Sinful Thoughts: Comments on Sin, Failure, Free Will, and Related Topics Based on David Bashevkin’s new book Sin•a•gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought
Sinful Thoughts: Comments on Sin, Failure, Free Will, and Related Topics Based on David Bashevkin’s new book Sin•a•gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2019)
By Rabbi Yitzchok Oratz
A Bashevkin-inspired Bio Blurb:[1] Rabbi Yitzchok Oratz is Rabbi of the Monmouth Torah Links community in Marlboro, NJ. His writings can be found in various rabbinic and popular journals, including Hakira, Ohr Yisroel, Nehoroy, Nitay Ne’emanim, and on Aish, Times of Israel, Torah Links, Seforim Blog, and elsewhere. His writings are rejected as often as they are accepted, and the four books he is currently working on will likely never see the light of day.
“I’d rather laugh[2] with the sinners than cry with the saints; the sinners are much more fun.”[3]
Fortunate is the man who follows not the advice of the wicked, nor stood in the path of the sinners, nor sat in the session of the scorners.
(Psalms 1:1)
One who hopes is always happy [and] without pain . . . hope keeps one alive . . . even one who has minimal good deeds . . . has hope . . . one who hopes, even if he enters Hell, he will be taken out . . . his hope is his purity, literally the Mikvah [4] of Yisroel . . . and this is the secret of repentance . . .
(Ramchal, Derush ha-Kivuy) [5]
Rabbi David Bashevkin is a man deeply steeped in sin.
The study of sin, that is.
His recent book, Sin•a•gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought, is his second foray into the murky waters of sin, the first being his Hebrew B-Rogez Rahem Tizkor, which appeared in 2015. Throughout the book he ably serves as a “choti umachti,” as he walks us along the paths of sinners and allows us to listen in to their scorn sessions, plumbs their thoughts and analyzes their intentions, all with goal of detecting the sometimes deeply concealed sweet smell and seeds of holiness that can be found even among the sinners of Israel.[6]
As sin and failure are topics with which I am all too familiar, I took the opportunity to offer a review of sorts of the Hebrew book for readers of the Seforim Blog. The ensuing years have only honed my expertise, bringing me back to offer some comments on themes discussed in the new book.[7] While the topics of the two books are fundamentally the same, the new volume does include a great deal of entirely new material; the same will be true of this review. Furthermore, the change of language, in both the book and the review, demands a new style and structure for even the repeated material, and opens up the discussion to those who do not feel entirely at home in traditional rabbinic language and literature.
An Open Discussion of Sin
Overall, I found the book to be enjoyable, informative, thought-provoking,[8] and even inspiring at times. But should this discussion of sin be taking place at all?
From a traditional Jewish perspective, the answer is far from simple. The most controversial idea in the book (chapter 4), is the radical theology of the Hasidic court of Izbica in general, and Reb Tzadok ha-Kohen of Lublin in particular,[9], that sin is sometimes inevitable and always the will of God.[10] This concept does not apply only to someone who is sick (p. 42), coerced (p. 39), or in a compromising situation (note 124), nor is it the case only for someone who is faced with the necessity of choosing the lesser of two evils (p. 41); all this is standard Talmudic discussion. Rather, Izbica theology teaches that the seemingly free-willed choice to sin, motivated solely by one’s internal desires, is also the will of God – “All is in the hands of heaven, including the fear of heaven.”[11] This, of course, seems to be in direct contradiction to the concept of free will, the “fundamental concept and pillar” that is the underpinning of the totality of the Torah (Rambam, Hilchos Teshuva 5:3).
But is this really a problem? Long before the radical statements of Izbica, Rambam (Hilchos Teshuva 5:5) noted that our free will is seemingly contradicted by the existence of an all-knowing God, and Chovos Halevavos[12] raised the problem of free will being controverted by the many verses that indicate that God is in complete control of every action that takes place.[13] Neither source offers a resolution, demanding that we live with this paradox. Why, then, can’t we deal with Izbicean though similarly, why is it considered uniquely controversial? [14]
The obvious answer is that both before and after noting the paradox between predetermination and free will, Rambam hammers home the idea that, resolution or not, free will is real:
However, this is known without any doubt: That man’s actions are in his own hands and The Holy One, blessed be He, does not lead him in a particular direction or decree that he do anything. This matter is known, not only as a tradition of faith, but also, through clear proofs from the words of wisdom (Hilchos Teshuva 5:5).
Chovos Halevavos, too, stresses that the proper path requires us to act with confidence in our freedom to make our own choices.
And because free will is real, sin, with all its consequences, is very real as well:
Accordingly, it is the sinner, himself, who causes his own loss. Therefore, it is proper for a person to cry and mourn for his sins and for what he has done to his soul . . . since free choice is in our hands and with our own decision we committed all these wrongs, it is proper for us to repent (Hilchos Teshuva 5:2). “Consequently, the prophets taught that a person is judged for his deeds, according to his deeds – whether good or bad. This is a fundamental principle on which is dependent all the words of prophecy.” (5:5) And as long as one has not repented he is “hated by God, disgusting, far removed, and abominable . . . separated from God, the Lord of Israel . . .” (7:6 – 7) .
Compare this with the Izbica/Rav Tzadok attitude toward sin as (correctly) presented in Rabbi Bashevkin’s book; the Izbica approach recognizes “the powerful religious energy present in sins and the potential to challenge such energy into greatness, ultimately result[ing] in the redemption” (p. 102, based on Divrei Halomot # 3). In the Izbica worldview, sinning doesn’t make one “hated, disgusting, and far removed” from God, because “wherever a Jew may fall, he falls into the lap of God” (p. 48, from Pri Tzadik, Naso 15). Rambam’s message to sinners is to “cry and mourn,” and hope that their misdeeds do not prevent them from ever returning (6:4), while Rav Tzadok urges sinners never to despair “in any circumstance” (p. 100, from Divrei Sofrim 16). The contrast couldn’t be starker.
Based on the above, the real challenge of Izbica is neither philosophical (determinism vs. free will), nor historical (“How did the adherents of Izbica prevent their deterministic notion of sin from developing into an antinomian concept of Judaism?” [p. 47]). Instead, the question is practical: How do we go about “incorporating the theologically and oftentimes radical aspects of Izbica Hasidut into the contemporary Jewish community” without “under[mining] the ideals that we are working towards” (p. 48)?
In truth, the real question is not how we go about incorporating aspects of Izbica, but whether we need to reassess or fine-tune the aspects that have already been absorbed into our modern theology. The relatively recent phenomenon of neo-Chassidus (of which Rabbi Bashevkin is described as an avid follower is not primarily influenced by Izbica, [15] but its understanding of sin and failure certainly have Izbician overtones.[16]
Every discussion of the neo-Chassidus movement, pro and against, raises some form of the question of whether it leads to “perver[sion] of Chassidic concepts of joy, prayer . . . to the detriment of halachic observance,” and whether the idea that one always “falls into the lap of God” is mere “sugarcoating” the reality that our connection and relationship to Him can be broken “through destructive habits and the like,” no matter how deeply spiritual one “feels.” [17]
In other words, while historically Izbica theology was not detrimental to the strict halachic observance of Izbica Chasidim, [18] the jury is still out on whether the same can be said regarding its contemporary application. [19]
Rabbi Bashevkin himself clearly understands that Izbica thought is frequently misunderstood, misinterpreted and misapplied, and has a fascinating discussion on where and why its application goes wrong (pp. 50 – 52). The proper application of Izbica theology, according to Bashevkin, has us look at religious life as having a floor and a ceiling, the floor being the way “we deal with failure and those still mired in sin,” and the ceiling being the “ideals and values we reach towards.” Izbician theology can offer a message of “comfort and optimism,” helping to cushion the floor of Jewish life for those still mired in sin, without altering the ultimate ideals – “The floor was carpeted, but the ceiling remained in place” (pp. 46 – 50 and here.
While this certainly does seem to be a proper application of Izbician thought, it leaves plenty of room for the devil in the details. How comfortable should the cushions be? If every time a Jew sins he falls onto the lush carpet of the Bashevkian Izbician floor, what incentive is there ever to get up, or not to fall again? Maybe the floor needs to be carpeted, but how much more plush than commercial grade is called for?[20]
An even more fundamental question is if Bashevkin himself does justice in applying his principle. He approvingly quotes (p. 49) the work of Dr. Jennie Rosenfeld as “a fine example of the contemporary application of Izbica-Lublin theology.” Writing on the Wexner Foundation blog, Dr. Rosenfeld[21] describes her work as “focused on singles and on the need to create a sexual ethic which can speak to Orthodox singles today even when they may violate the halakhah.” Even assuming that Rabbi Bashevkin did not see her comments on the Wexner blog[22], and without casting aspersions on Dr. Rosenfeld’s important body of work, I question if a work titled “Toward a Modern Orthodox Sexual Ethic” can claim to be a faithful contemporary rendering of Izbica thought. There never was an “Izbician sexual ethic,” only “comfort and optimism” for those who had fallen (always a large segment of the community [23]) to get up off the floor and move on.
Later in that same chapter, Rabbi Bashevkin writes: ““Our collective imperfection is not cause for collective allowance . . . Sin and failure, no matter how common, can never be communally condoned or publicly institutionalized” (p. 53). This would seem to disallow creating “a sexual ethic which can speak to Orthodox singles” that might violate halacha. That was true in the community of Izbica, in the community of Rabbi Yitzhak of Arama (p. 53), and would seem no less so in the Modern Orthodox [24] community today.
The Audacity of Hope
The above discussion highlights the sensitive nature of any public discussion of sin.[25] But every generation has its challenges in handling delicate issues. Ours may the one where the overwhelmingly forgiving tone of Izbica (and Breslov) theology is most potentially dangerous, [26] but it also may be the one where it is most needed. [27]
Support for this idea may come from a surprising place.
In chapter thirteen of Bashevkin’s book, he discusses the fascinating personal correspondence of Rabbi Yaakov Yisrael Kanievsky (the Steipler), and correctly notes (p. 143) that the theme of “[p]roductivity, patience, and optimism return again and again” throughout his letters. But hidden in his message of optimism is another subtle, but important, point that should not be overlooked. Speaking to yeshiva students struggling with “the known sin,” the Steipler acknowledges that the message of optimism he offers was deliberately downplayed in previous generations.
“The holy books intentionally wrote with great clarity [about the devastating nature of this sin] in order to keep people from sinning,” but were “very sparse” in explaining the other side of things, how one can draw a tremendous “light of holiness upon himself and throughout worlds” each time he controls his burning desires and refrains from sin. Even if one continues to fall, says the Steipler, each time he does successfully control himself is a source of great merit and enables him to achieve levels of “unfathomable holiness,” which will eventually permit him to leave sin completely behind. It is “fundamentally important not to feel sad, and not to think of the past [sins] at all” until one has the maturity to deal with them properly. “[N]ever despair, God forbid, for one must always hope for God’s assistance . . . “ [28]
Take careful note of what he is saying: In today’s world we need the audacity to speak of hope even when mired in sin, the clarity to acknowledge that the strict and unforgiving messages of the previous generations would be counterproductive today. Harsh warnings are a thing of the past; strident calls for change do not suffice. “Hope and change” are the language of our times. [29]
Crying with the Sinners, Laughing with the Sages
While our generation may require a message of optimism and hope, and it is appropriate to look for sources in the rabbinic literature that reinforce that approach, it is equally important that we do not overplay our hand and interpret every source in an unreservedly sanguine way.
In chapter eight, Bashevkin insightfully analyzes the various versions of the tragic story of the great Talmudic sage Elisha ben Avuyah, and his spiritual descent to become Aher, the Other. In Bashevkin’s rendering, Aher is the foil to Rabbi Akiva, a Bizarro Rabbi Akiva, of sorts. Aher enters the pardes (“orchard” of mystical knowledge) and goes off the Torah path; Rabbi Akiva enters and emerges complete. Aher begins as a scholar and ends as a heretic. Akiva, by contrast, begins his life antagonistic to rabbinic authority and ends his life as a scholar. Rabbi Akiva’s outlook is portrayed as optimistic – his “exegetical perspective suggests indefatigable opportunity”; even in face of destruction, Rabbi Akiva “found reason for laughter.” Aher, on the other hand, is an “unrelenting pessimist” who “saw closed doors even when there was still hope of an entrance.” (pp. 94 – 95).
At the risk of being regarded as an unrelenting pessimist myself, I will note that while fascinating and certainly not without merit, there are limits to this interpretation.
Firstly, it does not seem that Rabbi Akiva’s “exegetical perspective suggests indefatigable opportunity” in all cases. In the Babylonian Talmud version of the story (Chagigah 15a-b), the second exegetical conversation, Rabbi Akiva’s statement that “even what is broken can be fixed” does indeed suggest a great deal of optimism. However, the first one is much more ambiguous. The concept that “the wicked take their share and the share of their friend in Gehinom” has undeniable pessimistic overtones. Furthermore, the version in the Jerusalem Talmud (cited on pp. 91 – 92), where Rabbi Akiva teaches that blessing at the end [of life] is due to good deeds at the beginning, is explicitly understood as a message of doom for Aher, as the good deeds of his beginning were not done for the sake of Heaven. [30]
More fundamentally, while Rabbi Akiva did indeed find reason for laughter as others were crying, when he would study Torah verses that indicate the severity of sin, he was brought to tears [31] (not of joy) – “When Rabbi Akiva came to this verse he would cry.” [32] Only when surrounded by his colleagues who were deeply cognizant of the severity and bleak results of sin – because of our sins we were exiled from our land – did he offer a message of hope and consolation. But sin itself is never a laughing matter (link) [34].
The Ba’al Shem Tov and (lihavdil [34]) Christine Todd Whitman: Guilty but not Charged?
Over twenty years ago, I received a ticket for having an expired New Jersey state inspection sticker on my car. I knew it was expired, but was hoping I wouldn’t get caught until I’d had a chance to get the car inspected. No such luck. Guilty as charged, I paid the ticket and moved on.
Later that week, I heard on the radio that Christine Todd Whitman, then Governor of the State of New Jersey, had extended the inspection deadline for all cars by thirty days. As I had already paid the ticket, I sent off a protest letter (yes, an actual letter) to the Governor, and was pleasantly surprised when I received a very apologetic reply, stating that I was one-hundred-percent correct, but it was the responsibility of the local township to return the funds. Armed with the letter, I went down to the town hall, where they also apologized profusely, refunded my fine, and expunged this nefarious crime from my permanent record. I wasn’t guilty after all. [35]
Or was I?
In his Hebrew work (p. 40), Rabbi Bashevkin cites a parable from the Ba’al Shem Tov about a man who tests his wife by pretending to be another, and seduces her to sin. When she later brokenheartedly admits her sin, he consoles her by telling her that he had been masquerading as the seducer all along, and therefore she never really sinned.
Christine Todd Whitman might agree, but for Rabbi Akiva this would be nothing more than hollow consolation. As discussed in Rabbi Bashevkin’s book (pp. 33 – 36) it was these types of scenarios that brought Rabbi Akiva to tears, and Rabbi Hiyya bar Ashi to a life of repentance and a death in misery. The very fact that one intended to sin was reason for tears and repentance; that no actual sin occurred as no source of consolation.
But the Ba’al Shem Tov was not the first to offer such consolation; Yosef offered similar solace to his brothers. Which is it? Are such scenarios causes for comfort or for crying? Bashevkin offers a number of possible resolutions (pp. 35 – 36).
Besides those he offers, others are given; [36] I would like to offer my own.
Every sin has two components: the rebellion against God and the actual damage done. In these scenarios, the consolation is only that no damage was done (either because no sin was committed or the act turned out to be for the best). But the rebellion against God’s authority still exists, and is a cause for tears.[37] In the case of Yosef’s brothers, since they had already genuinely repented (see Genesis 42:21 with Sha’arey Aharon), no new tears were needed. Only because their sincere repentance had been accepted could their negative plans be viewed as a source of blessing. [38]
First there are tears and repentance, only afterwards is the consolation meaningful.
A Flag as White as Snow [39]
Both in the text and the notes, I have touched on some of the thought-provoking topics raised in Rabbi Bashevkin’s book, touching on some of the topics (and there are many more [40]), that are ripe for discussion, challenge, debate and clarification k’darko shel Torah (see Chagigah 3b). Indeed, a strong point of the book is that it covers many fundamentally important topics in a way that is relatable to scholar and layman alike.
Besides being provocative, discussion of sin can also be inspiring. In chapter six, Bashevkin offers a touching rereading of Richard Pindell’s famous story, “Somebody’s Son,” that would be good material for any rabbi’s Yom Kippur derasha.[41] The chapter starts off with the theologically challenging question (based on Gemara Chullin 60b), “Does God Repent?”
But theology aside, the very idea that God is hoping – waiting, so to speak – to see if He will be allowed into our lives, is one that deeply resonates.[42]
For seven years straight I had the privilege of davening on Yom Kippur in Beth Medrash Govoha’s Bais Eliyahu Bais Medrash. All of those years, the revered Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Yeruchem Olshin, shlit”a, led the davening for Neilah and spoke beforehand, and for seven years straight he said, with great emotion, the same exact thing:[43]
Yom Kippur is a great thing; there is nothing better than it . . . if we only would take advantage . . . A parable: A king made a feast to show his love for his subjects . . . four hours went by, five hours went by and no one came . . . finally towards evening people started trickling in . . . the king ran over to them and said with great emotion “I owe you a great favor! If not for you the entire feast that I made would have to be fed to the dogs.”
Yom Kippur is not only about us returning to favor in God’s eyes. It is also about His hope (kaviyachol) that we take the opportunity to let Him into our lives. Ultimately, this is what Rabbi Bashevkin’s book is about – finding a way to let God in, to allow His spark to uplift our very human, often sinful, lives.
If you extract the precious from the worthless, you shall be as my mouth . . .
(Jeremiah 15:19)
Es Va’heiv B’Sofa
(Kidushin 30b)
Notes:
[1] See Sin•a•gogue, pp. xv – xvi, and R’ Bashevkin’s earlier comments here. The idea that one should have a bio that includes failure may be the reason why the Torah includes the sins of the ancient greats. See the commentary of Rabbeinu Asher on Beraishis 38:16.
[2] See Sin•a•gogue, p. 95, and our discussion below.
[3] I start with this line from Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” to highlight a striking feature of Bashevkin’s book. The chapters all begin with epigraphs that run the gamut of sources, ranging from John Milton (Paradise Lost) to Bob Dylan (“Absolutely Sweet Marie,” which Bashevkin misspells as Mary) to an HBO crime drama (True Detective). The common denominator is that there is not a Jewish source among them. Indeed, throughout the book there are seemingly more obscure pop-culture references than desultory Talmudic discussions (see p. 195). This style is common in the outreach world that he (and I) work in, and popular among certain segments of the Orthodox community. Through Bashevkin’s creative pen, these sources make the book a lighter, more enjoyable read, palatable to a wider audience, without diminishing the seriousness of the topics he discusses. Of course, for some Torah scholars, this approach would be considered misguided (if not blasphemous), and their concern should not be discounted. In his Foreword to the book (p. x), Shaul Magid writes that it is “precisely Bashevkin’s point” to level the playing field by comparing a comment by George Orwell to the Hazon Ish. I have my doubts if that really is his point. In any case, while it is certainly true that sin and failure are universal concerns, and, for example, a “preacher’s kid” may have struggles similar to those of a rabbi’s son (see note 309), this book is specifically about sin and failure in Jewish thought. By emphasizing similarities we sometimes gloss over fundamental differences. See the comments of Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein in Judaism’s Encounter with Other Cultures: Rejection or Integration?, ed. Jacob J. Schacter (Northvale, NJ, 1997), p. 278. See also his “The Future of Centrist Orthodoxy,” Leaves of Faith. vol. 2 [Jersey City: Ktav, 2004], p. 323, where he writes, “Does a universalist concern require that youngsters – and hence most adults as well – know a good deal about the Rolling Stones but nothing of the Avnei Nezer? “ To apply his point to one of the topics in the book under discussion – I know many more people who know about the question of determinism vs. free will from The Adjustment Bureau than those who have spent time studying the sacred sources of our tradition. See also the comments of Rabbi Zion Baoron, in his michtav beracha (point # 3) to Rabbi David Stav’s Bein HaZemanim (Yedioth Acharonoth books, Tel Aviv 2012).
[4] Mikvah has the same root as tikvah – hope.
[5] A new edition of this work, with commentary, was recently put out by R’ Mordechai Elbaz of Kollel Sha’arey Tzion. Reading the Hebrew, I found it shocking how much the theme, and even the words, are reminiscent of the teachings of Rav Nachman of Breslov. I subsequently found that others agreed (see here).
[6] See Gemara Chagigah 15b and 27a (I am not sure how this fits with Chagigah 14a), Beraishis Rabba 65:22, Rav Tzadok ha-Kohen of Lublin (Likutey Ma’amarim #8, 12, and 16, and Machshavos Charutz # 8), Rav Nachman of Breslov (Likutey Mohoran # 178), and Rav Nosson of Breslov (Likutey Tefilos 2:10).
[7] The earlier review was far easier to write, as it was during the month of Elul when sin and repentance are timely topics, and the roar of Elul from my yeshiva days was still ringing in my ears. But maybe this shouldn’t be the case. Maharsha (end of Megilah) writes that there is no specific mitzvah to expound on the laws of teshuva thirty days prior to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, as teshuva is a year-round undertaking. Furthermore, some commentaries explain that we begin reciting Pirkey Avos during the spring, as this season renders us particularly susceptible to sin (see Piskey Teshuvos 292 # 9).
[8] One especially thoughtful and thought-provoking topic is Bashevkin’s extremely powerful discussion of the challenges facing rabbis’ children and the challenge of balancing love of Torah and love of family (chapter 10). This issue is not new – see Gemara Bava Metzia, 85a. Some important sources on this topic include Rav Matisyahu Solomon’s commentary on Rav Moshe Cordevaro’s Tomar Devorah (on the middah of L’She’airis Nachalaso), as well as his commentary of the last verses in Megilas Esther. Rav Matisyahu writes that in order to give meaning to God’s directive that we treat the entire Jewish people as family, we must first treat our actual family kindly (Rav Matisyahu is in favor of nepotism). Praying that God have mercy “like a father has mercy on his children,” is worse than meaningless if we don’t have mercy on our actual children. It is not clear, however, if all the ba’aley mussar agree. See Rav Yitzchok Blazer’s comments in Kochvei Ohr (regarding Rav Yisroel Salanter) and Tenuas HaMussar (volume 4, pp. 173 and 271 – 272) about the Alter of Novardok’s disregard and seeming cruelty to his family. See also Gemara Gittin 6b, Eruvin 22a, Ta’anis 23b – 24a. I hope to discuss this topic in detail in an upcoming article (and book).
On this topic, a must-read is the powerful poem by Rabbi Samuel Adelman, and the beautiful letter by his daughter, Roz Duman, which can be found in Jewish Action (Fall 2017, p. 3). One can only hope all rabbis would be so sensitive to their children’s plight, and a daughter so understanding and appreciative of her father, as this parent and child. Speaking of rabbis’ children, see here where the Klausenberger Rebbe zt”l, is quoted as questioning a father’s qualifications based on how his son turns out as an adult. However, see there where Professor Marc B. Shapiro correctly points out that “there are many examples of pious people whose children ended up very differently.” Considering whom some of these fathers were (see the book under discussion, p. 78), the Klausenberger Rebbe’s point is very difficult to understand.
[9] It should be noted, that the seforim of Rav Tzadok were understood to explain and moderate some of the more problematic statements of Izbica. See Sefer Yam Ha-Chochma (5779, p. 450 – 451).
[10] These are two related, but distinct, concepts. See my review of the Hebrew edition in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here.
[11] See the sources in the book (note 131) and in my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here, at note 16.
[12] Sha’ar Avodas Hashem # 8.
[13] Rambam raises a similar question, but doesn’t leave this one unanswered — see Hilchos Teshuva 5:5 and 6:5. Lechem Mishneh (6:5) assumes that the two questions are one and the same, but this is strongly challenged by Ohr Sameach (6:5) and Arba Turey Even (brought down in Sefer ha-Likkutim in the Frankel Rambam, 6:5).
[14] Indeed, maybe the answer here too is that it remains a paradox. See Tzidkas HaTzadik # 40 and my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here, at note 18.
[15] Neo-Chassidus is influenced by many streams of classical Chasidus. Indeed, part of its charm is that it is not limited to any one school of thought or practice. That being said, I have heard its influences described with an acronym that spells out the name of the prophet Chabakuk – standing for Chabad, Breslov, (R’ Shlomo) Carlebach and (Rav) Kook. Throw in a little Komarno, Berditchev and Rav Tzadok, and I do think it is a workable description.
[16] We are not discussing Izbica ideology per se, but rather its effect on our attitude toward sin. It is likely that the neo-Chassidic attitude toward failure and sin may be more influenced by Breslov than by Izbica, but both play a role. While Breslov does not share the Izbica theology of free will (see Likutey Mohoran, Tinyana 110), they share much in common regarding the proper response to sin and religious failure (see pp. 284 – 285). Whatever the exact influence, the questions, discussion and challenges that follow still apply.
[17] The first quote is from R’ Joey Rosenfeld (a strong supporter) in the Jewish Article article on neo- Chassidus, the second from Rabbi Noach Shafran (a harsh critic) in a Mishpacha magazine conversation in response to their earlier article on the subject. Rabbi Shafran’s comments brought a firm, but calm, response from Rav Moshe Weinberger (rav of Congregation Aish Kodesh in Woodmere, New York, and the undisputed spiritual leader of neo-Chassidus in America) in print, but a far harsher one in two public shiurim he gave shortly after the printed response came out. (The shiurim used to be available here, but seem to have been taken down, possibly because Rabbi Weinberger felt he had been too harsh. The sources to “Hashem’s Unbreakable Love For Every Jew” are still available here. The greatest share of Rabbi Weinberger’s barely concealed ire was directed at the idea that a Jew can have his connection to Hashem broken.
[18] “[N]o one, scholar or Hasid, disputes the halakhic nature of Izbica life.” “The Izbica community and its associated communities in Radzyn and Lublin were quite halakhic.” – see here. See also and my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here, at note 35.
[19] To clarify, and not to be accused of disparaging a large group of yeraim v’shlaimim, I am speaking about a relatively small percentage of the group. As a whole, it certainly seems to be a force for enhanced avodas Hashem. I, too, have gained much from the seforim of Rav Yitzchok Meir Morgenstern and Rav Avraham Tzvi Kluger (among others), and from the shiurim of Rav Weinberger and Rav Meilech Biderman, and very much look forward to my annual pilgrimage to Aish Kodesh for Lag Ba’omer (see here). But as opposed to Izbica theology having no known negative effect on its original adherents (for reasons explained by Bashevkin on pp. 50 – 52), the same cannot necessarily be said about neo-Chassidus today. In Rabbi Weinberger’s written response he rhetorically asks, “Can it be that there is a holy reason why every passing year sees more and more people gravitating to places like Uman or Lizhensk?” No doubt. But as anyone who has been to Uman or Lizhensk (and now Kerestir) can testify, there can also be non-holy or unholy reasons, as well.
[20] In Rabbi Weinberger’s above-mentioned lectures, he says he was challenged to reconcile his teaching of “God’s unbreakable love for every Jew” (see also Zohar, Shemos 5b) with the words of the Rambam that speak of the sinner being “hated by God, disgusting, far removed and abominable.” Rabbi Weinberger’s response (oversimplified here) is that on the deepest level the love always remains. But the question remains — whatever the answer, Rambam did write the words “hated, etc.” Doesn’t that indicate that, on some level, the sinner is supposed to feel hated etc.? Is the sinner justified, upon seeing those words, to run straight to the teachings of Rav Nachman and Izbica for comfort? How does Rabbi Weinberger know that when Rabbi Shafran speaks of the broken relationship, he isn’t simply reiterating the concepts expressed by Rambam? Should there be some degree of discomfort, even feeling of God’s (dare I say) hate after sinning? Or is the carpet so thick that we never even feel the fall?
It could be argued that the Rambam himself never tells the sinner that he is hated. Only once he repents does Rambam tell him how fortunate he is to have overcome his prior state. And the Breslov response is likely that any harsh message (like that of Reishis Chochma) is always intended to come with a concomitant sense of God’s love (see the sources in Rav Avraham Tzvi Kluger’s Yichud HaShabbos (volume 2, p. 32). But I still think the matter needs much more clarification then it has received.
[21] Dr. Rosenfeld has another title – “manhiga ruchanit,” – and another she does not seem to have – “rabbi” (see here). The question of the appropriateness of both these titles may be related to Izbica as well – see here and here. See also the recent review by Dr. Rosenfeld of Sin•a•gogue at the Lehrhaus blog.
[22] It may have been too painful for Rabbi Bashevkin to go to the Wexner blog, as he was ‘rejected from the Wexner Graduate Fellowship. Twice.’ (here) (This would be the appropriate place to put a “JK” or smiley emoji, but I don’t want to be known as a pioneer in using text slang or emojis in rabbinic or academic writing. Although being that among the thousands of seforim online at HebrewBooks Dot Org, Bashevkin’s is likely the only one that includes the author’s Twitter handle (see here), maybe this review would be an appropriate place to introduce some 21st-century lingua franca. But I resist.)
[23] See Raishis Chochma, Sha’ar HaTeshuva 3:10, who writes that no one in his day was free of the sin of hotza’as zera livatala.
[24] This is the true regardless of whether the word “modern” is a qualifier or not.
[25] This is especially the case regarding sexual matters, see Chagigah 11b, and especially when presented to a popular, as opposed to scholarly, audience. See Iggeros Moshe (EH 1:64, and 3:14). This highlights a fundamental difference between Rabbi Bashevkin’s Hebrew and English books. Both are fine works, both cover similar sensitive and controversial topics, but even the most traditional reader would not find Rabbi Bashevkin’s Hebrew sefer problematic, not the case with the English one. Aside from the fact that he is far more cautious in the Hebrew work (see my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here, at note 4), style (see note 3 above) and audience matter. To use Bashevkin’s terminology (from the introduction to Mei ha-Shlioah), Hebrew readers are more likely to be “Intimates who understand [its] true value” (p. 50).
[26] See B-Rogez Rahem Tizkor, page 42) for a fascinating explanation (from Rav Hutner) of why free will is under attack, especially in our days.
[27] See my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here at end of note 4).
[28] See letters 11 – 15 in volume 1 of Kreina d-Igrassa (Bashevkin’s spelling. No one in history has ever pronounced it like that, including, I am willing to bet, the Steipler himself.)
[29] Despite these words of encouragement, some of the points raised above still need to be clarified. The Steipler was speaking to yeshiva students in despair, offering hope to those who already felt the pain of the fall and the extreme discomfort of the “floor.” His words of hope to them (and thousands of yeshiva students who subsequently read his words) was lifesaving. Furthermore, even to them, he does mention the fear of punishment as a tool to refrain from sin. (See, for example, letter # 14).
[30] I find it fascinating, yet tragic, that the one teaching in the Mishna recorded in the name of Elisha ben Avuya (Avos 4:20) is how a child is a clean slate. Yet, at the end of his life he claimed that from the very beginning his slate wasn’t clean.
[31] And sometimes he cried and laughed – see Gemara Avoda Zara 20a. (The laughter there does seem to indicate optimism, but the tears do seem to me somewhat pessimistic, seeing something good and already thinking that all good must come to an end.)
[32] Kiddushin 81b.
[33] It should be noted that that even contemplating the severity of sin permitted Rabbi Akiva to find a spark of hope. When Rabbi Akiva recognized the severe consequences of any involvement with sinful behavior, he realized that this must indicate an even greater reward for those who have any involvement in good deeds. See Rashi on Vayikra 5:17.
[34] The term “lihavdil” is not meant, God forbid, to disparage Whitman. See Senator Joe Lieberman’s The Gift of Rest (Howard Books, New York, 2011, p. 198).
[35] As noted in the book (p. 32), the idea that one cannot be held responsible for an attempt to commit crimes that were never actually possible to execute raises questions regarding the legality of certain sting operations. .
Bashevkin also discusses culpability for an attempt when, if successful, an actual crime would have occurred. He concludes that a “conceptual category of attempt . . . does not seem to exist in Jewish law . . . attempted murder . . . is not found in the Talmud” (p. 32 -33). Bashevkin’s conclusion takes for granted that the concepts of being permitted to kill a rodef (a pursuer) and ba b’machteres (a burglar who tunnels/breaks into a home) are forms of preemptive strike to save the victim, not punishment for the attempted murderer. This is not remotely clear, as there is a large body of Talmudic debate on the topic. For some discussion, see the language used in Rambam, Sefer HaMitzvos (positive mitzvos # 239 and 247 and negative mitzvah # 293), Shiurey Rav Dovid (Povarsky, Bava Basra 7b), Shiurey Rav Shmuel (Rozovsky, Sanhedrin 72b, note 309), Noda B’Yehuda, Tinyana, CM # 60, and Aruch Laner (Sanhedrin 73a).
Even more questionable is why eidim zomimin (conspiring/falsified witnesses) are not an example of criminal attempted sins, as they are punished for thought only, but not when action takes place, See Rashi to Devarim 19:19. See also Chidushey Rabbenu Chaim HaLevi, Hilchod Edus chapter 20, and the comments of Rav Yechezkal Abramsky (Melech B’Yafyo, p. 301). For a more kabbalistic approach, see Sefer Yam Ha-Chochma (5778, p. 152 – 153, based on Maharal, Be’er HaGolah chapter 2).
[36] See also Rabbi Yehoshua Oshinsky, Sefer Shalmey Levi (Modi’in Ilit, 5770), p. 58 – 60).
[37] This is likely the intent of the parable of the Ba’al Shem Tov (mentioned above); there, too, the consolation comes only after repentance. See Peri Tzadik, Roch Chodesh Menachem Av # 1.
[38] See my Hebrew review in Yitzchok Oratz, “Review of ‘Sefer Berogez Racheim Tizkor’, by Dovid Bashevkin,” the Seforim Blog (7 September 2015), available here, at note 2.
[39] On p. 3, Bashevkin writes that 19th-century anthropologist Frank Boas’s assertion that the Eskimos have numerous words for snow is “not entirely discredited,” but on p. 13 writes that it has “long been discredited.” I guess it took a long time two write those ten pages, but not long enough to correct the name to Franz (see note 22 above, and apply here). In any case, the earlier assertion seems correct (see here).
[40] Some additional, random comments on the book: 1) On the first page of the Foreword there is a typo on the third-to-bottom line (“or” instead of “our”). 2) Page xii – regarding sanitized storytelling – see my comments in The Torah U-Madda Journal (Volume 8, pp. 331 – 333). I was subsequently quite surprised to see that Prof. Kimmy Caplan wrote an entire article in Kimmy Caplan, “‘Absolutely Intellectually Honest’: A Case Study of American Jewish Modern Orthodox Historiography,” in Rachel Elior and Peter Schäfer, eds., Creation and Re–Creation in Jewish Thought: Festschrift in Honor of Joseph Dan on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 339-361 available online here, addressing one of my points, and especially pleased with his conclusion (p. 361): “Rabbi Oratz was correct in observing that Modern Orthodox historiographers are similar in nature to Haredi historiographers.” 3) Regarding the value of “Half Repentance” (p. 127), it should be noted that not all agree. See the first “Likkut” on Hilchos Teshuva in the Sefer HaLikuttim of the Frankel Rambam. 4) Regarding outward coercion bringing out inner desire (p. 129), see Sefer Darkey Moshe (Rabbi Shachna Mendel Scheiner, 5778, p. 329) where Rav Moshe Feinstein is quoted as positing the radical idea that based on this there can almost never be a mitzvah done shelo lishma, as any external influence just represents inner desire!
[41] I plan on using it. Please don’t tell my community.
[42] Related to this idea, see the powerful story told by Shlomo Zalman Shragai, cited in Rabbi Norman Lamm’s “The Shema” [The Jewish Publication Society, Philadelphia, 2000, p. 118 – 119.]
[43] In Yiddish, of course. This derasha, highly based on the Yom Kippur derasha of Rav Aharon Kotler, zt”l, can be found (with sources) in Rav Olshin’s Sefer Yareach L’Moadim on Yom Kippur (Ma’amar # 83). The version in print differs slightly from the version I heard each year.