The Limits of Rabbinic Authority

Photo: Temple Institute

It’s one of the first sections of Gemara we teach to our children in the fourth chapter of Berachot. Yet, the implications of the story are far from childish, and resonate to this very day.

Following the near decimation of the Jewish community in Judea and the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, a small group of Sages gathered in Yavneh to regroup and reform the rabbinic Academy, with the hope of reestablishing a Jewish community that has the spiritual wherewithal to withstand the churning waves of history. Rabban Gamliel HaNasi – the Head of the Academy – took a deliberately authoritarian tact, determined to establish a single communal norm in the face of growing division and within the rabbinic community. To his mind, the rabbis had to unite around a single halachic tradition lest the community render itself apart. And, to prevent just this type of split from happening, he intentionally imposed his authority over the Sages in the study hall, dominating the discussion and discouraging disagreement.

His foil, the great sage Rabbi Yehoshua, clearly disagreed not only with Rabban Gamliel’s rulings, but his tactics. What about the values of dispute, debate and healthy disagreement, which formed the foundation of halachic dialogue? Even in the aftermath of the Churban, was unity worth the cost of silencing dissent and preventing healthy rabbinic debate? Rabbi Yehoshua publicly disagreed with Rabban Gamliel, challenging not only the substance of his rulings but the propriety of his authority.
It is difficult to know how long the dispute raged; the Talmud relates three separate stories (spread across different masechtot) describing disputes related to the Jewish calendar, blemishes on a first-born animal, and finally regarding the obligation to pray in the evening. Yet, the effects of these disputes were cataclysmic, changing the very nature of Jewish scholarship.

The Talmud (Berachot 27) relates that Rabbi Yehoshua disagreed with Rabban Gamliel’s ruling regarding the obligation to pray in the evening. While Rabban Gamliel ruled that one must pray in the evening, Rabbi Yehoshua felt that the prayer is optional. This seemingly minor disagreement led to a major confrontation in the Beit Midrash, in the presence of the entire academy.

When the champions (i.e. students) came in, someone rose and inquired, Is the evening Tefillah compulsory or optional? Rabban Gamaliel replied: It is compulsory. Said Rabban Gamliel to the Sages: Is there anyone who disputes this? R. Yehoshua replied to him: No. He said to him: Did they not report you to me as saying that it is optional? He then went on: Yehoshua, stand up and let them testify against you! R. Yehoshua stood up and said: Were I alive and he [the witness] dead, the living could contradict the dead. But now that he is alive and I am alive, how can the living contradict the living? Rabban Gamaliel remained sitting and expounding and R. Joshua remained standing, until all the people there began to shout and say to Huzpith the Turgeman, Stop! and he stopped.

Rabban Gamliel clearly felt the need to impose his authority with definitiveness and finality. He must have felt that as his earlier attempts to bring Rabbi Yehoshua into compliance with his authority had failed, he was left with no choice but to make a public example of the sage – to insist that Rabbi Yehoshua remain standing, while he continued his lecture. In essence he conveyed the clear message that contradicting the ruling of the Nasi would not be tolerated, even to the point of public shaming. After all, had he not tried to communicate his point to Rabbi Yehoshua privately and failed twice?

Yet, in the eyes of his students and the members of the academy, Rabban Gamliel had gone a step too far. To publicly embarrass a sage over a halachic dispute crossed a line; it transformed the dispute from an appropriate “battle of Torah” into a personal vendetta. It indicated that despite his good intentions, Rabban Gamliel had lost his sense of proportion and had to be reined in. The Talmud relates that as Rabban Gamliel continued his lecture with Rabbi Yehoshua standing at attention, “All the people there began to shout and say to Huzpith the Turgeman, Stop! and he stopped.” Huzpith was more than a translator; he was essentially the loudspeaker. When Rabban Gamliel would teach, Huzpith would shout so that the entire academy could in fact hear the lesson. When they stopped Huzpith, they essentially cut off Rabban Gamliel’s microphone, halting the lesson and preventing him from continuing.

The Talmud relates that the rabbis appointed a new Nasi – Rabbi Eliezer ben Azaria – albeit temporarily. When they appointed an eighteen-year-old to replace their great leader, everyone, Rabbi Eliezer included, understood that he would never really be the true Nasi, and that Rabban Gamliel would soon return to his post. Yet, they inherently understood that despite Rabban Gamliel’s proper intentions, he had taken the imposition of his authority too far. His authoritarian tactics, rather than serving as a cause for unity, now presented an even greater threat to the cohesion within the Beit Midrash.

They recognized that for the sake of unity within the Jewish community, at a time of fracture, division and danger, they had to take the proper steps to reign in their great and revered leader.

Pregnant and Nursing Women Fasting on Tisha B'av: P'sak Halachah in the Age of the Internet

The Facebook post started with a simple question:

Has anyone ever heard of a pregnant or nursing woman only fasting until Chatzos if Tisha B'av is a nidcheh? I remember someone once telling me this and I'm trying to find a source for it...

The post clearly touched a nerve with the Facebook friends who began to suggest answers to the question.

- There are definitely kulahs with a nidcheh fast. Ask your LOR (Local Orthodox Rabbi). Will probably depend on the specific situation.
- Ask your rabbi...I've heard a few different things.

Then, the poster responded with a semi-joking comment:

I'm trying to send my LOR in the right direction :-)

This was followed by a series of comments and suggestions, including piskei halachah by no less than two rabbis, both of whom offered different opinions. One said, "A choleh should fast until morning. There's nothing special about chatzos for fasting." In other words, she must begin the fast, but can break it by morning. Another wrote that, "On a tisha bav nidche pregnant women who experience even mild discomfort, break their fast . see biur halacha 559:9 s.v. vaino . nursing women are in the same category this means whenever you feel worse than normal fast even a headache alone is enough to eat you eat normally no shiurim." In other words, you must fast normally, until and unless you feel discomfort, at which point you can break your fast.

In the course of the thread, other posters shared the rulings of Rav Avigdor Neventzal (who rules that pregnant or nursing women need not fast at all) and Rav Yaakov Ariel (who ruled that they must begin the fast and can break it if they feel discomfort).

The entire thread and ensuing discussion raises for me the thorny issue of psak halachah in the age of the Internet. What is psak halachah, and can there even be such a thing, when every possible question has already been asked (and answered), and is readily available to anyone who knows how to search for it - and often those answers conflict?

Clearly, this "open information" has already affected the way that we ask our questions. The thread I mentioned above is a case in point: instead of asking her rabbi, the poster asked a "shaila" of the "crowd". Moreover, it's not really a question per se, but a search for a specific answer that she's heard of. If she wanted a "clean" answer, she could have texted her rabbi, "Hi! As you know, we just had a baby. Do I need to fast this year on Tisha B'av?" But that wasn't her question. As she herself admits, she doesn't want a clean answer. She wants the "right" answer: "I'm trying to send my LOR in the right direction."

Then, as I noted above, the post developed into a discussion about actual psak, pitting two sets of rabbis (LORs and Gedolim) against one-another, leaving our harried poster both confused and frustrated. She wanted a clear answer, not a "see how you feel". After all, who doesn't feel hungry and thirsty and in discomfort on a fast day? (She's totally right about that point.) Yet, her desire for a straight, clean answer of yes or no is directly in conflict with her posing of the question originally. Does she really want a "yes or no", or is just a "no, you don't have to fast" the answer that will satisfy her?

I wonder how these types of questions are now affecting rabbis and the pressure they feel to issue more lenient piskei halachah. Imagine that I receive this question from a congregant, and I feel that halachah requires women to fast (unless they feel "discomfort"). Yet, I know that the person asking the question has already looked up this issue on the Internet. And if she hasn't, she will then turn to Facebook to express her frustration that she has to fast on Tisha B'av. I can just see the post now.

Poster: Ugh! I hate fasting on Tisha B'av, especially when I'm nursing!
Friend 1: What? Why are you fasting? My rabbi (who lives in another part of the world) told me that I don't have to fast.
Friend 2: I never fasted for two years after I gave birth. Sefardim rule!
Friend 3: Rabbi Such and Such posted three years ago that if you're thirsty, you can break your fast...

It's not that difficult to imagine. It happens all the time.

The next time this woman has a question, will she turn to her LOR? Or, will she turn to the rabbi across the country, or just to the "hive" to figure out what psak makes the most sense to her. The rabbi knows all of this. He knows both positions. To what degree does this knowledge affect the answer that he gives her?

I find the whole thread fascinating in that it raises important questions about psak and poskim in an Internet age where everything is available on the Internet. How can there be psak when we all have five rabbinic "friends" who give different answers? What does it even mean to ask a question?

The answers to these questions might very well be determined by no less than our relationship to halachah. The answer to all of these questions will ultimately depend on the degree to which we can return to the famous concept in Pirkei Avot called, "Aseh lecha rav" - make for yourself a rabbi. Halachah is uniquely personal. It can be both rigid but also flexible when necessary. But we, as a community, seem to have fallen into such a robotic adherence to ritual, without its attendant deeper meaning, that we're always looking for the easiest way to fulfill our obligation and be done with it. To do that, all you need is information. You don't really need a rabbi. You need a website, and today there are plenty of those. Then its simply a race to the bottom, to find the most lenient "accepted" rabbi, and before you know it, the most lenient position becomes normative.

The job of a rabbi isn't just to be a website. I've never really liked SMS questions (which are all the rage in Israel - still!) because they rid the halachic process of any relationship between the petitioner and the rabbi. The job of the rabbi isn't just to issue black and white rulings. It's to transmit not only the ruling in a manner that's most meaningful and relevant to the person asking the question.

The entire discussion about fasting revolved around purely technical issues - must a nursing woman fast on Tisha B'av or not? Of course there are technical halachic issues at play, but nowhere in the thread did anyone raise the issue of why: Why should she fast? Why should she not? No one "wants" to fast on fast day. Today we wish each other an "easy fast". "Hope it's not too hard!" Does that really make sense? Isn't the idea of fasting supposed to be hard? In essence, wishing someone an easy fast is saying, "I know we're all fasting because we have to; But I hope the day goes by quickly, with as little discomfort as possible." Clearly people don't mean it this way, but that's what it boils down to. If you're going to do it, hopefully the bitter pill goes down easy.

Nowhere in the discussion of whether this woman must or must-not fast was the issue of meaning. Chazal felt that our actions influence our attitudes, nowhere more than on days of mourning, like Tisha B'av. Nowhere in the discussion, did the personal needs of the individual arise. What if, instead of asking Facebook, the person asking the question called her rabbi with the very same question, and got this answer:

R: Well, how do you fast? (That's a really important question in this discussion, which never really came up.)
Cong: Well, I get pretty thirsty - but not really different than most mornings. It's a fast day after all.
R: Do you get bad headaches? Does fasting make it challenging for you to function?
Cong: Not usually, but I'm worried about having to fast and take care of my baby.
R: Can your husband come home and help out, instead of spending all morning in shul? If we can find a way to handle the childcare together, could you fast in a meaningful way?

Thus, the same rabbi might very well give two different answers to two different women, depending on each one's personal situation.

Rabbis would love to answer questions in this way, but they also need to feel secure in knowing that their congregants aren't shailah-shopping. Aseh lecha Rav means asking a rav a question with the confidence that the rav will give me the best answer for me, regardless of what he answered someone else (or what someone else answered on the Internet). It means asking an open, honest question, without a predetermined answer. It doesn't mean that you can't push back - that's definitely part of the conversation. But it does imply the trust that when I ask my rabbi my question, I trust that he will, to the best of his ability, give the answer that he feels best applies to me, in my current situation.

In the end, it's all about trust. And trust in rabbis in general isn't a popular topic nowadays. I guess we all have a lot to fast for this coming Tisha B'av.

Rabbinic Life in the Fish Bowl

When we made aliyah seven years ago and I left the pulpit rabbinate, I knew that leaving rabbinic life would prove traumatic. I loved many things about the job and the life: the relationships with congregants; helping people in times of need; the opportunity to teach Torah regularly and speak to the community about important issues on a regular basis. Yet, to me the most challenging, demoralizing and distressing aspects of the rabbinate was the "fishbowl." People were watching us (and yes, I mean "us" - not just me, but my wife and children as well). 

I remember the day that I really understood just how profound the fishbowl effect really is: the day that I went to see Spiderman. 

It was a Sunday night, many weeks after the movie had come out, and my wife agreed to humor me and accompany me to a movie she had no interest in seeing. After dinner, we ended up at a theater nowhere near our home. Yet, as we walked into the theater, I heard someone call out, "Hey - we didn't know that rabbis liked Spiderman!" They didn't mean anything by it. Maybe my presence in the theater made them uncomfortable. Maybe the people just wanted to say hello or be noticed by the rabbi. Truth be told, they weren't even members of my shul. But, then and there I remember realizing that I could never, ever do anything in public (and perhaps even in my own home) and expect it to remain private. I knew then that I could expect that my entire congregation, and probably every member of the Jewish community would know if I did something wrong, questionable, or even notable.

I'm certain that those people in that theater didn't mean any harm. But that comment, and the reality it brought was very painful to me, as it robbed me once and for all, of any sense of personal privacy for as long as I remained a pulpit rabbi.

It should come as no surprise that Moshe Rabbeinu - the greatest pulpit rav ever - faced the same fishbowl life, a challenge highlighted by events recounted at the end of Parshat Beha'alotecha. In truth, so many of the events of the parshah deal with issues of rabbinic leadership; the loneliness, frustration and difficulty inherent in a life of spiritual leadership. Yet, all of these challenges seem to come together in the final episode of the parshah, when Miriam and Aharon discuss Moshe's personal life and his decision to separate from his wife. But that's not the end of the story. When Aharon appeals to Moshe to pray for Miriam's recovery, Moshe accedes, but in an unusual way, crafting perhaps the shortest prayer in history: אל נא רפא נא לה - "God please heal her please." 

One could say, "Nice. Short and sweet. To the point." Yet, it seems a bit strange. It's his sister after all. Couldn't he at least say a Misheberach? Add a bit of flourish. A kapitel tehillim. 

Rashi asks the same question, and offers a startling answer:

מפני מה לא האריך משה בתפילה? שלא יהיו ישראל אומרים אחותו עומדת בצורה והוא עומד ומרבה בתפילה
Why didn't Moshe pray more extensively? So that [the Children of] Israel would not say, "His sister is in pain, so he stands and prays at length."

Why didn't he daven a little longer for Miriam? He was afraid of what people would say. For his sister! He couldn't pray a few extra moments for his sick sister, because he was afraid of "what people would say." It makes me so sad for him, and angry, and upset. Could they not just give him a moment of peace; a modicum of privacy? Perhaps they could, but they would not.

Over the last week, the Orthodox community once again found itself mired in a scandal surrounding the life of a rabbi, and the questionable choices that he has made. The Internet is literally made for this type of episode, with the ability to share stories in a viral manner around the world. What was once a communal badly kept secret is now international news.

Without commenting on the specifics of the episode itself, this much I will say: what was once a communal fishbowl is now a global fishbowl. Blogs and websites now regularly publicize the actions of rabbis and spiritual leaders (for better or for worse), branding them eternally (via Google) leaving them no ability to defend or protect themselves. What rabbi would want to live under permanent threat of global shaming? Who could defend themselves against a vindictive congregant in a social media environment that shares and condemns first, and asks questions later - if ever? Rabbis are burning out faster than ever. If you've never lived in the fishbowl, you cannot appreciate the toll that it takes emotionally and psychologically. 

Today I watch these episodes play out over the internet and thank God that I no longer live in that fishbowl. It's just too much. And I wonder: how many rabbis leave the pulpit - or never enter it, due to the fishbowl effect? How many sane, talented young people legitimately never enter the pulpit because of episodes like these? The rabbi did sign up for a public life, but he didn't sign up to live in a never-ending reality show for his entire community.

What can you do? I guess the best thing you can do is give your rabbi some space. 

Let him work out at the gym in peace. 

You don't need to make a comment about what groceries are in his cart (really) or what his children are wearing. 

Give him and his family a bit of space. 

Protect his privacy when others talk about him and his family. 

Let him pray for his sister for as long as he needs.

Give him the privacy you yourself would want.

 

The rabbi really does live in a fishbowl. But it doesn't mean that his community has to always be watching.

Audio Shiur: Parshat Beha'alotecha - Rabbis in the Fish Bowl

Audio Shiur:
Parshat Beha'alotecha - Rabbis in the Fish Bowl

Even after suffering insult from his own sister, Moshe Rabbeinu still has to worry about what people will say about him. Through a study of the reaction to Miriam's tzara'at, we discuss the limits of what communities should reveal, and what should remain private. Warning: Many of you will disagree with me.

Click here to navigate to the shiur on YUTorah.org.

Click on the player below to play the Shiur or right click here to download)

The Changing American Rabbinate: Is it a Good Thing?

The OU's recent cover story on the Changing American Rabbinate got me thinking. After all, I came from that world, and have a great deal of familiarity with it. The article hit many of the important points of the rabbinate: the twenty-four seven nature of the job; the crazy demands; the multifaceted aspects of rabbinic work; the challenges of raising a family under those conditions.
Truth be told, I found this specific issue tremendously daunting. In fact, the rabbi as CEO played a role in our decision to move to Israel.
For chinuch-related reasons, as our eldest son inched ever-closer to high school age, we began thinking about relocating to other communities. While we loved the Akiva community, I am not a proponent of coeducation, and would not consider sending my son hundreds of miles away for high school. (Ironically, in Detroit, there's no "normal" high school - not even a right-wing one run by Yeshiva Beth Yehudah. Looking back, I now realize that I should have tried to start one...)
When we started looking at available shuls that were a "step up" from my position, the only ones available were CEO-type positions of major, metropolitan shuls. Could I have done the job, and done it well? I believe that I could have. But did I want to? In truth, I did not.
I loved the rabbinate because I loved teaching. I loved it because I loved the personal interaction with community members. Of course mega-rabbis need to do those things. But there's also all of the management issues; running from minyan to minyan Shabbat morning, to the point that you don't ever really daven with your ba'alei batim; the endless meetings about administrative issues that are important, but have nothing to do with Torah or spiritual growth.
Finally, if we're being honest, we should also recognize that mega-shuls present certain spiritual challenges as well. Are they really the very best places for spiritual growth? Are minyanim which attract five hundred people more often uplifting - or noisy? The ones that seem to find that balance combining "b'rov am hadrat melech" and a yearning for spirituality seem few and far between.
I didn't apply for any position because we decided to move to Israel. But a large part of that decision was the realization that my skills and abilities matched the shul that I had; and not necessarily the one I would "move up" to.
Over the summer, I davened at my in-laws shul, Ohr Torah in Edison, NJ. While there are three minayanim on a Shabbat morning, it is by no means a mega-shul, and that's not a criticism. Rabbi Yaakov Luban, who has led the shul for decades, is not a "full time" rabbi in the official sense (he has another full-time job at the OU), and the shul does not boast a wide range of shul sponsored classes and programs. Sure, it has daf Yomi, a youth program, shiurim during the week and scholars in residence. But much of that programming comes from a learned lay leadership, and there are numerous other shiurim, programs and events offered by institutions and organizations throughout the Highland Park/Edison community.
Would the shul be a better shul if it produced a glossy full-color program, complete with numerous lunches, trips, scholars and programs? I'm not so sure that it would. It would be a different shul, but not necessarily a better one.
Finally, there's the all-important issue of dwindling community resources. It takes a great deal of money and staffing to offer all of these programs. The rabbi can't do it on his own. He needs an assistant, and an executive director, and support staff to make everything happen.
Does every shul need all that staff? What if we started thinking more creatively, and pooled our resources communally to share programming, but kept our shuls smaller, more modest, and intimate and spiritual places of worship?
In Toronto, Rabbi Jay Kelman runs a program called Torah in Motion, which offers a wide range of scholarly, Torah-oriented programming for his community. Wouldn't more communities benefit from this type of community-wide effort, freeing the shul rabbis to teach, tend to their members' needs, and do the work they always wanted to do?
With dwindling resources, shuls and rabbis should, to my mind, ask themselves honestly: what do we want to be? How big do we really want to grow? Rabbis should ask themselves the very same question: do I really want to be a CEO of a mega-shul? Or, can I work with the shul as I grow older to stay where I am, and augment my salary in other ways - by teaching in a local college, doing chaplaincy, kashrut, public speaking, or a myriad of other options open to the shul rabbi?
That way, when a rabbi feels the need to "grow", he won't first think of leaving a community he loves and a job that he excels at for a "bigger" shul. Rather, he and the shul can remain the "right" size, and grow not in numbers, but in substance.

A Uniquely "American" Torah Program: Tikkun Leil Shavuot, American Style

People often ask me about the difference between the rabbinate in Israel and in America.
My friend and colleague Rabbi Dovid Cohen recently released on his Facebook page the lineup for Tikkun Leil Shavuot. Here's the flyer.

I want to be clear: I am not questioning or criticizing Rabbi Cohen or the program in any way. If I had thought of it, I would probably be doing the very same program, although the meat thing is new to me. Sea Bass maybe. Cheesecake? Definitely. Ice Cream? Of course. But we never considered meat. Intriguing. Also, as I commented to Rabbi Cohen, he forgot to add on the bottom of the flyer the 7:30am visit to the local emergency room for the chest pains. A minor oversight.
What's fascinating to me is the overt way in which the flyer and the event focuses on the melding of the spiritual and the physical. If we take such things for granted, let's ask ourselves: when did rabbis become caterers? Why is there literally a full, descriptive menu on a Shavuot night flyer?
The answer, of course, is all about attendance.
Imagine the very same program with no food at all, or minimal food - some cola, maybe a plate of cake. How many people would attend? Let's assume that significantly more people will participate because of the food than would have otherwise. In addition, let's not discount the element of competition. I imagine that there are numerous other programs on the Upper West Side on the night of Shavuot. Why come to this one? Well, you can either draw them in with content or with food. The content seems good - interesting, motivating, and not too heavy. But is it that much better than one can get at another location?
So, to supplement the spiritual side, we turn to the physical.
I remember when we first started the Beit Midrash program at YIOP in Oak Park, I insisted that the program have fresh pastries and fresh coffee - not instant (Chas V'shalom!) I myself went to Costco every so often to ensure that we had not only the coffee, but the good cups as well. I believed (and still believe) that no one was coming for the coffee, but if you were wavering about going out on a cold Monday night in the winter in Suburban Detroit, a good cup of coffee wouldn't hurt. I still serve fresh ground coffee at my Parshat Hashavua shiur every week here in Yad Binyamin.
A good friend and colleague in Israel recently asked me what motivates American shul rabbis. I told him that rabbis feel a constant pressure to bring value to their current members and draw in new members. This makes intuitive sense. Fewer members = less dues = lower salary --> no job. So, while our primary focus is of course attending to the spiritual needs of our members (and potential members), rabbis always have one eye on the "trimmings" that will bring people through the doors to participate in the spiritually uplifting programming they offer.
That pressure comes to a head on the night of Shavuot. Does every shul really need to have its own program? After all, only a percentage of the membership actually shows up. Most people like to sleep at night, even on Shavuot. So they're essentially competing for the same participants. (Some people will always go to their shul. Others will go to the most attractive program). But how would it look for a shul to go dark on the night of Shavuot? And how would it look for a shul to have a program and then struggle to get a minyan at 5am? Not good.
So, what has emerged is an arms race between shuls not in the realm of the spirutual, but in the physical. You've got Ben and Jerry's? We've got Haagen Daaz. You've got franks and blankets? We've got Pastrami Stuffed Rolatinis (I've never even heard of a "rolatini". What is that? I assume it's made from meat.) I also like the way the courses are spaced. You want food? Then don't go shul-hopping -- because you might miss the duck with hoisin sauce.
This pressure made me dread the night of Shavuot. Literally, I would go into a funk during the week leading up to the event, knowing that no matter how great the shiurim and the spread, many of my members would gravitate to the local kollel, and someone would invariably ask the hated question: "How many people were there at YIOP?" I hated that question. Still do - especially because there was always great learning during the program, and the members who did come and stay up all night found the program uplifting and motivating.

Israeli rabbis view this phenomenon in the American rabbinate with horror. I cannot imagine an Israeli rabbi that I know producing such a flyer, or even participating in such a program. They're happy to give the shiur, and don't mind refreshments afterwards, but would recoil at such a blatant effort to suck people into a supposedly spiritual event. After all, they're rabbis and teachers. Not caterers.
Then again, they don't face the constant membership pressure. Even the ones who actually take a salary are at best part time, and don't often compete for members the way American rabbis do.  And, I daresay that many would say that they'd rather not be a rabbi if the job required them to cater parties in order to do the job. (Easy to say when your job isn't on the line.)
Who's right? Neither is right; it's not a question of right or wrong, but more a question of circumstances and needs. I repeat: were I in Rabbi Cohen's shoes, I would probably create exactly the same program, or one very similar, and I'm sure that across the New York region, many stomachs will be filled with gourmet food of one type or another over the five hour period between 12am and 5am on the eve of Shavuot.
And, of course, much Torah will also be learned. That, after all, is the purpose of Tikkun Leil Shavuot.

The Populist Rabbi

Rabbi Shlomo Aviner recently penned a scathing piece which he published both online and in print (in a Shabbat sheet distributed in shuls throughout the country) entitled "The Populist Rabbi", in which he excoriated rabbis who issue halachic rulings and statements for the sake of populism and popularity, and who, in their desire to make Judaism palatable to a secular an irreligious public, play down certain aspects of Jewish law and life, issue lenient rulings, and deride rabbis who take an opposite view.
It seems obvious that Rav Aviner's words are a thinly veiled swipe at Beit Hillel, a new rabbinic organization that arose specifically to do the very things that Rav Aviner accuses them of doing. I say this because Rav Aviner wrote the following, immediately after Beit Hillel promoted the fact that it has enjoyed a wonderful and productive meeting with...you guessed it, Rav Aviner.

The populist Rabbi unrelentingly seeks to receive the legitimacy of the great Torah luminaries -- and he does not succeed. Yet since those great luminaries relate to him with love and brotherhood and peace and friendship, he very often interprets that position as agreement. 

Rav Aviner's piece has generated a flurry of internet activity (much of it on closed rabbinic email lists, some out in public), mostly critical of his piece. They wonder about the timing, placement and appropriateness of his criticism.
Rav Yuval Sherlo makes two interesting points about the criticism of populist rabbis: On the one hand, how is anyone to know the true motivations of another? Who are we to judge the "for the sake of heaven" of someone else, especially in areas of religious life? At the same time, accusations of populism go both ways. The same swipe can boomerang: you can be a lenient populist, or a strict populist. Both are catering to a crowd; they're just looking for support from different groups.
Who's right? As with many arguments that really are "for the sake of Heaven", both are right.
Of course there's a danger of populism in rabbinic life. This blog is a populist enterprise. I don't write everything I think, and often censor myself for personal, political or even politically correct reasons. (Just ask Jeremy Gimpel about whether it's wise to say everything we believe to be true). At the same time, that desire to be "accepted" can be quite dangerous: at what point does a populist like myself become so devoted to the populist cause that he begins to truly distort the truth for the sake of acceptance? That's a very difficult question to answer.
On the other hand, living in the "four amot of the Beit Midrash" can give a person a myopic view, disconnected from the people that want a connection to Jewish life. Failure to translate the eternal values of Jewish life to the masses will ultimately not enhance Judaism, but degrade it.
Both Beit Hillel and Rav Aviner have important points to make, and it behooves rabbis - populist or not - to try and find the proper balance between rigidity and populism, appropriate for their specific communities.
And yet, while both are correct, somehow having this dispute out in public diminishes its value. (I find it commendable that Beit Hillel did not respond, and hope that they maintain their radio silence on this issue.)
Some arguments, as important as they may be, belong safely within the walls of the Beit Midrash.

Hiring a Rabbi - The Saga Continues - Part 2

Last I left you, the shul decided to conduct a search for a rabbi for the community, which was split into three camps: those who want a rabbi (group A), those who don't (group B) and those who don't seem to care very much (group C). While group A seems slightly larger than group B, and won the vote over whether or not to even have a rabbi, group C seems largest by far, not having voted at all.
Once the community decided to have a rabbi, the board commissioned a very well-meaning committee to steer the search. They went through an extensive process of evaluation, interviewing members of the shul, speaking to candidates, communicating with experts in the field of shul rabbis (they exist here, even though there aren't that many shul rabbis), finally culminating their work with the conclusion that the main goals of the shul's new rabbi would be:

• Uniting the community
• Inspiring the membership
• Working with the youth

To a seasoned American-trained rabbi, none of these rabbinic tasks seem at all shocking; they're actually well within the purview of your standard community rav. But think about the items that are not on the list: psak halachah; giving shiurim; serving as the representative of the community in communal affairs - these not only weren't in the top three. They're not on the list. And, it's not because the community takes these things for granted. Rather, most people already have a personal posek (the rav of our yishuv is an amazing man) and community members already give a ton of shiurim.
Also, it's important to understand that while, as an American, these tasks seem perfectly suited to a shul rabbi, when you think about them critically, they're more oriented towards social work (other than inspiration) than rabbinic work. That's fine, because your average Chutz L'aretz rabbi really is, to a large degree, a social worker. He counsels. He organizes. He visits the sick. He arranges events and programs. Those are all aspects of social work. Sure, he teaches and paskens and speaks publicly as well. But I always saw each of the elements of my job as core to the rabbinic mission.
Israelis haven't really experienced that type of rabbi. By and large, Israelis have really only seen the rabbi who they see in shul or call to ask a question. They don't see their shul rabbi as having a major role in their lifecycle events, nor do they look for a personal connection with a rabbi the way people raised in Chutz L'aretz do. So, when they hear "hire a rabbi", it's just another person who will give another shiur, or add another layer of beaurocracy (and expense and infighting) to the community. I sense that in our shul, the Anglos and Israelis are using the same words (hire a rabbi), but are envisioning very, very different things.
The shul advertised, and was ready finally to invite candidates only by early summer, very very late in the process. Out of the dozens of resumes that we received, only about 15 were remotely relevant, and only four candidates would fit the requirements that the shul was looking for. (Meaning, some were respected rabbonim, but they wouldn't be willing, interested or qualified to reach out to individual members, unite the shul, or work with the youth).
In the end, two candidates dropped out - one because he was hired by another shul, and another decided he just wasn't interested - leaving us with two rabbis who would visit for Shabbat over the waning summer weeks. Both are relatively young (late 20s - early 30s), and none has communal shul experience.
All of this leads to a delicious irony. When I announced my decision to make aliyah, I was told over and over again that I would have great trouble finding work as a community rabbi, because the job simply didn't exist, and also because Israel is overrun with rabbis. (Let me be clear: I wasn't asked, nor do I want to be the rabbi of our shul. I like being a member and contributing to my community in my own way. I also like the freedom to be a regular person too.) Ironically, in my own shul we discovered that there aren't enough community-minded rabbanim in Israel. There are not enough rabbis trained to serve their communities, run programs, reach out to the unaffiliated - to simply do the work that the Orthodox community in America takes for granted. And all the American rabbis making aliyah won't really make a dent in that need because they won't hire us. For better or for worse, the language and culture barriers can be singificant, and even if they aren't, Israelis by and large won't hire an American rabbi anyway. That's just how it is.
What happened with the candidates? That's for the next post.

Choosing a Rabbi for our Shul in Israel - Part 1

Yad Binyamin is a relatively young community from a number of vantage points. Most of the members are relatively young; few seniors have made a home here. But more significantly, the community itself -at least where we live - is quite new. Aside from the people we call the Vatikim (literally, the "seniors") - who have lived here for thirty years since the time that Yad Binyamin was essentially a yeshiva for boys and nothing else - no other resident has lived her longer than seven years, and most have been here for far less than that. Everyone here, from the people kicked out of their homes in Gush Katif, to the native Israelis who built homes here to the Olim, has moved here relatively recently.
About three years ago, a number of the members of our shul (which is called the Beit Knesset Mercazi) raised the issue of hiring a rabbi for our shul. While in America the vast majority of shuls have a rabbi and the need for such a position is relatively self-evident, in Israel that is simply not the case. A lot of the ambivalence about shul rabbis has to do with a difference in culture, the nature of the people who comprise the membership, and the different role of rabbi, as perceived by the membership. In Israel, the model of community rabbi does not really exist on a large scale. Smaller yishuvim are served by a single rabbi for the entire yishuv, hired through the municipality. In the larger cities, while a number of Anglo community shuls have a rabbi, Israeli shuls by and large do not. The local city rabbi had the authority over what went on in the shul (and exerted his authority sometimes against the wishes of the membership), without developing the personal relationships that are the heart of the American-style, pastoral rabbinate.
In recent years, a number of different organizations have tried to import this community-oriented rabbinate to Israel. Tzohar boasted that it would install hundreds of rabbis in shuls across Israel. Over a  period of years it installed perhaps two dozen, and disbanded the program in frustration. Sure there were rabbis looking for training. But there weren't that many shuls looking to hire the rabbis. Another organization called Likrat Shlichut trains rabbis to serve in communities through a program with Bar Ilan University. They do give training, but still have trouble placing rabbis. If they place three rabbis in a year, they consider the year a success. Finally, two good friends of mine are starting yet another rabbinic training program that they've called Barkai, focusing on young rabbis living in communities without established shuls, hoping that well-trained rabbis will succeed in starting communities around them. It's a good strategy, and I think it has a better chance of working. But they'll need serious funding to make their program a success.
All of this points to the clear fact that the Israeli public does at all see a shul rabbi as a necessity, by any means. For this reason, when the topic was raised in our shul it was incendiary: while some members strongly pushed for the hiring of a rabbi, others pushed back, hard, against the idea. After all, they argued, our shul is blessed with many learned, capable members who can and do give any number of weekly shiurim. Why then do we need to bring in an authority figure to tell us what to do? (From that very formulation, it was easy to understand (a) how some people perceived the role of the community rabbi and (b) why they would be against hiring one. And they're not incorrect: in Israel, many rabbis do see their role as telling the membership what to do.)
On the other hand, how do you explain to someone who hasn't experienced a good community rabbi the benefit that such a figure can bring to a community? Great rabbis do many things. But the total effect of a rabbi if far greater than the sum of the tasks that he fulfills. He's a pastor, advisor, posek, teacher, speaker - and yes, most of those tasks can and are filled by members in our shul and yishuv. But when those roles are combined together, they enhance one-another. A good rabbi bonds with his shul, and uses the myriad roles that he fulfills to propel the community to grow in different ways. But if you haven't seen that happen, it's difficult to envision.
Because of this discord, there really wasn't a strong groundswell to hire a rabbi. So the process essentially languished. Search committees were formed. They met...but never really got anywhere. Things were at a standstill. Rabbinic proponents felt stymied, and that the process would never move forward, and the opponents to hiring a rabbi felt quite comfortable with the situation. Let the community gel, they felt, and then we can revisit the issue when we have a better sense of ourselves.
Finally, last year, the shul board took a vote: Do we, as a community, want to continue the process and seek a rabbi or not. The vote was held, and the initiative passed, kind of.
Out of a membership of approximately 140 families (with both  parents eligible to vote - so the total voting pool was somewhere near 280 people), the initiative passed by about a vote of 35 to 20. A sizable majority, yes, but not a resounding endorsement.
The proponents were happy. They had their mandate. The community had voted in favor. But the detractors were equally happy. They figured that with such an anemic level of support, there was really not enough backing from the membership to move forward and hire a rabbi.
They were both right. And, the outgoing board disbanded (they had served their one-year term), and a new board was installed. Everyone figured that the issue would languish for yet another year.
They figured wrong.

Beit Hillel: A New Attempt at Rabbinic Leadership. Will it work? Stay Tuned.

About a month ago, I received an email invitation to the founding meeting of a group that was later named "Beit Hillel". (Yes, when the group's founders first formed the organization, they had yet to agree on a name.) The purpose of the group was to establish a cadre of Modern Orthodox rabbinic and Torah leaders who would articulate a moderate, thoughtful Torah position on important issues related to Israeli and Jewish society. Would I consider attending the conference? I said that I'd attend. Here's the invite.

Behind the group (actually founding it) stand a group of relatively young, modern, and often left-leaning Orthodox rabbis, who serve in shuls across Israel. Mind you, this isn't the first leadership group that I've been invited to participate in. The last one kind of petered out, which is good, because it never really amounted to much anyway.
Pros: On one hand, this initiative represents an important effort to articulate a Judaism that will speak to the majority of the Israeli public. Today, the only audible voices in the rabbinic world are the ones that articulate extreme views to whatever degree, from rabbis that advocate not selling homes to Arabs to rabbis that declare that soldiers must disobey orders to attend ceremonial functions to rabbis that encourage violent protests. No one is articulating a moderate, considerate view, and that seems to be the intent of the organizers.
Cons: At the same time, no leading rabbinic personality has given his approval for Beit Hillel, from Rav Aharon Lichtenstein to Rav Chaim Druckman to Rav Yaakov Ariel, all leading figures in the Religious Zionist world, all voices of moderation. Why not? Does that say something about the group and those who organized it? I've got a friend who feels that this is just a front for an Israeli version of the International Rabbinic Fellowship, a rather left-leaning Orthodox organization organized by Rabbi Avi Weiss. I have been promised that this is not the case, but time will tell.
Case in point: the organizers of the group decided that it wouldn't be only rabbis, but Torah leadership personalities, so that they could include women in the group. Personally, I applaud the move, but the publicity in the news about this move certainly sounds very liberal.
In the end, I fear that while this movement was organized with the best of intentions, it might not be able to fufill its intended function for the simple reason that the media doesn't like moderate views. They don't play well. Extremism sells. It drives clicks and pageviews. And if each time a firestorm arises in Israeli society Beit Hillel issues a well-thought, articulate and sensitive statement, I wonder whether it will really get any play, or be drowned out by the louder voices specifically tuned to grab the headlines.
The conference starts in about an hour, so I'll keep you posted. I'm thinking of liveblogging the event, so follow me on @weeklyparshah.

Charging for Torah

Twice over the past week, I've been led to the popular blog of Rabbi Natan Slifkin, a growing star in the "anti-Chareidi" community, who has published a good number of popular books and is now a regular on the American scholar in residence circuit. Yet, each time I tried to access the recommended article, I was blocked by a pay wall. Rabbi Slifkin has elected to ask people for a "donation" of any amount via Paypal, in order to access his site's content. Some users seem happy to support him, while others seem to take quite the opposite view, expecting his content to be free. My favorite snooty comment,

why don't you get an honest job? Isn't it embarrassing to have to rely on the charity of others? I don't this "shnorring as any different than what goes on at bmg...

 A little harsh, don't you think? I certainly do.
And yet, the question remains: Is it appropriate to charge for Torah? While Rabbi Slifkin certainly has the right to demand donations to access content he has created, is excercising that right...right?
At first glance, the answer would be "No." After all, the famous Mishnah in Avot (4:5) reminds us,

רבי צדוק אומר, אל תעשם עטרה להתגדל בהם, ולא קרדם לחפור בהם. וכך היה הלל אומר, ודאשתמש בתגא, חלף. הא למדת, כל הנהנה מדברי תורה, נוטל חייו מן העולם

Rabbi Zadok says, do not make [the words of Torah] into a crown to enlarge yourself with them, nor a axe to dig with. And so Hillel would say, "He who uses the crown, will perish." From this we learn that anyone who benefits from the words of Torah, takes his life from the world.

Yet, the issue is far more complex than it might initially seems. Rabbi Ovadia Bartenura, commenting on that passage in the Mishnah writes,

ולא תלמוד תורה כדי לעשות ממנה מלאכה שתתפרנס בה, כמו קרדום לחפור בה, שהעושה כן מועל בקדושתה של תורה וחייב מיתה בידי שמים כמי שנהנה מן ההקדש. ומלמדי תינוקות נוטלין שכר שימור התינוקות בלבד, שמשמרין אותן שלא יפשעו ויזיקו, ושכר פיסוק טעמים, שאין הרב חייב לטרוח וללמד לתלמידים פיסוק הטעמים. אבל שכר לימוד אסור ליטול

And one is not permitted to use the study of Torah as a manner from which he supports himself, like an axe one digs with, for one who does so robs from the sanctity of the Torah, and is liable to be punished with death from the heavens, just like one who benefits from property sanctified for us in the Temple. And those who teach young children take renumeration only for the watching of the children, for they watch that the [children] neither damage nor cause negligent harm. And, they also receive renumeration for teaching the cantillation [of the Torah], for a rabbi is not obligated to toil and teach his students the cantillation.

Bartenura's comments reflect the nuance inherent in the issue. On one hand, the Mishnah clearly castigates someone who takes money to teach Torah. Yet, who then is supposed to teach our children? If no one can take money, and everyone has to feed their family, who's going to teach Torah? So, he draws a line between fundamental teaching and everything else. The Torah must be free. But the rebbe also watches the kids. He tells them jokes. He watches them during recess. Even the Torah you might have thought was included - the cantillation - that's extra too. It sounds a little like today's airline fares: the base fare is for the trip, but if you want a blanket, drink, luggage, seat belt, or oxygen mask, those are extra. (You almost expect one day soon, that the flight attendant will instruct you before your flight, "In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, simply slide your credit card through the reader, and an oxygen mask will descend over your seat." But I digress.)
What emerges is the theoretical principle: "Torah is free",and it's application in the real world: "No it's not." Someone has to pay to support experts who can invest their time and energy to provide spiritual support, guidance and instruction.
(Please note, this is not, by any means, a thorough analysis of the topic. Rambam, who had a "real job" - don't you just love that term - famously castigated rabbis who took money to lead their communities. This prompted an extensive response from rabbinic scholars who, surprise, surprise, earned their living from their Torah knowledge.)
This, I believe, is where Rabbi Slifkin comes into our picture. Sure, his Torah should be free. And it is. Feel free to send him an email. But if you want to download it in electronic form; if you want if formatted in easy-to-read PDF form; if you want it in the English language - then you're going to have to pay for it. Because if he's going to find the time to reseach, study and write the pieces, someone's going to have to support his ability to do so.
Full disclosure: there's a personal element to my attitude on this issue. I too, for many years, took money to teach Torah. (Actually, the Torah was free. I took money to schedule the davening, counsel members, run programs, create flyers. All that cost money. The Torah was gratis.) And I continue to do so today.

I give three weekly shiurim in Yad Binyamin: two in English, and a third in Hebrew on Shabbat. For two of the shiurim I ask for a "suggested" tuition of fifty shekel a month for participants. It's really a very loose thing; people who cannot pay are invited and welcomed to join (although perhaps some don't because they'd rather not "freeload", even if invited to come for free). Others, I have heard, would like to come but choose not to because philisophically, the believe that the shiurim should be free of charge. Still, periodically, I struggle with the dillemma of whether to charge or not. Is it right for me to ask people to pay for the Torah that I teach?
I charge for a few reasons:
1. The money certainly helps. Sure, it's pocket money, but it negates a trip or two to the ATM each month, and that's no small deal. And, I invest time and energy to both prepare and deliver the shiurim, and one of the shiurim meets during regular work hours.
2. I think that people today often value what they pay for. Whether we like it or not, sometimes we devalue things that we get for free. A free blog - like this one - is fine. You're probably not even reading what I've written carefully. More like skimming. That's what people do on the web today. But if you've paid for one of Rabbi Slifkin's articles, there's a good chance that you'll take the time to read it more carefully than a free blog post.
3. My parshah shiur is always available for free, in recorded form (even as a podcast!) No, I couldn't resist giving myself a free plug.
4. Finally, if you've paid for a month of shiurim, there's a really good chance that you won't skip the shiur when something comes up. And, with adults, something always comes up. I believe truly that the shiur has endured, perhaps with a smaller attendance - because people pay to participate. Paying for something is often a good incentive to use it.

Ironically, while I honor Rabbi Slifkin's right to charge for his articles, I personally am not willing to pay for them. Which I guess, is exactly the point. He has the right to ask me for money. And I have the right to say, "No thank you."

An Amazing Act of Chesed

Sometimes someone does something that simply takes your breath away. With all the negative news around, I feel the need to share an incredible act of Chesed on the part of a former rabbinic colleague. I can say that I met Rabbi Ari Sytner at rabbinic conferences, and was impressed with him then. This article says more about him that I possibly could.

Crowd Sourcing the Sermon? Really?

There's some level of irony in the fact that in the same issue that the Jewish Week notes that, "To this day, it is still not universally accepted in the synagogue world that a rabbi must deliver a weekly sermon, as would a Christian preacher," it also shares with us a priceless article about a "Crowd Sourced" sermon.

For his “Social Sermon,” which he will deliver on a Shabbat shortly after he leaves the congregation in June to start a job at a L.A. day school, the rabbi is asking members of WSIS, and of his wider online congregation, to send in stories, jokes and themes (socialsermon.com) that he will meld into his parting remarks from the pulpit.

For the record, I don't know Rabbi Einhorn personally. But, in an era when shul-goers are drifting away from the sermon in droves (think early-minyan, kiddush club), is crowd sourcing really the answer?
Over the years that I served as a rabbi, I invested a great deal of energy in my Shabbat morning drashah. Like it or not, my twelve minute speech represented the only Torah thoughts that some of my members would hear during the week, so I felt a responsibility to convey a serious Torah concept in a precise and exacting manner. I never, ever just gave a vort, and tried quite hard to speak about an issue that mattered to me personally.

Can the same be said for a crowd-sourced sermon? Sure, it might be shtick, and it might get a chuckle or two. It's interesting to note that Rabbi Einhorn is only giving this sermon after he's already decided to leave not only his shul, but the pulpit in general. Still, I get a sense that stunts like these leave the indelible impression that anyone can give a speech in shul, and that the rabbi probably copies his speeches from Facebook every week anyway.
That attitude, I fear, will not bring people back into shul for any rabbi's sermon.

Why Has My Yeshiva Not Revoked Steven Greenberg's Semichah?

In his fascinating biography of Rabbi Dr. Bernard Revel, Rabbi Aaron (then Rothkoff) Rakeffet chronicles some of the issues that challenged the newly ordained rabbis which the Yeshiva sent out to communities across the United States. Among the most vexing was the issue of mechitzah. Congregations were removing the partitions between the mens' and women's sections at an alarming pace, yet still sought out the young Orthodox rabbis that the Yeshiva was producing.
According to the book, while Dr. Revel refused to allow his graduates to take pulpits in shuls with mixed pews, he did make exceptions in cases where he felt that the rabbi might succeed in bringing the shul back "into the fold" and reintroducing a mechitzah over the course of one year.If the rabbi failed, Revel insisted that the young man leave his pulpit and seek a new shul. What if a rabbi failed to convince his shul to install a mechitzah, but nonetheless insisted on staying at his position? Rakeffet writes,

When a Yeshiva graduate refused Revel's request to leave a position which had both mixed pews and a mixed choir, his ordination was revoked. Revel wrote to a graduate on September 19, 1933: "It grieves me to inform you that since you refuse to leave Temple...where the sacred laws of traditional Judaism are violated, I urgently request that you return the conditional document of ordination that you received from the Yeshiva. The basic purpose of the Yeshiva is to guard the sanctity of Jewish Law in this land. If you will not return the document of ordination, I will be obligated to publish newspaper announcements declaring the nullification of your ordination." The rabbi did not heed Rabbi Revel's request, and the Yeshiva publicly announced the cancellation of his ordination and proclaimed that "one can no longer rely on his answers to inquiries of Jewish Law." (Bernard Revel, pp 165-166)

In light of this short historical vignette, I find myself wondering how Rabbi Steven Greenberg still has his ordination from my yeshiva, Yeshivat Rabbeinu Yizchak Elchanan. (RIETS).
I have no intention of debating the issue of homosexuality and Orthodoxy on my blog. I recently signed a petition that stated, among other things, that, "By definition, a union that is not sanctioned by Torah law is not an Orthodox wedding, and by definition a person who conducts such a ceremony is not an Orthodox rabbi." I thought that would be enough. Apparently, I thought wrong.
In a recent article in the New York Jewish Week, Rabbi Greenberg explained that while he did not officiate at a "Gay Orthodox Wedding", "I officiated at a ceremony that celebrated the decision of two men to commit to each other in love and to do so in binding fashion before family and friends." He did so using Jewish language, symbolism, rabbinic concepts and halachic principles - but admits himself that it wasn't a Jewish wedding, per se. (At least we can agree about that.) Anyone with any sense of fealty to halachah readily sees just how far his stance on homosexuality has veered from Traditional Torah Judaism.
The most upsetting part of the piece to me was the fact that he is, "a Modern Orthodox rabbi."  While that might not be true ideologically, it remains true technically, because he continues to enjoy the benefits of his RIETS ordination, which, for some reason I cannot understand, has not yet been revoked.
I am a very proud musmach of Yeshiva and the grandson of another proud musmach of Yeshiva. Both of  our semichah documents hang on the wall in my home. I find myself consistently amazed at the great work of both the Yeshiva and its graduates, who have spread Torah literally to the four corners of the earth. Yet, the documents themselves mean very little. I learned some Torah - OK, a lot of Torah, and I took some tests which I passed. But the document states that I am worthy to teach and make pronouncements on matters of halachah. Essentially, its a document that confers status. Whether I'm smart enough to pass a test is beside the point. The point of the semichah is to instill trust: my Yeshiva, having taught and nurtured me, trusts me to use my education and intuition to protect and uphold Jewish tradition. I will take what I have taught and uphold it, protect it, nurture it and help it grow.
Yet, Rabbi Greenberg has taken that trust and warped it into something vulgar. He uses his knowledge and erudition not to defend tradition, but to bastardize it. He uses his halachic familiarity to create "halachically informed" ceremonies which he knows violates all accepted halachic and Jewish norms. His actions represent the very opposite of what his Semichah intended. He is misusing it, and thereby violating not only its implied terms, but every other Semichah that my Yeshiva has conferred.
The powerful words written by Dr. Revel almost eighty years ago still resonate strongly. "The basic purpose of the Yeshiva is to guard the sanctity of Jewish Law in this land." That must be as true today as it was then, and if Yeshiva revoked a Semicha because a rabbi refused to leave a mix-pew congregation, it can and must do the same for a musmach who openly promotes values that violate very basic tenets of the Torah.
The time has come for Yeshiva to revoke Steven Greenberg's semichah, and if you agree with me, I urge you to contact Rabbi Yonah Reiss, the RIETS Dean, and tell him so.

The Limits of Rabbinic Chutzpah

A friend recently emailed me a "Mishpacha Magazine" exclusive about "Pressure at the Pulpit". The article, while minimally informative, contained a few nuggets. My favorite:

A rabbi sitting near me leans over. "I don't get why we have to be available for all their shei'los if they aren't available for all our answers. I'll tell you what I mean. A congregant calls me earlyone morning from a hotel in the Caribbean Islands, he wants to know about using the coffee maker in the room.
I told him, 'Yankel, you didn't ask me if its appropriate to vacation in a place where it's a battle to watch your eyes from forbidden sights. You didn't ask me about traveling to a place with no minyan. Nowyou call me? For this question, I'm not available, sorry.'"

I must admit: there have been times when I've wanted to say this to a congregant, but I then thought better of it. After all, what does a rabbi have to gain from this type of interaction? The next time, the congregant won't call him about the hotel or about the coffeemaker, and will probably make his life miserable going forward. Is it the best time, when he's sitting in his hotel room, to tell him that he really shouldn't be there? And, if a rabbi wants to get the message across, perhaps there's a better way to tell him, gently and softly.
Maybe that's really the point of the story. The pressure really had gotten to the rabbi after all.

Should Rabbis be on Facebook? Part 2 (of 2)

Continued from this post.

Last week, I took part in a rabbinic discussion surrounding rabbis, Facebook and the Internet, and described some of my thoughts on what Facebook is good for (chatting, quick discussions, and sharing links and pictures) and what it's not good for (substantive discussions). That being said, do rabbis belong on Facebook, or should they stay away?
Interestingly, at the Tzohar Symposium which brought together rabbis from Israel and the Diaspora it was taken as a given, though, that Facebook (or some similar social networking site) would become increasingly native to the experience of the Internet, and that there really wasn't any way around social networking completely. Still, every one of the Diaspora rabbis sitting around the circle said that he was connected to Facebook, and every one of the Israeli rabbis was not.
The moderator of the discussion also raised another seemingly unrelated question. In Israel, websites which allow you to anonymously ask halachic questions have become very popular. Additionally, thousands of people send text-message shailot to numerous rabbanim, which you can read in the various weekly parshah sheets that litter the shuls each month. Yet, in the Diaspora this phenomenon is almost unheard of. Why do Israelis ask their shailot from rabbanim they don't know, while Americans do not?
Some of the answer might have to do with recognizable poskim in the Israeli world, and their availability over email. Here, everyone has heard of Rav Aviner, and they're comfortable asking him their questions, even over SMS. In America, who would you text your shailah to - who would actually get your text and answer you back? Still, one could suggest that if there was enough demand, rabbis would find a way to make themselves available. Is it really that hard to get Rav Belsky a phone with texting capabilities? (Those phones are only treif in the States. In America, I'm pretty sure that they're still kosher.)
Sitting at the conference, I got a strong sense that the different digital practices of rabbis from Israel and the United States stemmed primarily from our different sense of what it means to be a communal rabbi.
From my training and experience in the United States, the heart of what it meant to be a rabbi was to serve, help and know the members of my shul. Sure, I taught them, and I gave nice speeches. But the most critical aspect of my job was knowing what was going on in their lives; being there for them in times of need - be they sick or depressed or just lonely - and shepherding them, quite literally, through the most challenging times in the their lives, be in the loss of a loved one, or the tricky navigation of a simcha (which can be incredibly daunting). I knew - and they expected me to know - which one of their children was having trouble in school, and how they were doing in college. I couldn't always solve the problems. Often there was nothing that I could do. But a rabbi can and must serve as both a spiritual guide, and a sort of anchor, giving his "flock" a sense of balance and stability as they navigate the world.
In truth, this model is a uniquely "American" notion of the rabbinate, as it's really a form of servicing the spiritual needs of individuals. You're a social worker but also a sort of guru; a mentor, a spiritual model, sometimes a guide, and at others a teacher. It's all of the above. But you're never really separated from the people that you lead. You're not the same as them - not their friends really, but also not so distinct from them as to be distanced from their lives.

And that's exactly how I think Israeli rabbis perceive their rabbinic positions. They're available to answer questions, to teach and to guide. But they feel that it's not their business (or perhaps their role) to inquire into peoples' personal lives. It would be intrusive and out of place. Many seem to see their responsibilities primarily as that of teacher, speaker and posek. And if someone could get a p'sak from a source on the internet, why not? Why waste time answering someone's question when he can send a text-message to a gadol?
In fact, that was exactly the comment of one of the Israeli rabbis during our discussion. He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "I love when my members send the rabbanim text messages. It saves me time and energy. But I can't stand when they ask shul related questions, and then ask me why I say we should do things differently."
I was extremely surprised by his comment.
First and foremost, I really don't think that text messages are a good medium for halachic questions. Almost always the issue requires greater clarification, and cannot and should not be answered perfunctorily. More importantly, halachah is often very, very subjective. Any posek will tell you that in order to properly answer a question, he must know not only who is asking, but the background of the question. But that's another post.
I was most surprised by his comment because as a former shul rabbi rabbi, I wanted my members to feel that they could and should come to me with their questions. Shailot provided yet another path towards nurturing relationships with the members of the shul. Sometimes their questions were not personal: is the pot still pareve, and whether they could light candles early. But it's surprising just how personal seemingly innocuous questions can be - whether they were related to hilchot Niddah or Aveilut or Shabbat - they often revolved around very personal and individual considerations that were of great importance to the person asking the question. And, no matter what the answer, they knew that the rabbi understood what they were dealing with and the issues that they struggled with at any given time.
So, should rabbis be on Facebook? Yes, and no.
Yes, because when their member is stuck in a hospital today, with no one to reach out to, the rabbi is now aware that his member needs help.
Yes, because today it's an amazing tool to organize and plan events, especially for young people today. Instead of making phone calls and sending out email blasts, Facebook is a one-stop shop for effective and efficient program planning.
But then again, no. People share far too much on Facebook, and often its not the tone or content that's rabbinically appropriate. You wouldn't tell all of your dirty jokes to your rabbi, nor should you. And that goes for many of the posts and pictures people share on Facebook as well.
Which is why, at the meeting, I suggested a happy medium: the rebbetzin should be on Facebook. She could forward him the information he needs, without exposing him to the things he should not and hopefully doesn't want to see.
And yet, I think that my comments were totally lost on my Israeli colleagues. Because they come from such a different perspective on what it means to be a rabbi, they simply could not comprehend why they'd want or need Facebook. And if, as Tzohar says that it does, it wants to build a community rabbinate in Israel from the ground up, they're first going to have to do the most difficult thing of all: teach Israelis to rethink what it means to be a rabbi.

Should Rabbis be on Facebook - Part 1

This week, I spent a day (plus) at an international rabbinic conference sponsored by Tzohar, a rabbinic group in Israel trying to create an alternative rabbinic presence other than the Israeli chief rabbinate. Tzohar became known for its registry of rabbis willing to perform weddings free of charge. It seems that for many secular Israelis, one of their only interactions with rabbis was at their wedding, and that many rabbis charged exorbitant amounts of money to perform the wedding, leaving a very bad taste, to say the least, of religious people and religion in general. To date, rabbis affiliated with Tzohar have performed tens of thousands of weddings across Israel.
At the conference, one of the more heated discussions surrounded the burning question whether rabbis should have Facebook pages or not. (Interestingly, I only found out that the press was at the conference halfway through the discussion, and it was implied that there was, “nothing to worry about.” If “nothing to worry about” means that, “You’ll be quoted directly by name in the press,” then I guess I didn’t have anything to worry about. I wasn’t quoted inaccurately, but having press representatives at a supposedly closed rabbinic conference isn’t a great way to engender open and honest dialogue.) In any case, this particular discussion made the Hebrew press here and here, and was then translated into English here, and finally blogged about here. I was quoted (pretty accurately) as saying that I didn’t think that a rabbi should have a Facebook page. Here’s the relevant passage:

Rabbi Reuven Spolter of the Israeli community of Yad Binyamin believes that, in general, "a rabbi must be a rabbi and not a friend." He does not rule out rabbinical activity on Facebook, but says it must be supervised.
"All the nonsense of the community members must be ignored," he says. "It would be better if they didn't have to see all their statuses and thoughts."
His practical suggestion is interesting: The rabbi's wife will be on Facebook and relay the spirit and messages from the community members, as expressed only there.

I once wrote a rather emphatic post about the fact that I don’t have a Facebook page. While at the time the post was accurate, today it’s less so, as I recently joined the Facebook phenomenon. (OK, I’m late to the party. But I did get an early invite to Google Plus.) I joined Facebook primarily because I need to use it at work in the context of student recruitment at Orot. You can see my Orot page here. (Please “like” us – I’m trying to build the page…) I opened two personal pages – one in Hebrew and one in English, and became “friends” with a number of acquaintances – mostly people who “friended” me.

At the discussion, I ended up sitting next to Israel’s Minister of Science and Technology, Rabbi Professor Daniel Hershkovitz. He’s a shul rabbi, math professor, and now a politician, and a generally all-around brilliant man. During the discussion, he said a number of times that it’s silly for rabbis to shy away from using Facebook, repeating to me and then to the group at large, “Facebook is a tool. Tools are not good or bad. They’re tools, and we must choose not whether to use them or not, but how to use them properly.”
In general, I agree with him. Tools aren’t good or bad. You can use a saw to cut lumber to build a home. And you can use that same saw to cut your dining room table in half. (Not recommended). But some tools are generally useful (like my screwdriver), and others primarily destructive. We measure whether to bring tools into our home by their design and their intended purpose, and whether their benefits outweigh the costs. So, my toolbox is brimming with screwdrivers. Sure, someone could use one as a weapon – but not likely. On the other hand, while there might be some benefits to keeping a firearm in my home, in my home right now the dangers outweigh them. While in some homes a firearm at the ready is a critically important, my home isn’t one of them. Let’s give another example a little closer to home: Television. One could legitimately argue that TV is a tool that can be either good or bad. After all, television can be informative, convey critical information, and even help me relax. On the other hand, do those benefits outweigh the costs? To me they don’t, because while I certainly miss watching football, I don’t miss the amazing amount of time that I’d waste watching TV. And I don’t miss the values on most television programs, nor the sexuality, violence and depravity that we don’t even notice anymore. So I don’t have a TV. It’s a tool, but not one that I choose to utilize.
What about Facebook? What kind of tool is Facebook? Are its uses valuable and positive? What are the benefits of Facebook, and do those benefits outweigh the costs? In order to answer those questions, you’ve got to (a) use Facebook, and (b) understand how it works.
Using Facebook:
Truth be told, there’s less action than I thought there would be. It’s nice to get pictures of people’s kids (very cute usually), and every now and then someone shares a thoughtful link to an article I hadn’t seen. But mostly, I haven’t found myself moved by peoples’ status updates, and I often find myself not posting for lack of what to post. This is not because I don’t have what to say. I say a lot – and if you’re reading this blog, you know what I mean.
A couple of weeks ago, I was invited by a marketing group to take part in a Facebook seminar, aimed at helping us market educational programs to potential students. The seminar spent a lot of time highlighting Facebook’s hierarchy which determines what posts are visible in someone’s feeds. This means that while you might post a status update, that doesn’t really mean that all your friends are going to see it. It depends on whether your post is “sticky” – and that stickiness follows an algorithm designed by Facebook. They like pictures and videos, and back and forth conversations. They don’t like updates that people don’t respond to. In other words, Facebook is built to get feedback. It’s not really designed for long form articles like this one. It’s really built to share the pictures, videos, short status updates that generate a quick “like”. And if your status update doesn’t get a like or a comment, it falls off the page amazingly fast. So, the trick of the Facebook status update is all about getting people to response.
That means that I’ve got to say something clever, or ask a silly question, or make a sarcastic quip, or share a family picture. It is not good for making serious comments or having an involved discussion, at least on its main pages. (Sure, you can have a private conversation with someone on Facebook, but you can also do that over email.) Facebook isn’t really about actual people. It’s more about the people they’d like others to see them as: clever, witty, outgoing – looking to get a reaction from others. Because there’s nothing worse on Facebook than sending out a status update and having it be ignored. All those friends, and no one cares about what you have to say…embarrassing.
So Facebook is built for chitchat, and not for deep, extended conversations. It’s built around superficial acquaintances, and not substantial friendships. It’s built to keep people in touch, but not to foster deeper connections.
Finally, many people share private and oftentimes inappropriate information (that has at times made me uncomfortable). That’s stuff that I really don’t want to know, and perhaps my friends also don’t want me to know, but forgot (or don’t care) that they’ve “friended” me.
Just as an aside, it’s also important for users to realize that Facebook is a marketers dream. Instead of “them” having to find you, all they have to do is entice you to “like” their page once. You “like” CocaCola? Sure you do. It tastes good. But if you “like” Coke on Facebook, they can now send you an endless stream of advertisements and promotions. Because that’s exactly what you asked them to do when you “liked” them. Why do you think advertisers spend so much energy and money asking you to “like” them? It’s a dark side of Facebook that many users don’t realize or prefer to ignore.
On the other hand, Facebook is not without benefits, and can even be surprisingly powerful. First of all, because pretty much the whole world is now on Facebook, it has reconnected people that lost touch years ago, allowing them to reestablish contact. You might not want to be best friends with your old high school classmate, but you would like to stay in touch and see how he’s doing.
Facebook also allows groups of people to coalesce around a common cause or purpose. My cottage cheese here in Israel costs me less money because of Facebook. It’s possible that the Arab Spring would never have happened were it not for Facebook. The tool allows individuals to share information with groups of interested people in unprecedented ways, with incredible ease. It’s not just about cottage cheese though. It’s used to promote Torah classes and community events as well.
There’s an even more powerful that has deep, powerful ramifications. A former member of our shul recently entered the hospital, and needed to return to the hospital following surgery a number of times due to complications. She spent hours in bed, alone, depressed. Her status updates – understandably gloomy – brought a flurry of responses, offering help, support and encouragement. People helped her – calling her, sending her messages, even visiting in person because they were aware that she was stuck in the hospital due to Facebook.
So, with all this in mind, this leads to my question: Should your rabbi be on Facebook? Do you want him as a friend, or would it be better for him and you if he stuck to email?

The Rabbi Ride-Around - A Thought for Vayera

On a rabbinic list that I receive, I learned about a program run by Rabbi Ze'ev Smason, popular rabbi of Congregation Nusach Hari B'nai Zion of St. Louis called the "Rabbi Ride-Around."
Basically, Rabbi Smason agreed to ride around in a local park for fifty miles, after of course accruing a significant amount of sponsorship which benefits the shul.
Let me say from the outset that this post is not meant as a criticism of Rabbi Smason, who I don't know personally. Each rabbi must find his own comfort zone in his congregation and community, and find the proper balance between the need for stature and a casual closeness to the membership of the shul. That being said, I'm trying to decide how I feel about the Rabbi Ride-Around.
On one hand, it's a great program. It promotes the values of health and well-being, and raises badly needed money for a good cause. (It seems that the shul is putting up a new building.) Yet, on some level, it seems to me to diminish the kavod of the rav, and therefore the shul and Torah that he represents. This program brings to mind the dunking machine we used to throw sponges at during carnivals for the chance to dunk a favorite teacher. It's fun and good-natured. But is it appropriate? Maybe if other people ran together with the rabbi. I'm not sure. But the rabbi riding alone? Something about it rubs me wrong.
And then I thought about the parshah. The Torah tells us that when the three guests arrived at Avraham's door, he rushed to greet them, and then personally served them a lavish meal. The kicker is the description of how they ate:

וַיִּקַּח חֶמְאָה וְחָלָב וּבֶן הַבָּקָר אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה וַיִּתֵּן לִפְנֵיהֶם וְהוּא עֹמֵד עֲלֵיהֶם תַּחַת הָעֵץ וַיֹּאכֵלוּ

And he took butter and milk and the cattle that he had made for them and placed it before them, and he stood over them under the tree, and they ate

You have to wonder: was it really appropriate for Avraham Avinu, the representative of monotheism in the world, to stand over a group of ragged strangers waiting over them hand over fist? Could he not have brought a servant - which he surely had - to wait on them all, and eat with the guests together? Was Avraham's behavior also not, in some way, a diminution not only of his personal honor, but the God that Avraham so publicly proclaimed? Clearly according to the gemara (Kiddushin 32b), the answer is no.

מעשה ברבי אליעזר ורבי יהושע ורבי צדוק שהיו מסובין בבית המשתה בנו של רבן גמליאל, והיה רבן גמליאל עומד ומשקה עליהם, נתן הכוס לר' אליעזר ולא נטלו, נתנו לר' יהושע וקיבלו; אמר לו רבי אליעזר: מה זה, יהושע, אנו יושבין ורבן גמליאל (ברבי) +מסורת הש"ס: [דרבי]+ עומד ומשקה עלינו? אמר ליה: מצינו גדול ממנו ששמש, (אברהם גדול ממנו ושמש) אברהם גדול הדור היה, וכתוב בו: +בראשית יח+ והוא עומד עליהם! ושמא תאמרו, כמלאכי השרת נדמו לו? לא נדמו לו אלא לערביים, ואנו לא יהא רבן גמליאל ברבי עומד ומשקה עלינו? אמר להם רבי צדוק: עד מתי אתם מניחים כבודו של מקום ואתם עוסקים בכבוד הבריות? הקב"ה משיב רוחות ומעלה נשיאים ומוריד מטר ומצמיח אדמה, ועורך שולחן לפני כל אחד ואחד, ואנו לא יהא רבן גמליאל ברבי עומד ומשקה עלינו?

It happened that Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Tzaddok were celebrating at the wedding of the son of Rabban Gamliel, and Rabban Gamliel stood and served them drinks. He gave the cup to Rabbi Eliezer, who refused to take it, and then gave it to Rabbi Yehoshua, who took it. Rabbi Eliezer said to him, "What is this, Yehoshua? We sit and Rabban Gamliel (the Nasi at the time) stands and serves us drinks?" He said, we find [in scripture] someone even greater who served [others]. Avraham was the leader of his generation, and it is written about him, "and he stood over them." And perhaps you might say that they appeared to him as angels? No, they appeared to him as Arabs. And we should not allow Rabban Gamiel the son of Rebbe to stand over us and serve drinks? Said to them Rabbi Tzadok: How long will you all leave the honor of God, and engage in the honor of men? God Himself blows the wind...sends the dew and grows the earth; He sets the table of each and every individual. And we should not allow Rabban Gamliel the son of Rebbe to stand over us and serve us drink?

Clearly, the thought of the great leader and teacher Rabban Gamliel, standing at the bar at his son's wedding serving drinks disturbed Rabbi Eliezer. It bothered him so much that he could not bring himself to accept a drink. So this debate goes back a long way. But Rabbi Eliezer loses the argument. A rabbi is permitted to forgive his honor - רב שמחל על כבודו, כבודו מחל.
Yet, the conclusion does not come easily. Before telling us the story the Gemara wonders about my issue: "Is the Torah his (the rabbi's), that he may forgive his honor?" God wrote the Torah - so he can forgive his honor. But what right does a rabbi, whose honor stems from the Torah, have to forgive his - and the Torah's - right to the proper level of respect and reverence?
Rava provides a startling answer: אין, תורה דיליה הוא דכתיב ובתורתו יהגה יומם ולילה - "Yes, it is his Torah, as it is written, 'And in his Torah he will delve day and night." In essence, the rabbi who represents God's Torah has the right to decide when his honor must be insisted upon, and when to take a different tact and take a more casual approach.
Rabban Gamliel wanted to serve drinks to his students at his son's wedding. For whatever reason, on that evening he didn't want the reverence. He wanted to tend bar, relax and enjoy together with people whom he cherished. Avraham understood that serving the strangers was perhaps the very best way to bring Godliness to them. The very spectacle of such an honored leader serving them might force them to rethink some of their most deeply held beliefs.
And if Rabbi Smason wants to ride a bike to raise money for his shul, that's great too. I can't say that I would have done it myself. But I'm pretty sure that I couldn't bike fifty miles in one day no matter how much money was on the line.