, who can do anything. But what they do not understand is how the essence of spirituality could produce the essence of materiality as we have in our lowly world. This is something that not everyone can understand, but it was given to us in the Torah that the essential thing is the physical world. ‘All is in accordance with the majority of one’s deeds’ (Mishnah Avot 3:15): reading this closely, it means that the greater the deeds one does, the more holy one is. Therefore we see in Derekh Emunah [The Way of Faith] that many material things have lofty spiritual things contained within them, which can be accessed by reason. How can we have the physical fulfillment of commandments which are given by God as the essence of spirituality? It is simple to understand that within [these physical deeds] is the essence of spirituality.13 Simhah Zissel appears to admit that he does not have a rational argument as to why physical action is in fact the essence of spirituality: he must rely on what has been “given to us in the Torah” and accordingly summons the authority of the Kabbalistic treatise Derekh Emunah (as he occasionally turns to Kabbalistic sources when dealing with claims that cannot be rationally justified).14 Simhah Zissel does go on to offer an argument, however, against the medieval philosophic assumption that words or concepts are more spiritual than deeds. He points out that there is no basis for such an assumption: words (and concepts) are as much a part of creation as are physical actions. Proper deeds are as accessible to reason as proper thoughts are: Speech is like action for God. This is obvious because spiritual things are also creations, they are also brought forth out of nothing, and it is fitting to label them as part of the physical world. Is it a new idea to say that for God, words are like physical deeds? No, this is simple. What is wondrous is how the essence of materiality can come forth from God. Therefore, truly, [we must say that] ‘[God’s] glory fills the whole earth’ (Isaiah 6:3) and that all is spirituality, and especially the fulfillment of commandments through physical deeds, by means of which the essence of spirituality is obtained.15 Proper deeds, according to this line of thinking, can be just as spiritual as conceptual thinking; both are equally parts of God’s creation. The angels appear to share this insight when they announce that God’s “glory fills the whole earth” (Isaiah 6:3), words that Lerner also finds in Meir Simhah’s argument regarding the dignity of moral deeds. For Simhah Zissel, it appears, the angels can recognize the dignity

The struggle for moral excellence 33 of the physical world, but (as Meir Simhah would agree) they are unable to put their wisdom into action. Human beings are able to reach this level, as angels are not, and it would be the height of folly for humans to fail to put their wisdom into action. In Simhah Zissel’s language: The essence of discerning whether a person is a sage is by means of his deeds. If he behaves in accordance with his wisdom, truly he is a sage. If he does not, he is crazy! Thus, ‘the beginning of wisdom is reverence for the Lord’ (Ps. 111:10), the proof being [in the continuation of the verse] that God grants ‘sound reason to all who perform them’ (Ps. 111:10) – meaning that he who performs deeds in accordance with reason, this is the sign that his reason is sound.16 Of course, Simhah Zissel assumes the clear importance of deeds because their importance is assumed by the Torah, and he further assumes that the Torah is the epitome of rationality. But the Torah does not lay out logical arguments for its rational conclusions; rather, it makes its rational conclusions available to the entire Jewish people, including those incapable of understanding their philosophical justification: All of the philosophers were greatly challenged by the practical commandments [mitzvot ma’asiot], to the point where they denied the practical commandments, and we have shown their foolishness. . . . And we, the people of Israel, should glory in the fact that the lowest among the people of Israel mocks and triumphs over the greatest of philosophers, and all of this is because of the gift of the Torah that God gave to us.17 Simhah Zissel, then, views the philosophic distaste for practical deeds as deeply foolish. He joins with Meir Simhah in claiming that the lowliest of Jews end up living far more rational lives than the greatest of philosophers, because they have access to the Torah’s teaching that the highest degrees of virtue are attained through action, not through speculation. Simhah Zissel describes such teachings as not merely revealed at Mount Sinai, but also as known to Abraham, a prophet who (like Moses) might be said to be partially angelic. Thus, he concludes the discourse on Abraham discussed at the start of this chapter by reflecting on Abraham’s achievement and the message that he passed along to his descendants: This [level] could only be achieved by one whose upper half was divine and whose lower half was human, an angel and a human together, dust from the ground ‘into whose nostrils [God] breathed the soul of life’ (Gen. 2:7). Thus God intended, and our father Abraham (peace be upon him) intended, that we have a share in the blessing that our father bequeathed to us like a father who passes on his strength to his sons. Therefore it is on us, the honored children, children of such an exalted father, to hold onto his holy path, to join together this world and the world to come, the physical and the spiritual together.18

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Simhah Zissel suggests here, as Meir Simhah did some years after him, that human prophets are able to attain a level of excellence that angels cannot. Abraham, as a prophet, is half-angelic – but he has the gift of being half-human as well.19 Angels are not able to accomplish the greatest of tasks, which is to join together “the physical and the spiritual,” as prophets like Abraham could do. But even ordinary human beings who are not partially angelic, Simhah Zissel suggests, can inherit and implement Abraham’s teachings on how to bring loving-kindness into the world. The people of Israel, as Abraham’s heirs, enjoy a special opportunity to accomplish the work of joining eternal attributes together with the material world.

The wisdom of philosophers and the limits of angels Human reason, Simhah Zissel contends, should reveal the path by which divine ideals may be actualized in the form of deeds in the physical world, and Abraham used his reason to discover the essence of this path; the Torah received by Moses then provides an ultimate guide for how divine ideals may be actualized. Simhah Zissel explains that God’s will is fundamentally an abstract ideal – “the Torah is reason in its simplicity [ha-torah sekhel pashut]” he writes – that must be applied to human beings, who are “composite” (murkav). In order to be communicated to human beings, then, the Torah had to be made “composite,” so that it would be accessible to human reason. Embellishing the Talmudic story (bShabbat 88b89a, also discussed in Lerner’s chapter) about a conversation between God and the angels as to whether human beings deserved the revelation of God’s Torah, Simhah Zissel imagines the following exchange: The angels thought that since the human being is composite and the Torah is reason in its simplicity, what did they have in common? And God answered them: the commandments are behaviors, tools for the soul, which are composite. . . . And, if so, certainly the Torah is composite.20 The Torah, in the end, does not consist of abstract rational ideals, but of concrete commandments designed for concrete human beings. Simhah Zissel thus sees the commandments given by God to the people of Israel as fundamentally rational – God’s rational application of rational ideals to concrete circumstances. Other nations, he suggests, will understand the commandments “as showing wisdom and understanding.” The other nations also have the capacity for rational insight, and will observe, in the words of Deuteronomy, that “surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people” (Deut. 4:6).21 These other nations, for Simhah Zissel, also have the capacity for complete rationality, just as the people of Israel do. Though Simhah Zissel criticizes non-Jewish philosophers who over-emphasized contemplation and neglected social ethics, he often praises non-Jewish philosophers who followed the path of Abraham and Moses by emphasizing social ethics and the difficult work of bringing moral discipline (musar) to the soul. For example, he praises Aristotle, who understood the importance of practical wisdom and contemplation which lead to action. (“A thing

The struggle for moral excellence 35 which one hears from others, even when one understands it – without deep, inner consideration, accepting the form of the thing through deep reasoning, one’s knowledge will not be considered to have made an impression upon one’s actions. So we find in Aristotle’s Ethics 6:6 . . .”22) Aristotle, for Simhah Zissel, was a master and teacher of musar; thus, for example, Simhah Zissel notes that “the sage Alexander of Macedon had a special teacher for musar.”23 And in general, Simhah Zissel assumes that any philosopher who has true wisdom must have engaged in musar work, as true wisdom requires musar: “it is not possible to be called a sage without musar; therefore, all the philosophers immersed themselves in musar.”24 At times he suggests that his colleagues among the Lithuanian rabbinic elite failed to live up to the level of the philosophers on this point: in one letter to his colleague Rabbi Eliezer Gordon, Simhah Zissel urged him to follow the example of the philosophers and dedicate time to musar, not just to traditional Talmud study.25 In another passage Simhah Zissel suggests that even when Jews may gain correct knowledge through their study of rabbinic texts, they may fail to match the achievements of non-Jews who were more dedicated to Aristotle’s recommendation to translate knowledge into action. He notes that a Jew may be familiar with the Mishnah’s wisdom regarding human lowliness, that humans are “born from a putrid drop” of semen – but “this awareness doesn’t automatically help him regarding himself, unless he becomes habituated to it in action, as Aristotle, the sage of the nations, also wrote.”26 Other nations, Simhah Zissel indicates, took Aristotle’s focus on habituation much more seriously: “the rest of the enlightened nations are habituated to considering themselves [in this way], and inevitably they are accustomed to honor people, since because of this they are accustomed to moral decency.”27 And he indicates that one might learn from non-Jewish sources in a variety of other ways as well about the essence of the social cooperation that is central to God’s vision for human life. For example, when he discusses the importance of social and economic cooperation (like Meir Simhah, emphasizing its importance), he not only cites Jewish texts but also discusses how “all philosophers describe the human being as political” and needing to cooperate in this way.28 Non-Jewish philosophers may well reach the rational insights that are at the heart of the Torah, and may at times have something to teach Jews who are immersed in study but fail to understand the work of disciplining moral character. Though we saw above that Simhah Zissel thinks that the people of Israel have unique access to the teachings of Abraham and Moses – those prophets who combined the rationality of an angel with the embodiment of a human being – he seems to think that non-Jews can also cultivate the rational and “angelic” part of human nature: The truth is thus: that it is possible for a person to reach the height of virtue. It is not as people in the world think, that a person is a person and it is good for him to learn to become an angel. This is not so. Rather, on the contrary, a person is truly an angel, and without learning he will become an animal. This is as scripture says: ‘I had said that you are angels’ (Psalm 82:6). If people were not angels, then how would it be possible to say this? Behold, a person truly is an angel, but in following after the evil impulses of his heart he becomes an

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Given the discussion above regarding the wisdom that non-Jews may possess, this teaching appears to apply to human beings in general; the intellectual work which keeps the evil inclination at bay includes not only Talmud study but also the study of musar, familiar to many non-Jews, that Simhah Zissel sees as especially effective for combating the evil inclination.

Musar and the need for continual growth In other passages, Simhah Zissel emphasizes that the work of musar required to recover this original, “angelic” human nature would be tremendous. Thus, he explains that “God created the human being upright” (Eccl. 7:29a) but, ever since the sin in the Garden of Eden, “they have sought out many calculations” (Eccl. 7:29b) to act wickedly: ‘God created the human being [adam] upright,’ and [Adam] did not need so much labor to reach his exalted level, but ‘they have sought out many calculations.’ This is like one who eats something that injures him, he will become sick and need bitter medicines like wormwood until he recovers, and afterwards he may eat and drink things that are good and sweet. So too, because of the sin [in Eden], bitter and harsh medicines are necessary . . . and with each additional sin, one needs medicines that are even more bitter than the previous ones.30 As Simhah Zissel discusses in his writings, many practices of musar may be like bitter medicines: voluntary poverty,31 meditation on the experience of giving up an intense pleasure (as discussed above), or the contemplation and repeated intonation of phrases that remind one of one’s evil inclination,32 or one’s inevitable suffering following death.33 Or one might follow the path of Abraham, whose path (as a non-Jewish philosopher, before the call of God in Genesis 12) involved restraining his desires and afflicting his body.34 Simhah Zissel describes Abraham’s model as inspiring his own musar practice of setting aside every tenth day for contemplation and self-restraint: He saw that he had to crush and afflict his afflicted body – the filthy, repulsive, loathsome material that is full of blood and excrement, the dirt of maggots and worms. He saw how to humble it so that it would not have any dominion over the pure and honored part of the soul . . . and this is clear reason, hewn from heaven. . . . And he set his heart to make himself like an ox under the yoke, to receive upon himself the yoke of the kingdom of heaven, to bind his senses and his movements so that he would be like a field cultivated for strong reason, to endure harsh and bitter afflictions for the filthy body. . . . And how very much it is incumbent upon us to [also] accept the yoke of the kingdom of

The struggle for moral excellence 37 heaven. But because of our many sins, we are totally unable to receive upon ourselves the yoke of the kingdom of the Blessed One as is required; therefore, we have taken it upon ourselves . . . [to set aside] one day out of every ten days on which we may do better in receiving upon ourselves the yoke of the kingdom of heaven.35 Abraham’s soul was clearly sick, and in need of bitter medicine, and his example inspires Simhah Zissel to join with friends and students in renewed efforts in the work of musar. As Simhah Zissel concludes in another discussion of Abraham’s journey, “there is no remedy for a human being other than to exert oneself very greatly.”36 Abraham did not trust in supernatural grace that would lighten the burden of sin, but instead realized that he would need to engage in great efforts. Abraham’s descendants may have some advantage, as they are heirs to Abraham’s “holy path” and the guidance of the Torah, but Simhah Zissel does not want his colleagues and students to think that the struggle against the evil inclination will be easier for them than it was for Abraham – rather, it will be more difficult, “because of our many sins.”37 As he puts it in another passage, among those who habituate themselves to loving-kindness, we know that even the best of them can revert to being reborn with a cruel nature. Why? Surely they immerse themselves greatly in acts of loving-kindness, but this is because of matter, the opposite of form, and human nature inclines more towards being ‘evil, all the time’ (Gen. 6:5).38 Even someone like Abraham, it appears, needs to guard against the evil inclination; a consequence of being not simply angelic but also grounded in the material world is that “matter” will always threaten the spiritual “form” that human beings possess. What makes human achievement so much greater than the achievement of angels seems to be that humans who succeed at showing loving-kindness manage to do so despite the constant possibility of being overtaken by their evil, material urges. Moreover, human beings have the potential not only to meet this challenge of overcoming their nature but also to achieve a kind of emulation of God that the angels cannot achieve. As Simhah Zissel notes, God’s perfection transcends anything that created beings are able to comprehend. Simhah Zissel points out that according to the traditional liturgy, even angels of the highest rank confess their ignorance and ask, “Where is the place of His glory?”39 And yet, Simhah Zissel notes (following Maimonides), human beings can know God’s “ways,” God’s virtues which human beings are obligated to emulate – and which, he suggests, they are able to emulate as angels cannot. He describes how God’s primary virtue of love can be learned by observing the world, and he notes that angels are unable to emulate this virtue whereas humans are able to: The [fundamental] quality of God is that He loves all creatures; were it not so, they could not exist in the world. And we find that loving God’s creatures

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Geoffrey Claussen is closeness to the Blessed One. And how is it possible that one fashioned from material can draw close to God, while the angels above ask themselves where God’s place is? Our sages, in their holy way, have taught us (bSotah 14a): how can a person draw close to the Blessed One? By cleaving to His attributes. And there are no character traits of the blessed Lord more apparent to us than love of His creatures. ‘You open up your hand and satisfy the desire of all that lives’ (Psalms 145:16) – we see that every single creature receives pleasure and satisfaction for its desire, and this is simply God’s love for His creatures.40

Human beings are capable of emulating such love, and so have an advantage over the angels. Again, we see that for Simhah Zissel, as for Meir Simhah, angels cannot draw close to God because they cannot love as human beings can. But human beings inevitably struggle in putting virtues of love into practice, which is why Simhah Zissel concludes that they need practices of musar to bolster their moral development. Humans must struggle to overcome even the basest habits of cruelty, and they must struggle all the more to ascend to the level of divine attributes. The obligation to emulate infinitely good divine attributes means that human beings must always seek to grow and learn. One must “seek [God’s] face continually” (Psalms 105:4), Simhah Zissel explains, “for in all the days of your life, you will not have arrived at the end . . . and you must seek further.”41 And the greatest rabbis are appropriately called “disciples of the sages,” he explains, rather than “sages” – “for all of their days, they are like disciples who are learning” in a way that Simhah Zissel compares to the path of Socrates, who continually sought greater learning.42 Human beings are not asked to do what is impossible for them to do – “the Torah does not command the human being to fulfill the Torah with angelic strength, but with human strength”43 – but they are asked to do all that they can do to move towards greater moral virtue, and they must engage in the work of musar all the days of their lives.44

Meir Simhah in dialog with Simhah Zissel Lerner’s chapter shows that Meir Simhah shares Simhah Zissel’s emphasis on the need for continual growth. Meir Simhah taught, for example, that Jacob exemplified the ideal of the person who grows and changes – Jacob “went on his way, for the true righteous man and Torah scholar goes [‘walks’] from his original place to greater stations,” in contrast to angels who “remain standing and fixed at their original degree of perfection.”45 Meir Simhah joins Simhah Zissel in seeing ethical action as an important component of this continual growth, as Lerner describes. Meir Simhah even joins Simhah Zissel in advocating practices of musar, practices that can discipline wayward souls and aid moral growth. Lerner notes that Meir Simhah’s comments on Exodus 12:21 describe how emotions can be important for cultivating a proper sense of solidarity among the people of Israel. The continuation of the passage, beyond where Lerner’s translation ends, considers a Talmudic

The struggle for moral excellence 39 passage (bPesahim 112b) according to which different animals can be warned away by intoning and repeating different sorts of sounds (“hen hen” for a bull, “zeh zeh” for a lion, “da da” for a camel). Meir Simhah explains that the same lesson applies when one is speaking to one’s “animalistic” evil inclination: to break the power of the appetite, it is good to awaken it by [repeating] a statement or concept several times – as with a person who desires a forbidden thing, he should recite many times, with enthusiasm, a frightening statement like ‘envy or appetite or [seeking] honor remove a person from this world’ or ‘come and consider the loss of a sin against its reward’ or the like.46 This is precisely one of the forms of “medicine” that Simhah Zissel and other colleagues in the Musar movement prescribed for their students, and Meir Simhah’s support for this sort of emotionally-charged contemplative exercise might help explain why he did not join other Lithuanian and Latvian traditionalists in opposing the movement. It is would seem, however, that Simhah Zissel’s prescriptions go well beyond what Meir Simhah prescribes. Meir Simhah concludes his comments on musar exercises by noting that such exercises are only appropriate when seeking to control emotions or desires, but that they are inappropriate when one is dealing with intellectual concepts. In those latter cases, the intellectual study of Torah is all that one needs: to straighten one’s ideas or correct one’s concepts against the claims of the human heart, a person should think and gain wisdom from various claims and concepts and provide various answers to awaken the correct opinions that are inscribed within the Jewish intellect.47 Simhah Zissel surely agreed that one should investigate claims and seek wisdom in order to straighten one’s intellect, but his writings also urge that emotion be employed in order to root ideas in the heart. Intellectual concepts are like “dry seeds” that must be planted deeply within human hearts through contemplative musar exercises that appeal to the senses: ‘Know, today, and bring it into your heart’ (Deut. 4:39) – plant them in the soil of the heart, for without planting in the earth – that is, the heart – the seed cannot produce actual fruits. Only then will one’s knowledge be in one’s sense-experience and so produce many fruits.48 Thus, when considering the idea from Ecclesiastes that “all is vanity” (Eccl. 1:2), Simhah Zissel explains that “one needs to take this not on faith, but rather one should root this in his understanding and his many thoughts, to understand in his feelings that the world is vanity and a lie, and by means of this the world will come to be a thing of vanity in his eyes.”49 Both understanding and feeling are essential in his formulation. Or, for example, Simhah Zissel explains that Moses, then a

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prince in Pharaoh’s palace, came to realize the situation of the Israelite slaves surrounding him only when his intellectual efforts were joined with contemplative musar meditations that allowed him to empathize with the slaves’ suffering. He “focused his eyes and his heart” on their suffering, as Rashi’s commentary (on Ex. 2:11) puts it – meaning, Simhah Zissel explains, that he both “contemplated with his mind” and also “brought this into his heart, so that his heart would feel their pain as if he himself was in this pain.” A clear mental understanding is central to the process described here, but mental understanding must flow into the emotions of the heart. Again, Simhah Zissel refers to the commandment to “know, today, and bring it into your heart that the Lord is God in heaven above and on earth below” (Deut. 4:39).50 One must use one’s reason to understand what is true, but one must also involve one’s emotions using whatever means are necessary. For Meir Simhah, by contrast, intellectually grounded Torah study should suffice to “awaken the correct opinions that are inscribed within the Jewish intellect”; moreover, the commandments should generally suffice to satisfy the emotions, so that additional musar contemplations involving the emotions would ideally not be necessary at all. Musar activities may be necessary when someone “desires a forbidden thing” (as indicated by Meir Simhah’s words above), but Meir Simhah indicates that ordinarily, the Torah finds a place for the emotions through the commandments. This is especially true insofar as commandments draw on emotions in creating feelings of social solidarity, as Lerner indicates – for instance, that the commandments regarding the Land of Israel and Jerusalem allow for “all emotions be directed to the unity of the nation.” Meir Simhah summarizes his approach in two parts, explaining the purpose of both Torah study and the performance of commandments: [God] increased Torah for them, the many concepts in the written and oral Torah serving to educate the power of reason, so that it endures and overcomes the imagination. And for the emotions that are led astray and lead to emotional excitement from nature – and forgetting God, the creator of the world who gives honor to creations, God increased the commandments for them, to strengthen feelings like love (the love of neighbors, love of family, love of the nation), vengeance (to take vengeance against those who hate the Lord), lovingkindness (for one’s fellow). And all of the feelings have a place among the commandments.51 Similar sentiments are found in Simhah Zissel’s writings, although Simhah Zissel also sees the emotions as having a place when considering intellectual concepts; and he places far greater emphasis on the need to engage with emotions not only through observance of the Torah’s commandments or when dealing with particularly problematic appetites. Rather, engagement with the emotions is crucial for all people and at all times. For Simhah Zissel, as we saw above, all human beings are spiritually “sick” and their observance of “Torah and commandments” must be supplemented with “bitter and harsh medicines” that force them to focus on and repair their injured souls.

The struggle for moral excellence 41 In particular, Simhah Zissel clearly rejects the idea, widespread among the traditionalist rabbinic elite in Lithuania and its surrounding areas, that great and righteous Torah scholars who constantly immerse themselves in the study of Talmud can be protected against the evil inclination by their intellectually-focused studies alone. Meir Simhah seems to join him in rejecting that idea – he is clear that human beings generally have emotions that lead them astray that need to be engaged and transformed for the good. Therefore, engagement with the Torah’s path of physical commandments is essential (and might be supplemented with some musar contemplation), and rare would be the scholar who could dispense with concern for the emotions and physical actions. Still, Meir Simhah does occasionally refer to the rare possibility of those individuals who could reach the highest levels of achievement possible through a philosophical path of intellectual study that gives little attention to practical deeds: as Lerner points out, through this path, “only a single person in a few generations would reach perfection,”52 but the path seems to be a possibility. Elsewhere, Meir Simhah notes the example of the Talmud’s Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, who is said to have dedicated himself almost exclusively to study and paid little attention to practical deeds, and while he makes it clear this is not the generally recommended path, there are rare individuals for whom the more intellectual path is appropriate: “as it was for Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, it is appropriate for a completely righteous person.”53 Meir Simhah clearly focuses his writings on the worldly path that is more appropriate for almost all Jews, but he might well have agreed with his contemporaries who held that there were rare individuals of exceptional righteousness – the Vilna Gaon, perhaps – who could walk a more intellectually-centered path and focus nearly exclusively on Talmud study. Such rare individuals might give less attention to more practical commandments, and would certainly not need emotionally-engaged musar study. And, perhaps, Meir Simhah might at times have responded to the Musar movement by suggesting that all who immersed themselves in Torah might receive some automatic protection against the evil inclination. Writing a decade after Meir Simhah’s death, Rabbi Moses Yashar (Yoshor) claims that Meir Simhah held this view and expressed it in conversation with Simhah Zissel. Yashar reports that Simhah Zissel sought to convince Meir Simhah “of the necessity of musar study – even for sages [talmidei hakhamim] immersed in Torah.” However, Rabbi Meir Simhah did not assent to him. [R. Meir Simhah] expressed his view that there is no medicine more effective against the diseases of the [evil] inclination than immersion in Torah, and he had his reasons: for who but the Holy Blessed One knows the nature and character of the evil inclination? The Holy Blessed One created it and he knows how to overcome it and conquer it, and He is the one who declared: ‘I have created the evil inclination, and I have created Torah as its antidote’ (bKiddushin 30b). Indeed, the Torah itself is the most effective medicine for the diseases of the soul caused by the [evil] inclination. Rabbi Simhah Zissel argued that the path for healing the soul is like the path of healing the body, as not all diseases are equal, and for each and every

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Geoffrey Claussen one, the cure depends upon the preparation of the healing medications designated for it alone. Rabbi Meir Simhah answered him with his view that when our sages of blessed memory said: ‘At the head of sickness am I, blood; and at the head of all medicine am I, Wine [and medications are required only when there is no wine]’ (bBavaBatra 58b), they were speaking of those with illnesses of the soul. The explanation is that the head and root of all diseases of the soul is the agitation of the blood, the source of all appetites and sins, and the foundation of all healing medications for those with illnesses of the soul is the wine of Torah. Therefore the view of our sages of blessed memory is that the study of Torah is the tested and proven remedy for straightening and improving a person’s character traits, so that one needs no other stratagems.54

This story may reflect an authentic conversation although, in light of his writings, it seems more likely that Meir Simhah would stress the value of both Torah study and the performance of commandments. Similar words emphasizing the power of Torah study alone have been attributed to Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin, the student of the Vilna Gaon who pioneered Lithuanian yeshiva education,55 and they fit the vision reflected in R. Hayyim’s writings better than that of Meir Simhah. R. Hayyim was far more assertive in upholding the supremacy of Torah study as the highest human achievement and in rejecting the idea that righteous scholars should devote time to musar. Meir Simhah may have been somewhat more sympathetic to musar, as indicated above, and he certainly seems to have advocated a view that saw both Torah study and the performance of commandments as verified remedies for strengthening and improving character traits.

Musar and the question of Jewish superiority Still, Yashar’s story does have the ring of truth to it, especially if we understand Meir Simhah as believing that “immersion in Torah” would necessarily lead to and include the performance of the commandments being studied. And even if Meir Simhah was more sympathetic to the path of musar than many of his contemporaries and appreciated the power of contemplative activities “to break the power of the appetite,” he thought the benefits of musar contemplation were quite limited. As we saw above, his own writings suggest that such emotionally-engaged contemplation was inappropriate when seeking “to awaken the correct opinions that are inscribed within the Jewish intellect.” Meir Simhah seems to have seen human beings as generally “healthier,” less mired in sin, and therefore less in need of musar stratagems. It is now worth considering whether his expressions of confidence pertained not to human beings in general but, rather, specifically to Jews, who have “correct opinions” inscribed within their minds. Though both Simhah Zissel and Meir Simhah shared a sense of the superiority of Jewish tradition, Meir Simhah seems to have had a far stronger sense that Jews were easily inclined to good and therefore less in need of musar.

The struggle for moral excellence 43 Indeed, this sense can be seen in the continuation of the text that Lerner quotes regarding the patriarch Jacob from Meir Simhah’s Meshekh Hokhmah.56 As Lerner mentions, Meir Simhah describes how Jacob “is constantly undergoing a process of change for the better.” It is noteworthy, though, that Meir Simhah does not use the language that Simhah Zissel uses when speaking of constant growth. Meir Simhah does not speak of a difficult and ongoing struggle animated by a constant fear that “even the best of them” may revert to cruelty and deep spiritual sickness without proper introspection, or animated by constant divine pressure to draw closer and closer to God’s infinitely good attributes. Rather, Jacob as Meir Simhah describes him appears to reach a level of righteousness and intellectual achievement, free of any sickness that might have seemed intrinsic to the human condition. Meir Simhah would agree with Simhah Zissel that even though “God created the human being upright” (Eccl. 7:29a), the sin in Eden led people to wickedness such that “they have sought out many calculations” (Eccl. 7:29b). But Meir Simhah sees Jacob as discovering a path of Torah by which he and his descendants might return to the state of humanity before the sin: ‘God created the human being upright, but they have sought out many calculations’ (Eccl. 7:29). For at the beginning of creation, he could always incline himself to the side of good . . . [but after the sin] good and bad became mixed up within him . . . until the three patriarchs separated [the good from the bad] and distilled it, for from Abraham came Ishmael and from Isaac came Esau, but then Jacob came and his progeny were perfect, as our sages said in Tractate Shabbat (bShabbat 146a).57 And so the essence of the Jewish soul inclines towards good – it is only ‘the yeast that it in the dough [i.e. the evil inclination] and servitude to [foreign] kingdoms that hinders [them]’ (bBerakhot 17a). . . . And [for Israel] evil is an [external] entity unto itself [rather than being mixed within them], whereas for Esau and his fellows – the nations of the world – their souls incline to evil. . . . And Jacob may have been announcing [to Esau in Genesis 32:658] that the level that he merited was far higher than any other part of creation other than the Blessed Lord – for an animal soul can be owned by a rational soul . . . but a rational soul cannot be owned by anyone other than the Blessed Lord. Thus, the soul of a non-Jew, when compared to the soul of a Jew – the first-born son of the Blessed One, is akin to the relationship of an animal soul when compared to a rational soul. . . . And therefore Jacob sent [to Esau in Genesis 32:6] to proclaim to him the power of his greatness, that he was fit to be the first-born.59 According to this understanding, Abraham and Isaac had evil mixed within their souls, which explains how they fathered Ishmael and Esau. But Jacob was – like Adam before the sin – “created upright,” so that the evil inclination was not mixed within his soul but was rather like a merely external entity that could easily be defeated by Torah observance. (Following midrashic tradition, Meir Simhah envisions that Jacob observed “all six hundred and thirteen commandments.”60) Jacob was blessed with a soul that was inclined towards righteousness, and the souls of

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his descendants, the people of Israel, share this state of being. According to Meir Simhah, this blessing leaves Jews on a completely different level than non-Jews, a gap comparable to the gap between humans and non-humans. While non-Jews are not entirely evil, they incline towards evil, whereas Jews incline towards the good. Whereas Simhah Zissel’s meditation on how “God created the human being upright” leads him to reflect on humanity’s fallen state and the need for Jews to also partake of the “bitter and harsh medicines” of musar,61 Meir Simhah seems to think that Jews are disposed to reach the level of Adam, as Jacob did, without such harsh remedies. Simhah Zissel shares the common traditionalist view that the merit of the patriarchs renders Jews superior to non-Jews in some respects: they are “the honored children” who inherit the path of Abraham, in the language we saw above.62 And yet, as I have suggested above, Simhah Zissel also sees Jews as needing to learn from non-Jews, and he thinks that when Jews fail to engage in musar they can render themselves inferior to “the rest of the enlightened nations.” Simhah Zissel takes a relatively naturalistic view of the soul that he sees as shared by Jews and non-Jews alike; he does not think that Jews can merely rely on their ancestors or the Torah to protect them from the moral evil that he sees in all human souls.63 For Simhah Zissel, “there is no remedy for a human being other than to exert oneself very greatly” in the work of musar. Meir Simhah, by contrast, seems rather surer of the Jewish soul’s inherent superiority and the spiritual efficacy of the Torah and commandments. In another passage, Meir Simhah explains that contact with other nations can easily compromise a pure Jewish soul. When other nations fail to acknowledge Jewish exceptionalism and view Jews as contaminated, this paradoxically works to the Jews’ advantage since it helps them remain separated from other nations: Impurity does not come from the persons themselves [of the people of Israel] but is transferred through contact with impurity. . . . In truth, the souls of the people of Israel are good in their essence, and it is only external forces that cause [evil]. . . . Therefore, [our sages] said ‘Therefore, [Israel] is like an [impure] menstruous woman’ (Lam. 1:5) – even this is a blessing” (bTa’anit 20a), for the nations of the world say that the impurity of the menstruous woman comes from her person and so they say that about the people of the Lord that they are impure in their persons . . . and therefore they do not draw close to Israel and Israel does not become mixed with them.64 The opening of this passage helps further illustrate why the people of Israel might not need such bitter medicines to defeat the evil inclination, as evil is not deeply embedded within the Jewish soul but remains external to it. The conclusion of the passage also helps us expand our sense of Meir Simhah’s focus on social solidarity that Lerner emphasizes in his chapter. Like most traditionalists living in the Russian Empire in his era, Meir Simhah insists that Jews seek out social solidarity with Jews – and social separation from other nations. Separation from other nations is a great blessing for Israel, as it keeps them “pure,” even when that separation comes about precisely because the nations view Israel as inherently impure.

The struggle for moral excellence 45 Simhah Zissel, by contrast, believes the evil inclination is deeply embedded within the souls of all human beings, Jews included; and he seems far less concerned about their contamination by other nations. It may be instructive, here, to juxtapose his comments on the first chapter of the book of Isaiah to those of Meir Simhah. Lerner discusses, in his chapter, how Meir Simhah reads Isaiah 1 as showing how social solidarity among the Jewish people contributes to their human excellence – Isaiah admits that individual Jews may be “deficient in themselves but, under conditions of social solidarity, each can make his or her unique contribution towards improvement of the nation as a whole.” Simhah Zissel’s most extensive comments on Isaiah 1, by contrast, focus on solidarity among all human beings. He reflects upon God’s call in Isaiah, “Come, let us reason. . . . If your sins are crimson, they can turn snow white” (Isaiah 1:18) and the difficulty of reasoning and repenting from sins. Simhah Zissel focuses on the difficulty of observing the commandments in all of their detail, and on how Hillel’s advice to focus on the Torah’s central injunction, “Do not do anything to your fellow that is hateful to you” (bShabbat 31a), can help people advance from their natural state (“man is born with flaws and needs mending”) to a state of purity. He views Hillel’s dictum as a valuable object of meditation for Jews striving to navigate the difficult observance of the Torah’s detailed obligations: Hillel has taught us “the foundation of the religion, that upon which it was built, so that he could meditate at all times upon the foundation of the religion, and then the details would be strengthened accordingly.” Furthermore, Simhah Zissel understands this foundation to require love and solidarity with all human beings, and not just with Jews. The foundation of musar work, he concludes, is “to instill love in a person’s heart from his youth, love of human beings whether Jewish or not – for all are partners.”65 Simhah Zissel develops this conclusion with reference to one other text which Meir Simhah mentions in his comments on Deuteronomy 32, quoted by Lerner at the start of his chapter. Meir Simhah claims that when the people of Israel act as a collective, they can “ascend” together, and he points to the Talmudic sage Ben Zoma who observes (bBerakhot 58a) that by specializing in different forms of labor and engaging in economic exchange, individuals benefit the whole community. The Talmud implies that Ben Zoma makes his observation while he is observing a large crowd of Jews at the Temple Mount, and so his observations might seem especially germane to Meir Simhah’s remarks on the specifically Jewish collective. Simhah Zissel, however, suggests that Ben Zoma is speaking of solidarity among both Jews and non-Jews.66 He explains Ben Zoma’s paean to economic cooperation and social solidarity as follows: The prime foundation [required] in a person’s life is that he instill in his heart true love of human beings, whatever religion they may be, because the entire political community is a partnership. This person makes shoes for his fellow, and his fellow sews clothing for him; this one builds a house for his fellow, and his fellow plants a vineyard for him; this one makes food for his fellow, and his fellow prepares a drink for him. Partners, if they want to succeed, must each do for his work for his fellow faithfully, for if one makes shoes for his fellow

46

Geoffrey Claussen fraudulently, his fellow will reciprocate accordingly with clothing made fraudulently, and so everyone will act this way. Therefore, if you want the work that you need to be good, you should do good work for what your fellow needs, as this will be reciprocal. And therefore Ben Zoma wanted to instill in his heart love of human beings, whether Jewish or not, and he said: all were created to serve me, and if so they are my partners, and they prepare for me what I need, and I also prepare for them, with love, what they need. And in this way one will become habituated to always think that everyone is making preparations for each other – in order that love of God’s creatures, whether Jewish or not, can be implanted in his heart.67

Simhah Zissel’s understanding of Ben Zoma’s vision of solidarity, here, includes a repeated emphasis on how the love that unfolds through economic cooperation should not discriminate on account of religious/national identity. It is precisely this sort of universal love for God’s creatures, emphasized by Ben Zoma and Hillel, that allows for the most profound closeness to God – the sort of closeness that, as we saw above, is beyond the reach of the angels who are unable to embody love in the material world.

Conclusions Simhah Zissel was, like Meir Simhah, a traditionalist rabbi firmly committed to the superiority of the Torah as the true path for human beings to bring divine attributes into the world and thus to rise above the level of angels. And yet Simhah Zissel stressed just how difficult the task of bringing God’s attributes into the world can be, even for Jews, whom he did not believe enjoyed the protection from the evil inclination attributed to them by Meir Simhah. Meir Simhah saw evil as a force external to the Jewish soul, and he was seemingly confident that it could generally be kept at bay through the study of Torah and the observance of the commandments, even if emotionally-engaged musar techniques might also offer some occasional help. Simhah Zissel, by contrast, found the evil inclination deeply embedded within all human hearts – Jewish and non-Jewish – and he regarded the task of achieving moral excellence as requiring tremendous effort. He stressed that intellectual study and the observance of commandments were essential but insufficient means towards this end. A range of other musar practices, he thought, were also necessary to implant virtues deep within human hearts naturally inclining towards evil. Simhah Zissel emphasized the difficult work necessary to overcome this natural tendency and the further difficult work of striving to emulate God by showing loving-kindness to all of God’s creatures. Simhah Zissel emphasized the need for musar both as an aid for overcoming the inevitable obstacles presented to moral excellence by human nature and as a tool for helping human beings strive towards the infinitely good. Meir Simhah’s writings focus on more conventional practices and ideals, offering a less demanding vision of Judaism, and this doubtlessly contributed and continues to contribute to his popularity among observant Orthodox Jews. His vision of Orthodoxy could share the Musar movement’s emphasis on moral action

The struggle for moral excellence 47 in the world, and could acknowledge the value of some pietistic practices focused on emotional engagement, while not insisting that all Jews were desperately sick and in need of moral healing. Simhah Zissel’s vision has, on the whole, flourished less within contemporary Orthodoxy than Meir Simhah’s vision. Few Jews have embraced the idea that, on top of a commitment to Torah study and the observance of commandments, they should also submit to a difficult regime of introspection and “bitter medicines like wormwood” in struggling to heal their sick souls.68 But the many Jews who admire Meir Simhah’s ethical vision could also, no doubt, learn much from Simhah Zissel’s demanding vision of the need for human beings to struggle towards moral excellence.

Notes 1 Meir Simhah served as the rabbi of Dvinsk (Daugavpils in present-day Latvia); Simhah Zissel directed the Talmud Torahs of Kelm (Kelmė in present-day Lithuania) and Grobin (Grobiņa in present-day Latvia). I locate Simhah Zissel within his historical context in Geoffrey Claussen, Sharing the Burden: Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv and the Path of Musar, chap. 1; and in Geoffrey Claussen, “Repairing Character Traits and Repairing the Jews: The Talmud Torahs of Kelm and Grobin in the Nineteenth Century.” I discuss the reported meeting between the two figures below in this chapter. 2 On Simhah Zissel’s efforts to teach secular subjects, see Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 14–15, 27–33. On Meir Simhah’s position, see Ze’ev Aryeh Rabiner, Maran Rabbenu Meir Simhah Kohen, 149–151. For a survey of Orthodox positions on secular studies that notes the perspectives of both Simhah Zissel and Meir Simhah, see Yehudah (Leo) Levi, Torah Study: A Survey of Classic Sources on Timely Issues, 273. 3 On Simhah Zissel’s embrace of Maimonides, see Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 74–75, 88–89, 92, 135; Mordechai Pachter, “Tenu’at Ha-Musar Ve-Ha-Kabbalah [The Musar Movement and the Kabbalah],” 232. On Meir Simhah’s embrace of Maimonides, see Yitzchak Blau, “Five Nineteenth Century Rabbinic Thinkers: A Retrospective Analysis,” The Israel Koschitzky Virtual Beit Midrash, September 21, 2014, http://etzion.org. il/vbm/english/archive/modern/30modern.htm. 4 Simhah Zissel (Broida) Ziv, Sefer Hokhmah U-Musar, vol. 2, 191. 5 Ibid., 2:191–192. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 68–69. 6 See Immanuel Etkes, “Marriage and Torah Study Among the Lomdim in Lithuania in the Nineteenth Century,” in The Jewish Family: Metaphor and Memory, 154, 171; Immanuel Etkes, Rabbi Israel Salanter and the Mussar Movement: Seeking the Torah of Truth, 234; Immanuel Etkes, The Gaon of Vilna: The Man and His Image, 18; Norman Lamm, Torah Lishmah: Torah for Torah’s Sake in the Works of Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin and His Contemporaries, 58n177. 7 Simhah Zissel (Broida) Ziv, Sefer Hokhmah U-Musar, vol. 1, 288. 8 Ibid. 9 See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 12–14, 16–17, 35–36, 39. 10 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:304. 11 Ibid. I translate this passage and discuss it at greater length in Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 69–71. 12 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:271. My italics. 13 Ibid., 1:6. My italics. 14 See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 101–103. 15 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:6. For Simhah Zissel’s additional concerns about philosophers’ arguments about the nature of physical reality, see Geoffrey Claussen, “Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv: The Moral Vision of a 19th Century Musar Master,” 189.

48 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Geoffrey Claussen Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:12. My italics. Ibid., 1:100. Ibid., 2:192. Simhah Zissel’s conception of the prophet as half-angelic or half-divine follows the midrash on Moses found in Midrash Devarim Rabbah 11:4. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:221. Ibid., 1:49. See also Ibid., 1:52. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 86–87. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:398–399. I discuss this at length in Claussen, “Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv,” 197–199. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:447. Ibid., 1:280. See also Ibid., 1:456 regarding “the sages of the nations,” and see also the discussion of Pharaoh there. Simhah Zissel (Broida) Ziv, “Torah Ve-Yirah,” 111. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 79. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:68. Ibid. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 80. Kitvei Ha-Sabba Ve-Talmidav Mi-Kelm, vol. 1, 5. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 47–48. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:111. See Geoffrey Claussen, “The Legacy of the Kelm School of Musar on Questions of Work, Wealth and Poverty,” 160–161. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 17. Ibid., 65–67, 167–168. On Abraham as a philosopher, see Ibid., 97–99. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:64–65. Ibid., 1:239. See also Ibid., 1:443, regarding the suffering inflicted by others upon Abraham. Abraham “habituated himself to hear the advice of his reason, even if he were to suffer greatly on account of this (God forbid), and this is not like the path of people who trust that . . . Torah study and commandments will guide them to goodness in this world.” Ibid., 1:91. The Musaf Kedushah, quoted in Kitvei Ha-Sabba Ve-Talmidav Mi-Kelm, 1:31–32. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:31. Ibid., 2:14–15. Ibid., 1:344. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 81–82. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:462. See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 116–140. Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen, Sefer Meshekh Hokhmah, 1:145, on Gen. 32:1–2, as translated by Lerner in his chapter in this volume. Ibid., 2:76, on Ex. 12:21. Ibid. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:214. My italics. Cf. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:56. Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:9. Ibid., 1:3. My italics. I discuss this example at length in Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 158ff. Cohen, Meshekh Hokhmah, 2:73, on Ex. 12:21. Ibid., 2:164, on Ex. 20:18. Ibid., 5:381, on Deut. 30:9. See also 5:80–82, on Deut. 11:13. Moshe Meir Yashar, He-Hafetz Hayyim: Hayyav U-Fo’olo, 1:333. See Joseph Dov Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, 75–76. From Cohen, Meshekh Hokhmah, 1:145, on Gen. 32:1–2.

The struggle for moral excellence 49 57 In the Soncino translation of bShabbat 146a: “R. Abba b. Kahana said: Until three generations the lustful [strain] did not disappear from our Patriarchs: Abraham begat Ishmael, Isaac begat Esau, [but] Jacob begat the twelve tribes in whom there was no taint whatsoever.” Meir Simhah’s language, however, follows Leviticus Rabbah 35:6 and Sifra Behukkotai 2, 8. In the Soncino translation of Leviticus Rabbah 35:6: “From Abraham sprang Ishmael and all the sons of Keturah; from Isaac sprang Esau and all the chiefs of Edom; but Jacob’s bed [i.e. progeny] was perfect, all his sons being righteous.” 58 I am leaving out of my translation the details of Meir Simhah’s commentary, which explain how the message that follows was indicated by Jacob’s words in Genesis 32:6: “I have acquired cattle, asses, sheep, and male and female slaves” (NJPS translation). The mention of clearly distinguished kosher and non-kosher animals (and no mention of the camel, which has both kosher and non-kosher features) symbolizes Jacob’s separation from evil; the mention of non-Jewish slaves shows the gap between Jews and non-Jews. For one contemporary Haredi explanation of the details of the symbolism, see Chaim Walkin, The World Within: Contemporary Mussar Essays, 232–237. 59 Cohen, Meshekh Hokhmah, 1:146–149, on Gen. 32:6. 60 Ibid., 1:147, 149. Jacob and his family, according to the tradition that Meir Simhah follows, were able to observe the commandments of the Torah long before they were revealed at Sinai. 61 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 1:111. 62 On the merit of Abraham persisting for Jews, see Kitvei Ha-Sabba Mi-Kelm: Inyanei Elul Ve-Yamim Nora’im, 116. For a starker example of the gap between Jews and nonJews, see Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:243. 63 On Simhah Zissel’s generally naturalistic psychology, see Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 132–137. 64 Cohen, Meshekh Hokhmah, 4:219, on Num. 19:13. 65 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:6–8. I discuss this passage in Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 88–89, 129, 142–147. 66 According to standard Talmud texts, Ben Zoma exclaims that “all kinds of craftsmen come early to the door of my house, and I rise in the morning and find all these before me” (Soncino translation). Alternatively, following Rashi’s manuscript, the conclusion would read: “All the nations come early to the door of my house” In imagining Ben Zoma referring to “human beings, whether Jewish or not,” Simhah Zissel is following the second tradition; this tradition is, however, in tension with the context in the Talmud, traditionally understood as referring to a blessing to be said upon seeing a multitude of Jews. 67 Ziv, Hokhmah U-Musar, 2:7. 68 See Claussen, Sharing the Burden, 139–140, 188–189.

Bibliography Blau, Yitzchak. “Five Nineteenth Century Rabbinic Thinkers: A Retrospective Analysis.” The Israel Koschitzky Virtual Beit Midrash, September 21, 2014. http://etzion.org.il/ vbm/english/archive/modern/30modern.htm. Claussen, Geoffrey. Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv: The Moral Vision of a 19th Century Musar Master. Ph.D. Thesis, Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2011. ——— “The Legacy of the Kelm School of Musar on Questions of Work, Wealth and Poverty.” In Leonard J. Greenspoon, ed. Wealth and Poverty in Jewish Tradition. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2015. ——— Sharing the Burden: Rabbi Simhah Zissel Ziv and the Path of Musar. Albany: SUNY Press, 2015.

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———. “Repairing Character Traits and Repairing the Jews: The Talmud Torahs of Kelm and Grobin in the Nineteenth Century.” Polin 30 (2017), 15–41. Etkes, Immanuel. “Marriage and Torah Study Among the Lomdim in Lithuania in the Nineteenth Century.” In David Charles Kraemer, ed. The Jewish Family: Metaphor and Memory (pp. 153–178). New York: Oxford University Press, 1989. ———. Rabbi Israel Salanter and the Mussar Movement: Seeking the Torah of Truth (trans. Jonathan Chipman). Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1993. ———. The Gaon of Vilna: The Man and His Image (trans. Yaacov Jeffrey Green). Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002. Ha-Kohen, Meir Simhah. Sefer Meshekh Hokhmah, 6th ed. (ed. Yehudah Kuperman). Jerusalem, 2010. Kitvei Ha-Sabba Mi-Kelm: Inyanei Elul Ve-Yamim Nora’im. Benei Berak: Siftei Hakhamim, Vaʻad Le-Hafatzat Torah U-Musar, 1997. Kitvei Ha-Sabba Ve-Talmidav Mi-Kelm, vol. 1. Benei Berak: Siftei Hakhamim, Vaʻad LeHafatzat Torah U-Musar, 1997. Lamm, Norman. Torah Lishmah: Torah for Torah’s Sake in the Works of Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin and His Contemporaries. New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1989. Levi, Yehudah (Leo). Torah Study: A Survey of Classic Sources on Timely Issues, revised ed. (trans. Raphael N. Levi). Jerusalem: Feldheim, 2002. Pachter, Mordechai. “Tenu’at Ha-Musar Ve-Ha-Kabbalah [The Musar Movement and the Kabbalah].” In David Assaf and Adah Rappaport-Albert, ed. Yashan Mipnei Hadash, vol. 1, 223–250. Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar Le-Toldot Yisra’el, 2009. Rabiner, Ze’ev Aryeh. Maran Rabbenu Meir Simhah Kohen. Tel-Aviv, 1967. Soloveitchik, Joseph Dov. Halakhic Man (trans. Lawrence Kaplan). Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1983. Walkin, Chaim. The World Within: Contemporary Mussar Essays, 3rd ed. Jerusalem: Kol MeHeichal Publishers, 2007. Yashar, Moshe Meir. He-Hafetz Hayyim: Hayyav U-Fo’olo. Tel Aviv: Netzah, 1958. Ziv, Simhah Zissel (Broida). Sefer Hokhmah U-Musar, vol. 1. New York, 1957. ———. Sefer Hokhmah U-Musar, vol. 2. Jerusalem, 1964. ———. “Torah Ve-Yirah.” Moriah 12, no. 7–9 (1983), 111–114.

3

Wise hukkim and the Byzantine sermonic ideology of a Divine fiat Elisha S. Ancselovits1

Introduction From 10 CE2–6303 CE, rabbinic Judaism rose and flourished in the Land of Israel. The academic consensus is that these rabbis and their associates – known chronologically as Tannaim, Amoraim, and Paytanim (poets) – viewed some biblical laws as binding because they are commanded by Divine whim and not because they make sense. Those laws were allegedly known as hukkim (legal decrees). This paper rejects that consensus. Alongside my research on the history of Jewish law (halakha) as a practical wisdom tradition, this paper neutralizes the question of whether these rabbis thought God generally loves the pious act because it is pious or thought that an act is generally pious because God loves it. It shows that to the ancient rabbis, all God’s commandments were understandable as good for people. This paper corrects the mistaken understanding of hukkim in two ways. First, it rereads carefully the rabbinic teachings and sermons of the Late Roman Empire that refer to hukkim. It shows that those sources, midrashim, do not state that hukkim are inexplicable fiat laws. Rather, they actually state that hukkim are hoary and wise laws. Second, it illustrates that Early Medieval Byzantine’s Jewish sermonic ideology of an inexplicable biblical law arose around a single detail of a ritual that had fallen into desuetude.4 Moreover, the ideology was not stated in order to discuss how to approach Jewish law. Rather, against hegemonic Byzantine Christianity’s ideology that the fallen Jews and their biblical law were replaced by the powerful Christians and Jesus’ mysterium of redemption, this ideology asserted an eschatological mysterium that the defeated Jews will experience future redemption.

A Tannaitic midrash’s distinction between particularistic and universal laws Theoretically, it should be unnecessary to show that Tannaim and Amoraim did not believe in inexplicable Divine fiats. It should suffice to simply point out that most of the Tannaim’s biblical commentary followed late Second Temple sources5 in viewing the biblical word “hukkim” as synonymous to “mishpatim” – as simply

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designating “laws.”6 Even the exceptions found in the following three Tannaitic sources discuss hukkim laws as explicable: 1

2

R. Yehoshua translated the biblical word hukkim in Exodus 15:26 as referring to the additional norms implied by the Torah’s few legal examples.7 This elaboration parallels the words of an anonymous midrash: “‘All the hukkim (statutes)’ – these are the midrashot (exegeses)” (Sifra Shemini 1:9). It parallels pre-rabbinic sources that refer to the righteous teacher of the law who pointed out additional norms implied by biblical laws with the title of me-hokek (Damascus Document 6.7–8). In order for a biblical law to serve as an example for additional norms, it must be explicable. R. Eleazar haModa’i,8 a midrash editor from the Tannaitic School of Akiva,9 and an anonymous midrash editor from the competing Tannaitic School of Ishmael10 all refer to a particular biblical use of the word hukkim as discussing “rules forbidding taboo sexual relations.” Here again the hok is seen as explicable since the ancient rabbis viewed sexual taboos as commonsensical:11 In the words of the Akivean editor: ‘These are the matters that are . . . obvious: sexually taboo relationships [etc].’ Similarly, the first generation Amora, Shmuel, pointed out that these sexual taboos were decreed to all of humanity from its inception (bSanhedrin 60a). His contemporary, Rav, taught that a Noahide gentile must be willing to sacrifice his life in order to avoid these taboo sexual relations (bSanhedrin 57a); Rav and Shmuel explicitly claimed – in rabbinic terminology – that the validity of the taboos is obvious to all people.12

3

Even Seneca the Younger, the famous Roman opponent of Middle Eastern religions, acknowledged that the Jewish tradition viewed all laws as understandable.13

However, despite the evidence that the Tannaim had no concept of inexplicable Divine fiat, the following misread Tannaitic midrash makes this paper necessary. It distinguishes between the Torah’s social laws that are common to many cultures and the Torah’s particularistic laws: ‘You shall fulfill my judgments’ (Leviticus 18:4) These are the matters that are written in the Torah which, had they not been written, would obviously have to be written: theft, sexually taboo relationships, idolatry, cursing the [Divine] Name, and murder. Had they not been written, they would obviously have had to be written. ‘and observe my hukkim’ (Leviticus 18:4) These are the matters which one’s evil inclination and the idolatrous nations of the world retort against: the consumption of pig, the wearing of mixed fibers, the release of a levirate wife, the purification of the leper, and the goat

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that is cast out. Because the evil inclination and the idolatrous nations of the world retort against them, it teaches: ‘I, the Eternal’ (Leviticus 18:5) Decreed [them]; you have no right to retort against them. (Sifra, Aharei Mot 9:13:10)14 In light of the fact that the defense of particularistic norms is: “I the Eternal decreed; you have no right to retort against them”, academic scholars have understandably misread this midrash as stating that hukkim are inexplicable Divine fiats.15 A reading of the whole midrashic passage rather than merely these two paragraphs, however, clarifies that this midrash argues for the opposite conclusion that all of the Torah’s laws are the most ancient traditions and wise of practices. It follows earlier Jewish sources in translating hukkim as ancient traditions16 and righteous/just norms,17 more ancient and just than the Greeks’ nomi.18 It was only against Pauline Christians who claimed to be believers in God and Revelation, yet retorted against His decrees19 via biblical verses, that the midrash passage adds God’s injunction against retorting, which we just read. It rebukes Pauline ideology for trying to justify dismantling biblical law to match current Gentile practice as a fulfillment of the Torah. It thus aptly cites the closing words of Leviticus’ command to avoid being drawn after the bad norms of another culture: “I the Eternal” decreed. The midrash passage begins with a response to the claim by politically hegemonic Hellenes that Gentile norms are ancient wise traditions20 (conventions) while particularistic Jewish religious norms are excessive and unnecessary. It responds both by arguing that Torah norms are superior to Hellenistic cultural norms in being more ancient and wiser since they come from God and by condemning Hellenistic cultures for condoning problematic sexual and cruel norms. First it condemns Hellenistic norms: [I the Eternal am your God. You shall not imitate the practices of the land of Egypt in which you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am bringing you; in their hukkim [uv’hukkoteihem] you shall not walk. My rules you shall observe, and my hukkim [hukkotai] you shall follow: I the Eternal am your God. You shall keep my hukkim [hukkotai] and my judgments, through the observance of which a man shall live: I am the Eternal. (Leviticus 18:3–5)] ‘You shall not imitate the practices of the land of Egypt [ . . . ] and the practices of the land of Canaan.’ Could this mean that they [the Israelites] should not build such buildings or plant such plants as they do, therefore it says: ‘In their hukkim you shall not walk.’ I [God] did not speak except in [regard to] hukkim that are legislated/engraved21 [i.e. ingrained] for them, for their fathers, and for their grandfathers.

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Elisha S. Ancselovits What would they do? A man would be married to a man and a woman to a woman, a man would marry a woman and her daughter, and a woman would be married to two. Therefore it says: ‘In their hukkim you shall not walk.’ What did [Scripture] come to teach in saying: ‘And in their hukkim you shall not walk’? That you should not walk in their cultural norms – in things that have been legislated/engraved (i.e. ingrained) for them (i.e. ancient conventions), such as theaters, circuses, and gladiator arenas. . . .

Then the midrash argues for the sagacity and hoary authority of Jewish cultural practices: Lest you say, ‘They have hukkim (i.e. ancient conventions), and we do not have hukkim,’ it comes and teaches us: ‘My laws you shall observe, and my hukkim you shall maintain to walk in them; I am the Eternal your God’ (Leviticus 18:4). The evil inclination can still hope to denigrate and say that theirs are better than ours, so it comes to teach us: ‘[I have taught you hukkim and judgments. . . .] Maintain them and do them, for it is your wisdom and your insight’ (Deuteronomy 4:[5–]6). (Sifra, Aharei Mot 9:12:8)22 The midrash responds to the Hellenistic claim of cultural superiority by asserting that the biblical norms (hukkim) are the truly ancient and wise norms that come from God. In light of the midrash’s argument that hukkim are the hoariest and wisest laws, it is difficult to read our earlier cited concluding argument of this midrash passage as a claim of inexplicable Divine fiat. Claiming inexplicability would contradict the midrash’s main argument. Not surprisingly, a review of the linguistic and historical evidence reveals the earlier cited concluding argument to be an addendum response to Pauline Christians that the God of Tanakh, whom these Pauline Christians claimed to accept, forbids them to reject His norms even when these Christians mistakenly argue that the norms are wrong or nonsensical. There are three points of evidence which indicate that the midrash’s conclusion is directed against Pauline Christians: 1

The conclusion rebukes a group that accepted both God and Tanakh, yet attacked Halakhic Judaism on these five particular ritual norms: (1) the consumption of pig, (2) the wearing of mixed fibers, (3) the removal of a levirate wife, (4) the purification of the leper, and (5) the goat that is cast out.

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An editor of a later midrash wrote that the problematic common trait of these laws is that the Torah itself appears to uphold these laws inconsistently.23 Although this is a characterization that readily applies to most of the list, (including the law of purification of the leper24), it does not explain why the group attacked the biblically consistent proscription of pig and why it ignored other biblical laws that appear to be inconsistent.25 Therefore, we must identify a group whose ideology both attacked these four specific laws as inconsistent and attacked the injunction against consuming pig although it is not inconsistent. The midrash passage identified the false ideological position as shared both by some Jews misled by their evil inclination and by idolatrous gentiles.

The most likely candidate for a group composed of Jewish and Gentile deniers of biblical ritual laws is Pauline Christianity. Pauline Christianity was heavily identified with Gentiles26 of “the idolatrous nations” but also included Jews27 misled by “the evil inclination.” It also attacked these specific biblical laws as irrelevant and/or inconsistent.28 Three of the laws were attacked by Pauline Christianity as irrelevant: 1

The first law in the midrash’s list is the injunction against the consumption of pig. Jews and Romans/Hellenists alike were conscious of the cultural distinction between Jews, whose Torah forbids the consumption of pig, and Romans, who celebrated the consumption of pig.29 The tension over this issue is highlighted in another midrash passage from the same work that had to justify the proscription of pig although pig is listed explicitly in the Torah as a forbidden animal. In response to those Jews in the hegemonic Roman and Hellenistic culture who argued that inasmuch as a pig is hoofed similarly to other kosher animals it should be acceptable, that midrash passage pointed out that a kosher animal must also be a true (herbivore) ruminant (Sifra, Shemini 6:7) – as opposed to a (resource-destructing) omnivore pig.30 Similarly, R. Eleazar b. Azarya described how even some observant Jews were uncomfortable with stating that pig is forbidden and preferred to say, “I don’t want to eat pig.”31 In line with this reality, our midrash passage responded to an even more religiously significant challenge to the injunction against eating pig than those some sinful Jews who ate pig or were embarrassed because they avoided pig; worse than the mere reality that some of the more Romanized Jews ate pig32 was the ideological challenge of the Pauline church of the “idolatrous nations” that invalidated both the Jewish ethical practice and cultural marker of avoiding pig.33 For example, the late first century or early second century CE Epistle of Barnabas 10:1–12 and the second century CE Irenaeus’ Against Heresies 5.8.434 claim that the biblical injunction against the consumption of certain animals such as pig is only an allegorical injunction against associating with disgusting people or against being a bad person. The second century Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho ch.20 and Clement of Alexandria’s The

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Elisha S. Ancselovits Instructor 2:1 claim that the injunction is necessary only for those who were inclined to sin or to gluttony in not having accepted Jesus. Faced with a Christian challenge to the legitimacy of the biblical law forbidding the consumption of pig, our midrash passage did not merely assert that Jewish particularistic norms (hukkim) are the only truly ancient traditional and wise human norms that come from God. Rather, it also criticized those gentile Christians and Jews to whom the Tannaim could not communicate the norm’s wisdom, as they saw it, because these people were not inclined to seek biblical law’s wisdom in permitting herbivores alone. Our midrash admonished those Pauline Christians as having no right to ignore the fact that God himself forbade pig. The fourth law in the midrash’s list is the purification ritual – whether of sprinkled blood or of muddy ashes.35 Our midrash lists purification of the cured leper, of a person who had successfully repented of a sin that had caused him this severe illness.36 The Amoraic version of the midrash, mentioned above, lists instead purification of the person who had completed the week of impurity from contact with human death (a phenomenon also attributed to sin – Genesis ch.2). These two purification rites, explicable to the Tannaim,37 were attacked by Gentile Christians: Not only did the first century CE Epistle to the Hebrews 10:10–22 declare that Jesus’ death and blood sprinkles the repentant believer in pure water, but the Pauline Epistle to the Romans 6:4–13 and Epistle to the Hebrews 9:11–2838 even imply or can be read to imply that Jesus’ blood had replaced the need for a red heifer.39 More significantly, contemporaneous Christian sources such as the Epistle of Barnabas 8:1–1040 declared explicitly that the biblical commandment of purification via a red heifer is a prophecy of Jesus’ coming and not a ritual commandment. In response to these challenges to the legitimacy of this Biblical law, the midrash once again asserts that the Torah norms (hukkim) are the only truly ancient and wise norms coming from God. The midrash further asserts that even the wisdom-challenged Christians have no right to tamper with God’s decrees. The fifth law in the midrash passage, the law of the Yom Kippur scapegoat, finds similar explanation. A common Christian claim41 – found for example in Origen’s Homily on Leviticus 10:2, in Tertullian’s Against Marcion 3:7,42 in the Epistle to Barnabas ch.7, in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue With Trypho ch.40, in and in Jerome’s later Homilies no.93, and which draws even on Matthew ch.2743 – stated that Jesus was the ultimate scapegoat who replaced the need for such sacrificial atonement. Once again, the midrash defended this explicable ritual by asserting that Christians do not have a right to tamper with God’s law.44

Thus far, we have seen that three of the five commandments for which the midrash offered the response of Divine Decree were both unnecessary under Pauline theology and a challenge to the Gentile ideology that Jesus’ person had replaced these

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practices. We shall now see that the other two commandments rankled gentile Christians even further and were condemned on the grounds of inconsistency: 4

5

Greek and Roman societies – and thus Pauline Christians – were officially monogamous45 and had no levirate ties. Thus, both those Middle Eastern Christians who opposed marriage46 and even those who allowed marriage for the laity were astounded by biblical law’s allowance of remarriage,47 especially between the widow of a childless man and the deceased’s brother.48 Despite Deuteronomy’s explicit statement that a man’s levirate marriage with his childless brother’s wife was for the sake of the dead brother‘s memory,49 Gentile Christians ridiculed the claim that a man could have a marital tie with a woman who had been forbidden to him as a relative and would have remained forbidden to him as a relative had the brother died with children.50 The Bible and Tannaim proscribed both wearing clothes of expensive linen in which high quality wool is woven51 so that the linen clothes can be dyed, and wearing expensive and dyeable silk and sea silk.52 They forbade dressing up in fancy clothes, in fancy red wool togas with fancy adornment shields, on the holidays.53 Moreover, Deuteronomy and the Tannaim pushed for high-class equalization in dress. They expected every Jewish citizen from the poor to the richest to wear the same dyed stripes of status on their cloaks – a merely woolen thread died with expensive Tyrian blue on each corner of one’s himation (Greek), pallium (Latin), or tallit (Aramaic).54 These proscriptions challenged Roman values. In contrast to biblical and rabbinic ideology that permitted only wearing cheaper dyed wool clothes and plain linen clothes,55 Roman ideology valued class and wealth distinctions in dress – such as the upper classes wearing dyed linen and even silk.56 Since these equalizing forms of dress57conflicted with Roman ideology,58 Gentile Christians ridiculed the biblical proscription against wearing linen in which dyeable wool was woven59 and ridiculed it as inconsistent with the obligation to add blue wool fringes dyed with expensive Tyrian blue60 on all cloaks, including even linen cloaks.61 That the obligatory blue fringes mark of equality rankled those rich Jews and Christians who shared the Roman ideology finds further support from a different midrash commenting on the biblical rebellion of Korah and various renowned Israelites and Levites.62 The biblical story of Korah easily reads as a tale of rebellious aristocrats who claim contradictorily that leadership should be transferred away from the failed leader63 Moses, who had grabbed power away from the Israelites who are all holy,64 and that leadership should be granted to another individual or class.65 Thus: just as earlier Jews had recognized this story as the story of demagogues who try to come to power via democratic claims,66 the following midrash presents Korah as a type of demagogue. It depicts Korah arguing that instead of having to wear fringes dyed with Tyrian blue he and his followers should be allowed to adopt the

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Elisha S. Ancselovits High Priest’s aristocratic garment of Tyrian blue (Exodus 28:31–32) with no fringes. This claim by the rich of the right to distinguish themselves from the rank and file commoners by wearing aristocratic garments of Tyrian blue (without equalizing fringes) was a very Roman claim.67 Similarly, this midrash’s Korah argued that the rich should also be allowed to distinguish themselves from the poor as the Roman rich copied the aristocracy – through owning personal libraries of the classics68 – and freeing themselves from the commoners’ minimalist door-scroll (mezuza):69 What is the law regarding a himation that is completely dyed with Tyrian blue? [MOSES] ANSWERED: It is obligated in fringes. [KORAH] REPLIED: If the fact that the whole garment is dyed Tyrian blue does not suffice, will four threads do so? [KORAH AGAIN CHALLENGED MOSES:] What is the law regarding a house full of [Biblical] scrolls? [MOSES] ANSWERED: It is obligated in a mezuzah. [KORAH] REPLIED: If [a whole scroll of] 275 sections do[es] not exempt the house, one section will do so? You were not commanded regarding these matters but rather made them up yourself. . . . WHEN MOSES RELAYED: ‘And they shall add a thread of Tyrian-blue to the corner fringes,’ Korah ordered two hundred and fifty Tyrian-blue himations and those same [two hundred and fifty] heads of synhedrons [a Greek name for political and friendship alliances] that rose against Moses wrapped themselves in them. (Numbers Rabba ch.18 – and parallels) KORAH CHALLENGED MOSES:

According to this midrash, Korah tried to upturn these equalizing rule by claiming that God would never forbid Jews to choose to be more pious and wear a fully blue garment instead of fringes and have a house full of God’s teaching instead of a tiny door scroll. Korah – in line with wealthy nonaristocratic Romans who claimed the legitimacy to arrogate equivalent status for themselves70 in distinction from the less wealthy and the poor71 – argued that God must never have told Moses that Jews must wear equalizing fringes and have an equalizing minimalist mezuzah on their doors. In short, the midrash exposes the rich people’s claim of the whole congregation being holy as a cynical attempt to become upper class. The Pauline Gentile and Jewish Christians in our midrash parallel this last midrash’s updated version of the biblical Korah story. They also argued against the inconsistency of the rule of wearing dyed woolen threads and favored the right to wear expensive Tyrian blue cloaks. In response, our Sifra midrash had God rebuke them. In short, when we examine all five of the biblical commandments listed in our midrash, we find that it was not the rabbis who viewed them as inexplicable. Rather,

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because these biblical commandments challenged Roman Hellenistic Christian theology and mores, Pauline Christians viewed them as self-contradictory. Our midrash passage replies to these Pauline claims to subvert the Bible from within by rebuking those who arrogantly tamper with God’s law. It responds to the Pauline challengers of these biblical laws, to those people who “know Him but deny Him” (tShabbat 13:5) in the name of “a Son who has been made perfect forever” (Hebrews 7:28), by labeling these Pauline Gentiles “idolatrous nations” and these Pauline Jews as led astray by “the evil inclination”. Our midrash passage points out that God, whom these people allege to accept, had decreed these laws: [Although] the evil inclination and the idolatrous nations of the world refute these practices, the verse [itself] teaches: ‘I the Eternal’ decreed it; you have no right to refute them [i.e. the Eternal laws]. (Sifra, Aharei Mot 9:13:10, above) At no point does our midrash passage reject its own claim that those people who are not led astray by the evil inclination can indeed see the wisdom of these hukkim, these most hoary of norms. The midrash’s insider position to traditional Jews (cited above) is that all the biblical laws are: “your wisdom and your insight.”

The psychological norm of impurity in and purification from encountering human death Were there no space constraints, I would now discuss actual Tannaitic and Amoraic rulings in order to see how the rabbis applied these hukkim as wise examples. Instead, I refer the reader to an article72 that illustrates that the rabbis understood at least the hok of impurification and purification from death as forbidding nihilistic behavior and as demanding behaviors that help people affirm life. That article shows such to be the case through both the Tannaim and Amoraim’s own comments and through their application of this impurification and purification hok in ways that continued to meet the same psychological needs that the biblical law had addressed. For instance, Numbers 19:14–19 asserts that a mourning family should be left to grieve for the first three days, that towards the end of the third day someone should wash their faces bracingly in cold water mixed with exfoliating ashes, after which the family receives consoling visitors during the remaining days of their week of mourning, whose end is marked by the family members bathing. The rabbis similarly called for letting the mourning family cry on the first three days, having the mourner step out briefly on the third day (with washed face) to be comforted publicly, having closer acquaintances come after the third day to listen to the mourners talk about the departed, and refraining from bathing until the end of the week. With this background, both of midrashim that state that this law is wise and of the rabbis having continued to apply it under changed conditions, we now examine the Amoraim’s sermonic material on death and the hok of the red heifer.

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Sermons about purification from the psychological pain of encountering death Our finding, that the biblical laws of death impurity and purification were examples of how to address the emotional reactions to death is expressed not only in the rabbinic laws of mourning but also in two third century sermons. The Amoraim, R. Levi of Tiberias, and R. Yitzhak conveyed in iconic sermons the continued recognition of the impurity of human death as a negative psychological reaction to human death. R. Levi sermonized that the first human reaction to the impure encounter with human death is loss of belief in purification and an inability to hear any answers from God. Only through the passing of time can the mourner hear God’s call for purification, a purification that begins via comforters: In every matter of impurification that God discussed with Moses, He also told him its purification. When they reached the verse of ‘Tell the priests, son of Aaron [Do not become impure for a (dead) person]’ (Leviticus 21:1), he asked Him: Eternal Master, when one does become impure, how does he become pure? He did not reply. At that point, Moses face blanched. When they reached the section of the red heifer [later, in Numbers ch.19], the Holy One Blessed be He said to Moses: That statement I told you to tell the priests [not to become impure from death] regarding which you asked how they do become pure and I did not respond – this is the purification: ‘Dirt from the burned cleansing sacrifice shall be taken.’ (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana #473) By referring to two biblical passages that are read far apart in time, R. Levi stated iconically the continuous understanding from biblical through rabbinic sources that the passage of time is critical to the ability to successfully perform practices of purification, of moving on, from mourning.74 R. Levi may have been making a sermonic point about the future redemption of Israel over time. He may have also been making a point about Israel’s redemption through atonement of ashes. His teaching may parallel that of R. Yohanan b. Pazi who alluded to Israel’s or the world’s future “fifty-year Jubilee,” its future redemption from death, via the biblical pericope of the red heifer: R. Yohanan b. Pazi unpacked the biblical pericope of the red heifer that it has seven [references] to [the following] seven [details]: (1) seven to the heifer, (2) seven to burning, (3) seven to sprinkling, (4) seven to washing, (5) seven to impurity, (6) seven to purity, and (7) seven to priests. (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:275) Given the terse nature of R. Levi’s sermonic allusion, interpretations can abound. What is clear, however, is that his sermon plays off the understanding – the human experience – that it takes time [from Leviticus ch.21 to Numbers ch.19]

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to overcome the encounter with death before becoming able to hear God’s call to return to life. R. Yitzhak, a contemporary of R. Levi, sermonized similarly. R. Yitzhak compared Numbers 19:14 with a biblical statement that tradition attributed to King Solomon, the wisest of all people: R. Yitzhak sermonized: “‘I thought I could fathom [fleeting life], but it eludes me’ (Ecclesiastes 7:23)”. . . . What is it? ‘This is the decree of the Torah [when a man shall die]’” (Numbers 19:2). (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:376) R. Yitzhak pointed out through Numbers 19:14 that mortality is a decree with which we grapple and that we fail to fathom no matter how great our wisdom. He may have even followed earlier Jewish sources that used the word hukkat not only as law but also as “decreed fate.”77 In the space marked with ellipses, the editor made the point even more strongly. He wove together other sermons to say that the author of Ecclesiastes – who was the wisest astrologer, was the best predictor of the future, was most able to see through any other person’s wiles, was smarter than Adam in being able to identify the characters of [literally: to name] both his own self and God, was smarter than both Joseph and the generation that lived with God in the desert, learned humility from trees and hyssops, and understood the moral difference between killing varying creatures ranging from land animals down through less developed fowl to mere fish – could not make sense of Numbers 19, of human death, no matter how hard he struggled.

Summary of Tannaitic and Amoraic midrashim We have seen that death impurity is a psychological law of reclusion that was preserved even as some details (using the ashes of a red heifer) had fallen away.78 Survival of this practice, even after it was no longer fulfilled in its original form, indicates in and of itself that it had been about human needs because people chose to continue acting in the same way in response to death despite the fact that they could no longer fulfill the actual biblical law. In addition, we saw that Tannaim and Amoraim explicitly presented death impurity as a psychological state. In other words, although the Tannaim and Amoraim (and their cultures) did not focus on explaining the abandoned detail of the purification process, the requirement that the ashes come from a red heifer, they did view the whole law as explicable. They just weren’t particularly concerned about the vestigial textual details. This is a common phenomenon in human cultures. Consider the following modern norm that every person manages to interpret although the norm includes vestigial practices that nobody bothers to explain. Modern societies legislate on which side of the street to drive due to the practical concern to avoid traffic accidents. Everybody understands these laws even though nobody feels a need to explain why a society originally decided to drive on the right side of the road as opposed to the left side (or the opposite). Although very few people care

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to know the specific conditions that led to choosing the right (or the left) side of the road,79 these societies do continue to interpret all other aspects of the norm to match changes in automotive technology. Similarly, leading rabbinic sages continued to understand the wise hok regarding impurification and purification from encountering human death and discussed only the details that could serve as examples for their lives.

Late early-Byzantine (early Medieval) midrash The Tannaitic and Amoraic understanding of all Torah laws as explicable and wise continued unfitfully in Babylonia, where Jews did not face a hegemonic Christian challenge to these rituals from Tanakh itself. There was less of a need to defend biblical practices than to reflect on laws’ underlying issues with rabbinical students. Thus, for example, an anonymous Talmud editor (bYoma 14a) elaborated on a ruling by R. Akiva that a pure person splashed by the same dirty ash water that purifies a mourner becomes slightly impurified. The editor addressed the logical problem that something which purifies should not impurify. In response, he pointed out that Solomon had said in despair: “‘I thought I could fathom [fleeting life], but it eludes me’ [Ecclesiastes 7:23]”; the editor pointed out that the ash water used to purify the mourner raises awareness of death. That being the case, the ash water triggers a low level of psychological impurity in people who are not encountering death at the moment and are trying to ignore death. The challenging locale and period for our finding that halakha was understood to be practical wisdom is not Sassanian Babylonia but rather early medieval Byzantine Eretz Israel. This anti-Jewish regime generated in response anti-Christian sermons. These sermons that focus on withstanding and opposing the attempt to oppose Christianity seem to ignore or reject thinking of Jewish norms as substantively meaningful. We will see that this was not the case.

Late early-Byzantium midrashim and liturgical poems (piyyutim) In light of the increasing anti-Jewish policies and rhetoric of gentile Christians in Israel, defensive Eretz Israel sermonic responses began ignoring the fact that hukkim laws are explicable. This is not to say that these responses argued that hukkim are inexplicable. Rather, these responses of “aggressive opposition to Christianity and the state that supported it”80 focused on the Christian critique and on turning it back against the Christians instead of on explaining the laws. In order to understand why the following Early medieval Jewish Byzantine sermonic responses did not explain the commandments, we must note that the dominant strands of Byzantine Christian ideology did not merely allegorize the Pentateuch’s ritual commandments so as to allow, for example, the consumption of the same range of animals that had always been consumed in Greek and Roman cultures. Rather, at their best, Byzantine Christian ideologies argued that Jesus’ coming rendered the Bible’s purely religious norms meaningless81 because the religious norms were arbitrary rules

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that were required only for pre-Jesus people who tended to sin; the religious norms had been intended only to remind the stiff-necked Jews of their moral frailty and their guilt in the eyes of God, to be a temporary means until the coming of the eventual righteousness through faith in God and Jesus.82 At their worst, Byzantine Christian ideologies argued that these laws were pure folly as actual norms.83 Accordingly, the anonymous sermonic responses that we will examine did not bother presenting the reasons for these commandments. Instead, these sermonic responses both attacked as hubristic the Christian move to permit as pure that which God forbade as impure and argued that these commandments, admittedly unessential to human survival, are God’s means to provide reward to those who serve him. Two samples sermonize on a hok the Tannaim and Amoraim had explained, the biblical proscription of some animals: Job said, ‘Who can produce pure out of impure? No one’ (Job 14:4). Once God had permitted the cow and forbidden the camel, can anyone purify or impurify? Who did this, not the One, not the Singularity of Existence? (TanhumaB, Shemini 1384) Note: Everything was permitted from the beginning of Creation of the world . . . until Israel stood at Mt. Sinai and He gave them the Torah and many commandments in order to provide them with reward. Why so many? In order to provide reward to Israel, who maintain the commandments. (TanhumaB, Shemini 1385) These sermons do not discuss whether the proscriptions are explicable; they attack Byzantine Christianity. The first sermon points out that God himself declared these commandments. The second sermon recognizes that restrictions on eating certain animals is not a human-wide phenomenon but argues that instead of being folly such restrictions were granted by God as a source of reward. That each sermon’s goal to attack Christianity is also clear from the following details: 1

The first sermon attacks Christianity with the words, “Who can produce pure out of impure, no one.” Aside from critiquing the Christian claim that the proscribed species have now become pure, the midrash reads as a secondary attack on the Christian claim that part of a multi-part Godhead of asexual ‘purity’ can be born of ‘impurity’. In fact, it is probably alluding to yet an earlier rabbinic sermon that attacks Christian assertions of being the New Israel by asserting the Divine chosenness of [Jewish] Israel: Who can produce clean out of unclean? No one (Job 14:4) – such as Abraham from Terah, Hezekiah [the righteous] from Ahaz [the wicked], Mordechai from Shim’i, and Israel from the nations.86 This quotation from Job 14:4 also closely parallels the end of Mark 2:7: “who is able to forgive sins if not one – God?”87

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2

The second sermon clearly argues against Christian ridicule of the ritual commandments by stating that God’s commandments are both eternal and provide great reward to those who observe them.

It is still theoretically possible that the sermonizers had internalized a Christian position that criticized the biblical food proscriptions as inexplicable. However, there is no evidence that they did so. Moreover, there are six explicit points of evidence that the Byzantine rabbis continued to understand the halakha as wise norms: 1 2

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This had been the traditional understanding among the Tannaim and Amoraim (and these Byzantine period texts show continued familiarity with the Tannaitic and Amoraic literature88). There is evidence that a Byzantine rabbinic sermonizer could simultaneously propagandize for blind obedience against external Christian claims that the ritual norms are nonsense while arguing that the humbly obedient can understand the wisdom of the norms. For example, Eleazar the Qallirian argued in a liturgical poem both that one should not attempt to “understand” or “fathom” God’s ritual laws and that those same laws are pleasant to the wise who understand them – that “anyone who makes himself wise shall understand.”89 In fact, another famous liturgist, Yannai, explicitly explained ritual laws.90 A rabbinic story of this period91 argues for compassion towards animals facing slaughter. In this story, Rebbi is punished for not being compassionate to a calf that hid from its slaughter. The story argues narratively that the obligation to be merciful is essential; it condemns Rebbi to suffer for years with a toothache which was cured only when Rebbi acted compassionately to a household pest. In other words, in line with the halakha that part of the obligation to kill an animal mercifully is to avoid scaring it,92 the rabbinic sermonizers taught the responsibility to kill animals kindly. Early Medieval Byzantine literature still treated other particularistic Jewish religious laws as wise norms. For example: this sermonic literature accurately understood the Tannaim’s collection of laws known as the Mishna, including that the chapter on proper and improper public dress and adornment on Shabbat was not merely a technical discussion of the injunction against “carrying” on Shabbat but rather of proper and improper dress.93 It thus applies the rules to the weekday, too.94 A later work of this period made the same point in language that apparently alludes directly to Mishna Shabbat ch.6: “A woman is forbidden to adorn her daughter and take her out to the market, because she becomes liable with her life.” Another version similarly additionally forbids going out thus on holidays although there is no injunction against carrying personal accoutrements on holidays. Moreover, it juxtaposes the Mishna’s modest dress ruling with a ruling forbidding men and women to feast together: What is the law regarding women and children on Shabbat and Holidays, going out with jewelry? . . . They are forbidden to go out with them from

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nine years and up. What is the law regarding people who enter a feast or a religious celebration,95 and men and women eat the meal together? . . . They are forbidden to feast when they are each mixed with each other.96

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Similarly, this sermonic literature accurately understood that just as one is forbidden to deal with [the complicated human reality of] releasing vows on the Day of Rest, one should avoid any excessive non-holy conversation.97 This literature also accurately pointed out without legalistic elaboration that although folding a garment on Shabbat to put away for the future was forbidden by the Tannaim, folding it for later on Shabbat (so that it should not be wrinkled) is permitted as part of honoring the Day of Rest.98 A sermon cited above that attacks Christian assertions of being the New Israel, by asserting the Divine chosenness of [Jewish] Israel, continues by using as a metaphor three legal examples in which superficial logic would indicate an outcome that is patently ridiculous to anyone with real knowledge of the situation – impure versus pure leprosy, awareness of a fetus being dead versus becoming aware only after birthing it, and the stage at which a red heifer impurifies versus the stage at which it purifies: ‘Who can produce clean out of unclean? No one’ (Job 14:4) – such as Abraham from Terah, Hezekiah [the righteous] from Ahaz [the wicked], Mordechai from Shim’i, and Israel from the nations. [Similarly] We learned there that although a whitened growth the size of a gris is impure, a growth that spread out to a person’s entirety is pure (mNega’im 8:2). Who did this, who commanded this, who decreed this? Not the Singular One of the World? [Similarly] We learned there concerning a woman whose fetus died in her womb: The midwife who extended her hand and touched it is impure for seven days while the woman is pure until the fetus emerges (mHullin 4:3). [It is a situation in which] the house is pure when the dead is in it and impure after the dead has left. Who did this, who commanded this, who decreed this? Not the Singular One of the World? [Similarly] We learned there: Even the clothes of everyone who is involved with [burning] the heifer [and dealing with its ashes] from beginning to end becomes impurified (mPara 4:4), they themselves purify the impure. (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana ch.4) These three legal examples were chosen for two reasons. First, these legal examples can be used as metaphors against Christian claims. Second, these legal examples illustrate how the erroneous Christian argument for a superficially discarded Israel and a superficially chosen Christianity is no better than the silly arguments that a person with no understanding of leprosy, death impurity, and the red heifer would make. To explain: The sermon begins by pointing out that only God can choose to bring pure out of impure, such as Israel from the nations. Then it points out

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Elisha S. Ancselovits that although someone with leprosy is impure, someone whose whole body becomes white and merely has harmless vitiligo, is pure. (Israel that seems leprous and fallen due to their rejection of the alleged healer of lepers, Jesus, will be all white and pure one day.) A woman whose fetus has died in uterus can mentally delay the experience of impurity99 until she has the direct experience of a miscarriage, but just as the midwife of this woman’s dead fetus who has direct experience of the reality that the fetus is dead is impure so will this mother become impure after the fetus comes out dead. (The Jews currently are impure because they have contacted dead Christianity even as Christians claim that Jews laid their hands on the pure born divine personage. However, Jews already know the impurity of Christianity that Christians will only know in the future when the supposedly pure born is revealed to be stillborn.) A red heifer that reminds humans of death due to smelling of death in being burned with its skin and due to its function of being sprinkled on mourners is the actual means of purification through its exfoliant ashes. (The burned and degraded Jews [who also believe in the allegedly replaced red heifer] will be the purifying agents.) Against Christians,100 who argued that humans have no ethical restrictions on how they kill animals,101 a Byzantine midrash points out that cruel behavior towards animals affects the slaughterer’s personality:102 ‘God’s path is perfect (II Samuel 22:31a). All the paths of the Holy One, Blessed be He, are perfect.’ [Rabbi/Rav103 said: The mitzvot were given in order to refine people.104] Does the Holy One, Blessed be He, really care whether one slaughters an animal and eats it or stabs it and eats it; does it help Him or hurt Him? Does He really care whether one eats impure or pure species? Rather: ‘If you have become wise, that is indeed wise for you’ (Proverbs 9:12); the commandments were given only in order to refine people. As it says: ‘The Lord’s word is refined’ (II Samuel 22:31b).105

According to this midrash, the difference to the animal between being slaughtered or bludgeoned to death may indeed be minimal. However, the wise realize that even if the laws of slaughter – and similarly other commandments – do not matter much to the animal that is being killed, they matter to the slaughterer who is trying to keep his or her personality refined. The wise realize that how we act, including how we kill animals, affects who we are as people. As Rebbi or his student, Rav, said: “the mitzvot were given in order to refine people”; this rabbi – who along with his respective student or colleague, Shmuel, discussed limitations on how to kill animals106 – understood that there is a difference between brutal and more humane ways of killing.107 The wise realize that it is the multitude of such seemingly insignificant praxes that provide paths to God in contrast

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to (the Christian claim of) an exclusive path of belief:108 “All the paths of the Holy One, Blessed be He, are perfect.” The wise realize that the path to God is through the Divine word (imra) of commanded norms, the logos of practical piety instead of any other alleged logos (i.e. Jesus109): “The Lord’s word [logos] is refined” (II Samuel 22:31). In other words: despite of the fact that Early Medieval Byzantine sermonic rhetoric did not focus on the substantive psycho-ethical reasons to avoid butchered animals and to undergo a process of purification from loss of life, there is ample evidence that Byzantine rabbinic legal culture treated these injunctions as substantive – not as inexplicable laws that must be obeyed as mere Divine fiats and sources of Divine reward. In light of this evidence, these sermons do not present an internal legal argument that some biblical laws are inexplicable. Regardless of how one explains the details of these sermons, they merely present a counterChristian sermonic claim of the laws’ inviolability and did not serve to teach rabbinical students how to engage in internal legal exposition.

Amoraic through late early-Byzantium midrashic adoption of the law of para aduma as mysterium Until now we have seen that Tannaim through Amoraim, and apparently even Byzantine sermonizers, understood even ritual laws as wise norms. There is one legal detail, however, that the Amoraim through Early Medieval Byzantine rabbinic sermonizers and liturgical poets sometimes explicitly described as mysterious. This was the law of purification of the dead through ash water. We will see that these rabbis viewed this law no so much as inexplicable as much as symbolic of an existential and eschatological mysterium.

An Amoraic story about R. Yohanan b. Zakkai Our first source is a story. This story is found in a rabbinic work that addresses the problem of death. Similarly to the other Amoraic comments about the nihilism or mystery of human mortality and death that we have discussed, this story is found in a work entitled “The Red Heifer” – the fourth chapter of Pesikta de-Rav Kahana. In this Amoraic story,110 R. Yohanan Zakkai – the rabbi associated with the survival of Judaism after the destruction of the Second Temple – defends the practice of the red heifer against Christian critique: An idol worshipper asked R. Yohanan b. Zakai: These things you do look like magic! You bring a heifer, slaughter it, burn it, pulverize it, and take its ashes. When one of you becomes impure from the dead, you sprinkle two or three drops on him and say: ‘You have been purified!’111 He said: Has an evil spirit ever entered your body? He said: Never. He told him: Have you ever seen another possessed by an evil spirit?

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Elisha S. Ancselovits He said: Yes. He said to him: And what do you do [in response]? He said to him: We take roots, begin turning them into smoke, then throw water on them [which creates a large burst of steam], and the spirit flees. He said to him: Do your ears hear not hear what your mouth is saying? This spirit is the same as a spirit of defilement, as it is written: “[Idolatrous] prophets and the spirit of contamination I will remove from the earth” (Zechariah 13:2). After the idol worshipper left, the students said: Our Rabbi, you pushed him with a straw, but what do you say to us? He said them: By your lives! The corpse does not defile, and the water does not purify. Rather it is a decree (gezera) of the Holy One blessed be He.112 (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:7)

At first glance, this story might be read as indicating that the long discontinued practice of purification through ash water for encountering death and even the impurification of death itself were treated as a fiat, as “a decree of the Holy One blessed be He.”113 However, such a reading of the story would be in dissonance with the Second Temple through Amoraic definitions of hukkim that we have examined and with the living continuity of the rituals of mourning and death impurity. Indeed, the story’s protagonist, R. Yohanan, would be in dissonance with the actual Tanna, R. Yohanan, who both argued that death impurity is a very explicable psychological phenomenon (mYadayim 4:6) and treated the creation of heifer ashes as an understandable phenomenon over which one can reflect whether it should be done while wearing the white or the gold priestly clothes (tParah 4:7; Sifrei Bamidbar, Parashah #123).114 The Amoraic story reads better as a defense of the biblical law of purification, which served as a prototype for contemporary Jewish mourning and purification norms, against Christian claims that mourning and purification had been replaced by the advent of Jesus. We have two points of evidence: 1

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The story begins with an idolater claiming that purification via the ashes of a red heifer is a form of magic. This appears to be an actual gentile critique that circulated independently of the story since it is in Aramaic while the rest of the story is in Hebrew. In fact, Christians did polemicize against the Jewish assertion that the Christians’ alleged resurrector had misled people with his magic,115 by claiming that the specific ritual of the red heifer was magic.116 To this real idolaters’ critique, the story’s R. Yohanan responds by comparing possessed people, the spirit of impurity, and false prophets. He demeans an alleged prophet as false while also comparing the biblical ritual that was derided as magical to the idolaters’ own practice of exorcism. This is an anti-Christian comparison and demeanment. Rabbinic tradition demeaned Jesus, the Christians’ prophet,117 as false and idolatrous.118 Moreover, Jesus was the Christians’ ultimate exorcist119 in whose name they continued to

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perform exorcisms120 and whose existence had allegedly conquered death and replaced the need for a red heifer.121 Thus, R. Yohanan points out that even Christians required exorcisms; even Christians did not truly experience death as conquered and required exorcisms to address the impure spirits and demons that exist in places of negative experiences, such as graves.122 R. Yohanan addresses a Christian character. This understanding that R. Yohanan responded to a Christian challenge also explains how his students could question this biblically explicit ritual123 and what R. Yohanan’s message was to his students. Some Eretz Israel Jews in the Amoraic period were drawn to Christianity124 or at least challenged by its political victory as the religion of Rome. To such students, who question this biblical law, R. Yohanan develops the point that he made to the Christian challenger that even idolaters [i.e. Christians] need rituals that help people live after encountering death. R. Yohanan taught his own students that these rituals are correct not because they correlate to metaphysical realities called death and purity. Rather, these rituals are correct because they are the fundamental ways (in religious language, God’s ways), to deal both with the experience of having encountered death and with purification from the experience of having encountered death.125 The story defends against Christian dismissal the biblical psychological practices of purification from the impurifying experience of encountering human death – of mourning through reclusion and of ending mourning through contact with other people and bathing126 – by pointing out that they are not based on either the dead or the water prepared with the ashes of a special heifer having special powers. Rather, these biblical practices are fundamental examples – “Divine decrees” – of the eternal human need to deal with death through a process of mourning and purification. In the words of the third century CE Amora, R. Yosse b. Hanina: “[God] hinted to Moses: All cow [sacrifices] will end except for yours [i.e. except the red heifer]” (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:7); cultures may cease to offer animal sacrifices, but they will always need some ash water purification from death. To state this in the terminology of modern philosophical anthropology of ritual: Purification rituals . . . are not really there to make us pure. True purity, a unity with the divine, would leave us with no need for ritual. Instead, purifications allow us to continue living in a broken world where real life is a series of difficult compromises, where pollution is inevitable. Purification is like brushing teeth in the sense that we do not expect them to stay brushed – living a human life means getting them dirty again. We just try to keep them from rotting away. . . . A true utopian, imagining an uncompromised world where we all stay pure, needs neither ritual (nor toothbrush) nor any form of crossing between subjunctive worlds.127 As the story’s R. Yohanan b. Zakkai says, there is no onotologically real impurification and purification; there is only God’s directive to address an emotional brokenness.

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To conclude, R. Yohanan (or the story’s author) did not claim that impurity from encountering human death is inexplicable Divine fiat. He did not claim that purification from the impure experience of encountering human death is Divine fiat. Instead, he made two arguments. To Christians who claimed that death had been overcome, he argued that Christians with their exorcisms should recognize that it had not been overcome. To Jewish budding scholars, who wondered why indeed current practices of impurity and purification were appropriate for people who reject magic, he explained that the practices were not magic. Rather, they were God’s instructions for dealing with death and life. R. Yohanan replaced a mistaken assumption of magic with norms that he viewed as explicable.

A statement by the Amoraim, R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina Our second source is a statement attributed to two third century CE Amoraim, R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina. This source at first glance seems to refer to the law of the red heifer as inexplicable. However, we will see that this statement actually referred to the Jews’ condition under the worsening circumstances of the Roman Empire and the rise of Christianity in the Ceseara center of rabbinic study. We will see that the statement refers to the red heifer as a metonym for the mysteries of both death and redemption. The statement reads as follows: R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina: God told [Moses], ‘I reveal to you, Moses, the dealings of the heifer but to others it is a hukka.’ (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:7) At first glance, R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina declared that only Moses ever understood the law of the red heifer. The problem with reading that statement that way is fourfold: 1

It does not match the theme of the chapter of the red heifer. The chapter deals with the red heifer as symbolizing mortality, Israel’s downtrodden state, and redemption. For example: The editor of the chapter or of this pericope elaborated on the R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina statement by connecting it with a statement by R. Huna on how one day, God will explain the mysteries of human existence – not the mysteries of law. In addition, we saw above128 that this chapter of the red heifer also includes the statement by R. Yitzhak that the problem of mortality is irresolvable, the midrash on how eventually the seemingly leprous and impure Jews will purify the world and the seemingly pure Christianity will be discovered to have been stillborn, and the iconic statement by R. Levi that the passage of time is critical to the ability to successfully move on from mourning. Similarly, the chapter includes another statement by R. Levi that explains why righteous Jews fall and fail in battle while idolatrous Israelites succeed in war.129

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We have already seen that there is nothing mysterious about sprinkling ash water on a mourner. The only possible mystery could be why the heifer had to be red, but even Christian sources recognized the color as a symbolic choice representing death and sin. As another third century CE Amora, R. Ibo, similarly explained in a parable that makes the red cow and the golden calf into relatives: “the [red] cow atones for the sin of the [reddish-]golden130 calf” (Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:8).131 Although the statement by R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina can be read at first glance as simply referring to the inexplicability of the law of the red heifer, the editor of the pericope clearly did not read it that way: As we noted, the editor’s support for R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina’s statement is R. Huna’s statement that one day the mysteries will be understood. The editor’s support for R. Huna’s statement is then a statement that R. Akiva and his colleagues knew mysteries that even Moses did not know. That would mean that the editor felt comfortable reading R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina’s statement as allowing R. Akiva and his fellow Tannaim to have understood the law of the red heifer. If that is the case, R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina did not find the red heifer inexplicable, at least according to the editor. We have seen no earlier source that used the word hukkah to mean inexplicable rule.

In light of these problems and additional evidence that we will now discuss, a better reading is as follows. The process of preparing the red heifer and of being purified by its ashes, all of which had fallen into desuetude, was viewed as symbolic of the future human or Jewish eschatological history. In the words of R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina, Moses understood its mysterious symbolic message even as others understand it merely as the hoary way of purification from encountering death and possibly a metonym for the decreed fate of human mortality.132 According to R. Huna, when the world is finally redeemed eventually everyone will (look back and) understand the mystery. According to R. Aha, the (martyred) sages of R. Akiva’s corterie understood more of the mystery133 than had (the merely humble and even buried-in-an-abandoned-grave) Moses.134 This reading reveals a sermon that matches the other sermons in the chapter: 1 2 3 4 5

It matches the sermon on how impure Israel will eventually be like the impure red heifer that purifies. It matches R. Levi’s focus on how Moses was disconcerted about being unable to move on from death impurity until time passed and God finally could tell him the law to purify with “dirt from the burned cleansing sacrifice”. It matches R. Levi’s discussion of the righteous Jews who fall in battle as experts in purity and impurity. It matches R. Ibo view of death and heifer purification as paralleling sin and the golden calf. It matches an interpretation of the red heifer by R. Yohanan b. Pazi as symbolic of the world’s future “fifty-year Jubilee” redemption from death and

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destruction – in contrast to the Christian assertion135 that Jesus would return at that time. It matches two anonymous derashot found in that chapter that describe the legal details of the red heifer as telling the past and the future of the Jewish condition (4:9, 10).

In short, this reading of R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina’s statement as referring to the eschatological message of the red heifer and not to any difficulty in its legal details reveals a sermon that matches all of Pesikta de-Rav Kahana’s aggadic discussions of the red heifer.

Byzantine statements that the law of the red heifer is mysterious More importantly for our purposes, this source’s understanding of specifically the red heifer as a symbolic mystery (in contrast to understanding any other law as inexplicable) continued to be expressed by later, rabbinic sources in Byzantine Eretz Israel. Four sample sources from the period of Christian rule are as follows: 1

An oft-recopied Byzantine sermon that describes even Moses’ inability to understand purifying with ash water: Moses said to Him (God): ‘But it [the ash water] is not clean!’ {So how can it purify?} The Holy One, Blessed be He, said: Moses, it is a law that I have decreed, and no person can fathom my decrees.

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The motif of the post-Amoraic editor of the fourth chapter, Parah Adumah, of Pesikta de-Rav Kahana. The editor of the chapter on the red heifer constantly closes his selections of quotations with the refrain: “The Holy One, Blessed be He, said: Moses, it [specifically the law of purifying through ashes of the red heifer] is a law that I have decreed, and no person can fathom my decrees.” A liturgical poem by Eleazar the Qallirian. As we noted earlier, Eleazar the Qallirian wrote that God’s seemingly paradoxical laws are actually deeply wise and pleasant. However, he wrote differently of the red heifer. Although he did indeed explain many details of the red heifer, he also noted that it includes a paradoxical detail and concludes that this detail leaves this one law mysterious:136 All their aromas are pleasant, to those who understand. Anyone who makes himself wise shall understand. Except for the reddish heifer, which [we] can’t understand.137

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An anonymous contemporary liturgical poem that describes the red heifer as mysterious: It is wondrously beyond his words[’ understanding] The making of the heifer.138

In order to understand why only this law or even just the one detail of purifying with dirty water was treated as inexplicable, we need to consider the politico-theological background of anti-Jewish Byzantium against the example of R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina’s earlier statement. When we consider these backgrounds, we realize that the red heifer and its purifying ashes stand as an eschatological mystery counterclaim to the Christian position that only the pure mystery personage of Jesus – the Divine who came through human form to save from death – can purify humans from death.139 In opposition to the claim on behalf of the purification from death through the mystery of the purest Jesus, this sermonic and liturgical approach claims that purification through dirty ashes of a red heifer is the mystery that is necessary for eventual human purification. In other words, these four sources’ theological counterclaim of the mystery of ash water may express the same theology as do other contemporary anti-Christian liturgical allusions to the red heifer. As an anonymous liturgist wrote in words that easily contrast with passages from Peter, Corinthians, and John: With the purity of the heifer He created Heaven . . . And from our impurity purify us with the purity of the heifer . . . And did not decree for the nations the mitzvah of the heifer . . . He illuminated with the light of the heifer . . .140 In the more explicit language of another liturgist from the period, R. Yehudah: She [the heifer] was taken out alone So that apostates would not say that she is two.141 Just as these liturgists contrasted the heifer with Jesus, it seems clear that Eleazar the Qallirian and the three other sources above spoke of the mystery of the purifying ash water of the red heifer as a contrast to Jesus. As we saw, this choice also made sense beyond standing in contrast to Jesus and beyond being attacked by Christians as a ritual that was replaced by Jesus. This choice served as an excellent symbolic eschatological assertion that the Jews’ vilified dirty water status was actually a step in a purification process to ultimate redemption and purity. No matter how we explain this Amoraic and sermonic position on the mystery of the red heifer, one fact is clear. The only ritual norm that some rabbis described as mysterious was an abandoned textual detail of the laws of becoming purified from death impurity and mourning. We do not find such a claim as regards lived norms. In fact, we found the opposite in this paper. The same literature, and sometimes the exact same sources, that called upon Jews to accept the Divine authority

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and reward for fulfilling laws such as the proscription of certain animals and restrictions on the forms of killing animals also explicitly stated that these norms were explicable to the wise and that we must kill animals mercifully.

Summary of late early-Byzantine (early Medieval) midrash Just as we saw that Tannaitic and Amoraic sources treat all biblical norms as explicable wise examples, we have seen that Early Medieval Byzantine liturgical poems (piyyutim) and sermons also treated the Torah’s laws as interpretable wise examples. We saw only one religious law that Early Medieval Byzantine rabbis definitely treated as a mysterious Divine fiat. This was the sermonic position on behalf of the mystery of the purifying red heifer ash water. It referred only to a law that had fallen into desuetude and it was directed to synagogue ideology142 that polemicized against Church ideology. Just as the sermons and liturgical poems were generally non-legal,143 this sermonic position was not directed to the rabbinic study and application of halakha; it was not about lived halakhah.

Conclusion In this paper, we saw that even ritual laws – laws such as proscriptions of the consumption of pig and of the wearing of mixed fibers, the designation of a childless man’s widow as his brother’s levirate wife, the process of purification of the leper or of a person who has encountered human death, and the casting out of the scapegoat on the Day of Atonement – were described by the Tannaim and Amoraim as hoary and wise cultural practices (hukkim). We examined the Amoraic and Byzantine liturgists’ claim that there is an inexplicable norm and discovered that the claim means that there is a synagogue mystery against the Church claim to mystery. Moreover, we saw that the claim was made in regard to a detail of a biblical law that had fallen in desuetude; it was definitely not directed to legal thought. In other words, we discovered that the founding rabbis of rabbinic Jewry – Tannaim through the last of the early medieval Eretz Israel sermonizers – related to biblical laws as substantive norms. Even if they also viewed some biblical norm as eschatologically symbolic, they also related to all biblical laws as examples of practical wisdom. In other words, this paper helps neutralize the question of whether these rabbis thought God generally loves the pious act because it is pious or thought that an act is generally pious because God loves it. All God’s commandments are intelligible and serve the human good.

Notes 1 I thank Dr. Marcie Lenk for reading an early draft of this essay, and thank the students in The Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies and Yeshivat Maale Gilboa for their feedback on these various sources. 2 This dates the rabbis/teachers from the fall of the Hasmoneans and especially after the destruction of the Second Temple. (See Matthew 23:1–7). Although, they were not

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called Tannaim in the beginning, I am referring for the sake of simplicity to all the rabbinically accepted early sages as Tannaim. This is the date of the Byzantine reconquest of Jerusalem from the Persians, which ushered in a period of devastation and of forced conversion that ended only with the Arab conquest. I thank Aryeh Bernstien for the suggestion that the claim of inexplicability was made only for laws that had fallen out of use. For example, see the use of the word mishpatim in 1QS 6.6–8, CD 7.7–8, CD 14.7–8 and of the word hukkim in 1QS 10.10, CD 4.7–8, 1QSa 1.7 (sources juxtaposed for different effect in Fraade 2011, 50–55). Sifrei Bamidbar Korah #119; Mekhilta Beshalah, Parsha 1. Mekhilta, Yitro, Parsha 2. Ibid. (and Mekhilta, Beshalah – Parsha 1). Aharei Mot 9:13:22. Mekhilta Beshalah, Parsha 1. Cf. the recognition of this phenomenon in biosocial anthropology, well developed since at least Parker (1976, 285–305). Cf. the early Amoraim claim that hukkim are those laws that demand loyalty to the laws of nature (yKilayim 1:7; cf. Shmuel in bKiddushin 39a = bSanhedrin 60a). [The fact that people desire these relationships (mMakot 3:15) does not make these proscriptions virtue neutral even by Greco-Roman standards of natural law (contra Hayes 2015, 255–256).] Seneca’s comments are cited and discussed in Baumgarten (1985, 20–21); Schäfer (1997, 111–113); and Schiffman (1998, 202). Cf. baraita bYoma 67b and parallels. For example: Kadushin (1964, 44–45); Ross (1990, 202 n.16); and Hayes (2015, 247–252, 278). Cf. Novak (1997, 62). For example, see the Targumim to Leviticus 18:4 and Deuteronomy 4:6–8 and the Septuagint version of Ezekiel 18:9. A variation is the definition of hukkim as hoary holidays (Ex 15:25) and Shabbat (MidrAggada 18:20), a definition attributed to the first generation Eretz-Israel Amora, R. Yohanan (CantR parshah 1). See Septuagint and Philo as discussed in Wolfson (1948, 335). Cf. Berkowitz (2012, 90–91). Cf. tShabbat 13:1. For some Greek and Roman sources on trusting ancient laws, see Zlotnick (1988, 139–143). This is presumably a play on Hellenistic pride in the engraved laws of Solon (contra Berkowitz 2012, 92). And parallels. Pesikta deRav Kahana ch.4, and parallels. Since the Sifra is an Akivean Midrash, it probably ruled that a pure person who was sprinkled by the blood and water that is meant to purify the leper becomes impure himself (see R. Akiva’s ruling in Sifrei Bamidbar, Hukkat #129). For examples, see Sifrei Devraim, Ki Tzetze #233; Mekhilta, Yitro #7. Goodman (2007, 35). Famous examples of Christian Jews who rejected halakha include Paul and Barnabas [and Stephen?]. As this midrash shows, the phenomenon was not limited to two or three Jews. It is true that another Tannaitic source identifies those Jews who attack Biblical legal inconsistencies as Epicureans (mAvot 2:14; Avot de-Rabi Natan A ch.17, B ch30.). However, although Epicurean ideology did deny piety through ritual (Gill 1995, 81), this midrash’s citation of God’s response shows that the midrash is not directed at Epicureans. Citing God’s response that nobody has a right to retort would be a very

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Elisha S. Ancselovits weak midrashic move against Epicureans. It would not be an inconceivable move (see Sifrei Devarim 329:39 and Sifrei Zuta 15:3), but it would be unlikely. It seems more likely that even the additional Tannaitic source may have intended Christians since they were often linked with Epicureans in the second century CE of the Roman Empire (Glad 1995, 9 and n. 16). In fact, R. Yohanan of Tiberias explicitly applied to Christians the Tannaitic call for diligent defense against Epicurean charges of Biblical legal inconsistencies (Lekah Tov – Pesikta Zutra, Exodus 25). Tacitus Histories 5:4; Juvenal Satires 14:97; Abot de-Rabi Natan A ch.4; Numbers Rabbah 20:21; Midrash Tannaim, Devarim 14:7; and the wide range of sources referenced in Hadas-Lebel (2006, 517–521); Rosenblum (2010a, 95–110); and Rosenblum (2010b, 51–58). The reasons supported by the archeological data, that some societies oppose the consumption of and thus the rearing of pig, are pigs’ great (ab)use of water, the wastefulness of raising pigs – which provide less secondary products in comparison to other husbanded animals, pigs’ interference with intensive agriculture, and pigs’ destructiveness under certain agro-pastoral and architectural conditions (Hesse and Wapnish 1998, 125–126). However, despite Christian recognition that pig herds or sounders can act “crazy” (Mark 5:11–14; Matthew 8:30–32; Luke 8:32–33), it would be nigh impossible to communicate those ethico-economic considerations to a group that accepted as ethical the structure of Roman-Hellenistic society; that would be similar to firm believers in the ethics of a capitalist society and firm believers in the ethics of a socialist society communicate trying to communicate with each other. Sifra, Kedoshim 10:22. In order to understand why a Jew could also be embarrassed to state that certain Biblically proscribed sexual unions are forbidden, see Sifra, Aharei Mot 9:8. [This source has been misread by academics, most recently even by Christine Hayes (2015, 254–255), to mean that one should avoid pig not due to disgust but due to Divine fiat.] For archeological evidence, see Lev-Tov (2003, 431). For sources on the significant cultural valence of avoiding pig, see: Feldman (1993, 167–170). Cf. the third century Novation’s On Jewish Meats, ch.3. And bodily immersion. Milgrom (1998, 820–823); Klawans (2000, 98–104); Luke 17:19. Ancselovits 2018 (pagination unavailable). Cf. Hebrews 2:14–17. Hebrews has no eschatological vision of renewed sacrifices (contra Schmitt 2009, 200–201). For a discussion of this passage, see Helyer (2002, 488–490). Paget (1994, 138–139); Stökl (2002, 213–214). Similarly worded in his Against the Jews 10:2. For a discussion, see Maclean (2007, 317–319). This reading of Matthew is strengthened either if the passage understands the original Biblical intent as calling for a criminal to take the goat into the desert (Westbrook and Lewis 2008, 417–422) or if it the passage is directed to pagan cultures in which a criminal was a scapegoat. There were other, parallel, Eretz-Israel Amoraic responses – such as positing that reciting the verses of an atonement sacrifice can replace offering it (bTaanit 27b). For an explanation of the phenomenon, see Scheidel (2009, 283, 288–289). For that phenomenon, see Voobus (1951, 16–34, 53–54); Murray (1982, 6–9); et al. For example: see Tertullian’s opposition to widows remarrying in To His Wife 1:7; Exhortation to Chastity ch.9; and Monogamy ch.9. For example, see Tertullian, Monogamy ch.7 and compare Athenagoras, Embassy for the Christians ch.33. [Although Roman law explicitly forbade a man to marry his sister-in-law only in 312 CE (Codex Theodosianus 3.12.2 [Grubbs 2002, 162]), it had

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53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

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already ruled against this phenomenon somewhat by forbidding bigamy in 285 CE (Falk 1966, 6).] Deuteronomy 25:5–10. This is reinforced by further Biblical parallels (Goodman 1993, 193 n.62). Some Tannaim somewhat similarly permitted levirate marriage only to those who act out of purity and not lasciviousness (tYevamot 6:9; Baraita bYevamot 39b). To the exclusion of coarse wool, such as goat or camel wool (mKilayim 9:1). mKilayim 9:2. Sea silk was also known as sea wool. (Yehuda Feliks translates the word in a different context as scrap of real silk [Feliks 1982, 244].) Since silk was out of reach to any but the truly wealthy people in the Roman Empire, however, wearing it created less social tension. Accordingly, the Tannaim forbade it less severely than dyed linen. Sifrei Devarim, Re’e 81:30. Deuteronomy ch.12; (Numbers 15:39;) Sifrei Bamidbar #115; et al. In fact: those Tannaim who forbade wearing Tyrian blue tzitzit on linen garments forbade wearing linen cloaks at all (mEduyot 4:10; Midrash Tannaim, Devarim 22:12; Masekhet Tzitzit 1:2; Baraita bBerkahot 54b; Baraita bNidda 70b; and compare ySanhedrin 2:8). Because linen was a garment of richer people (Ezekiel 16:10–13, Isaiah 3:18–24, mTaanit 4:8), some Tannaim looked askance at a man who wore even plain linen cloaks (ySanhedrin 2:8). Conti 2003, 182. Cf. the pseudigraphic Joseph and Aseneth 3:6. Compare mSanhedrin 4:5. For example: see Parkin (2006, 77–79). For example: Matthew (23:1–5) and Justin’s Dialogues ch.46. This anti-tassels position is glossed over by Fine (2013, 25) who refers to Shaye Cohen but ignores the fact that Cohen does cite sources about some Jews having a distinctive dress of tassels (Cohen 1999, 33–34). Pesikta deRav Kahana ch.4, and parallels. Numbers 16:1–50. For our purposes, we have no need to discuss whether this is one story or multiple stories. Numbers 16:1–4, 12–14, 21–34. Numbers 16:3. Numbers 16:5–11, 15–19, 35. Cf. Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews (chapter 4) with Plato’s Republic (Books 8–9), and see other sources in Feldman (1998, 389–391). For example: see Reinhold (2002, 30). Regarding private libraries in Roman society see Feldman (1996, 220). For archeological evidence on private libraries in Eretz-Israel Jewish society, see Popović (2012, 567–570, 573–576). The rabbis preferred public study houses and such privately owned study structures as were made accessible to the public (Hezser 1997, 200–213) – similar to the privately owned synagogues made accessible to the public (Foerster 1992, 300–301; Schwartz 2001, 233–234) [and comparable to the early Christian domus ecclesia]. Reinhold (1971, 275–302). Cf. Luke 16:19–26. Scholars who prefer abstract ideas and laws have reached a very different reading of this midrash (Soloveitchik 2005, 21–22; Hayes 2011, 134). Ancselovits (2018) (pagination unavailable). And parallels. See appropriate section in Ancselovits (2018) (pagination unavailable) and the article, Ancselovits (2015). And parallels. Ibid. I thank Shani Tzoref of Universität Potsdam for pointing out to me such Qumran usage.

78 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

101 102 103 104 105 106

Elisha S. Ancselovits Cf. mPesahim 7:4, 6; tPesahim 6:1–2; 8:9; mPesahim 9:4. Hopper (1982, 541–548); Kincaid (1986). Schwartz (2001, 181). John 1:15–17. Galatians 3:15–25; Romans 3:19–20; 7:7–13, 21–24; 4:13–15; 5:20–21. First Epistle to the Corinthians ch.4; Epistle of Barnabas ch.10; Dialogue of Justin with Trypho the Jew chs.11–24, 40–42. And parallels. Ibid. Pesikta deRav Kahana ch.4. “τίς δύναται ἀφιέναι ἁμαρτίας εἰ μὴ εἷς ὁ Θεός” (http://biblehub.com/text/mark/2-7.htm). On Tanhuma – Yelamdenu literature’s fluency in Tannaitic and Amoraic sources, see Ulmer (2011, 108). On Pesikta deRav Kahana sources’ fluency in Tannaitic and Amoraic sources, see Ulmer (2002, 197 no.10). For an accessible version (through Hebrewbooks): Ganz (1826, 235a–b). Rabinovitz (1985, 1:61). Genesis Rabbah, parsha33. tHullin 3:8, 12. Ancselovits (2017) (pagination unavailable). TanhumaB VaYishlah #12; Tanhuma VaYishlah #5. Literally: “gemilut hasadim”. Cited in Ephrathi (1973, 111). TanhumaB VaYishlah #9. On this position being implied in the Tannaitic legal details, see Ancselovits (2017) (pagination unavailable). TanhumaB Toldot #12. On Tannaitic Biblical exegesis and legal details permitting light tasks for the sake of the Day of Rest, see Ancselovits (2017) (pagination unavailable). Contra The Temple Scroll (11QTb 50.10–16). On the question of Acts 15:20, the western text version omits the injunction against eating strangled animals and thus reads as forbidding human bloodshed instead of forbidding animal blood consumption (Flusser 1987, 72; Tomson 1990, 273–274). In any case, Emperor Julian also seems to have known only of Jews and not Christians observing such restriction (see Julian’s letter of 362/363 CE to Theodorus [1923, 58/59]). Contra Norcross (2004, 229–244); et al. Regarding this phenomenon, see Lockwood and Hodge (1998, 78–82); Boat (1999, 84); Lindzey (2009). According to Midrash Aggadah Leviticus 11:2, this statement is attributed to R. Yehuda ha-Nasi, as it is in Tanhuma 7:7 (in which the letter “lamed” that is added to read “to him” is a copyist’s error). This line is not found in all parallels. Genesis Rabbah, parsha44; Tanhuma Shemini 7 (; abridged version in Leviticus Rabbah, Shemini 13). [Midrash Tehillim ch.18 separates the two paragraphs as distinct homiletical readings, but that is a mistake.] Some evidence that these rabbis understood and internalized the Biblical opposition to cruel bludgeoning or decapitation is as follows: (1) The Tannaim forbade any form of killing for food other than slicing an animal’s throat (mHullin 1:1–2) and that an animal is not kosher if the slaughterer scared the animal to the point that its lungs collapsed (t.Hullin 3:8, 12). (2) In line with the Biblical law to slaughter an animal so that its blood is spilled and covered instead of brutally beating an animal to death (Deut 12:21–25), Rebbi taught: “‘You shall slaughter . . . as I commanded you’ (Deut.12:21) teaches that Moses was commanded regarding the esophagus and the trachea – [to slice at

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least] the majority of one [of them] in fowl and the majority of each [of them] in beasts” (baraita, bYoma 75b = bHullin 28a); Rebbi taught that one must kill the fowl or animal quickly by slicing the jugular. (The difference between fowl and beasts is explained below). (3) Rav, a leading first-generation Sassanian Amora student of Rebbi, ruled that one must slice the animal’s neck while holding the knife firmly instead of slicing its neck against a fixed knife (Breishit Rabba Vayera #56). Admittedly, some Tannaim disagreed (tHullin 1:5). However, since one of those who disagreed was Rav’s uncle and other teacher, R. Hiyya, those Tannaim probably permitted using a fixed knife only if it can be detached when necessary – similar to the baraita taught by Rebbi’s other student, Levi (see sources in Breishit Rabba Vayera #56). (4) The other leading Sassanian student of Rebbi, Shmuel, spelled out the limitations more explicitly: One is forbidden to (i) chop the neck of the animal or even press down on its neck, (ii) pause in the middle of killing, (iii) stab the animal in the neck, and (iv) wrench out its neck – thorax, gullet, and veins (summary by Shmuel in bHullin 9a of laws found in mHullin 1:2–4; 2:1–4). In other words, one is required to slice the jugular of the animal with a smooth knife in a fluid horizontal motion, to kill in a less painful method that is both quick and intimate.

107

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111 112 113 114 115 116 117

In short: the Tannaim and these specific rabbis cared about the laws of slaughter and reached humane conclusions that are not stated in the Biblical text. To read this statement as teaching that the law of slaughter is an arbitrary cultural norm (Hayes 2015, 257–258) is to ignore both all three of these connected sages’ rulings prescribing ethical slaughter and the explicit point that the commandment is meant to refine people. (I thank Hayes, who dedicated time to patiently explain to me that as the sages of a traditional human culture of pragmatic wisdom, the rabbis also recognized the existence of arbitrary cultural norms. I agree with her only as regards vestigial norms [discussed above]. In light of the evidence presented here that the rabbis viewed these specific laws as ethical commandments, in any case, this paper refrains from presenting a broader anthropological argument on how traditional societies relate to non-universal norms). See John 14:6; Cyril lecture 19; et al. See 1 Peter 1:6–7; 1 Corinthians 3:12–13; et al. This story clearly predates Pesikta deRav Kahana, since it is followed the by the Pesikta editor’s repeated closing refrain: “The Holy One, blessed be He, said: I have established a statute; I have decreed a decree, and you are not permitted to transgress my decree.” That the closing refrain is by the editor is made even clearer by the fact that these selections in the Pesikta are paralleled elsewhere in rabbinic literature without the refrain. Since the refrain is not part of the story, the story predates the section and thus the whole work. The idolater’s words are in italics to reflect the fact that his opening statement is in colloquial Aramaic in contrast to the Hebrew of the rest of this passage. I have not added the Pesikta editor’s repeating refrain (discussed in footnote 110). Neusner (1962, 62) = Neusner (1970, 92); Goldin (1988, 343); R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik in Besdin (1989, 112–113*); Rubenstein (1999, 183); Regev (2005, 389); Hammer (2009, 24 n.9); et al. Even if none of the assignations to R. Yohanan are historically accurate, this dissonance is problematic because the Amoraic story’s editor was fluent in Mishna and thus should have avoided such assignation if it made no sense. Justin Martyr, Dialogue end of ch.69. This was part of a broader tradition of claims that non-Christians engage in magic in contrast to Christians’ holy miracles (e.g. Acts 8:9–13; John Chrysostom’s Against the Jews 7:5). Mark 6:4; John 6:14; Acts 3:22; et al.

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Jackson (2008, 29). Mark 5:1–15; et al. Matthew 7:22. (See Sorensen 2002; Twelftree 2007). As discussed above in the section, “The Sifra’s Distinction Between Particularistic and Social Laws.” Wahlen (2004, 59–66). This, in spite of headstones with the cross symbols of the eternal soul and even with images of animals drinking from the eternal life water of the cross (Tsafrir 1984, 393). A problematic point noted by Labendz (2010, 155; 2013, 127). As described by R. Shmuel b. R. Yitzhak in Pesikta deRav Kahana 4:9 and in additional sources listed in Schremer (2010, 182 n.88). Ancselovits (2018) (pagination unavailable). Ibid. Seligman, Weller, Puett, and Simon (2008, 88). Cf. ibid 28–32, 55–56. Section titled, Late Early-Byzantium Midrashim. Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 4:2. On gold as reddish-golden, see mYoma 4:4 and Reish Lakish in yYoma 4:4. This point is stated explicitly in an undated midrash found in Midrash Aggadah, Hukkat 19:2. This means that rabbinic allegorization of the Torah and of its commandments begins earlier than placed by David Stern (2001, 36). Cf. the midrash about R. Shimeon b. Yohai in Ozar Midrashim (Eisenstein edition), 465, 555. Cf. Yalkut Shimoni, Zekharia #584. Revelations 20:2–5. For an accessible version (through Hebrewbooks): Ganz (1826, 235a–b). I have attempted to translate the words so that they will convey the sense that this is a religious poem. Fleischer (1984, 67). See, for example, Melito of Sardis’ [d. circa 180 CE] quickly “canonical” ChristianPaschal/Easter text that elaborated on Colossians 4:3’s and Ephesians 3:4’s assertion of the mystery of Jesus. Fleischer (1984, 67). Spiegel (1996, 228). On whether these sermons were actually read in the synagogue or in the study hall, see Irshai (2012, 50) and his sources. Fonrobert (2007, 7).

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Soloveitchik, Joseph B. Insights of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik: Discourses on Fundamental Theological Issues in Judaism (ed. Saul Weiss). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2005. Sorensen, Eric. Possession and Exorcism in the New Testament and Early Christianity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002. Spiegel, Shalom. The Fathers of Piyyut: Texts and Studies Toward a History of the Piyyut in Eretz Yisrael (Selected from his literary estate and edited by Menahem H. Schmelzer). Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1996. (Hebrew) Stern, David. “Vayikra Rabbah and My Life in Midrash.” Prooftexts 21, no. 1 (2001): 23–38. Stökl, Daniel J. “The Christian Exegesis of the Scapegoat Between Jews and Pagans.” In Albert I. Baumgarten, ed. Sacrifice in Religious Experience. Leiden: Brill, 2002: 207–232. Tomson, Peter J. Paul and the Halakha: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990. Tsafrir, Yoram. Ereẓ Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest: Volume Two – Archeology and Art. Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1984. (Hebrew) Twelftree, Graham H. In the Name of Jesus: Exorcism Among Early Christians. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007. Ulmer, Rivka. “The Mishnah in the Later Midrashim.” In Alan J. Avery-Peck and Jacob Neusner, eds. The Mishnah in Contemporary Perspective: Handbook of Oriental Studies. Part 1 Ancient Near East, 65. Leiden: Brill, 2002: 193–233. ———. “Psalm 22 in Pesiqta Rabbati: The Suffering of the Jewish Messiah and Jesus.” In Zev Garber, ed. The Jewish Jesus: Revelation, Reflection, Reclamation. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011: 106–128 Voobus, Arthur. Celibacy, A Requirement for Admission to Baptism in the Early Syrian Church. Stockholm: [The Estonian Theological Society in Exile], 1951. Wahlen, Clinton L. Jesus and the Impurity of Spirits in the Synoptic Gospels. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004. Wolfson, Harry Austrin. Philo – Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: Volume II, second printing – Revised. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1948. Zlotnick, Dov. The Iron Pillar Mishnah: Redaction, Form, and Intent. Jerusalem: Daf-Noy Press, 1988.

Part II

Philosophy

4

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? Lenn E. Goodman

Back in 1950 and ’51 Joseph Soloveitchik gave a lecture course on Maimonides’ Guide to the Perplexed, its contents only now published under the title Maimonides: Between Philosophy and Halakhah. The text is transcribed from notes taken down by a diligent student, Gerald Homnick.1 As Dov Schwartz explains in his preface, the Rav, as Rabbi Soloveitchik’s admirers still call him, had mixed feelings about the Rambam: At times he is the great posek . . . at times he is the greatest of those undergoing the experience of God; and in yet other times he reflects the existential rift characterizing human existence. R. Soloveitchik uses different typologies in his writing (homo religiosus, cognitive man, halakhic man, the lonely man of faith, majestic man, covenantal man, and the like), but Maimonides is the great typological figure pervading all his works. This typology is bidirectional. Even when R. Soloveitchik sought to criticize deficient cognitive subjectivism in the realm of reasons for the commandments, Maimonides served as his negative model. (Halakhic Mind)”2 Rabbi Soloveitchik’s thought was anchored in halakhah. But he was not a stranger to philosophy. Anselm and Aquinas, Aristotle, Averroes and Bahya Ibn Paqudah, Karl Barth and Jeremy Bentham, Bergson, Berkeley and Hermann Cohen, Darwin, Descartes, Dewey and Eckhardt, Fichte, Heidegger, Herder, Hume, James and Kant, Kierkegaard, Leibniz, Malebranche, Pascal and Plato, Plotinus, Rosenszweig, Russell, and Spinoza are among the names that figure in his lectures. So, the Rav was not afraid to navigate the tricky passage this book’s title describes, between philosophy and halakhah in Maimonides. The lecture course, as published, is marred by the now discredited notion that the man to whom the Guide was addressed was Joseph Ibn Aqnin. The dedicatee, we now know, was another Joseph Ibn Judah, surnamed Ibn Shimon. Other problems, too, might have led their author to revise his lectures before permitting their publication. But in addressing one profound question at the interface of philosophy and revelation, Soloveitchik here challenges what had already become something of

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an orthodoxy in Jüdische Wissenschaft in his time, the idea he finds in Graetz, “that Maimonides in the Guide sneered at halakhic scholarship.”3 Responding to that canard, the Rav cites the years of labor Maimonides devoted to his Mishnah Commentary and Mishneh Torah. But he wrestles with a passage near the start of the Guide, where Maimonides seems to treat all value judgments as matters of convention (Hebrew, mefursamot; Arabic, mashhûrât), using language he had defined in his early work on logical terms.4 The passage, placed prominently, in the Guide’s second chapter, seems to isolate facts from values, making Maimonides sound, to modern ears, like a positivist. Soloveitchik is not heartened by Maimonides’ placement outside the palace of the king, circling it but not gaining entry, of “jurists who believe in true opinions on the basis of traditional authority and study of the laws concerning the practices of divine service, but do not engage in speculation concerning the fundamental principles of religion.”5 Maimonides’ Aristotelian treatment of virtues as means to an end – namely human perfection – and moral virtues specifically as a seedbed for the higher end of intellectual perfection, discourages the Rav still further.6 He’s disappointed that Maimonides, like Aristotle, did not follow Plato in drawing ethical inferences from knowledge of the Form of the Good,7 and takes umbrage at Aristotle’s thesis that there is no science of ethics (1141b–42a) – a notion he interprets to mean, “Ethics is a matter of practicality, not truth.”8 Yet the Rav is mistaken to suggest, with the word “practicality,” that Aristotle is an advocate of expedience. Aristotle denies there is one science of all goods to illustrate his point that “good” is said in all the categories: as a reality, of God; as a quality, of virtue; as a quantity, of the moderate; as a relation, of the helpful; as a time or place, of the opportune – etc. (1096a24–34). There’s another difference between ethical and scientific discussions for Aristotle: we can’t expect precision in human affairs of the sort demanded, say, in physics. Thus, at the outset of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle says, Our treatment will be adequate if it has as much clarity as the subject permits. For precision is not to be sought for alike in all discussions, any more than in the work of all crafts. . . . It’s the mark of an educated man to look for precision in each class of things just so far as the nature of the subject admits: It’s equally foolish, clearly, to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician as to demand demonstrative truths from a rhetorician.9 Goading Aristotle here, at least in part, were sophist promises of rules that guarantee success. Yet Aristotle knows the worth of categorical rules of conduct: There is no proper mean, he insists, in murder, theft, adultery, spite, effrontery or envy: It is not ever possible to be right doing such things; it must always be wrong. Nor does goodness or badness in such things depend on committing adultery with the right woman, at the right time, and in the right way. Just to do any of these things is to go wrong.10

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 89 But Aristotle’s main interest in ethics focuses on areas of conduct where rules are guidelines at best: Resolving to treat others nicely, say, depends more on models and exemplars than on some strict behavioral canon. Soloveitchik’s reading, however, drives him to read Aristotle as a moral relativist: if there is no moral science, “no truth can be ascribed to ethics.”11 The worry is that Maimonides followed Aristotle here: In Maimonides’ acknowledgment of the variety and diversity of conventions, Soloveitchik finds “a pure Aristotelian idea! Morality is seen here as based on opinions which are universally accepted and appear to be true. But these opinions may be here today and gone tomorrow.”12 Aristotle is next assimilated to Bentham’s utilitarianism and then to Russell’s dismissal of moral realism: “In the world of values nature in itself is neutral, neither good nor bad.”13 The Rav’s task, then, is to rescue the great posek from the relativism he stumbled into by abandoning Plato’s belief that “values have the status of ontological entities” – the forms being “values that constitute an axiological universe.”14 Here and now we’d best acknowledge how far from ethical relativism Aristotle stands. Yes, he declined to peg his ethics to Plato’s Form of the Good – for much the same reason that he rejected analysis and anamnesis as methods of discovery: because universal ideas don’t yield specificity.15 Just as pure concepts fail to predict nature’s course, they fail to pick out what Aristotle calls the “doable good.”16 But failure to find moral specificity in Plato’s forms does not make Aristotle a relativist. The good he seeks is the human good. That’s the morally relevant concern for us, and Aristotle finds it in understanding human nature. Here he does see an ontic base for values – in our shared humanity. That makes Aristotle a natural law thinker, not a relativist or positivist. Maimonides does follow him in this, treating all the virtues, moral and intellectual, as avenues to human fulfillment, not ends in themselves. Yet Plato’s Form of the Good does not drop out of sight for either thinker. Aristotle holds that all beings seek perfection, drawn to emulate the perfect actuality of God. He does not suspend moral obligation from that thought since every sort of being must seek perfection in its own way. His recognizing as many senses of “good” as there are of “being” (Nicomachean Ethics I 6, 1096a23–30; Eudemian Ethics I 8, 1217b26) does not mean that anyone or any group can arbitrarily determine what the good shall be. Aristotle was not an existentialist, nor a social constructivist in morals! Being, for him, is vested in the species of things. So, if we want to know what is good, we must know in a rather rich sense what it can mean to be human. In seeking the human good, Aristotle anatomizes the virtues, those dispositions of mind that allow us to choose wisely not just the means to our ends but the ends worth choosing. The confluence of virtues points towards an adequate idea of the human good. For, while it’s uncontroversial that happiness is our goal (if we are rational), it’s not at all uncontroversial just how happiness is best understood. But the specificity of the virtues, their common core in thoughtful consideration, and their consilience in the activities constituting a fulfilling life, make it easier to conceive concretely what such a life is like.

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It’s true, as Soloveitchik worries, that Aristotle places thinking at the summit of the activities to be valued. Thinking may be calculative or practical, but it is noblest, most distinctively human and, indeed, most divine, when focused on the best of things – ultimately, on God (Nicomachean Ethics X 7). Maimonides follows Aristotle here, anchoring human happiness in human needs and human nature, and focusing our highest thoughts on God. He also follows Plato in seeing it as our human goal to become as like to God as possible, reading that Platonic counsel (Theaetetus 176b) alongside God’s command to emulate His holiness: Ye shall be holy, for I the Lord, thy God, am holy (Leviticus 19:2).17 The Rabbinic Sages traditionally interpreted this command and the parallel injunction to walk in God’s ways (Deuteronomy 5:33) in moral terms: We must emulate God’s generosity.18 But Maimonides adds the intellectual to the moral virtues here, arguing that we realize our affinity to God by perfecting the intellect that is God’s image: We near God by knowing God.19 “The ultimate anchor and mainstay of all wisdom,” he writes at the opening of the Mishneh Torah, “is to know that there is an Ultimate Reality that gives being to all that is. All that exists – heaven and earth and everything between – exists only by the truth of His being.”20 Knowing God builds the love of Him that the Torah commands (Deuteronomy 6:5), and we know God by studying His world and discovering how it manifests His grace and wisdom. When one contemplates His works, His great and marvelous creations, and sees His wisdom in them, boundless and unmeasured, one will immediately love, esteem, and celebrate Him and yearn powerfully to know His great name, as David said, My soul thirsts for God, the living God (Psalms 42:3).21 What the Rambam means by knowing God, then, is not far from what the Rav understands by religious experience. But the ecstatic peak is not the totality. We know God more fully by studying the world He created, just as we serve God more fully not through ritual acts alone that focus our minds on His perfection (the orienting Good that Soloveitchik hoped for) but also, as the Sages say repeatedly, by emulating the grace we find in His governance of nature, and pursuing grace and favor, generosity, truth and justice in our own actions. For the exercise of moral virtues, as the Sages trenchantly remind us, is not just a means of seeking to perfect our humanity by emulating God’s goodness. It’s also our way of sanctifying God’s name – and, by so doing, of sanctifying our lives. Soloveitchik’s rescue of Maimonides from seeming relativism and positivism rests on his discovery in Maimonides of a post-rational experience, equated with the worship of the heart. “Maimonides followed in Aristotle’s footsteps and together they reached the boundary of philosophical reasoning.” Yet Maimonides, not Aristotle, went further.22 Soloveitchik’s rescue, it seems, will involve some surgery: “progress in the Prophetic-Ecstatic experience,” he writes, “is not intellectual in nature.”23 Here, in Maimonides’ behalf, we must beg to differ. One does not vindicate a great thinker by sculpting him in one’s own image. Maimonides is a rational mystic. He does not judge philosophy alien to the task of knowing,

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 91 seeking, and serving God. That dichotomy is in the mind of the beholder and foreign to the Rambam and everything he stands for. That’s why he finds pious believers who serve simply out of faith and tradition outside the palace of the king. They’ve left their minds behind and lack the key of entry. We needn’t follow Soloveitchik’s text further here. He hoped to redeem Maimonides from reason, by finding more in Maimonidean values than what he deems a cold and unresponsive intellectuality. Aristotle’s God is “only thought thinking thought. He is unaware and ignorant of man. There is, consequently, no relationship between God and man.”24 These are hackneyed thoughts, and this is not the time to address them by reminding readers that Aristotle’s God moves all other beings by their love of his perfection, or to mention that Maimonides’ God is all-wise and a boundless Source of grace and favor, reaching every human soul through the reason that is God’s noblest gift. Nor need we mention that, biblically, mind and heart are one and the same. Soloveitchik has his own agenda; and, as if to turn the knife, he adds Spinoza’s name to Aristotle’s”25 – but with no mention of the intellectual love of God, an ideal Maimonides and Spinoza share. Nor of how we humans, in Maimonides’ world, or Aristotle’s, or Spinoza’s, find ways of returning God’s outpouring of love. Without descending into stereotypes and brickbats, there’s work to be done as to Maimonides’ treatment of the story of humanity’s expulsion from the Garden. For the caricature of Maimonidean ethics in terms of relativism and even positivism remains unanswered. It’s all very well to affirm that the Rambam did better when he turned back or marched on from philosophy to halakhah. But the position Maimonides held when he catalogued the terminology of logic, later spelled out in “The Eight Chapters,” 26 and reaffirmed in the Guide, is far from moral relativism. It won’t do simply to claim that he went further, as if to say that he outgrew it. It would be more charitable, and more informative, to see just what he meant, without glancing comparisons with Bentham or Russell, but by examining what he said in his own words. That task is made harder for many since English speakers today so rely on Shlomo Pines’ translation of the Guide. 27 Pursuing a Straussian agenda, Pines was among those readers who drive a wedge not only between Maimonides’ halakhic and philosophic work but between his philosophy and the exegesis that supports it. Pines finds the Guide riven with tensions, fissures, and, indeed, contradictions meant to signal to astute readers that the claims overtly made and vigorously defended are not meant as announced and or even sincerely held but are the ruses of a Jewish Grand Inquisitor, promoted to sustain communal unity. In the face of that cynical reading and in recognition of the barriers to clarity imposed by a mode of translating meant to support the Straussian thesis that the Guide is not merely an esoteric but an obscurantist book, my colleague Phil Lieberman and I have undertaken a new translation from the original Judaeo-Arabic, the first in over half a century, of this important work, which is not only widely misunderstood but often not understood at all, given the infelicities of what is often taken for its definitive translation.28 Here’s our new translation of the oft quoted and oft misunderstood Guide I 2. Once you’ve read it, I’ll argue that Maimonides’ concern is not with the fact/

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value distinction, and that his talk of conventions bespeaks quite the opposite of moral relativism. Years ago, a learned man faced me with an odd objection worth considering, along with the response I gave to scuttle it. But before stating the problem and its solution, I will say that every Hebrew knew that elohim has multiple meanings. It can mean God, or angels, or political authorities. Onkelos the Proselyte29 rightly explained that when it says, Ye shall be as elohim knowing good and evil (Genesis 3:5), that last sense is meant. He translates: “Ye shall be as lords.” Recognizing the different senses of this word, I turn to the objection: It seems from the plain sense of the text, the objector said, that the original intent was for man to be like the other animals, without thought or reason, unable to distinguish good from evil. But, when he rebelled, his disobedience brought him this splendid distinction, the ability to tell right from wrong, our highest human attainment, what makes us what we are. Man’s disobedience, amazingly, is punished with the gift of reason, which he did not yet have. That’s like saying that some rebel committed an egregious wrong and was made a star in the sky.30 This was the gist of the objection, although not in so many words. Now listen to the tenor of my answer: Do you think, I said, that you can build a theory from the first notion that pops into your head? Do you expect to understand a book that is the guide of every generation, from the first to the last,31 by browsing through it in a leisure moment between having a drink and making love, as if it were some history or poem?32 Stop and think. Your first impression wasn’t right, as you’ll see when you reflect on this account. The mind God sheds on man, which is our highest perfection, Adam had before his disobedience. That is why he was said to be in the image and likeness of God (1:26, 27) – and why commands could be addressed to him, as it says, the LORD God commanded. (2:16). Precepts (wasiyya) are not addressed to beasts, or to anyone devoid of reason.33 By reason we discriminate true from false. This Adam had, fully and perfectly. But the difference between fair and foul is a matter not of reason but of repute: We don’t say it’s fine that the heavens are spherical or foul that the earth is flat, but that the one is true and the other false.34 Likewise in our own tongue, truth and falsehood are called emet and sheker; fair and foul are called good and evil. Using his intelligence, a man can tell true from false, and so with any conceptual question. So, when man was at his best, at the peak of perfection, his native insight (   fiṭra) intact, and possessed of the ideas that made him, but little lower than the angels (Psalms 8:6), he had no faculty at all concerned with matters of convention and no notion of such things. Even what convention finds obviously improper, exposing one’s nakedness, was not wrong in his eyes. He did not see its unseemliness. But once he disobeyed, following the passions stirred by his fancies and sensory pleasures – as it says,

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 93 that the tree was good to eat and a delight to the eyes (Genesis 3:6) – he was punished, by being stripped of that rational awareness: He broke the commandment given in virtue of his reason and took on a sense of convention. He became mired in judgments of fair and foul.35 Only then did he realize the worth of what he’d lost, how naked he now was and how low he’d sunk. That is why it was said, Ye shall be like elohim, knowing good and evil (3:5) – not, knowing true and false, or distinguishing false from true. With necessities, there is no “good” or “evil,” only true or false.36 Consider the words: Their eyes were opened, and they knew they were naked (3:7). It does not say, ‘Their eyes were opened, and they saw . . . ’ What they saw was the same as ever. There was no blindfold to be removed. But Adam was changed. He now disapproved of what he hadn’t thought improper. The word ‘opened’ refers to his outlook, not his vision – as it says [of Hagar], God opened her eyes (21:19), The eyes of the blind shall be opened (Isaiah 35:5), and with open ears he heareth not (42:20), paralleling, eyes have they to see but see not (Ezekiel 12:2). So when it says of Adam, he changeth his face, and Thou sendest him forth (Job 14:20), the verse must be glossed and read as follows: Man was expelled when he changed his outlook. For face connotes intent, as one faces one’s objective: It says that when he turned to what he’d been ordered not to seek he was expelled from the Garden of Eden. Measure for measure, the punishment fit the crime: He’d been free to eat good things and enjoy a life of tranquility and ease. But when he greedily followed his pleasures and fancies, as I said, and ate what he’d been forbidden to eat, all that was lost. He had to eat the coarsest foods, things that had not been food for him – and only after toil and trouble, as it says, thorns and thistles shall it sprout for thee . . . and by the sweat of thy brow . . . (Genesis 3:18–19) – as it explains, The LORD God sent him out of Eden, to work the soil (3:23). God leveled him with the beasts, in food and most other ways – as it says, thou shalt eat the grass of the field (3:18). And, explaining the situation: Man, abiding not in dignity, is like the dumb beasts (Psalms 49:13). Glory, then, to Him whose will intends an end and a wisdom far beyond us. That’s the passage that Soloveitchik wants to see Maimonides leaving behind and that Pines thinks betrays a view of values much like the positivism prominent in his time, finding no common ground between facts and values – and relegating value judgments, if not to the realm of subjectivity then to the neighboring kingdom of convention.37 My thesis is that Maimonides’ chapter is consistent with the open-ended naturalism of his ethical theme, that our human task is to realize our God-given nature by becoming as like to God as humanly possible. Maimonides is not not relativistic at all. He is a moral realist. His brief here is, in fact, a spirited polemic against relativism, which he views as the great danger latent in the human condition, the sin, if you will, couching at the door.

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The unnamed critic Maimonides cites reads the Genesis narrative as a myth like the Greek myths of the Titans, and Maimonides rebukes him with an arresting harshness, perhaps in the interest of indirection: Just as Plato camouflages his rejection of the Olympic pantheon under a veil of protest against “the poets,” Maimonides distracts casual readers by inveighing against too casual a reading of scripture. But his response goes far beyond a counterblast to the notion of reading the Bible as literature. Adam and Eve’s story is no mere myth of origin. Its intent is not to tell us how we got to where we are by tracing our fate to the actions of our first forbears but to reveal something directly pertinent to our lives. Adam and Eve, as José Faur puts it, believed that their Lilliputian knowledge of ‘good and evil’ awarded them divine status . . . God revealed their inner thoughts: ‘Behold man regards himself as if he were (hayah ki-) one of us, since he now knows good and evil’ (Genesis 3:22).38 The illusion Maimonides aims to deflate here lives on in Erich Fromm’s idea that humanity’s great strength, our power to distinguish good from evil, means more than moral autonomy – it imparts a power not just to judge but to determine moral right. It’s in the hubris fed by our sense of moral freedom that Maimonides finds the weakness the biblical narrative pinions: the illusion that we are arbiters, even creators, of moral values can misguide those judgments: Our sense of subjecthood can trip us and let us stumble into subjectivism, and we find ourselves not gods at all but closer to the plane of beasts, who make no moral judgments but simply follow where sensation, appetite, and passion lead. What’s missed in many a reading of Guide I 2 and glossed over by Pines is Maimonides’ affirmation that there are facts about values: Adam, before the “Fall,” had moral knowledge and full moral capacity. This was not something new. The emblem of Adam’s knowledge is God’s command, which Maimonides calls a precept, emphasizing the rational basis for being addressed with an imperative of such sort: God’s mitzvot are not like the commands given a dog, obeyed reflexively. Their logic demands freedom, as Maimonides stresses when he speaks of ethics.39 And freedom presupposes reason. Moral truths, unlike social conventions, are matters of necessity, on a par with other facts and not with mere customs. The facts of mathematics – or, for that matter, the facts about what simply is the case – cannot be otherwise. That does not mean every fact need always have turned out as it does. Maimonides stresses, paradigmatically, that Israelites are commanded to place a railing on our roof. The assumption is that we do have the power to change the future, say to prevent a tragic accident. Likewise with the exemption of newly betrothed men from military service, and even those who have just planted a vineyard or built a house (Deuteronomy 20:5–7). Words like lest would have no meaning and no place in the Law were it not in our power to act in the present to change the future, transforming potentialities into actualities. But we cannot change the past, and the present too is fixed. Facts are the necessities about which there are only true

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 95 and false, regardless of personal or social approval or disapproval. But Adam’s change of face or change of outlook generated the illusion that his preferences set the parameters of his choice. Or, to resolve the Torah’s dramatization into a simple description of the human condition, it fostered the illusion that bedevils every human choice: that our likes and dislikes are determinative. That’s the slip the Rambam sees from moral knowledge, represented by God’s counsels, made possible and relevant by the gift reason, to moral attitudes whose emblem is the fickleness of opinion – and thus, of social convention. Adam and Eve, for Maimonides, are not historical figures but paradigms of humanity. Their story does not report a “Fall.” Rather, Genesis uses the drama of expulsion from Eden to characterize the human condition by contrasting it with the virtuality it invites us to envision: Reason puts us in touch with divine wisdom. But our embodiment renders us susceptible to bodily passions, appetites, and the call of fancy and caprice. We are vulnerable to seduction by the senses and passions, inchoate urges of our embodiment, given voice by the imagination. Accordingly, Maimonides equates the evil inclination, yetzer ha-ra‘, with the imagination.40 His concern is not the fact-value distinction but the critical difference between objective knowledge – including moral knowledge – and subjective inclination, which masquerades as knowledge and pretends to moral sovereignty.41 What, then, can we say about Maimonides’ thoughts about conventions? In his early work on logical terms he distinguishes four sorts of propositions “known to be true and needing no argument”: perceptual, like knowing that this is black and that is white, or this is sweet and that is hot; conceptual, like knowing that the whole is greater than its part, that two is an even number, or that equals of the same quantity equal each other; conventional, like knowing that it’s foul to expose our nakedness and fair to requite a benefactor; and traditional, like accepting information from a reliable source or sources. For we seek proof only that a source is reliable overall, not for each thing he says. We accept what he says once his reliability is established. About perceptual and conceptual truths there is no disagreement among human beings whose senses and intuitions (fiṭar) are sound – although there are differences in certainty and sensitivity. But conventions vary in content and merit (tafâḍala). For some judgments are current in one nation and not another, and the ones widely accepted among many peoples are more credible.42 So, Maimonides is not a relativist about conventions. Some are better than others; universality can test their quality. Here’s an example. I knew a couple, years ago, who did field work in the Philippines. In the Agta tribe, whose hospitality they enjoyed while studying the group’s customs, the women traditionally went topless. But they were dismayed that the female anthropologist, herself a Filipina woman from Manila, wore shorts, leaving her legs exposed. Take that matter of

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convention to a higher level of abstraction and we see a broader consensus: In most societies, it’s not acceptable to go about one’s business unclothed. Just what should be covered up and what may be exposed (and when) does vary, but there tends to be a broad distaste for ungoverned human nakedness. Now consider gratitude: different cultures and subcultures may express appreciation, respect, or disrespect in different ways. But there’s more unanimity about the notion that favors should be repaid, or that shaming others gratuitously should be avoided – even though the ways in which respect is shown, hospitality reciprocated, and generosity requited or acknowledged, vary with custom and circumstance. A good deal of cross-cultural misunderstanding – and relativistic misprision – could be avoided if that were kept in mind. Maimonides is not a relativist or a skeptic about perception or rational truths. Like other Aristotelians, he’s a perceptual realist. That’s why he stipulates sound sensory apparatus. As for truths of reason, his stipulation is a sound complement of mental capabilities. The Arabic term he uses is fiṭar (singular, fiṭra), meaning sound and wholesome judgment or intuition. He won’t believe someone who tells him black is white. Nor will he agree that two is an odd number. Confronted with the notion, say, that the law of the excluded middle doesn’t hold, or with denial of the distinction of subject from object, the idea of fiṭra gives him recourse to the basic Aristotelian idea that a notion might be captious. Those who reject what reason teaches may be stubbornly or stupidly affirming what they only say that they believe. For belief, Maimonides explains, “is not what you say but what you think when you hold something to be so” (Guide I 50). Thinking here is conceptual, and there is no conceptual grasp of incoherent notions. Those who mouth incoherencies either fail to understand what they’re saying or don’t really believe it but only utter words to which they’re not committed. Perhaps their intent is to be contrary – or, perhaps, they’re reaching to make an unrelated point or to score a point by uttering a paradox, like saying it’s only reasonable, since reason only goes so far, to reach beyond its limits and find another vehicle that can take thought beyond where thinking can travel.43 How do we know that Maimonides counted moral truths among the pronouncements of a sound fiṭra and that he still held such thoughts when writing his Guide? We might appeal to the common usage of the word among earlier philosophers whose work he used, like Ibn Ṭufayl, for one, who treated curiosity, insight, and religious aspiration as natural endowments of a perfect mind.44 Islamic traditionalists adjusted the basic meaning of the Arabic term to signify not just natural talents or native intuitions but an affinity for natural religion, modified by culture and tradition to fit distinctive cultural paradigms. But there’s clearer evidence in the Guide itself of Maimonides’ commitments. We find it when he argues for the grace and wisdom of God’s commandments, against Jewish legal positivists drawn to the radical voluntarism of the Islamic kalâm, and deeming the mitzvot a divinely imposed discipline with no merit or warrant beyond the commandment itself. Here’s what the Rambam says about that: Some people think it dreadful to give grounds for any of the laws. They’d like it best if none of our commands or prohibitions made any sense at all.

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 97 What makes them feel this way is a malaise they find in their souls that they cannot articulate or adequately express. They think if these laws did the world any good or were laid down for this or that purpose, they might as well have sprung from the thinking or opinion of any rational being. But if something makes no sense and does no good at all, it must, of course, come from God, since it cannot be the product of any human thought process. It’s as though, for these mental weaklings, man outclassed his Maker, since man is the one that speaks and acts with purpose and God does not but just orders us to do things that do us no good and forbids our doing things that do not harm us. Exalted be He, and exalted further still above such notions! In fact, just the opposite is the case, as I’ve shown (III 25–28). Scripture makes this clear when it says, for our lasting good, to keep us in life, as He has to this day (Deuteronomy 6:24), and who shall hear all these statutes and say, ‘Surely this great people is a wise and discerning nation’ (4:6). It states expressly that even the statutes (ḥukkim), all of them, will show every nation the wisdom and discernment of their design. If the laws had no knowable, rational ground, afforded no benefit, and forestalled no harm, why would it be said of one who professes or performs them that he is wise and discerning and so plainly worthy that the nations find it remarkable?45 Maimonides argues vehemently that we human beings have the rational capacity to judge moral norms objectively – the paradigm case being our appraisal of God’s laws: Just as religious thinkers differ as to whether God’s works reflect His wisdom or His sheer will and serve no end whatever, they differ in the same way as to the laws He gave us. Some seek no grounds at all in His legislation: All His laws, they say, express His pure will. Others hold that every command and prohibition of the Torah reflects wisdom and is meant to serve some end: Every law is warranted; God gave it for the sake of some benefit. That all our laws have reasons, although we may be unaware of the reasons for some or fail to see just where their wisdom lies, is the doctrine we all hold, experts and the masses alike. The biblical texts are clear on this: hukkim u-mishpatim tzaddikim, just statutes and laws (Deuteronomy 4:8), The laws of the Lord are truth; altogether just (Psalms 19:10). Those known as statutes, such as sha‘atnez, milk with meat, and the scapegoat are the ones of which the Sages said: “The statutes I gave you may not cavil at, though Satan denounce them and the nations of the world decry them” (B. Yoma 67b). The majority of the Sages do not think them groundless at all or deny that ends are to be sought for them. For that would have God acting pointlessly, as I’ve said (Guide III 25). Most believe the statutes do have grounds and must serve some beneficial end, even if obscure to us, given our limited knowledge and understanding. All the mitzvot, in their view, then, are justified: A certain act was commanded or forbidden so as to do some good, either evident to us, as with

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Maimonides links the legal positivist/voluntarist position regarding the Law with the anti-naturalism and the rejection of natural causality (and thus of science, medicine, education and simple precaution taking) of the occasionalist kalâm: I say there is no room for any reasoning person to call any action of God’s vain, frivolous or pointless. In our view – all who follow the Torah of Moses our Teacher – all God’s actions are good and beneficial: God saw all that He had done, and lo it was very good (Genesis 1:31). So everything God made for the sake of something else is either necessary to the existence of the object intended or highly beneficial to it. Food, for example, is necessary to an animal’s survival, and eyes are highly beneficial to it. Food, indeed, serves just to preserve animals alive through their span of life; and the senses, to give them the benefits of perception. The Philosophers too hold that nothing in nature is pointless:47 Everything not man-made serves some end, whether we know that end or not. As for that school of thinkers who claim God does nothing for the sake of something else and deny cause and effect, saying that all His acts express His will, that no purpose should be sought for them and one shouldn’t ask why He did this since He does as He pleases without regard for wisdom – why such people class God’s acts as pointless. Worse, in fact. For one who acts pointlessly is thoughtless, but God, on their account, knows what He is doing but purposely intends no end or benefit at all. That God does anything frivolous is impossible on the face of it. The palaver of those who pretend that apes were created to make people laugh is beneath notice. They’re drawn to say such things by sheer ignorance of nature in the world of generation and destruction, and failure to recognize that God’s whole purpose was to bring to be all that could exist in the world as we know it. The alternatives were not what His Wisdom ordained. So they were impossible, given that things proceed as His wisdom directs.48 The upshot, then, a corollary of Maimonides’ thesis that all of God’s commandments have manifest benefits – although it’s a fool’s errand to seek the reasons for their detailed particularities – is that the grounds of the commandments are in principle intelligible to us, in the benefits they afford. It’s here that he expects to find the wisdom Moses promised will be evident not only to Israel but to the nations of the world. For that promise to hold good, reason, God’s image in all humanity, must be capable of judging and appreciating what is good – recognizing not only

Is Maimonides a moral relativist? 99 the differences between odd and even numbers but between moral facts and matters of repute – which may or may not approximate the moral truths spoken for by human nature and potential. Maimonides, like most pre-Kantian philosophers, upholds the reality of rational intuitions. He does not believe that imagination can or should take over reason’s work. It’s not imagination (although it can play an ancillary role) that tells us that the whole is greater than its part. Value judgments are among the truths reason knows. We can see that if we recognize, as Philoponus did, that truth too is a value. The preferability of truth to falsehood is not a matter of convention but a necessity of reason. Part of what we know, through our reason and not as a matter of convention, is that what’s good is preferable to what’s bad. What’s good is to be chosen, and what’s bad is to be avoided – just as truth is to be affirmed and falsehood rejected. True and false here are on a par with other values, including good and evil: Adam knew the truth about value, and so did Eve since she too was created in God’s image – possessed of reason. Subjectivity entered the picture when Adam and Eve allowed their God-given reason to be suborned by the appeal of the senses: The fruit looked good. It seemed appetizing and looked good to eat. And the couple were tempted by a higher order pretense, having been told that eating of that fruit would make them like gods. They felt their moral freedom but imagined that the freedom reason gave them somehow guaranteed that their choices would be sound. That was a deception. Far from becoming godlike, in following their appetites and passions, they stooped to the level of animals. The emblem of that change was Adam’s sudden shame at his nakedness, an emotion new to him, as Genesis reports (2:25). The couple were not literally on all fours with the beasts, but they were like the beasts in following their appetites and not their higher knowledge. We can ask, then: If Maimonides’ concern is with our appetites and passions and the go-between he calls imagination – the very faculty he brands as the true yetzer ha-ra‘, although also the one that makes possible the poetry and oratory, laws and rituals that distinguish prophets from mere philosophers – why does he make convention the emblem of reason’s loss of its rightful rule? Conventions, he knows, as we’ve seen, can be quite sound. Aristotle made that case: conventions are norms “originally indifferent, but not so once laid down . . . e.g. that a goat and not two sheep shall be sacrificed” (1134b20–21). Maimonides echoes that thought when he speaks of the details of the biblical sacrifices, and it’s no more a part of his intent than it is of Aristotle’s to denigrate convention as such – let alone to alter the norms laid down in the Torah. They’re elements in a working system whose good he finds indisputable. If Israel’s modes of worship are to be altered once the Temple is restored, he’s quite ready to leave that work to the Messianic Age, when he fully expects the gift of prophecy to be restored to Israel. But he speaks pejoratively of conventions anent Adam and Eve’s change of orientation. The reason, I suspect, is perhaps that no pretender to moral seriousness – certainly not sensuous or passionate distractions – is more readily mistaken for an arbiter of right than social convention, with its heavy sanctions of overt punishment and reward and its still more powerful suasions of social approval and disdain.

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Maimonides is no advocate of nudism. He well knows the worth of human customs, especially the more universal among them. That’s why he can compare one custom with another, not just in content but in merit. Wearing clothing and cooking food have real and widely recognized value. They’re not arbitrary, although styles do vary in garments and cuisine.49 Still, Maimonides knows there’s nothing intrinsically wrong in nakedness. Adam and Eve were unashamed before their disobedience; when they ate the fruit, they slipped a notch. They discovered no new moral truth but had their first taste of a rude sense of propriety. And their slip models the human condition as we know it since it typifies the intrusion of bias, overwriting reason’s divinely given access to moral knowledge. What the story in Genesis communicates is the striking, sometimes tragic fact that our inboard moral judgment, as embodied and social individuals, allows us to take our subjective motives – appetites, passions, and prejudices – for moral, even disinterested promptings. The contrast Maimonides sees is not between facts and values, then, but between objectivity and subjectivity. God-given reason offers us access to the truth, including the truth about values. We are not called on to become gods ourselves. That was Nietzsche’s preachment and the serpent’s temptation. What the Eden story tells us, if we follow Maimonides in resolving its tropes, is that we are not the creators of the values we pursue. What’s presented as a change, even a paradigm shift, resolves to a description of the human condition, meant to finger not when but where we humans become morally vulnerable. As Maimonides reads the story, prominently situated near the outset of the Torah, as his reading of it is placed near the outset of the Guide, the expulsion of Adam and Eve was no epic loss to sin, transmitted through the generations, requiring vicarious atonement, and even bringing down a curse on all the earth, as some radically fundamentalist Christians believe, bringing entropy in its vane and rendering all real advance impossible.50 The story deals with something more significant to us than a cosmic curse. It deals with human nature. For the narrative is not about Adam and Eve. It’s about us. We have moral freedom, and we know it. But the freedom that comes with reason and our capacity to distinguish right from wrong is readily suborned by the senses, appetites and emotions, given voice by the imagination – and often enforced by convention – imparting the illusion that our choices are somehow self-warranted, personally or socially made reason-proof. The delusion is that we do not discover values and the truth about them but that our choices make them, that we can substitute our preferences for moral truths, and call them good. That’s what Maimonides suggests when he says that what’s fair and foul are what we call good. We were made but little lower than the angels – than gods (elohim), as the Hebrew has it (Psalms 8:6). But the approach to divinity can go to our heads. We think ourselves moral sovereigns, rulers, arbiters, the sense the Rambam warns of at the outset. There are no values, we tell ourselves, without a valuer; there were no values before we felt and voiced and acted on our preferences. It’s that condition, symbolized by the narrative in Genesis of a decline from moral truth to mere convention, that Maimonides believes the Torah was given to help us remedy.

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Notes 1 The resulting book, Maimonides: Between Philosophy and Halakhah: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s Lectures on the Guide of the Perplexed (New York: KTAV, 2016) is edited by Lawrence J. Kaplan. 2 Dov Schwartz, in his foreword to the published lecture notes, 12. 3 Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 123. 4 Maimonides, Maqâlah fî Ṣinâ‘at al-Manṭiq (Millot ha-Higayyon), Treatise on the Art of Logic, Arabic text and critical edition of three Hebrew translations with English translation, all by Israel Efros (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1938). I see no merit in the recent claim that Maimonides is not the author of this work. 5 Guide III 51. In recording passages cited from the Guide the editors rely on Pines’ translation, which (at I 2) stresses the fact/value distinction Soloveitchik found so troubling. In III 51 Pines reflexively translates al-arâ’ al-ṣaḥîḥa, as “true opinions”, making arâ’ sound needlessly subjective and suppressing the echo of Plato’s claim (Meno 97) that true beliefs are as useful as knowledge for most practical purposes – notably, for leadership and guidance. For Pines’ full-dress treatment of his reading, see his “Truth and Falsehood Versus Good and Evil: A Study in Jewish and General Philosophy in Connection with the Guide of the Perplexed, I 2,” in Isadore Twersky, ed., Studies in Maimonides (Cambridge: Harvard Center for Jewish Studies, 1990), 95–157. 6 Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 121, citing Guide I 34. 7 Ibid., 118–119. 8 Ibid., 122. 9 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics I 3, 1094b12–27; translation after W. D. Ross as revised by J. O. Urmson. 10 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics II 6, 1107a9–15. 11 Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 122. 12 Ibid., 120. 13 Bertrand Russell, What I Believe (New York: Dutton, 1925), 8, quoted by Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 119. 14 Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 122, 118. 15 Aristotle writes, “Now we must not forget that arguments from first principles are different from those that lead up to them. Plato rightly raised this question, and used to ask, ‘Are we on the way from or to first principles?’ – just as there is a difference on a race-course between running from the judges to the end of the track and running back again. One must start from what is known. But this has two meanings: what is known to us and what is known pure and simple. Evidently, we must start with what is known to us. . . . The facts are the starting point, and if they’re clear enough one needn’t ask why. The man who has been well brought up has or can easily get the starting points.” Nicomachean Ethics I 4, 1095a31–b9. Translated after Ross/Urmson, Martin Ostwald (Bobbs-Merrill), and Joe Sachs (Focus). 16 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics I 7. 1097a20–23. I take the phrase ‘doable good’ from J. A. K. Thompson’s Penguin translation (1955, repr. 1971). 17 Guide I 54 ad fin. 18 B. Sotah 14a; Genesis Rabbah 8.13; Sifre, Piska 49 to Deuteronomy 11:22, tr. Reuven Hammer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986) 105–106. 19 See Maimonides, “Eight Chapters,” 5; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings and Wars 12.4–5. 20 MT, Hilkhot Yesodei ha-Torah 1.1. 21 Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Yesodei ha-Torah 2.2. 22 Soloveitchik, Maimonides, 125. 23 Ibid., 131. 24 Ibid., 133–134. 25 Ibid., 134.

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26 The “Eight Chapters” is Maimonides’ introduction to Mishnah Avot. It’s taken from his Arabic commentary on the Mishnah and often studied and published independently. My translation is from the bilingual Hebrew and Judaeo-Arabic edition of J. Kafih (Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook, 1962–67), under the title Haqdamah le-Masekhet Avot. 27 Shlomo Pines translated Maimonides’ Guide as The Guide of the Perplexed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963). I do not use his translation, although I may mention it for contrast. The translations used here are from the one in progress by Lenn E. Goodman and Phillip Lieberman, under the title Guide to the Perplexed, to be published by Stanford University Press. The notes in the paper here cite Maimonides’ Guide by Part and Chapter: III 12, etc. They also include references to the standard critical edition of the Judaeo-Arabic text, edited with French translation by Salomon Munk, by Part and Page: 3.20a-22a, etc. Some of the problems about Pines are mentioned in a long note right after this. Here’s the data for Munk: Moise ben Maimoun, dit Maimonide, Le Guide des Égarés (Paris: 1856–66; reprinted, Osnabrück: Zeller, 1964) 3 volumes. 28 Pines’ translation is a monument of learning. But, in his eagerness to preserve any obscurity or ambiguity in the original, Pines compounds the obscurity. For every natural language bears and tolerates its own share of ambiguities. So those that Pines struggles to preserve are layered over with a new share of ambiguities native to the target language. That makes for tough sledding for any reader who does not know (or believe he knows) what Maimonides will say – or not conversant with Arabic idioms and Judaeo-Arabic philosophy and prepared to dig for a thesis, argument, idiom or metaphor not already canonical. Readers new to medieval philosophical usages are at risk of being left out in the cold, and even old hands get little help seeing what’s new or distinctive. Beyond its Straussian moorings, enforced, it seems, at the editorial level, Pines’ translation is marred by attempts to render every Arabic word by the same word in English, despite the Guide’s leitmotif as to linguistic polysemy. There’s also a confusion, all too familiar in Arabic translations, of etymological base meanings with literalism, and of literalism with accuracy – or at least safety. Readers are left to travel a road far bumpier than need be, with contextual pointers often sidelined. Working close in with the Arabic text, brilliantly edited by Salamone Munk, Professor Lieberman and I have thus far found just one apparent textual error in Munk (based on faulty spacing of two adjacent words, as noticed by the learned Joseph Kafih, using a ms not available to Munk). But we’ve found more simple errors in Pines’ renderings than our respect for this master Arabist led us to expect. And, when Pines is puzzled he’ll often turn to Munk’s French or to Ibn Tibbon’s potentially misleading Hebrew. Pines was a trailblazer, but not a native English speaker. His reliance on dictionary definitions or etymological calques can yield jarring shifts of register. All these semantical potholes are aggravated by attempts to reflect the syntax of the Arabic, often at the expense of Maimonides’ argument or emphasis, let alone a free-flowing, idiomatic rendering loyal to the conversational tone Maimonides adopts by writing the Guide as a risâla, the Arabic essay form that evolved from the practice of letter writing. 29 The notional translator of the Torah into Aramaic. See Jerusalem Talmud, Megillah I 11. 30 Pines finds a similar objection to the Genesis narrative in Julian the Apostate’s polemic against Christianity, Contra Galileos: The serpent, the Emperor argues, did humanity a favor. See “Truth and Falsehood Versus Good and Evil,” 120–121. 31 “The words of the Torah are life for this world and the next,” Song of Songs Rabbah 1.3, glossing Psalms 48:15. 32 Maimonides rejects attempts to read the Torah as history or poetry. How does this sit with his claim in the Introduction to the Guide that resolving the mysteries of Scripture demands an understanding of its poetics. We see a clue in his using a different word here for poetry from the language he uses in speaking of prophetic poetics: Here he

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speaks of shir, not mathal: Figurative language is essential in prophetic discourse since language cannot capture God’s unique reality. The poetry disparaged here is of the sort (adab) that literati of Maimonides’ time prized as a source of entertainment for heightened sensibilities. When poets make their artistry an end in itself, their art too often comes to serve the passions of their audience. Like Plato, Maimonides seeks a guide to life. And guidance, to be effective in the Cave, moreover, demands indirection – another reason for the necessity of prophetic poetry. History, like poetry, was prized by the literati, for broadening one’s experience. Cf. Lenn Goodman, Islamic Humanism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 199–201. So, both poetry and history were more than entertainment. But history, like poetry, did tend to reinforce worldly values rather than show the way to higher truths. The Torah, by contrast, is a timeless guide to the highest way of life. Its poesy points beyond the reach of the senses. And probing the Torah’s message, overt and indirect, Maimonides is confident, will prove it the unique original, authentic, trustworthy, and irreplaceable guide. Maimonides uses the Arabic word waṣiyya, counsel or precept, to stress the rational underpinnings of the mitzvot. As Ernest Klein notes in his Etymological Dictionary of the Hebrew Language, the terms are cognate (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 542. The Arabic word is prominent in Islamic theology, used in the title given the Waṣiyyat Abî Ḥanîfa, a major credo ascribed to the jurist Abû Ḥanîfa and dated, probably in the ninth century, some years after his death in 767. See A. J. Wensinck, The Muslim Creed: Its Genesis and Development (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932; repr. London: Cass, 1965), 125–187. The Islamic idea of prescriptive beliefs (itself rooted in Christian norms) may have contributed, as Menachem Kellner has stressed, to Maimonides’ idea of Judaic articles of belief. What’s critical here is Maimonides’ premise (anchored in common sense and Mu‘tazilite argumentation) that moral obligations presume the rationality and freedom of the duty bearers. We may admire the form of the heavens, but our awe is aesthetic, not practical: The facts of astronomy are not something we can do anything about. Maimonides does assign to reason the task of making (truthful) judgments of fair and foul See the discussion of reason in Eight Chapters, 1. The necessities Maimonides speaks of here are “non-contingent” facts. Phronesis, practical wisdom, regards what might be otherwise. See Nicomachean Ethics VI 8, 1142a12–21. When our concern is with what should be done we are not addressing what cannot be otherwise. As for the serpent’s deception, it lay in his slippery words: Adam and Eve did not become like gods, but like rulers, arbiters of value and moral choice – at least in their own eyes. Heidi Ravven, to name just one recent reader, finds Spinoza following Maimonides in holding that “moral consciousness, in contrast with the intellectual, marks a decline in the human condition.” See her “The Garden of Eden: Spinoza’s Maimonidean Account of the Genealogy of Morals and the Origin of Society,” Philosophy and Theology 13 (2001): 3–51. In search of antecedents for Maimonides’ seeming downgrading of value judgments, Pines cites Philoponus’ Commentary on De Anima I 6 (he means I 5; there is no I 6), 411a26, as explaining that the practical intellect regards the good; and the theoretical, the truth. The two intellects, Philoponus holds, differ only in their object: The theoretical looks up, seeking to know the Universe; looking downward, toward the physical, it turns practical. From this Pines infers that Philoponus, with Maimonides in his wake, presumes “that truth has a greater value or validity than the good.” See Pines, “Truth and Falsehood Versus Good and Evil,” 101–102. But how does that differ from Plato’s thesis, shared by the Rambam (III 27) that the goods of the soul are more precious than those of the body? The passage Pines cites is now translated by Philip van der Eijk in Philoponus, On Aristotle’s On the Soul 1.3–5 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006) 117–120. Philoponus argues that Aristotle’s concern in the passage he discusses, is with the unity and immateriality of the soul. Aristotle’s later discussions in De

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Anima suggest his belief that the intellectual part of the soul is separable from the body, although the soul as first entelechy of the body seems pretty plainly not to be. Philoponus rejects Alexander of Aphrodisias’ claim that Aristotle’s separable soul must be the divine intellect. As a Christian, Philoponus has trouble seeing the divine intellect as both immanent and transcendent, so Alexander’s claim makes no sense to him: “how,” he asks, “could he say with regard to the divine intellect, which is completely separate from all bodies, that it is capable of being separated?” In the passage Pines cites, Philoponus sees Aristotle arguing that the practical and the speculative intellect differ only in their telos. As van der Eijk renders it: “the contemplative intellect differs from the practical only in purpose, but in subject [or substance?] they are identical; for of the one the end is the good, of the contemplative the end is the truth (cf. De Anima 433a15). For when it stretches itself to the higher things it becomes contemplative by examining the nature of the universe, but when it turns to the lower things, it becomes practical.” (van der Eijk, 119 = Hayduck194 ll. 20–23). In his Commentary on De Anima III (quoting from William of Moerbeke’s Latin, since the text bearing Philoponus’ name in Greek is thought to be inauthentic, as Pines notes, 102), Philoponus treats truth as a species of good – in keeping with our claim that truth is a value. Pines finds here a “sharp distinction” indeed, “almost an opposition between the true and the ‘good’.” Philoponus, as Pines notes, does add to his treatment of truths as a subset of goods that the practical sort of good that action pursues must be good for someone (aliquando et aliqui). This Pines paraphrases by saying “good and evil in matters of action (in agilibus) are relative.” But the relativity Philoponus intends regards a beneficiary – as Maimonides would agree: some human being seeking felicity. This is not the relativity of relativism but the focus critical to Maimonides when he argues vigorously that the Torah serves no need of God’s but aims to benefit humanity, materially, morally, and spiritually/intellectually (Guide III 27). What Pines calls Philoponus’ “sharp opposition” soon becomes the “antithesis between the ‘true’ and the ‘good’ that Pines finds in Guide I 2 (115). Pines presses on to conclude, “that medieval Aristotelians, if they believed themselves to be philosophers, had to make an intellectual decision. They might, for instance, consider that they and their like must be content with ‘the human good’ because no other choice is open to any human being; this means the supremacy in the matter of good, of political science. Or they might be of the opinion that the philosophers are capable of attaining a superhuman kind of good” (115) – Soloveitchik’s option? Pines seems here to have left behind his acknowledgment that for Aristotle political science “includes ethics” (110) – as well it might, for Plato’s reason, that ethics too regards the choice of goals and ends, the internal politics of deliberation that makes ethics the politics of the soul. Nor does the contrast Pines suggests here between the active and the contemplative life acknowledge as an Aristotelian possibility the integration of the two – let alone the Maimonidean hope that those capable of science (including natural science) will grow increasingly in the knowledge and love of God, nor the demand that the enlightened must descend the ladder they climb toward intellectual perfection, imbued with the purpose and the powerful and generous drive to lead and guide those who remain below (Guide I 15). Nor, it seems, has Pines left room for the possibility, presaged by al-Fârâbî and vital to the Rambam, that the prophetic poet/philosophers who have made that climb and the descent it urges on them (Guide II 37) can open up the contemplative realm to non-philosophers through the use of poetry, oratory, and laws – symbols, rituals, and moral precepts in which the higher ideals they have accessed are implicit and embedded. 38 José Faur, The Horizontal Society: Understanding the Covenant and Alphabetic Judaism (Brighton, MA: Academic Studies Press, 2008), 1.187. 39 “Eight Chapters,” 8. 40 Maimonides, Guide II 12, 3.26b; cf. III 12, 3.20a-22a. As Faur explains, Adam’s “sin” was his suppression of reason in favor of imagination. Shem Tov and Efodi take up the

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Rambam’s interest in the serpent (naḥash) 3.70b, as does Abravanel at Genesis 3:22, connecting it with the practice of diviners (menaḥashim) – and thus, with the imagination. See Faur’s Homo Mysticus: A Guide to Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1999) 59. The Torah too plays with the serpent, calling him the subtlest of all the wild animals the LORD God made – ‘arum mi-kol ḥayyat ha-sadeh asher ‘asah Hashem Elohim – not a god, then, but just another of the creatures God made. The irony of the serpent’s fate is telegraphed. For the previous verse (2:25) tells us that Adam and Eve were naked (‘arumim), although unashamed. Soon it is the serpent who will be stripped, losing his legs and reduced to crawling, his cunning now the nakedness of a poor, bare forked animal. Some meta-ethicists draw a structurally analogous distinction between the right and the good: Here too there’s an appraisal of interests and an open question as to how well such appraisals live up to what moral right demands. Maimonides, Maqâlah fî Sinâ‘at al-Manṭiq, Chapter 8. The translation here is mine. Maimonides addresses the issue candidly: “if you’re stumped by some puzzle and do not deceive yourself into believing that something indemonstrable can be proved, yet do not hastily reject anything that’s not disproved, or aspire to know what cannot be known, you’ll be as perfect as a human being can be, on a par with Rabbi Akiva, who ‘entered whole and emerged whole,’ when he examined these matters of divinity (B. Ḥagigah 14b). But if you overreach or rush to debunk things not disproven, so long as they’re possible, even remotely, you’ve gone the way of Elisha Aḥer. Not only will that make you less than perfect, you’ll grow as deficient as can be, prey to delusions and liable to every sort of vice and evil, your mind distracted, its light, extinguished – just as all sorts of illusions appear when illness depletes the spirit or one has stared too long at bright lights or minute objects. It’s of this that it’s said, Hast Thou Found Honey? Eat Just Enough, Lest Thou Be Glutted and Vomit It Up (Proverbs 25:16).” Guide I 32. See Lenn Goodman, tr. Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓân (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 13, 21, 57–58, 64–65, 69, 72, 177 n. 32. Guide III 31. Guide III 26. Cf. Aristotle’s famous principle that nature does nothing in vain, De Partibus Animalium III 1, 661b24; The Progression of Animals 2, 704b15; cf. Politics I 2. Guide III 25. History can impart an overlay of contingency to our customs, wardrobes, or cuisine in ways underdetermined by our core reasons for cooking our food or clothing our bodies. Yet modalities do matter. Manners, styles, and symbols bear a message. Thus, Maimonides holds that many ritual details specified in the Torah, although massively underdetermined by the broad reasons that justify an act, are determined in detail by an immemorial need to set the worship of Israel’s God sharply apart from anything even suggestive of pagan worship (Guide III 29). See Henry Morris, Scientific Creationism (El Cajon: Master Books, 1985), 37–42, 211–213.

Bibliography Faur, José. Homo Mysticus: A Guide to Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1999. ———. The Horizontal Society: Understanding the Covenant and Alphabetic Judaism Brighton, MA: Academic Studies Press, 2008. Goodman, Lenn. Islamic Humanism. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Ibn Tufayl. Ḥayy Ibn Yaqzân (trans. L. E. Goodman). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009.

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Klein, Ernest. Etymological Dictionary of the Hebrew Language. New York: Macmillan, 1987. Maimonides, Moses. Dalâlat al-Ḥâ’irin [Guide to the Perplexed] (ed. S. Munk). Paris, 1856; repr. Osnabruck: Olms, 1964, 3 vols. The translations used in the present article are from the translation with commentary in preparation by L. E. Goodman and Phillip Lieberman, forthcoming from Stanford University Press. ———. Maqâlah fî Sinâ‘at al-Manṭiq [On the Art of Logic], Arabic Text and Three Medieval Translations (ed. Israel Efros). New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1938. Morris, Henry. Scientific Creationism. El Cajon: Master Books, 1985. Philoponus, John. Commentary on De Anima (trans. Philip van der Eijk as Philoponus, On Aristotle’s On the Soul 1.3–5). Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006. Pines, Shlomo. “Truth and Falsehood Versus Good and Evil: A Study in Jewish and General Philosophy in Connection with the Guide of the Perplexed, I 2.” In Isadore Twersky, ed. Studies in Maimonides. Cambridge: Harvard Center for Jewish Studies, 1990: 95–157. Ravven, Heidi. “The Garden of Eden: Spinoza’s Maimonidean Account of the Genealogy of Morals and the Origin of Society.” Philosophy and Theology 13 (2001): 3–51. Russell, Bertrand. What I Believe. New York: Dutton, 1925. Soloveitchik, Joseph B. Maimonides: Between Philosophy and Halakhah: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s Lectures on the Guide of the Perplexed (ed. Lawrence J. Kaplan). New York: KTAV, 2016. Wensinck, A.J. The Muslim Creed: Its Genesis and Development. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932; repr. London: Cass, 1965.

5

Spinoza’s baffling view of biblical morality Michah Gottlieb

On December 16, 1675, Spinoza received a letter from his friend Henry Oldenberg. Oldenberg was worried: “[There are] opinions in your writings which seem to your readers to do away with the practice of religious virtue.”1 Concern that Spinoza was undermining biblical morality only accelerated after his death in 1677. Christian Kortholt, in his 1680 book On the Three Great Traitors, called Spinoza “an accursed hypocrite” for “asserting that he taught nothing that can injure piety, good morals and the orthodox training of his youth.”2 By calling Spinoza a “hypocrite,” Kortholt acknowledged that Spinoza ostensibly articulated a positive view of biblical morality. In his 1670 Tractatus Theologico-Politicus (henceforth: TTP) Spinoza argues that the prophets’ teachings about God and nature reflected the primitive views of their ages and were largely opposed to reason. But he is at pains to assert that the prophets’ moral teachings were entirely different. The prophets’ minds “were directly exclusively towards what was right and good (aequum et bonum)”3 and their moral teachings “agreed with reason (cum ratione convenire).”4 For Spinoza, the fundamental moral teaching of the Bible is clear: “Scripture itself tells us quite clearly over and over again what every man should do in order to serve God, declaring that the entire Law consists in this alone, to love one’s neighbor.”5 In his posthumously published Ethics6, Spinoza defends biblical virtues such as charity and gratitude and condemns vices such as pride, mockery, envy, cruelty, gluttony, lust, and greed. However as with most matters in Spinoza, things are considerably more complicated. At times, Spinoza distinguishes between the inferior moral teachings of the Old Testament and the New Testament’s superior moral teaching. For example, he elaborates the standard Christian dichotomy between Old Testament hate and New Testament love. Quoting Psalm 139: 21–22: “O Lord, You know I hate those who hate You, and loathe your adversaries. I feel perfect hatred towards them: I count them my enemies,” Spinoza remarks that the ancient Hebrews “felt an implacable hatred” towards all non-Hebrews believing “that they alone were God’s children, while the other nations were [God’s] enemies.” For Spinoza, the Hebrews’ hatred of other nations ran deep since they believed nurturing that this hate was “a religious duty.”7 By contrast, Spinoza claims that the New Testament teaches one not only not to hate members of other nations, but to love one’s enemies as expressed by Matthew 5:43: “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate

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your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.”8 This New Testament teaching conforms with philosophical ethics as in the Ethics Spinoza argues that “hate is never good” and that one should return hate with love.9 Elsewhere Spinoza rejects both Old and New Testament morality. In chapter fourteen, of the TTP he lists seven dogmas of universal faith, “which Scripture as a whole intends to convey.”10 By “Scripture as a whole” Spinoza is referring to both the Old and New Testaments. The last of these seven dogmas is that “God forgives repentant sinners.”11 Repentance implies feeling humility, so it is not surprising that the Bible praises both repentance and humility. But in the Ethics, Spinoza argues that neither humility nor repentance are virtues.12 Similarly while the Bible values hope and pity, in the Ethics Spinoza argues that “hope is not good”13 and that “pity is evil.”14 Don Garrett observes that, “Spinoza’s relation to the Judeo-Christian moral tradition is complex.”15 I would go further – it is all over the map. Garrett’s comment is inchoate – he spends just three sentences on this “complexity.” In what follows, I will try to bring some clarity to Spinoza’s position. I begin with one of the few passages in Spinoza’s corpus where he explicitly contrasts Old and New Testament morality. Concerning adultery, Spinoza writes: Moses’ command not to commit adultery has only regard to the good of the commonwealth or state. If he had intended this to be a moral precept that had regard not merely to the good of the commonwealth but to the peace of mind (animi tranquillitatem) and true blessedness of the individual, he would have condemned not merely the act but the very wish as did Christ, who taught only universal teachings. It is for this reason that Christ promises a spiritual reward not, like Moses, a material reward (emphasis mine).16 Spinoza is commenting on Matthew 5:27–28: “You have heard it said, ‘Do not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that whoever looks at a woman to desire her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” According to Spinoza, while the Old Testament only condemns the act of adultery, the New Testament condemns the desire to commit adultery.17 Spinoza also observes that while the Old Testament speaks only of material, this-worldly rewards and punishments, the New Testament speaks of eternal, spiritual rewards and punishments. For Spinoza, these are fundamental differences in how Judaism and Christianity conceive morality, rooted in distinctions between their respective founders, Moses and Christ. For Spinoza, Moses was a statesman who united the Hebrews into a theocratic state with God as their sovereign. Mosaic law was a political law aimed at promoting the strength and stability of the Hebrew state. Rituals were signs of loyalty to the sovereign, which is why with the fall of the Hebrew state, they lost their binding authority. But for Spinoza, the Mosaic laws were also political, which denuded them of their ethical character:

Spinoza’s view of biblical morality 109 . . . it is not as a teacher or prophet that Moses forbids the Jews to kill or steal, it is as a lawgiver or ruler that he issues these commands. He does not justify his teachings by reasoning but attaches to his commands a penalty, which can vary and must vary, to suit the character of each single nation as we well know from experience (emphasis mine).18 Spinoza indicates the key elements that distinguish Moses’ commands from true ethical precepts. Moses does not justify his injunctions through reason, but rather sets them down as apodictic commands under threat of punishment. According to Spinoza for an act to be ethical it must be performed from an understanding of the rational necessity of the ethical law and in recognition of the law’s contribution to peace of mind. It must not be performed from fear of punishment. As Spinoza puts it in a passage with striking Kantian resonances: In truth, he who renders to each his own through fear of the gallows is constrained in his action by another’s command and threat of punishment, and cannot be called a just man. But he who renders to each his own through awareness of the true principle of law and its necessity is acting steadfastly and at his own will, not another’s, and so is rightly termed a just man (nec justus vocari potest).19 Spinoza’s account of ethical virtue in the TTP expresses in non-philosophical terms his theory in the Ethics. As he explains in the Ethics, a virtue is an affect, which can include sensations, emotions, or desires. Unlike Aristotle, Spinoza does not see virtue as referring to the essence or form of the soul. Rather, he understands virtue closer to its Latin root virtus, as manliness. For Spinoza, virtue simply expresses human power.20 Given that for Spinoza power is correlated with freedom, the freer one is, the more virtuous one becomes.21 Spinoza’s doctrine of virtue is grounded in his philosophical anthropology. He rejects the Jewish/Christian/Platonic notion that we are divided between a divine soul, which desires to act selflessly and an earthly body, which egoistically seeks physical gratification. Rather for Spinoza, we have a single nature and it is egoistic.22 At bottom, human beings are defined by their desire to survive, which he calls the “conatus.” Since having power enhances our ability to survive, what we fundamentally desire is to increase our power. Virtues are affects that involve a sense of an increase in our power.23 Spinoza acknowledges that people differ in what they regard as increasing their power. Since ethics is supposed to be universal and have definite demands (such as justice and charity), the question arises about the role of ethics for Spinoza let and why he calls his philosophical masterwork Ethica.24 Spinoza argues that while there are differences in what people regard as increasing their power, the wise person understands that human nature is constituted such that certain affects generally yield a sustainable, long-term increase in power, while other affects may give a short-term increase in power, but ultimately yield a decrease in power.25 Spinoza then demonstrates how commonly regarded virtues

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like love, benevolence, and generosity generally increase our power while commonly regarded vices like hatred, mockery, and scorn generally decrease it. For example, Spinoza writes that joy is an affect accompanying the idea of an increase in power, while sadness is an affect accompanying the idea of a decrease in power. A person loves another when he credits her with increasing his joy, while he hates another when he blames her for increasing his sadness.26 When a person hates another, he naturally seeks to destroy him. But when that person senses his hate, he will fear and hate him, and so seek to destroy him in return. Spinoza therefore concludes that hate breeds hate and is ultimately not good.27 Another consideration why hate is not good for Spinoza is that it is grounded in a feeling of sadness. When a person feels hate, he feels sadness, that is he focuses on his lack of power. This contravenes his conatus. Since virtue is power for Spinoza, virtue does not involve sacrificing one’s joy in the hope of being later rewarded. Rather virtue itself yields joy and is its own reward. As Spinoza puts it in the final proposition of the Ethics: “Blessedness (Beatitudo) is not the reward of virtue, but virtue itself; nor do we enjoy it because we restrain our lusts; on the contrary because we enjoy it we are able to restrain our lusts.”28 Returning to the case of adultery, Spinoza claims that Moses prohibited the act of adultery rather than the desire for it because of his political focus. Moses considered adultery problematic as it stirs up hatred, which can lead to social disorder and undermine political stability. Moses’s commands were thus localized to the needs of the Hebrew state. For example, in a state where having multiple partners is completely normal and arouses no jealousy, there would be no need to outlaw adultery. So Moses’s opposition to adultery was political rather than ethical. That Moses commanded moral laws as a statesman with a political end in mind is reflected by the fact that he associated these laws only with social rewards and punishments. The adulterer was put to death.29 By contrast, Christ was not concerned with politics but with ethical virtue. For that reason, he preached restraining the affect associated with adultery, that is lust. For Spinoza, lust is a vice because it involves desire that so dominates the mind that it prevents one from actualizing one’s power in other ways.30 As such, Christ condemned the desire for adultery, that is lust, rather than the act. According to Spinoza, Christ’s ethical approach was at once more universal and individual than Moses’s. Since lust was a vice for people in general, Christ’s precepts applied to all people, while Moses’s were applicable for the Hebrew state alone. As Christ’s concern was ethical, he was worried about the effects of adultery on the individual’s affective state, which is why he stipulated a personal, spiritual punishment for ethical disobedience. By contrast, Moses who was concerned with political stability only prescribed a social, temporal punishment for disobedience and had no concern for the individual’s inner state.31 Spinoza further argues that the difference between the political decrees of the prophets in the Old Testament and the ethical precepts of the New Testament’s apostles is reflected in their different ways of communicating their messages. The apostles used rational discussion and argument: “the apostles everywhere employ argument so that they seem to be conducting a discussion rather than

Spinoza’s view of biblical morality 111 prophesying.” But the prophets only commanded apodictically: “The prophetic writings on the other hand contain only dogma and decrees for they represent God as speaking not like one who reasons but as one who makes decrees from the absolute power of his nature.”32 Since the morals of the Old Testament were commanded rather than reasoned, they were concerned with social welfare alone and hence are political not ethical. Only New Testament morals as taught by the apostles using rational arguments are meant to be followed from rational understanding and hence are truly ethical. Time and again, Spinoza singles out Paul as the most philosophical of the apostles, the one with the greatest understanding of ethical virtue. Spinoza quotes Paul in Romans 1:20: “Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made. So they are without excuse.” According to Spinoza, Paul’s statement that God’s “eternal power . . . [has] been understood and seen through the things he has made” indicates that “by the natural light of reason” all people can “know and infer what they should seek and what they should avoid.” Paul’s phrase “so they are without excuse” expresses his view that virtue is its own reward and vice its own punishment, a philosophical view of ethics.33 According to Spinoza, while Paul addressed his sophisticated Gentile audience as an ethical teacher, Moses could not address the Hebrews in this manner because the Hebrews leaving Egypt were uneducated and uncivilized. Recognizing that this slave people were used to having a master who governed every aspect of their lives through severe decrees, Moses established a new master for them, God, who demanded obedience in every aspect of their lives through extensive ritual law and “made terrifying threats if they should transgress the commandments, while promising many blessings if they observed them.”34 Picking up on Paul’s statement in Galatians 3:24 “Therefore the law was our schoolmaster until Christ came.” Spinoza writes that Moses instructed the Hebrews, “in the same way as parents teach children who have not yet reached the age of reason,” namely through commands and threats.35 Spinoza does not always strictly adhere to the distinction between the political approach of the Old Testament prophets and the ethical approach of the New Testament apostles. In several passages, he states that some Old Testament prophets understood the difference between politics and ethics. For example, Spinoza quotes Isaiah 58: 6–8: Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the binds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke to let the oppressed go free and to break every yoke . . . when you see the naked to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your kin. Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, your healing shall spring up quickly; your vindicator shall go before you, and the glory of the Lord shall be your rearguard. Spinoza notes that Isaiah promised, “a healthy mind in a healthy body and the glory of the Lord after death” in return for observing ethical precepts such as

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charity and freeing the oppressed. But the end of the same chapter, when speaking of the Sabbath, Isaiah writes: If you refrain from trampling the Sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day: if you call the Sabbath a delight and the holy day of the Lord honorable . . . then shall you take delight in the Lord and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth. (8:13–14) Spinoza observes that in return for the observance of ceremonies like the Sabbath Isaiah did not promise peace of mind or eternal life but merely, “the security of the state, prosperity and material success.”36 This illustrates Isaiah’s acute understanding of the difference between political and ethical norms. Spinoza thinks that Isaiah was not the only person in the Old Testament to understand ethics. He cites Psalm 15 and 24, where the Psalmist speaks of “blessedness and peace of mind (beatitudinem, & animi tranquillitatem)” only for observing the ethical laws, not the ceremonies.37 Above all, Spinoza emphasizes Solomon’s rational, ethical teachings. Quoting Proverbs 2:3,9: “If thou criest after knowledge and liftest up thy voice for understanding. . . . Then shalt thou understand righteousness and judgment and equity, yea every good path,” Spinoza comments that Solomon’s teachings are “plainly in accord with natural knowledge” since it is “natural knowledge that teaches us ethics and true virtue once we have arrived at the knowledge of things and tasted the excellence of understanding.”38 If matters were not sufficiently complicated, Spinoza sometimes claims that Christ himself adopted a political approach to morality. Let us return to the example of loving one’s enemy. In the Ethics, Spinoza argues that reason instructs one to return hate with love. If a person hates another, she sees that other as reducing her power. If that person hates her in return, he will strive to decrease her power, which will increase her hate thereby creating an escalating spiral of hate. If, however, he returns her hate with love, that increases her power and he may be able to overpower her hate and convert it to love. Spinoza further tells us that hate that has been converted to love is more powerful than if there was never hate in the first place. In this way, returning hate with love increases one’s own power, accords with the conatus, and so is virtuous.39 Did Christ preach loving one’s enemy because he understood that love is in accordance with the conatus and ultimately increases one’s power more than hate? Spinoza has a powerful historical sensibility, which he applies to Christ’s instruction to love one’s enemy. According to Spinoza, Moses preached hating one’s enemy for political expediency. Moses knew that the Hebrews would be establishing a state among hostile nations in Canaan. To maintain their state, the Hebrews needed to remain separate from the other nations. This would require great patriotism so Moses instructed the Hebrews to hate other nations since hating a common enemy is a very useful way to bind members of a political community. By making God the Hebrews’ political sovereign, Moses was able to intensify the Hebrews’ hatred for their enemies as the Hebrews regarded their enemies not just as political

Spinoza’s view of biblical morality 113 opponents, but as enemies of God himself. In this way, they despised their enemies with religious fervor and were animated by intense patriotism, which helped their polity survive.40 To prove that Moses’s injunction to hate one’s enemies was political and therefore time bound, Spinoza cites Jeremiah 29: 4–7: Thus says the Lord of hosts the God of Israel to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon. . . . Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile and pray to the Lord on its behalf for in its welfare you will find your welfare. Here Jeremiah enjoined the Jews to seek the welfare of the Babylonian amidst whom they dwelled. The Babylonians had exiled the Jews and were clearly their enemies. Had Jeremiah regarded hating one’s enemies as an ethical precept, his injunction would make no sense. But Jeremiah understood that Moses’s command was political. Since the Jews were living on enemy soil with no prospect for rebellion, Jeremiah recognized that the Jews’ own good depended on the flourishing of the city in which they were living and so instructed them to promote its welfare.41 For Spinoza, Christ’s instruction to love one’s enemy was said in the spirit of Jeremiah. Recognizing that the Jews were destined to be spread throughout the world among hostile nations without political power of their own, Christ counseled the Jews to “practice[e] piety to all without exception” as a way of getting along with their political masters. Spinoza concludes that Christ preached loving one’s enemy not from ethical considerations but from political necessity. In this respect Christ’s approach was at one with Moses’s, the difference being the changed political situation of the Jews. Spinoza summarizes: “All these considerations show that religion has always been adapted to the good of the commonwealth.”42 Spinoza applies the same reasoning to another difference between the Old and New Testaments that is commonly adduced to show the higher moral standing of the New Testament. While in the Old Testament Moses imposed the lex talionis, an “eye for an eye” on those who inflicted bodily harm on others, in the New Testament Christ preached “turning the other check.” As Christ put it in Matthew 5: 38–39 “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I tell you not to resist an evil person. But whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also.” The common Christian account of this difference between the Old and New Testaments is that the lex talionis expresses Old Testament vengeance while “turning the other cheek” expresses New Testament love. Were this the case, it would show the superiority of Christian ethics since Spinoza argues that vengeance is a vice.43 But Spinoza does not use “turning the other cheek” to illustrate Christianity’s superior ethical concern. Rather, he writes that Christ’s preaching “turning the other check” instead of the lex talionis reflects his political sensitivity. Quoting Matthew 5:17 where Christ says, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets, I have come not to abolish but to fulfill,” Spinoza writes that in preaching “turning the other cheek” Christ was not rejecting the

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lex talionis. Rather, Christ preached these words at a time when the Jews were suffering terrible oppression “in a corrupt commonwealth where justice was utterly disregarded.” In such a situation, the only advice for someone being oppressed was to submit since resistance was futile. But while this was true in a corrupt commonwealth, in a functioning state turning the other cheek is a violation of the principle of justice, which is absolutely necessary for law and order. Spinoza therefore contends that were the Jews living in a just, well-functioning state, Christ would have accepted the lex talionis and never advised turning the other cheek.44 Spinoza adduces two further proofs to show that in preaching “turning the other cheek” Christ was not breaking with the Old Testament. First, he notes that not only did Moses not countenance vengeance, he explicitly condemned it in Leviticus (see 19:18). Second, quoting Lamentations 3:30: “Let him offer his cheek to the smiter,” Spinoza observes that with the destruction of the First Temple six centuries before Christ Jeremiah had already recommended turning the other cheek on account of the Jews’ political weakness.45 We gain deeper understanding of Spinoza’s attitude to Jewish and Christian ethics when considering his discussion of pity and repentance. In the Ethics, Spinoza defines “pity” (commiseratio) as “sadness arising from injury to another.”46 We feel pity when we see another person suffering because we can imagine the suffering befalling us.47 Spinoza, however, considers pity a vice, because it involves sadness and so contravenes our conatus.48 Is not pity good insofar as it can lead us to free another from suffering and so guide us to benevolence, which is a virtue? Spinoza considers this point, but ultimately deems pity a vice because it is unnecessary for benevolence. We should help others through rational considerations without feeling the sadness of their suffering. Furthermore, pity is a vice because it can be used to manipulate us to act in ways that do not accord with reason. For example, a person may arouse our pity at their suffering and convince us to act unethically for their benefit.49 Spinoza’s approach to repentance is similar. He defines “repentance” (poenitentia) as the affect arising from feeling that I have caused my own sadness.50 We might call it “regret.” In a religious context, it is associated with sin such as when one suffers and then blames oneself for one’s suffering. Spinoza considers repentance a vice involving making oneself “twice wretched (bis miser).” Not only does one suffer, but when one blames oneself for one’s suffering and feels poenitentia, one simply increases the suffering. For Spinoza, suffering arising from blaming oneself is harmful and useless. If one has caused one’s own sadness, say by crashing one’s car, then one should rationally reflect on the situation and figure out how to rectify matters in the present and prevent them from happening in the future. There is no value in self-recrimination.51 Spinoza notes that affects like pity and repentance are vices for the wise person, but they are of value for the person who is not yet wise. While the wise man will help another from rational considerations alone, the person who is not wise may need to feel pity to be moved to help another. So in calling pity a vice, Spinoza comments, “Here I am speaking expressly of a man who lives according to the guidance of reason. For one who is moved to aid others

Spinoza’s view of biblical morality 115 neither by reason nor by pity is rightly called inhuman (inhumanus).”52 While the wise person will mend their ways through rational reflection and not blame themselves, repentance is valuable for the person who is not yet wise, as a spur to self-improvement: “Because men rarely live from the dictate of reason, these two affects humility and repentance . . . bring more advantage than disadvantage.” Since people who are not wise think that indulging their passions is good and will often do so violently, pity is valuable. If they did not feel regret when they harmed others to indulge their passions, they would lack a crucial restraint: “If weak-minded men were all equally proud, ashamed of nothing, and afraid of nothing how could they be united or restrained by any bonds?”53 Spinoza observes that since the prophets were addressing common people, they praised affects like pity and repentance as virtues: The mob is terrifying, if unafraid. So it is no wonder that the prophets, who considered the common advantage and not that of the few commended humility, repentance, and reverence so greatly. Really those who are subject to these affects can be guided far more easily than others so that in the end they may live from the guidance of reason, that is, may be free and enjoy the life of the blessed.54 To summarize: According to Spinoza, Moses instituted Judaism as a political religion when seeking to establish a secure Hebrew state. Judaism’s moral laws were localized to the needs of the Hebrew state and focused on social rewards and punishments for obedience or transgression. Given that the laws aimed at societal stability rather than individual peace of mind, they were political, not ethical. Moses recognized that the Jews were an uncivilized, ignorant people and so preached as virtues unethical affects like hatred as well as affects that are beneficial for the masses but not for the wise like pity and repentance. In contrast, Solomon, Isaiah, and the apostles, especially Paul, taught universal ethical virtue focused on nurturing the inner blessedness of the individual, which they grounded in reason. But because they addressed the masses who were not philosophers, they still upheld affects like pity and repentance as virtues. Between Moses on one side and Solomon, Isaiah, and Paul on the other, is Jeremiah who preached actions that accorded with philosophical ethics such as seeking one’s enemy’s good, but who did so not because of a deep philosophical understanding, but rather because of political necessity owing to the fact that the Jews had lost their state. Spinoza’s attitude to Christ is the most complex and inconsistent. At times, he presents Christ as an ethical teacher greater than even Solomon and Paul. This is found in Spinoza’s discussion of Christ’s approach to adultery as well as in statements that in Christ divine wisdom “took on human form.”55 At other times, however, Spinoza presents Christ as someone like Jeremiah whose universal moral teachings were grounded in political concerns rather than in rational ethics. Did Spinoza, as his critics contend, aim to do away with biblical morality? It’s complicated.

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Notes 1 See Spinoza, Epistolae in Spinoza Opera, ed. C. Gebhardt, vol. 4, 74; Spinoza, Letters in Spinoza: Complete Works, 943. 2 Christian Kortholt, De tribus impostoribus magnis liber, 75. Quoted in Jacob Freudental, “On the History of Spinozism,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 8 (1895): 40. 3 See Spinoza, Tractatus Theologico-Politicus in Spinoza Opera ed. C. Gebhardt, vol. 3, 31; Spinoza, Theological-Political Treatise, 23. I will cite the Latin text using the acronym TTP, followed by the chapter number and page number then cite the English text using the acronym TPT. 4 Spinoza, TTP, 185; TPT, 169. 5 Spinoza, TTP, 174; TPT, 159. I use the terms “Old and New Testament” since these are the terms employed by Spinoza himself (Vetus Testamentum and Novum Testamentum). 6 This was published in Latin in 1677 right after he died. The English translation is taken from The Collected Works of Spinoza (trans. Samuel Shirley and ed. Edwin Curley) Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. 7 Spinoza, TTP, 214–215; TPT, 197–198. 8 Spinoza, TTP, 233; TPT, 216. 9 Spinoza, Ethica, Part 4, Propositions 45–46, 242–245; Spinoza, Ethics, 571–572. In citing from the Ethica, I will use “E” for Ethica, “P” for Proposition, “Pre” for Preface, “S” for Scholium and “C” for Corollary. For the Latin, I cite Benedict Spinoza, Ethica, in Spinoza Opera, volume 2. For the English, I use Benedict Spinoza, The Collected Works of Spinoza, volume 1. 10 Spinoza, TTP, 177; TPT, 161. 11 Spinoza, TTP, 178; TPT, 162. 12 Spinoza, E4P53–54, 249–250; Ethics, 575–576. 13 Ibid, E4P47, 245–246; Ethics, 573. 14 ibid, E4P50, 247; Ethics, 574. I will explore Spinoza’s critique of repentance and pity later in the paper. 15 Don Garrett, “Spinoza’s Ethical Theory,” in The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza, 305. 16 Spinoza, TTP, 70; TPT, 60. 17 Spinoza’s contrast between the Old Testament’s emphasis on external acts and the New Testament’s concern with inner thoughts and feelings is, of course, highly questionable. For example, the last of the Ten Commandments forbids coveting one’s neighbor’s wife or property (see Exodus 20:13; Deuteronomy 5:17). 18 Spinoza, TTP, 70; TPT, 60. 19 Spinoza, TTP, 59; TPT, 49. 20 Spinoza, E4D8, 201; Ethics, 547. 21 See Spinoza, E4P72, 264; Ethics, 586–587; Michael Della Rocca, Spinoza, 187–189. For discussion of some similarities and differences between Spinoza’s and Kant’s views of morality see Matthew J. Kisner, Spinoza on Human Freedom: Reason, Autonomy, and the Good Life (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 128–132. 22 Spinoza, E4P25, 226–227; Ethics, 558–559. 23 Spinoza, E4P20, 224–225; Ethics, 557. 24 See Garrett, “Spinoza’s Ethical Theory,” 267–314; Edwin Curley, “Kissinger, Spinoza and Genghis Khan,” in The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza, 315–342. 25 Spinoza, E4Pre, 208, E4P39, 239–240; Ethics, 545, 568–570. See Michael Della Rocca, Spinoza, ch. 5. 26 Spinoza, E3P13S, 151; Ethics, 502. 27 Spinoza, E3P40, 171–172, E4P45, 243–244; Ethics, 517–518, 571–572. 28 Spinoza, E5P42, 307; Ethics, 616. 29 See Leviticus 20:10; Deuteronomy 22:22. 30 See Spinoza E4P44, 242–243; Ethics, 571.

Spinoza’s view of biblical morality 117 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

Spinoza, TTP, 70; TPT, 60. Spinoza, TTP, 152; TPT, 139. Spinoza, TTP, 68; TPT, 57–58. Spinoza, TTP, 40–41; TPT, 31. Ibid. Spinoza, TTP, 70–71; TPT, 60–61. Spinoza, TTP, 71; TPT, 61. Spinoza, TTP, 67–68; TPT, 57. Spinoza, E4P46, 245; Ethics, 572–573. Spinoza, TTP, 214–215, 233; TPT, 197–198, 216. Spinoza, TTP, 233; TPT, 216. Ibid. See Spinoza, E4P45C1, 244; Ethics, 571–572. Spinoza argues that vengeance is a vice since it originates in hate, that is a sense of one’s lack of power, and hate breeds hate. See footnote 26 above. Spinoza, TTP, 103–104; TTP, 91–92. Ibid. Spinoza, E3P22S, 157; Ethics, 507. Spinoza, E3P27, 160; Ethics, 508–509. Spinoza, E4P50, 247; Ethics, 574. Ibid. Spinoza, E3P51S, 179; Ethics, 523. Spinoza, E4P54, 250, Ethics, 576. Spinoza, E4P50S, 247; Ethics, 574. Spinoza, E4P54, 250, Ethics, 576. Ibid. Spinoza, TTP, 21; TPT, 14.

Bibliography Curley, Edwin. “Kissinger, Spinoza, and Genghis Khan.” In Don Garrett, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996: 315–342. Della Rocca, Michael. Spinoza. London: Routledge, 2008. Freudenthal, Jacob. “On the History of Spinozism.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 8, no. 1 (1895): 17–70. Garrett, Don. “Spinoza’s Ethical Theory.” In Don Garrett, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996: 267–314. Kisner, Matthew J. Spinoza on Human Freedom Reason, Autonomy and the Good Life. Cambridge, UK and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Spinoza, Benedict. Opera, 4 vols (ed. Carl Gebhardt). Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1925. ———. The Collected Works of Spinoza (trans. Samuel Shirley and ed. Edwin Curley) Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. ———. Theological-Political Treatise, 2nd ed. (trans. Samuel Shirley and ed. Samuel Shirley). Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co., 2001.

6

Hermann Cohen on the concept of law in ethics1 Halla Kim

In this chapter, I discuss the concept of law in Hermann Cohen’s critical idealist ethics and examine the extent to which it owes to, and goes beyond, Kant’s ethics. Cohen develops an ethics on the basis of the rich concept of law – conceived from the perspective of pure jurisprudence – that is fruitfully enriched with the idea of compassion and suffering within the context of community. To be sure, as one of the earliest founding members of Neo-Kantianism, Cohen’s project starts with a Kantian method, but at the same time his deep dissatisfaction with Kant’s preoccupation with the concept of freedom and law led him to pursue a different approach to the problem of founding ethics. It is well-known that for Kant human action is an external manifestation of one’s inner willing. Moral action can thus be explained in terms of inner freedom. In a similar vein, the law that governs one’s moral action can also be explained in term of one’s capacity of inner acting (willing). This has the consequence that the value of an action is a function of one’s mental activities. Thus, while Kant tries to explain moral action by distinguishing what is internal and what is external, Cohen instead suggests a way of thinking about morality without radically separating the inner and outer. For Cohen, the very concept of action (Handlung) treated in jurisprudence serves this purpose, as jurisprudence is the science of action in the legal space. In other words, Cohen’s proposal is that the concept of law crucial for ethics is provided by jurisprudential interactions between the ethical subject and the object, i.e., between the I and the Other. In the Religionschriften, Cohen goes so far to argue that the ‘Thou,’ the primal unit of the Other, precedes the ‘I.’ The I becomes aware of itself as unique because it conceives itself different from the Other. This consideration leads to the discovery of person as a fellow human being (Mitmenschen). At the end, however, I also consider some potential limits of Cohen’s ethics from a broadly Kantian point of view and suggest that, in his effort to appropriate the Halakhic elements in his ethics, Cohen’s critical idealist ethics turns out to be less than fully critical. Part of what I will suggest is that, while Cohen attempts to go well beyond the venerable tradition of the Kantian transcendental project mainly with some of the leading insights from his Jewish background such as the idea of the law (halakha) and congregation (Kahal),2 Cohen does not really overcome the legacy left behind by Kant.

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Kant on the law Cohen identifies the Kantian ethics as an extension of the latter’s transcendental project in theoretical philosophy. At the heart of this project is the transcendental method. For Kant, the word “transcendental” is referred to cognition‚ which is occupied not so much with objects but rather with our a priori concepts of objects in general. The system of such concepts, Kant continues, would be called transcendental philosophy (A 11–12/B 25). What is transcendental for Kant then begins with experience (i.e., empirical knowledge) yet at the same time it goes beyond experience because it conditions and grounds the latter. This attempt of Kant then culminates in what is known as transcendental idealism.3 As is well-known, under the banner of the Aufklärung, Kant conceived ethics as the enterprise of reason par excellence. Paying close attention to the sharp cleavage, even a tension, between what we rationally perceive to be the ideals of morals from our actual way of life, Kant carefully painted our moral life as that of engaging in various actions and projects in life by means of the norms provided by reason. We are intrinsically beings of reason above everything else in nature. We may even say that as noumenal beings, i.e., as beings of reason, we are rational. But we are also animals. We are always influenced by desires and inclinations. In other words, as phenomenal beings, i.e., as beings of senses, we are dictated by bodily urges and needs. As noumenal beings, we are always morally worthy. As phenomenal beings, we are never morally worthy. How is ethics possible then? Kant’s solution is that we are both beings of reason and senses at the same time. This is why our rational nature can present a norm to us. This is also why the principle of reason is perceived as an imperative. Thus, the law of reason, i.e., the moral law, stands as the categorical imperative. We are beings that can act on the categorical imperative but we can fail to do so. Kant thus conceives ethics as presupposing that we have a standing in two different realms. We are members of both the noumena and the phenomena. The problem for Kant is: why must we conceive of ourselves as beings of reason? What makes us rational beings in the first place? Why should I strive to be perfectly rational when I know that there is no way I can be perfectly rational? It is well-known that Kant struggled to answer these questions over his long career, sometimes even changing his views dramatically.4 According to Kant, the moral law must be justified in the transcendental manner. In a decisive claim in the last section of the Groundwork (G 4:450–455), Kant suggests the moral law must be authenticated as the categorical imperative. In other words, it must be shown to be binding for all rational agents. This means the moral law must be universally valid. But this universality cannot be secured unless it is anchored in reason, in particular, in the autonomous rational will, which Kant subsequently identifies with practical reason. It is not desire nor a sympathy that can provide the required universal validity. Only reason considered in this practical respect will do the trick. In the final section of the Groundwork, Kant proceeds from a sustained reflection on the nature and operations of reason, and tries to prove that our rational nature is the source of freedom in us, which instantly shows that we are under the universally binding nature of the moral law. But immediately

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 121 noticing a sort of a circle (G 4:450, 453) in this reasoning, he gives up the attempt to justify the moral law in the Critique of Practical Reason. We cannot provide a transcendental deduction of the moral law in the way that we did with the categories in the first Critique because there is simply no experience on the basis of which we can prove the necessity of the moral law. Instead he now boldly claims that the moral law is universally valid because this is amply proved by the sole fact of reason, namely, that we are a priori aware of the moral law (CPrR 5:31).5

Cohen’s criticisms of Kant Cohen makes a transition from Kant’s transcendental idealism to his own critical idealism by way of his recourse to Plato and Leibniz.6 Cohen’s ethics then is the strict application of Kant’s method to the establishment of the moral law in practical philosophy. Cohen makes it clear that the hallmark of a philosophical critique lies with its method, which he calls transcendental. For him, a transcendental method consists in proceeding from the hard fact of science in a given branch of human cultural activities and then ferreting out the a priori “conditions of its possibility” as its unique presuppositions.7 In the case of the critique of knowledge, the hard fact is provided by the mathematical natural sciences, which then lead to the conditions of its possibility in the a priori synthetic principles governing the use of the categories by the transcendental apperception. In other words, the mathematical natural sciences form the starting point of the transcendental inquiry. Our job as a philosopher then is to discover such a priori synthetic principles that can adequately account for the objective validity of experience manifested in the sciences. Just as Kant assumes in the Prolegomena that the mathematical natural sciences provide a genuine knowledge of nature and suggests that there must be a set of a priori laws – synthetic a priori principles – that make this fact of science possible, Cohen is keen on identifying the necessary conditions of experience that we accept as objectively valid as this expresses the fact of mathematical natural science (PIG 6–7). A priori laws are ‘present’ in this fact, so to speak, and our job is to uncover these laws. The experience is then given as a task (die Aufgabe) to philosophy. In Cohen’s view, the same procedure is to be performed in the critique of ethics. But he points out that Kant neglected to follow this procedure thoroughly. In other words, Cohen believes that Kant fails to apply the transcendental method to his ethics properly (ERW 65–66). This is due to Kant’s oblivion to the fact that, just as he has to start off mathematics and physics as the fact of science for the purpose of laying the foundations of theoretical philosophy, he has to work off a fact of science for the purpose of laying the foundation of ethics. What could this fact of science be for ethics? Cohen’s insight is that jurisprudence, that prominent science of action as an integral part of human society, can fill the bill. For jurisprudence presents the way that we engage in various transactions that are not only illuminated with legal terms but also constrained by the moral considerations. Kant’s well-known preoccupation with the internalist account of the origin and validity of the law of morality and action – his emphasis of our capacity of freedom beyond

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the confines of senses and thus of our noumenal nature – blinded him from coming up with the science of law (Rechtswissenschaft) as the desired fact of science required for the proper application of the transcendental method in practical philosophy. As Cohen puts it, “[Kant] did not deduce ethics with reference to the science of law, as he had done for logic with reference to the science of nature (ERW 227).” This then results in the insecure status of the moral law. Instead of putting morals and right together in jurisprudence, Kant separates them and focuses on the former, excluding right from ethics as the foundation of morality (ERW 267ff). In particular, this has the debilitating consequence that the concept of the moral law is empty in Kant’s project and thus does not really tell us about what we ought to do to be moral in our community. His well-known categorical imperative just tells us to act only lawfully. But with this understanding of the moral law we are still unclear about what to do as a concrete course of action. To be sure, Cohen agrees with Kant that one’s action is morally worthy when one acts out of respect (Achtung) for the law. The law of morality is, after all, the law of the self-legislation of reason.8 But the concept of law in Kant is either empty, devoid of giving us any instructions on what to do as we just noticed, or relegated to the realm of the juridical laws. If Kant wants to operate with a concept of law (Gesetz) that is not empty, he then must import the concept of right (recht) or legality that he develops in the second part of the Metaphysics of Morals. But this apparently cannot provide a ground of the rich concept of the moral law that we need for doing ethics. The concept of the moral law, on this attempt, retains its glory in name only and cannot be sustained by any philosophical mechanism that not only justifies it but also renders it practical in the course of a communal life. According to Cohen, this is due importantly to Kant’s allegiance to Pietism, in particular, due to the excessive influence by St. Paul’s reading of the law when the latter suggests, for example, in Romans 7–12, that Judaism is a religion based in law instead of faith. Here is what Cohen has to say about this. For the concept of law was made involuntarily and unavoidably suspicious through that legality which is opposed to morality. The basic concept of morality is at once the word for its very opposite. Such an ambiguity should not cling to the concept of law (Gesetz), it must be distanced from it. It has in reality no right and no philosophical origin, but an indubitably religious one. It arises in the polemic that Paul practiced against the Mosaic Teaching that he designated and knew as Law. (ERW 268) Cohen here argues that Paul erred in removing law from ethics.9 The term “Gesetz” means the law in the sense of moral law. “Recht” connotes the law but only in the sense of juridical law.10 In rejecting the Torah of Moses and distinguishing freedom from law, Paul banished the very foundation of ethics in law. Kant is no different from Paul in this regard. The banishment of law in the way of Paul from freedom led to the separation of ethics from law. Thus, separated, the

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 123 law is sustained only by the mechanism of the external coercion and is deprived of its inner, moral dimension. In order to justify his separation of ethics from right without giving up his theory of freedom in us as the source of our action, Kant famously suggests the double accounts of freedom (MM 6:211–221). In other words, there are two kinds of freedom, inner and outer. The inner freedom is one we need when we act morally on the motives of duty. This requires a strong incompatibilist freedom that makes our moral agency possible. This then gives rise to the duties of virtue. On the other hand, the outer freedom is juridical freedom that we need to account for the legal actions. This is the freedom that governs the external relations among interacting agents without asking the motives behind the action. This gives rise to the duties of right. Now, the corollary of Kant’s division of the inner and outer freedom is that the juridical laws concern only external freedom. This is the sort of freedom obtained in an individual’s external interaction with others. It consists in its reciprocal relation to others. Law in this sense has nothing to do with internal freedom. On the other hand, the moral laws concern only the inner freedom. They are the laws that govern setting of our ends. Thus conceived, the moral laws concern the motives of duty. They are about what one ought to do out of respect for the law. They are thus not concrete but rather abstract. They do not concern any concrete action. Morality then has something to do with willing. In this regard, we may say that the Kantian ethics is an ethics of pure inner willing. For Kant, the worth of an action is explained in terms of inner willing. Action is an external manifestation of one’s inner willing. It is also dependent on exercising inner freedom. Law is also explained in term of the capacity of acting. Action is thus an outcome of a private choice, an outcome of inner will that is not necessarily related to other’s freedom in public.11 Internal freedom has nothing to do with the way that others act.

Cohen on the law and the foundations of ethics The considerations so far then suggest that Kant’s ethics is incomplete because it pays insufficient attentions to the social dimension of our action while excessively emphasizing the internal-psychological aspect of freedom. Indeed, for Kant, action is explained in terms of inner freedom. Action is an external manifestation of one’s inner willing. Law is also explained in term of one’s capacity of acting. Action is thus an outcome of a private choice, an outer externalization of the pure will that is not necessarily related to other’s freedom in public.12 Inner freedom has nothing to do with others. Cohen instead suggests a way of thinking about morality without radically separating the inner and outer freedom.13 Just as an activity (Tätigkeit) serves to express judgments in his epistemology (LRE 60), the concept of action (Handlung) derived from jurisprudence serves to express the undivided freedom in his ethics (ERW 64–65). For jurisprudence is the science of action in the legal space. Laws (Recht) here have something to do with the principle of bringing an action. If you cannot claim or bring an action for your right, it is not your right. To act is therefore being subject to legal actions.14 If you did something that no one could

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legally hold you responsible for, then you did not do anything significant. You have not done anything from the point of view of jurisprudence. If you produce an action in this jurisprudential space, you don’t simply have a claim to a right – rather you can bring the claim to a court (ERW 64–65). In the court of law, it is a plaintiff that brings an action. If you are a plaintiff then you complain about another’s action. Jurisprudence consists of an interaction of different parties in this sense, i.e., my action vs. your action. You produce an action and my complaint about it brings about an action against your action. Jurisprudence cannot exist without two or more independent parties that nevertheless stand in appropriate relations. These relations are manifested in their actions. Jurisprudence is the science of humanity that must provide the fact of science as the starting point of the transcendental inquiry and in this respect, it cannot be empirical. Otherwise it would end with a contingent body of fleeting statutory laws. Rather it has to be pure, i.e., pure jurisprudence is the science where human beings are considered as rational agents within a community whose actions are guided by the laws with the normative constraints (ERW 66ff). In this field, we study the concept of law and its essential features such as universality and normativity. Pure jurisprudence is the science of universal laws of human action.15 For example, the concept of action needed for ethics is well illustrated by the practice of contract. A contract depends on two (or more) parties. As Cohen puts it, a contract is a claim, a claim of right, that I raise to the other (ERW 247–248). But this is not confined to contracts only. Cohen’s suggestion is that any legal action can be seen as a contractual claim. Any action in a court of law invokes the right to make a claim upon another. But in bringing a claim on another, a contract establishes a relation between the I, the claimant, to the Other, the defendant. Note that a claim is not merely an act of inner willing. It is not a private episode in one’s mental repertoire. It is a public act and it is addressed to another. A contract then constitutes an address where the Other does not remain an ‘it’ or a ‘he’ but a ‘you.’ A claim (Anspruch) here becomes an address (Ansprache) (ERW 248). The claimant and the defendant become I and you. Contract now provides a space of interaction between two persons. It is turned in to a dialog. Cohen puts it, You is not he. He would be the other. He stands in danger of becoming treated as it. You and I simply belong together. I cannot say you without relating you to me, without uniting the you in this relation (Beziehung) with the I. Contract then involves a construction of the unity of I and you. In this way, the law and ethics are bridged by means of a legal contract as dialogic, which is possible only because I and you are united in addressing the claims. Moral action then must be possible not because of internal freedom but on the relations of I to you. (ERW 248) Ethics then is laid a groundwork by jurisprudence, not because of freedom but because of action (actio). Action, not freedom, links ethics and jurisprudence. It is not a transcendental psychology of freedom, but jurisprudence that provides a

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 125 better way of interpreting action, derived from legal practice, not from a theory of inner willing or inner freedom. Again, Cohen suggests: In jurisprudence it proceeds otherwise. It deals first of all with actions (Handlungen). It is not accidental that the word for action became the basic word for the whole of technical juristics: actio is the action and the complaint. A right which is not actionable is no right. Therefore the concept of action is legally attached to the concept of actionableness. The realization of the law is fulfilled in the trial. And thus from the other side the concept of law is also attached to that of action. Action means action, not merely the claim to a right, but the claim to a court’s judgment. (ERW 64) This passage makes it clear that the intersubjective concept of action is at the heart of jurisprudence. According to Cohen, an action is not a matter of a mere individual determination of the will. Rather it is publicly attributable to an agent. An action then is not an event in an isolated private space but must be situated in the relation of one to the other. This is why the principle of bringing an action is at the heart of law (Recht). For Cohen, then, ethics is the science of pure will in this new direction. Pure will is not confined to the clandestine world of inner freedom but it is always understood in terms of action. It is thus related to others’ freedom in public. It is constituted through others, so to speak.16 Whereas deed (Tat) is something that is done merely in an external way, action is a movement from the inner to the outer.17 There is no action without an external deed. A morally significant action cannot be merely internal. It must be expressed in a deed. Action is a deed that arises from the inner person.18 But deed is not itself an action. Thus, willing is different from thinking. Thinking is without deed but willing always produces a deed. Whereas thinking culminates in a thought without deed, willing culminates in a deed. An ethics of pure will then is not an ethics that is based on a thought alone but rather on a will that is guided by pure reason in the context of interactions with others. This is why ethics is different from logic. In pure jurisprudence, we are aware of ourselves by means of our awareness of others. Our self-consciousness entails consciousness of others. Self-consciousness is thus not isolated and cannot be a product of a lonely meditator of the Cartesian kind. The Other in Cohen’s view is a development of the legal categories of others according to the traditional Jewish legal literature, i.e., the poor and the stranger. The I can only arise in relation to its Thou.19 Self-consciousness then accrues only to a juristic person – a person that is capable of agency and responsibility only when it is sponsored by a public space. Such a person is possible only by the system of courts in a state. Cohen’s claim is that only such a juristic person can be the agent of ethics. I can act ethically only when I am made a person in this sense. In the state of nature, I cannot be self-conscious at all. Self-consciousness cannot reside in lawlessness. Nor can I widen myself beyond the narrow confines of

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self-interest by way of the contingent feeling of love and sympathy. Unless mediated by a state, there is no route from I to a community. For a person to achieve the status of an ethical unit, one must not only renounce all selfishness but also achieve the I-Thou relation. Kant holds that one can overcome selfishness by way of inner freedom of the pure will but it is not clear how it can be achieved in the inner court of one’s mind. For Cohen, going beyond selfishness requires the works of a legal state with its concept of law and the accompanying universality and consistency in a way that a concrete action, e.g., almsgiving, is practically possible. Cohen’s proposal is that the concept of law that is crucial for ethics is provided by jurisprudential interaction between I and Thou. In Cohen’s ethics, the Other turns out to be the source of ethical responsibility, and it is a state that provides an institution of ‘the Other.’ Since jurisprudence is an institution that could not have existed without a state, it follows that ethics can only function within the framework of a state. Laws are made possible only by the actions of a state, so to speak. The legal relation to others in a state thus figures importantly in Cohen’s ethics. However, whereas Kant believes that the law stems from state’s coercion, Cohen demurs. If coercion resides in the law, it would also reside in ethics (through the moral law).20 Kant clearly links coercion here to the founding of the state. It is necessary for each of us to enter into society away from the state of nature. For Cohen, a state is not about power or coercion but about establishing self-consciousness. It carries and performs the task of self-consciousness. Its mission is to produce self-consciousness. It follows that for Cohen, coercion and force simply do not lie in the prescription of ethics. As Cohen puts it, the actions of the state consist in laws. The task must be thought and determined as laws. The will of the state bears testimony to itself in laws. The self-consciousness of the state must therefore complete and unfurl itself in the laws, as its action. The laws are its task. In them consists the task of self-consciousness. (ERW 261) It follows that a state for Cohen is not a fixed entity but constantly in transition; in other words, it constantly acts in the form of legislation. And when it acts, it also acts for a reason or goal. And the goal of the state is to produce self-consciousness. “I cannot produce the self-consciousness of the will in my natural individuality,” Cohen claims, and then goes on to suggest that only through the laws can this be made possible, and according to the universality, which only the state fulfills as unity, can I renounce all selfishness, and learn to think and will only in the correlation of I and you. (ERW 283) In this way, for Cohen, ethics is made possible within the framework of universal lawfulness instituted by a state. But this is a universality that cannot be satisfied by contingent feelings such as love or a community feeling or sympathy. Only the

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 127 state can provide it. The action of the state consists in legislating laws rationally. The legislation of laws by a state makes possible how moral freedom depends on legality and lawfulness even in the inner realm. It then turns out that within the context of the state, freedom is an end that does not exist in actuality yet but can be exemplified as a task (ERW 318). Freedom is not an entity in an independent realm (such as the realm of noumena) or its property but a total ground of all actions, taken as an object of willing. It is an ideal that we should aim at as rational agents interacting with each other. In this sense, it is a regulative idea and we aim to fulfill this idea when we act morally (KBE 199–201).

The law, compassion and suffering In the Kantian ethics, it is the rational but finite agent as an individual that engages and practices moral judgments. Ethics then is an enterprise that is launched by a rational individual vis-à-vis others. But Cohen argues that this view greatly discounts the role that is played by the community such individuals belong to as members. The individual is a means to the realization of the ideal of society, of which he or she is an integral part. An individual and his or her fellows, like the cells of a living organism, stand in a reciprocal relation to one another to the whole community. Each individual may engage in separate activities but they all depend on each other and also on the community as a whole for their existence and prosperity.21 The center of gravity is not only the individual but also the community.22 Indeed in Cohen’s view, it should be the job of a state to direct the course of society in the proper way, within the framework of law, for the common good of all individuals. Cohen thus attempts to formulate the content of the categorical imperative in political and legal terms. We practice moral judgments within the framework of, and against the background of, a state rather than as isolated individuals. The pure will required for ethics is not an individual will but a collective will, the will of a community. The state legislates laws for the individuals and when the individuals follow these, their duties are fulfilled. We may remember Kant’s emphatic suggestion that the ethical demand for universality on the part of a rational individual is derived from the concept of humanity (G 4:429). The universal lawfulness demanded on each person’s moral life derives its force from the concept of humanity. Every individual has the same intrinsic value because of their shared humanity. But as such, the concept of humanity leaves the Other at a high level of abstraction. From the Kantian ethical point of view, there is a serious roadblock to the Other in one’s “concrete individualization” (BR 87), i.e., to the other persons as genuine individuals. Kant’s notion of humanity and its associated formula, for example, the formula of humanity, can only allow for an understanding of the Other as general instances (Beispiele) of humanity. There is no denying that with the notion of humanity the Kantian individual can tear itself out of the confines of its narrow self and deliver itself from the shackles of egoism and individualism. Thus, the concept of humanity as an end in itself and the ensuing concept of the kingdom of ends serves as the foundation of the Kantian ethics. A human being cannot adequately be understood only as an individual

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in itself, nor as belonging only to one’s immediate social group such as a family. One ought also to be understood as belonging to a state as a citizen. In other words, the individual is not only regarded as an instance of plurality (Mehrheit) but also of universality (Allheit).23 But this concept of individual is still incomplete, even elusive, as long as it focuses on the abstract universality of humanity. Each human person should not be blindly dissolved into universal humanity. We need a framework that can account for the concrete individuality and uniqueness in the Other. How do we get to the concrete Other, then, from the I? How then do we discover the Thou, and how does the Thou reveal an I? According to Cohen, the fruitful notion of law that is the basis of ethics must derive its force from the I’s relation to the Other. In other words, the practical reality of the Other can lend support to the effective bindingness of the law that governs human action. Now, in a decisive step, Cohen suggests that the I here is bridged with the Other through the feeling of compassion (Mitleid). I can meet the Other as a genuine concrete individual by means of compassion, which emerges when I experience others as suffering human beings. But the compassion is what the Jewish tradition originally injected into western culture by the prophets in the Torah.24 The concept of humanity that Kant tried to invoke as the ground of the universality of the moral law turns out to be none other than what was extrapolated from the Torah, despite Kant’s underestimation of the Jewish roots of Christianity. However, in order to exercise compassion on the Other, there is its sine qua non condition that we must meet. In other words, Cohen claims that it is the experience of suffering we are familiar with in life that can give rise to the feeling of compassion. Human suffering is the reality of life we share with all men. Suffering also links the body to the spirit. In the life that I live, I frequently experience my own suffering. But I also see the suffering of the Other (BR 54). Human suffering here is not the same as physical pain. For humans, physical pain is related to the psychological. Human suffering appears in many forms, among them, in sickness and death. Suffering – experiencing it oneself and seeing it in others – is the “essence of the human being” (RR 170). Cohen, however, mostly focuses on the social suffering of poverty. Above all, poverty is the greatest suffering of mankind. Poverty is the essence of the social misery of the human being. As such, it presents the most formidable stumbling block to the “brotherly equality” of all human beings. Through poverty, the fellow human beings are not only relegated to beings beside me (Nebenmensch) but also reduced to beings below me (Untermensch). (RR 170) In Cohen’s ethics, suffering and compassion go hand-in-hand. He goes on to suggest that compassion makes the concept of humanity irresistibly lively and undeniably concrete by focusing on the lonely isolated soul in its suffering (BR 93). It is then through suffering that we are able to exercise our compassion. Compassion enables us to see the Other, not as Gegenmensch, or Nebenmensch or Untermensch but as a concrete instance of humanity (Beispiel der Menschlichkeit). I recognize the Other as a fellow human being (Mitmensch) – a being who is a concrete individual and who is of immediate concern to me. I can even begin to “love” the Other then. This then forms what Cohen calls the discovery of the Other as a “concrete individual.” Compassion then enables me to grasp

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 129 (erfassen) the Other in his suffering (BR 85). We have compassion for “the living being of the human soul, not as a type, not as a concept of plurality or totality but as the individual” (BR 80). We then grasp the Other as given to us in her naked concretization. Compassion, however, is not an immediate, naturally present motivation (Regung). Compassion is grounded on the notion that I cannot be aware of myself unless I am aware of myself as related to others (BR 76). Compassion presupposes the ethical feeling of respect (Achtung) for human beings. Respect is the root of compassion. This is why compassion alone cannot be the foundations of ethics. It can only be based on respect for the universal humanity in every human being. Through the experience of suffering the fellow human being is then brought fully to our discovery (Entdeckung), i.e., through the effect of suffering on our feeling of compassion (RR 160). There is a great transition from ethical respect to compassion and love of the other as a unique individual (einziges Individuum). Thus, compassion is not a passive affective state. It is an activity that is full, whole and pure. It constitutes an affective element of the pure ethical will just as respect is a feeling of reason. It is an original power of the pure will (Urkraft des reinen Willens), and therefore, as a fundamental power of the ethical universe, compassion provides the key to the fellow human being in his or her concrete existence (RR 164). This is why the suffering of the Other makes a claim on me. The suffering of the Other ought not to remain a matter of indifference to me. I feel “called to compassion” (BR 76ff). Vis-à-vis the suffering of the Other, I cannot be indifferent. This is not only valid in relation to physical evil but also in social inequalities and the suffering of the poor.25 Cohen discusses the concepts of the stranger and the poor as these are found in the Talmud. With the discovery of the fellow human being, Cohen establishes a mutual relation among human beings. Now, in an important move, Cohen suggests that a correlation of human beings with human beings naturally leads to a basis for the correlation of human beings with God. Thus, for him, the concept of universal humanity and that of the fellow human being presupposes monotheism. The true concept of one universal humanity is generated in our relation to one God. It follows that only monotheism can generate this strict sense of humanity. To the one God there corresponds one humanity, but at the same time the concept of the one human being as a “unique individual” (BR) corresponds to the idea of the one, unique God.26 And it is also from the concept of one God that the stranger and the poor appear as fellow human beings (Mitmenschen). 27 In the Religionsschrift, Cohen goes so far to argue that the ‘Thou’ precedes the ‘I.’ The I becomes aware of itself as unique because it conceives itself different from others. This difference is most dramatically laid bare in terms of poverty and in a relation of rational compassion where I recognize the Other as my responsibility, prior to creating myself in repentance.28 This gives rise to the discovery of man as fellow human being (Mitmenschen). For Cohen, the Thou makes the I possible because the community precedes individuality. Social justice is more important than the human-divine relationship.29 The complete notion of humanity then

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implies a collective responsibility. Without fellow human beings there is no practical morality. Without a community, we would remain with abstract universality. In the end, the laws of morality, the Kantian categorical imperatives, are best exemplified by the Biblical commandments – for example, in the law of Sabbath rest to all. The concept of equality of all men before the law, the laws of charity, tithes and hospitality to aliens, the laws of honesty, truthfulness and love of man are but a handful of the examples of such categorical imperatives. It is then Judaism, not Christianity, that turns out to be the religion of reason. The laws here are addressed to all humans in all places and in all times. The Kantian ethics as universalistic ethic is best exemplified in the laws of Judaism.30 The ideals of Judaism are not confined to the Jews only but extended far beyond the borders of Eretz Israel.

Criticisms of Cohen on the law I now come to the final section of the paper. Does Cohen successfully go beyond Kant’s ethics in the way he proposes? Here, as I suggest from the outset, Cohen’s philosophical experiment only meets with limited success. I will make three general points from a broadly Kantian point of view. The first one concerns Cohen’s charge of the lack of the proper concept of law (and also the ensuing lack of jurisprudence) in Kant’s view. Even though Kant falls short of developing an elaborate and systematic science of pure jurisprudence, Kant’s ethics strongly suggests a workable notion of law (as well as action) that does not depend on legality (Recht). According to Kant, the categorical imperative just is the moral law addressed to human beings qua rational beings with their less than perfect resources and circumstances. The categorical imperative then is nothing other than the law of reason in accordance with which we finite rational beings ought to deliberate, choose, and act in the presence of desires and inclinations. This means that, for us human beings, the very idea of (practical) reason as such engenders a normative principle, i.e., a moral law by which we can conduct our lives (G 4:408–9, 414). But we are also finite, contingent beings. In particular, we are beings with needs and feelings. And we don’t always act in the way that reason tells us to do. Thus, for us humans, the idea of pure practical reason provides the source of a norm appropriate for finite rational agency. This norm is then captured by the categorical imperative for us humans. When the faculty of reason guides our action, it must do so by presenting to us a general rule of determination, which is a certain form of representation. For, unlike inanimate things or lowly animals in nature, human beings are not simply capable of operating in accordance with laws but rather acting in accordance with their representation of laws. In a decisive step, Kant identifies this capacity to act in accordance with the representation of laws as “will” (ibid.). Even though the will is rational (as it relies on the norms of reason for its proper operations) when it derives action from laws (and, as long as it remains so, it is practical reason), it is not always determined by the laws of reason. When it is not determined by reason, it resorts to a lower faculty of desire and take motives for action from it. In this case, the will must be mediated by the motives of the senses here. It then

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 131 lacks moral worth in its maxim and its action. But when the will is immediately determined by the representation of the law, i.e., when the will is pure, it would be morally worthy. The crucial Kantian insight here is that the law of reason, i.e., the law that governs a rational being as such is our law as well simply because we are rational beings, albeit contingently so (G 4:444). The unconditionally valid practical law for rational beings as such is eo ipso the categorical imperative for us. Kant’s suggestion here is that a ‘formula’ of the categorical imperative (G 4:413) – a conceptual representation of the law of reason for a finite rational being like us – can be developed out of the notion of reason in charge of action. This directly suggests that, since such a categorical command is issued to (imperfect) rational beings as a law of reason, living a moral life for human beings is somehow a matter of acting lawfully. Indeed Kant frequently emphasizes the regular, lawful nature of moral actions in his Lectures on Ethics (27:344, 27:1426–7).31 Thus, we can see that Kant offers a delicate and potentially fertile notion of law that is amenable to further elaboration and systematization. Further, for Kant, the kind of the fact of science such as jurisprudence which Cohen tried to employ as the starting point for a transcendental procedure would be impossible because the very nature of ethics does not allow such a fact. The universality and necessity with which the categories of pure understanding govern things in nature is different from the universality and necessity of the moral laws that govern our action. No matter what happens in the inexorable world of phenomena, they are all part of the experience which is a proper object of mathematical natural science, not ethics. For ethics is concerned with the ought (Sollen) and as such deals with normative basis of our action. Ethics, in other words, is a science of free action that is not subject to natural necessity. My second point addresses Cohen’s charge that Kant fails to apply the proper transcendental method to his ethics. If we confine our assessment of Cohen’s ethics to his attempt to ground the moral law on a proper foundation, we may point out that Kant actually does not intend to employ the transcendental method of the kind that Cohen suggests but rather proceeds with a synthetic method; as, for example, in the third section of the Groundwork as well as in the Critique of Practical Reason. Earlier in the Groundwork, Kant suggests that he proceeds by way of a synthetic method in the third section. As opposed to the first two sections, which proceeded analytically, the third section starts from reason and moves down to the law of morality presented to the finite human beings. Thus, instead of analyzing the common moral practice in our society and regressing onto the synthetic a priori categorical imperative as its underlying condition, Kant tries to deduce the moral law (conceived as the categorical imperative) from the reflections on the nature of reason and its operations via law. In other words, Kant here attempts to give justification to the fundamental principle of morality governing our common practice of moral judgment by means of its origination in the nature of the subject’s reason as its ultimate source. Instead of analyzing our common moral beliefs and practices to yield their condition (i.e., the fundamental principle of morality), the latter receives

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its proper grounding in the power of “pure practical reason” in its “synthetic use” (G 4:445). Also in the second Critique, the fact of reason (das Faktum der Vernunft) forms the starting point for Kant’s transcendental deduction, and Kant goes on to prove that we are ineluctably free in the rich sense of transcendental freedom from this fact. Already in the Remarks section of the same Critique, Kant has suggested that “the moral law . . . leads directly to the concept of freedom . . . and force[s] this concept upon us” (CPrR 5:30). In the next section entitled “Of the Deduction of the Principles of Pure Practical Reason,” Kant calls this the “fact of reason,” suggesting that this “fact, as it were” consists in our immediate and ineluctable consciousness of the binding force of the moral law in us. After all, for Kant “consciousness of this fundamental law may be called a fact of reason because one cannot reason it out from antecedent data of reason” (CPrR 5:31; cf. 5:6, 42, 46, 47). Even though Kant is not entirely clear about the implications of this “fact, as it were,” he suggests that the reality of transcendental freedom in us can only be proven via the fact of reason, i.e., our consciousness of the moral law. Kant strongly suggests that our consciousness of the moral law, as is seen in the example of the most heinous scoundrel, gives a practical credential to our freedom. Thus, the moral law turns out to be the necessary ratio cognoscendi (the ground of cognition) of freedom (CPrR 5:4).32 It appears then that Kant, here as elsewhere, is faithful to his transcendental project, with a distinctive transcendental method, albeit of a synthetic sort. My third and final point concerns Kant’s sensitivity, despite Cohen’s underestimation, to the practical reality of the Other. Even though Kant does not invoke the notion of ‘fellow human being,’ we have already observed that the concept of humanity plays a huge role in Kant’s ethics. We can also point out that he subtly insinuates his view on the relation to the Other through his discussion of love and respect in the Metaphysics of Morals. Love and respect as the forces of attraction and repulsion bind together rational beings on earth (MM 6:449). The principle of mutual love (Wechselliebe) that we owe each other constrains us to come nearer to each other. This creates an obligation which binds myself to others and others to me. In other words, duties to others such as the duties of beneficence, gratitude and sympathy are thus set in place. A sense of community is thus raised. Covenant and agreement with others are also made possible. Mutual love also gives rise to mutual responsibility. On the other hand, the principle of respect (Achtung) keeps ourselves at a distance from one another. In this way, the duties of modesty, honor and esteem are secured. In this context, Kant carefully develops the notion of sympathy in the Doctrine of Virtue in the Metaphysics of Morals. As he puts it, “[T]o be beneficent, that is, to promote according to one’s means the happiness of others in need, without hoping for something in return, is every man’s duty (MM 6:456).” The duty of beneficence is one species of the general duty of love to other men, which Kant describes as “the duty to make others’ ends my own (provided only that these are not immoral).” Since we have a direct duty of beneficence, we also have an indirect duty to cultivate our natural capacities for participating emotionally in the

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 133 joys and sorrows of others – for these feelings are instrumental to fulfilling our duty of beneficence. Calling these naturally born capacities “humanity (humanitas),” Kant then suggests that we are indirectly under obligation to use this humanity as a means to promoting active and rational benevolence (MM 6:456). In addition, Kant speaks of two kinds of humanity in us. First, there is in us as rational animals a capacity and the will to share others’ feelings (humanitas practica) and thus be sympathetic (communio sentiendi liberalis) (6:456–7). This practical humanity is the feeling of sympathy that is actively and freely cultivated in accordance with principles of practical reason so that this can help one to carry out one’s moral purposes. This feeling is thus the product of our practical reason. For Kant, then, we humans as rational agents may play an active role in shaping our feelings in the face of the sufferings of others. Accordingly, it is our duty to strengthen this feeling in response to the suffering of others. As Kant himself puts it, “while it is not in itself a duty to share the sufferings (as well the joys) of others, it is a duty to sympathize actively in their fate; and to this end it is therefore an indirect duty to cultivate the compassionate natural (aesthetic) feelings about us” (ibid.) Second, as humanitas aesthetica the feeling of sympathy is passive and unfree. This is a mere susceptibility, given by nature itself, to feel joy and sadness in common with others. This feeling is completely due to the operations of natural causes: one is merely “infected,” with the suffering of others when he perceives their suffering.33 It thus appears that the Kantian sympathy and humanitas practica nicely foot the bill where the Cohenian compassion and suffering are supposed to operate, even though there are presumably clear differences in the details between those two.34 Finally, in Part Three of the Religion with the Boundaries of Mere Reason, instead of solving the problem of original sin (i.e., the innate, ineradicable evil propensity) at the level of individual agent, Kant attempts to overcome the evil in human nature by emphasizing our membership in a religious community governed by rational laws.35 Note that this community is not just an ethical community but a religious one par excellence, that is, a church, based on our need for a higher being.36 But if this is the case, then, the very ethical as well as religious existence on our part is bound up with the Other within the context of a community. The proper place for the individual moral agent lies in a living community with others. Kant then appears to accept the practical reality of the Other in his ethicalreligious enterprise.

Conclusion Hermann Cohen’s critical reception of Kant’s ethical theory in the former’s early period serves as the fertile ground for the later development of Cohen’s own system of critical idealist ethics based on the newly conceived notions of law, fellow human beings and compassion within the framework of a community. Not only Kant’s philosophical idealism but also Cohen’s own Jewish background played a big role in this development. Despite the progress over Kant’s theory and also its own rigor and the imagination, Cohen’s new ethics suffers from some acute

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problems, which might have been due to the insufficient attention paid to the details of the most mature aspect of Kant’s theory of practical reason, will, and sympathy.37

Notes 1 In this paper, references to Hermann Cohen’s work will be given by the works below with the following abbreviations observed: KTE = Cohen, Kants Theorie der Erfahrung (Berlin: Dümmler, 1885); KBE = Cohen, Kants Begründung der Ethik (Berlin: Dümmler, 1877); PIM = Cohen, Platons Ideenlehre und die Mathematik (Marburg: Elwertsche, 1878); PIG = Das Prinzip der Infinitesimal-Methode und seine Geschichte: Ein Kapitel zur Grundlegung der Erkenntniskritik (Berlin: Dümmler, 1883); LRE = System der Philosophie, Erster Teil: Logik der reinen Erkenntnis (Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1902); ERW = System der Philosophie, Zweiter Teil: Ethik der reinen Willens (Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1904); BR = Der Begriff der Religion im System der Philosophie (Geissen: Töpelmann, 1915); JS = Jüdische Schriften (Berlin: C.A. Schwetschke & Sohn, 1924), three volumes; RR = Religion of Reason: Out of the Sources of Judaism (New York: Frederik Unger, 1972). References to Kant’s works shall be given by volume and page number of the Akademie edition (the standard edition of Kant’s works in German) – with the exception of references to the Critique of Pure Reason, which will be given, according to custom, by the pagination of the first (“A”) and second (“B”) editions. CPR = Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, translated by Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998); CPrR = Immanuel Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, translated by Mary Gregor, in Allen Wood, ed., Practical Philosophy (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000); MM = Kant, Metaphysics of Morals in Practical Philosophy; G = Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals in Practical Philosophy; A = Kant, Anthropology From a Pragmatic Point of View, in Robert Louden and Günter Zöller, ed., Anthropology, History and Education (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 2 As a citizen of the German Empire, he was an ardent anti-Zionist who opposed the Hebrew state in Palestine and a believer in the harmony of Judaism and Germanism. Cohen in fact argued that all the Jews in Germany pledge allegiance to the German nation. He even demanded that all the Jews of the world support and respect Germany. In his view, since the very idea of Judaic Studies (Wissenschaft des Judentums) originated from Germany, all the Jews were obligated toward the country which encouraged Jewish cultural development. Paul Natorp once said of Cohen: “This Jew was more German than many German themselves.” Furthermore, Cohen had a confidence in the destined yet meaningful suffering of the Jews in the messianic scheme of things. Thus, there is a widely shared perception that he was proven false not only theoretically but also historically after the Holocaust. 3 But it would be a grave mistake if this doctrine were assimilated to a Berkeleyan idealism. In general, transcendental idealism should be differentiated from empirical idealism, both dogmatic and problematic versions. Cohen goes on to suggest that we should distinguish between two aspects of Kant’s transcendental idealism. As concerning its method, it is critical idealism but as concerning its content it is formal idealism (KTE 252). For more on this, See Andrew Poma, The Critical Philosophy of Hermann Cohen, translated by J. Denton (New York: SUNY Press, 1997), 56. See also Sebastian Luft, “Reassessing Neo-Kantianism. Another Look at Hermann Cohen’s Kant Interpretation,” in Philosophical Readings: Online Journal of Philosophy, Vol. 6, No. 1 (Spring 2014): 90–114. 4 For example, the doctrine of the fact of reason in the Critique of Practical Reason (5:31; cf. 5:6, 42f, 47, 55, 91, 104) represents such a break from his early work, i.e., the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. 5 I discuss this in more detail below in section 5.

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 135 6 See, e.g., PIM. 7 Kant himself calls this an analytic method because it involves an analysis of the fact of mathematical natural science and a regression onto its underlying laws as the a priori condition of its possibility. This is contrasted with a synthetic method, which proceeds from the higher source such as reason and deduce the laws directly from it without consulting the fact of science. 8 As Talmud puts it, “greater is he who acts out of the law than he acts without law (Kiddushin 31a, JS, V. I, 290). 9 Gibbs “Jurisprudence Is the Organ of Ethics: Kant and Cohen on Ethics, Law and Religion,” in Reiner Munk, ed., Hermann Cohen’s Critical Idealism (Leiden, Netherlands: Springer, 2005), 203. 10 Just as the German term “recht” suffers from an ambiguity, the term “jus” or “ius” in Latin is ambiguous, too. First, it means law, considered in the abstract; that is, as distinguished from any specific enactment, which we call, in a general sense, the law. Or it means the law taken as a system, an aggregate, a whole. Alternatively, it may designate some one particular system or body of particular laws; as in the phrases jus civile, jus gentium, jus proetorium. In the second sense, “jus” signifies a right; that is, a power, privilege, faculty, or demand inherent in one’s person and incident upon another; or a capacity residing in one person of controlling, with the assent and assistance of the state, the actions of another. This is its meaning in the expressions such as “jus in rem, jus accrescendi, jus possessionis.” 11 Gibbs, “Jurisprudence Is the Organ of Ethics,” 206. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid., 204. 14 Ibid., 206. 15 Scott Edgar, “Hermann Cohen,” in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 12. http:// plato.stanford.edu/entries/cohen/ (accessed July 25, 2015). 16 Gibbs, “Jurisprudence Is the Organ of Ethics,” 206. 17 Thus, the action/deed distinction reminds us of Aquinas’ distinction between human actions (actus humana) and actions of a man (actus homini). 18 Gibbs, “Jurisprudence Is the Organ of Ethics,” 205. 19 Ibid., 208. 20 Ibid., 204. 21 Indeed, all the prayers of Judaism are in a plural and not a singular form. Hillel claims: “Do not separate yourself from the community” (Abot 2:5). 22 J. Melber, Hermann Cohen’s Philosophy of Judaism (New York, NY: Yeshiva University Press, 1968), 47. 23 Cohen thus thinks highly of the second formula, i.e., the formula of humanity, of the categorical imperative (ERW 320). 24 Poma, 111. 25 This then leads to Cohen’s democratic socialism. 26 Franz Rosenzweig, “Introduction to Jüdische Schriften,” JS I, 141. 27 However, this does not mean that ethics presupposes religion for establishing its validity. Ethics has autonomy in relation to religion, while religion, even if it cannot be dissolved in ethics, does not possess any self-subsistence but only a peculiarity in relation to ethics. 28 Gibbs 224. In general, for Cohen, the congregation (Kahal; Gemeinde), however, elevates the individuality of the I without thwarting a hope of universality and messianic humanity (Gibbs, 225). See also Kluback, Hermann Cohen the Challenge of a Religion of Reason (Atlanta, Georgia: Scholar’s Press, 1984). 29 Cf. Buber holds the I-Thou relation (God being the eternal Thou) most important. 30 Cohen’s synthesis of critical idealism and Judaism purports to facilitate the greater Jewish integration in German society. In his view, there is an inner accord between Judaism and German culture/Christianity (Poma, 87), and this accord is founded on the ethical

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culture of universal humanism. Further, this is a proof of the founding influence of Jewish monotheism on culture (Poma, 88). As a matter of fact, the universal humanism goes back to Greek thought as well as Jewish monotheism and messianism. The bottom line then is that the most basic ethical principles of the West are drawn from Judaism. The philosophical culture itself has its roots in Judaism. Further, the content of the formulas of the categorical imperative, i.e., the specific dictates of the categorical imperative as the law for the human will as practical reason will depend on the particular aspect of the notion of the categorical imperative that is emphasized from a certain perspective. What is more, the formulas of the categorical imperative as the laws of morality are not applied in vacuum but only so with the practical maxims, where maxims provide incentives for action for agents. Since Kant holds that there are three different aspects or perspectives – i.e., form, matter, and a system – to the notion of law of reason (i.e., the categorical imperative for us humans), there will be three different formulas. Freedom, however, remains the ratio essendi (the ontological ground) of the moral law, The distinction between humanitas practica and humanitas aesthetica corresponds to the distinction Kant subsequently makes in his Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View. In this work he distinguishes between “sensitivity” and “sentimentality.” “[Sensitivity] is a power and strength by which we grant or refuse permission for the state of pleasure or displeasure to enter our mind”; whereas, sentimentality is “a weakness by which we can be affected, even against our will, by sympathy for another’s plight” (A 7:236). For an interesting direction that one can take out of this Kantian move, see, e.g., Baron, Marcia, “Sympathy and Coldness in Kant’s Ethics,” in Kantian Ethics Almost Without Apology (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999), 194–226. Religion 6: 94. Religion 6: 98. I thank Prof. Kenneth Seeskin for extensive comments on an earlier version of this chapter.

Bibliography and references Baron, Marcia. “Sympathy and Coldness in Kant’s Ethics.” In her Kantian Ethics Almost Without Apology. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999. Cohen, Hermann. Kants Theorie der Erfahrung. Berlin: Dümmler, 1877, 2nd ed. 1887. ———. Platons Ideenlehre und die Mathematik. Marburg: Elwertsche, 1878. ———. Das Prinzip der Infinitesimal-Methode und seine Geschichte: Ein Kapitel zur Grundlegung der Erkenntniskritik. Berlin: Dümmler, 1883. ———. Kants Begrüdung der Ethik. Berlin: Dümmler, 1885. ———. Kants Begrüdung der Aesthetik. Berlin: Dümmler, 1889. ———. System der Philosophie, Erster Teil: Logik der reinen Erkenntnis. Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1902. ———. System der Philosophie, Zweiter Teil: Ethik der reinen Willens. Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1904. ———. System der Philosophie, Dritter Teil: Aesthetik der reinen Gefuehls. Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1912. ———. Der Begriff der Religion im System der Philosophie. Geissen: Töpelmann, 1915. ———. Jüdische Schriften, 3 vols. Berlin: C.A. Schwetschke & Sohn, 1924. ———. Religion of Reason: Out of the Sources of Judaism. New York: Frederik Unger, 1972.

H. Cohen on the concept of law in ethics 137 Edgar, Scott. “Hermann Cohen.” In Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, vol. 12, 2015. http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/cohen/, accessed July 25, 2015. Gibbs, Robert. “Jurisprudence Is the Organ of Ethics: Kant and Cohen on Ethics, Law and Religion.” In Reiner Munk, ed. Hermann Cohen’s Critical Idealism. Leiden, Netherlands: Springer, 2005. Holzhey, H. Cohen und Natorp. Basel: Schwabe & Co, 1986. Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason (trans. Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood). New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998. ———. “Critique of Practical Reason (trans. Mary Gregor).” In Allen Wood, ed. Practical Philosophy. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000, 133–272. ———. “Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals.” In Allen H. Wood, ed. Practical Philosophy. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000, 37–108. ———. “Metaphysics of Morals.” In Allen Wood, ed. Practical Philosophy. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000, 353–604. ———. “Religion Within the Boundaries of Mere Reason.” In Allen H. Wood and George di Giovanni, ed and trans. Religion and Rational Theology. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001, 39–216. ———. “Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View.” In Robert Louden and Günter Zöller, ed. Anthropology, History and Education. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011, 227–429. Köhnke, Klaus. The Rise of Neo-Kantianism. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Kluback, William. Hermann Cohen The Challenge of a Religion of Reason. Atlanta, GA: Scholar’s Press, 1984. Luft, Sebastian. “Reassessing Neo-Kantianism: Another Look at Hermann Cohen’s Kant Interpretation.” In Philosophical Readings: Online Journal of Philosophy, Vol. 6, No. 1 (Spring 2014): 90–114. Melber, J. Hermann Cohen’s Philosophy of Judaism. New York, NY: Yeshiva University Press, 1968. Munk, Reiner, ed. Hermann Cohen’s Critical Idealism. Leiden, Netherlands: Springer, 2005. Poma, A. The Critical Philosophy of Hermann Cohen. Albany: SUNY Press, 1997. Zank, Michael. “The Ethics in Hermann Cohen’s Philosophical System.” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 13, no. 1 (2004): 1–15.

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Expressions of caring Relational virtues in Buber’s ethics Laura Grams

Martin Buber’s philosophy has been influential across a range of disciplines including ethics, psychology, communication, sociology, religion, and education. I propose to reconsider valuable insights Buber offers, particularly in Ich und Du, for virtue ethics and feminist care ethics. As James Walters has argued, “Martin Buber’s relational philosophy is perhaps the most fertile seedbed in which feminism’s ethics of care was nourished.”1 Buber’s explanation of relation, responsibility, and mutuality helps us understand ethical relations of respect and care, and indicates how we might develop virtues appropriate to encountering and listening to others. This inquiry may seem a bit misplaced insofar as Buber does not typically employ language or concepts familiar to virtue theory. In addition, from his account of the most important relations he carefully removes terms like “feeling”, “empathy”, and “experience” that are often considered vital in care or feminist ethics. Nevertheless, Buber’s ideas about inclusion, mutuality, respect, love, and trust – which could be fruitfully considered as “relational virtues” – are crucial for these ethical theories because they illuminate how people might best care for one another as well as develop enduring ethical relationships. I argue that this is true even in cases that may appear most confounding, where Buber describes relations with trees, animals, or other humans encountered in silence. In a discussion of “relational virtues”, Shirong Luo explains that if caring could be identified as a virtue, then we would find “a common thread” that could bridge the “conceptual gap between relational caring ethics and agent-based virtue ethics”.2 Unfortunately, representatives of these views would not necessarily agree that caring should be thought of as a virtue: while Michael Slote “sees caring as a virtue”, Luo points to Nel Noddings (who frequently draws on Buber’s understanding of relation) as a “feminist care ethicist” who argues that caring is primarily relational.3 Luo argues that the specific relational character of this approach to ethics, which is “constituted by two relational moral virtues – caring and gratitude”, can resolve the apparent tension.4 Incorporating Noddings’ insight that the “cared-for can be virtuous as well” as the carer, for Luo caring is “a mode of shared control” and its virtues are not developed by or within a single individual.5 I claim that for similar reasons, Buber’s understanding of relation and dialog helps to bridge the gap between virtue and care ethics, providing a richer sense of the foundations and dimensions of ethical

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relationship. For Buber, there exists no “I” prior to relation in whom virtues might be cultivated; rather, the “I” is constituted by relation. Since Buber takes himself to be offering an account of reality in his description of the “I-You” and “I-It”, the goal is to determine how saying the basic word of I-You inherently involves expressions of caring relation and manifests various relational virtues. I will begin by considering the I-You relation and explaining why, despite an apparent disagreement about empathy, Buber’s understanding of relationship and spirituality is not only compatible with but helpful for feminist care ethics. Then I will examine several of the relational virtues involved in the I-You that provide common and fertile ground for virtue and care theories.6 Finally, I will consider whether Buber’s approach to ethics is vulnerable to objections concerning its romanticism or unreality. As many others have noted, the common English translation of “Ich und Du” (1922) as “I and Thou” can be misleading if the word “Thou” is taken to suggest distance or formality. Walter Kaufmann explains that, “Buber’s title, Ich und Du, was as simple and unpretentious as could be”, and the unfortunate use of “Thou” gave the English version of the book, “something of the holy tone that preachers affect, while Buber had actually associated the Du with spontaneity and intimacy”.7 Although Kaufmann prefers the capitalized “You” in his own translation, which I follow, the English connotations of “Thou” are in a sense appropriate to the respect or even awe required to say the “I-Thou” to another, as it may only be spoken with the whole being, in openness and without deception, outside of experience.8 The I-You is one of the two primary or basic words it is possible to speak, along with the I-It. Both describe a unique stance one might be in with respect to the spirit (i.e. the divine), with nature, or with human beings. Every You is transformed into a “thing” for us as the I-You gives way to the I-It, because eventually we must experience the world as objects separated from us and from one another. It is impossible to sustain the I-You relation as this occurs. Nevertheless, both kinds of “basic word” help to constitute the I, which does not exist as such prior to or independently of entering into relation. As Buber describes it, when speaking the basic word “I-You” to another, he or she is no longer a “thing among things” or even a “He or She” but “is You and fills the firmament. Not as if there were nothing but he; but everything else lives in his light.”9 In Ronald Smith’s translation, the other human being “is Thou and fills the heavens” and although I cannot “experience” this person while saying I-You, “I take my stand in relation to him, in the sanctity of the primary word. Only when I step out of it do I experience him once more.”10 The I-You inevitably transforms into an I-It when we begin to separate things as objects of experience, but the process of moving between the I-You and I-It is ongoing and the possibility of again standing in the I-You relation need not be lost. One of Buber’s metaphors captures the uniqueness of this transformation: “The It is the chrysalis, the You the butterfly. Only it is not always as if these states took turns so neatly; often it is an intricately entangled series of events that is tortuously dual.”11 Buber’s identification of the fundamental duality between these disparate modes is not, as Kaufmann observes, entirely novel.12 One of Buber’s contemporaries in

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whose work traces of this approach may be found is Hermann Cohen, who discusses the I-Thou relation. Describing a claim of right raised to the other, Cohen says, in this way the Other becomes I and Thou. Thou are not he. He would be the Other. He is in danger of becoming an it. Thou and I belong together absolutely. I cannot speak to Thou unless Thou are related to me – without Thou being united with me in this relation.13 Cohen captures the idea that the I-You relation is in danger of passing into an I-It, and that it is indeed a relation. However, the underlying notion seems significantly different in Buber, for whom the very being and reality of the “I” are constituted in the meeting of I-You, the “cradle of actual life”.14 As Buber puts it, “I require a You to become; becoming I, I say You. All actual life is encounter.”15 Rivka Horwitz notes that Buber did not believe Ich und Du depended on the influence of philosophers like Cohen; perhaps this is because for Buber the I-You neither arises from nor depends upon the agency, claims, or actions of the “I”.16 Emphasizing the sanctity of the I-You relation, Buber says, “The You encounters me by grace – it cannot be found by seeking.”17 The relationship is both “passive and active” at once, because, although the encounter is not sought, it requires speaking “with one’s whole being”; it cannot be “accomplished by me” but likewise cannot be “accomplished without me.”18 This understanding of relation is important for care ethicists as it locates the being of both participants in the relation itself, and explains how the I-You may be re-entered and renewed even as analysis, reflection, or other means compel movement into the I-It. As Pamela Vermes explains, the central concern of I and Thou is “relation interpreted as a helpful loving presence of one with the other”, and while this cannot be maintained indefinitely given that “such relation necessarily alternates with irrelation” or the I-It, the goal is nevertheless that “relation habitually takes precedence over its opposite”.19 However, it is important to recall that for Buber the I-It also constitutes the “I”, which is “twofold” in kind and appears differently in the I-You and I-It.20 Although the I-You relation inevitably collapses back into the I-It, this does not imply that the I-It is somehow fundamental or prior. Relation itself comes first, in Buber’s view. We are already in relation before we have the “I” by itself and before there are any things. This model suits care and feminist ethics because we cannot enter a mutually caring relationship while maintaining our separation or closure to the possibility that the relation may change us. Relation helps constitute who we are as selves, prior even to the initial ability to know ourselves as an “I”. Buber’s choice of multiple illustrations involving infants and young children makes this clear.21 Relation begins even in “prenatal life” as a “flowing towards each other, a bodily reciprocity” that involves not only the physical body of the mother but a kind of “cosmic” or spiritual nurturing within the universe as a whole.22 The I-You flows from this “natural association” as its “natural reality”, while the I-It comes from “natural discreteness”; however, the word “natural” here does not simply equate to biology.23 The longing for this cosmic association is neither a “craving

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to go back” nor a quest to find spirit in everything; rather, it is “the drive to turn everything into a You, the drive to pan-relation” which can be carried out in the imagination even when the other does not actively respond.24 According to Buber, the child naturally expresses this longing for relation, which it knows prior to knowing itself as a discrete entity. Although an infant’s reflex or grasping movements can be explained biologically, for the child they involve the immediacy of relation in which the child discovers him or herself before identifying any particular object that exists outside, able to be drawn into relation.25 The inside/ outside distinction is still irrelevant to these encounters. The child makes “little inarticulate sounds” which may eventually turn into a conversation; it matters not if the conversation partner is a tea-kettle since the child’s engagement in relation occurs before any judgment could be made about the capacities or nature of the conversation partner confronted.26 This is why Buber says, “In the beginning is relation – as the category of being, as readiness, as a form that reaches out to be filled, as a model of the soul; the a priori of relation; the innate You.” Encounter with such a You occurs before it is even possible to address it, to speak the basic word I-You, much less to analyze or interact with it as an “It”.27 The priority of relation as a mode of being in Buber’s philosophy provides the fundamental shift in ethical thinking desired by many care and feminist ethicists. Virginia Held argues “morality should make room first for the human experience reflected in the social bond between mothering person and child, and for the human projects of nurturing and of growth apparent for both persons in the relationship.”28 Her call to prioritize human relationships as a foundation for ethics is not simply a matter of recognizing biological interdependence: “It is not only bodies that do not spring into being unaided and fully formed; neither do imaginations, personalities, and minds.”29 The full catalog of relationships that care and feminist ethicists believe deserve a central place in ethical understanding will extend far beyond (or more precisely, will occur outside of) the I-You relation Buber describes, even though relationships are the object of study. However, Buber’s approach provides a model for thinking about ethical relationships in terms of different priorities. According to Held, “moral philosophy has construed personal relationships as aspects of the self-interested feelings of individuals,” who may favor particular others; these have been permitted to “stand in for the universal ‘other,’ as when an analysis might be offered of how the conflict between self and others is to be resolved,” but there is no consideration of relationship to the other as the primary mode of being, much less one that constitutes the very “I” of ethical agents who are navigating the terrain of specific relationships.30 For Buber, although we stand in relation to nature and other human beings, the I-You relation to the divine or eternal You, in which “the lines of relationships intersect”, is the foundation for all other relation.31 Every other You offers “a glimpse” of that eternal You and whenever the I-You is spoken it also “addresses the eternal You”; God can provide this foundation for all other I-You relations because God is the only You that need not and indeed “cannot become an It.”32 By contrast, feminist and care ethics tend to emphasize the significance of particularities that are in danger of being subsumed or erased. The possibility that

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every I-You relation is encompassed within or referring back to a single divine or spiritual source may seem incompatible with ethical commitment to respecting particularity and difference. Seyla Benhabib characterizes two concepts of relation that help illustrate the potential difficulty here. The first, the “generalized other”, takes each individual to be “a rational being entitled to the same rights and duties we would want to ascribe to ourselves”; a danger is that when we universalize and “abstract from the individuality and concrete identity” we may overlook the other’s unique characteristics and needs.33 The second of Benhahib’s selfother concepts, the “concrete other”, requires us to consider the “concrete history, identity, and affective-emotional constitution” of every rational being. From this stance we “seek to comprehend the needs of the other” and our relations, usually private ones involving the “norms of friendship, love, and care,” are “governed by the norms of equity and complementary reciprocity” wherein differences are complementary rather than exclusive.34 If relation with every You could be collapsed into the underlying I-You relation with God, and if Buber considers any observation or analysis of the individual’s particularity an automatic reduction of the relation into the realm of things and the I-It, then his understanding of reality might fit poorly with central commitments of feminist and care ethics. However, Buber does not appear to envision the relationship to the Eternal You in this way. The hallmark of the relation is mutuality, as it is for all I-You relations, and any “consummation” involved in the encounter should not be understood as a loss of the “I” and its uniqueness or even the dependence of the I on the Eternal You. Buber acknowledges that some have sought relationship with God in this very “feeling of dependence”, but the language of “feeling” is already inapt because speaking the I-You cannot arise from or connect to any specific feeling residing within only one partner in the relation. According to Buber, “the onesided emphasis on this factor leads to a misunderstanding of the character of the perfect relationship,” which is “established not in the soul but between an I and a You.”35 Again, this is why feeling is not the appropriate mark of a relation of this sort, since it resides within the individual soul and is not a shared part of the inclusive mutuality of relation. Buber concludes, “Wishing to understand the pure relationship as dependence means wishing to deactualize one partner of the relationship and thus the relationship itself.”36 In short, mutuality is indispensable. A theory of relation built on this type of foundation is needed for feminist and care ethics in which relationship is primary, and responsibility and involvement do not reside exclusively in one or the other partner. Noddings suggests that in a relationship of care both the carer and cared-for must respond to the other mutually and share in responsibility. Likewise, Buber insists that, “relation is reciprocity. My You acts on me as I act on it. Our students teach us, our works form us.”37 This interaction is not merely compatible with openness to and respect for the uniqueness of each individual You with whom we are related, but demands attention to the You. Walters describes Buber’s focus as, “a vision of the concrete everyday life of persons in relationship, a focus that informs every moment of the morally reflective life.”38 In some cases this is quite literal, as when Buber describes encounters with the unique bodily reality of the You. For instance, the tree “confronts me bodily and

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has to deal with me as I must deal with it – only differently”; this immediacy of encounter with a different being is an integral part of the reciprocity of relation, a meaning Buber says “one should not try to dilute.”39 Reciprocity is only compromised when we are compelled to engage with the other as an It, reduced to its status as a thing from its former position as the You of the I-You relation, filling the entire heavens. Wood argues that an inclusive I-You relation is required to properly appreciate or know the uniqueness of a thing confronted as an It. Buber says, “all real living is meeting,” and Wood explains, “meeting is a lived relation of whole to whole, and it requires an entirely different act of attentiveness to sort out objectifiable characteristics from the meeting.”40 The fact that these modes of attention are different does not imply that inclusive knowledge of the uniqueness of a being is impossible; if anything, the opposite is true. Wood sees the grasp of uniqueness as a kind of “synthesizing apperception”, which could not occur without the partners having met in the I-You relation where both were fully included.41 Although transformation of the I-You relation into I-It must occur – or else we would never be able to reflect upon and gain knowledge of things in the world – Buber nevertheless appears optimistic about our ability to continue engaging in reciprocal I-You relations. “How are we educated by children, by animals! Inscrutably involved, we live in the currents of universal reciprocity.”42 His insistence on selecting examples like children, trees, and animals, in contrast to the more obviously “rational agents” with whom ethical theory often has been preoccupied, underscores the uniqueness of the mutual, reciprocal relations he considers not only possible but actual. The I-You neither requires nor permits analysis or abstraction, the imputation of a soul, consciousness, essence or quality in the You, but the uniqueness of the You is not thereby lost in the encounter any more than the uniqueness of a melody is lost when one refrains from analyzing its specific collection of tones.43 Wood points to this comparison in arguing that human beings, like Buber’s examples of poetry, music, and statues, “have elements of empirical structure which can be isolated, analyzed, and correlated”, but when we engage in this sort of examination, we are performing a different action than we do when “given over to the vision of total meaningfulness embodied in each of the empirical structures.”44 The reality and meaning of those structures – the concreteness and particularity of the unique individual – is not lost in the I-You but encountered in a different way than in the world of things. As a “relational virtue”, to use Luo’s term, reciprocity requires encountering others in such a way that saying I-You to them in mutuality is possible without erasing any of the other’s specificity. Despite the importance of reciprocity and mutuality in Buber’s account of relation, it may seem incompatible with feminist, care, and even virtue ethics for another reason: his dismissal of feeling from the I-You relation and his rejection of empathy. Feminist ethical theory frequently emphasizes the importance of emotion and the negative consequences of excluding feeling from accounts of moral deliberation; care ethics is clearly concerned with emotion and empathy in ethical relations; and the appropriateness of certain emotions and their association with the development of virtue has been a frequent topic of interest to virtue theory

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since Aristotle. Held explains in a different essay that feminist theorists not only protested the neglect of “relations between persons that are so much of what an actual person is,” but were more attentive to “the moral claims of particular others enmeshed with the self in particular relations, and to selves moved by empathy, attachments and human concern.”45 Buber distinctly rejects empathy as the source of true inclusive relation. He discusses inclusive love in the third part of “Between Man and Man,” on “Education”, explaining that, It would be wrong to identify what is meant here with the familiar but not very significant term “empathy”. Empathy means, if anything, to glide with one’s own feeling into the dynamic structure of an object, a pillar of a crystal or the branch of a tree, or even of an animal or a man, and as it were to trace it from within, understanding the formation and motoriality of the object with the perceptions of one’s own muscles; it means to “transpose” oneself over there and in there. Thus it means the exclusion of one’s own concreteness, the extinguishing of the actual situation of life, the absorption in pure aestheticism of the reality in which one participates. Inclusion is the opposite of this. It is the extension of one’s own concreteness, the fulfilment of the actual situation of life, the complete presence of the reality in which one participates.46 While Buber rejects the identification of inclusiveness with empathy, he does so in a way that makes clear why his view of the self-other relation is closer to what Benhabib describes as “concrete”. Empathy is not the appropriate means of understanding or attending to the unique needs of a particular other because, on his account, it is more a way of understanding the other as myself, as if we were capable of occupying the other’s position without acknowledging our own concreteness. Likewise, feminist theorists often resist any notion of inclusive meeting in which one person’s experiences or identity could be fully analyzed and subsumed by another who neglects to acknowledge his or her own “actual situation of life”. For Buber, inclusive meeting requires that both partners meet in the wholeness of being, having consented to such meeting, without any effort to appropriate whatever feeling is imagined in the other. Here we discover another aspect of I-You relation that might be termed a “relational virtue”: inclusivity. It should be noted that the term “empathy” is not always used in care and virtue ethics to mean what Buber critiques above; instead, it is sometimes used in a way that more closely resembles inclusivity. Nel Noddings, a founder of the care ethics approach who draws on Buber’s insights, is aware of this concern and re-envisions empathy in a manner compatible with both Buber’s account and feminist care ethics. She terms her version “engrossment” in order to distinguish it from the kind of “empathy” that involves projecting into the other.47 Noddings indicates caring indeed involves “feeling with,” but without any effort to “put myself in the other’s shoes” by “analyzing his reality and objective data and then asking, “How would I feel in such a situation?”48 Engrossment with the other requires openness to receiving something in myself rather than projecting myself into the experiences of the other.

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Buber’s idea of inclusion might be easier to understand, paradoxically, if we consider that an inclusive dialogical relation may be expressed even in silence. Paraphrasing Buber’s account, inclusion requires a relation, a common event in which at least one participates, and “the felt reality” of activity that simultaneously occurs “from the standpoint from the other”; a dialogical relation can occur when these elements are present.49 Although the dialogical relation can occur in a conversation, it need not; it can occur in a shared silence, and can extend across space when the partners in the relation are separated. This conviction finds reinforcement in Buber’s “Dialogue”, where he claims that, “just as the most eager speaking at one another does not make a conversation . . . so for a conversation no sound is necessary, not even a gesture.”50 The importance of true conversation leads to another “relational virtue” manifested in the attempt to speak the basic word I-You: listening. Mordechai Gordon argues that, For Buber, to truly listen entails being present to the other, that is, responding to the other as a whole person and creating a space in which the other can speak his or her own words and meaning. When one is open to the other’s being, one does not try to speak for the other or to impose one’s own language, concepts, and interpretive schemes on the other. From Buber’s perspective, genuine listening involves encouraging the other to create his or her own meanings, which may be very different from one’s own. According to Buber, genuine conversation, and therefore every actual fulfillment and relation between men, means acceptance of otherness.51 This account of listening emphasizes the significance of the individual’s uniqueness and particularity, and reinforces the problem with projective empathy. In attempting to “feel through” or in Buber’s terms transpose the self into the other, no space is created in which the other can “speak his or her own words and meaning.” In dialogical relation, what the “I” imagines as the interiority or feeling of the other cannot be made to substitute for inclusive attention to the other’s own expression of being. Efforts at projection introduce a mediation or intervention between the I and You, which Gordon explains is better suited to the realm of experience, or the I-It. In the dialog between I and You, there is “a unique kind of immediacy and connection of two beings that have no conscious intent of influencing the other”, for they communicate “for no purpose” and “expect nothing specific”.52 This sort of listening to the other is required for inclusive dialog. Establishing a dialogical relation also creates trust, the possibility of love, and along with love, both responsibility and redemption. These may seem like strange candidates to serve as relational virtues, since in some respects they are very little like virtues at all. They are not, after all, normally thought of as character traits one possesses or cultivates like courage or temperance. On the other hand, trust, love, responsibility, and redemption should be seen in this context as ways of being and acting on a par with courageous actions or moderate behaviors. For instance, inclusive action involves engagement in

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relation that opens the possibility of genuine listening and dialog. Trust is not a thing that emerges from a certain kind of relation; rather, actions that create trust produce a relation that opens enormous possibilities. In “Education”, Buber says children “know that they are unceasingly addressed in a dialog which never breaks off. In face of the lonely night which threatens to invade, they lie preserved and guarded, invulnerable, clad in the silver mail of trust”; this trust, arising from being included fully by another human being in dialog, dispels meaninglessness and offers the possibility of salvation and love.53 Entering into relation creates responsibilities shared by both partners. Gordon argues, “unlike feelings such as anger or sadness, which can be localized in an individual, love implies a reciprocal responsibility of one person to another.”54 Love in the context of the I-You should not be considered as a mere feeling internal to either or both partners in the relation, but takes on a much broader meaning. Love is a way of being in the relation that cannot be separated off into a discrete experience and that implies commitment to the being of the other. Wood explains, “Feeling is something that occurs within man as a psychological phenomenon. Love as the full realization of the Thou relation is concerned with meeting and thus stands beyond the phenomena, whether these are physical or psychological.”55 This is another reason why the relation to the Eternal You is a touchstone for all other I-You relations, because the Eternal You makes it possible to encounter the other outside the confines of psychological conditions like feeling, and thus allows for entirely different kinds of love. This sense of love supports the dynamic processes of “creation, revelation, and redemption,” in Vermes’ terms.56 Elaborating on why Buber “distinguishes love from feelings of love,” she says, “love is a stand which I occupy; feelings are what I ‘have’. Love is between I and you, not an emotion directed by an I-subject towards a you-object.”57 This sort of love in relation invokes responsibility, and Vermes observes that Buber’s expression of this concept includes a pun on the words “Antwort/Verantwortung = response/responsibility. In the life of dialog, address is at the same time response, and response is assumption of responsibility.”58 This is in part why some kinds of human relationships, like teaching, therapy, or ministry, cannot involve full reciprocity even though they are, in the best cases, real human relations characterized by trust and responsibility. Noddings takes a similar view to the extent that inequality is a necessary aspect of such relationships. Buber insists the doctorpatient relationship must be “real”, but as in any form of caring relationship, as soon as the carer “is touched by the desire – in however subtle a form – to dominate or to enjoy his patient, or to treat the latter’s wish to be dominated or enjoyed by him other than as a wrong condition needing to be cured, the danger of falsification arises, beside which all quackery appears peripheral.”59 The possibilities of engendering true relations therefore require trust, and Buber maintains a rather optimistic view of trust as part of the relationship with the Eternal You. To speak the I-You with God requires trust and emerges out of trust; this in turn grounds the possibility of other I-You relations with nature and other humans proceeding “clad in the silver mail of trust”. Annette Baier famously establishes her approach to moral theory around the concept of trust, which for

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her was also fundamental to the idea of caring. In Baier’s view, trust generalizes “some central moral features both of the recognition of binding obligations and moral virtues, and of loving, as well as of other important relations between persons, such as teacher-pupil,” and so on; in addition, love involves trust such that, “if we had a moral theory spelling out the conditions for appropriate trust and distrust, that would include a morality of love in all its variants.”60 Although Baier emphasizes the significance of trust in establishing different kinds of relationships, she nevertheless speaks of trust as a feeling, which is antithetical to the role trust plays in Buber’s account of relation. To understand what is different about Buber’s approach here, it may be helpful to consider the examples of relation that initially appear least comprehensible: encounters with nature and non-human animals. Vermes acknowledges that reciprocity is easier to see in relations among human beings because they are able to speak to one another.61 What might reciprocity with a tree actually mean, however? Vermes charitably suggests that, “reciprocity in this area is less easy to grasp”; although we may see how animals could achieve some aspect of the I-You encounter, “not everyone will accept that the same is feasible in the vegetable world.”62 Wood admits that although mutuality in the relation with nature is “sunk in mystery,” it is nevertheless “real for the one who really meets the things of nature.”63 Buber does not hesitate to employ examples involving a shared glance with an animal or physical encounter with a tree, and in the Afterword to Ich und Du he reiterates the importance of this sphere of relation. He admits that, “it is part of our concept of the plant that it cannot react to our actions upon it, that it cannot “reply”. Yet this does not mean that we meet with no reciprocity in this sphere.”64 The reciprocity involved is no less than the “reciprocity of being itself – a reciprocity that has nothing except being”, and this is never perceived when nature is experienced as a thing but only when it is encountered in saying I-You.65 Speaking the I-You to another person requires a radical openness and acceptance of the full being of the other, thus creating a space in which dialogical relation is possible; likewise, speaking the I-You to a plant allows it “the opportunity to manifest” its being when we “do justice with an open mind to the actuality that opens up before us.”66 In spite of his affection for Buber, Kaufmann criticizes his romanticism on this point, arguing that his ideas about mutuality with a tree are far more likely to be deceptive or dreamlike than a reasonable account of reality.67 However, I would argue that Buber is not indulging in flights of the lonely imagination but means to be taken seriously on this point. The mutuality and inclusion involved in the I-You relation with nature is one in which the whole being of the other shines forth, including its bodily presence, and the reality of this living being is ultimately traced back to God’s being. If Buber insisted that the tree actually chatted with him personally or otherwise engaged in the kind of mutuality we would expect from I-You relation with a human being, then perhaps Kaufmann’s criticism would be apt. Yet even here on the “threshold” we must reserve the legitimate possibility that those who enter deeply into relation with the Eternal You participate in a more robust sort of mutuality with all being, in Buber’s view. Paul Mendes-Flohr

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notes that in Buber’s work on “Hasidic Community and Leadership,” he writes of the Baal Shem Tov (Israel ben Eliezer of Mezbizh, founder of Hasidism) that his disciples said he taught, “how to understand the language of birds and trees and – so the rabbi of Polnoye tells his son-in-law – it was his “holy custom” to converse with animals.”68 Whatever language this might have been, it is obviously not one that human beings normally would be able to understand. Yet this story reveals the sanctity involved in encounter and relation with beings from any sphere of life. He did not merely converse with animals but did so as a sacred act in which the full being of the You in nature was accepted, included, and allowed to speak for itself. When we remember that for Buber relation – including relation with the You of nature – both precedes the differentiation of the “I” and constitutes the being of that “I”, the Baal Shem Tov must not only have been able to understand the language of animals, birds, and trees, but was himself open to being shaped in unplanned ways by the relation with them. Kaufmann objects to Buber’s suggestion that, “a genuine relationship to another human being can be achieved only in brief encounters from which we must always relapse into states in which the other human being becomes for us merely an object of experience and use.”69 Although Buber does speak of the inevitable lapse into I-It as our “sublime melancholy”, this does not mean that the I-It must be negative. Buber’s concern here is not “denigration” of the I-It but caution lest we live our lives increasingly in that mode of experience.70 Vermes argues, It is a mistake to suppose that anything pejorative is attached by Buber to irrelation. Nothing is wrong with the objectivity of I-it . . . as long as it is able to change to I-you, and does not become so habitual that entry into relation is impeded.71 Indeed, it is impossible for us to understand important features of our world and the beings with whom we may be drawn into I-You relation unless we also experience them as things. There is an important distinction between experiencing things as such and treating beings as if their only mode of being was as “It”. Unavoidably our projects, analyses, and means intersect the lives of other beings, and this is no inherent evil unless we restrict our interactions to that reality. To do so would mean never developing relationships of inclusion in which trust, love, redemption, and responsibility for the being of others could arise. For this reason, too, Buber is unscathed by Kaufmann’s criticism that he was excessively swayed by emotion. As we have seen, Buber took great pains to distinguish the role of individual feeling from the mutuality that characterizes I-You relation. This may explain why Kaufmann finds it unrealistic that I-You moments are so rare compared to experiences of I-It. If the paradigm I-You case were indeed found in erotic relationships, as Kaufmann suggests, it would seem odd that Buber equally emphasizes all three possible I-You relations (nature, humans, Eternal) as opposed to focusing on sustained and intense emotional experiences of love among human beings.72 Instead, openness to the recognition of the other’s being as You is important in all spheres of life. Standing in mutual relation with You preserves the freedom of the other to

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speak in return and constitutes the “I” itself as a person. Though we cannot help but objectify, analyze, or introduce our own means and plans into our encounter with the other, we can remain open to renewal of the I-You meeting. Saying the basic I-You requires exercise of “relational virtues” like listening, including, loving, and trusting in such a way that the sacred being of the other is affirmed.73

Notes 1 James W. Walters, Martin Buber and Feminist Ethics: The Priority of the Personal (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2003), vii. 2 Shirong Luo, “Relation, Virtue, and Relational Virtue: Three Concepts of Caring,” Hypatia 22, no. 3 (2007): 92. 3 Luo, “Relation, Virtue, and Relational Virtue,” 92. 4 Ibid., 93, 102. 5 Ibid., 105, 95. 6 Walters accepts a fundamental similarity between virtue ethics and feminist care ethics, and argues that both have far more in common with Buber’s “relational ethic” than with “ethics of principle” that rely on abstract ethical rules organized around a systematic theory (96, and see Chapter 5 generally). 7 Walter Kaufmann, Discovering the Mind, Volume 2: Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Buber (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1980), 252. 8 Martin Buber, I and Thou, translated by Walter Kaufmann (New York: Scribner, 1970). With minor exceptions, English translations are drawn from this edition. 9 Buber, I and Thou, 58. 10 Martin Buber, I and Thou, 2nd Edition, translated by Ronald Gregor Smith (New York: Scribner, 1958), 9. 11 Buber, I and Thou, 68. 12 Kaufmann, Discovering the Mind, 245. 13 Hermann Cohen, Ethik des reinen Willens, 3rd Edition (Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1921), 250. (1st edition, 1904, 248). English translation by Halla Kim. 14 Buber, I and Thou, 59. 15 Ibid., 61. 16 Rivka Horwitz, Buber’s Way to “I and Thou” (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan) (reprint: Jewish Publication Society, 1988), 134. 17 Buber, I and Thou, 61. 18 Ibid., 61. 19 Pamela Vermes, Buber on God and the Perfect Man (Atlanta: Scholar’s Press, 1980), 31. 20 Buber, I and Thou, 53. 21 Robert E. Wood, Martin Buber’s Ontology: An Analysis of I and Thou (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1969), 55–56. 22 Buber, I and Thou, 75. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid., 75–77. 25 Ibid., 77. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid., 78. 28 Virginia Held, “Feminism and Moral Theory,” in Nancy Ann Silbergeld Jecker, Albert R. Jonsen, and Robert A. Pearlman, eds., Bioethics: An Introduction to the History, Methods, and Practice (Boston: Jones and Bartlett, 2007), 161. 29 Held, “Feminism and Moral Theory,” 161. 30 Ibid., 163.

Expressions of caring

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31 Buber, I and Thou, 122. 32 Ibid., 122. 33 Seyla Benhabib, Situating the Self: Gender, Community, and Postmodernism in Contemporary Ethics (New York: Routledge, 1992), 158. 34 Ibid., 159. 35 Buber, I and Thou, 128. 36 Ibid., 131. 37 Ibid., 67. 38 Walters, viii. See also Chapter 3, where he describes our “muddy” encounter with reality and shows that there is no incompatibility between this sort of concreteness and the relation with “the source of our being – God,” 49. 39 Buber, I and Thou, 58. 40 Wood, Martin Buber’s Ontology, 52. 41 Ibid., 53. 42 Buber, I and Thou, 67. 43 Ibid., 58. 44 Wood, Martin Buber’s Ontology, 49. 45 Virginia Held, “Feminist Moral Inquiry: The Role of Experience,” Janus Head 5, no. 1 (2002). (4/2014: www.janushead.org/5-1/held.cfm). A similar idea is expressed in Held, “Feminism and Moral Theory,” 161. 46 Martin Buber, Between Man and Man, translated by Ronald Gregor Smith (New York: Macmillan, 1965), 97. 47 Nel Noddings, Caring, a Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 30. 48 Ibid., 30. 49 Buber, Between Man and Man, 97. 50 Ibid., 3. 51 Mordechai Gordon, “Listening as Embracing the Other: Martin Buber’s Philosophy of Dialogue,” Educational Theory 61, no. 2 (2001): 207. 52 Ibid., 210. 53 Buber, Between Man and Man, 98. 54 Gordon, “Listening as Embracing the Other,” 211. 55 Wood, Martin Buber’s Ontology, 59–60. 56 Vermes, Buber on God and the Perfect Man, 193. 57 Ibid., 202. 58 Ibid. 59 Buber, Between Man and Man, 95. 60 Annette C. Baier, “What Do Women Want in a Moral Theory?” Noûs 19, no. 1 (1985): 58. 61 Vermes, Buber on God and the Perfect Man, 202. 62 Ibid., 201. 63 Wood, Martin Buber’s Ontology, 60. 64 Buber, I and Thou, 172–173. 65 Ibid., 173. 66 Ibid. 67 Kaufmann, Discovering the Mind, 265. 68 Paul Mendes-Flohr, From Mysticism to Dialogue: Martin Buber’s Transformation of German Social Thought (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989), 139. The Maggid, in this particular context, refers to the Maggid of Mezeritch, Rabbi Dov Ber, one of the greatest disciples of the Baal Shem Tov who founded the Hasidic school of teaching. According to Mendes-Flohr, Buber said, “the term ‘Baal Shem Tov’ signifies a man who lives with and for his fellowmen on the foundation of his relation to the divine,” 138. 69 Kaufmann, Discovering the Mind, 257.

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Ibid., 264, 268. Vermes, Buber on God and the Perfect Man, 198. Kaufmann, Discovering the Mind, 265. The support and expertise of Dr. Halla Kim and Dr. Curtis Hutt have been invaluable in completing this project. I wish to thank participants in the inaugural Symposium on Jewish Religious and Philosophical Ethics (Omaha, April 2014) for their many helpful comments and suggestions.

Bibliography Baier, Annette C. “What Do Women Want in a Moral Theory?” Noûs 19, no. 1 (1985): 53–63. Benhabib, Seyla. Situating the Self: Gender, Community, and Postmodernism in Contemporary Ethics. New York: Routledge, 1992: 158. Buber, Martin. I and Thou, 2nd ed. (trans. Ronald Gregor Smith). New York: Scribner, 1958. ———. Between Man and Man (trans. Ronald Gregor Smith). New York: Macmillan, 1965. ———. I and Thou (trans. Walter Kaufmann). New York: Scribner, 1970. Cohen, Hermann. Ethik des reinen Willens, 3rd ed. Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1921. Gordon, Mordechai. “Listening as Embracing the Other: Martin Buber’s Philosophy of Dialogue.” Educational Theory 61, no. 2 (2001): 207–220. Held, Virginia. “Feminist Moral Inquiry: The Role of Experience.” Janus Head 5, no. 1 (2002). www.janushead.org/5-1/held.cfm, accessed April, 2014. ———. “Feminism and Moral Theory.” In Nancy Ann Silbergeld Jecker, Albert R. Jonsen, and Robert A. Pearlman, eds. Bioethics: An Introduction to the History, Methods, and Practice. Boston: Jones and Bartlett, 2007: 157–163. Horwitz, Rivka. Buber’s Way to “I and Thou”. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan; repr. Jewish Publication Society, 1988. Kaufmann, Walter. Discovering the Mind, Volume 2: Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Buber. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1980. Luo, Shirong. “Relation, Virtue, and Relational Virtue: Three Concepts of Caring.” Hypatia 22, no. 3 (2007): 92–110. Mendes-Flohr, Paul. From Mysticism to Dialogue: Martin Buber’s Transformation of German Social Thought. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989. Noddings, Nel. Caring, A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Vermes, Pamela. Buber on God and the Perfect Man. Atlanta: Scholar’s Press, 1980. Walters, James W. Martin Buber and Feminist Ethics: The Priority of the Personal. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2003. Wood Robert E. Martin Buber’s Ontology: An Analysis of I and Thou. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1969.

8

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics Adorno, Levinas, Derrida Eric S. Nelson

Introduction1 The prospects and risks of modern Enlightenment ideas of cosmopolitanism and tolerance have been debated by religious and secular Jewish thinkers since their initial emergence. There has been awareness of both the promise of their universal aspirations and recognition of their complicity with power and their potential to betray those who are in need. The crucial question became, in the twentieth century, whether the latter tendencies are extrinsic deformations and pathologies, which could be overcome through further Enlightenment, or whether they are intrinsic properties inherent in cosmopolitan universalism. In this chapter, the hermeneutics of suspicion concerning cosmopolitan tolerance will be examined in the critical social theory of the Frankfurt School philosopher and sociologist Theodor Adorno and in the ethics of difference associated with the ethical-political writings of Emanuel Levinas and Jacques Derrida. Their works are traced in relation to the Jewish dimensions of their thinking, whether in religious or secularized form, and the broader philosophical arguments about particularity and universality that informed their contexts as well as our own contemporary interpretive situation. The oeuvres of these three philosophers are haunted and permeated by their interpretations of modern Jewish conditions and the disaster and horror of the Holocaust. They interrogated the problematic of the complicity and betrayal of the universal aspirations of the “Enlightenment project” in modernity, analyzing how the promise of universal emancipation, equality, and peace for all could be complicit with anti-Semitism and processes of subjugation, exclusion, and annihilation. This complex historical situation helps elucidate the critical and diagnostic dimensions of Adorno’s social theory and the ethics of alterity in Levinas and Derrida.

The aporiai of cosmopolitan tolerance Tolerance is taken to be an elementary virtue of modern liberal societies and to be constitutive of a universal (within the limits of anthropocentrism) cosmopolitan moral or legal order. April Carter notes that: “Although there are a range of possible reasons for advocating toleration as a policy, an attitude of tolerance is

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essential to cosmopolitanism, which values the mingling of different peoples and the ability to live harmoniously together.”2 The modern liberal idea of society (Gesellschaft) is distinguished from “traditional” communities (Gemeinschaft) that presuppose and require a basic common identity that by definition excludes and subordinates others on the basis of race, religion, sexuality, or other specific bodily and social characteristics. Recent liberal cosmopolitan political theorists – a group that embraces significant moral philosophers such as Jürgen Habermas, John Rawls, and Martha Nussbaum – construe tolerance to be a foundational element of a conception of justice that endorses a plurality of ways of life on condition that they are compatible with justice towards others. Such cosmopolitan tolerance and pluralism are opposed to the call for a dominant integrating vision of the good or good life characteristic of communitarianism. Rainer Forst has historically explored and systematically articulated this vision of liberal tolerance in a recent work.3 Despite the prevalent supposition that tolerance is intrinsically a force for justice, a number of thinkers have critiqued the potential intolerance and ideological function of classical liberal conceptions of tolerance. First, there is the suspicion that, in the words of Martin Buber’s description of the multi-ethnic “tolerance” of the Austro-Hungarian Empire of his youth, “mutual tolerance” can exist “without mutual understanding.”4 As Adorno and Derrida have articulated, as discussed below, cosmopolitanism has historically functioned (and might well continue to) as a mask for power from the imperial forms of universalism of multi-ethnic empires to the contemporary liberal international order. Notwithstanding the separation of the cosmopolitan ethical ideal from worldly international politics in liberal theorists such as Nussbaum, the universality of cosmopolitan tolerance in its appeals to a collective world-interest or common universalizing perspective might be distinctive of specific forms of power. Among these are multi-ethnic empires or a multi-national capitalist order that exercises hegemony over each particular rather than bringing about genuine fairness and equality between them.5 Secondly, there is a concern that cosmopolitan universality and tolerance might undermine instead of enable the critique that rests in the particularity of the oppressed and exploited. It might be the specific conditions and experiences of the victims that allow them to speak and resist their oppression in a way that is unrecognized from a privileged neutral point of view or consciously or unconsciously opposed by those who benefit from and perpetuate oppression. This situation was described by Herbert Marcuse in the 1960s as the passive “repressive tolerance” of advanced capitalist societies that allows all a voice so long as the voice does not intrude on privilege. “Liberal” tolerance contrasts with the “liberating critique” of confrontational “active tolerance” that promotes social change and genuine democracy.6 The earlier generation of the Frankfurt School, especially Adorno and Marcuse, critiqued the repressive side of tolerance in relation to those who are different as part of the logic of conformity operative in existing societies. Wendy Brown’s Regulating Aversion has powerfully analyzed the ways in which tolerance functions to assimilate and ostracize in American society.7

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 155 Thirdly, thinkers associated with contemporary Jewish philosophical reflection and what could be described as the asymmetrical ethics of difference, particularly Levinas and Derrida in their own ways that reflect in part their interpretations of Jewish conditions and experiences in modern Europe, have examined the aporiai, false universalism, and limits of tolerance, liberalism, and cosmopolitanism. They have interrogated the category of tolerance as a variety of indifference that places the other at a distance and at a disadvantage; this is in contrast with the non-indifferent and asymmetrically charged ethical encounter of self and other in generosity, hospitality, and welcome. Such welcoming consummates infinity and defines subjectivity for Levinas.8 Levinas interrogates an indifferent tolerance for the sake of a dissimilarity that is ethical in its non-indifference. In Derrida’s later ethical-political reflections, cosmopolitan tolerance is similarly a failure to welcome the other. In the context of hospitality, it is inevitably not “hospitable enough.” But is this ethics of the other only a banal inversion of the politics of identity? When it is applied to issues of cosmopolitanism and internationalism, is it itself only a “lukewarm tolerance” in which all specific cultures and forms of life are, as one of its critics asserts, “turned into a set of competing cultural ghettos”?9 The three issues analyzed in this chapter present us with a number of questions: Are cosmopolitanism and tolerance minimal yet nevertheless necessary elements of just societies? Or do cosmopolitanism and tolerance instead perpetuate indifference towards others and potentially disguise the concrete and particular forms of domination and exploitation of others? Is there something to belonging to a particular tradition or community that resists being ethically universalized? This chapter offers an assessment of the complications and aporiai of liberal conceptions of tolerance with an eye towards potential critical alternatives to consider whether it can be reformulated – or more adequately thought – in the context of the critique of ideology and power articulated in the critical social theory of the early Frankfurt School (particularly Adorno) and an asymmetrical ethics (Levinas and Derrida) that accentuates the alterity and priority of the other person. Both engage the modern social-political situation with reference to a specifically Jewish form of prophetic and messianic thinking.

The historical complicity of cosmopolitan tolerance with domination Discussions of cosmopolitanism typically contrast the “liberalism” and “internationalism” of Immanuel Kant, on the one hand, with the “communitarianism” and “nationalism” of G. W. F. Hegel, on the other hand.10 However, this distinction is questionable if we consider more carefully the categories of personal freedom, civil society, and tolerance. Hegel did not oppose the cosmopolitan tolerance advocated by the Enlightenment with a communitarian sense of identity or sameness that lacked tolerance. In reality he argued, on the contrary, that a strong sense of identity – or the universal realized in the concrete – is the condition of the tolerance and individual freedom characteristic of modern societies. Hegel did not reject “modernity” for the sake of an imagined community to be found in the past that

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could be preserved against historical transformation.11 Hegel legitimated modernity as a unique achievement of western history and identified it with the stability, legality, and power of the state that can guarantee tolerance and the free exchange of goods and ideas between individuals in civil society. Kant’s cosmopolitan law holds between nations and peoples in war (“just war”), commerce, and travel by guaranteeing freedom of movement and “universal hospitality.” Kant’s cosmopolitanism was both too pragmatically weak and too rigidly moralistic in its universality. In contrast to the standard critical assessment of Hegel as a thinker of totality, Hegel argued that cosmopolitanism must fail to be genuinely tolerant, as it is a political vision of integration and totalization that cannot effectively manage social diversity. Hegel remarked, in defending the virtues of robust individual nation-states, that it is only such states that can effectively ignore, manage, and “tolerate anomalies” such as the particularist commitments of religious and ethnic minorities.12 Hegel connected attitudes of tolerance with the pragmatic qualities of maturity and mildness of judgment and with the power of the state while questioning the liberal cosmopolitan vision of a tolerance without borders.13 Tolerance is embedded in a concrete social configuration and actual way of life that to this extent requires the borders and laws of the nationstate and the resilient and dynamic spirit of a community to flourish. The practice and institutionalization of tolerance cannot be effectively based – in accordance with Hegel’s argument for the concrete universal of ethical life (Sittlichkeit) – in the disinterest, indifference, and neutrality of an abstract and disembodied universal ethical principle. Hegel disconnected the reflective critical thought associated with modernity from the project of the Enlightenment. He maintained instead that reflective consciousness problematically undermined itself when it embraced cosmopolitan abstractness “in opposition to the concrete life of the citizen” and the tangible contextual mediations of ethical life, civil society, and the state.14 Adorno shows in his lecture course History and Freedom (1964–1965) how for globalized capitalism and its vanguard of Americanization, and contrary to Hegel’s defense of concrete ethical life, “it is no longer the case that so-called cosmopolitanism is the more abstract thing in contrast to the individual nations; cosmopolitanism now possesses the greater reality.”15 Hegel’s anti-cosmopolitan vision of the existing contextual community has consequently been shattered, according to Adorno, by the relentless developments of the logic of advanced capitalism and ideologies of neoliberal capitalist internationalism. By implication, universal cosmopolitan tolerance is a ‘positive freedom for’ that has been managerially steered and disfigured in being restricted to processes of commodification and consumption. Adorno’s concerns correlate with those of Marcuse in his analysis of the repressive functions of liberal tolerance. Nonetheless, Adorno did not attempt to resolve the aporia of tolerance into a choice between the passive repressive tolerance of the established neoliberal order and the active emancipatory tolerance of the oppressed and exploited that necessitated employing intolerance to challenge

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 157 limited tolerance. Adorno is more wary than Marcuse of the potential for immediate social transformation and repeatedly warned of the dangers of new forms of oppression emerging under the guise of emancipation in the charged political atmosphere of the 1960s.16 The cosmopolitan vision of a humanity transcending all local bonds as well as the communal particularities has its sinister dimensions in Adorno’s reflections on the failures of the project of the Enlightenment. Adorno analyzed the close historical connections between the humanism and cosmopolitanism of the Enlightenment with anti-Semitism, colonialism, and racism – which are not merely issues of the past. Adorno noted in a number of his works how anti-Semitism “can be found even in the works championing tolerance and humanism.”17 Adorno critiques the totalitarian tendencies inherent in nationalism and patriotism and in the cosmopolitanism and internationalism that rejects those who obstinately stick to their own particularity; a characteristic of multi-ethnic domains from the Roman Empire to contemporary international mechanisms that reproduce and further capitalist markets and the ideologies justifying and excusing them. Adorno concluded of enlightened cosmopolitan attitudes about anti-Semitism and race in Minima Moralia that tolerance is a boomerang insofar as all are equal and any mark of dissimilarity is perceived to be ingratitude and a stigma.18 The dialectical movement from universal tolerance towards particular intolerance is evident in the cosmopolitan attitude of the civilized European against the “stubborn particularity” of the colonized and those who refuse to assimilate. Echoing Marcuse’s thesis about the repressive social role of tolerance, Adorno claimed that cosmopolitan tolerance is itself the ideology of the bourgeoisie who love people as they are – in their atomistic separation and lack of solidarity – and despise people as they otherwise can be.19 Cosmopolitanism does and can occur at the same time as a form of violence against persons as they actually exist in the name of universal ethical ideas of how they should be. Cosmopolitan tolerance can operate in the neoliberal international order, as Wendy Brown has more recently argued, as a form of acceptable and excusable dislike, disapproval, sanctioning, and regulation.20 The ideology of a tolerant cosmopolitan world-civilization can itself justify and excuse violence against those who are perceived as recalcitrant; that is, those who are branded as intolerant, primitive, deviant, barbaric, and backward. Given the historical difficulty and ideological complicity of normative ethical and political theory, such concerns about the ideological uses of cosmopolitanism and tolerance cannot be too easily dismissed. The actual deployment of cosmopolitan ideas should not be displaced by invoking a cosmopolitan ethical model that is disconnected from and uncontaminated by the historical facticity of the cosmopolitan project from the multi-ethnic imperial cosmopolitanism of traditional empires, such as Stoic Rome and Confucian China, to liberal and neoliberal capitalist internationalism that allows no borders to be closed to the power and interests of the ethically neutral and socially indifferent market.

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Asymmetrical ethics, colonialism, and cosmopolitan tolerance Informed in part by their experiences with and reflections on modern Jewish conditions in Europe, Levinas and Derrida disclosed in distinctive yet overlapping ways the limits and paradoxes of cosmopolitanism and tolerance. Their reflections resonate with Adorno’s analysis of their complicity with anti-Semitism and racism while introducing additional considerations concerning the ethics of alterity or otherness and its implications. These concerns have been no doubt minimalized in the framework of contemporary critical social theory, in particular as it has been revised by Habermas and Honneth.21 Because of its centrality for French Enlightenment thinkers, it is striking how little the word ‘tolerance’ plays a role in recent French thought, given its importance in the French Enlightenment and French republican thought. This absence is not accidental, as Derrida once remarked: “The fact that I never use the word ‘tolerance’ is not fortuitous.”22 It is not accidental for a negative and a positive reason that we see at work in a parallel way in Adorno. First, Adorno and Derrida were both wary of the oppressive functions of tolerance that are at work in the anti-Semitism of Enlightenment thinkers such as Voltaire as well as the French republican tradition. Secondly, they each sought to articulate in different ways a more robust critical or ethical stance towards the moment of non-identity (Adorno) or trace of alterity (Levinas and Derrida) that challenges the formulaic universalism of cosmopolitan thought. Notwithstanding his identification with the image of the “urban, cosmopolitan intellectual,” Derrida skeptically questioned the universal pretensions of the cosmopolitan project.23 Derrida intensified his concern with issues of the ethical significance of difference, including the arrival and welcoming of the other, in his later works. Marcuse once noted how: “Under the rule of the repressive whole, liberty can be made into a powerful instrument of domination.”24 The free movements and choices of some are historically interlinked with the economic and social coercion of others. Earlier discourses of cosmopolitan freedom focused on the arrival of the European traveler across the globe. Early modern thinkers theorized and justified the demands that the European visitor placed upon others: “his” claims for free travel and the open exchange of goods and ideas that arguably prepared the way for colonization as colonies expanded from trading centers. China and Japan were forcibly opened for the sake of the “free market” and in the name of the freedom of the European. India, Indonesia, and others were colonized via European trading companies. Discourses of cosmopolitanism have in reality legitimated the subjugation of the provincial and the particular that were perceived as making no claims to cosmopolitan, i.e., European universality. Such discourses, to give another example, include John Stuart Mill’s use of universalistic arguments to justify British dominion over India as a civilizing and progressive force in contrast with the vulgar self-interested colonialism that he criticized.

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 159 More recent poststructuralist and postcolonial discourses, in comparison, have not only placed the universal scope of cosmopolitanism in doubt even if, as in the case of Levinas, remaining at times complicit with Eurocentrism and colonialism. These discourses have in several cases turned to issues of the arrival and status of migrants from the former colonized territories in the heartlands of the former colonizing powers. European cosmopolitanism faced a dilemma with the influx of foreign others and, above all, the particularist other who does not partake in the same vision of cosmopolitanism and tolerance. In the context of hospitality, Derrida questioned the self-image of fairness, openness, and tolerance in republican France with its questionable longstanding treatment of its Jewish population and the current tensions with its newer migrants from Africa and the Middle East.25 The problems and aporiai of cosmopolitanism articulated by Adorno and Derrida cannot be adequately explained as the inadequate application of an adequate theory or ideal. As Derrida demonstrates, they are structurally rooted in the nature of a cosmopolitan cause that “presupposes the categories of the state and the citizen, even if the citizen is a world citizen.”26 Cosmopolitanism is defined as worldcitizenship and assumes a specific and perhaps non-universalizable conception of the world (cosmos) and the political (polis).27 In Kant’s account of cosmopolitan right, according to Derrida’s analysis, what first appears as if it were unlimited “universal hospitality” is revealed as inescapably conditioned and restricted.28 The classical liberal notion of tolerance functions as a means of intolerance just as cosmopolitanism can operate as the ideology of globalizing and universalizing empires and international regimes regulating nations and markets. These tendencies and polices sacrifice the particular to an abstract universal – and democratic participation and self-determination to an elitist cosmopolitan regime. In deconstructing ethical and cultural “coloniality,” Derrida elucidated the “conditions and auto-limits” of even the most “cosmopolitan” law as conceptualized in Kant’s reflections on universal right and perpetual peace.29 Derrida argues with reference to this potential colonialism and monologism of universalism that: “My language, the only one I hear myself speak and agree to speak, is the language of the other.”30 The center is unthinkable without its periphery and margins; the universal is unimaginable without the singularities it intends to transverse, integrate, and regulate as particulars subsumed under a universal order or principle. To encounter and confront our contemporary situation, which is characterized by an allergic tolerance reactive against others in their concreteness as much as by allergic intolerance, must we not break with the naïve dichotomy between universalist tolerance and particularist intolerance? Is there in the Levinasian motif of the “language of the other,” introduced by Derrida in the last passage, the possibility of an alternative to both the false universality of liberal cosmopolitanism and the false concreteness of communitarianism and particularism (whether Jewish or otherwise)? How might Levinas’s thinking of the other indicate an alternative to this impasse? To begin to formulate a response, we ought to reconsider how Levinas conceived of cosmopolitanism and tolerance.31 Derrida offers us a sense of this question in his remark in Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas:

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Eric S. Nelson Levinas always prefers, and I would want to say this without any play on words, peace now, and he prefers universality to cosmopolitanism. To my knowledge, Levinas never uses the word ‘cosmopolitanism’ or adopts it as his own. There are at least two reasons for this: first, because this sort of political thought refers pure hospitality, and thus peace, to an indefinite progress; second, because of the ideological connotations with which modern antiSemitism saddled the great tradition of a cosmopolitanism passed down from Stoicism or Pauline Christianity to the Enlightenment and to Kant.32

Judaism appears – for a range of universalistic thinkers such as Voltaire and Marx – to be a “stubborn” and obsolete particularity to be eliminated from the perspective of universalization. The unmasking of the anti-Semitism of the cosmopolitan tradition from antiquity through the modern European Enlightenment is similarly evident in the writings of Adorno and Derrida. This critique of modernity offers skeptical challenges to the modern conception of progress and its linear perception of time; not in the name of a past that is being lost through modernization, of course, but rather for the sake of the present. The liberal conception of progress towards the future realization of peace and fairness signifies a denial of peace and justice to the other in the present moment, as they are deferred infinitely into the future. In contrast to this anticipation of a future that cannot become present, the welcoming of the other, transpiring through interruption, cannot be reduced to the concept or principle of tolerance nor can it be deferred to a progress to come.

Love and justice beyond communitarianism and liberalism Levinas uses the word ‘politics’ in multiple inconsistent ways: it can mean a domain of war and conflict, prudential calculation, justice established via the figure of the third (who, to express it schematically, interrupts the asymmetrical face-to-face encounter and the call of responsibility of the self for the other with the demand for equal consideration and justice), or the modern achievement of democracy and fundamental human rights. The first two usages of ‘politics’ are characteristic of Totality and Infinity; the latter predominate in his later writings. Levinas’s postwar political sensibilities were shaped by the catastrophe of the Holocaust, the terror of Stalinism and actually existing communism, and the legacies of the French republican and Jewish prophetic traditions. Levinas’s political thinking is in multiple ways an ethically informed and other-oriented transformation of French republican thought.33 Levinas has been criticized for his reliance on French republican ideas by Critchley.34 Republicanism is a multi-vocal concept; it has had nationalistic and universalistic, regressive and revolutionary socialpolitical tendencies. The idea of the republic has been the site of the struggle between anti-Semitic and racist French nationalisms and the possibility of an inclusive republic that would welcome the stranger and the exile. Levinas accentuates the latter tendencies towards anarchic republicanism in focusing on solidarity for the other and human rights (droits de l’homme) that can be turned against humans if they are not oriented by their interpersonal and prophetic sources.

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 161 Levinas himself introduced the term “anarchy” to describe his ethics. His ethical conception of anarchy can be extended to reconsider an anarchistic politics that would go beyond the idea found at times in Marx and the anarchist tradition of a free association of producers self-organizing themselves. Without alterity and non-identity, this potentially emancipatory idea is its opposite in retaining the coercive aura of a republican community and fraternity, even if the state apparatus is imagined to wither away as in classical Marxism. Habermas proposes an alternative to classical republicanism that would not abandon its ethical motivations towards participation, solidarity, and popular sovereignty. He stressed the mutual correction needed between republican solidarity and popular sovereignty and liberal rights and liberties in deliberative democracy while decentering and pluralizing the republican notion of corporate association and collective will in “Three Models of Normative Democracy.”35 Habermas argues for an alternative to liberal and republican models of democracy with the deliberative model that corrects the overemphasis on the collective or the individual. Habermas strives for more inclusiveness and pluralism in deliberation and the public sphere, but does not adequately attend to the role of alterity and non-identity; that is, “the radical impossibility of seeing oneself from the outside and of speaking in the same sense of oneself and of the others.”36 The anarchic and non-identical republican tendencies intimated in Levinas suggest, according to Derrida, “a political res publica that cannot be reduced to a sort of ‘tolerance,’ unless this tolerance requires the affirmation of a ‘love’ without measure.”37 Liberal accounts of passive and negative tolerance fail to reach the other in her need. Levinas erases the Kantian distinction between perfect and imperfect duties – a conception of duty that cannot prevent murder when duty outweighs suffering as Hannah Arendt and Levinas have shown – with the face of the other who demands and obliges infinite solidarity, love, and charity: the chesed ‫ דסח‬that in the rabbinic tradition is constitutive of healing the wounds of the world (tikkun olam ‫) םלוע ןוקית‬. Instead of being “supererogatory” actions that transcend what is required by duty, loving-kindness and charity are a more originary obligation emerging from the asymmetrical encounter with the other person. One could raise the objection here that, as with utilitarianism, Levinasian obligation is open to the criticism that it is too demanding, as too much is required of the individual ethical agent. It should be kept in mind that Levinas is not offering a normative rule or prescription. Levinas is engaged in a quasi-phenomenological description of the ethical and an interpretation of the Jewish prophetic heritage of witnessing to the other. He provides indications of the injustice of the alternative when law, which in one sense always has primacy, forgets charity and mercy. Levinas is closer to Leibniz than to Kant in raising charity, generosity, and mercy above duty, justice, and law.38 The liberal priority of justice over care, charity, and republican solidarity can function as a veil of indifference for excusing injustice given the structures of domination imbedded in the institutions and practices of social-political life. The impersonal application of norms and calculative measure associated with liberal notions of tolerance as a negative and imperfect duty is confronted with

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the incalculability, immeasurability, and unconditionality of the encounter with and solidarity for the other person. The actual limitation and restrictedness of “universal” cosmopolitan justice is revealed in contrast with the “infinite” and unrestricted responsibility to the poor, the needy, and the abject.39 Levinas calls the revelation of the other in the encounter “ethics” and, as we have seen, love, kindness, and charity. A love without concupiscence and an unconditional charity for the other without expecting reciprocity indicate possibilities of a relationship with the other not based on calculation, exchange, or fungible interchangeability. Due to asymmetrical separation, I do not ask what the other would prefer if she were me or like me, but what she prefers not being me. This critique of the logic of equivalence at work in justice without forgiveness and mercy applies to the strict forms of exchange involved in the cruel retaliation of “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” – the principle of retribution (ius talionis) endorsed by Kant in his defense of the death penalty – such as the use of capital punishment.40 Ethical-political life cannot be reduced to the immediacy of loving-kindness and care, a pure solidarity without institutions given the problems of steering and management in large scale societies and the need for justice beyond the scope of one’s friends, neighbors, and community. Levinas is right to insist that justice requires and is warped without the charity that precedes it and that gives it a bad conscience by beckoning to it, even as charity likewise requires and can only be fulfilled in social justice.41 Levinas appears at times to be inconsistent about the primacy of love or justice. He can assert at various points the priority of love or justice, the spirit or the letter, as each presupposes and fulfills the other due to the asymmetrical triadic relationship of self, other, and the third. Levinas consequently switches between the firstperson and third-person perspectives without being able to reduce one perspective to the other or to an ultimate neutral and impersonal view from nowhere – such as the murmuring of the il y a (the “there is”). Levinasian love is distinct from Confucian benevolence and the care of the other expressed in the ethics of care in not being grounded in human moral psychology or anthropology.42 Levinas is suspicious of naturalistic and biologically based models of the ethical while tracing the operation of the transcendent and infinite (that is, the ethical) in the affective and sensible conditions of human life. As hospitality and love are open-ended and multi-vocal, and not grounded in abstract reason or in concrete human nature, Levinas’s reflection on the ethical is not ethics in the familiar sense: it does not establish universal norms and formula for action, models of virtue and care to cultivate, or particular prescriptive maxims to guide situational behavior. Levinas’s “ethics” operates as a “first philosophy” before and beyond ethics as it is ordinarily conceived in common life and moral theory.43 Instead of offering an ethical program, or setting up procedural normative guidelines, Levinas speaks of the other who cannot be defined by ethics in the sense of a normative theory or moral code. This other cannot be reduced to my interests without violence, no matter how universally those interests might be

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 163 conceived. This is the paradox of a liberalism that strives for equality and fairness while undermining their realization through neglecting the tensions of nonidentity and asymmetry in ethics and politics. The universalism of cosmopolitanism, liberalism, and tolerance can be blind to the asymmetries of power that they help maintain and the asymmetries of responsibility that they evade; they presuppose a logic of exchange between self and other that – demanding equivalence – is reductive of the other as other no matter how equally, fairly, and symmetrically this exchange is conceived. The inherent limitations of symmetry are revealed in its underlying economic and calculative character. Liberalism fails insofar as it does not question its own hither-side, the underlying logic and machinery governing the actual reproduction of societies and the international system. Its limits entail the need of an “asymmetrical ethics” – as well as a political economy of contemporary globalized capitalism that is outside the scope of this chapter – that transcends the limitations of its Levinasian form and idealizations of Judaism that arguably have a question worthy ideological character in discussions of Israel.44 Jewish ethical personalism has been identified with the thought of figures such as Buber and Levinas, despite the differences between them, particularly given Buber’s account of reciprocity and Levinas’s approach to the essential asymmetry and difference of the self-other dynamic. Asymmetrical ethics is exemplified in welcoming and greeting the other, and in generosity and hospitality. These moments of the ethical significance of the difference between self and the other are expressed in numerous Jewish sources as Levinas has shown. Still, this ethical moment is not limited to the Jewish community. Derrida describes how Levinasian hospitality opens the path to humanity from out of the context of hospitality in the Jewish tradition and its ethical personalism, noting how for Levinas: this duty of hospitality is not only essential to a ‘Jewish thought’ of the relationships between Israel and the nations. It opens the way to the humanity of the human in general. There is here, then, a daunting logic of election and exemplarity operating between the assignation of a singular responsibility and human universality – today one might even say humanitarian universality.45 The references to Israel can lead one to believe that Levinas is articulating a variety of Jewish communitarian ethics, as some of his critics suggest: a vision restricted to an ethically defined Jewish community, or a form of political Zionism that is complicit with the Israeli treatment of the Palestinians. There are, of course, commentators and critics who promote this interpretation that represents genuine concerns about Levinas’s thinking and its application to politics.46 Levinas’s vision of Israel as an ethically and prophetically oriented community that is to judge the suffering, injustice, and cruelty of history, instead of naturalistically participating in them, can be conflated with the existing state of Israel to obscure and justify its injustices in a Levinasian inspired apologetics; but the ethical idea of Israel can be used to criticize unjust Israeli policies and practices as evident in Levinasian inspired critics of Israeli politics.

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In contrast to communitarian and conservative religious readings of Levinas that stress Jewish social cohesion and identity, Derrida insists upon the role of an interruptive universality and humanity in the thought of Levinas even as he indicated – from his earliest to later reflections on Levinas – the potential and latent violence within it: there is, he notes, a “price to pay for not injuring or wronging the absolute other. Violence of sacrifice in the name of non-violence.” 47 However, Levinas does not portray acting for the other as ascetic or self-sacrificial violence against oneself; it is rather gentleness and generosity that disturbs egoism in moving us for the other. Due to its aporetic structure, Levinas’s thinking cannot be, despite potential communitarian limitations and ascetic self-sacrificial violence raised by Derrida and Critchley, confined to either a definitive sense of a limited community (e.g., communitarianism), such as a specially defined Jewish community or nation of Israel, or to a universal liberal and accordingly ethically neutral society (e.g., cosmopolitanism). Hospitality is exemplary of a distinctive interpretation of the constellation of the ethical and political. It indicates a third alternative to both communitarian particularity and liberal universality, which constitute the limiting pair of options governing the moral theorizing of Habermas, Honneth, and the later generation of Frankfurt School critical social theory.

Hospitality, substitution, and tolerance For Levinas, the home is not constituted through itself, but in a drama of interiority and exteriority through hospitality and welcoming. This home diverges from the experience of “home” (Heimat) that he relentlessly criticizes in Heidegger for its exclusivity and allergy towards the alien and other. There is thus the positionality of an acquired home and soil in contrast to an originary one.48 Hospitality is not the act of a sovereign autonomous subject; it is the openness to the other through which the subject is constituted.49 Hospitality occurs in the tensions between homelessness and homecoming; as an exposure of home to non-home and the welcoming of the homeless.50 Levinas does not conceive of the ethical through concepts of community and tradition (communitarianism) or abstract equality and tolerance (liberalism), but through the radical encounter with others in their irreducible ipseity and non-symmetrical and non-synonymous substitution for the other.51 The ethics of hospitality can be interpreted as an instance of or variation on such substitution. What of political hospitality that is mediated through the third person who demands equal and impartial consideration of all? Derrida introduces in his discussion of Levinas how the “third” and its distinctive neutrality (illeity) cleave the ethical and the political. There can be no possibility of grounding the political in the ethical; they are two distinct ways in which humans interact towards one another. Through the “introduction” of the illeity – and the impartial concern – of the third, an introduction of what was already present from the beginning, ethics is not only a question of the interpersonal asymmetry between self and other.

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 165 There is a complex asymmetrical triangle involving goodness, justice, and power between three persons. For each person there are multiple fields of otherness; and, as Derrida indicates, there are two different ethical and a political selves cleaved in their inseparability. It is accordingly the third that restrains the potential violence in the asymmetrical face-to-face encounter between self and other. The third is accordingly already active in their relationship. The drama of the political and justice is at work in the face-to-face encounter such that justice and equality cannot be reduced to the love and solidarity that serve as their prophetic inspiration and guide. Derrida describes how substitution – “my absolute, singular, incalculable being-given-over to the wholly other who comes to me from on high” – is broken in Levinas by the impartial justice of the third that does not concern only one other but all others.52 Tolerance, as part of justice, belongs to one facet of Levinas’s triangle. In contrast to the more radical critiques of tolerance as a negative, passive, and regressive concept, Levinas noted in his analysis the broader context of the idea of tolerance and gave it an ethical orientation towards the other that brings it into kinship with hospitality, generosity, and love.53 Levinas modifies the notion of tolerance rather than rejecting it as such. He deployed and appealed to the notion of tolerance and emphasized a uniquely Jewish tradition of tolerance that suggests significant lessons for modern secularized life.54 In a discussion of Judaism and religion, Levinas opposed the opposition between religion and tolerance as a false dilemma, contending that tolerance can be constitutive of a religion without that religion losing its uniqueness and meaningfulness.55 Tolerance has a limited role in Levinas’s writings. Substitution indicates a more radical ethical possibility than mere tolerance conceived as a negative restraint or as a kind of neutrality that does not step in for the other. Substitution is more than the equivalence of the golden rule or other forms of conventional ethics. Substitution is at times replaced with the word ‘love’ by Levinas, who remarked how the love that tolerance requires but fails to achieve is immeasurable.56 If tolerance is not to become a pathological indifference of each pursuing an individual path regardless of the other, or a form of intolerant condescension against those who do not belong to the tolerant cosmopolitan elite, it is in need of being reoriented and thought in relation to substitution of the self for the other.57

A cosmopolitanism of the other person Two recent approaches to ethical universalism (namely, those of Habermas and Honneth) offer points of contrast with the critiques of it that have been discussed so far in this chapter. In Habermas’s abstract and formal proceduralist account, intersubjectivity becomes an anonymous and impersonal space of the exchange of reasons. It misses the interpersonal dimensions seen in relations of care, esteem, friendship, respect, and solidarity. Honneth pursues a strategy of reconstructing ethical universalism in a neo-Hegelian form in order to rejuvenate its critical social potential by encompassing concrete dynamics of recognition in relationships of

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love, rights, and solidarity. Honneth stresses the dialectical character of processes of recognition and incorporates elements of what he considers to be the ethics of alterity such as the asymmetrical care of parents for children.58 Honneth has conceptualized solidarity as surpassing passive and negative understandings of tolerance. His account of recognition and solidarity as requiring a “felt concern for what is individual and particular about the other person” offers elements of a richer and more appropriate account of ethics than seen in Habermas’s formalistic ethics.59 Honneth has arguably not gone far enough. Honneth’s criticism of Habermas can be pushed further by returning to the ethics of non-identity indicated in the works of Adorno and Levinas. Habermas conceives rationality as the practice of reflexive justification that is impossible to avoid in communication. Interpersonal communication provides the kernel for formal procedural rationality and deliberative democracy.60 To recall the argumentation of part one of this work and think further with Adorno and Levinas, procedural reason and deliberative democracy are incomplete without the persistent reminder of their interpersonal and prophetic dimensions as well as suffering and happiness as the contents of sensuous and material life. Democracy does not only entail the decentered society and pluralistic public sphere described by Habermas;61 democracy calls for decentered and diverse forms of rationality, argumentation, and deliberation – ones open to the affective and sensuous dimensions of human life – to pose the infinite demand of justice to the existing socialpolitical totality. In Levinas’ thinking, inspired by the prophetic sense of the height and vulnerability of each other person, there is a regard for the other that is higher than formal procedural norms of participation and mere tolerance of others; just as there is a singular welcoming hospitality and generosity that is more fundamental than the universal hospitality of cosmopolitanism.62 In such asymmetrical and potentially tense encounters between self and other, the unique is confronted and engaged with the unique instead of being a particular occurrence subsumed within a universal law or order regulating warfare, travel, trade, and migration. Such freedom would come at a bitter cost to those who were forcibly opened up to the “free trade” and missionaries that paved the way for colonization. Even without adopting the exaggerated accusative radicalness that Levinas’s prophetic and altruistic language can express, there is the trace in his ethicalpolitical reflections of another kind of cosmopolitanism divergent from both nationalistic and cosmopolitan forms of identity that either reject or assimilate the other. A cosmopolitanism of the other person appears in contrast with its metaphysical and Enlightenment conceptions grounded in conceptions of the autonomous subject and the “properly human.”63 As human rights are universal, the other must be made inhuman and contrasted as an enemy of rights to legitimate violence. This tendency consists of the growing facelessness of war from mechanized war to drone warfare with its pragmatically justified and dehumanized faceless targets. If the philosophers of non-identity discussed in the current chapter – Adorno, Derrida, and Levinas – and their critique of modernity are correct, centering cosmopolitanism and tolerance in the liberal self and self-interested individual

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 167 cannot but fail. This is because of the inherent paradox within a universalism that is contradicted by its being grounded in and overtly and tacitly committed to the prejudices of the conditional and partial perspective of the modern “universal” self-satisfied and smug and yet empty and hollow modern subject. That perspective, of course, is the banality of “one-dimensional” existence that is characteristic of the relentlessly commoditized and consumeristic form of life in capitalism for both early Frankfurt School thinkers, such as Adorno, as well as Levinas. This conception of the self is defined through practices and notions of freedom, power, and will that compel the subject to be incapable of being genuinely open to and affirmative towards the other person in her or his concrete singular ipseity that cannot be subsumed in totality no matter how universal it might appear to be.

Notes 1 An earlier shorter version of this paper appeared in Chinese: Eric S. Nelson, “非对称伦 理学与世界公民主义宽容悖论.” 吉林大学社会科学学报, 2014年第3期, 101–107 [“Asymmetrical Ethics and the Aporias of Cosmopolitan Tolerance,” Jilin University Journal Social Sciences Edition, 3 (2014): 101–107]. 2 April Carter, The Political Theory of Global Citizenship (New York: Routledge, 2001), 17. 3 Rainer Forst, Toleranz im Konflikt: Geschichte, Gehalt und Gegenwart eines umstrittenen Begriffs (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2003); Wendy Brown and Rainer Forst, The Power of Tolerance: A Debate (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014). 4 Martin Buber, Meetings: Autobiographical Fragments (London: Routledge, 2002), 28. 5 Martha Nussbaum’s argumentation goes too far in problematizing the anti-colonial nationalist responses to colonialism – by way of an analysis of Rabindranath Tagore’s novel The Home and the World (1916) – in her classic essay “Patriotism and Cosmopolitanism,” in Joshua Cohen, ed., For Love of Country? (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996), 3–17, since the patriotism of the oppressed can be a needed response to cosmopolitan empires, as Sun Yat-sen argued in The Three Principles of the People. 6 Herbert Marcuse, “Repressive Tolerance,” in Robert Paul Wolff, Herbert Marcuse, and Barrington Moore, eds., A Critique of Pure Tolerance (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 81. 7 Wendy Brown, Regulating Aversion: Tolerance in the Age of Identity and Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). 8 Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity, translated by A. Lingis (Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press, 1969), 27. 9 Stephen Eric Bronner, Ideas in Action: Political Tradition in the Twentieth Century (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 1999), 331. 10 For a discussion of Kant and Hegel that problematizes and formulates an alternative to this standard account, see Andrew Buchwalter, Hegel and Global Justice (Dordrecht: Springer, 2012), 23. 11 Hegel remarked: “once the substantial form of the spirit has inwardly reconstituted itself, all attempts to preserve the forms of an earlier culture are utterly in vain; like withered leaves they are pushed off by the new buds already growing at their roots.” Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1969), § 5. 12 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Elements of the Philosophy of Right (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), § 270. 13 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of World History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 66. 14 Hegel, Elements of the Philosophy of Right, § 209.

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15 Theodor W. Adorno, History and Freedom: Lectures 1964–1965 (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2006), 110. 16 Adorno’s critical stance toward the student movement is noticeable in Theodor W. Adorno, Critical Models: Interventions and Catchwords (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998). 17 Theodor W. Adorno, The Stars Down to Earth and Other Essays on the Irrational in Culture (London: Routledge, 1994)‎, 191. 18 Theodor W. Adorno, Minima Moralia, translated by E. F. N. Jephcott (London: Verso, 2005), § 66, 102–103. Espen Hammer discusses Adorno’s apparently ambiguous stance towards tolerance in this passage in Adorno and the Political‎ (London: Routledge, 2006), 160–161. 19 Adorno, MM, § 4, p. 25. This passage suggests that tolerating the other involves denying the other’s alterity in Andrew G. Fiala, Tolerance and the Ethical Life (London: Continuum, 2005), 106–107. Such a tolerance is read as a kind of tact, calculative prudence, and artifice according to D. M. Kleinberg-Levin, Gestures of Ethical Life: Reading Hölderlin’s Question of Measure After Heidegger (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 112. 20 See Wendy Brown, Regulating Aversion: Tolerance in the Age of Identity and Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). 21 On the context and implications of the difference between Derrida and Habermas on tolerance and hospitality, see Lasse Thomassen, “The Inclusion of the Other? Habermas and the Paradox of Tolerance,” Political Theory 34, no. 4 (2006): 439–462; Mengwei Yan, “Tolerance or Hospitality?” Frontiers of Philosophy in China 7, no. 1 (2012): 154–163. 22 Jacques Derrida, Maurizio Ferraris, Giacomo Donis and David Webb, A Taste for the Secret (Malden: Polity, 2001), 62–63. Compare Jacques Derrida and Gil Anidjar, Acts of Religion (New York: Routledge, 2002), 59. 23 John D. Caputo, Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida (New York: Fordham University Press, 1997), 45. 24 Herbert Marcuse, One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964), 7. 25 Jacques Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (London: Routledge, 2001), ix. 26 Jacques Derrida, Paper Machine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 123. 27 See Jacques Derrida and Elisabeth Roudinesco, For What Tomorrow: A Dialogue (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004), 123. 28 Jacques Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (London: Routledge, 2001), 20–21, and note the related discussion in Jacques Derrida, Aporias: Dying-Awaiting (One Another at) the “Limits of Truth” (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), 84. 29 Jacques Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other, or, the Prosthesis of Origin (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 25. 30 Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other, 25. 31 Compare David Gauthier, “Levinas and the Politics of Hospitality,” History of Political Thought 28, no. 1 (2007): 158–180. Levinas’s ambiguous and at times troubling relationship with Eurocentrism, colonialism, and racism should be addressed in this context; see in particular Howard Caygill, Levinas and the Political (London: Routledge, 2002). 32 Jacques Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas‎ (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 87–88. 33 See Eric S. Nelson, “Against Liberty: Adorno, Levinas, and the Pathologies of Freedom,” Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory 59, no. 131 (2012): 64–83. On the problematic of republicanism in Levinas, see Caygill, Levinas and the Political, 58. 34 Simon Critchley, The Ethics of Deconstruction: Derrida and Levinas (West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 1999), 304; Simon Critchley, Very Little. . . Almost Nothing: Death, Philosophy, Literature, 2nd Edition (London: Routledge, 2004), 173.

Cosmopolitan tolerance and asymmetrical ethics 169 35 Jürgen Habermas, Philosophische Texte, Band 4: Politische Theorie (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2009), 70–86. Translation: Jürgen Habermas, “Three Normative Models of Democracy,” Constellations 1, no. 1 (1994): 1–10. 36 Levinas, Totality and Infinity, 53. 37 Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, 72. 38 On universal charity as justice in Leibniz, see Patrick Riley, Leibniz’ Universal Jurisprudence: Justice as the Charity of the Wise (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1996), 143. 39 The difference between “universal” cosmopolitan justice and the “infinite” and openended responsibility articulated by Levinas is discussed in Eduard Jordaan, “Cosmopolitanism, Freedom, and Indifference: A Levinasian View,” Alternatives: Global, Local, Political 34, no. 1 (2009): 83–106. 40 Emmanuel Levinas, “An Eye for an Eye (1963),” in Difficult Freedom: Essays on Judaism, translated by Seán Hand (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 147. 41 See Emmanuel Levinas, Entre nous: On Thinking-of-the-Other, translated by M. B. Smith and B. Harshav (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 98, 121; Emmanuel Levinas, Is It Righteous to Be? ed. Jill Robbins (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 194; compare Michael Morgan, Discovering Levinas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 451. 42 See Eric S. Nelson, “Levinas and Early Confucian Ethics,” Levinas Studies 4 (2009): 177–207. 43 Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, 4, 39. 44 On the scope and limits of ethical Judaism in the context of the dialogue of nations, compare Santiago Slabodsky, Decolonial Judaism: Triumphal Failures of Barbaric Thinking (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 45 Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, 72. 46 For a critical and perhaps oversimplifying account of the complex and problematic relationship between Jewish ethical personalism and Zionism, see Judith Butler, Parting Ways: Jewishness and the Critique of Zionism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012); on Levinas’s question worthy relationship with Zionism and the Palestinians, see Jason Caro, “Levinas and the Palestinians,” Philosophy & Social Criticism 35, no. 6 (2009): 671–684. 47 Derrida and Anidjar, Acts of Religion, 88. 48 Compare the discussion of French soil in Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other, 91. 49 See the discussion in François Raffoul, The Origins of Responsibility (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 179. 50 Compare Cecil Eubanks, “The Politics of the Homeless Spirit: Heidegger and Levinas on Dwelling and Hospitality,” History of Political Thought 32, no. 1 (2011): 125–146. 51 See C. Fred Alford, “Levinas and the Limits of Political Theory,” in Marinos Diamantides, ed., Levinas, Law, Politics (London: Routledge-Cavendish, 2007), 119. 52 Caputo, Deconstruction in a Nutshell, 205. On the problem of the third party in Levinas, see Robert Bernasconi, “The Third Party. Levinas on the Intersection of the Ethical and the Political,” Journal of the British Society for Phenomenology 30, no. 1 (1999): 76–87. 53 Ze’ev Levy, “Emmanuel Levinas on Secularization in Modern Society,” Levinas Studies 1 (2005): 31–32. 54 On tolerance as a non-contingent constitutive characteristic of Judaism, see Levinas, Difficult Freedom, 173; Ze’ev Levy, “Emmanuel Levinas on Secularization in Modern Society,” 31–32; Malka Salomon, Emmanuel Levinas: His Life and Legacy (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2006), 13. On the distinction of the secular and the religious in Levinas, see Eric S. Nelson, “The Secular, the Religious, and the Ethical in Kierkegaard and Levinas,” in Claudia Welz and Karl Verstrynge, eds., Despite Oneself: Subjectivity and Its Secret in Kierkegaard and Levinas (London: Turnshare, 2008), 91–109.

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55 Levinas, Difficult Freedom, 173–174. 56 Emmanuel Levinas, Nine Talmudic Readings (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), 27. 57 On the intolerant condescending tolerance of the elite, see Emmanuel Levinas, Beyond the Verse: Talmudic Readings and Lectures‎ (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 95. 58 In particular, chapter 5 of Axel Honneth, Das Andere der Gerechtigkeit: Aufsätze zur praktischen Philosophie (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2000). 59 See Honneth, Das Andere der Gerechtigkeit, 129. 60 Habermas’s basic formulation of deliberative democracy in these terms appears in Habermas, Politische Theorie, 70–86; Habermas, “Three Normative Models of Democracy,” 1–10. 61 Habermas, Politische Theorie, 70–86; Habermas, “Three Normative Models of Democracy,” 1–10. 62 Compare Rosalyn Diprose, Corporeal Generosity: On Giving with Nietzsche, MerleauPonty, and Levinas‎ (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 167. 63 On the complex problematic of cosmopolitanism, humanism, and the properly human in Derrida’s thought, see the helpful discussion by Jin Y. Park, Comparative Political Theory and Cross-Cultural Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Hwa Yol Jung (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009), 5–6.

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———. Entre nous: On Thinking-of-the-Other (trans. M.B. Smith and B. Harshav). New York: Columbia University Press 1998. ———. Is It Righteous to be? (ed. Jill Robbins). Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001. Levy, Ze’ev. “Emmanuel Levinas on Secularization in Modern Society.” Levinas Studies 1 (2005), 19–35. Marcuse, Herbert. One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society. Boston: Beacon Press, 1964. ———. “Repressive Tolerance.” In Robert Paul Wolff, Barrington Moore Jr., and Herbert Marcuse, eds. A Critique of Pure Tolerance. Boston: Beacon Press, 1969: 95–137. Morgan, Michael. Discovering Levinas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Nelson, Eric S. “The Secular, the Religious, and the Ethical in Kierkegaard and Levinas.” In Claudia Welz and Karl Verstrynge, eds. Despite Oneself: Subjectivity and Its Secret in Kierkegaard and Levinas. London: Turnshare Ltd., 2008, 91–109. ———. “Levinas and Early Confucian Ethics.” Levinas Studies 4 (2009): 177–207. ———. “Against Liberty: Adorno, Levinas, and the Pathologies of Freedom.” Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory 59, no. 131 (2012): 64–83. Nussbaum, Martha. “Patriotism and Cosmopolitanism.” In Joshua Cohen, ed. For Love of Country? Boston: Beacon Press, 1996. Park, Jin Y. Comparative Political Theory and Cross-Cultural Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Hwa Yol Jung. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009. Rafoul, François. The Origins of Responsibility. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010. Riley, Patrick. Leibniz’ Universal Jurisprudence: Justice as the Charity of the Wise. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1996. Salomon, Malka. Emmanuel Levinas: His Life and Legacy.‎ Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2006. Slabodsky, Santiago. Decolonial Judaism: Triumphal Failures of Barbaric Thinking. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Thomassen, Lasse. “The Inclusion of the Other? Habermas and the Paradox of Tolerance.” Political Theory 34, no. 4 (2006), 439–462. Yan, Mengwei. “Tolerance or Hospitality?” Frontiers of Philosophy in China 7, no. 1 (2012), 154–163.

Part III

Contemporary challenges

9

Textual morality On the neglect of ritual in applied Jewish ethics Ari Schick

Introduction The division of mitzvoth and the focus of applied Jewish ethics Judaism has traditionally recognized a division of commandments into two categories: mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero and mitzvoth bein adam la’makom: obligations between a person and his fellow, and those between the individual and God. Perhaps it should not appear surprising that contemporary discussions of applied Jewish ethics tend to focus almost exclusively on the former category, which encompasses core moral doctrines (e.g. love your neighbor as yourself [Lev. 19:18]) specific legal precepts (e.g. just weights and measures (Deut. 25:13–16)), and the wealth of Jewish lore that pertains to human conduct. The latter category, concerned as it is with ritual law, is seemingly focused heavenward and is therefore usually absent from the ethics literature.1 Yet, if we widen our attention from contemporary applied and normative Jewish ethics (closely related aspects of practical ethics), and instead consider some of the influential earlier modern theoretical approaches to Jewish ethics developed in dialog with modern – primarily Kantian – moral philosophy, then the absence of ritual is more suspect. Figures such as Mendelssohn, Cohen, Hirsch, and Rosenzweig maintained the universality of ethics, but each argued in his own way that, within Judaism, religious and ethical teachings and the performance of ritual and moral acts are somehow interdependent, and that, broadly speaking, the Jewish tradition seeks the perfection of the individual holistically, both in relation to God and to fellow persons.2 The incongruity between these views and contemporary Jewish ethics is especially conspicuous in light of a move away from universalism in later twentieth century philosophy and towards approaching ethics from within the Jewish tradition. As is often the case, what at first strikes one as odd begins to make more sense upon reflection. Modern Jewish philosophy, by accepting that ethics is essentially universal and that Judaism has a moral essence, took pains to explain the moral significance of the most particularistic aspects of the religious tradition – its ritual law. In contrast, contemporary Jewish ethics finds ample support amidst a wider

176 Ari Schick turn towards particularism in moral philosophy for the legitimacy of exploring ethics by engaging with the Jewish textual tradition.3 Once the understanding of ethics within Jewish thought shifts from the universal (reason itself) towards the particular, ritual loses its status as the distinct praxis that stands apart from religion’s universal message and through which the religion retains its unique character. The pursuit of a particularistic Jewish moral discourse thus obviates the need to explore the relationship between ethics and ritual or present the encounter between them. This essay argues that contra this development, contemporary Jewish moral thought and practice ought to be far more engaged with ritual. However, rather than developing a theoretical account of the relationship between ritual and ethics, my focus is on particular examples. After offering some initial remarks on why ritual is vital to Jewish ethics – principally by providing the conditions under which Jewish ethics are possible – I discuss aspects of Biblical law and contemporary bioethics that illustrate this contention more perspicuously. However, I hope to advance a stronger claim in the course of the discussion: within Jewish tradition, ritual and ethics are at moments so deeply interwoven that separating the two results in a profound failure of normative ethical discourse. 4

The relevance of ritual to normative Jewish ethics – two preliminary observations The practice of Jewish ethics Viewed purely as a discursive project, applied Jewish ethics’ lack of engagement with ritual appears fairly benign. However, the existence of an intelligible discussion of Jewish ethics does not itself generate a corresponding recognizable Jewish moral practice. Drawing upon Jewish sources to address issues of moral concern is surely a form of engagement in Jewish ethics, but if we move from there to the actual doing, we face the problem of identifying what is distinctly Jewish about a given moral action. Even if we could trace some sort of line between Jewish moral discourse and an agent possessing a corresponding ‘Jewish’ motivational set, what characterizes a bare moral action as somehow ‘Jewish’ would then be entirely internal to the actor and invisible to the observer. If internal beliefs and motivations were the sole criteria by which we could pick out religious moral practices, then it would be difficult to imagine a community in which moral actions were understood as expressing shared religious values. In actuality, there are few if any ‘bare’ moral acts whose meaning is utterly opaque. We live in a world where the sense of our actions is constituted by everything from verbal exchanges, to symbolic gestures, to the many signifiers that are socially and environmentally coded. The meaning of a particular social interaction is therefore only in part determined by one’s intentions. By extension, for a moral act to have recognizable religious significance or resonance it must occur within a framework that allows the action to bear such meaning. Within Judaism, this framework is constructed primarily through shared ritual life.5

Textual morality 177 A ritual act is the paradigmatic form of action whose meaning is not entirely determined by the intentions of the performer, but by the conformity of the performance to a set of predetermined strictures regarding proper procedure, time, place, and participants. Those who partake in a ritual as performers or as witnesses accede to and create a space of shared meaning that can extend beyond of the confines of the ritual performance itself. The conditions in which there can be a distinctly Jewish moral practice (beyond a textual discourse pursued almost entirely by experts) exist within the larger space of religious meaning sustained by ritual.6 The nature of the moral life The retreat from universalism in moral philosophy is motivated in part by questioning the adequacy of any moral system understood solely as the correct application of general principles. Among problems with such a view is the objection that our moral lives do not consist of a series of discrete judgments, but of continuously living and doing – experiencing the world in a certain way and responding with appropriate moral sensibilities. Rather than an ethical/religious moment that interrupts the forward drift of everyday life, living ethically is an orientation towards the good that flows within its daily rhythms. For members of Jewish communities, this is maintained through the cadences of ritual.7 And, when the everyday is disrupted by crisis or predicament, ritual can help to orient us towards an understanding of how we might proceed in a world abounding in moral uncertainty and complexity. Anchoring practical Jewish ethics in ritual helps nurture the shared space within Jewish communities in which religious ethics can be practiced, the goods internal to Jewish moral discourse can be realized, and descriptively thick moralreligious concepts (e.g., hesed [mercy/kindness], tzedek [justice/righteousness], anava [humility]) can assume their full meaning.

The unity of ritual and ethics in biblical thought Mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero and bein adam la’makom revisited Given the discussion thus far, how should the division between ritual and ethics be regarded? Despite the ubiquity of the distinction, nothing forces us to regard mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero and bein adam la’makom as binary categories that reflect a basic ontology of divine commandments. Both ritual and interpersonal obligations are divinely mandated, both are required to maintain a society in which God’s presence dwells, and both are integral to leading a religiously committed life in which one seeks to perceive and do that which is “right and good” (Deut. 6:18). Rather, these two categories should be viewed as offering a functional taxonomy that serves several purposes. Within the Jewish prophetic tradition, the division is implicit in many admonitions that ritual piety without interpersonal morality is vacuous. It is codified in rabbinic law in dicta such as “sins against another person are not absolved by Yom Kippur, until one appeases

178 Ari Schick his fellow.”8 Within modern moral philosophy, perhaps the division is best used to emphasize, borrowing Kant’s terms, that other persons are ends in themselves, and not mere means to one’s own spiritual attainment. Although contemporary Jewish ethics often depicts the two categories of mitzvoth as interconnected in principle (since every ethical act is simultaneously a fulfillment of a divine imperative or covenant), the reciprocal notion that ritual acts, even when apparently directed towards heaven, may also serve moral ends, is not much discussed. The impression that frequently emerges from works of applied Jewish ethics is that there is in fact a self-contained and self-sufficient Jewish ethics that can be accessed apart from other aspects of religious life.9 In order to shake free of this impression, I would like to return to the root of the Jewish moral tradition and examine a particular instance where ritual and moral commandments are intertwined in the form of biblical legislation. Ritual and ethics in the law of unsolved murder The law regarding an unsolved murder in Deuteronomy 21:1–9 (usually referred to as the law of egla arufa, the broken-necked calf) is not only an example of ritual that communicates a moral message, but, crucially, a ritual that functions specifically where human morality has reached a kind of impasse. To summarize: if a murder victim is found outside of a city with no indication of who is responsible, priests and elders from the closest town perform a unique ritual of expiation. They go to an uncultivated wadi where they break (or sever) the neck of a calf. They then wash their hands in the stream over the calf and proclaim both their innocence and ignorance of what has occurred in order to atone for the spilling of innocent blood. To understand the need for such a strange ceremony, which bears little resemblance to the order of sacrificial rites, we must bear in mind that normally sins against God and sins against fellow persons are dealt with in the Torah by the priestly code and by the moral/legal code in separate and distinct ways – via the sacrificial cult and via civil/criminal law respectively. Despite the fact that murder disrupts both the social order and the communal relationship with God such that innocent blood requires nothing less than expiation (kapara – a term usually employed within the priestly code), at the collective level this is ordinarily accomplished through the proper functioning of the justice system by putting the murderer to death (see Numbers 35:31–34). The egla arufa ceremony joins the legal/moral apparatus together with the cult into a unified ritual framework to address the problematic ambiguity of the circumstances. In atypical situations where a specific individual is responsible for the crime of murder but their identity is unknown, order and balance in society as well as the community’s relationship to God are threatened and cannot be restored by the legal system. Yet the community cannot turn to priestly rites for the usual means of ritual expiation – confessions with sacrifice – to right things with God, for it cannot confess collective responsibility for a sin committed by an unknown individual. Still, because an unpunished murder has occurred, society is not held

Textual morality 179 blameless so long as innocent blood calls out for justice. In a predicament where neither the moral/legal system nor the priestly system can address the stain left on the community by sin and injustice, this sui generis ritual comes to restore both social order and Israel’s relationship with God. The ritual is structured to embrace ambiguity and uncertainty: it brings together both the elders/judges and the priests to enact a public sacrificial act which is not a proper sacrifice (the animal is violently killed far outside the Temple/Tabernacle, and not ritually slaughtered) and to establish the non-guilt of those who are not actually under suspicion. In performing the ritual, the community’s representatives play the role of accused in order to be exonerated and effect collective atonement for the people in the eyes of God. The egla arufa ceremony in a sense creates a shared “as if” space in which the inability of human modes of justice to act can be overcome.10 At the same time, as various commentators have pointed out, this elaborate public spectacle serves notice to the community that a murderer walks free among them. It conveys moral lessons to the city’s inhabitants: the killing of an innocent impugns our moral integrity; life cannot go on as usual; we must stop and take notice and work to ensure that it does not happen again.11 The joining of the moral/legal and priestly systems in the ritual framework of egla arufa illustrates that the two work towards the same purpose, and that the performance of ritual can achieve social and sacred ends. It further exemplifies how, within a religious system that defines holiness in terms of proper behavior vis-à-vis God and fellow persons, ethics and ritual form a web of interlocking practices and roles in which each individual stands in a distinct relationship to others, to the community, and to God. In this context, religious rituals of all kinds – not only those with obvious moral resonance – enact and concretize the theological ‘is’ from which the ‘ought’ of religious/moral imperatives emerges.12

Death and the limits of textual ethics The context and purpose of contemporary applied Jewish ethics Although medieval Jewish philosophers had addressed the relationship between revealed and rationally available truth and between ritual and ethical law, the Enlightenment compelled Jewish thinkers to take up the question anew. Modern Jewish philosophers responded both to the newly offered opportunity for Jews to view themselves as belonging to a larger ‘community of man,’ and to the pressures that Enlightenment humanism and de-ritualized Protestantism brought to bear on Judaism. Where the former presented ethics as self-sufficient and accessible via reason, the latter argued that advanced religion had transcended the need for primitive formalism. The modern discourse on Jewish ethics was therefore concerned to show that Judaism was characterized by its deep ethical underpinnings, but that within Judaism the universal still required the particular. Morality, though essentially universal, is encountered, enhanced, inculcated, and/or instantiated via the particulars of a highly ritualistic religious tradition.13

180 Ari Schick Contemporary applied Jewish ethics emerges free from many of the pressures faced by Jewish thinkers of the late eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries. Against the backdrop of a broadly postmodern intellectual turn, and in the context of culturally diverse liberal societies, the legitimacy of pursuing a particularistic moral discourse grounded within a religious tradition is no longer suspect. The question, rather, is whether the tradition can offer compelling guidance in a world that asserts the inviolability of certain universal rights while simultaneously ceding far more aspects of human behavior to one’s personal discretion and to the dictates of the individual conscience. Aside from benefiting from a turn away from universalism, practical Jewish ethics began to flourish in the space opened by a renewed interest in applied moral philosophy. Anglo-American professional philosophy’s interest in ethics had been directed almost exclusively towards metaethical questions, whereas practical moral issues were left to ‘ethicists’ who usually had roots in theology and had sustained an intellectual tradition interested in normative questions. Beginning in the 1950s, and accelerating in the 60’s and 70s, practical questions, especially in biomedicine, led to a much greater public role for such ethicists, whose ranks were soon joined by physicians interested in philosophy and the medical humanities, and by professional philosophers as well.14 The field that came to be known as bioethics was joined by Jewish voices early on and it grew along with the larger discipline.15 Although applied ethics encompasses far more than medicine and biotechnology – it includes discussions of general orientations to practical morality, as well as the range of moral problems faced in the realms of business, the environment, and sexual relationships, to take a few examples – in terms of volume of publications and degree of public attention, bioethics is by far the largest subfield and this is reflected in the literature in Jewish ethics as well. (For this reason, and due to my own professional interests, I – along with many others – tend to focus on bioethics in discussing normative Jewish ethics). Jewish bioethics literature addresses the same topics taken up by religious (primarily Christian) and secular bioethics, and it inevitably engages in dialog with the various approaches they offer. At the same time, it is usually local, textual, and internally focused. It primarily seeks to sustain a living moral tradition that is by and for the Jewish people, and only secondarily promotes ethical perspectives which might resonate more widely in the public sphere. It is precisely for this reason that we ought to judge the success of this literature by the degree to which it provides a robust framework for guiding individuals through areas of moral uncertainty, and how this in turn sustains the particular community that constitutes its intended audience. We must therefore consider not only the methodology by which Jewish ethics is formulated and its theological foundations, but whether it can translate ethics into daily life. Jewish ethics beyond the textual fixation Lack of engagement with ritual is troubling because it creates a moral discourse that is firmly anchored to texts but too easily floats free from actual

Textual morality 181 religiously-inflected life. Aside from ever-present methodological challenges,16 the distillation of ethics from textual sources often conflates discourse with practice. Doubtless, given the richness, diversity, and complexity of the Jewish textual tradition, it is understandable that “‘doing’ contemporary Jewish ethics,” might plausibly be described as “standing in a chain of tradition and interpreting classical texts in a way that contributes to that tradition”.17 But once we turn towards real-life applications, where the text meets the road, so to speak, what is unmistakably Jewish and particular within discussions of Jewish ethics – an open-ended discursive encounter with a canon of texts – can be entirely absent at the point of application. Perhaps for those who read widely, write, or lecture about Jewish ethics, engagement with traditional texts proves sufficient to generate a religiously infused ethical practice. But for others – and for the vast majority of the ‘people of the book’ who do not study ethics – Jewish ethics needs to be Jewish in ways other than its textual sources.18 It is ritual that constructs the shared space in which moral action expresses the fullness of its religious meaning, and it is through ritual that religiously infused moral sensibilities are shaped.19 Fostering distinctly religious normative ethics therefore requires that texts are translated into practices that are thickly embedded in the most concrete aspects of the Jewish tradition. The de-ritualized ethics of dying In my encounters with Jewish bioethics, nowhere has the deficit created by a lack of engagement with ritual been more apparent and unfortunate than in discussions of various aspects of ethics at the end of life. The way that most people in developed countries die today – within the confines of medical institutions and subject to constant monitoring and interventions – is quite different from the way death was experienced prior to the introduction and widespread use of advanced lifesupport technologies in the last decades of the twentieth century. It has changed even more radically compared to the situation prior to World War II, the point at which most deaths began to occur in hospitals. By and large, the Jewish bioethics literature takes the medicalization of dying as a given and then seeks to carve out a small space for moral decisions informed by Jewish tradition. These are essentially confined to questions of whether and when certain medical interventions can be refused or withdrawn. But focusing on these questions misses the larger social and ethical challenges at play. The sequestration of death from contact with everyday life and its confinement to facilities whose institutional mission is to preserve life has created a situation in which people fear dying more then they fear death itself. They are terrified of spending the last stage of their lives on terms dictated by medical practice, away from everything familiar and comforting.20 The transformation of dying from something that was once a difficult but natural conclusion of one’s life-story to a potential series of tortured decisions regarding ‘when to pull the plug’ does not simply generate a number of ethical dilemmas; rather, the transformation itself constitutes the essential moral predicament of dying in a medicalized age.

182 Ari Schick From a Jewish perspective, this transformation should be noticed most acutely in the absence of one-half of the unified ritual framework developed over centuries for the care of the dying and dead.21 Today one will find no shortage of selfpraise for the way in which Jews continue to practice sensitive rituals in preparing bodies for burial and mourning observances. The care of the dying, however, which by the dawn of the modern period was highly formalized – from liturgy, to the arrangement of the deathbed, to final confession – is scarcely recalled.22 Yet within a traditional Jewish ritual framework, caring for the dying, caring for the body postmortem, and mourning the dead, were never seen as isolated acts with their own individual meanings, but rather as different aspects of attending to a person by aiding the process of the soul’s transition.23 By viewing care of the dying as presenting moral questions isolated from social context and absent any cohesive ritual structure, Jewish ethics has failed before it has even begun.24 Useful and morally sensitive work has been done by those seeking to develop a Jewish model for end of life care,25 but even here the attempt to understand what is meant by a ‘good death’ within Judaism needs to be tied more to reclaiming ritual beyond the usual textual sources. In this area at least, ritual is prior to ethics. I do not mean to suggest that Jewish ethics must delve into speculative religious metaphysics regarding the soul or its journey. Successful ritual performance does not require that one subscribe to a coherent ontology – only that one enact it. Ritual, even when performed absent belief, has the ability to structure the space of moral reflection and action.26 A shift of balance away from medicalization and towards ritualization of the dying process would present a very different point of departure for ethics.27 First, it would allow us to overcome what is perhaps the greatest hurdle in proper care for the dying: acknowledgment that they are in fact dying. 28 Ritual can convey this to the dying person and to their family without the difficulty of explicit reference to death, and without foreclosing all sense of hope to those who wish to hold to it. Second, it would focus our attention away from the passive body to which things are done, and towards the person who, conscious or not, is actively moving towards the end of life. Third, ritual would help relieve the dying person, or more often their kin, of the burden of having to constantly decide ‘what do we do now,’ as if control over death were in their hands and at every juncture are being called upon them to make life or death choices. Grappling with these decisions creates a great deal of anguish that is often compounded by seemingly intractable disagreements within families and persistent feelings of guilt that perhaps more should have been done. Ritual imposes its own kind of order onto this turmoil by bounding the scope and meaning of the actions that it frames, such that these questions begin to look quite different. Once it is understood – not through discourse, but through ritual practice – that a loved one is dying, that there is a Jewish way to die, and that this biological and spiritual process is underway, then the very nature of such decisions changes from one of choosing life versus death, to the question of how to die well. In such a framework, end of life decisions are far less burdensome, and it is easier for family members to find a shared orientation. Finally, just as shared rituals foster the transmission of values and practical wisdom between

Textual morality 183 generations in many areas of life, bringing a ritual framework back to dying would help to make it more public, and allow more of us to learn from those who go before us. The above picture is admittedly idealized, but the core idea is more modest: a reengagement with ritual is far more important than textual ethics for developing genuinely useful, comforting, and morally sensitive practices for end of life care. Fortunately, this has already begun to an extent, as is evidenced by widespread interest in establishing communal hevrot qadisha (burial societies). This trend bespeaks a deeply-felt desire to de-marginalize death, and to express deeply-felt Jewish moral commitments through ritual. I am hopeful that just as rituals for the dead have undergone a renaissance (rituals for mourners seem to have been largely preserved), we shall eventually see the same kind of renewal of structured rituals for the dying. Ritual and the ambiguous death29 Medicine has not only transformed dying, it has created new kinds of death as well. The ability to maintain respiration after the cessation of brain function led to the introduction of the category of death by neurological criteria – commonly referred to as brain death. About a decade later, the development of immunosuppressant drugs made organ transplants potentially successful and transformed the ethical discussions regarding the permissibility of harvesting organs from brain dead donors from a question of cutting edge medical experimentation (about which Jewish law tended to be very wary) into a practical question of when one life ends in order to save another. Within Jewish bioethics, the acceptability of organ donation after brain death is seen as hinging on the technical question of whether the potential donor is in fact dead. Once that question is satisfactorily decided, it is assumed to follow that when answered in the affirmative organ donation will be deemed morally permissible and perhaps obligatory in order to save other lives, and when answered in the negative donation will be prohibited regardless of the loss of life-saving organs. The Jewish perspective on brain death and organ donation is thus characterized as ‘Jewish’ because it proceeds by analyzing halakhic texts and in some cases also uses extra-legal criteria to weigh competing halakhic conclusions on the basis of their moral preferability. Beyond this, however, Jewish bioethical discourse has little to say. After sanctioning organ donation following brain death, it neglects the lived experiences of donor families, and ignores the gamut of Jewish beliefs and ritual practices that could orient them through what is often an especially difficult encounter with death and mourning.30 As is the case in regard to end of life care, contemporary Jewish ethics detached from ritual has not been concerned with dying and death in terms of its deep religious, spiritual, and psychological significance. The medicalization of death results in the medicalization of Jewish ethics, creating a profound disjunction between contemporary and traditional Jewish discourses. Where illness, healing, death, and dying were once viewed as reflecting

184 Ari Schick the state of the soul, modern medicine has successfully pursued knowledge of the body as an object of study distinct from the soul, mind, or self. Once the body’s mechanisms are sufficiently understood, it can be approached as a machine – repairable in some cases, and a source of interchangeable parts in others. Likewise, discussions of the laws and customs of death and mourning have traditionally considered both the state of the body and wellbeing of the soul, but contemporary Jewish discussions of end of life care in general, and of brain death in particular, are interested almost exclusively in the condition of the body. Concerns usually addressed in the context of ritual – preparation for death, how the body is to be treated afterward, and religious metaphysics – along with the sacrifice asked of donor families, are almost never explored in this context. The acceptance of brain death within Jewish ethics in order to facilitate organ donation calls out for discussions of these issues. A diagnosis of brain death thrusts the families of potential donors into a situation where the condition of the body and the state of the soul appear to be wholly out of synch. Although family members are told by medical staff that their loved one is clinically dead, and despite the fact that their consultation with clergy usually affirms that from a Jewish perspective death has indeed occurred – and hence that the soul has departed – the body still displays most of the signs we usually associate with life; the chest rises with each ventilated respiration, the skin perspires, and the body remains warm. Ordinary intuitions about the nature of life and death need to be reconciled abruptly with the clinical understanding of death. Uncertainty as to whether the patient is ‘really dead’ is even woven into religiously-inflected discussions, such as encouragement given to families that the donor is performing a great mitzvah in saving another’s life. If normal deaths are marked by liminality, then brain death – especially when it precedes organ procurement – intensifies the ambiguity inherent in passing from life to death many times over. Brain death therefore creates a need for rituals that guide families through a technologically mediated and temporally extended transition from the death of the person to the final death of the body. The common assumption that families consent to organ donation only when they fully accept the clinical epistemic stance that their loved one is a ‘cadaver with a heartbeat,’ has been shown by a number of studies to be mistaken.31 A social worker interviewed by Israeli ethnographer Orit Brawer Ben-David explains that after obtaining a family’s consent she advises them “to say farewell to their loved one and then to leave the hospital at once, while the dead person still seems to be alive, so that they will not have to face the problematic nature of the actual moment of death.”32 The ambiguity regarding the non-finality of brain death thus has a positive valence in that it affords families a temporary reprieve to say goodbye to kin who, by the very criteria that render them good candidates for transplantation, have usually died suddenly and without warning. At the same time, it raises lingering questions as to the moral permissibility of organ procurement. Although the textual approach to Jewish ethics can certainly accommodate the idea that the death of the person can occur before the body has completely expired, it is Jewish ritual rooted in a coherent metaphysics of death that can make sense

Textual morality 185 of the extended liminality of brain death, and thereby allow families who wish to donate to proceed with their decisions despite the ambiguity of the situation and despite the often overlooked anguish that accompanies thoughts of how the body is treated in the procurement process.33 Jewish rituals for the dead and mourning practices all reflect the idea that the soul remains closely linked to the body after death and becomes less attached as the body decays and loses its human form, a process which is distressing to the soul but brings expiation.34 The acts and prayers of mourners and the ḥevra kadisha (whose work had traditionally already begun by tending to the dying), and the many expressions of kavod ha-meit (honor and respect for the dead) serve to comfort the soul and help it through its journey. Among these are the appointment of a shomer (guardian) to watch over the body from death until burial, the ṭaharah (ritual purification) performed on the body, the burial society’s request of forgiveness from the deceased, and observance of shiva (seven days of mourning) ideally where the person died (now a rare possibility). All reflect beliefs about an ongoing connection between body and soul. The ritual framework therefore creates room for the perception of the donor’s family that their loved one is ‘there,’ if not quite alive. Acknowledging the soul’s ongoing connection to the body also allows deeply conflicting feelings about putting the body through the process of procurement to be validated – something that is not easily accommodated in the prevailing moral discourse that depicts organ donation solely as a ‘gift of life’ that entails no sacrifice on the part of the donor or their family. But existing rituals may be inadequate for this unprecedented situation. To be truly effective in the context of organ donation, the existing ritual framework needs to be expanded to deal with the intentional violation of the body that occurs during the process. To this end, Jewish ethicists promoting organ donation after brain death need to broaden their conception of the moral issues involved to include the problematic, if unavoidable, violation and objectification of the body. Textual ethics already note these problems and assert that saving a life takes precedence over the prohibition against desecrating the dead, and perhaps suggests families request that transplant teams minimize the damage to the body and return it as intact as possible. However, a ritual approach would look to a much wider range of possibilities. These might include assigning a shomer to stay with the body from the declaration of death through the procurement; adapting prayers for the donor’s soul to be said during transplantation and prayers for the donor’s family to say on behalf of the organ recipients; formulating a way of asking forgiveness from the donor for subjecting their body to the ordeal; and ensuring that the traditional taharah rites performed by the ḥevra qadisha are observed to the fullest extent possible. Without explicitly speaking of the donor’s body as still connected to the soul, ritual expressions of kavod ha-meit in the context of organ donation allow us to enact a moral attitude towards the recently dead that stands in irresolvable tension with what we are doing to the body. Even as we treat the body wholly instrumentally – as little more than a collection of parts – ritual allows us to affirm that it persists as a representation of the integrated person.

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Conclusion Reintegrating ritual into Jewish ethics The foregoing discussion has hopefully made a credible case for applied Jewish ethics to be more engaged with ritual. In closing, I outline three ways in which ritual could be better integrated into the discourse. First, ethicists should be mindful of how ritual plays a role in creating the shared space where Jewish ethics is lived, and encourage moral reflection and practice in a fashion that incorporates or links to specific ritual practices. Second, although one occasionally finds cases in which ritual is considered in the course of developing a broader approach to an issue (e.g., sexual ethics), ritual itself tends to get lost. Authors must recognize that whatever ethical takeaway is abstracted from a ritual is distinct from the actual performance of the ritual. As a result, the meaning that inheres in the practice itself cannot necessarily be extracted and analyzed discursively. This has consequences both for using ritual to make broader ethical claims and for critiquing or modifying ritual practices based on ethical considerations. Finally, when addressing areas where ritual profoundly structures our experiences, such as in matters of life and death, Jewish ethics needs to be deeply engaged with ritual from the outset. Doing so increases our awareness of and competence in addressing the real-life complexity of the moral-religious issues involved.

Notes 1 This claim is based on personal encounters with a fairly wide range of works in the area of contemporary applied Jewish ethics, and bioethics in particular. For an explicit justification of one author’s choice to focus on mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero and set aside mitzvoth bein adam la’makom, see Benjamin Freedman, Duty and Healing: Foundations of a Jewish Bioethic, 18–19. Among the scattering of exceptions that I have come across is a brief discussion of ritual in the context of medical care by two physician-ethicists: Jotkowitz and Glick, “Confession at the End of Life.” My apologies if I have overlooked any sustained discussions of ritual in applied Jewish ethics. As a further caveat, although for present purposes I often speak of a field or discourse called ‘normative Jewish ethics’ in general terms, it is not because it is all of one kind. Any broad characterizations should be understood to admit a range of exceptions. 2 Kepnes, “Ritual Gives Rise to Thought: Liturgical Reasoning in Modern Jewish Philosophy”; Lesser, “Samson Raphael Hirsch.” 3 MacIntyre, After Virtue; Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry. 4 Because this short essay is concerned with the practical intersection of ritual and applied Jewish ethics, I do not systematically discuss theories of ritual developed by social theorists (understood as a larger category of human activity that is not confined to religion or even to both secular and religious ceremonial enactments), offer a thorough account of the importance of ritual to Jewish ethics (or ethics in general), or discuss in detail the problem of picking out a discrete ‘Jewish ethics’ apart from other aspects of religion. Each of these is touched on in the course of the discussion and has been taken up quite ably by others whose works are referenced below. 5 The understanding of ritual that I employ is loosely drawn from works by Adam B. Seligman and collaborators (Seligman et al., Ritual and Its Consequences). The core of the theory is the idea of ritual as the creation of a subjunctive “as if” space. This

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allows ritual performance to function without the “sincere” acceptance of its ontological suppositions – a notion that Seligman applies to the performance of moral actions as well (“Enacting the Moral.”) Seligman also highlights the role of ritual in dealing with ambiguity – a point I return to several times. Although I only came to it later in the process of writing this article, a recent edited volume on ritual and moral philosophy (Solomon, Lo, and Fan, Ritual and the Moral Life.) offers an approach that is much more closely aligned with my practical concerns and helped to refine several ideas I had been developing. It should be noted that for a basic understanding of what constitutes ritual, both Seligman et al. and many articles in Solomon et al. draw from Roy Rappaport’s Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Ana Iltis offers a succinct description of how ritual functions in this regard: “Rituals create and mark social reality in four principal ways. First, by creating a social reality, rituals establish or reinforce expectations, relationships, and roles; they create a web of social bonds. Second, by inviting participation in a social reality, rituals maintain social stability and harmony; they create sustaining social structures. Third, rituals by placing individuals within a social reality enable individuals to understand themselves as part of specific groups invested in particular activities, commitments, and traditions; rituals by creating social reality allow individuals to understand their position within the social geography of the world. Fourth, rituals by placing humans within a social reality disclose the significance and meaning of time, including the passages of human life, from reproduction, birth, marriage, and suffering to death, thus aiding individuals to appreciate their location in history.” (Iltis, “Ritual as the Creation of Social Reality,” 17). Some rituals, such as the practice of giving charity before or during prayer, are clearly intended to inculcate a moral sensibility; others do so by subtly structuring social interactions. See Seligman, “Enacting the Moral.” Mishna Yoma 8:9. Alan Mittleman does a particularly astute job of dismantling this idea and demonstrating that within Judaism “ethics is found in the virtuous observance of the law.” (A Short History of Jewish Ethics, 13 n. 8). To be sure, the injustice remains undiminished after the ritual is complete, but this is inescapable: “The subjunctive world created by ritual is always doomed ultimately to fail. . . . The world always returns to its broken state, constantly requiring the repairs of ritual. . . . Although the claims of ritual may be of an ordered, flawless system, the workings of ritual are always in the realm of the limited and the ultimately doomed” (Seligman et al., Ritual and Its Consequences, 30). See Leibowitz, Studies in Devarim, 203–207. See Newman, Past Imperatives, chap. 2. It is impossible to touch on this topic without acknowledging that the relationship between ritual and ethics within Judaism became the theological crux of the denominational splits that characterize Judaism of the modern period. However, the same trends that have given rise to a particularistic Jewish ethics have also encouraged a renewed interest in ritual within Reform Judaism. The present discussion should therefore be widely applicable. Jonsen, The Birth of Bioethics. Brill, “Immanuel Jacobowitz and the Birth of Jewish Medical Ethics.” Newman, Past Imperatives, chap. 8. Ibid., 185. This quote should not be construed as representing the totality of Newman’s understanding of Jewish ethics. At points, he describes ritual practice as constitutive of a moral religious community in which ethical values are instantiated. It emerges from this analysis that the primary factor marginalizing ritual is that those who are most engaged in Jewish ethics at the textual/discursive level (a worthy pursuit, to be sure) tend to conceive of this as “doing Jewish ethics” and are therefore are less sensitive to the question of what constitutes Jewish moral practice outside of the

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discourse. To this, I would briefly point out several additional factors, which largely devolve from the problematic attempt to present Jewish ethics as a discrete subject of inquiry divorced from its larger religious contexts. (1) Ritual is divisive not inclusive. It creates boundaries between people and historically has been the source of many inter- and intra-denominational rifts. Keeping ritual at the margins allows Jewish ethics discourse to more easily cross various sectarian lines, remain somewhat intelligible to those not familiar with Jewish texts and traditions, and thereby participate in the marketplace of ideas in the modern liberal state. (2) Jewish bioethics, as has been noted in several critiques, is often based on formal halakhic discourse. Whether or not this is less traditional than appearances suggest, it effectively allows Jewish ethics to enter into a dialogue with bioethical approaches that similarly focus on the formulation and application of various principles to cases. This too leaves little room for ritual. Vanessa Ochs (“Jewish Sensibilities.”) identifies some (American) Jewish sensibilities and discusses how they are expressed through ritual and healthcare decisions. However, I believe that she underestimates the degree to which ritual is prior. Ritual itself shapes these sensibilities; they may then be expressed in other areas as well. Sociologists and social historians have traced changes in how people experience death (Kellehear, A Social History of Dying) and examined the nature of hospital deaths today (Kaufman, And a Time to Die). Brill, “Immanuel Jacobowitz and the Birth of Jewish Medical Ethics,” 335–340. Bar-Levav, “Ritualisation of Jewish Life and Death in the Early Modern Period”; BarLevav, “Jewish Rituals for the Sick and Dying.” Brill, “Immanuel Jacobowitz and the Birth of Jewish Medical Ethics.” Imagine, by way of analogy, how risible and futile a Jewish approach to the ethics of male circumcision would appear if it discussed the issue in manner isolated from its ritual context. Popovsky, Jewish Ritual, Reality and Response at the End of Life. Seligman, “Enacting the Moral.” Although medical institutions and the practice of medicine in general are highly ritualized, these rituals are structured to promote healing and reinforce solidarity among medical professionals (Churchill, “Patient Multiplicity, Medical Rituals, and Good Dying”) and between them and patients. There are also rituals used in hospitals to mark that a patient has died (Wolf, Exploring Rituals in Nursing, chap. 3). However, conspicuously lacking are rituals that mark dying. Understandably, hospitals are loathe to conspicuously treat a patient in a way that would mark them as a ‘lost cause.’ Medical professionals do utilize various cues and jargon to signal to each other that a patient is dying (and not simply incurable) but these are not usually intelligible to patients and their families. Medicine can turn dying into a very drawn-out process – not simply by prolonging the very end of life – but by detecting terminal conditions early and terming this ‘dying.’ Thus, patients and their families are drawn into a communicative logjam in which the term ‘dying’ has lost its meaning as denoting the very end of life. The result is something like a conversation where the physician tells a family that their father is dying – meaning that treatment is not going to restore any degree of health or functioning and is merely pushing off the end. But since “dad has been dying of cancer for well over a year,” the meaning is lost. Portions of this section are adapted from Schick, “Mourning for Brain-Dead Loved Ones: A Different Discourse.” For the present discussion, I focus on the views that support using neurological criteria in defining death. At least in theory this is accepted by Reform, Conservative, and large portions of centrist Orthodox communities, and is the position taken by the Chief Rabbinate of Israel. Sharp, Strange Harvest; Lock, Twice Dead. Ben-David, Organ Donation and Transplantation, 123.

Textual morality 189 33 Sque, Payne, and Clark, “Gift of Life or Sacrifice?” 34 For a comprehensive study see Raphael, Jewish Views of the Afterlife.

Bibliography Bar-Levav, Avriel. “Ritualisation of Jewish Life and Death in the Early Modern Period.” The Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 47, no. 1 (2002): 69–82. doi:10.1093/leobaeck/47.1.69. ———. “Jewish Rituals for the Sick and Dying.” Sh’ma 34, no. 603 (2003): 11. Ben-David, Orit Brawer. Organ Donation and Transplantation: Body Organs as an Exchangeable Socio-Cultural Resource. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2005. Brill, Alan. “Immanuel Jacobowitz and the Birth of Jewish Medical Ethics.” In Zev Farber, ed. Halakhic Realities: Collected Essays on Brain Death. Jerusalem: Maggid, 2015, 327–348. Churchill, Larry R. “Patient Multiplicity, Medical Rituals, and Good Dying.” In Carl Elliott, ed. Slow Cures and Bad Philosophers: Essays on Wittgenstein, Medicine, and Bioethics. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001: 33–47. Freedman, Benjamin. Duty and Healing: Foundations of a Jewish Bioethic. New York: Routledge, 1999. Iltis, Ana S. “Ritual as the Creation of Social Reality.” In David Solomon, Ping-Cheung Lo, and Ruiping Fan, eds. Ritual and the Moral Life: Reclaiming the Tradition. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture. Dordrecht: Springer, 2012: 17–28. Jonsen, Albert R. The Birth of Bioethics. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Jonsen, Albert R. and Stephen Toulmin. The Abuse of Casuistry: A History of Moral Reasoning. University of California Press, 1990. Jotkowitz, Alan B. and Shimon Glick. “Confession at the End of Life: A Jewish Perspective.” Journal of Palliative Care 21, no. 1 (2005): 57–58. Kaufman, Sharon. And a Time to Die: How American Hospitals Shape the End of Life. New York: Scribner, 2005. Kellehear, Allan. A Social History of Dying. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Kepnes, Steven. “Ritual Gives Rise to Thought: Liturgical Reasoning in Modern Jewish Philosophy.” In Kevin Schilbrack, ed. Thinking Through Rituals: Philosophical Perspectives. New York: Routledge, 2004, 224–237. Leibowitz, Nehama. Studies in Devarim, 3rd ed. Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, 1982. Lesser, Harry. “Samson Raphael Hirsch.” In Daniel H. Frank and Oliver Leaman, eds. History of Jewish Philosophy. Routledge History of World Philosophies, vol. 2. London and New York: Routledge, 1997: 642–650. Lock, Margaret M. Twice Dead: Organ Transplants and the Reinvention of Death. Berkley: University of California Press, 2002. MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. 3rd ed. University of Notre Dame Press, 2007. Mittleman, Alan. A Short History of Jewish Ethics: Conduct and Character in the Context of Covenant. Chichester, UK and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012. Newman, Louis E. Past Imperatives: Studies in the History and Theory of Jewish Ethics. Albany: SUNY Press, 1998. Ochs, Vanessa. “Jewish Sensibilities.” Textual Reasoning 4, no. 3 (2006). Popovsky, Mark A. Jewish Ritual, Reality and Response at the End of Life: A Guide to Caring for Jewish Patients and Their Families. Durham, NC: Duke Institute on Care at the End of Life, 2007.

190 Ari Schick Raphael, Simcha Paull. Jewish Views of the Afterlife. 2nd ed. Washington, DC: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2009. Rappaport, Roy A. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Schick, Ari. “Mourning for Brain-Dead Loved Ones: A Different Discourse.” In Zev Farber, ed. Halakhic Realities: Collected Essays on Organ Donation. Jerusalem: Maggid, 2017, 243–266. Seligman, Adam B. “Enacting the Moral; Concrete Particularity and Subjunctive Space.” In Bert Musschenga and Anton van Harskamp, eds. What Makes Us Moral? On the Capacities and Conditions for Being Moral, vol. 31. –Library of Ethics and Applied Philosophy. Dordrecht: Springer Netherlands, 2013, 327–338. Seligman, Adam B., Robert P. Weller, Michael J. Puett, and Bennett Simon. Ritual and Its Consequences: An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2008. Sharp, Lesley Alexandra. Strange Harvest: Organ Transplants, Denatured Bodies, and the Transformed Self. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Solomon, David, Ping-Cheung Lo, and Ruiping Fan, eds. Ritual and the Moral Life: Reclaiming the Tradition. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture. Dordrecht: Springer, 2012. Sque, Magi, Sheila Payne, and Jill Macleod Clark. “Gift of Life or Sacrifice?: Key Discourses to Understanding Organ Donor Families’ Decision-Making.” Mortality 11, no. 2 (2006): 117–132. doi:10.1080/13576270600615260. Wolf, Zane. Exploring Rituals in Nursing: Joining Art and Science. New York: Springer, 2014.

10 A critical reading of American liberal Jewish engagement with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict Yakir Englander*

In this article I challenge the assumptions that determine how the majority of Jews and the leaders of their institutions engage with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.1 In the category of liberal Jews I include Jewish communities that identify themselves with liberal American values when it comes to their worldview, outside the Israeli context. As a practical theologian, I will not analyze American Jewish philosophy regarding the conflict, but will focus on their actual understanding of the conflict and the ways they react towards it. Therefore, my sources will mostly include the journalism, blogs and articles of Jewish leaders. Even when I use the opinions of Jewish scholars, I will focus mostly on their writings in popular literature and less on their academic publications. Accordingly, I open with two anecdotes from my work on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the American Jewish sphere. Then, in the second part of the article, I will briefly discuss a theoretical claim about what I call “Expressional Jewishness” and “Tensional Jewishness”.2 In the third and central part of the article I will propose an interpretation regarding the involvement of American liberal Jewish leaders with the conflict. For this, I will use the “Expressional/Tensional” model developed in the second part of the article.

Observations After more than a decade working closely with American Jewish communities in the USA, as a peace activist and a scholar, I observed the following: A

American Jewish institutions are deeply engaged with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Rabbis, lay leaders, and many Jewish communities and social organizations all have opinions about the conflict, and they feel obligated by their Jewish identity to be engaged in political activism. According to previously published research, part of their Jewish identity is built on this real and imagined bond with the state of Israel.3 More importantly, they often claim that they care about the state of Israel and Israelis because they are part of their family, but admit that they do not have enough knowledge to know who is right or wrong about the intricacies of the conflict. Further, even communities and people that do not know enough to make an educated decision about the

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Yakir Englander conflict have taken a position. Their investment in Israel is recognizable by their outspoken opinions about the essence of the conflict, and the people to be blamed for its continuation. The Jewish community holds a limited range of perspectives on the conflict; differing opinions are often recognized as unwelcome or even anti-Semitic.4 For example: If a Jew today goes into any synagogue in the U.S. or around the world and says, ‘I don’t believe in God or Torah and I don’t follow the commandments,’ most will still welcome you in and urge you to become involved. But say, ‘I don’t support the state of Israel,’ and you are likely to be labeled a ‘self-hating Jew’ or anti-Semite, scorned and dismissed.5

B

Because of this, more and more liberal Jews who disagree with the ‘normative’ perspectives disassociate themselves from these Jewish institutions.6 According to some scholars, younger Jews are less likely to want a connection with Israel. Regardless of the reasons why many young Jews are less interested in maintaining this connection, they often find that they are not allowed to express their honest feelings about the state of Israel in their American Jewish communities.7 I have found that Jews in Israel and North America react in profoundly different ways to the political and theological convictions that underlie my peace work. In Israel, although many (including my family and close friends) disagree with my convictions and actions, I still feel that they respect my knowledge, my determination, and my candor. Conversely, American Jews often think my work and ideas are naïve, and that I do not really understand the complexity of the conflict, despite my Israeli heritage and years living in the midst of and being a part of it. Some American Jews have even told me that my actions betray the state of Israel. I have learned not to be offended by these allegations. As I listen carefully, it is not clear to me if the frustration I hear from some American Jews is in fact a response to my work in Israel and Palestine, or, as I think more likely, due to the fact that my work does not supply, in their opinion, an adequate account of the role that the conflict plays in their American Jewish identity. How is it that there is such a discrepancy between the conflict discourse in Israeli Jewish society as opposed to that encountered in American Jewish society? Why are even liberal American Jews afraid to have an open dialogue about Israel despite their willingness to consider discussing any other subject of social conflict? There are many answers to this important question. In this article I will introduce one more explanation. In my opinion, this discrepancy is also a result of the struggle for a Jewish identity in the American liberal context. Expressional Jewishness is compelled to identify with American values, but is equally compelled to maintain a Jewish identity, and that identity crisis has become tied to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

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“Expressional Jewishness” and “Tensional Jewishness”8 Jewish communities and societies in Israel and America can be distinguished by how they use Judaism. Their Jewish goals are inherently different from one another depending on whether they are “expressional” or “tensional.” Because of the breadth of the subject, this article deals only with the Jewish communities in the United States and the state of Israel. However, the conclusions of the article can be used to examine other Jewish communities. A Expressional Jewishness Expressional Jewish societies and communities identify themselves as part of the dominant society in which they live. They conduct themselves according to the values of that society and shape their Jewish identity in such a way that does not contradict those values. More than that, Expressional Jewish communities use their Jewish identity to enrich and understand the dominant values. Roughly, I argue that Expressional Jewishness in North America includes Reform, Reconstruction, and unidentified Jews (these Jews don’t identify with Jewish organizations but with certain elements of Jewish culture). This is about 72% of American Jewry.9 In the state of Israel, there are some Expressional Jewish communities that are integrated into the mainstream society as well. For them, there is often no difference between being Jewish and being Israeli. We are all aware that one cannot speak about only one American or Israeli culture. Each country includes many sub-societies and cultures which often disagree and do not look the same. Expressional Jewish communities are part of these subcultures (for example, White American culture, liberal white American culture, American gay culture, secular Ashkenazi Israeli culture, etc.) and for them, this subculture is the major society to which they connect and share their identity. Since the values and goals of the majority societies in which they live are not the same, different Expressional Jewish communities hold distinct values and goals. In fact, some of their values are in conflict. American society is divided by debates over fundamental subjects which are part of its core values of freedom and equality. Subjects such as the status of immigrants, LGBTQ rights and equality of marriage, abortion, firearms, and many others create divisions between different sub-societies in the U.S. The American Expressional Jewish communities also have deep opinions and involvements in these American debates, and are not disconnected from the mainstream debates. In other words, the American Jewish society is an integrated part of the American society, whether the particular Jewish individuals or communities are liberal or conservative, and subscribe to dominant – that is, (white) American values.10 Naturally, various Jewish communities are divided on issues related to American values. But this disagreement also indicates the relationships between different American Jewish communities and mainstream, white American society. That Jewish communities disagree on these issues reveals that they share general American values and are integrated into the society. In contrast, in the state of

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Israel, some of these issues, such as abortion and the freedom to own weapons, are on the margins of the Israeli discourse, since the core values and the history of the state of Israel are different than those of America. For Expressional Jewish communities, Judaism is a language by which they enrich their set of values, which are predicated on the values of their general society. Liberal Reform Jews who are part of Expressional Judaism, for example, generally find no tension between their American liberal values and their Jewish values;11 they use texts and practices from the latter as a way to enrich and understand the former. In this way, they view themselves as more ethical human beings, in accordance with the American understanding of ethics as well as their understanding of Jewish ethics. This is true also for conservative Reform Jews. The Jewish value of tikkun olam (repairing the world), for example, inspires liberal Jews (and other Jewish Americans) to strive to ensure that American society as a whole becomes better and healthier, in their understanding of the meaning of better, which is more liberal.12 During Passover, Expressional American Jews remind themselves that once they were slaves in Egypt. Liberal Jews, as an example, take this as an opportunity to remember that freedom, in the American context, is a privilege not yet enjoyed by all, and that they must combat servitude and injustice wherever they are found. When Expressional Jewish communities find tension between their values, adopted from the general society, and their particular Jewish historical language, they typically either ignore the relevant part of their heritage or reinterpret or “translate” it to stay consistent with the mainstream ethos. This process may take some time, since the Expressional Jewish community feels responsibility towards the larger Jewish society. However, they virtually never hold their Jewish values in tension with the values of their general society. Instead, liberal American Jews and other Expressional Jews believe that part of the natural Jewish history is to replace their Jewish historical practices for the sake of the current Jewish ethics. They do not hold the tension of conflicting value systems, and ultimately distinct Jewish values are lost for the sake of dominant American values.13 For example, most American liberal Jews do not feel the need to invest their time in questions about hell, heaven or miracles in the Jewish tradition, since these subjects are not part of their cultural sphere. They ignore these texts, stories, and practices, since they are believed to be separate from their Jewish identity. This is true also for volumes of literature on Jewish law and interpretations of the Talmud. When the subject cannot be ignored, liberal rabbis reinterpret it. For example, the definition of Am Israel (the People of Israel), which focuses on the uniqueness of the Jewish People (and has political implications) was reinterpreted or “translated,” (a term offered by Peter Berger,14) by a contemporary liberal rabbi to connect to humanity in general: “The teaching that Israel is God’s chosen people should mean that God’s chosen people is any people that is consciously dedicated to the purpose of furthering the perfection or salvation of man.”15 Kaplan claims that American (Expressional) Jews do not agree with any Jewish theology which includes some elements that Judaism is above other religions or cultures, since it creates a distinction between them and the general American society.16

American liberal Jewish engagement 195 Expressional Jewishness is not a category of Reform versus Orthodox societies, nor is it relegated to a specific geographical place. The mission of each of these Expressional Jewish communities is to educate their members of the values of the majority culture in which they live. They use parts of the Jewish language, texts and practices in order to further this integration process. The most important element to emphasize is that the goals of some Jewish communities are in opposition with the goals of other Jewish communities, since the values of their general societies stand in opposition to each other. There is no reason to compare which Jewish culture is better than the other. No one can claim that Israeli Expressional Judaism fulfills the general Jewish goal more than American Expressional Judaism, as there is no ground to compare them, since they have different missions and ethical goals. The mission of American Expressional Jewishness is to speak the American values that they believe in, using Jewish language. The mission of Israeli Judaism is to speak Israeli, and, slowly, more general Middle Eastern values, in Jewish language. An example is when Expressional liberal American rabbis critique a group of Right Wing Expressional settlers’ rabbis for hurting Jewish values by occupying Palestinian territories. To prove their point, they quote Jewish texts to show how settlements contradict basic Jewish values.17 In one of his articles, Rabbi Michael Lerner, editor of the flagship magazine of American liberal Judaism Tikkun, critiques the Israeli government, writing, “It is this love, compassion, justice and peace-oriented Judaism that the state of Israel is murdering”.18 What is critical here is Lerner’s expectation that the other side will recognize his critique as “Jewish.” Even when two Expressional Jewish groups appeal to the same Jewish texts or rituals, they are not in fact living the same narrative or engaging in the same projects of Jewishness, since each Expressional Jewish community holds values which are deeply defined by the context of its majority culture. Indeed, according to the values of these groups in American Judaism, which reflect some American liberal values, the behavior of the settlers is not only immoral, it is also “not Jewish.” By contrast, according to some Israeli rabbis, the ideology of the settlers’ rabbis is a legitimate reading of Israeli Judaism, even if many other Israeli rabbis prefer other interpretations. Therefore, Jewish leaders from different Expressional communities operate with different goals, values, and assumptions, and thus use “the Jewish language” – texts, practices, terms – in order to support different or opposing ideologies.19 The definition of Expressional Jewishness (as opposed to Tensional Jewishness) as a community that believes in the surrounding culture’s values does not assume that these Jews and their rabbis do not also experience tension in their Jewish lives. In this paper I identify four types of tensions. 1 Gap between ideal and reality Each Expressional Jewish community deals with a gap between their ideals and reality. For example, any Expressional liberal Jewish American community confronts the gap between the value of Tikkun Olam and Jewish responsibility

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towards the “Other” and the fact that even in their city there are still poor communities. This gap is not between their Jewish and their liberal American values. On the contrary, the Jewish language helps rabbis to expose the gap between reality and the ideal – that is, the liberal American ideal – and to demand that members of the community remember and advocate for a better future for those who live in the poor neighborhoods. It is not a surprise to see many Expressional liberal rabbis deeply investing in LGBT organizations and black communities’ struggle for better life. They do so because their Jewish identity pushes them to fulfill their American values. 2 Gap between Particularism and Universalism20 The gap between particularism and universalism exists today in the U.S. mostly in Expressional liberal Jewish communities. This gap is caused by the tension created by the choice to be part of the Jewish community, which contradicts the belief held by these individuals that it is important to be part of the general (liberal) society. Some Expressional Jews experience an inner conflict between their desire to provide their children a Jewish education and their fear that by being part of the Jewish community their children will be separated from the rest of American society. The tension is happening around the concept of Peoplehood, which emphasizes the ethnic and historical connection among all Jews around the world and their primary responsibility for other Jews in any place in the world. This demand is experienced by Expressional Jews as a tension, since they feel that the Jewish demands for inner Jewish responsibility conflict with their responsibility to the American poor and the needs of other societies worldwide, who need their support more than other Jews and the state of Israel. Some Jewish theologians and rabbis reconcile this gap through an Expressional Jewish theology that explains why focusing on the particularity – Jewish identity and language – enables the Jewish community to help the general community – the universal – as the Jewish culture helps the Jewish community be aware of the needs of ‘others.’ Its liturgy reminds adherents that Jews, because they have a long history of being semi-outsiders, have thus an ethical responsibility and capacity to repair the world.21 3 Tension between the specific community and the general American community Different communities exist next to each other and influence each other. For example, when the Reform movement was making decisions about its relationship to homosexuals, they always took into account the ways other Jewish communities would react to their decisions.22 More than that, the Reform movement takes into account the reaction of the non-Jewish American population (both religious and non-religious) regarding their decisions. Therefore, it is not uncommon for a gay person to feel that his Jewish Reform community, instead of supporting his

American liberal Jewish engagement 197 journey, is making his life even more difficult because within his general Jewish community, traditional family life is preferred. Of course, this tension is not exclusively Jewish. Many Americans in the LGBTQ community experience this tension personally and on a wider societal level, because each society deals with the struggle between conservative and liberal perspectives. Thus, this tension is mirrored by the greater American society in Expressional Jewishness. 4 Gap between supporting and condemning Israeli state actions This gap happens only for Expressional American liberal Jewish communities. For them, the current situation in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has become more and more complicated from a Jewish perspective. The policy of the state of Israel towards the occupied territories in the West Bank and action in the Gaza Strip creates tension for liberal Expressional Jews. On the one hand, they believe in liberal-American values that oppose these actions. On the other, they support the state of Israel and wish to protect Israel from any external criticism. This gap is wider than the first two since American liberal Jewish leadership has not yet found a solution to this tension.23 B Tensional Jewishness As mentioned, the main topic of this article is Expressional Jewishness. However, the understanding of Expressional Judaism will not be complete unless we define Tensional Jewishness as well. Tensional Jewish communities live in a culture with the coexistence of two different sets of values: one determined by the surrounding majority society and the other by their own understanding of what is an “authentic Jewish identity”. To be Tensional Jews means to live within the conflict of these values systems, with the perpetual effort to preserve authentic Jewishness within their surrounding culture. Jews who are part of Tensional Jewishness do not consider themselves to be living “authentic” Jewish lives. Rather, they believe that an authentic Jewish life existed only in the past, and their goal is to try to live according to this past ideal to the extent that the modern world allows. Ultra-Orthodoxy is a society which was created by definition to live this tension. The Ultra-Orthodox Jews are also referred to – especially in Israel – by the Hebrew term Haredi (plural Haredim, that is, “those who fear [God]”). This fear is one of the tools of Ultra-Orthodox rabbis to ensure followers maintain this inner tension and do not assimilate to the majority culture which surrounds them. Historically, their mantra is the phrase created by Rabbi Moses Sofer “Chatam Sofer” – anything “New [modern culture] is forbidden by the Torah.” Some Tensional Jewish groups believe that holding two conflicting sets of values is a healthy protection against decadence. In Israel, for example, most of the Religious Zionists have chosen to live with two sets of values: their understanding of authentic Judaism and the values of modern Zionism, an originally secular

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movement. Religious Zionism believes that Jewish life and law, as it is known to the Jewish world today, are not authentic. According to their claims, contemporary Judaism is a product of Jewish life in exile over the past two thousand years. According to Rabbi Kook, the founder of Zionist-Orthodoxy, the return of Jews to nature, to the Land of Israel, and to their bodies, as well as the convergence between Jews and modernity, will form a new Torah, the Torah of Eretz Israel (Torah of the Land of Israel) that will return Judaism to its authenticity in a Hegelian form of synthesis.24 Like the Religious Zionist society in Israel, the Modern Orthodox community in America lives in constant tension by choice. The starting point of this society can be summarized by Rosenak who wrote: “Jews, . . . see the world differently. And the implications is that they see it differently because they are somehow different. . . . the assumption of our title seems to be that Jews differ inherently from everyone else.”25 This assumption does not lead Rosenak to claim that Jews must live separately from the general society: “Children must be educated in their tradition and encouraged to be loyal to it, but they must also learn how the tradition interacts with the world in which they find themselves.”26 It is no surprise that Modern Orthodox members live in constant tension with the general American society. For example, The Conservative and Reform movements accepted women as equals in the public sphere, as reflected in the opportunity for women to serve in the rabbinate and to be equal partners in the synagogue. The Modern Orthodox community, conversely, lives in constant tension between, on the one hand, the traditional Halakhic order, which to them is considered authentic Judaism and forbids women from holding the same roles as men, and, on the other hand, their modern American values, some of which they view positively, and which demand equal participation by women.27 It would seem that the status of women in the Modern Orthodox community is inferior to men. However, studies show that there is an advantage in living in such tensional sphere: “Modern Orthodox Jews have America’s highest rates of ‘spousal homogamy’: a sociological term for husbands and wives who have attained similar levels of educational and occupational achievement. . . . Modern Orthodox girls and women pray regularly, and many engage in the study of biblical and rabbinic texts; outside home, school, and synagogue, both men and women devote significant amounts of time to all sorts of Jewish activities.”28 The distinction between Expressional Jewishness and Tensional Jewishness does not depend on being part of either American or Israeli Jewry. Both forms of Jewish life are present in both Israel and in America. Yet Expressional and Tensional Jewishness in the U.S. both react to American culture, by accepting or rejecting it. In contrast, Expressional and Tensional Jewishness in Israel, react to the Israeli (and the Palestinian-Middle Eastern) culture, similarly by either accepting or rejecting it.

The future of American Judaism Expressional Jews resist the tradition that they are obligated to marry another Jewish American person,29 since the values of Expressional Jews are primarily American values, which are shared with non-Jewish Americans.

American liberal Jewish engagement 199 Expressional Jewish community leaders claim that finding a partner who speaks these values in a shared Jewish language merits seeking marriage within the tradition.30 However this is not a significant enough reason for Expressional Jews to exclusively marry other Jews. Although the language of children of an intermarried family may not be “Jewish,” the Jewish parent and their children will still share the same set of values – their American values, in any version they subscribe to. The fact that such children will not speak the particular Jewish language does not mean that they will not have a rich culture31 it means that this language will probably not be a Jewish language. For those who believe that Jewish history, and being part of it, is important and deserves the sacrifice of personal happiness, it makes sense to push for marriage with Jews.32 But as I claim, this is not the way the Jewish identity of Expressional American Jews manifests. Jack Wertheimer summarizes my point clearly: “Long before large numbers of Jews regularly crossed social boundaries to seek spouses outside the confines of the community, they had erased the lines separating Judaism itself from other cultural perspectives”.33 The difference between me and Wertheimer is that he, as a Jewish leader, sees it as a problem, and I try to look at the phenomenon and understand it. From the other side, since American Expressional Jews share the same values with the more general American society in which they live, many American nonJews wish to join the Jewish society. Some of them will convert34 and the majority would like to be culturally connected to the community, but not convert to the Jewish religion. They will see themselves as ‘Non-Jewish Jews,’ much like some ex-Soviet immigrants in Israel. What then can Expressional American Jews do? Has the attempt to create a Judaism that goes hand-in-hand with American values succeeded too well? There are two possible solutions for the American Expressional Jewish society. First, redefine the idea of being a Jew. In other words, instead of identifying intermarriage as a threat to future Jewish continuity, American Expressional Jews can create a new discourse which will envelop and give those non-Jews who are married to Jews a place. So, instead of losing many Jews, they contain within them the non-Jews. But making the conversion process easier may not be a viable solution since many non-Jewish spouses have no interest in converting to Judaism. A solution might be to borrow ancient Jewish categories with Jewish terms and to translate them into modern language.35 Such a choice would reinforce the connection between American Expressional Jewishness and the American majority culture. American Expressional Jewishness would invite non-Jews – the majority of American culture – to design the Jewish identity of the next generation. That choice would naturally increase the widening gap between American Expressional Jewishness and the state of Israel. Another option is to deliberately create tension within American Expressional Jewish society. This tension will force people to choose values which do not go hand-in-hand with their American values. By doing this they will prove to themselves and American society that they prefer their Jewish identity over their American values. The choice to be a Jew, naturally, will create an internal Jewish discourse, which will separate Expressional Jewishness from the majority

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non-Jewish community and will push Jews to marry with other Jews. Such a decision contradicts the nature of Expressional Jewishness, since by definition it aspires to be like the majority culture. The values of the majority culture are its values. There are two ways to create tension. The first is by leading a lifestyle which includes acts that have no present place within American liberal culture, but do not contradict its values. The ideal example is keeping parts of Jewish law, which are not connected to American values. It is difficult for American Expressional Jews to choose this option, because during the last fifty years Expressional Jewishness abandoned any part of Jewish tradition that did not fit with American values. The second is by finding a subject where Expressional Jewishness choses to be Jewish against their American liberal values. I believe that in liberal Expressional Jewishness this option is embodied in the unconditional support of the State of Israel in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

The role of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in American liberal Judaism The Israeli-Palestinian conflict challenges the Jewish communities in the U.S. in different ways. Some communities feel that none of their efforts will be enough to support Israel. For them, the relationship with Israel is similar to the traditional Jewish relations between two of Jacob’s sons: Issachar and Zebulun. In this equation the Israelis are Issachar, the brother who dedicates his life to fulfilling the Jewish mission.36 The American Jewish communities are Zebulun, the brother who supports Issachar’s mission with material supplement. For many of these communities, some of which are part of Expressional Jewishness, there is no contradiction between Israeli government policy and their beliefs. Many of them hold, in general, more conservative views about American politics, and Israeli politics are consistent with their worldview. These communities interpret the Palestinian struggle for independence as a threat to the very existence of the state of Israel. In their opinion, even if the state of Israel often acts with (too much) violence against the Palestinian population, the conflict is for life or death and there is no better alternative.37 This article will not focus on these groups, but on Expressional liberal Jewish mainstream communities.38 For them, there is tension between Israeli policy and their general political-liberal beliefs. As the years passed and the occupation of Palestine by Israel continued, these Jewish communities started feeling uncomfortable with Israeli politics and sometimes even began to critique it. The most well-known group is probably J Street. However, even when they critique the state of Israel, they share a common belief that Israel must remain – at any cost – a state that is simultaneously Jewish, democratic, and Zionist. Anyone who asks how this can be possible without denying full civil and human rights to Palestinians and other non-Jews in Israel, is perceived by American Jews as pro-Palestinian and denounced as anti-Semitic.39 Their assumptions about the nature of the state of Israel focuses their attention on the essence of the conflict

American liberal Jewish engagement 201 in 1967, when Israel occupied the Palestinian territories. This prevents them from hearing the Palestinian voices that ask the Jewish world to recognize that the problem started in the beginning of the Zionist movement when many Jews moved from (mostly) East Europe to Palestine. As a result the Palestinians refused to accept the United Nation Partition Plan of Palestine (Massad 2006; Morris 2001). The Palestinian demand for recognition concerning the roots of the conflict does not mean necessarily that these Palestinians will refuse the two state solutions or any other plan. It simply means that they demand that the language of the debate surrounding the conflict change in the American Jewish communities. This American Jewish loyalty to the Zionist project is fascinating considering that some sects of Ultra-Orthodox Judaism hold an anti-Zionist position. Even the Ultra-Orthodox groups that are not anti-Zionist have never decried the anti-Zionist views of the Satmar Rebbe, the author of Va-Yoel Moshe, and Rabbi Amram Blau.40 In Israel, the Ultra-Orthodox decision to participate in elections and hold seats in the Israeli government does not prove that they are in favor of the Zionist project,41 but that they have adopted a pragmatic stance to maintain some leverage in Israeli society. Given the range of views within Ultra-Orthodox Judaism, where are the dissenting opinions about Israel and Zionism within American liberal Judaism? A society celebrating liberal values and freedom of expression is precisely the place where one would expect a rich debate.42 When there is heightened tension between Israel and the Palestinian Authority, most of American Jewish leaders – liberals and republicans – back Israeli government policy almost without question. For example, during the Israeli military operation in Gaza in 2012, all synagogues in Illinois were required to post signs with the slogan: “We Stand with Israel,” and many of these synagogues belong to Expressional liberal Jews. It is difficult to argue that such unconditional support of the Israeli government does not contradict the Jewish American liberal worldview. On any other issue, American Jews would refuse to support policies without questioning them, especially if they impinge on basic human rights.43 In my opinion, some members, lay leaders and rabbis of American liberal Jewish communities, who are predominantly Expressional Jews, consciously or unconsciously use the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to create tension between their American identity and their Jewish identity. The tension requires American Jews to actively choose to be Jewish, thus strengthening and creating their Jewish identity. In the past, the glue that unified and identified Jews in Expressional American Judaism was the shared trauma of the Holocaust, the suffering of Jews in the Soviet Union, and the support of nascent Israel from 1948 until 1973. Today, uncompromising support of Israel serves this purpose, especially during times of international political crisis. While all of the unifying causes concern physical crisis for Jews, there is an existential gap between the first three and the fourth. In the case of the Holocaust, for Jews in the U.S.S.R., and Israel until 1967 or even 1973, there was no tension for American Jews between their liberal American values and their Jewish values.

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Jews in all these cases were suffering from the unethical behavior of others, and the demand of American Jews was for justice.44 Support for Israel today is quite different though, as it is clear to many American Jews that the state of Israel is not in danger of extinction at the hands of the Palestinians, who are themselves suffering injustices. In the past, Israel was identified as David confronting Goliath, but now the Palestinians are seen as David, while Goliath is the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). It is fascinating that most of the criticism directed at American Judaism by proPalestinians concerning Operation Protective Edge in Gaza focused on this view. Their claim was that anyone who believes in liberal values could not take the Israeli side and support its behavior in Gaza.45 In my opinion, the silence of most liberal rabbis highlights the lack of separation, at least on the surface, between Liberals and Republicans Jews about the state of Israel. A good example summarizing my claim is taken from an internal American Jewish conflict between Rabbi Daniel Gordis and Rabbi Sharon Brous. During the operation in Gaza in 2012, in a rare case of empathy, one of the central rabbis in the USA also addressed the innocent Palestinian victims. In a rabbinical letter sent to members of her community, Rabbi Brous (IKAR) wrote at length about the need to strengthen and support the state of Israel. However, she also wrote: “At the same time, supporting Israel’s right to protect and defend itself does not diminish the reality that the Palestinian people are also children of God, whose suffering is real and undeniable.”46 In these two lines of this long letter, she asked her community, American liberal Jews, to remember that Palestinians too have been created in God’s image.47 A response to Rabbi Brous came immediately from her teacher, Rabbi Gordis. Gordis saw in these two lines an act of betrayal of the Jewish people. In his article “When balance becomes betrayal” he wrote: It’s only this new, re-imagined Jew who is constantly seeking to transcend origins which actually make us who we are and enable us to leave our distinct fingerprints on the world. That an utterly universalized Judaism is almost entirely divorced from the richness of Jewish heritage . . . is bad enough. . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about my two sons, both in the army. What I wanted to hear was that Rabbi Brous cares about my boys (for whom she actually babysat when we were all much younger) more than she cares about the children of terrorists.48 As noted above, Gordis is one of the teachers of Brous, a scholar who brought her into the Talmudic world. This passage highlights how betrayed he must have felt by Brous’s position, to publicly criticize his own student.49 Although he served as a teacher of many American Jewish rabbis, he defines Brous, who was selected by The Daily Beast (3/21/13) as the most prominent rabbi in 2013, as a leader of “re-imagined Jews” [Judaism]. He judges American liberal Judaism as connected to humanism, but as disconnected from authentic Judaism. In other words, since in his mind there is only one Judaism, he identifies Israeli Judaism (and probably

American liberal Jewish engagement 203 American [ultra-] Orthodoxy too) as the authentic Judaism, the one that is connected to its sources. On the other hand, the American liberal Judaism is American, and therefore stands against “authentic” Judaism. Gordis does not stop here, but takes the argument a step further. He does not allow Brous her assumption that one can keep both: humanist (liberal American) and Jewish values. In his opinion, there are times when Jews are required to choose which set of values they identify with more. In some moments of life, the two sets of values stand against and not with one another. What Gordis tells his student parallels what I understand is happening in American Expressional Jewishness. In order to preserve this imaginary ideal Judaism, there are moments when American Expressional Jews must vote against their own liberal (American) values. In these moments, they are pushed to choose to be Jewish (and not American). This is exemplified when they chose to fully support the state of Israel, against their liberal values. This act creates tension in their lives, and as a result they feel that they are Jewish, since they have chosen trust in their peoplehood over their general values. Brous refuses to choose one side. In her theology, being Jewish does not stand in contrast with being a liberal American, but is an ancient language that can easily be used to express these American liberal values. Therefore, by definition, there cannot be a contradiction between her love for the state of Israel and her devotion to liberal values. For her, being an American Expressional Jew, with liberal values, is not an imaginary Judaism because she herself, and the members of her community, are real Jews. She stands against the position of Gordis that there is one authentic Judaism, and therefore, she sees her Judaism as not less authentic. She writes: Who decides what the script is, and why do we want to be in a community that forces us to follow a script and calls us out for treason if we don’t? . . . The reality is that in no small part this is what turns off so many young Jews from engaging in the Israel conversation. Not only that even to enter you have to list your Zionist credentials of how many summers you spent in Jerusalem and how many family members made Aliyah [immigration to Israel – Y.E.], but you cannot say anything outside the script (Gruenbaum-Fax).50 Each of the sides brought other rabbis and Jewish leaders who supported his/her own ideas. On one hand, most of the published opinions supported Rabbi Brous. They expressed a lack of satisfaction in these American Jewish leaders who demand that they live in a way that places their Jewish and American values at odds with one another. On the other hand, Brous paid a price by being critiqued. For example, during the next conflict between Israel and Gaza, in summer 2014, Brous did not express a stronger stance, a more liberal one against Israel policy, or even against American Judaism. She continues to express her sorrow for the Palestinian suffering, but her words are hesitant, unlike her other more vocal liberal opinions about American issues.51

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This change regarding Israel’s moral status in the eyes of many Americans (Jews and non-Jews) has altered the role they play supporting Israel – seen especially in the life and changing identity of American Judaism. American Jews are often misunderstood and criticized for their support of Israel, and this serves to support their feeling that, once again, Jews are alone, and can only be safe with other Jews. This narrative fosters the illusion for American Jews that they also suffer because of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, just like Israelis, and that Israeli Jews and American Jews are “one people.” Most importantly, unconditional support for Israel creates tension between American Jews and their natural American context, obligating these Jews to decide between their liberal American values and their loyalty to the state of Israel. This is reflected by rabbis who identify themselves as liberals in most intra-American issues, but who are afraid to join organizations such as J Street. J Street too does not really have an open dialog concerning the BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) movement, even its less controversial branches, or about the possibility of a democratic one-state solution or a federation.52 Some social critics cite this tension, warning that the state of Israel will lose the support of American Jews unless it immediately ends the Occupation. However, my opinion is that many American Jews, consciously or not, need this tension in their Expressional Jewish life. Only a critical decision to be Jewish, in defiance of their American values, enables them to maintain their Jewish identity and avoid assimilating into the majority culture. Yes, many American Jews will stop supporting the state of Israel, but the lack of tension in their life will move them from being Jewish to being only American Liberals. The Taglit-Birthright program was created in order to strengthen these elements of tension in American Jewish life.53 It does so by creating a mostly imaginary connection between American and Israeli Judaism. In this program, young American Jews get free tickets to the state of Israel. They are exposed to Israel by visiting Masada and the Western Wall, meeting with IDF soldiers, and socializing with some Israeli Jews.54 There is little exposure to the full breadth of what Israel is. It is fascinating to listen to the voices of the alumni of the program. Many speak about the realization that for the first time they felt Jewish.55 This feeling stems from two different components. First, it comes from experiencing Expressional Jewishness in Israel, where it is ubiquitous. Many now feel total harmony with their Jewish identity. Second, for many of them it is the first time that they feel tension with their American (Jewish) identity. Until their visit, their Jewish identity pushed them to fulfill their liberal American values. As a result of the visit, they develop the understanding that their Jewish identity requires tension with these values. This identity requires their effort and determination.56 The fact that their peers in Israel sacrifice three years of their lives in military service to defend the state of Israel against constant threats (at least according to the interpretation they receive) helps to emphasize the element of tension and pushes them to choose to be Jewish by unconditionally supporting the state of Israel.57 If this interpretation is correct, there is a large portion of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict that American Judaism is not engaged with. Further, their understanding and feelings about the conflict are more influenced by their complex Jewish American identity than they are by actual engagement with the conflict.

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Conclusion The fact that liberal American Jews believe they are involved in the IsraeliPalestinian conflict (not realizing that in fact they are mostly dealing with questions of their own identities and the image of the conflict) has implications in a number of spheres. They could gain a lot of credibility by being honest about this deep identity crisis and by deciding not to use the state of Israel to resolve it. By admitting that American Judaism has a crucial identity crisis and the need for some tension in its Jewish identity, American Judaism can forge a new dialog among themselves and others. American Jews will have to decide if their Jewish identity is only a liberal American one or if they want to make some changes in the structure of their identity. Most importantly, liberal American Jews will not use both Israelis and Palestinians in order to deal with their identity crisis.

Notes * Profound thanks to Pastor Josh Thomas, Prof. Menachem Lorberbaum, Dr. Curtis Hutt, Dr. Henry R. Carse, Rabbi Dr. Ariel Picard, Prof. Jonathan Garb, Prof. Shaye Cohen, Dr. Isaac Oliver, Rabbi Meir Feldman, Rabbi Steve Greenberg and Rabbi Michael Balinsky. Special thanks to my editors Jonathan Schield, Michael Herman, Ashley Unruh, and Elizabeth Breit. The research was made possible under the generous auspices of the Fulbright-Rabin Scholarship and the Women’s Studies in Religion Program at Harvard Divinity School. 1 Most of the American Jewish population are Liberal-Jews. One can see it by the fact that “as a whole, Jews support the Democratic Party over the Republican Party by more than three-to-one . . . Among Orthodox Jews, however, the balance tilts in the other direction: 57% are Republican or lean Republican, and 36% are Democrats or lean Democratic.” – A Portrait of Jewish Americans: Finding from a Pew Research Center Survey of U.S. Jews, October 1, 2013, p. 16, www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/ jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/. 2 I have dedicated a separate article to these theoretical definitions. See Yakir Englander, “Expressional Jewishness and Tensional Jewishness: Critical Thinking on Contemporary Jewish Life,” (forthcoming). 3 H. Hartman and M. Hartman, “Attachment to Israel of American Jews,” 394–407. For the historical connections between American Jews and the Israel of Israel see Eli Lederhendler and Jonathan D. Sarna, America and Zion: Essays and Papers in Memory of Moshe Davis. For a critique on contemporary connections between American Jews and the State of Israel see, Peter Beinart, The Crisis of Zionism. Alice Butler-Smith, “Diaspora Nationality vs Diaspora Nationalism: American Jewish Identity and Zionism after the Jewish State,” Israel Affairs 15, no. 2 (2009): 159–179. 4 On these voices and organizations see, David Landy, Jewish Identity and Palestinian Rights: Diaspora Jewish Opposition to Israel. It is important to mention that many kinds of critiques, which are part of the public dialog in Israel, are considered in North America as illegitimate. 5 Michael Lerner, “Israel Has Broken My Heart: I’M a Rabbi in Mourning for a Judaism Being Murdered by Israel,” Salon, August 4, 2014. The debate about which voices can be heard and which are considered as not legitimate we can find inside the Hillel institutions (Hillel is the center of Jewish life on North American campuses). See for example, Jewish Theological Association, “Hillel Issues Warning to Swarthmore Chapter about Flouting Israel Guidelines Campus Group Voted to Defy Headquarter Rules,” Forward, December 10, 2013. See also the article written by Magid about the rejection of Judith

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Butler in the Jewish sphere. See Shaul Magid, “Butler Trouble: Zionism, Excommunication, and the Reception of Judith Butler’s Work on Israel/Palestine,” Studies in American Jewish Literature 33, no. 2 (2014): 237–259. For anti-Semitic voices see Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, 101–127. Peter Beinart, op. cit.; Steven Cohen, “Relationships of American Jews With Israel: What We Know and What We Need to Know,” Contemporary Jewry 23 (2002): 132–155. Steven Cohen and Ari Kelman, “Beyond Distancing: Youth Adult American Jews and Their Alienation from Israel.” Sometimes, even when Jews do not want to be involved and hold no clear positions toward the conflict, they still find themselves involved. This happens when the non-Jewish society identifies Jews as related to the state of Israel, or when their involvement in the Jewish community forces them to be involved in the conflict. The percent of American Jews, who do not belong to any official Jewish organization currently stands at 30%. See www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/ jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/. There is a disagreement about this subject. See Steven Cohen and Ari Kelman, “Distancing Is Closer than Ever,” Contemporary Jewry 30 (2010): 145–148; Theodore Sasson, Charles Kadushin, and Leonard Saxe, “On Sampling, Evidence and Theory: Concluding Remarks on the Distancing Debate,” Contemporary Jewry 30 (2010): 149–153. See also the different articles of Gabriel Sheffer, Steven Bayme, Daniel Gordis, Leonard Saxe and Matthew Boxer, Yehezkel Dror, in Israeli Studies 17, no. 2 (2012). The second part of this article is based on my previous article. In that article, I have a much deeper discussion of the theoretical definitions. See Englander, “Expressional Jewishness and Tensional Jewishness: Critical Thinking on Contemporary Jewish Life”. A Portrait of Jewish Americans: Finding from a Pew Research Center Survey of U.S. Jews, Ibid., 10. The identification of American Jews as White is problematic. However, it is important to emphasize this identification. See Cornel West, Race Matters, 76. The leaders of the Reform movement are aware of the fact that they are employing Jewish texts in ways that support their other values. More than that, they believe that all rabbis, Reform and non-Reform, are doing the same, consciously or unconsciously. See Mark Washofsky, “Taking Precedent Seriously: On Halakhah as a Rhetorical Practice,” Re-Examining Reform Halakhah, 44–53; Avinoam Rosenak (ed.). Reform Judaism: Thought, Culture and Sociology. Elliot Dorff, The Way into Tikkun Olam. For critique on this term see Hillel Halkin, “How Not to Repair the World,” Commentary, July 1, 2008. One of the best examples is how the Reform movement changed Jewish law as it pertains to LGBT people. See Yakir Englander, “The Image of the Male Body in Lithuanian UltraOrthodox Thought in Israel and Corresponding Strategies for Forging an A-Feminine Public Sphere,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 29, no. 3 (2014): 457–470. Peter Berger, “A Sociological View of the Secularization of Theology,” Journal of Scientific Study of Religion 6, no. 1 (1967): 4. Mel Scult, “Americanism and Judaism in the Thought of Mordechai M. Kaplan,” (1995): 343. Arnold Eisen, The Chosen People in American: A Study of Religious Ideology, 73–98. “Is Zionism in Crisis? A Follow-Up Debate with Peter Beinart and Alan Dershowitz,” available on the Graduate Center Center, CUNY YouTube channel. Michael Lerner, op. cit. (2014). Yet, without further development, this comes close to suggesting that people can use Judaism for any external purpose they desire, and that it is always legitimate if it is internally consistent with their value system. Mordechai Kaplan, Judaism as a Civilization: Toward a Reconstruction of AmericanJewish Life, 232–252. Mordechai Kaplan, The Future of the American Jew, 128–129.

American liberal Jewish engagement 207 22 Yakir Englander, “The Perception of Homosexuality in the U.S. Reform Movement’s Halakha – A Critical Reading,” op. cit. 23 Norman Finkelstein, Knowing Too Much: Why the American Jewish Romance with Israel Is Coming to an End. 24 Avinoam Rosenak, “Hidden Diaries and New Discoveries: The Life and Thought of Rabbi A.I. Kook,” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 25, no. 3 (2007): 130, 137. 25 Michael Rosenak, “Do Jews See the World Differently?: An Educational Perspective,” Contemporary Religious Life and Thought in Israel (1981), 95. 26 Ibid., 104. 27 Jack Wertheimer, “Can Modern Orthodoxy Survive?” Mosaic, August 3, 2014. 28 Sylvia Barack Fishman, “Let Us Now Praise Modern Orthodoxy,” Mosaic, August 13, 2014. 29 The phenomenon of Jews marrying non-Jews is growing. For example, while the percentage of mixed marriages before the 70s was only 17%, in the 90s it was 46%, and since 2000 it has raised to 58%. See, “A Portrait of Jewish Americans,” 1 October 2013, available on the Pew Forum website, www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/jewishamerican-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/, accessed 12 December 2014. 30 Sylvia Barack Fishman, Double or Nothing?: Jewish Families and Mixed Marriage, 30–33. 31 Arnold Eisen, The Chosen People in American: A Study of Religious Ideology, 345. 32 Sylvia Barack Fishman, Double or Nothing?: Jewish Families and Mixed Marriage, 146–147. 33 Jack Wertheimer, “Surrendering to Intermarriage,” Commentary 111, no. 3 (2001). 34 For years Jewish leaders tried to push rabbis to convert these Non-Jewish partners. According to Wertheimer: “no matter how low the bar has been placed, or how deep the self-abasement practiced by the bearers of Jewish norms, that effort has been a resounding failure.” (Ibid.). 35 For example, the term of Ger Toshav (resident’s convert) is a term that belongs to non-Jews that chose to live with Jews. Uriah, a general in King David’s army and the first husband of Bathsheba, was not a Jew but a Hittite. This idea came after long conversations with Rabbi Steve Greenberg and Dr. Ariel Picard in my work at the Shalom Hartman Institute. 36 In the original Midrash Issachar dedicates his life for study the Torah. 37 This differs from many Liberal Jews who identify existential dangers to Israel mainly from Iran (and possibly future fundamentalist Muslim groups like ISIS). 38 I deliberately used the word “mainstream”, because today there are several Jewish organizations seeking to change the discourse. The most famous one is Voices for Peace. It is important to remember that these kinds of organizations are on the edge of the Jewish community. In 2014, even J Street has failed to win the endorsement of a crucial committee for membership in the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations. See, http://forward.com/articles/196459/j-street-fails-to-winover-key-committee-for-presi/#ixzz3Gp1CRwQE. 39 Few examples: A: during Pperation Protective Edge (summer 2014) Jon Stewart was criticized for showing empathy toward the innocent Palestinian victims (Ed Mazza, “Jon Stewart Learns What Happens When You Talk About Israel,” The Huffington Post, July 22, 2014. See the harsh words of Sigal Samuel, “When ‘Anti-Israel’ Looks Like ‘Anti-Semitism’,” Forward, July 28, 2014 who claims that the behavior of Jewish communities all over the world force anyone who critiques the State of Israel to be labeled anti-Jewish. Michael Lerner, “Israel Has Broken My Heart: I’m a Rabbi in Mourning for a Judaism Being Murdered By Israel,” op. cit. writes: “Do not let the organized Jewish community intimidate you with charges that any criticism of Israel’s brutality toward the Palestinian people proves that you are anti-Semites.” On the

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history of identification any critique of the Zionist narrative as an anti-Semitic one see Anita Shapira, “Israeli Perceptions of Anti-Semitism and Anti-Zionist,” The Journal of Israeli History 25, no. 1 (2006): 245–266. Aviezer Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism and Jewish Religious Radicalism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). See also the website www.truetorahjews.org/zionism, and follow the different articles and movies. See also David Wolkenfeld, “Pacifism, the Jewish Mission and Religious Anti-Zionism: Rabbi Aaron Samuel Tamares,” Beloved Words, 3, 185–203. Dina Porat, “Amalek’s Accomplices’ Blaming Zionism for the Holocaust: Anti-Zionist Ultra-Orthodoxy in Israel during the 1980s,” Journal of Contemporary History 27 (1992): 695–729. It is important to mention, that the contemporary Ultra-Orthodox community in Israel is changing its attitude toward the State of Israel. See for example the TV series Haredim by Amnon Levi. In his article, Beinart claims that one can find the change in American Jewish Liberalism mostly on campuses. For many students, the decision is to be a Zionist or a Liberal. According to Beinart this harsh distinction happens mostly because of the silencing of any other voices in the Jewish sphere and the wish of the students to have an honest dialogue around the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. See Peter Beinart, “The Failure of American Jewish Establishment,” New York Review of Books, May 26, 2010. Shaul Magid, “Butler Trouble: Zionism, Excommunication, and the Reception of Judith Butler’s Work on Israel/Palestine.” According to the American-Jewish view. Of course, from a Palestinian view the whole story is different. Omid Safi, “Is All Morality Gone? Condemning ISIS, and Beyond, in a World of Suffering,” Being, October 6, 2014. From the other side, the pro-Israeli side claims that Israel, as any other country, has the right to defend itself and therefore, there is no contradiction between their support of Israel and their liberal values. Sharon Brous, “Heartache.” This e-mail was sent by Rabbi Sharon Brous to the IKAR community on November 15, 2012. It should be noted that Rabbi Brous did not critique the necessity of the military operation itself. Daniel Gordis, “When Balance becomes Betrayal,” Times for Israel Blog, November 18, 2012, http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/when-balance-becomes-betrayel. Following the many criticisms he received, Rabbi Gordis published another article in which he moderated his remarks. See also David Myers, “ Response to Gordis: A Simplistic Misreading of History,” Times of Israel Blog, November 19, 2012. Another version of support was given to Brous by Fienstien. He mentioned that without the Jewish attitude of Brous (which means, an American liberal values in Jewish language) many American Jews will end their relationship with Israeli Judaism. See Ed Fienstien, “All the Families on the Earth,” Times of Israel Blog, November 28, 2012. Sharon Brous, Israel in Trying Times: Unity not Uniformity,” Blogs of Huffington Post Religion, July 31, 2014. The soft versions of the BDS deals only with American money and not in boycott Israelis materials from the occupied territories. See Arnold Eisen, “Israel Under Fire,” JTS Blog, July 21, 2014; Rick Jacobs, “Letter Delegates of the Presbyterian Church,” RJ.ORG, June 19, 2014. See also the decision of J Street to go against the BDS (Larry Derfner, “First Do No Harm J-Street,” June 10, 2014; Marc Ellis, “Is the One-State Discourse Relevant? Reflections from a Jewish Theology of Liberation,” Holy Land Studies 12, no. 2 (2013): 161–180). About the mission of Birthright see, www.birthrightisrael.com/visitingisrael/Pages/ default.aspx.

American liberal Jewish engagement 209 54 Birthright does not take the participants to meet with Palestinians, settlers, checkpoints or even with Israeli Arabs. This choice prevents the participants from getting access to the breadth of knowledge and ideas about the different aspects of life in Israel. From the other side, one of goals of the program is to create Jewish ambassadors for Israel all over the world. See for example in the words of Prime Minister Netanyahu to Birthright: “Prime Minister Netanyahu Congratulates Birthright Israel on Its Bar/Bat Mitzvah Year,” www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1sbj3toze8. In the last months, we can find more critical writings about the program. Mostly after some American participants, after their participation in the Birthright program, joined the IDF and died during the last Gaza war. See Allison Benedikt, “Solidarity with Israel,” Slate, July 22, 2014. 55 “Taglit-Birthright Israel: The Trip of a Lifetime,” www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWD fy19wxHg. 56 See the description of the program in Taglit’s website: “Taglit-Birthright Israel aims to change the course of Jewish history and ensure the continuity of the Jewish people by strengthening Jewish identity, Jewish communities, and solidarity with Israel via an educational trip to Israel for Jewish young adults around the world . . . Our hope is that our trips motivate young people to continue to explore their Jewish identity, support for Israel, and to maintain long-lasting connections with Israelis after their trip has ended. We encourage our alumni to take active roles in Jewish organizations and to participate in follow-up activities worldwide.” – www.birthrightisrael.com/TaglitBirthright IsraelStory/Pages/Objectives.aspx. 57 One of the main American Jewish leaders, Arnie Eisan claimed during the operation in Gaza (2014), that American as Israelis Jews are in war and under attack. Therefore, he demanded American Jews to fight against any critique against the State of Israel. See Arnold Eisen, “Israel Under Fire,” JTS Blog, July 21, 2014. See also “Arnie Eisen Speaks at the “New York Stands with Israel Community-Wide Rally,” Jewish Theological Seminary Blog, July 28, 2014, http://blog.jtsa.edu/chancellor-eisen/2014/07/28/ chancellor-arnold-eisen-speaks-at-the-new-york-stands-with-israel-community-widerally/.

Bibliography and references Barack Fishman, Sylvia. Double or Nothing?: Jewish Families and Mixed Marriage. Hanover and London: Brandeis University Press, 2004. ———. “Let Us Now Praise Modern Orthodoxy.” Mosaic, August 13, 2014. http://mosaicmagazine.com/response/2014/08/let-us-now-praise-modern-orthodoxy/ Beinart, Peter. “The Failure of American Jewish Establishment.” New York Review of Books, May 26, 2010. www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2010/jun/10/failure-americanjewish-establishment/. ———. The Crisis of Zionism. New York: Times Books, 2012. Benedikt, Allison. “Solidarity with Israel.” Slate, July 22, 2014. www.slate.com/articles/ news_and_politics/politics/2014/07/max_steinberg_death_how_birthright_convinces_ american_jews_to_embrace_israel.html. Berger, Peter. “A Sociological View of the Secularization of Theology.” Journal of Scientific Study of Religion 6, no. 1 (1967): 3–16. Brous, Sharon. “Israel in Trying Times: Unity Not Uniformity.” Blogs of Huffington Post Religion, July 31, 2014. www.huffingtonpost.com/sharon-brous/israel-unity_b_5640027. html Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London: Verso, 2004.

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Butler-Smith, Alice A. “Diaspora Nationality vs Diaspora Nationalism: American Jewish Identity and Zionism After the Jewish State.” Israel Affairs 15, no. 2 (2009): 159–179. Cohen, Steven M. “Relationships of American Jews With Israel: What We Know and What We Need to Know.” Contemporary Jewry 23 (2002): 132–155. Cohen, Steven M. and Ari Y. Kelman. “Beyond Distancing: Youth Adult American Jews and Their Alienation from Israel.” The Jewish Identity Project of Reboot, 2007. www. jewishdatabank.org/studies/downloadFile.cfm?FileID=2772. ———. “Distancing Is Closer than Ever.” Contemporary Jewry 30 (2010): 145–148 Derfner, Larry. “First Do No Harm J-Street.” June 10, 2014. http://972mag.com/firstdo-no-harm-j-street/91882/. Dorff, Elliot N. The Way into Tikkun Olam. Woodstock, VT: Jewish Light Publishing, 2005. Eisen, Arnold. The Chosen People in American: A Study of Religious Ideology. Bloomington: Indiana University Press,1983. ———. “Response to the Presbyterian Divestment from Israel.” JTS Blog, June 24, 2014. http://blog.jtsa.edu/chancellor-eisen/ ———. “Israel Under Fire.” JTS Blog, July 21, 2014. http://blog.jtsa.edu/chancelloreisen/2014/07/21/israel-under-fire/. ———. “Arnie Eisen Speaks at the New York Stands with Israel’ Community-Wide Rally.” Jewish Theological Seminary Blog, July 28, 2014. http://blog.jtsa.edu/chancelloreisen/2014/07/28/chancellor-arnold-eisen-speaks-at-the-new-york-stands-with-israelcommunity-wide-rally/. Ellis, Marc H. “Is the One-State Discourse Relevant? Reflections from a Jewish Theology of Liberation.” Holy Land Studies 12, no. 2 (2013): 161–180. Englander, Yakir. “The Image of the Male Body in Lithuanian Ultra-Orthodox Thought in Israel and Corresponding Strategies for Forging an A-Feminine Public Sphere.” Journal of Contemporary Religion 29, no. 3 (2014): 457–470. ———. “The Perception of Homosexuality in the U.S. Reform Movement’s Halakha – A Critical Reading.” In Avinoam Rosenak, ed. Reform Judaism: Thought, Culture and Sociology. Jerusalem: Van Leer Institute, 2014: 228–260 (in Hebrew). ———. “Expressional Jewishness and Tensional Jewishness: Critical Thinking on Contemporary Jewish Life.” (Forthcoming). Feldman, Noah. “Orthodox Paradox.” New York Times, July 22, 2014. www.nytimes. com/2007/07/22/magazine/22yeshiva-t.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 Fienstien, Ed. “All the Families on the Earth.” Times of Israel Blog, November 28, 2012. http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/all-the-families-of-the-earth/ Finkelstein, Norman G. Knowing Too Much: Why the American Jewish Romance With Israel Is Coming to an End. New York and London, UK: Or Books, 2012. Gordis, Daniel. “When Balance Becomes Betrayal.” Times for Israel Blog, November 18, 2012. http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/when-balance-becomes-betrayel Goshen-Gottstein, Alon. “People of Israel.” In Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr ed., Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought. New York and London, UK: The Free Press, 1988. Gruenbaum-Fax, Julie. “Rabbi Sharon Brous vs. Rabbi Daniel Gordis: Betrayal or Compassion?” Jewish Journal, November 29, 2012. www.jewishjournal.com/cover_story/ item/rabbi_sharon_brous_vs._rabbi_daniel_gordis_betrayal_or_compassion Halkin, Hillel. “How Not to Repair the World.” Commentary, July 1, 2008. www.commentarymagazine.com/article/how-not-to-repair-the-world/ Hartman, H. and M. Hartman. “Attachment to Israel of American Jews.” Review of Religious Research 41 (2000): 394–407.

American liberal Jewish engagement 211 Jacobs, Rick. “Letter Delegates of the Presbyterian Church.” RJ.ORG, June 19, 2014. http://blogs.rj.org/blog/2014/06/19/rabbi-rick-jacobs-bds-letter-to-delegates-at-thepresbyterian-church-usa-general-assembly/. Jewish Theological Association. “Hillel Issues Warning to Swarthmore Chapter About Flouting Israel Guidelines Campus Group Voted to Defy Headquarter Rules.” Forward, December 10, 2013. http://forward.com/articles/189044/hillel-issues-warningto-swarthmore-chapter-about/#ixzz38tRkQfZ8. Kaplan, Mordecai M. The Future of the American Jew. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1948. ———. Judaism as a Civilization: Toward a Reconstruction of American-Jewish Life. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2010. Landy, David. Jewish Identity and Palestinian Rights: Diaspora Jewish Opposition to Israel. New York: Zed Books, 2011. Lederhendler, Eli and Jonathan D. Sarna, eds. America and Zion: Essays and Papers in Memory of Moshe Davis. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 2002. Lerner, Michael. “Israel Has Broken My Heart: I’M a Rabbi in Mourning for a Judaism Being Murdered by Israel.” Salon, August 4, 2014. www.salon.com/2014/08/04/ israel_has_broken_my_heart_i%E2%80%99m_a_rabbi_in_mourning_for_a_judaism_ being_murdered_by_israel/?utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=socialflow. Magid, Shaul. “Butler Trouble: Zionism, Excommunication, and the Reception of Judith Butler’s Work on Israel/Palestine.” Studies in American Jewish Literature 33, no. 2 (2014): 237–259. Massad, Joseph. The Persistence of the Palestinian Question: Essays on Zionism and the Palestinians. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. Mazza, Ed. “Jon Stewart Learns What Happens When You Talk About Israel.” The Huffington Post, July 22, 2014. www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/22/jon-stewart-israel_ n_5608436.html Morris, Benny. Righteous Victims: A History of the Zionist-Arab Conflict 1881–2001. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 2001. Myers, David N. “Response to Gordis: A Simplistic Misreading of History.” Times of Israel Blog, November 19, 2012. http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/response-to-gordis-asimplistic-misreading-of-history/. Otterman, Sharon. “A Rabbi’s Departure Manifests a Challenge for Jews in America.” New York Times, August 15, 2014. www.nytimes.com/2014/08/16/nyregion/a-rabbisdecision-to-step-down-touches-on-questions-fjewishidentity.html?hp&action=click& pgtype=Homepage&version=HpSumSmallMediaHigh&module=second-columnregion®ion=top-news&WT.nav=top-news Porat, Dina. “Amalek’s Accomplices’ Blaming Zionism for the Holocaust: Anti-Zionist Ultra-Orthodoxy in Israel During the 1980s.” Journal of Contemporary History 27 (1992): 695–729. Ravitzky, Aviezer. Messianism, Zionism and Jewish Religious Radicalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Rosenak, Avinoam. “Hidden Diaries and New Discoveries: The Life and Thought of Rabbi A.I. Kook.” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 25, no. 3 (2007), 111–147. ———, ed. Reform Judaism: Thought, Culture and Sociology. Jerusalem, Israel: Van Leer Institute, 2014. Rosenak, Michael. “Do Jews See the World Differently?: An Educational Perspective.” Immanuel 13 (1981): 95–107.

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Safi, Omid. “Is All Morality Gone? Condemning ISIS, and Beyond, in a World of Suffering.” Being, October 6, 2014. www.onbeing.org/blog/is-all-morality-gone-condemningisis-and-beyond-in-a-world-of-suffering/6910. Samuel, Sigal. “When ‘Anti-Israel’ Looks Like ‘Anti-Semitism’.” Forward, July 28, 2014. http://blogs.forward.com/forwar d-thinking/202924/when-anti-israel-looks-likeanti-semitism/. Sasson, Theodore, Charles Kadushin and Leonard Saxe. “On Sampling, Evidence and Theory: Concluding Remarks on the Distancing Debate.” Contemporary Jewry 30 (2010): 149–153. Scult, Mel. “Americanism and Judaism in the Thought of Mordechai M. Kaplan.” In Robert Seltzer and Norman S. Cohen, ed. The Americanization of the Jews. New York: New York University Press, 1995, 339–354. Shapira, Anita. “Israeli Perceptions of Anti-Semitism and Anti-Zionist.” The Journal of Israeli History 25, no. 1 (2006): 245–266. Tobin, Jonathan S. “Loving Us to Death.” Commentary website, November 3, 2013. www. commentarymagazine.com/article/loving-us-to-death/. ———. “The Failure of Liberal Jewry in a Nutshell.” Commentary, August 15, 2014. www.commentarymagazine.com/2014/08/15/the-future-of-liberal-jewry-in-a-nutshellandrew-bachmann-reform-judaism-pew-survey/. Washofsky, Mark. “Taking Precedent Seriously: On Halakhah as a Rhetorical Practice.” In Walter Jacob and Moshe Zemer, eds. Re-Examining Reform Halakhah. New York: Berghahn Books, 2002: 44–53. Wertheimer, Jack. “Surrendering to Intermarriage.” Commentary 111, no. 3 (2001). www. commentarymagazine.com/article/surrendering-to-intermarriage/. ———. “Can Modern Orthodoxy Survive?” Mosaic, August 3, 2014. http://mosaicmagazine. com/essay/2014/08/can-modern-orthodoxy-survive/?utm_source=Mosaic+Newsletter& utm_campaign=b4c1b027b0-2014_8_3&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_0b0517b2abb4c1b027b0-41174289. West, Cornel. Race Matters. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993. Wolkenfeld, David. “Pacifism, the Jewish Mission and Religious Anti-Zionism: Rabbi Aaron Samuel Tamares.” In Benjamin Shiller and Akiva Dovid Weiss, eds. Beloved Words, vol. 3. New York: YCT Rabbinical School, 2007: 185–203.

11 Afro-Jewish ethics? Lewis R. Gordon

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem? – W.E.B. Du Bois1 This abominable nation has succeeded in spreading its customs throughout all lands: the conquered have given their laws to the conquerors. – Lucius Annaeus Seneca (on Jews in ancient Rome)2

Each year, during the first night of Pesach (Passover), Jews all over the world gather together and engage in a Seder, a ritual involving reflection on the events leading to the Israelites escaping from Egypt, receiving the Torah (Five Books of Moses), and entering the Promised Land as related by the sacred text and various commentaries. Jews, religious and secular, along with occasional non-Jewish guests, share this sacred moment, whose core theme is the overcoming of slavery and gratitude for the liberating role of divine intervention. Such events occasion thoughts of struggles over thousands of years, and depending on the kinds of Jews participating, the recounting of trauma include the forms of Inquisitions, Pogroms, and, of course, from the twentieth century, Shoa. In each instance, a reminder of each never to forget such events accompanies the encomium to the being who must not be named. Yet, Jewish history isn’t marked exclusively by those events. What, I often wonder, as an Afro-Jew, do other Afro-Jews think about during such a ritual? I know that for me, the question of enslavement is not remote, and though I very much doubt it is otherwise for many other Afro-Jews from North America and the rest of the Americas, it is also clear that many of us live in a world that wants us never to forget the ancient enslavement of people to whom many Euro-Jews engaged in such rituals are not actually related while insisting on our forgetting recent enslavement of people to whom most Afro-Jews are actually such. Religion may offer the binding force of spiritual connection, I know. Yet there is something odd, even hypocritical, about having a greater sense of ethical obligation for and

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identification with an abstract and highly mythical past than for a very real and recent one. To insist on remembering the first and forgetting the second seems to miss the point of the ritual’s overall narrative of freedom and human dignity. Ethics, as many who study Judaism know, is at the core of Jewish life, though it may seem less so when witnessing zealots’ observance of all 613 commandments. Even among the secular, however, where there is an avowed rejection of the ontological status of a deity – there is, in other words, no such being in the universe – there is ironically a sense of even asserting such through the profoundly paradoxical belief in the ethical obligation of doing so. As an ironic elderly Ashkenazi friend of mine from Brooklyn once quipped: “I don’t go to Shul because I believe in G-d.” Although religious and secular Jews may part ways on the ontological question of the deity that must not be named, they ironically often meet on the question of that for which they are responsible as Jews. To be a Jew, in this sense, is to take on the responsibility for the ethical image of the universe, even if behind that face there is only the human commitment of maintaining it. Such a commitment reaches out to each Jew not only from the face of other Jews but also that of humanity and, for many, beyond that to life in all forms. Jewish rituals are thus ultimately not hollow, even when the secular Jew joins the devotee in not so rare moments of reconciliation. This reflection is on Afro-Jewish ethics, which I pose in the interrogative. I pose it as a question, since one would presume that Afro-Jewish ethics is simply Jewish ethics. Such a presumption would presume an intrinsic legitimacy to Jewish ethics as a category despite the concern that could emerge from critics who would ask, as well, whether Jewish ethics is simply, ultimately, ethics. If Jewish ethics could sustain the force of such criticism, why, then, should Afro-Jewish ethics not hold its own? The immediate response is that “Afro” is not an intrinsically ethical, moral, or religious category. As an ethnic or racial concept, it would particularize the ethical, moral, or religious ones it modifies. Those who know Judaism may pause for a moment, however, as “Jewish” isn’t entirely free of ethnic significance. As well, given the unique treatment unleashed on people of African descent in the emergence of the Euromodern world, the term “Afro” hardly stands as one devoid of normative content. Afro-Jewish signification warrants, then, some reflection.

Afro-Jews The question of there being a dark side of how ethical life is offered in the modern world comes to the fore in Afro-Jewish reflection on key concepts of Jewish ethics such as “election,” kashrut, and, as exemplified in becoming a Bat Mitzvah or Bar Mitzvah, carrying, which also signifies taking on, the ethical, the words of G-d, extended to bearing the weight of an ethical Imago Dei, where, of course, imago, is metaphorical. Taking responsibility for the ethical face of reality takes, however, many forms, and among the disagreements about which way is best, of which includes the paradoxical way of the many, is the complicated history of identities such efforts produced. Though the focus of this section is Afro-Jews, and a running

Afro-Jewish ethics? 215 subtext is Afro-Judaism, emphasis on plurality will guide this portrait. As there are many kinds of Afro-Jews, there also are, as with Judaisms, various kinds of Afro-Judaism. Complicating the matter, as well, is the addition of diverse blackness and Africanness. So, we begin with the Afro-Jewish question. The obvious question is this: Why is it a question at all? If the term refers to blacks or African people who practice Judaism, the source of the mystery would be mysterious. There is a question, however, for the same reason there have historically been a “black question” and a “Jewish question.” Such people are, as W.E.B. Du Bois observed more than a century ago, a “problem.” Thus, wherever they go, problems emerge. The problem, ultimately, at least for the anti-black racist and the anti-Semite is that they exist. There are, however, differences. As problems, black people face ironic and paradoxical situations where legitimacy is premised on their absence. Thus, to enter the room as a black person in an anti-black society is, in effect, to delegitimate the space. Blacks thus, Du Bois argued, had to develop two perspectives: The first is the anti-black one in which the second emerges of the self as loathsome. If this position is accepted, then the world is simple and Manichean: whites are good, legitimate, right; blacks are bad, illegitimate, and wrong. This binary view also takes the form of white being universal and black being particular, which appeals to the former as pure and without contradiction, and the latter as impure. A form of theodicy of thought follows, in which the infelicities of whiteness are placed outside for the sake of systemic integrity. The result is divestment of things negative to the outer realm and beyond, a sphere of, in other words, blackness. As long as the two worlds don’t interact, segregation preserves a strict order of fullness of being versus its absence. This order of contraries faces its challenge, however, in the lived-reality of blacks. As long as blacks are locked out of equations of reality, it means the avowed reach of the universal is particular. If, that is, blacks must take into account the point of view of whites, it makes black perspectives farther in scope than white ones. If, that is, blacks are part of reality and that is ignored, then whites who do so live in a very partial world, one that falls short of actual reality. This realization leads to questioning the sources of limits. Put differently, if blacks could be otherwise, then the limitations imposed must not be intrinsic to blacks but instead a function of a world that makes blacks into problems instead of regarding them as people who face problems. Realization of the latter is what Paget Henry calls potentiated double consciousness. That form of thought addresses the many sides and dimensions of reality; it faces not only the light but also the darkness through which light achieves distinction. Black people thus pose a fundamental ethical challenge to the modern world, to which, though indigenous, they face normative and political exclusion. Put differently, the ethics in the Euromodern world are animated by the paradox of being indigenous to a world that rejects blacks. Interestingly enough, this was Jewish history. It’s not that there isn’t anti-Semitism. It’s just that the conditions that led to the rejection of blacks in the modern world offered opportunities for certain groups of Jews – those who could prove whiteness – to belong. There is thus a split between Jews also along lines of color.

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These reflections came to the fore in the first decade of the new millennium when I had founded the Center for Afro-Jewish Studies at Temple University. The title had occasioned a variety of questions. The first was from those who interpreted it as a center devoted to the study of relations between blacks and Jews. In a racist society, the result is a faulty logic in which no blacks are Jews and no Jews are blacks. In a way it makes sense, since race “relations” in a racist society amounts to “nonrelations.” Thus, the possibility of establishing relations from points of nonrelations strikes some as exciting. Their hopes were shattered, however, when I announce that the center was not devoted to such but instead to the study of Afro-Jewish people, their thoughts and history. At that moment, there is a pause. For many, Jews and non-Jews, the question emerges: Are there such people? My answer – that there are Afro-Jews and many other communities of nonwhite Jews – was usually followed by an additional question: Why not simply call it the Center for Jewish Diversity? For many white Jews, the expression “Jewish diversity” pretty much boils down to two types of Jews: Ashkenazi and Sephardi. And within that spectrum, the question advances to the type of Judaism they practice – e.g., Conservative, Orthodox, Reconstruction, Reform, and secular humanistic cultural Judaism. I even heard someone ask, “Do you mean Jews with disabilities?” “Afro-Jews,” I often responded, “stimulate reflection on Jewish people beyond the narrowly defined set that dominates American and European conceptions. Afro-Jews create a pedagogical moment; it stimulates curiosity and compels one to ask and learn more.” The “more,” however, is not only about the Jewish present but also the Jewish past. An unfortunate aspect of recent, dominant Jewish identity is not only a presumed whiteness but also a retroactive whitening of the past straight back to antiquity. Many contemporary Jews, although familiar with the story of Hanukkah, the glory days of the Second Temple and its subsequent destruction, are not aware of the four centuries of proselytizing across the Roman Empire that transformed a world of 150,000 Judeans into 8,000,000 Jews. Added is the misconception of the Roman world as white and homogeneous instead of simply Mediterranean and multiracial. The resulting 8,000,000, then, reflected that multiracial world. It also reveals, however, like it or not, a greater probability of most subsequent Jews emerging from the conversion practices of those communities. Much was changed, as well, when the Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity in the fourth century and inaugurated the “Holy Roman Empire.” Subsequent laws such as the 337 CE edict against Jewish men marrying Christian women (Judaism used to be patrilineal), and the 339 CE one against conversions to Judaism, pretty much imposed insularity on the remaining, again multiracial, Jewish population in the empire. Many Jews today don’t think, as well, about the Canaanite world in which Judea was founded, a world that didn’t follow the boundaries of contemporary geopolitical borders. In short, Africa did not, in those ancient times of more than three millennia ago, end at what is today the Suez Canal. That more ancient world was one in which what we today call Egypt reached from the Sudan into the islands

Afro-Jewish ethics? 217 of the Mediterranean and eastward into the Levant or Middle East. Additionally, the various empires and protectorates, not only from Africa but also northern and eastern imperial powers, drew varieties of people together over time changing a once dark and African world into an increasingly brown and mixed one. Along the way were millennia of thought, rituals, and activities supporting, contrary to Eurocentric scholarship of a whitened past, one of more movement from Africa instead of into it. Experiments with monotheism, for instance, and varieties of associated practices date back to KMT/Egypt’s New Kingdom, as scholarship on Akhenaten (ca. 1352 – ca.1336 BCE) and Nefertiti (ca. 1370 – ca. 1330 BCE). We already see a difference when we add at least three additional elements to historical reflection on the historic formation of Judaism. Colonialism and migration, whether forced or pursued, also have what in today’s parlance would be racial consequences. There isn’t enough space here to get into the details of the conceptual history of race except to point to how our understanding of the past changes once we’ve put to the side some of the categories imposed on it. Take, for instance, the word “Semite,” a crucial term in the study of Jewish peoples. It was originally a linguistic term coined by August Ludwig von Schlözer in the eighteenth century and expanded by Joseph Ernest Renan later in the nineteenth century, referring to the language group that included Amharic, Arabic, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Tigrinya. The term was, however, racialized in nineteenth century racist scholarship into the notion of Semites, especially in the writings of Arthur de Gobineau, the result of which is a now retroactive rewriting of the past into the fictional notion of ancient Semites in the form of the European peoples onto whom the term was imposed. Charles Finch, III, sums up the fallacy: The noted linguist, Joseph Greenberg, has . . . discarded as imprecise and illogical such familiar linguistic categories as ‘Semitic’ and ‘Hamitic’ in favor of a more inclusive category, which he termed ‘Afro-Asiatic.’ In Greenberg’s opinion, this category was justified by the demonstrable affinities between the Semitic Hebrew, Arabic, Phoenician, Aramaic, and Amharic on the one hand and the northeast African group (formerly ‘Hamitic’), comprising Egyptian, Cushitic, Chadic, and Hausa on the other. According to Greenberg, the long-dead mother tongue of all these languages would have originated in the highlands of Ethiopia. What this means, in effect, is that the so-called Semitic languages are but branches of an original northeast African parent, of which Egyptian and Cushitic are ‘charter’ members. (Finch 1991: 131) In short, these are languages emerging from a meeting of Africa and Asia as people converged in the same region, mixed, and created living, ongoing cultures. Returning to the question of Afro-Jewish studies, then, it compels us to raise critical considerations through which an enriched understanding of Jewish people can emerge and the problems following from a form of methodological and disciplinary apartheid premised on erasure of its African. This conclusion is important for avoiding a variety of additional fallacies in the study and portrait of Afro-Jews.

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The first, already mentioned, is the tendency to read “Afro-Jews” as “blacks and Jews” instead of “Black Jews.” The others are manifold. Here are a few: (1) the presumption that Afro-Jews must be “converts”; (2) Afro-Jews are a recent development in Jewish history; (3) Afro-Jews are basically African diasporic people seeking (white) Jewish “recognition”; and (4) Afro-Jews are not agents of history. A detailed response to each of these would require separate study. I therefore offer only summary remarks here. The portrait I’ve already given should address some of the concerns of the conversion thesis. That there are whites who convert to Judaism should make it no surprise to find Asians, blacks, Native Americans, and varieties of other racialized groups doing the same. A presumption of their being converts but whites not being so leads to the erroneous thesis of an original whiteness of Jews. My own experience with many designated white Jews in my childhood in New York City was of a large number, especially survivors of Shoa, rejecting the designation of whiteness, and I’ve met many Eastern European Jews who also reject white identity, as they have a direct connection to a European history in which Jews were patently not white. Colonialism, however, affords amnesia, and, as most Euromodern colonies were racial settlement societies, they offered an entry into whiteness not available in the European centers. The result was many nonwhite groups becoming white through the trials of migration. Afro-Jews who are born Jewish, however, pose many challenges to the presumed-white narrative. I will stick with Rabbinic Judaism in the discussion here for the sake of brevity. The formula here is being born from a Jewish mother. So, Afro-Jews whose mothers are Jewish fulfill that criterion. Racism returns, however, if the added condition is a European Jewish mother. Yet, as should be obvious once Sephardic Jews, Mizrahim (Middle Eastern, usually Arab), Beta Israel (Ethiopian), Abayudaya (Ugandan), Lemba (Southeast African), Hebrew-Israelite (complicated but emerging in African America from the period of enslavement), Kaifeng (Chinese), Cochin (India), and the many mixtures across these groups (e.g., Afro-Ashkenazi, Afro-Sephardic, Afro-Kaifeng, Afro-Cochin), as well as the groups emerging from interpretations of halakhah (Jewish law), ranging from Orthodox and Conservodox to Reconstruction and beyond those, the conclusion emerges: One could be born Jewish from many Jewish lineages. As Jews tend to seek out Jews or at least, ever since post-Constantinian edicts or in places where there wasn’t the reach of such prohibitions, bring other communities into the Jewish world through marriage, a born Afro-Jew is, even where both parents may be Afro-Jews, a very mixed or creolized matter. So, too, I would add, is the case for nearly every other Jewish group. Yet, ironically, Jews in places of externally imposed endogamy expand both positive and negative consequences, such as genetic illnesses, into wider Jewish communities with cross-Jewish exogamy (though ultimately Jewish endogamy since non-Jews aren’t part of that mix) and bringing non-Jews into Judaism through exogamy with people who are not historically Jewish. In terms of the second claim of Afro-Jews being historically recent, the answer is that history doesn’t bear that out. Unfortunately, this places an indictment on

Afro-Jewish ethics? 219 many historians of Jewish history. The problem of racist, or at least blind-sighted, historiography is one that would take up too much space here. Du Bois combated this matter when it comes to the study of blacks in his Black Reconstruction, and the problem was addressed fifty years earlier with regard to historical anthropology in the work of Anténor Firmin in his Equality of the Human Races (1885). I have already hinted at some of the problems in my discussion of the formation of Jewish peoples in this section. Basically, many historians impose whiteness on a multiracial population. In effect, their scholarship erases the historical diversity of Jews. Oddly enough, Jewish cookbooks, such as Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food, where the authors simply pursue the recipes without focus on the racial identities behind the source, tend to embrace instead of erase Jewish diversity. For our purposes, that diversity included people we would today call “Afro-Jews.” The recognition issue is, for the most part, an arrogant presumption of AfroJews either wanting or needing white Jewish acceptance or approval. It would be a good idea to consult Afro-Jews. There are black people who wish to be white, but, if so, it’s not a good stratagem to choose a historically hated group. And if such identification were there, why not consider the Irish (especially since there were unions of white and black enslaved people who turned out to be of Irish and varieties of African descent in North America), or the Gypsies, or other lowercaste groups who made it to the colonies? A source of identification could be the historical narratives of exodus and liberation, but, again, that begs the question of the non-Jewishness of Afro-Jews. Such considerations may apply to converts, but to born Jews, especially devout ones, their faith and ethno-racial identities prevail. In short, they will practice their Judaism whether white Jews recognize them or not. In other words, white Jews are irrelevant to the extent to which other white people are so in their everyday understanding of what matters most to them. Look at it this way: I brought up the importance of imperialism in the history of Jews. As different empires emerged, Jews at their centers had more impact on Jews at the periphery. One could trace influential Jewish writings along the movement of these empires ranging from antiquity through to the Caliphates in the Middle Ages to the Euromodern ones from Spain through Britain to the now hegemonic United States. Now, think of black history in a similar way. Blacks who spoke for blacks tend to be those at imperial centers. Thus, today, American blacks, self-avowed as African Americans, often speak for blacks and African peoples across the globe. (I say “blacks” and “African” because not all black people are African or of African descent and not all African peoples are black.) Do many contemporary Africans care whether African Americans don’t consider them authentically black? And, similarly, do many African Americans care whether most Africans don’t consider them authentically black or African? And who knows how many ethno-racial groups will be affected by the perspectives of those at the center of future global hegemonic countries, should, of course, our species continue to exist beyond the present age? The religious dimension of Judaism calls for devotion in paradoxical ways, as faith may place the individual, as told in the story of Abraham’s journey with

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Isaac up Mount Moriah, in a special and singular relationship with the holy. Yet halakhah reminds every Jewish individual of the community. There is thus a paradox in both rejecting recognition while taking responsibility for a set of laws that embody a community. Many (if not most) Afro-Jews thus simultaneously reject white Jewish recognition in the name of Judaism, which simultaneously demands a relationship with the entire community of those committed to Judaism. This demand is also paradoxical for every Jew, since, as well, adhering to Judaism also means facing the obligation of responsibility of dignity also for those who are not Jews. The last is a problem faced primarily by black and many First Nation peoples across the globe. An outcome of colonialism is a set of presumptions whose consequence is the denial of the historical agency of such people. Things are done to such people, but they are, supposedly, never doers beyond reaction and, when romanticized, resistance. Doers, in historical terms, are conquerors and those to whom are attributed human status according to the prevailing philosophical anthropology. To understand this, consider the emergence of the notions “modern” and “primitive.” The former is from the French transformation of the Latin modo (“just now” or “present”), which, when made into a noun, refers to a person belonging to the present. Belonging to the present is no simple matter, however, as the present is always swiftly passing by. There is a teleological element in such a notion, where in belonging to the present, one exemplifies the direction in which the present is headed – namely, the future. Contrast that with primitive. From the Latin adjective primitivus (“first of its kind” – think of prime), the term became a noun in the fourteenth century to refer to an original ancestor and then by the eighteenth century to aboriginal peoples in lands visited, conquered, or settled by Europeans. In short hand, the primitive belongs to the past; the modern belongs to the present, and by implication, the future or at least where humanity is going. The problem of agency in history comes to the fore in the primitive- modern dichotomy. As belonging to the past, primitives in the present are in effect in a time to which they don’t belong. They, in other words, haunt the present. Worse, the teleological element of belonging to the present – namely, having a place in the future – makes primitives marked for extinction. Properly belonging to the past, neither the now nor the future welcomes them. Their actions, then, reach to a void. Understood in these terms, the more recent instantiations of the modern should properly be called Euromodern, as there were many preceding exemplars of the directions in which humanity was supposedly going. Each, in their time, expected to be the last civilization, the last empire, or the eternal city. For those they conquered, or at least dominated, having a place in the future meant, in effect, becoming those who have a place there. Some empires offered, in various ways, possibilities of participation without ontological or identity transformation. Others required cultural disappearance. Euromodernity – inaugurated in 1492 with the defeat of the Moors in Grenada, a new stage of the Spanish Inquisition, and Columbus’s arrival in the Caribbean in the same year – emerged as a transformation of Christendom into Europe, and a shift from the theonaturalistic anthropology of Christians and heathens into Europeans and sub-humanity. It

Afro-Jewish ethics? 221 commenced a global phenomenon of peoples marked for oblivion in the march of time and history. Jews, however, despite Christian antipathy, have a history of addressing such an onslaught in ways conducive for the survival of Jewish people. Facing what all colonized peoples encountered – that is, the problem of whether to be absorbed by the conquerors’ laws, sticking with those that preceded conquest, or seeking another way through pragmatic mixtures or creolized alternatives – the Judeans who became Jews did so through choosing the third option. There were those who objected, many of who disappeared in the winds of time, and those who also simply became Romans. Those who opted for creolization also took different paths. The path to a very Romanized Judaism began, after all, on the periphery of Rome in various countries of North Africa and the Middle East in which imperial imposition also had included the declining Seleucid Empire. Christian and Jewish Messianism bolstered the resolve of future belonging. For Christians, the various emperors from Constantine onward sealed the deal, but for Jews, the problem of becoming modern required developing adaptive resources throughout. At least for European Jews, Euromodernity was not experienced as if coming out of nowhere. Herein lies an additional problem for Afro-Jews. The primarily African people who became black emerged as such in the Euromodern world. As that world is Christological, the presumption is that Africans, supposedly being non-Christian and non-Jewish, entered Euromodernity through Christianization. Ethics for such people is then assumed to be thoroughly Christian. There are so many things wrong historically, sociologically, and theologically with that argument. The historical problems include a failure to acknowledge: (1) African Christianity prior to Euromodernity, (2) the importance of Africa in the formation of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (of which the Afro-Muslim population was even larger than the Arabs who converted them), and (3) Afromodernities, as there were African empires across the continent with worldviews of belonging to the future outside of the eschatological framework of Christianity. The resources Africans in Africa and across the diaspora could draw upon for ethical reflection need not, in other words, depend on Euromodernity. Finally, returning to primitivism, the error of that thesis is the notion that people could meet with one set stuck in a prior time. It’s the fallacy of meeting without meeting. When groups meet, their conceptions of time are affected by the emergence of a new time – the time of meeting. For conquerors, this means a presumed continuation of their timeline and the elimination of the conquered, despite the efforts of suppression inaugurated to make that so. For the conquered, it means a reassessment of values through an admission of conquest, colonization, and survival. The former presumes what they are; the latter ask, “What are we to become?” As a future-oriented reality, both ultimately face transformation; it’s just that the conquering group is unaware of such until realization of the promise of all empires – eternity – wanes. We arrive, then, at three core themes at the heart of Afromodernity, which work their way into Afro-Jewish ethics: (1) What it means to be human or, simply, humanity; (2) freedom and human dignity; and (3) the search for justification in

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a world patently unjust and, for the most part, unreasonable. As we will see, they are also overlooked, elided, or disavowed dimensions of what ethics must be addressed in the Euromodern world.

Jewish ethics in black Ethics, as I’m using the term here, refers to the responsibilities embraced for what one is supposed to do. In philosophical studies of the subject, this distinguishes ethics from morals, which are about what one is supposed to do. Ethics could be virtuous wherein the failure to do what one is supposed to do could emerge from a place of good character. It is also self-evaluative in the sense of requiring awareness of what one is doing. Accidentally doing the right thing does not, in other words, make one ethical. In philosophical studies of the subject, the tendency is to examine morals in the form of deontological or absolutist versus consequentialist positions. Thus, the search is for the right thing to do (morals) and whether one does it and does so for the right reasons (ethics). Religious ethics brings additional elements to the fore, such as not only obedience to sacred commandments but also having the proper disposition – such as love for G-d and respect for G-d’s laws – while doing them. An Afro-Jew, then, faces the question of obedience to halakhah and, in so doing, being halakhic or, simply, kosher. Such a concern, however, is affected by the many ways of being Jewish, not all of which agree on whether the other is sufficiently kosher. Orthodoxy, for example, lives alongside Ultra-orthodoxy. There is, however, an extent to which focus on laws could ironically get to the point of losing sight of what the laws are about, the proverbial spirit of the laws. Though this has historically been the place of Jewish commentary (for example, the Talmud), circumstances could be affected by the unfolding transformation of Jewish history and the livingreality of central themes. For Afro-Jews, this means that the Transatlantic and East Indian Ocean Slave Trades are part of Jewish history, and in so being, raises questions of ethical responsibility under conditions of prevailing dehumanization. So, too, are Euromodern colonialism, racism, and the slew of dehumanizing practices they brought forth. Now, at this point, when I say “for Afro-Jews,” I don’t mean the point of view of every individual Afro-Jew. The Afro-Jew here is a historical subject that stimulates a set of questions. She or he is who comes to mind when those issues are reflected on not only in daily life but also in Jewish rituals. Returning to the Seder, it’s the subject for whom there is a clearly linked connection between ancient enslavements and struggles for liberation in the present epoch. The subject could only be understood as a living relationship with the demands of what it means to be Jewish as an ethical subject. Take, for example, the Jewish concept of election. Many non-Jews erroneously interpret this as a testimony of Jewish superiority of being “chosen.” Yet what Judaism teaches is that election is an immense responsibility through which one may suffer affliction. Election is a terrible burden to bear, for what could be more heavy and terrifying than taking on the responsibility for the ethical face of

Afro-Jewish ethics? 223 reality? This is borne out in the opening verse of most Jewish prayers: “Barukh atah Adonoy, eloheynu melekh ha’olam. . . .” (“Praised are You, the Eternal One our G-d, Ruler of the Cosmos [the Universe or all reality]. . . .”) G-d, in Judaism, is both being (creator) and just (ethics). Here, however, is the tricky part of Judaism, which often shocks many who see religion in terms of a supreme being: G-d, in Judaism, isn’t ontological, although there are Jewish people who think such. G-d’s namelessness and the injunction against images or idols – in short, G-d’s invisibility – is one ultimately anti-theological reason for this. Another emerges paradoxically from secular Jews who do not believe there is a god yet they believe in G-d. This twist makes sense if one understands that for such Jews, G-d is ethics. G-d emerges from our taking responsibility for ethical life. Returning to the three themes with which I closed the previous section, this is a radical idea since it involves taking responsibility not only for ethics but also, in doing so, for responsibility as well. That radical responsibility is G-d. Afro-Jewish ethics, then, involves taking a position in a world in which there is no room for optimism (given radical anti-black racism) or pessimism (since that would require a foreclosed future) but, instead, ethical commitment. Such radical responsibility brings to the fore the second element, the importance of freedom and human dignity. To act at all manifests that freedom, and to do so ethically requires transcending the self (through the burden of election) to the value of others (dignity). Such valuing also leads to a value of the self through realization of the self as other. This intersubjective element of Jewish life comes back in Afro-Jewish ethics in a relationship of we that reaches beyond in the concept of mitzvoth. Though the word technically means a commandment, as in the 613 mitzvoth, committing a mitzvah isn’t limited to those. Properly done, it is not actually done for the self but for the sake of what ought to be done, which leads, interestingly enough, to an understanding of things greater than the self unaccounted for as life’s experiences unfold. The best example of this is attending to the dead, as the recipient cannot give compensation. This mitzvah is expressed as hesed shel emet (true kindness). Scholars of African communal ethics such as the southern African concept of Ubuntu would immediately see the connection in its message of “I am because you are.” The “I” here is actually a relational “we,” which makes the expression become, “We are because you are.” The three elements of humanity, freedom, and justification come together, then, because they are ultimately symbiotic. Finally, in philosophical terms, the justification element offers an additional twist. The idea of G-d as ethical, not ontological, poses a perpetual question of who is ultimately responsible for ethical action. Taking on such responsibility cannot be done without constant questioning, and what, in the end, is Jewish ethics without that important challenge?

Concluding remarks I’ve attempted here to outline several central considerations for understanding Afro-Jewish ethics. What emerges is not a branch of ethics as an exotic variety of

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a larger whole but instead an understanding of how ethics, especially in Jewish terms, could be enriched by taking them into account. Afro-Jewish ethics, after all, demands, as do all ethics ultimately, for us to take on responsibility for ethical life. Significant here is the radical disadvantage Afro-Jews face in doing so under the demands of Euromodernity. The specificities of practicing Judaism in black require attunement to the reality of living in a world to which one is indigenous yet rejected. The three outlined concerns of human dignity, freedom, and responsibility take form in justificatory practices wherein the question posed by Afro-Jewish ethics is the continued value and responsibility for life lived and embodied in nothing less than she or he who, despite brutal repercussions, still questions. I conclude, then, with an observation of the second of the three challenges from Euromodernity. Freedom and dignity in Afro-Jewish ethics face a brutal fact. When reflecting on ourselves as Jews in the world, the twenty-first century points to the complicated role of Israel and the unfortunate impact of whiteness on global perceptions of what it means to be Jewish in the flesh. When thinking of us3 as black, however, the question of freedom is transformed into the struggle for liberation. For many white Jews – I stress, not all – the project is one of preserving what has been won (a nation-state), which, unfortunately, has resulted in a conflict among Jews as that state has unfortunately allied historically with antiblack liberation countries and causes. The unfortunate emergence of white Jewish neoconservatism in powerful countries such as the United States, the United Kingdom, and France poses an important ethical and political problem for Afro-Jews: A conception of freedom antipathetic to liberation makes no sense. White Jews who reflect on this question see it as a problem of ethical reconciliation, which, as history has already shown, has led to conflicts of the kind that accuses them as supposedly “self-hating” Jews at the very moment that they see themselves as struggling to live with distinctively Jewish integrity. For Afro-Jews, however, the historical reality makes it a very clear and present problem of continued degradation and an obstacle to a fundamental Jewish commitment not only to freedom but also, at every Seder, liberation. “Next year in Jerusalem” does not mean, for many such Jews, a city in a Jewish nation-state, which, albeit holy, is one in which, as Santiago Slabodsky shows in Decolonial Judaism, the struggle for liberation continues. It is perhaps fitting, then, to close with this quotation from a Jewish mother reflecting on her Afro-Jewish son: While [my son] Elijah has had the good fortune of repeatedly watching his father refuse this forced choice [of white demand for black obedience], even when doing so involves conflict and temporary losses, there is a general lesson that more fully entering a black world through marriage and parenting has taught me: one must live as if values and virtues and excelling and being a person of integrity matter, for that is what it is to live a human life. At the same time, one has to know in equal measure that the whole point of antiblack racism is that to distinguish oneself as a black person in these or any other ways matters externally only if the person encountering you is secure or idealistic enough to care. When this is not the case, these distinctions are

Afro-Jewish ethics? 225 probably a liability. In other words, I now better understand the noble dignity of so many black Africans and Americans that struck me as a child. Exhibited proudly, it is embodied in spite of the dangers; in reference to an existing world in which whiteness recedes and one to come in which it is made irrelevant; it seems to beckon, “bring it on!” (J. Gordon 2016: 79)

Notes 1 W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches (Chicago: A.C. McClurg & Co., 1903), 1. 2 Seneca, De Superstitione, fragm. 36. Quoted in St. Augustine, City of God, 6.11. 3 I switch to “us” instead of “them” here in respect to the Seder reflection on the “wicked child” who refers to the community as them.

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Afro-Jewish ethics? 227 ———. What Fanon Said: A Philosophical Introduction to His Life and Thought. New York: Fordham University Press, 2015. ———. “Rarely Kosher: Studying Jews of Color in North America.” American Jewish History 100, no. 1 (2016): 105–116. ———. “Thoughts on Afropessimism.” Contemporary Political Theory (Forthcoming). Gordon, Lewis R., Ramón Grosfoguel, and Eric Mielants, eds. “Historicizing AntiSemitism.” Journal of Human Architecture VII, no. 2 (Spring 2009): 1–178. Herzog, Isaac. The Main Institutions of Jewish Law, Volume Two, “The Laws of Obligations.” London: The Soncino Press, 1980. [First edition 1937]. Isaac, Walter. “Locating Afro-American Judaism: A Critique of White Normativity.” In Lewis R. Gordon and Jane Anna Gordon, eds. A Companion to African-American Studies. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2006: 512–542. ———. Beyond Ontological Jewishness: A Philosophical Reflection on the Study of African American Jews and the Social Problems of the Jewish and Human Sciences. Doctoral Dissertation in Religion at Temple University, Philadelphia, PA, 2011. Johnson, Paul Johnson. A History of the Jews. New York: Harper & Row, 1987. Josephus, Flavius. Josephus: Complete Works and Historical Background (trans. William Whiston). New York: Annotated Classics/W.W. Norton, 2013. Key, Andre. What’s My Name? An Autoethnography of the Problem of Ethnic Suffering and Moral Evil in Black Judaism. Doctoral Dissertation in African American Studies at Temple University, Philadelphia, PA, 2011. Kristol, Irving. Neoconservatism: The Autobiography of an Idea. New York: Free Press, 1995. Levinas, Emmanuel. Otherwise than Being or Beyond Essence (trans. Alphonso Lingis). Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991. Lis, Daniel. Jewish Identity Among the Igbo of Nigeria: Israel’s “Lost Tribe” and the Question of Belonging in the Jewish State. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2015. Nirenberg, David. “Race and the Middle Ages: The Case of Spain and Its Jews.” In Margaret R. Greer, Walter D. Mignolo, and Maureen Quilligan, eds., Rereading the Black Legend: The Discourses of Religious and Racial Difference in the Renaissance Empires. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2007: 71–87. Obenga, Théophile. La Philosphie Africaine de la Période Pharaonique, 2780–330 avant notre ère. Paris: Éditions L’Harmattan, 1990. Roden, Claudia. The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York. New York: Knopf, 1998. Sartre, Jean-Paul. Réflexions sur la Question Juive. Paris: Editions Morihien, 1946. Schulweis, Harold M. Finding Each Other in Judaism: Meditations on the Rites of Passage from Birth to Immortality. New York: UAHC Press, 2001. Shahak, Israel. Jewish History, Jewish Religion. London, UK: Pluto Press, 1994. Slabodsky, Santiago. Decolonial Judaism: Triumphal Failures of Barbaric Thinking. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Tobin, Diane Kaufmann Tobin, Gary A. Tobin, and Scott Rubin. In Every Tongue: The Racial & Ethnic Diversity of the Jewish People. San Francisco, CA: Institute for Jewish & Community Research, 2005. Tobin, Gary A. Tobin and Sid Groeneman. Surveying the Jewish Population in the United States – Part 1: Population Estimate, Part 2: Methodological Issues & Challenges. San Francisco, CA: Institute for Jewish & Community Research, 2004.

12 Jewish history and memory Historiographical ethics after Yerushalmi’s Zakhor Curtis Hutt

Introduction In recent years, there has been a great deal of work on the broadly construed topic of historiographical ethics. Scholars from a variety of backgrounds – some promoting “scientific”/“critical” historiographical methods (Leopold von Ranke, F. H. Bradley, Aviezer Tucker) with others emphasizing the “manufactured”/“poetic” nature of historical narratives (Hayden White, Edith Wyschogrod) – have produced everything from guidelines for historical research to an ethics of remembering. Much of the debate between competing approaches is embedded in the discussion of the representation of “Jewish” pasts from the Biblical period to the Shoah. Over the last several decades, discontent with the early twentieth century emergent European science of Jewish history (and religion) of the Wissenschaft des Judentums has spurred the rise of Zionist and religious narrative perspectives. These, in turn, have been buttressed and challenged by postmodernist critiques that have led to an increased focus on a diversity of Jewish histories at the same time as questioning the very notion of a single coherent “Jewish” past. Meanwhile, to cite the work of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi in his landmark 1989 text Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory,1 an irreconcilable gulf has come to exist between the work of historians who excavate clues to oftentimes unrecognizable, fragmentary pasts and the sacred memories of tradition bound communities in the present. For me, Yerushalmi’s work stands out as it not only provided us with a genealogy explaining how Jewish historiography has arrived at its present state, but a cluster of difficult problems that have not yet been overcome. Yerushalmi’s main theme in Zakhor is the fundamental alienation of present-day critical historical work from the machinations of collective Jewish memory. For Yerushalmi, the contemporary Jewish “historian” dedicated to the retrieval of the past “as it actually happened” (Ranke: wie es eigentlich gewesen) is a recent invention. Today’s historians are primarily “secular” scholars in so far as their professional obligations to accurately represent historical events outweigh their allegiance to partisan, religious interests. Sacred texts and memorialized events have come to be viewed as emerging from and making sense within specific historical contexts. So-called longstanding traditions and ritual performances are understood as changing over time as does their “meaning” in diverse historical circumstances.

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In spite of the Jewish people’s reputation of being obsessed with “remembering” the past, according to Yerushalmi, this has not – for the most part – from the contemporary academic historian’s point of view actually been the case. Since the early rabbinic period, according to Yerushalmi, the reception and transmission of halakhah (de-historicized ethical action guides) has taken clear precedence over the preservation and recovery of details related to past events. The historicizing tendencies, like the emergent secularism of recent generations, are something new and they necessarily undermine received religious traditions. Herein lies part of the explanation for tension between modern historians and the largely religious as well as Zionist custodians of popular Jewish memory. In a sense, there really is no such thing as “Jewish” historiographical ethics by Yerushalmi’s definition of his own trade. There are just proper scientific, critical historiographical practices utilized by historians from diverse backgrounds on a variety of topics. Such historical work by its very nature threatens the legitimacy of inherited “politically correct” and sacred accounts of the past. This is the conclusion of scholars like Pierre Nora in “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire” who describes this “acceleration of history” where popular cultural memory is not only posited in opposition to but threatened and eclipsed by the products of contemporary historical research.2 The Christian philosopher Van Harvey tells a similar story in The Historian and the Believer: The Morality of Historical Knowledge and Christian Belief. In this seminal text, Harvey argues that “biblical criticism, especially research into the historical figure of Jesus, constitutes a skeleton in the closet of Christian theology.”3 Like Nora and Harvey, according to the view of Yerushalmi, historians cannot be the restorers of Jewish memory. At the same time that knowledge of the past gained through the deployment of modern historiographical techniques has increased enormously, our perceived connection to the past, cultivated through the transmission of collective memory, has waned. For Nora, the cause of this is the “blurring” of the lines that formerly separated historical from literary accounts of the past.4 According to Harvey, if sacrosanct accounts of the past are to remain viable, then they must be completely separated from the products of historical research.5 For many others, the mixing of political and religious accounts of the past with the work of historians also delegitimizes the latter. At the end of the story told by Yerushalmi, he too emphasizes that historical research and Jewish collective memories must be kept apart – for the benefit of each. What is most interesting about Yerushalmi’s work, in contrast to that of both Nora and Harvey who highlight the problems associated with the blurring of the distinction between traditional memory and historical science, is that in Zakhor he explicitly points to the downside of “separation” strategies. It is, according to Yerushalmi, the unavoidable present-day separation of memory from “hypertrophic” history that leads to and buttresses “crises of forgetting,”6 or what I refer to as historical blindness. It is precisely when various Jewish communities attempt to insulate themselves from products of historical science when striving to secure their traditions that relevant historical pasts are ignored, denied, and forgotten. Just as threatening, when all beliefs about the past are declared of equal though “different”

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significance, justified beliefs about what has occurred become determined mostly as a result of the exercise of power in specific socio-historical contexts. According to Yerushalmi, it is “only the historian” who can protect us “against the agents of oblivion, the shredders of documents, the assassins of memory. . . .”7 I do think that Yerushalmi’s assessment of the challenges facing contemporary Jewish historiographical traditions today rests upon a longstanding methodological assumption about the nature of historical inquiry and interpretation – one that he shared with Nora and Harvey. After re-theorizing the situation from a specific type of pragmatist perspective inspired by the work of John Dewey, I will question whether some of Yerushalmi’s conclusions necessarily hold.8 In order to do this, I will first review his account of developments in Jewish historiographical ethics over the last century – recasting a story told by many from Salo Baron to, most recently, Michael Brenner in his comprehensive examination of contemporary Jewish historiographical traditions titled Prophets of the Past.9 Yerushalmi and the science of Jewish history Yerushalmi’s characterization of his own historical work, as well as his solution to the face-off between historians and traditional religious custodians of collective Jewish memory, finds its origins in the historiographical practices of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. He writes in the wake of a tide of scholars committed to the modern scientific study of Judaism – specifically, concerning its history.10 In this way they were similar to those who brought the same sort of critical approaches to the study of Christianity, and who eventually ended up replacing “Theology” with “Religious Studies.” Jewish culture, literature, and history were subject to techniques deployed in modern scholarship across the academy. Yerushalmi recognizes the brilliance and remarkable achievements of historical work on past Jewish communities performed in the last century or so. Paralleling what occurred with the Monumenta Germaniae Historica and elsewhere in Europe, primary sources (written and material culture) on Jewish history were edited, published, and expanded. This was the product of historians’ attempts to do archiving and critical research as objectively and impartially as possible. The past was to be ideally insulated from contemporary political and religious bias and allowed to speak for itself. In many ways, Judaisms – in spite of reticence on behalf of some – have been historicized and ruminated over for several decades in an exemplary, model fashion. Many have, in my view, underemphasized the significant historiographical achievements made in the last hundred years. Using scientific methods to establish historical facts isn’t an academic, theoretical exercise for Jews. In addition to revealing pasts related to Jews in the ancient world (e.g. Dead Sea Scrolls publication project), historical science has empowered Jews, including Zionists in the last century serving in the fight against anti-Semitism. The work of historians on pasts significant for Jews involves survivor claims that need to be adjudicated in international courts where the jurors aren’t Jewish. Appeals to the past are often matters that cross traditional boundaries. Jews understand the danger of propaganda as well as any, and are wary to dismiss all accounts of the past as equal. If

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historical research related to the European catastrophe has shown anything, it is what the sustained scientific study of the past can do. The legacy of the scientific approach to Jewish history (whatever this is) is still quite alive. Whereas many of the most noteworthy accomplishments have occurred related to the preservation, compilation, and expansion of historical sources, the historians born of the Wissenschaft des Judentums have not been without their critics. This was inevitable according to Yerushalmi, especially given the fact that prior to this period there was actually very little attention paid to what we would call historical writing today in the Jewish world. The focus at least since the early rabbinic period, per Yerushalmi, was on the accurate transmission and understanding of action guides – halakhah. Yerushalmi, like Franz Rosenzweig, argued that historical development is not a primary interest or even category of scholarly focus in Rabbinic Judaisms, which are instead fixated on the “observance of an atemporal law.”11 Contrary to popular opinion, Jews since the Biblical period haven’t been interested in retelling tales of the past for the past’s sake. This doesn’t start to really change until the sixteenth century, when both Jewish interest in historical writing and the gentile nations reemerge in the wake of the catastrophe that occurred in Spain and Portugal. Even then, historical work is not well accepted and is generally viewed as “profane.”12 Where it rubs shoulders too closely with humanistic traditions, as in the work of Azariah de’ Rossi, it is placed under rabbinic ban. Rather, continuing to take precedence in Jewish religious traditions until today is the retrieval and putting into practice of specific codified ways of living. What is passed down from the past is regularly “metamorphosed” for the purpose of ethics in the present. For Yerushalmi, collective anamnesis or recollection simultaneously includes an oftentimes unacknowledged forgetting. While that which is deemed important is remembered – much is forgotten. The historians influenced by the Wissenschaft des Judentums focused on details of Jewish history that most rabbis expressed very little interest in. For Yerushalmi, “modern historiography is . . . really neither collective memory nor recollection in any of their prior senses, but a radically new venture.”13 At the same time that it produces more information about the world and the past than ever, it paradoxically undermines – to quote Hans Myerhoff – “the sense of identity and continuity with the past.”14 The modern historian’s work not only assumes its own trajectory which sometimes runs counter to established memories, but depends upon a certain detachment from tradition obsessed socioreligious groups. While Yerushalmi began his life as a part of a religious Jewish community that assiduously remembered and attempted to implement a certain legacy from the past, he discovered along the way that through use of historical methods he was “capable of an anamnesis far beyond what the [former] group can even conceive.”15 Jewish history became the history of a people not a religion. Neither was it to be understood as a religious remembering. The “turn to history,” as noted by Ismar Schorsch,16 has produced a divide between Jewish memory and Jewish history. Yerushalmi acknowledges that he lives “with the ironic awareness that the very mode in which I delve into the Jewish past represents a decisive break with that past.”17 Jewish history is “the faith of fallen Jews” such as himself.

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From the earliest instances, the utilization of critical, historicizing approaches to the study of Jewish pasts was deemed misguided by many Jews and at worst an affront. Knowledge of historical context, such as one might gain from archaeological research, was considered unhelpful in regards to religious purposes. While sacred texts might be invaluable historical sources, reading them solely as such misses their greater religious value. Religious Jews responded to academic evaluations of sacred histories during the last couple of centuries in much the same way that Christians have when confronted with historical criticism on the origins of their faith. Occasional attempts have been made to reconcile and/or partner Jewish history with collective Jewish memory. But for Yerushalmi, this task leads to a dead end and simply is not possible to accomplish. Ultimately, historians have a very different engagement with “the past” than the members of traditional Jewish religious communities. The two, moreover, do not – contrary to the desire of some religious specialists – reinforce each other. This may occur piecemeal where a historical identification seemingly lends credence to an inherited religious truth, but not, according to Yerushalmi, on the level of the whole. The scientific historiographical practices of people like Abraham Geiger, the founder of the Reformed movement who was also faculty at the famous Berlin Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums, were controversial not only with more traditional religious Jewish scholars. Replacing theological conceptions of Jewish history where Jews are not described as a “nation” but primarily as a religious group, with nationalized and/or secularized versions was always difficult for some – to Christians like Franz Delitzsch as well as Jewish historians associated with the Wissenschaft des Judentums like Heinrich Graetz. Geiger, following Leopold von Ranke, in a position widely challenged by Zionist historians, also insisted that nationalist bias be expunged from Jewish history as it gave rise to tainted scholarship. Alternatively, many of Geiger’s opponents thought the history of the Jews should only be written from “insider” perspectives as opposed to by apologetic, assimilationist historians deploying scientific methods. Early Zionists historians like Peretz Smolenskin and Ze’ev Yavetz, the latter of whom regarded non-Jewish sources with skepticism, held similar views. Samson Raphael Hirsch, the founder of “neo-Orthodoxy” and one of Geiger’s foremost critics – explicitly attacked the use of “historical science” in Jewish religious training.18 Yerushalmi and his student Michael Brenner are, like historians throughout academia, influenced by trends in postmodern historiography. This is highlighted in the foreword to Yerushalmi’s Zakhor written by Harold Bloom and in Brenner’s final chapter of Prophets of the Past on postmodern influences. Brenner’s work on the dominant framing narratives about Jews and Judaism that informed historical work on these topics picks up where Yerushalmi’s indictment of the differences between traditional religious concern with the past and scientific historiography ends. Where Yerushalmi, in Zakhor, worries about strained relationships between academic history and Jewish memory, Brenner provides us with genealogies of the main historiographical approaches to diverse Jewish histories in a multi-cultural setting that scholars such as Jeffrey Stout have compared to the biblical Babel. Brenner answers Yerushalmi’s concerns with more concerns – the discontinuity

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between history and memory in specific socio-historical Jewish groups is multiplied in tangled relationships across the greater Jewish world. Even though historians research a shared multiplicity of Jewish pasts, “the same history is not the same story” for Jews from widely diverse backgrounds.19 More recently, opponents of secularization advocating the protection of/return to religious orientations towards the past, as well as those promoting more ethnic/nation centric Zionist metanarratives about Jewish history, have targeted the so-called “objectivity” of scientific approaches to the study of Jewish history. Oftentimes following a postmodern script, they argue that the historian can never stand outside of her own present. Stories told about the past are commonly used to influence people in the present, and the historical narratives of the scientific historiographers of Judaism are deemed no exception to this rule. It is incumbent upon the historian to acknowledge this and to make research selections in light of contemporary/community concerns. For Zionist historians, like Marxist historical materialists, Jewish scholarship should prioritize the needs of real communities – in this case those of a nation returning to its homeland. As noted by Michael Brenner in Prophets of the Past, eminent Israeli scholars like Hayim Nahman Bialik criticized the representatives of the Wissenschaft des Judentums who attended to “neither the present nor the future of the Jewish people but were only interested in their past.”20 Instead of deploying secular scientific historiographical practices, those researchers associated with the Wissenschaft des Judentums should have engaged in patently Hebrew or Jewish scholarship. By not doing so, renowned academics such as Gershom Scholem argued that the assimilationist Jewish scholars collaborated in their own decline. It is easy to laud political historiography performed with eyes wide open to stakeholder interests in the present and future. Historians and even archaeologists excavating primary material remains from the past do not work in vacuums. The historical selections they make in their research are influenced by their training in specific contexts and are commonly subject to influence by interested parties in the present. The activist historiography of Marxists and Zionists, of those whose historical work is understood as service or even advocacy to their favored community interests, is the heir in the contemporary world to ancient royals’ partisan chroniclers of the past. Surely, however, checks on bias and external influence must serve a role in professional historical inquiry. This is especially the case where the past is contested between competing groups. Historians should also heed the interests of stakeholders of the future – the majority of their consumers (Jewish and non-Jewish as well, if they are so privileged) whose speculative voices are often drowned out by loud counterparts in the present who deploy the past in pursuit of contemporary goals and objectives.

Yerushalmi on the loss of the past In Judaisms, admonitions to remember the past are ubiquitous from the Biblical period to the present. Jews are expected to not only remember the Exodus, destruction of the Temples, hundreds of mitzvoth, and prayers but also more

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“secular” details related to the Holocaust and Israel as well. As Yerushalmi noted, this remembering is a “dual process” of reception and transmission where some things are recalled but others are not. The forgetting of the past occurs in many forms. Much is hidden from cultural memory and the work of historians for reasons that we will never be conscious of or because they are deemed so unimportant. Much is also forgotten, however, for more strategic as well as less than transparent reasons. It is not only the details related to distant, “strange” pasts (such as is my specialty – that is, related ancient Mediterranean religions) that have faded from popular memory. Recent pasts are also forgotten, denied, and commonly twisted. To use the language of Pierre Bourdieu, “historical misrecognitions” abound – where near and relevant pasts are unrecognized, simply covered over, and/or actively suppressed. In these cases, blindness to the past is made out to be natural and, on account of this, generally unquestioned. Misrecognitions are secured by resistance to “historicization” where the preferred habits of thought reflecting the interests of specific social positions in fields of competing powers are accepted without question.21 Unreflexive engagement with the world can be useful (one doesn’t have to think about everything), but what about when it elicits a deceptive, insensitive blindness to victims of social and political domination – for example, estrangement from sweatshop laborers or the victims of genocide? It has a serious downside, and Yerushalmi understood this. At the end of Zakhor, he even suggests that the best antonym for “forgetting” is not “remembering” but “justice.”22 The forgetting of the past for Yerushalmi and Bourdieu is especially prolific during times of instability and transition where proximate pasts are remarkably obscured. In large part, what is remembered of the past during such times depends upon the choices of authorizing agents involved in the reception and transmission process. Throughout turbulent historical periods we encounter the same dynamic as in the early rabbinic period discussed above. When the Oral Torah – after the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and the Bar Kochba revolt – was in danger of passing away, some things were deemed necessary to remember (halakha) but not others. The crisis of forgetting today described by Yerushalmi seems to fall into a similar category. To review, Yerushalmi responds to the present-day clash between history and Jewish collective memory by considering the most preferable relationship between the two. As noted above, the issues he considers are not unique, having been reflected upon by scholars like Nora and Harvey. The most common response is that the professional ethics of those practicing the science of Jewish history must be differentiated from those engaged in the ethical valuation of this past. In order to avoid the difficulties caused by the interaction between history and religious/ political faith, the two must be kept separate. According to Yerushalmi, however, strategies advocated by Zecharias Frankel, forefather of Conservative Judaism and the first president of the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, attacked by Abraham Geiger and Samson Raphael Hirsch alike, come with hard to bear, unacceptable consequences. Maintaining scientific research standards on the one hand,

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alongside the authority of traditional Jewish religious sources on the other, was not only functionally impossible to accomplish but leads at an accelerated pace towards historical blindness. While some forgetting is always inevitable even in wildly successful scientific historiographical enterprises, Yerushalmi – going one step further than Harvey – believed that the loss of cultural/religious memory in this age of hypertrophic historical scholarship occurs at a hastened pace among Jews today. Yerushalmi was clearly concerned with the effects of the de-legitimation of historical work. He did not think that all pasts were created equal – that the professional historian was, to cite Richard Rorty, a convincing poet. Yerushalmi did not adopt the view that all accounts of the historical past are equivalent to propaganda. Yes, history is in all ways history of the present. And yes, history always serves interests, in this case assimilating forces – ulterior enlightenment forces that aren’t objective at all. None of this means however that there wasn’t a determinant past – some views about which are more justified than others.23 For Yerushalmi, the cost of Jewish memory loss in the contemporary age in the West was his greatest concern. First, in spite of and because of our increased historical knowledge about the past, Jews exhibit less identity with their forebears. Citing Kafka, Yerushalmi challenges his reader – is so little of the Judaism of the past remaining that only driblets are passed on?24 Many people claim that they are practicing long unchanged ritual observances, but close analyses of ritual change across time suggests that this is not the case. Others simply refer to unsubstantiated pasts to authorize or justify action in the present. According to Yerushalmi, “crises of forgetting” – that is, failing to transmit what is understood about the past from one generation to the next – today are rampant. This is, however, not simply the result of the mixing of history and popular memory which has had a devastating effect on cultural/religions traditions. For Yerushalmi, the fact that we have come to lack a halakhah for today is the cause of our forgetting. We have lost a “halakhah that will know what to appropriate [from our memory of the past] and what to leave behind, a commonality of values that would enable us to transform history into memory.” While the historian, according to Yerushalmi, “can write a history of forgetting, he cannot tell us what should be forgotten.”25 This is the provenance of ethics – of offering an appropriate halakhah or way of living.26 Yerushalmi’s view here is not new. It is echoed in the work of Christians like Harvey and others who think the tasks of historians focused on historical facts are entirely different from those of religious or other ethical/political leaders who operate in the sphere of valuations. History is one thing. The meaning of history, its significance and how it is remembered, is another. It is here that Yerushalmi’s position reverts to that of Harvey. The product of historical science shouldn’t be mixed with the valuation of the past. While Yerushalmi goes further than his Christian counterpart in highlighting the inevitable problems associated with such separation strategies, in my view he doesn’t go far enough. In the end, he reverts to maintaining a stark difference between halakhah and the results of rigorous historical approaches to the study of Jewish pasts.

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My assessment I have couple of serious concerns about the assessments and conclusions of Yerushalmi regarding the contemporary forgetting of Jewish pasts. These are based upon a certain anti-representationalist, pragmatist unease with stark oppositions generated by a commitment to the fact/value distinction, such as the one posited between the factual pasts focused upon by historians and the remembered valuations about pasts described in religious and other cultural traditions. The facts about the past that historians are concerned with are not uncolored by the selections made in the present. Religious valuations about the past, moreover, are not devoid of claims about what has actually happened. It is not, in my view, so easy to separate out the product of historical research from the valuation of the past. Like John Dewey, I think that every past is colored by selections made in the present. Historians and their work are not only influenced by the world but have an impact upon it. Just because unconditional “objectivity” is off the table doesn’t mean that some beliefs about the past aren’t more justified than others. The pragmatic historicism of Dewey also produces a high-powered scientific historiography where justified claims about the past accrue as a result of theorized inquiry. Furthermore, I also don’t understand why the results of historical inquiry can’t drive ethical or religious valuation. What I don’t like about Harvey and ultimately Yerushalmi’s solution of radically separating history from traditional memory is that it artificially limits the influence of the former on the latter. In my experience as a historian, practice outpaces theory in this regard. There are numerous examples where good historical work has helped to clarify and even augment ethical/religious meaning.27 This is quite apparent, if one takes the time to look, even in Talmudic studies of so-called “ahistorical” halakhot. Whether historical scholarship furthers our knowledge of ancient languages like Jewish Babylonian Aramaic or secures restored texts for examination, it is not irrelevant to religious professionals or those who consume their work. In many cases, religious scholars fully embrace critical methodologies in their work. Why can’t religious/cultural memories be fortified by historical research, or even reformulated? By insisting that what changes has never and never will change, religious actors back themselves into a hole from which they can never dig out. I am also very concerned that by insulating religion and values from history, the former is provided a sanctuary from not just historical but other types of criticism. When people say remember, they almost always mean remember things the way they want you to remember them. For me, red flags go off when roadblocks are put in the path of inquiry. I am led to suspicion when the act of questioning is disallowed, whether through some queries being forbidden or irresponsibly ignored. This is what John Dewey refers to as bad faith. Likewise, when appeal cannot be made to potential witnesses from outside of the tradition (or justifying one’s actions in response to outsiders’ questions is deemed unnecessary) I become nervous. While there is no comparable replacement for emic, insider approaches to the study of religion – after all, most of my colleagues in Religious Studies departments, while they may be secular, were raised and educated in the traditions

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that they study – this doesn’t mean that “authorized” Jewish studies should be limited to observant Jews and/or Zionists. Justified beliefs about the past depend upon more than what a homogenous religious or political community already agrees upon. Sharing common vocabularies and traditions is a necessary but not a sufficient condition of justification.28 In the space of giving and asking for reasons, a willingness to operate beyond one’s own comfort zone by answering defeaters from and testing emergent views with outsiders is critical. To quote Thomas Jefferson, the famous secularist and liberal democratic ally of Protestant sectarians at the founding of the United States: “Reason and free inquiry are the only effectual agents against error.”29

Notes 1 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1982), 114. 2 Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989), 7–24. 3 Van A. Harvey, The Historian and the Believer: The Morality of Historical Knowledge and Christian Belief (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1996 [1966]), ix. 4 Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” 24. 5 See especially chapter four of my book, John Dewey and the Ethics of Historical Belief: Religion and the Representation of the Past (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2013) where I address the work of Harvey in detail. 6 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 113. 7 Ibid., 116. 8 This strategy is similar to that utilized by Harold Bloom in the Foreword to the 1989 edition of Yerushalmi’s Zakhor where this work is contrasted with that of the American pragmatist Richard Rorty. 9 See especially Salo Baron, History and Jewish Historians (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1964). Michael Brenner, Prophets of the Past: Interpreters of Jewish History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010 [2006]). 10 The “scientific study of Judaism” (better: “Judaisms”) or critical analysis of the various Jewish cultures, literatures, and histories using techniques deployed in modern critical scholarship was famously pioneered at the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin founded by amongst others Abraham Geiger. Teachers included Leo Baeck, Franz Rosenthal, and Hanoch Albeck with alumni like Emil Fackenheim, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Arthur Biram, Regina Jonas, Ellen Littman, Ruth Liebrecht, and Solomon Schechter. 11 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 92–93. 12 See Brenner in Prophets of the Past: Interpreters of Jewish History, 66–67 who notes that the authors of historical work during this period regularly apologize for their work in introductions. According to Brenner on p. 73, “a close study of sixteenth-century Jewish historiography only sets into sharper relief the degree to which traditional attitudes toward history continued among the majority.” 13 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 93. 14 Ibid., 79. 15 Ibid., 114. 16 Ismar Schorsch, From Text to Context: The Turn to History in Modern Judaism (Hanover, NH and London: Brandeis University Press and University Press of New England, 2003).

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17 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 81. 18 Ibid., 92. See Yerushalmi on Hirsch’s criticisms of the Jewish Theological Seminary of Breslau. Hirsch’s views of historical scholarship are quite evident in his famous imagined correspondence between a young rabbi and philosopher published under the pseudonym “Ben Uziel” – The Nineteen Letters: The World of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch ((trans. Joseph Elias). Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers, 1995). See especially letters 3, 6, 10, and 15 in addition to the editor’s helpful explanatory notes. 19 See Michael Brenner’s 2005 Paul lecture, “The Same History Is Not the Same Story: Jewish History and Jewish Politics” In The Paul Lecture (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 2005), 5–18. 20 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 163. 21 For Piere Bourdieu, in essays like “Pascalian Meditations” and “Structures, Habitus, Practices” in The Logic of Practice (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), misrecognitions are described as the product of unreflexive engagement with the world. Historical misrecognitions, in Bourdieu’s Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 78 are the product of the “forgetting of history which history itself produces.” 22 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 117. 23 Following Bourdieu, historical blindness occurs in the work of historians when their work is not properly reflexive. Historical inquiry can never be hermetically sealed from religious, political, and other stakeholder interests. Research can be conducted, however, with deliberately positioned safeguards in place and open eyes to the field of competing interests upon which the historian acts. 24 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 79. 25 Ibid., 115. 26 Ibid. According to Yerushalmi, Jews have lost a “halakhah” that will know what to appropriate [from our memory of the past] and what to leave behind, a commonality of values that would enable us to transform history into memory.” 27 This has definitely been the case in my own work – see, especially, Curtis Hutt, “‘Be Ye Approved Money-changers!’: Reexamining the Social Contexts of the Saying and Its Interpretation,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131, no. 3 (2012): 589–609. 28 Curtis Hutt, John Dewey and the Ethics of Historical Belief, 109. 29 Thomas Jefferson, “Notes on Virginia, Query XVII” in The Works of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 4, Paul Leicester Ford, ed., New York and London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1904, 78.

Bibliography and references Baron, Salo. History and Jewish Historians. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1964. Bourdieu, Pierre. Outline of the Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. ———. The Logic of Practice. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000. Brenner, Michael. “The Same History Is Not the Same Story: Jewish History and Jewish Politics.” In The Paul Lecture. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 2005, 5–18. ———. Prophets of the Past: Interpreters of Jewish History. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010 [2006]. Funkenstein, Amos. Perceptions of Jewish History. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Harvey, Van A. The Historian and the Believer: The Morality of Historical Knowledge and Christian Belief. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1996 [1966].

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Hirsch, Samson Raphael. The Nineteen Letters: The World of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch (trans. Joseph Elias). Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers, 1995. Hutt, Curtis. “‘Be Ye Approved Money-changers!’: Reexamining the Social Contexts of the Saying and Its Interpretation.” Journal of Biblical Literature 131, no. 3 (2012): 589–609. ———. John Dewey and the Ethics of Historical Belief: Religion and the Representation of the Past. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2013. Jefferson, Thomas. “Notes on Virginia, Query XVII” In The Works of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 4, Paul Leicester Ford, ed., New York and London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1904, 74–82. Meyer, Michael. Ideas of Jewish History. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987. Mirron, Roni. ‫ תומד רבעה ידוהיה האמב םירשעה‬:‫[ ךאלמ הירוטסיהה‬The Angel of Jewish History: The Image of the Jewish Past in the Twentieth Century]. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2013. Myers, David. Re-Inventing the Jewish Past: European Jewish Intellectuals and the Zionist Return to History. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995 Nora, Pierre. “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire.” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24. Schorsch, Ismar. From Text to Context: The Turn to History in Modern Judaism. Hanover, NH and London: Brandeis University Press and University Press of New England, 2003. Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1982.

Index

Abraham: achievement and message of 33–34; angelic guests and 20–21, 28–31; generations of 49n56; Isaac and 43; and musar practices 36–37, 48n37 action, ethics and concept of 6, 119, 123–125 Adam and Eve 94–95, 99–100, 103n36, 104–105n40 Adorno, Theodor 7, 8, 153–155, 156, 158–160 adultery: Aristotle on 88; Spinoza on 108, 110, 115 Afro-Jewish Studies at Temple University 216 Afro-Jews 213–214; challenges to presumed-white narrative 218; colonialism and 217–218, 220, 222; element of belonging 220–221; idea of 9; Jewish ethics 222–223; Jewish history 219–220; question of 214–215, 217–218; themes of Afromodernity 221–222 Akiva 24n17, 62, 71, 105n43 Alexander of Macedon 35 American Jewish identity 8; Expressional Jewishness 193–197; see also Jewish communities American liberal Judaism, role of IsraeliPalestinian conflict in 200–204 Amoraim: biblical laws 4, 51, 56, 59–60; halakha as wise norms 64–67; hukkim laws 75n12; impurification and purification 59; midrashim 61–62; as mysterious 67; proscription of animals 63; statement by R. Yitzhak and R. Yosse b. Hanina 70–72; story about R. Yohanan b. Zakkai 67–70; understanding Torah laws 62 anarchy, term 161

Ancselovits, Elisha 2, 4, 5, 51–74 angels: Abraham and 20–21; Abraham and angelic guests 20–21, 28–31; humans vs 14–15, 18; limits of 34–36 animals: against eating strangled 78n100; laws of slaughter 78–79n106, 79n107 anti-Semitism 7, 153, 157–158, 160, 207–208n39, 215, 231 Arendt, Hannah 161 Aristotle 4, 34–35, 87–91, 99, 101n15, 103–104n37, 109, 145 Baal Shem Tov 149, 151n68 Babylonian Talmud 14 Bahya ben Asher ibn Halawa 20 Baier, Annette 147–148 Barth, Karl 87 Ben-David, Orit Brawer 184 Benhabib, Seyla 143 Bentham, Jeremy 87, 89, 91 Ben Zoma, Simeon 14, 15, 45–46, 49n65 Berger, Peter 194 Bialik, Hayim Nahman 234 biblical morality, Spinoza’s view of 107–115 biblical ritual laws: casting out of goat 52–53, 54, 56, 74, 76n43; consumption of pig 52, 55–56, 74, 76n30; Halakhic Judaism 54; purification of leper 52, 54–56, 66, 74, 75n24; removal of levirate wife 52, 54, 74; wearing mixed fibers 52, 54, 57–58, 74 bioethics, Jewish ethics and 180, 186n1 Blau, Rabbi Amram 201 Bloom, Harold 233, 238n8 Book of Jewish Food, The (Roden) 219 Bourdieu, Pierre 235, 239n21, 239n23 Brenner, Michael 231, 233–234, 238n9

242

Index

broken-necked calf (egla arufa) 178–179 Brous, Rabbi Sharon 202–203 Brown, Wendy 154, 157 Buber, Martin 1, 2, 6–7; account of reciprocity 163; I-It relation 141, 146; I-You relation 141–150; multi-ethnic tolerance 154; philosophy 139–140; relational ethic 150n6; understanding of relationship 139–150 Byzantine Christianity ideology 51 Byzantine midrash 62 Byzantine statements, law of red heifer 72–74 Carter, April 153 Christianity 51, 62, 65–66, 69, 70, 113, 130, 216, 221, 231; Byzantine 63; Jewish roots of 128; Judaism and 108; as New Israel 65; Pauline 53, 55–57, 59, 160; sermons attacking 63–67 Claussen, Geoffrey 1, 3, 27–47 Clement of Alexandria 55 clothing, wearing mixed fibers 52, 54, 57–58, 74 Code (Maimonides) 2, 13 Cohen, Hermann 2, 6, 87, 119, 120, 134nn1–3; criticisms of Cohen on law 130–133; criticisms of Kant 121–123; I-Thou relation 141; law, compassion and suffering 127–130; on law and foundations of ethics 123–127 communitarianism, love and justice beyond 160–164 compassion 6, 195; concept of humanity 119, 127–130, 133 Constantine (Emperor) 216, 221 cosmopolitanism 153; definition of 159; hospitality of 166; of other person 165–167 cosmopolitan tolerance 153–155; asymmetric ethics colonialism and 158–160; historical complicity with domination 155–157 Critchley, Simon 160 Critique of Practical Reason (Kant) 121, 131, 134n4 Critique of Pure Reason (Kant) 134n1 death, purification after human 56, 59, 60–62; see also dying process Decolonial Judaism (Slabodsky) 224 de Gobineau, Arthur 217 Delitzsch, Franz 233

Derekh Emunah (Kabbalistic treatise) 32 de’ Rossi, Azariah 232 Derrida, Jacques 7, 8, 153, 155, 158–160, 163–164 Dewey, John 87, 231, 237 Dialogue with Trypho (Martyr) 55–56 Divine fiat: Early Medieval Byzantine rabbis 74; inexplicable laws as 67, 70, 76n31; public service and philosophical enlightenment 22; Tannaim and Amoraim towards 4, 51–54 Du Bois, W.E.B. 9, 213, 215, 219 dying process: de-ritualization of 181–183; medicalization of 183–185, 188n28 egla arufa ceremony 178–179 Eisan, Arnie 209n57 Eleazar b. Azarya 55 Eleazar haModa’i 52 Eleazar the Qallirian 64, 72, 73 Englander, Yakir 2, 8, 191–205 Enlightenment: cosmopolitanism and tolerance 153, 166; European 160; French 158; humanism 179; of humanity 21–23; project 7, 153, 156, 157 Epicureans 75–76n28 Eternal You, relationship with 142–143, 147, 148 Ethica (Spinoza) 109, 116n9 ethics: concept of action 6, 119, 123–125; concept of law 6, 119, 122, 124–126, 130; see also Jewish ethics Euromodern world 214–215, 218, 220–222 Expressional Jewishness 8, 193–197; American society 193–195; future of American Judaism 198–200; ; gap between ideal and reality 195–196; gap between particularism and universalism 196; Israeli-Palestinian conflict 201, 203–204; supporting or condemning Israeli state actions 197; tension between communities 196–197 Faur, José 94, 105–106n40 feminist ethics 6–7 Finch, Charles, III 217 Firmin, Anténor 219 flood, destruction of generation 17 Forst, Rainer 154 Frankel, Zecharias 235 Frankfurt School 7, 153, 154, 155, 164, 167 freedom 136n32; American society 193, 201; Cohen on 123–127; cosmopolitan

Index 158, 166–167; human dignity and 214, 221, 223–224; I-You relation 149–150; Kant on 119–120, 123, 126, 132; moral 94, 99–100; moral action as inner 6; Paul on law and 122; personal 155–156; from slavery 9; Spinoza on 109; in state of Israel 193–194 Fromm, Erich 94 Garden of Eden 36, 93 Garrett, Don 108 Geiger, Abraham 233, 235, 238n10 golden calf 24n17, 71 Goodman, Lenn E. 2, 4, 87–100 Gordis, Rabbi Daniel 202–203 Gordon, Lewis R. 2, 9, 213–225 Gordon, Mordechai 146–147 Gordon, Rabbi Eliezer 35 Gottlieb, Michah 2, 5, 107–115 Graetz, Heinrich 88, 233 Grams, Laura 2, 6–7, 139–150 Greenberg, Joseph 217 Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant) 120, 131, 134n1, 134n4 Guide for the Perplexed (Maimonides) 19, 22–23, 91–94, 96 Guide for the Perplexed, The (Pines, translation) 4 Habermas, Jürgen 7, 154, 158, 165–166 Ha-Levi, Yehudah 31 Harvey, Van 10, 230–231, 235–236, 237 Hasidism 149 Hayyim of Volozhin, Rabbi 42 Hegel, G. W. F. 155–156, 167n11 Heidegger, Martin 87, 164 Held, Virginia 6, 142, 145 Hellenistic norms, condemnation of 53–54 Henry, Paget 215 Hillel the Elder 10, 45 Hirsch, Samson Raphael 175, 233, 235, 239n17 historiographical ethics 229–234, 236, 238n12 History and Freedom (Adorno) 156 Holocaust 7, 8, 134n2, 153, 160, 201, 235 Homnick, Gerald 87 Honneth, Axel 158, 164–166 Horwitz, Rivka 141 hospitality 164–165 hukkim (legal decrees) 51, 52; Amoraim 75n12; definition 75n16; Tannaitic midrash 51–59; wise laws 51–59

243

human beings: enlightenment of 21–22; evil inclination in souls of 45; God’s creation of 44; purification after human death 56, 59, 60–62; virtue of love 37–38; Zissel’s focus on solidity among 45 humanity, Kant’s concept of 127–128, 132 human nature 3–4, 28, 46; angelic part of 35–37; Aristotle on 89–90; Kant on 133; Levinas on 162; Maimonides on 99–100; Spinoza on 109 Hutt, Curtis 2, 5, 9–10, 229–238 identity see Jewish communities Iltis, Ana 187n6 intellectual concepts musar 39–40 internationalism 155–157 Isaiah 14–19; Meir Simhah reading 45; Spinoza on 111–112, 115 Islam 96, 103n33, 221 Israel birthright 204, 209n54, 209nn55–56 Israel Defense Forces (IDF) 202, 204 Israeli-Palestinian conflict 191, 205, 208n42; observations regarding 191–192; role in American liberalism of Judaism 200–204 Jacob: discovering path of Torah 43; Laban and 17–18; relation between sons 200; separation from evil 49n57 Jeremiah 5, 31, 113–115 Jerusalem Talmud 17 Jesus 4, 5, 51, 56, 62–63, 66–68, 72–73, 230 Jewish communities: American Jewish identity 8, 191–192; Expressional Jewishness 8, 193–197; IsraeliPalestinian conflict observations 191– 192; mainstream 200, 207n38; Tensional Jewishness 8, 193, 197–198 Jewish ethics 1, 175–176; Afro-Jews and 222–223; beyond textual fixation 180– 181; brain death 183–184; context and purpose of contemporary applied 179– 180; death and limits of textual ethics 179–185; de-ritualized ethics of dying 181–183; division of mitzvoth 175–176; egla arufa ceremony 178–179; history and memory 9–10; medicalization of death 183–185, 188n28; nature of moral life 177; practice of 176–177; ritual and 8, 177–179, 187n13, 187–188n18; ritual and ambiguous death 183–185

244

Index

Jewish exceptionalism 44 Jewish existence, social life of 22 Jewish history 9–10; Yerushalmi and science of 231–234 Jewishness 8; Expressional 193–197; Tensional 193, 197–198 Jewish philosophy, spiritual development 19–20 Judaism 3, 5, 9, 46, 51; Africa and 221; Afro-Judaism 214–215; American 195, 201, 203, 204; Cohen on 122, 134n2, 135–136n30; concept of election 222–223; conversion to 218–219; future of American 198–200; Germanism and 134n2; ideals of 130; interpersonal morality of 13; Israeli 195, 204; Jewish ethics 175–176, 179, 182, 187n13; Meir Simhah on 46; religious dimension of 219–220; rise of rabbinic 51; ritual norms of 54; role of Israeli-Palestinian conflict in American 200–204; scientific study of 238n10; Spinoza on 108, 115; survival after destruction of Second Temple 67; traditions in 24; type of 216; universalism and 160, 163, 165; use in Jewish communities 193–195, 197–198; Yerushalmi on 231–326 jurisprudence 6; Cohen on 119, 121–126, 130; Kant on 130–131 kalâm Islamic 96, 98 Kant, Immanuel 6, 87, 119, 155; Cohen’s criticisms of 121–123; concept of humanity 127–128, 132; criticisms of Cohen on law 130–133; double accounts of freedom 123; law of reason 120, 130–131, 136n31; on the law 120–121; transcendental project 6, 120, 131–132; universalistic ethic 130 Kaufmann, Walter 7, 140, 148, 149 Kim, Halla 2, 6, 119–134 Kook, Rabbi Zvi Yehudah 24n17, 198 Korah, rebellion of 57–58 Kortholt, Christian 5, 107, 116n2 Kremer, Rabbi Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman 3 Kuperman, R. Yehudah 23n2 Kuzari (Ha-Levi) 31 Laban and Jacob, comments on 17–18 law of unsolved murder, ritual and ethics in 178–179 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 87, 121, 161, 169n38

Leibowitz, Yeshayahu 24–25n17 leper, purification of 52, 54–56, 66, 74, 74n24 Lerner, Berel Dov 1, 2, 13–23, 27 Lerner, Rabbi Michael 195 Levinas, Emanuel 7, 8, 153, 155, 158–164 Levi of Tiberias 60–61, 70–71 LGBT organizations 196, 206n13 LGBTQ rights 193, 197 liberalism 155, 160–164 Lieberman, Phil 5, 91, 102nn27–28 liturgical poems (piyyutim) 62–67, 72–74 love virtue, humans and angels 37–38 Luo, Shirong 139 Maimonides 2, 5, 37; appetites and passions 99; benefits of God’s commandments 98–99; capacity to judge moral norms 97–98; conventions 92–93, 95, 95–96; Guide for the Perplexed 19, 22–23, 91–94, 96; moral realist 93; moral truths 96–97; on nakedness 100, 104–105n40; Torah reading 102–103n32 Marcuse, Herbert 7, 154, 156–157, 158 marriage: American debates on 193; human life rituals 187n6; identity through 218, 224; Jewish community 199; levirate 57, 77n50; mixed Jews and non-Jews 199, 207n29 Martyr, Justin 55–56 Marxism 161 medicine: dying process and 183–185, 188n28; ritual in 188n27 Meir Simhah Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk 1, 2–4, 13–23, 47n1; Abraham and his angelic guests 28–31; critiquing philosophers 31–34; in dialog with Simhah Zissel 38–42; Jacob’s changing for better 43; Simhah Zissel and 27–28; social solidarity focus of 44 Mendez-Flohr, Paul 148, 151n68 Meshekh Hokhma 2, 13, 16, 19–20, 22, 23n2, 43 Metaphysics of Morals (Kant) 122, 132, 134n1, 134n4 midrashim 17; Amoraic 61–62; late earlyByzantium 62–67; Tannaitic 51–59, 61–62 midrashot (exegeses) 52 Mill, John Stuart 158 minhat shav 16 Minima Moralia (Adorno) 157

Index Mishna 35, 64, 79n114, 88, 102n26 moral discipline, wisdom of philosophers 34–36 moral excellence: Abraham and angelic guests 28–31; errors of philosophers 31–34; limits of angels 34–36; Meir Simhah in dialog with Simhah Zissel 38–42; musar and question of Jewish superiority 42–46; wisdom of philosophers 34–36 morality: Biblical 5–6; Judeo-Christian 5; Kant’s ethics 6; sociality of 16–17 moral law: Cohen vs Kant 121–123, 126, 128; Kant on 120–121, 130–132; of Moses 110, 115 moral psychology 3; angels and humans 14–15, 18, 20–21; Meir Simhah’s 15, 17 Moses 5; early story of 18–19; musar meditations 39–40; poem showing humility of 13–14; Spinoza on 108–115; Tablets of the Law and 24–25n17 musar: Abraham’s journey 36–37; movement 3, 28; necessity of study 41–42; need for continual growth 36–38; question of Jewish superiority 42–46; seeking intellectual concepts 39–40 Myerhoff, Hans 232 Nagel, Thomas 16 Nelson, Eric S. 2, 7, 153–167 Netanyahu, Benjamin 209n54 Netivot Shalom-Oz VeShalom website 23n5, 24n17 New Jewish Publication Society 13 Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle) 88 Noah 18, 19 Noddings, Nel 6, 139, 143, 145 Nora, Pierre 230–231, 235 Nussbaum, Martha 154, 167n5 offerings 22, 46; Buber seeing self as 140; ethics and ritual 177, 236; themes 15–16; Torah 31 Old and New Testaments 107–108, 110–111, 113, 116n5 Oldenberg, Henry 107 On the Three Great Traitors (Kortholt) 5, 107 Palestinian Authority 201 particularistic law: Expressional liberal Jews 196; Jewish norms 56, 64; moral

245

significance of 175–176, 180; Reformed Judaism 187n13; social morality 5; Torah’s 51–53 Passover Seder 9, 213 Paul 75n27; biblical moral thought 5; Cohen on 122; freedom and law 122; Spinoza on 111, 115 Pauline Christians: evidence for midrash’s conclusions and 54–55; ideology 53; midrash’s conclusion and 55–59 peoplehood 196, 203 Philoponus, John 99, 103–104n37 philosophers: errors of 31–34; wisdom of 34–36 pietism 28, 122 pigs, consumption of 52, 55–56, 74, 76n30 Pines, Shlomo 4, 91, 93, 94, 101n5, 102nn27–28, 102n30, 103–104n37 pity 5–6; Spinoza on 108, 114–115 Plato 18, 23, 87–90, 94, 101n5, 101n15, 103n32, 103–104n37, 121 purification ritual: after human death 56, 59, 60–62; leper 52, 54–56, 66, 74, 74n24 Rabbinic Sages 62, 90 Rawls, John 7, 154 red heifer: Amoraic story 59–60, 67–70; ashes from 61; Jesus’ blood and 56n2; mysterious law of 72–74; purification ritual 65–66 Reform movement, Jewish 196–197, 206n11 Regulating Aversion (Brown) 154 Renan, Joseph Ernest 217 repentance 6, 30; Cohen on 129; Spinoza on 108, 114–115 republicanism 160–161 rituals: dead and mourning practices 185; egla arufa ceremony 178–179; Jewish ethics and 8; law of unsolved murder 178–179; meal offerings 16; philosophical anthropology of 69; Sabbath observance 17; social reality and 187n6; unity of ethics and 177–179, 187n13, 187–188n18; see also biblical ritual laws Roden, Claudia 219 Roman Empire 51, 70, 76n28, 77n52, 157, 216 Rorty, Richard 236, 238n8 Rosenzweig, Franz 175, 232 Russell, Bertrand 87, 89, 91

246

Index

Sabbath observance 130; Isaiah on 112; ritual of 15–17 scapegoat, casting out of 52–53, 54, 56, 74, 76n43, 97 Schick, Ari 1, 8, 175–186 Scholem, Gershom 234 Schorsch, Ismar 232 Schwartz, Dov 87 self-consciousness 125–126 Seneca, Lucius Annaeus 52, 75n13, 213, 225n2 sensitivity 95, 113, 132, 136n33 sentimentality 136n33 sexual taboos 52 Shema, People Israel reciting 14, 23n7 Shimon bar Yohai 41 Slabodsky, Santiago 224 Slote, Michael 139 Smith, Ronald 140 Smolenskin, Peretz 233 Socrates 38 Sofer, Rabbi Moses 197 solidarity: people of Israel 38–39; social 16, 17–18, 24n17, 44 Solomon 5, 61–62, 112, 115 Soloveitchik, Joseph B. 4–5, 87–91, 93, 101n5, 104n37 Spinoza, Baruch 2, 5, 87, 91, 116n5, 116n17, 117n43; on adultery 108, 110, 115; biblical morality 107–115; doctrine of virtue 109–111, 114–115; following Maimonides 103n37 spiritual development: backsliding 20; Noah vs Moses 19–20 substitution 164–165 suffering 36, 134n2; communication of 166; community and 163; compassion and 6, 119, 127–130; duty and 161; human life 187n6; of Jews 201–202; Kant on 133; Palestinian 203; of slaves 40; Spinoza on 114 Taglit-Birthright program 204, 209nn54–56 Talmud 2, 3, 14, 17, 31, 35–36, 41, 45, 62, 129, 194, 222 Tannaim: biblical laws 4, 51; of Eretz Israel 198; halakha as wise norms 64–67; honoring Day of Rest 65; impurification and purification 59; Mishna 35, 64, 79n114, 88, 102n26; particularistic vs universal laws 51–59; proscription of animals 63; summary of

midrashim 61–62; understanding Torah laws 62 Tannaitic School of Akiva 52 Tannaitic School of Ishmael 52 Tensional Jewishness 8, 193, 197–198 Tertullian 56, 76nn47–48 tolerance 153; cosmopolitan 153–155; hospitality, substitution and 164–165; multi-ethnic 154; part of justice 165 Torah 2, 4, 10, 178, 213; Abraham and angelic guests 28–31; angels vs humans 13–15, 17–18, 21; conversation between God and angels 34; describing human condition 95; errors of philosophers 31–34; guidance of 37; importance of deeds 33; moral discipline of 35–36; oral 235; particularistic laws 52–53; study of 46; see also Abraham; Adam and Eve; Moses; rituals United Nation Partition Plan of Palestine 201 universalism 153–155, 167; of cosmopolitanism 163, 165; cosmopolitan tolerance 158–159; Expressional liberal Jews 196; in moral philosophy 175, 177, 180 universal laws: human action 124; particularistic vs 51–59 Vermes, Pamela 6, 141, 147, 148, 149 Vilna Gaon 3, 30, 31, 41, 42 Voices for Peace 207n38 Voltaire 158, 160 von Ranke, Leopold 229, 233 von Schlözer, August Ludwig 217 Walters, James 139, 143, 150n6, 151n38 Wertheimer, Jack 199 Wissenschaft des Judentums 9, 229, 231–234 Wood, Robert E. 144, 147, 148, 150n21 Yashar, Rabbi Moses 41, 42 Yavetz, Ze’ev 233 Yehoshua b. Levi 15 Yehoshua (tanna) 15, 52 Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim 9–10, 229–231, 237; on loss of the past 234–236; science of Jewish history 231–234 Yitzhak (amora) 60–61, 70–72, 73 Yohanan b. Pazi 60, 71 Yohanan b. Zakkai 67–70

Index Yom Kippur 56, 177 Yosse b. Hanina 69, 70–72, 73 Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Yerushalmi) 9, 229–230, 233, 235, 238n8, 239n17

247

Zionism 163, 197–198, 201 Ziv, Simhah Zissel 2, 3–4, 47n1; Abraham and his angelic guests 28–31; critiquing philosophers 31–34; evil inclination of souls of humans 45; Meir Simhah and 27–28; Meir Simhah in dialog with 38–42