Prayer and The Sound of Silence: Views on Contemporary Shuls during the Yamim Noraim.

Prayer can be a very difficult exercise. Distractions, tiredness and an inability to concentrate for long periods of time can mean that as we enter the period of Rosh ha Shana and Yom Kippur we can feel helplessly unprepared. Many siddurim have been produced in the last few years to help the individual understand and focus on the words in front of them. Whilst this is obviously a good thing, I couldn’t help but think that to me it just added to the distractions. I look at an interlinear siddur and am somewhat repelled by the sheer number of words on the page. It just seems sort of confusing and lacks something fundamental, but I couldn’t always place what that was.

Similarly, in Shul during Rosh ha Shana I also noticed an interesting trend amongst Ashkenazi synagogues that I have attended in recent years, whereby upbeat tunes are used for many areas of the davening where they do not really belong. I have nothing against ‘happy’ davening (some of my best friends etc...) but I feel that this is one time during the year where solemnity should be encouraged, for once.

This impression is thrown into sharper relief when I listen to the Yamim Noraim CD produced by the Spanish and Portuguese congregation that my family have been associated with all my life. I love listening to those tunes as a few of them really soar in their religious feeling, sense of awe, solemnity and haunting beauty without ever descending into the realms of the merely depressing.

Davening is widely considered the most neglected area of Jewish study and many of the solutions presented are unerringly systematic: we are told to focus on the words more closely, highlight the meaningful parts and with time, concentration and kavanna will grow. This may definitely work for some people but for me it comes down to something else. When I think of my best moments of prayer I turn to very specific memories which I think may be of use in unlocking what I think is the essential component of prayer: silence.

For example, I remember childhood and the pre-adolescent devotion which I am ashamed to say greatly trumps my more mature attempts. I think of particular times in Yeshiva, but not, as some might think, the Ruach of the beis ha midrash but rather a stillness and tranquillity when davening with everyone together. I also think of standing davening Mincha once in countryside which seemed to stretch for miles. There was something about quiet serenity that could make me focus on the words far more than any explanations ever could.

Which takes me onto the pesukim from Tehillim which I think most effectively and poignantly describes the religious experience of prayer (I think it first struck me after hearing ‘Ka Echsof’ on a Friday night):

Like a deer thirsts for a brook of water, so my soul thirsts for you. My soul thirsts for the living God, when will I appear before my God.  (Psalms 42:2-3).

In these lines, King David captures the essence of the heartfelt prayer: the longing of the individual to achieve a relationship with his creator, the searching and the craving for transcendence. But to begin to even want to feel this sort of sensation is something that requires that ingredient that I keep emphasising: silence. For only in silence, I would suggest, can we achieve the required concentration and introspection to experience this most sublime of religious sensations.

But surely, I ask myself, it is usually silent during the Amidah, what is lacking? I remember one of the Rabbis in Yeshiva using this as the analysis for the similarly powerful image of the ‘kol demama daka’ which features several times during Rosh ha Shana and Yom Kippur, or in Rabbi Sacks' translation: The sound of a thin silence.

We are told based on the interaction between G-d and the prophet Eliyahu that finding Him would not be found in the howling wind, earthquakes or fire but in that very soft, nearly inaudible inner voice, the ‘Kol Demama Daka’. In the context of the prayers on the Yamim Noraim, it is only in this thin silence that the sound and message of the shofar is heard. 

I think the image speaks for itself. It made an enormous impression on me and is something I try to concentrate on as a means of accessing prayer during this period, which brings me onto the importance of appropriate music.

Whilst the main reason I include as many lines from old rock classics in my posts is for the shtick factor, something our Rabbi said a few weeks ago about why Parashat Ha’azinu is referred to as a ‘Shira’ rung very true. When you hear a song it takes you back to a particular moment in time and helps to re-live the experience. And it rarely fades. It is this, I realise, when I think about themes in my experiences, that makes me turn so often to what might seem to some to be trivial sources.

For example, in one of Dylan’s most poignant love songs he records a striking line: “Some speak of the future, my Love speaks softly”. In the context of the song, this line stands out as a powerful testament to the fact that it is often by focusing on the way things are done rather than attempting to scale the lofty unknown peaks that has the most permanent value, regardless of the ideal itself. I would link this idea to prayer in the sense that sometimes overthinking it can be counter-productive. 

Yes I know I sound like a member of a Kiddush committee moaning about how the shmaltz herring isn't like it used to be, but the dignified solemnity and the tunes associated with the ‘old-school’ strikes me as something that could really conjure the state of mind necessary to have a meaningful Rosh ha Shana and Yom Kippur. 

I thought it was worth quoting the following in full: 

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence."

The Jews in Muslim Spain c.800-1200: Prosperity and Uncertainty.

The era of Jews living under Muslim rule in medieval Spain is widely considered one of the most fertile and productive periods of Jewish history. Maimonides, writing in the late 12th century, clearly expresses his pride at being part of a great chain of Andalusian scholars. In his dispute with the Gaon Samuel ben Eli of Baghdad, he stated that in his opinion the chain of Spanish tradition, including the Rif and Rabbi Joseph ibn Migash, had produced the most brilliant scholars since the Amoraim. 

It can be argued that by the 10^th Century, Spain had replaced Babylon as the main centre of world Jewry. This wasn't simply due to the number of Jews living there, as there were different settlements in other European provinces, but rather was a result of the astonishing amount of material produced which covered a number of disciplines. But 'Spain' must not be understood as one unified country, rather as a series of provinces with localised identities and customs. I am therefore broadly differentiating between 'Muslim Spain' and 'Christian Spain', as will be explained below.

Under the Visigoth kingdoms in the 6^th and 7^th centuries, Jews living in Spain had not been allowed to openly practise Judaism and the official policy was forced conversion to Christianity. Whilst this had not always been imposed, when the Muslim conqueror Tarik b. Ziyad conquered the straits of Gibraltar in 711 as part of the Islamic conquest, there were no openly practising Jewish communities.  But as Islam continued to spread in the 8^th century, more Crypto(secret)-Jewish  communities kept appearing and friendly relations with the conquerors meant that several Jewish communities were in fact given several cities to garrison.

This was followed by the period of Umayyad rule. The Umayyad kingdom was established in Spain by Abd al-Rahman in 755 with its capital at Cordoba in Andalusia. In a period of relative economic prosperity, Jews were represented in many occupations including medicine, agriculture and commerce. The tolerance of Muslim Spain meant that it became something of a refuge for Jews fleeing the Christian kingdoms and incredibly in 839 the Frank Bishop Bodo converted to Judaism, married a Jewess and wrote a tract against Christianity.

These maps are useful to understand how what we call modern Spain was divided up over this period. The top one shows where the Arabic conquest had managed to reached by 1031. The bottom map shows how by the 13th century, the Christian 'reconquest' movement had forced the Islamic Kingdom to retreat.

In terms of scholarship, Jewish culture flourished amongst its Arabic counterparts. The Geonim from Babylon corresponded with rabbis and scholars from Lucena and Barcelona in particular. In fact, Lucena, Granada and Tarragona were designated by Arab Geographers as "Jewish cities".

In addition, the period of the 10^th century saw the rise of the Jewish court physician, who would attain the position of head of customs and foreign trade. A development that I am particularly interested in is the blossoming of Jewish literature which would certainly be regarded as unusual to a contemporary audience. The study of philology flourished, for example, where Hebrew grammar and language were examined and analysed systematically, with significant contributions from Dunash ibn Labrat and Menahem Saruk in particular. Hebrew poetry, which I will dedicate a separate post to, became a significant literary and cultural discipline right up until the expulsion of 1492.  

As I mentioned in my post on the Geonim, reliance on the Babylonian Geonim decreased markedly in the 10^th century. Communal leaders in Spain became characterised by their multi-faceted natures, functioning simultaneously as Halachic Poskim as well as statesman and communal leaders. The central community was in Cordoba where the chief rabbi resided. Cordoba had somewhat declined as the principle centre of Jewish life by the mid-11^th century with the Berber conquest. 
Throughout the 11th Century, by and large, the rulers remained tolerant and Jews remained prominent as taxfarmers, advisers and physicians serving different courts around Spanish lands.

The ethos of Jewish intellectual life can be characterised as a combination of desiring political power, the harmonious co-existence between religion and secular studies, and combining Talmudic studies with poetry and philosophy. This was epitomised by the personality of Shmuel ha Nagid, a poet and Halachist who was the commander of the army of Granada between 1030-1056. 

Several communities produced a number of outstanding scholars and personalities. Lucena was renown as a centre of Talmudic learning, the first Rosh Yeshiva being the great Talmudic and Halachic authority the Rif (R’ Isaac Alfasi - c.1013-1103) who remains an indispensable commentator on the Halachic sections of Shas to this day. He was succeeded by R’ Yosef ibn Migash, who the Rambam considered his teacher (although it is unlikely that he was ever taught directly from him). Saragossa was home to the famous ethical teachers R. Bahya ibn Pakuda, who wrote Chovat ha levavot and Solomon ibn Gabirol, author of the Mekor Hayim.

Whilst the 11^th Century can be considered a relatively stable century for Jewish life in Muslim Spain, the 12^th Century was characterised by upheaval. In 1146, the Almohads, a fanatic Berber dynasty from Morocco began the conquest of Muslim Spain, which put an end to the flourishing Jewish communities of Andalusia. Jewish religion was forbidden to be practised by the authorities. Synagogues and Yeshivas were closed and many were forcibly converted. Maimonides’ family were caught up in this crisis and forced to emigrate. Many fled to Christian Spain whilst others were forcibly converted.
By the mid-13^th century the Christian Castillans had conquered most of what I have described as Muslim Spain, leaving only Granada, which was ruled by the Arab dynasty until 1492.

As mentioned in the introduction, It is important when trying to visualise the Geography of this period that we do not impose contemporary borders onto the past. A unified ‘Spain’ would have meant little to the inhabitants of different provinces throughout the country. There were several different kingdoms: Aragon (not to be confused with a character from Lord of the Rings called Aragorn), Catalonia, Valencia, Andalusia, Granada, Castille and Portugal (There might be more I may not have read the map correctly). For the vast majority of the period that I have just described, the Muslim expansion controlled most of these provinces with the exception of Castille and Catalonia. 

An interesting observation is that whilst in many ways this period could be described as being stable for the Jewish communities in Muslim Spain they always remained at the mercy of local rulers and were at constant risk of groups not playing by the rules. In Granada, for example, the son of Shmuel ha Nagid, Joseph, was assassinated by a group of Muslim locals unhappy at his attitude towards them. This then led to a massacre of Granada Jewry, the survivors being forced to flee to nearby towns in 1066.

 This sense of lack of accountability and dependence on the individual benevolence of the particular rulers is an important factor in considering Jewish attitudes towards their neighbours and is an essential qualification behind what can sometimes appear to be a prosperous existence. In my post next week I hope to focus on the different literary accomplishments of these Jewish communities, in particular the poetry of some notable figures such as R.Moses Ibn Ezra and R.Judah ha Levi (who will be the inspiration behind my upcoming ‘opinion’ posts).

The importance of the Community and Why I love Manchester.

I guess it follows from the post on identity to discuss the importance of the community. In my historical wanderings we will soon be leaving Babylon and heading towards Spain, France and Germany. This is partly to suit the things that I have noted down on specific writings over the last few years such as the Kuzari and Moreh Nevuchim as my MA is about to start which will restrict casual research time, but also because it enters upon an important epoch in the Jewish historical experience.

 The Golden age of Spain, as it became known, would produce a fantastically creative blend of Poetry, liturgy, Biblical commentary and Talmudic analysis which remains with us till this day. But before that, a more general point that I would like to make about the importance of communities. In many ways our observance of different minhagim is testimony to how communal life came to shape all areas of identity. 

In the pre-Modern world communities also served as places where law and justice would be carried out, and the threat of the Cheirem carried with it real and devastating consequences until the mid-18th Century. But now I would like to take a trip down memory lane in describing what I feel to be the key elements of the modern Jewish community.

Health warning: The following passages will be highly sentimental, using selective memory and an uncanny ability to shamelessly bask in reminiscence and nostalgia. I can’t account for potential side-effects. Nor can I promise that these descriptions of my mindset aren’t largely exaggerated for comic value.

So let’s begin. Upon leaving Yeshiva and heading north to the grey oasis of Manchester, a dominant question concerning communal identity was “which Hashkofo/religious ideology do I subscribe to?” Well, the way I saw Manchester was that it presented a choice between needing to wear a hat whilst taking out the bins/embarking on crusades calling for the destruction of the television vs. an absolute commitment to the rock n' roll Uni lifestyle. The only way was ‘Grey’and I would defy the sordid categorisations that so preoccupied lesser mortals.  So, like a small child who has just destroyed his first lego tower I triumphantly declared “I don’t belong anywhere”. And this was just fine with me.

 Whenever I would check out a new Shul (which was initially rare living in Whitefield) I would find things that I liked about it but find plenty of things that I didn’t, allowing me to feel that secure feeling of not belonging.

 But as time passed I became increasingly agitated by the feeling that actually, damn it, I really like it here. And ideology had nothing to do with it, nor, as I began to increasingly realise, did Hashkofo ever have much to do with anything when it came to interactions with other people.

Both in Yeshiva and in my local youth groups we would occasionally try and solve the world’s problems by fantasising about communities of normal people such as ourselves with similar values and religious outlooks. Ah, wouldn’t that be perfect we would say? A little hill somewhere in Israel where we could all just be the perfect society of religious and yet perfectly balanced and open minded people? 

Good lord, I think now, thinking of living on a hill with people like me for an extended period of time would drive me crazy. So what brought about this paradigm shift? Crazy little thing called Manchester. And this is how:

As I mentioned before, I became increasingly irritated by how much I liked the place. I’m meant to be London guy (I’ll allow myself to say the following words just once) par excellence. So naturally I sat down with a few friends and tried to define what exactly was the function of a community, and I think I came up with the following very basic conclusions: (I will again qualify this by saying that I am not currently at the stage where pragmatic considerations such as getting kids into schools feature in my mind-set.)

The first was that warmth was everything. Friendliness just speaks for itself. I don’t know how many people reading this have spent much time in Manc but I assure you that the people there do the following bizarre things on a regular basis: 1. They say good morning. 2. They say good afternoon (not always in the right order but hey, who's judging?). All this during the week not only on Shabbat. In addition, I found myself welcomed during the week into a number of homes of people that I barely knew and would probably not have been sociable enough to interact with in any other circumstance. 

Suddenly, a little change of mindset made things that from an objective standpoint had nothing to offer become exciting social events. Tesco, for example. Who in London would ever dream of going to a supermarket just to hang out? Well, take a trip up North and you’ll be in for a shock. Meet me in the Kosher gefilte fish aisle which hasn't been touched in years at around 11 pm.

In addition, in a land where a cholent shop on the corner of what might be described as a road lacking aesthetic qualities becomes the central social scene on a Thursday night, you just can’t help but love the place.

 And it didn’t take itself too seriously. I just think of MH and laugh fondly. I think most people in MH do the same. And who could forget Minyanline? Just calling it up was hysterical, with its sponsorships from various bin companies and proud presentations of the opening times of seforim shops when you were running late for a mincha.

 A friend of mind came to visit once, and came out of Whitefield Shul on a Friday morning after Shacharis shell-shocked. "What’s wrong?" I asked him. “Four people just said hello to me and asked me where I’m from”, he replied. Sums it up for me. So when I think of communal pre-requisites and the power of the community I just think of that feeling of walking into the Manchester cholent pot (the frum equivalent of a melting pot) and not thinking twice about whether or not anyone shared the same or even similar views on whether University is mutar or not. 

This also encouraged shameless ridiculousness and I will happily reel off anecdote after anecdote of cars stopping in the middle of the road as the drivers decide to enter buildings for a chat. But that would take too much time. So this is why I love Manc and will be forever grateful to the people there. Reminiscing over. 

The second point I thought was crucial was one of religious direction, as opposed to official ideology. Was the community moving somewhere? Did it care if it just stagnating, keeping "singing for the sake of the song after the thrill is gone?" Did it care if I was? Whilst this is hard to define, activities like Shiurim, social organisations and  active engagement with the youth are often good signs of this. Positivity also helps; when a group has to define itself by being less sinful than its neighbour I feel like running a mile. 

Stagnancy is a curse that needs constant fighting against. The potential for a communal structure to not only define identity but enhance and develop it is enormous and as a side point, when I observe the destruction wrought by the loss of individual communities in our history, the tragedies assume new significance when seen in this light.

And finally, coming to Rosh ha Shana, maybe I’ll tie this in to how it specifically contributes towards an increased God-awareness. One of the difficulties of the ‘High Holiday’ period is that, let’s face it, the expectations and stakes are pretty high. The solemnity of sitting in judgement combined with an attempt to try and internalise what it means to make God a king over you, with the additional challenge of trying to experience the classic religious peaks of love and fear of God is extremely difficult. 

But what I feel is that were I to remain entirely identified as the lego-smashing uncompromising individual it would be completely impossible. The religious community, as Rav Soloveitchik so memorably describes in lonely man of faith, is far more than a bunch of individuals brought together for pragmatic reasons. At its heights it calls on the collective strength of each of its component parts to create something truly remarkable and enables us to see with great scope and vision, to see bigger, even if for a few fleeting moments. This is something that being a Madrich on Sinai camp also taught me to cherish.

It is interesting that in most of the popular songs about the 'alter heim', such as Simon and Garfunkel’s “My little town” and Springsteen’s “My hometown” the emphasis is always on faraway days long gone, which upon return seem even more surreal, ruins of what you once thought they were. Or they become tear-felt tributes of regret or of unfulfilled potential. 

If I were to express my thoughts in the form of wish or prayer, it would be that the Jewish communities that I have lived in will never be a relic in the eyes of those who lived in them but will provide their members with eternal strength and fulfilment. I also hope that I will be able to experience the Mancunian sense of community wherever I will live.

K’Siva ve Chasima Tovah. 

Lost souls swimming in a fish bowl/ External Threats in the 10th century: Karaites and the assertion of Jewish identity.

A bit of background before this post: I initially wanted to do parallel posts, one informative and one more opinionated but then I realised that summarising articles from Encyclopaedias is not as fun as it sounds. A full post on the history and development of the Karaites would be interesting to a select group of about three people (myself included). So instead I’ve tried to place it into a context that I think is fairly helpful and relevant (apologies to the purists who resent the concept of relevance, my thoughts are with you).

So who are the Karaites? The Karaites refer to the Jewish sect which emerged at some point in the 9^th century, who defined themselves by their strictly literalistic adherence to the holy scriptures of the Bible and rejection of the Oral law. Whilst some have tried to link them to other similar sects around the time of the Dead Sea scrolls, no such links have proved conclusive.

There are many stories surrounding the reasons behind their emergence, including a well-known story involving Anan, the founder, suffering injured pride when his brother was appointed exilarch instead of him. In general, historians have ascribed the movement’s emergence to enormous religious, political and economic fermentation resulting from the Arab conquests, economic grievances of poorer Jews living in sparsely populated areas and heterodox trends in elements of Babylonian Jewry.

Anan, unlike the founder of Christianity, did not try to ease the ‘yoke’ of Jewish law, but essentially made things rather more difficult. He introduced complicated regulations to the Brit Milah ceremony, did not recognise minimum quantities in forbidden foods and took several areas of Shabbat observance to the strictest possible extreme. Anan’s mantra was to search thoroughly in the Torah and not to rely on his opinion.

 As a result, after his death, the sect practically disintegrated with new movements arising and it became impossible to find two Karaites who held the same opinion on any religious issue. Anan’s supporters gradually gave way to other disparate groups, whose only real link was anti-rabbinic heresies. Between the ninth and twelfth century many sects who could be referred to as ‘Karaite’ came and went without leaving much of a trace but they paved the ground for new Karaite scholars to develop the movement’s doctrines.

Now what I am particularly interested in over here is the nature of the threat that they posed to the Jewish world. Prominent figures such as Sa’adia, Yehudah ha Levi and Maimonides dedicated serious amounts of time to polemics attacking Karaite doctrine and heresy in general.

Notably, Sa’adia’s polemics against the heretic Hiwi ensured that his Bible and commentary never gained widespread appeal. Part of his response was documenting a systematic exposition of faith somewhat similar to Maimonides’ 13 principles of faith and Yehudah Ha Levi’s principles listed in the Kuzari.

Which brings me onto the point about identity. It took me a long time to discover the importance of regular and maintained points of Jewish association, even as a fully observant Jew. For it becomes clear that the challenge that Karaites and what I will categorise as 'external threats' posed to the Jewish communities of the 10^th and 11^th centuries was something far more than one of doctrine.

If we look at how the situation is portrayed the word that comes to mind is confusion. Sa’adia describes the local communities as ‘drowning’ in doubt. In a world where religion was the central aspect of identity it is hard to downplay the significance of this loss of association.

The problems that arose were threefold: Firstly, many Jews could no longer figure out what made them distinctive living amongst another monotheistic nation in Islam. Although data is fairly scarce, it seems that there were areas where groups were unwilling to resist conversion. In addition, several had their own previously unshakeable convictions of the authenticity of tradition challenged by the emergent Karaites, and even the concept of God was seriously threatened by theories regarding the eternity of the universe and an impersonal deity of different philosophical schools.

And suddenly it was no longer was a question of communal leaders dealing with theoretical questions of faith but it was the far more pressing question of who are we? That feeling of being part of a holy nation with a particular destiny and mission was being eroded away. The lack of purpose, the lack of meaning and the lack of direction to an existence which no longer knew its goal becomes evident from examining the reactions to what had become a clear existential crisis in Jewish life. The words “ lost souls swimming in a fishbowl year after year” come to mind.  

I have recently read several accounts from people who describe their own departure from religious observance in these terms. It has also come up in conversations I have had. A loss of identification and attachment to things. Disillusionment with leadership which had represented that identity, that safe haven. 

It made me realise more and more what a responsibility any sort of communal leadership entails, because invariably you begin to represent something far greater than yourself and a failure to realise the standards you purport to represent can result in far more than merely personal disassociation.

It also made me realise increasingly the value of the communal structure and  responsibility of Jewish communities towards individuals to help them feel that association. When I write a post about the importance of the community I will draw on more personal experiences. 

How does it feel to be all alone, with no direction home, like a complete unknown? The answer to Dylan's question is: pretty rubbish. No-one wants to occupy the fishbowl (unless you’re a fish, and even that is questionable). Having that something to stay attached to will forever determine your personal relationship with the Jewish people. I remember the talks in Yeshiva that the aim of it was to make the Beis ha Midrash the place you wanted to return to at the end of the day.

 It was not only the learning but also the place, the tangible entity which represented something important to you. I think the idea is similar. Jewish identity must be linked to a concrete association with something that makes you feel you belong to something bigger, although this is often expressed through the medium of something quite trivial. It is this that called for an urgent response from leaders such as Sa'adia, and he composed many treatises attacking Karaite doctrine and trying to bolster communal spirits.

To conclude with some musings: The determined reactions to this crisis in the middle-ages often expressed themselves in the form of clear principles of faith or systematic expositions of Jewish philosophy. It has become popular over the last ten years or so amongst popular speakers and academics in the Orthodox community to decry the emphasis on ‘dogma’ and seeing principles of faith as a concession to the needs of the time. This makes little sense to me. 

The very power of these responses to the external challenges, far from imposing some sort of limitation, is that they helped create and consolidate a powerful Jewish identity. Transmitted from generation to generation, in my mind this came to define the Jewish communities themselves as part of a lived tradition, in a similar way to the 'mimetic' tradition discussed in Hayim Soloveitchik's famous essay (Thank you Avi Rosten for reminding me of this point - yes I just did that).

 For me these determined and systematic reactions touch at the very heart of the Mesorah, which includes transmitting received tradition but also building on it and translating collective experiences into important religious customs and identities. Tapping into the feeling of belonging to this chain of tradition is a crucial part of religious identification and it disappoints me when some choose to trivialise it. Something to think about, perhaps.

The advantages and disadvantages of being normal: Yeshiva days, the Masmid + the Boulevard of broken dreams.

When I was younger one of my favourite sit-coms was called 'Frasier'. In one episode, Frasier and Niles, two psychiatrists, have an argument about which of their wealthy friends to invite to a dinner party before Frasier turns to his father, the retired policeman: “Dad, do you think we're odd?” Martin:  “No, you're not odd. You're just special. Your mother told me that when you were kids and I still believe it. “

The idea of what is considered normal and what isn’t is an interesting one. Admittedly, it is also interesting that I find it so interesting. I will start by wondering whether being ‘normal’ is an aspiration, a statement of conformity, or something best avoided?

 You see, before I went to Yeshiva plenty of conversations went as follows:

Person A who sees me once a year and yet sees fit to give me life advice: “Don’t go too crazy there, make sure you come back normal!” “Stay balanced!”, “don’t overdo it”. In my teenage mind I sneered at them, thinking: You just don’t want me to be mediocre like you. Why should I want to be the way that you want me to be, you’re just scared that I’ll end up achieving things that you never could! So off I went, convinced that normality, balance and mediocrity were synonymous.

One of the great joys and yet great struggles that I had in Yeshiva, which I think exists for any ambitious student, was reflected by the paradigm called the ‘Masmid’ (dilligent student). You see, unlike in school or University where success is largely measured through tests, in most Yeshivas the buzzword is endurance. Devotion to studies demonstrates love of Torah and students are encouraged, either actively or tacitly, to push themselves to the very limit, learning every hour of the day till late at night.

Whilst most Rabbis would insist that we sleep properly and maintain healthy lifestyles, it was difficult to take seriously when the clock appeared to be ticking and you wanted to accomplish in an area that you cared greatly about, particularly amongst a group of similarly devoted peers. You didn't want to be the only guy to leave the beis on time. Night and day we devoted ourselves to learning Torah, trying to conquer 'peripheral' needs such as sleep.

But then “one day the dam breaks open many years too soon” and several, myself included, found ourselves staring down the barrel of a gun labelled: balance. It wasn’t really a choice anymore. Health had prevented the intensive lifestyle that myself and many others had grown so attached to and had become so beloved to us.

And then that sinking feeling and question would crop up: Does this mean I can’t make it anymore? It sounds sort of ridiculous but it reflected the feeling that, at 19 years old, the life ideal that had been such a crucial part of my life for several years had just been blown out the window. And those hounding words kept cropping up again: Balance. Normality. Balance. But I didn't want that. I didn't want to be mediocre. 

   

Which brings me back to R. Sa’adia Gaon, continuing where I sort of left off. In perusing a few of his writings around a month ago I found a few concisely written statements which summarised the mind-set which I have spent the last few years trying to get to grips with. Sa’adia enumerates various lifestyles advocated by different groups as a means of achieving perfection + life fulfilment in this world and critiques each of them respectively.

 Malter paraphrases Sa’adia’s conclusions in the following manner: “… even in the physical world it is only through a proper distribution and co-ordination of forces that we arrive at the highest possible good, how much more is it desirable that we should follow the same method in our moral and religious conduct. it is only through achievement of inner harmony and equilibrium that we can attain to a perfectly sound and godly life”.

Certainly, this idea of the ‘middle path’ is not uniquely Sa’adias, with its Aristotelian roots and far more comprehensive development by Maimonides, but it presented me with the image of harmony which rung very true. You see, sometimes when the dominant source of understanding is book-knowledge we can ignore the nuances and subtle experiences that life presents us with. The ability to admire the natural world, for example, and the appreciation of beauty and the sublime, which open up whole new levels of religious awareness, are vistas left largely unexplored by the Yeshiva bochur determined to master as much material as possible.

And thus, slowly, almost against my will, the idea of ‘balance’ began to be something more than simply a compromise and gradually started featuring as an ideal in itself. Peace of mind and inner harmony revealed themselves as something more than added bonuses in life’s experience but as key components of it. 

Sa’adia advises, for example, that man lives in accordance with the requirements of his natural inclinations and propensities, but keep them under strict control. Balance emerged not so much as a practical limitation of natural instincts or the need to avoid 'burn out' but as part of finding one's life mission. 

It became essential in order to gain a real appreciation for what you really liked, what kept your mind and body healthy, and in order to courageously stand by what you knew to be best for yourself. Or, in the words of Arthur the aardvark: “Believe in yourself, cos that’s the place to start”.

At the heart of this struggle exists a tension between a person’s desire for a genuinely purposeful existence and the feeling that if it cannot be realised in the way it first appeared to us in the trappings of youthful idealism then better lock it up in a cupboard and leave it as a memory. A token of the great past before reality set in.

When we came back home from Yeshiva and time moved on, suddenly things that were once second nature became extremely difficult; some would live for the moments during the week when they could imagine that they were back in those halcyon days. To others, it seemed, in Simon and Garfunkel’s words,  “the leaves that are green turned to brown”. Life could become a binary: Learning/ resignation to the inevitable.

Yet for me what is a powerful aspect of Sa’adia’s message is that self-actualisation and religious fulfilment is something that never stops in life. Perhaps this finds expression with greatest conviction in the writings of the Chassidic masters, or in my case, the writings of S.R. Hirsch. The challenge of the post-Yeshiva life is the challenge of maintaining a genuine desire to achieve a godliness and transcendence that can sometimes seem so elusive without those great experiential peaks. 

Historically, in some circles these peaks have been expressed in a focus on prayer and meditation, in others it would be manifest in trying to plumb the depths of philosophical understanding and truth. In Yeshiva it was through exertion in Talmudic study, gaining rigorous clarity of understanding, and that reassuring feeling of certainty that this experience will never leave us. Whatever people try and parrot at me by quoting the fourth chapter of Nefesh Ha Chayim, it has always appeared that everyone -  Litvaks included - ultimately seeks some form of D'veykus in whatever they are doing in life.

Which is partly why common designation of any medieval Jewish thinker as a ‘rationalist’ with all its cerebral connotations appears misleading. Similarly, the overreliance on the differentiation between emotional and intellectual individuals. When you dig deep enough you will always find a very potent emotional longing, and this appreciation has greatly helped me explore the depths of the religious experience as a Jew.   

Jewish Philosophy - an Obligation? Geoffrey Boycott wouldn't answer a question like that... Also mentions that crowd-pleasing term: Modern Orthodox.

Bob Dylan’s career has gone through many different stages but a significant development worthy of comment took place in the late '90s after a creative lull which had lasted around a decade. His songs became darker and more world-weary, showing the reflections of a man who felt that new insights had arrived with age. One of the lines which sums up a certain maturity of mind goes like this: "The world is old, the world is grey, lessons of life can't be learned in a day." Sounds sort of depressing, admittedly, but it makes a good point. They can’t.

So when I was thinking about my last post and how it seems to invite an answer or counter-response to the issue of philosophy and Judaism it struck me that I don’t really want to go about my posts by raising every possible theme/problem/issue and give answers in a blog. It seemed sort of trivial. I would rather raise issues and maybe suggest a few approaches that I have explored whilst leaving it fairly open ended. So what I have decided to do instead is to approach it indirectly through the writings of R. Sa'adia. 

Geoffrey Boycott, referring to the title, was an English opening Batsman who saw defence as the best form of attack and would rather spend hours defending rather than carelessly trying to score runs. He would certainly understand that big issues can’t be dealt with by playing the big strokes too soon (Feel free to ignore the cricket references, they are more for peace of mind than anything else).

   

One of the most striking elements of Sa’adia’s work is his elevation of knowledge-acquisition to the status of a religious act. He describes four branches of understanding and knowledge – the universal ones of inference, intellect and observation and the additional Jewish element of Divine revelation. Quoting Mishlei, he writes that the pursuit of knowledge and truth is an essential component of the religious experience: "For my mouth shall utter truth, and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. All the words of my mouth are in righteousness."

 Man is endowed with intellectual faculties and he must recognise these as a gift from God. The fruits of his wisdom and speculation further God-awareness in the world. The novelty of this understanding is the fact that it asserts that there exists a rational process, independent of tradition or revelation which can be used to gain knowledge about God, the world and morality. 

In his introduction to Emunot ve Deot, Sa’adia writes that the reason he felt the need to embark upon his project was that “I saw in our time many of the faithful possess mistaken convictions, whilst many of the deniers boast of their corruption and act haughtily”.

Certainly, Sa’adia acted partly out of a defensive need to bolster the hearts and minds of the community who he saw to be struggling with the perceived onslaught of philosophy. The cultural events known as Majalis, where groups would convene to discuss philosophy, adopted a relativistic and sceptical attitude towards religious truth. The largely Islamic group known as the Kalam actively pursued a reconciliation between religion and reason. In his own words, the confusion faced by his fellow Jews caused Sa'adia's heart to grieve for mankind.

 But in addition to this he saw the rational pursuit of wisdom as being essential to the human experience. The need to work things out and grapple with issues, he argues, is a fundamental one. Doubt, he explains, comes about “Since all human arts consist of stages, the mind is meant to work at things”. Unlike God, who is perfect, man’s being part of nature requires him to go through a process in achieving understanding, which requires time and patience.

Many of the perceived conflicts that exist within the Jewish world, it can be argued, are simply the result of intimidating categorisation. The word “rationalism” is associated with a dour, cold and anti-religious intellect. The word “philosophy” carries with it connotations of heresy and danger. Yet placed within another context, the power of the mind is an essential tool for discovering the wisdom of God, both within the realms of the natural world and within the words of the Torah itself. It is this that made its mark on me when I started reading Sa’adia’s works. Instead of portraying the world of philosophy as a dangerous enemy, it transformed it into a powerful tool to strengthen religious faith itself.

 Certainly, he recognised the conflicts which could also take place, but by embracing the struggle itself as a glorious part of the religious journey, he left a legacy which helped fortify the minds of young and old for generations to come. Incidentally, this is reflected in the fact that one of his projects was a translation of the Torah into Arabic – the spoken language, which could be understood by all.

Categorisation in general always carries a heavy stigma attached, particularly when it comes to world-views in the religious world. To be "Modern-Orthodox" is to some ears an admission of religious laxity, to others a particular fondness for Netanya beach, to very few the desire to incorporate all elements of the world experience into service of God. Similarly, to be "Grey" or (this is a new one to me) "Machmir modern-Orthodox" implies a sort of progression from the aforementioned position without quite going the whole way to the promised land. To be "Chareidi" is to some to be helplessly and irredeemably narrow minded and to others a ticket to that promised land. To refuse to categorise, however, is to concede to belonging to that privileged category of "the confused" and so on and so forth - Fun times! 

Jewish Philosophy - a contradiction in terms? Featuring: R’ Sa’adia Gaon, Dreams and Monkeys in space.

In a sentence, R. Saadia Gaon is a pioneering figure in Jewish history for his systematic exposition of Jewish philosophy, his synthesis of rationalism with a religious worldview, his polemics against the Karaites and important contributions towards grammar and liturgy. End of sentence.

Yet what I want to start by focusing on are the words of one biographer that: "no other Gaon, or medieval Jew, for that matter, ever burned with such a sense of mission." Sa'adia felt that he was personally responsible for the fate of the Jewish people and acted accordingly. So what, you ask? Why is this of any importance?

This takes me to the film Despicable me; Gru, the main character and evil villain, reminisces about how his childhood dreams had been crushed early on. In his youth, young Gru had showed his mother a picture of him landing on the moon, clearly indicating his ambition. In response, his mother cruelly replies: “ Eh. ... NASA isn't sending the monkeys anymore.” As much as I mentioned this simply because it is hilarious, it touches on a fundamental assumption. Dreams are for children. Adulthood is meant to carry with it a healthy dose of realism and the understanding that you will inevitably head down a well-trodden path. 

What is significant about this aspect of Sa’adia’s character was a conviction in the uniqueness of his mission and purpose. And this made him pursue and search far more widely than he would have otherwise done. Any of the handful of areas that he addressed would have been enough to establish his importance, either as a communal figure or as a scholar of great repute. But this sense of responsibility to the Jewish people and sense of his own importance enabled him to expand his intellectual and communal scope leaving a legacy virtually unsurpassed in terms of diversity by any medieval thinker bar Maimonides.

This gave me a lot to reflect upon. Sometimes it feels that society and popular expectation can make the transition into adulthood a sort of card trick: In theory there are many options but you will always choose the one the magician wants you to. Familiarity can become intoxicating. Whether these are naïve musings or something more substantial is not really for me to decide but the point here is that it takes a great deal simply to think beyond established paradigms, let alone act on an inner sense of destiny.

On this note, I would like to comment on the originality and quite revolutionary nature of one of the crowning achievements of Saadia’s literary career: His attempt to synthesise the Torah with a rationalist philosophy that had become prevalent due to the influence of Arab philosophers and the rediscovery of ancient Greek philosophical writings. This work, Emunot Ve Deot, which I have not yet had the privilege of studying beyond a few excerpts, attempts to systematically address the problems faced by believing Jews and the correct way to respond to them.

 Now whilst this can lead to a discussion regarding the value of secular, ‘external’ studies within Jewish thought, I would first like to start with my understanding of a very simple issue: What is the big deal with philosophy and what is its threat? In addition, is the need to interpret Torah and Mitzvos in the light of an apparently new way of understanding things a compromise on the purity of faith by finding the need to rationalise? 

I would like to start by suggesting that contrary to popular ‘educated’ assumptions, there are real challenges in broadening one’s spectrum of knowledge to engage with foreign ideologies as a religious Jew. This is not necessarily a matter of simple-minded understanding of Judaism or a fear of finding things out that may not be appealing (These are both valid criticisms, the operative word here was necessarily). It is a question of focus. In fact, what Sa’adia attempted to do by attempting to fuse rationalist philosophies and religious teachings together is far more daring than what many appear to think is simply applying intelligent reason to faith.

The Revelation at Sinai is fundamental to Judaism. The fact that G-d appeared to us at Mount Sinai and gave Moshe the Torah is the key context behind our faith. The well known mantra found in the Torah of ‘Na’’aseh v’Nishma”  (We will do and then we will hear) exemplifies the idea that our first point of reference is surrender and deference towards the will of G-d. The Jew seeks to understand the word of G-d and his mission in life within this context. 

In many ways, the whole concept of philosophy undermines this basic assumption. Man is at the centre and it is what he thinks and speculates that is important. Greek philosophers emphasised that all knowledge is the product of our own mind, the fruit of observation and experience. The power of the mind is supreme and if revelation is accepted it is merely an apparent compromise to a lack of understanding. God, if acknowledged at all, was understood as an inference, found through demonstration and not through a direct relationship. Man's greatest achievements involved mental refinement and intellectual understanding. The whole idea of a ‘philosophy’ of Judaism, many have argued over the ages, is a contradiction in terms.

Even if we look at more contemporary thinkers, this issue has remained a prominent theme. R’ S.R. Hirsch is particularly emphatic on this point in his ‘19 letters’ and accuses Maimonides + the rationalist school of medieval thinkers in particular of approaching Judaism from ‘without’ when in fact it has to be understood in its own terms. If I continue writing for that long, I will attempt to tackle Judaism’s fascinating confrontation/integration with Enlightenment philosophy. Judaism, R. Hirsch argues, is not so much a religion (which implies a human perspective on the divine) as a ‘theonomy’ (a system of divine laws).[1]  This is also very much in line with R.Yehudah ha Levi’s attack on philosophy and many of Maimonides’ opponents. Nachmanides, for example, whilst being a staunch defender of Maimonides in many areas, is very forthright in stating that he had been too easily drawn into the world of Greek philosophy. 

So what R. Sa’adia did was certainly not a simple matter. It took great courage and a truly unique vantage point which has influenced Jewish thinkers ever since. Stay tuned...  

---

[1] Read Dayan I. Grunfeld’s introduction to Hirsch’s Horeb (Soncino ed.). Great stuff. Interestingly, Moses Mendelssohn says something pretty similar.