Hasidism in America

Marc B. Shapiro

There is a tape of R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik in the 1950s saying that there is no real Hasidism in the United States. He says that he saw real Hasidism in Warsaw, and America does not have it. When the Rav made this statement, I think most non-hasidim would have agreed that Hasidism did not have any real future in the United States. The 1950s was a time when the focus was on the melting pot. In such an era, Hasidism would have been as out of place in wider American society as Muslim women walking down the streets of New York City or Los Angeles wearing hijabs. How things have changed!

There are many reasons for the great success of Hasidism in the United States, among them the turn to multiculturalism which has made the public square more welcoming of a variety of lifestyles. The coarsening of the wider culture has also pushed religious people to a more inward direction, and those looking to escape from this culture can easily be drawn towards Hasidism. Also important is that for many young hasidim the wider culture does not have the same draw it once did. And for those who do want to be part of the wider culture, in today’s day and age one can be a hasid and live a much more open life, even if only virtually, then people did a generation or two ago. The rise of the welfare state has also been crucial to hasidic growth, as without the welfare state hasidic communities as we know them would be unsustainable.[1] Finally, there is one other element that has been important to hasidic growth, and also to its fracturing, and that is the leadership that has been able to provide guidance in post-war America.

Samuel Heilman’s engrossing new book discusses this very point, that of leadership. Its title is Who Will Lead Us? The Story of Five Hasidic Dynasties in America, and it is required reading for anyone interested in the contemporary hasidic world.

The dynasties Heilman focuses on are Munkács, Boyan, Bobov, Satmar, and Lubavitch. There is also an introductory chapter on succession in Hasidism which itself is an important issue. I do not know if people in the hasidic world give it much thought, but for non-hasidim the whole matter of succession is somewhat strange, since by what right should a son (sometimes even a very young son) or son-in-law be able to take over religious leadership? Very few outsiders will be impressed with the hasidic concept of “holy seed,” as in the non-hasidic world, at least until recent years, it was understood that one rises to greatness based on one’s own achievements, not based on who one’s father was (though that always helps). It is thus interesting to learn that in the early years of Hasidism the concept of family succession did not exist.[2] Yet as we all know, for many years now succession has been based on lineage and in that way the hasidic court is just like the royal court.[3] (I was struck by Heilman’s use of the term “dowager” to describe the widow of the rebbe. I have never seen the term used in this way but is a good usage.) Of course, there have been times when there were disputes as to who should be the rightful successor, and this always had the potential to lead to a split in a hasidic group, a point we will return to.

Heilman was fortunate that he “was helped immensely by several rebbes who graciously consented to be interviewed and who for long hours and over many months and years opened their lives to me” (p. xv). Some readers might find it strange for a rebbe to be so open with an academic researcher, but it shows that at least some rebbes are interested that academic discussions about them be accurate, and that their perspectives be taken into account.[4]

Heilman’s chapter dealing with Munkács is riveting, and never before has the story been told in print. By “story,” I have in mind the life of R. Baruch (Boruchel) Rabinowitz, the rebbe of Munkács, who did what is almost unheard of, namely, giving up his “rebbeship.” Freed from this role, he was able to become more “modern” and publicly abandon the anti-Zionism so much associated with his father-in-law, R. Hayyim Eleazar Shapira, his predecessor as rebbe of Munkács. While living as a rabbi in Brazil (the “chief rabbi” of São Paulo), he even acceded to his new wife’s wishes to get a dog (which he himself walked). He read widely in secular literature, earned a university degree in philosophy and psychology, and taught philosophy at the University of São Paulo. (p. 51).

While some have seen the Holocaust as changing R. Baruch’s outlook, it appears that this is not entirely the case. As Heilman informs us (p. 44), during the Munkácser Rebbe’s famous 1930 trip to the Land of Israel, in which R. Baruch the future son-in-law accompanied him, R. Baruch snuck out at night to meet secretly with R. Yaakov Moshe Charlop, the leading follower of R. Kook. (Heilman refers to R. Charlop as head of Yeshivat Merkaz ha-Rav, but that would only happen after R. Kook’s death.) This shows that already in his youth he had a much broader perspective than his future father-in-law.

By the time his metamorphosis is complete, it appears that R. Baruch should be categorized as a Religious Zionist – or perhaps even a Modern Orthodox – rabbi. There is a picture in the book of him with Ben Gurion. Unfortunately, Heilman does not identify the other rabbi in the picture – R. Shlomo Goren. Here is another picture of R. Baruch in the Sinai desert after the 1967 war.[5]

Because R. Baruch had given up the role of rebbe, this meant that it was to pass to his son. Yet R. Baruch did not seem too happy about this and appears to have never regarded it as a real option, as he did not raise any of his sons to become a rebbe. Heilman does a wonderful job describing how it came to pass that the young Moshe Leib became the rebbe. The story he tells is also one of great sadness, of a deep human tragedy, as in the end there was a complete break between R. Baruch and three of his children from his first marriage (which includes the current Munkácser Rebbe), even to the extent of R. Baruch forbidding them to attend his funeral or to say Kaddish for him. (You can see R. Baruch’s letter here.)  Is there anything more tragic for a family than this?

While it is often stated that the hasidim rejected R. Baruch because he became a Zionist, the truth is that he rejected them, in that he chose not to continue as the rebbe. The bitter and public break with his children was a real family tragedy, but it is difficult to read the book and not conclude that the fault for this lay in R. Baruch’s unresolved issues – Heilman speaks of “Oedipal overtones” (p. 63) – seen most vividly in R. Baruch’s shocking behavior at R. Moshe Leib’s wedding. The result of all this is that R. Baruch has been completely erased from Munkács history and has no significance to the movement. When a book with his approbation is reprinted, such as R. Joseph Lustig’s Amudei Esh le-Veit Yosef, it is not surprising that the approbation is removed. Here is the title page of the edition with the approbation removed.

Despite the family tragedy, it must be said that R. Baruch’s son and successor, R. Moshe Leib, has been remarkably successful in leading a revival of the dynasty. He has also played a role in wider Jewish affairs, both publicly and behind the scenes, and is a fine example of what a successful rebbe can be.

Let me add a few more points about R. Baruch that are not mentioned in Heilman’s book. One might have assumed that as R. Baruch became more modern he would distance himself from his father-in-law, a man very much identified with extremism. But that did not happen. Until the end of his life he continued to display awe for R. Hayyim Eleazar Shapira. In Binat Nevonim (2012 ed.) pp. 153-154, he defends R. Shapira against the accusation that he was a “ba’al machloket.” What about his well-known attacks against the Religious Zionists and those non-Zionist Orthodox who wished to go on aliyah intending to work the land?[6] R. Baruch explains, very unconvincingly, that R. Shapira reacted the way he did because he hoped that the Messiah would soon arrive and people would then be able to immigrate to the Land of Israel without confronting any irreligiosity. R. Baruch’s own opinion comes a few pages later, p. 157, where he writes that the ingathering of Jews, including non-religious, to the Land of Israel is a fulfillment of biblical prophecy. Only later will God send His Holy Spirit to purify the people from all of its sins, and then He will send the Messiah. Such a perspective is very much at odds with what R. Shapira advocated.

Interestingly, in dealing with the accusation that his father-in-law was a “ba’al machloket,” R. Baruch says nothing about R. Shapira’s battles against the Agudah and its rabbis,[7] or his battles against non-Agudah rabbis and rebbes, in particular the Spinka Rebbe, R. Isaac Eizik Weiss, and the Belzer Rebbe, R. Yissachar Dov Rokeah. In the latter case, R. Shapira’s actions were very extreme, and it was alleged that he even attempted to get the government to expel the Belzer Rebbe from the city.[8] He attacked the Belzer Rebbe personally and referred to his hasidim as חזירי בעלז.[9] His attacks on Belz did not stop even after the Belzer Rebbe’s death, and the Belzer community of Munkács decided to separate from the wider Orthodox community of the city which was controlled by R. Shapira.[10] Since they were not legally allowed to create another Orthodox community, they officially became the Neolog community of Munkács. Although they were as distant from the Neologs as their persecutor, R. Shapira, declaring themselves as Neolog was the only way for them to create their own community which would be recognized by the government.[11]

In Binat Nevonim, pp 173-174, we see very clearly R. Baruch’s Religious Zionist feelings. He reviews the modern growth of the Land of Israel beginning with the early immigrations, and mentions how Jews hoped that this growth was the beginning of the redemption. He even states that the British did not live up to their expected role when they removed a large part of biblical Israel from the Jewish homeland. Could anything be further from the old Munkács approach than the following words from R. Baruch, after summarizing the various nineteenth-century attempts to build up the Land of Israel (p. 174)?

הארץ השוממה מתחילה לנשום ולהחיות מחדש. היא מתחילה להעלות תקווה בלב יושבי הארץ ובלב העם היהודי כולו, שהנה הגיע הזמן של שיבת ציון של חזון הגאולה לעם ישראל ולחזון הגאולה לכל העמים שעם יהודי נשא בקרבו מאז אברהם אבינו דרך הנביאים עד היום הזה.

עם ישראל, זה הנולד לגדולות ולנצורות, לא בדור הזה שהוא כדורו של דוד המלך ייהפך לאור לגויים, לא בדור הזה יהפוך את מדינתו למדינה לדוגמא. אבל יבוא הדור, דור שיהיה דומה לדורו של שלמה, דור שידע מנוחה, דור שלא יצטרך לנהל מלחמות, דור שידע להעמיד את כח החכמה לפני כח הגבורה – והדור הזה יקים את המדינה לדוגמא, מדינה שבה מדע התורה, המוסר, והצדק, והשוויון ישמשו תשתית לחיי האנושות, ואז יבוא משיח צדקנו, נצר דוד מלכנו ומציון תצא תורה ודבר ה’ מירושלים.

In discussing the Holocaust, R. Baruch states that we cannot ask why God was silent and did not hear the cries of the millions of victims (p. 158). He strongly rejects the notion that the Holocaust, which was an unparalleled national suffering, can be explained as due to any particular sins (p. 198). Regarding the Holocaust, it is also important to mention that R. Baruch was very involved in the efforts to save Hungarian Jewry.[12]

Returning to Heilman, the story of Boyan, which he tells with great skill, did not have the conflict and tragic aspects that were described in the chapter on Munkács. Yet here too we find the same theme, namely, a dynasty without an obvious successor. And again, we see that with the right man, and with proper guidance from the hasidic elders, he can grow into the role. As with Munkács, the Boyaner Rebbe has blossomed into a respected rebbe, either overcoming his more modern background (as some would say), or using this background to allow him to better understand the Jewish people as a whole.

For those interested in conflict in religious life, the chapters on Bobov and Satmar, focusing on the split in these movements, provide plenty of that. In fact, even before the dispute over who would be the current Satmar rebbe, conflict was a basic feature of Satmar life already in Europe. Heilman writes, “For Satmar hasidim conflicts served as a form of socialization and identity formation. . . . [T]his relish for conflict, framed as a steadfast ideological purity, would become the essential identity of Satmar Hasidism.” (pp. 163, 164)

In addition to discussing the conflicts over succession, Heilman also provides the necessary background to understand matters. Thus, in the chapter on Bobov, long before we get to the conflict that led to the split in the movement, Heilman reviews the history of Bobov, its fate during the Holocaust, and its rebirth after the war. Heilman does the same in all of the chapters, allowing readers to appreciate the unique aspects of each of the different Hasidic groups. In his chapter on Satmar, here is how Heilman summarizes what defined this group for its rebbe, R. Joel Teitelbaum.

The struggle to remain apart as well as distinctive and to argue that these positions were the only and authentic way of being Jewish not only made Yoelish’s followers feel that they were part of a great cause and the true defenders of Jewry and Judaism but made Satmarism and its inventor a kind of model for what steadfast Orthodox Judaism was meant to be, a vanguard of contra-acculturation and authenticity. Second, he had to make sure that his educational system did not provide his hasidim with the skills that would make leaving the enclave easy. Third, he had to demonize the world outside so that his followers would either be afraid of entering it or be confident that their own ways were infinitely superior. (p. 173)

I would like to add a few final comments and corrections.

I am not sure why Heilman includes a chapter on Chabad. While obviously the story here is not the fight over succession but the fact that there has not been a succession, for those who read Heilman’s and Menachem Friedman’s biography of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, the material in Who Will Lead Us? focusing on R. Menachem Mendel is not new. The first half of the chapter deals with prior Lubavitcher rebbes, not really the focus of the book which deals with the American scene, but helpful to understanding later events.[13]

It seems that spending so much time among the hasidim has led some of their hagiography to rub off on Heilman. How else to explain his statements that R. Baruch knew Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed by heart (p. 42) and R. Joel Teitelbaum “was able to review a folio of Talmud at age five” (p. 156)? Both of these men were scholars, and thus the hagiography focuses on their scholarship. I would be interested to know if in the hagiography about current rebbes, and in particular the ones discussed by Heilman, is scholarship even mentioned. Do current hasidim even assume that their rebbes are great Torah scholars?

In the preface, p. xiv, Heilman tells us that he will look at five different successions. In Munkács and Boyan a successor was lacking. In Bobov and Satmar two individuals claimed the throne. In Habad, the “hasidim denied a need for a successor at all, claiming that their rebbe had never really died.” While it is true that the Habad hasidim have no interest in a successor, there is only a very small number who claim that the Rebbe did not die (and thus they do not go to his grave). The mainstream messianist view is that the Rebbe indeed died and will be resurrected as the Messiah.[14] Even those who do not write זצ”ל or זי”ע do not deny that the Rebbe died and was buried. Yet they assume that his soul is still involved in this world and as such they do not want to treat him as someone who has passed from the scene.

P. 58. Heilman writes that the Lubavitcher Rebbe “claimed to have attended the Sorbonne and other European universities.” (p. 58) I do not understand the use of the word “claimed,” as it appears to cast doubt on what the Rebbe said. Yet in Heilman’s book, The Rebbe, he himself mentions that the Rebbe was a registered student at both the University of Berlin and the Sorbonne.

Pp. 85-86. Heilman states that R. Yerucham Gorelick “came from Slutzk, Belarus, and had studied in the famous non-Hasidic yeshiva there.” This is incorrect as R. Gorelick studied in Lomza, Radin, and also in Brisk, but not in Slutzk. In fact, in 1923 (when R. Gorelick was twelve years old) the Slutzk yeshiva moved to Kletzk.

P. 169. In discussing the Kasztner train and the inclusion in it of the Satmar Rebbe, Heilman writes: “Kasztner was persuaded, after someone paid a ‘huge sum,’ to include Yoelish and some of those connected to him among the 1670 in the train.” Why the leading anti-Zionist, R. Joel Teitelbaum, was included on the Kasztner train is a question that has never been convincingly answered. A popular legend is that Kasztner’s mother appeared to him in a dream and requested that he include the Rebbe. Yet even if this explains why the Rebbe was included, there were also other anti-Zionist rabbis who were on the train, which was a microcosm of larger Hungarian Jewish society.[15]

Before reading Heilman’s book, I had never heard that it was only money that enabled the Rebbe to be rescued. The source Heilman provides for this is a Satmar biography of the Rebbe that relied on an item that appeared in the Satmar paper Der Yid. These are precisely the sorts of sources that have to be used very carefully, and in many cases are simply useless if one is trying to find out the truth. At the very least, Heilman should have written that it is “alleged” that someone paid a huge sum, rather than state it as fact. One of the “problems” of the Satmar Rebbe’s biography is that despite being saved by the Zionist Kasztner, there is no evidence of the Rebbe ever having expressed any gratitude towards Kasztner or the Zionists as a whole for saving his life, something that has often troubled people. However, if the only reason the Rebbe was on the train was because of a simple monetary transaction, then he would have no reason to feel grateful to Kasztner or the Zionists. To put it another way, there is good reason for Satmar writers to portray the event this way in order to burnish the reputation of the Rebbe. As such, the unsubstantiated report Heilman relies on here must be treated with a great deal of suspicion.

The hasidic world is obviously of great significance in Orthodoxy. There are so many different hasidic groups that just when I think I know them all, I see an article about another rebbe whom I have never heard of. In fact, some years ago someone produced a “yellow pages” of all the hasidic rebbes. There are 554 listed, and by now no doubt a few more need to be added. Here is the first page.

There are significantly more rebbes now than a hundred years ago. Marcin Wodzinski has written that “there were approximately three hundred tsaddikim active in 1900.”[16]

What I know from friends in the hasidic world is that there are also people who should be regarded as “independent hasidim.” I first heard this expression a few years ago in Budapest where I became friendly with a visiting American hasid. When I asked him which group he was part of, he replied, “independent.”

Here was a man who looked like a hasid, who considered himself a hasid, who valued the hasidic way of life, and yet he did not have a rebbe. Since then I have met other “independent hasidim,” and their story is pretty much the same. They grew up as hasidim and love Hasidut, but they do not find any of the rebbes appealing. Some of them have also seen things that caused them to be disillusioned with the contemporary rebbes. They do not deny the value of a rebbe, and believe that great rebbes existed in the past. It is just that today they do not see such figures.

I would love to see an article dealing with the phenomenon of the independent hasidim. Is this something that can continue in a family over generations, or is it a one generation event, with the children brought up in such a family generally joining a hasidic group or linking up with the yeshiva world? Interestingly, Wodzinski notes the existence of independent hasidim around the time of World War I, and I wonder when they first appeared. In Wodzinski’s words: “During the war and after it, shtiblekh sprang up, gathering the half-rejects and half-deserts from the Hasidic world, shtiblekh unaffiliated with any court.”[17]

The independent hasidim should be distinguished from what Wodzinski has termed “à la carte Hasidism.” This is a phenomenon that also existed in the early twentieth century, and consisted of “young Hasidim who sampled different courts, picking various festivals with different tsaddikim depending on individual taste or indeed on the way different tsaddikim enacted different elements of Hasidic ritual.”[18]

Another point of interest which has not yet been analyzed is the position of the rebbe when he was still a child and teenager. Heilman’s book discusses this with regard to the current Munkácser Rebbe, but when he was young there was not yet an expectation that he would become the rebbe. What about those who knew that they would become rebbe. What type of childhood did they have? Did they have friends like other children, or were they regarded as too special to mix with the masses? And how about when they were teenagers and realized the significance of their fathers, who served as rebbes? It would be fascinating to hear from current rebbes about how they experienced childhood and young adulthood. People often forget that even the most important figures were once young and enjoyed the same sort of fun that all young people do. I actually have a photo of a young Shlomo Halberstam (1907-2000) in his bathing suit having fun in a lake. Heilman discusses in detail his experiences during the war and how after the war he rebuilt the Bobov dynasty, a task that fell to him as his father, R. Ben Zion, was murdered by the Nazis.[19] Yet the photo I just mentioned reminds us that even future rebbes were able to enjoy themselves like everyone else.

* * * * * *

Since this post deals with Hasidism, it is a good place to call attention to an unfortunate example of censorship in the writings of the Hatam Sofer. Here is the title page of volume 2 of the Derashot of the Hatam Sofer, first published by R. Joseph Naphtali Stern in 1929. R. Stern’s edition is based on the Hatam Sofer’s own manuscripts.

Beginning on p. 371a one can find the eulogy for the Hatam Sofer’s teacher, R. Nathan Adler. On p. 373a, in speaking of the great piety of R. Adler, the Hatam Sofer writes: ולא כחסידי הזמן ח”ו.

Now take a look at the Pressburg 1881 edition of Torat Moshe, Va-Yikra, p. 41b. You can see that the words ולא כחסידי הזמן ח”ו do not appear. It is not known if the publisher was responsible for this censorship, as he informs us in the introduction to volume 1 that some of what appears in the book was copied from the Hatam Sofer’s manuscripts and sent to him.

And while on the topic of censorship, here is another example dealing with a leading student of the Hatam Sofer, R. Moses Schick. Here is Derashot Maharam Schick, p. 30b, published in Cluj around 1936.[20]

You can see that he mentions Wessely’s Yein Levanon. Now take a look at the Derashot Maharam Schick published in Jerusalem, 2003.

As you can see, the reference to Yein Levanon has been removed. R. Moses Schick believed that Yein Levanon was a fine book, worthy of being quoted. However, the publisher thought differently. Ironically, the new edition was published by Makhon Maharam Schick. Here is the title page

So we have a publishing institute named after R. Moses Schick, and the people who run it would no doubt insist that they have the greatest respect for R. Schick. Yet this respect does not include respecting the sanctity of what he actually wrote.

R. Moses Schick refers to Wessely’s comment to Avot 1:1. In the new edition of Yein Levanon (Rishon le-Tzion, 2003), p. 44, the editor points out that R. Samson Raphael Hirsch, in his commentary to Avot 1:1, also cites Wessely by name. While this comment appears uncensored in the English translation of Hirsch’s commentary, in the Hebrew translation Wessely’s name has been replaced by “one of the commentators.” The editor adds: “The translators think that they are wiser  and more understanding than R. Samson Raphael Hirsch.”

* * * * * *

In Changing the Immutable, p. 211, I write that R. Hayyim Vital “records” and “mentions” certain negative information about Israel Najara. Yitzy Weinberg commented to me that I neglected to state a very important point, namely, the source of R Vital’s information. Weinberg feels, and others probably do as well, that knowing the source is important, since if R. Vital recorded information that he had personal knowledge of it would have more significance than if it came from another source.

Before coming to this point, I must note from a modern perspective, it is hard not to conclude that R. Vital was overly credulous. He was ready to believe the most far-fetched tales of angels, demons, magic, spirit possession, and exorcisms, and has no reticence in describing personal experiences with some of these things. He himself was even possessed by a powerful evil spirit. Morris M. Faierstein has recently discussed this episode and reaches the following striking conclusion: “Within the universe of Lurianic Kabbalah and the stories found in Vital’s mystical diary, the Book of Visions [Sefer Hezyonot], it can only be Jesus of Nazareth who was the evil spirit that possessed Hayyim Vital.”[21] 

Knowing all this, I do not believe that the information about Najara quoted by R. Vital should be accepted at face value,[22] especially when the charges made (homosexual behavior and sexual relations with a non-Jewish woman) are so serious. I would say this even if the ultimate source of this information was R. Vital himself.[23] 

Nevertheless, I agree that I should have mentioned that the information recorded by R. Vital came from a spirit that had entered a woman (a phenomenon that only after R. Vital’s time came to be known as a dybbuk[24]). Furthermore, in the book I noted: “Because of this, Vital wrote that ‘the hymns that he has composed are themselves good, but whoever speaks to him and whatever leaves his mouth is forbidden, because he always used foul languages and was a drunkard his whole life.’” This too is a statement from the spirit.

Among the information revealed by the spirit was that “between the fast days,” Najara “prepared a meal at that hour at the house of Jacob Monides, put his hat on the ground, sang songs in a loud voice, ate meat, drank wine, and even became drunk.”[25] R. Vital writes that Najara admitted that this incident occurred, meaning that in this case R. Vital wants us to know that the spirit spoke the truth. R. Vital does not record asking Najara about the spirit’s more serious accusations, and he would have told us if he had.[26]

Despite what I have just written, some seem to assume that everything that appears in R. Vital’s Sefer ha-Hezyonot must be attributed to himself, even if he attributes it to a spirit. Thus, Lawrence Fine writes: “In his dream diary, Vital alleges that Israel Najara engaged in homosexual behavior in his drunkenness, and contends, in connection with Damascus, that ‘there is much homosexuality . . . in this land.’”[27] As you can see, Fine does not mention the spirit but states that “Vital alleges.”

Another example is that Israel Zinberg writes that “Vital declares,” and then cites the passage I quoted in my book, which first appeared in Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital.[28] “The hymns that he has composed are themselves good, but whoever speaks to him and whatever leaves his mouth is forbidden, because he always used foul language and was a drunkard his whole life.” Zinberg does not mention the spirit.

Avraham Amazleg writes as follows (emphasis added)[29]:

שם רח”ו גם בפי הרוח דברי גנאי וביקורת על נג’ארה. רח”ו או הרוח אמנם מודים שהפזמונים שהוא חיבר הם טובים, אבל אסור לאומרם או לדבר עם המחבר, כי פיו דובר נבלה, וממילא הוא שיכור כל ימיו.

Almog Behar writes[30]:

המקובל רבי חיים ויטאל, תלמיד האר”י, בן תקופתו, כתב עליו ב”ספר החזיונות” שלו.

I could bring a number of additional examples where the words of the spirit are attributed to R. Vital, but I think readers get the point.

Although in all texts of Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital Najara’s name was deleted – it first appeared in the 1954 edition of R. Vital’s Sefer ha-Hezyonot – it was not too difficult for Zinberg and others to figure out who was being referred to. R. Moses Sofer appears to have also been aware of the passage in Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital, or perhaps there even was an oral tradition about the more serious charges against Najara that only appeared in print in 1954. I say this because when asked by his son why he did not sing Najara’s spiritually moving Y-ah Ribon, the Hatam Sofer replied: “Rather than telling you why I do not sing it, it is better to sing it.” From that point on he sang Y-ah Ribon.[31]

* * * * * *

R. Yechiel Goldhaber is well known as an outstanding scholar, whose many publications are always enlightening.[32] Not many know that he also offers tours of the Old City of Jerusalem. Having had the pleasure of participating in one of his tours, I highly recommend it to all who are interested in the history of Jerusalem (which I believe includes all Seforim Blog readers).

My own Torah in Motion tours to Europe in summer 2018 have also been announced. You can read about them here.

The young scholars R. Yisachar Dov Hoffman and R. Ovadiah Hoffman are known to many Seforim Blog readers. R. Yisachar has authored Avodat Ovadiah which focuses on practices of R. Ovadiah Yosef. R. Ovadiah Hoffman is a Seforim Blog contributor, and both of them have published three volumes of Ha-Mashbir, dedicated to studies on R. Ovadiah Yosef. I think readers will be interested to know about an event they are organizing to commemorate the yahrzeit of R. Ovadiah Yosef. It is to take place on Sunday, October 22, 2017, from 6:25pm-9pm (refreshments available), followed by maariv. It will be an evening of shiurim dealing with contemporary halakhic issues and reflections on the legacy of R. Ovadiah Yosef. It will be held at Beis Midrash Kerem Shlomo, 1880 East 27th Street (between Ave. R and S), in Brooklyn. The scheduled speakers are R. Herschel Schachter, R. Aryeh Ralbag, R. Yitzchok Yisraeli, and R. Betzalel Rudinsky. It promises to be a fascinating evening.

Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul

by Josh Rosenfeld

Josh Rosenfeld is the Assistant Rabbi at
Lincoln Square Synagogue and on the Judaic Studies Faculty at SAR High School.

This is his third contribution to the Seforim blog. His first essay, on “The
Nazir in New York,” is available here, and his second essay, “The Princess and I: Academic Kabbalists/Kabbalist
Academics,“ is available here.

ב״ה

אור לנר
ג׳, חנוכה ה׳תשע״ו

            Recent years have
witnessed a remarkable trend in the widespread study of Hasidic texts within
Orthodox communities that themselves do not self-identify as traditionally
Hasidic. Whether in much-discussed Modern Orthodox neo-Hasidic circles or
amongst the National-Religious in Israel, Hasidic texts canonical and obscure
merit serious teaching, engagement, and even reverence in these communities.
One of the earliest expressions of this trend was the introduction of such
texts into the curricula of Hesder Yeshivot, and arguably the man most
responsible for this was R. Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Shagar; 1949-2007).

R. Shagar began his career in the Hesder Yeshivot first as a student
at Yeshivat Kerem b’Yavneh, eventually returning from the Yom Kippur war to
become a popular RaM at Yeshivat
Hakotel, even filling in as interim Rosh ha-Yeshiva when R. Yeshayahu Hadari
took a sabbatical. R. Shagar, known as a Talmudic prodigy, branched out to both
found and direct other institutions on the cutting edge of the National
Religious educational framework, such as Beit Midrash Ma’aleh and Beit Morasha,
and finally, Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak in Efrat, with his longtime friend and
study partner, R. Yair Dreyfuss (1949- ). After a difficult period of
suffering, R. Shagar passed away from Pancreatic cancer on June 11, 2007, a
month after the announcement of a committee to begin preparing his voluminous
writings for publication.

R. Shagar wrote and taught on a level characterized as “extremely
deep”, and despite the resurgence of interest and posthumous publications of
his writings, a close student of his once told me “it was not always such a
great honor to be counted amongst his students.” There was some opposition to
some of his ideas, especially those relating to education and Talmud
pedagogy.[1] R. Shagar’s writings exhibit a sustained engagement with, in my
opinion, three central themes: postmodernism and its challenge to traditional
religion, spirituality and faith in the Modern Orthodox and National Religious,
and the development of a viable language, a discourse
– based upon traditional texts – to think and talk about the aforementioned
themes. R. Shagar’s writings are as quick to quote R. Schnuer Zalman of Liadi
as Slavoj Zizek, the Slovenian cultural critic and philosopher.

For English speakers, much of R. Shagar’s oeuvre remains a closed
book,[2] despite the rapid pace with which new material of his – developed from
the reportedly hundreds of files he left behind – is being published, and the
resurgence in his popularity in Israel. Despite that, a few articles and
introductions to his thought have appeared in English.[3]

What follows is an attempt at translation of an excerpt from one of
the most recent of R. Shagar’s works, To
Illuminate the Openings (להאיר את הפתחים).[4]
The book is primarily a collection of R. Shagar’s discourses on the holiday of
Hanukkah, part of the “For This Time” (לזמן הזה)
series of R. Shagars derashot on the
cycle of Jewish holidays and festivals.[5]

This particular essay, “Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul”
is an expansion and presentation of R. Schneur Zalman of Liadi’s[6]
phenomenological discourse on the candles of Hanukkah. R. Shagar uses the
language of philosophy, Maimonides, and Lacanian psychoanalysis to explain the
two religious paths that R. Schneur Zalman sees as represented in the candles,
wicks, and flames of Hanukkah. In doing so, a rich tapestry of religious
thought is woven, with R. Shagar characteristically bringing such diverse
thinkers as the founder of Chabad Hasidism and Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz in
conversation with each other.[7]

“Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul”

{A Translation and Annotation of R. Shimon Gershon Rosenberg, “To
Illuminate the Openings” (Machon Kitve ha-Rav Shagar: Efrat, 2014),
53-61}[8][9]

כִּי אַתָּה תָּאִיר
נֵרִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהַי יַגִּיהַּ חָשְׁכִּי (תהילים י״ח, כט).

כִּי נֵר מִצְוָה
וְתוֹרָה אוֹר (משלי ו׳, כג).

נֵר יְהוָה נִשְׁמַת
אָדָם (שם כ׳, כז).

The Soul and the Commandment

There is a well-known custom of many Hasidic
rabbis on Hanukah to sit by the candles after lighting and to meditate upon
them, sometimes for hours. This meditation washes over the spirit and allows
the psyche to open up to a whole host of imaginings, gleanings, thoughts, and
emotions – that afterward blossom into the ‘words of the living God’, to use
the Habad formulation. Therefore, it is instructive for us to look at the
physical entity, the elements of the candle and its light as crucial elements
in the development of these words of exegesis – the meditation upon the
candlelight. For example, in one stage of the discourse of R. Schneur Zalman of
Liadi[10] (1745-1812; henceforth, Admor ha-Zaken) that we shall discuss, Admor
ha-Zaken distinguishes between two different types of light emanating from the
candle: and the fact of the matter is
that the candle consists of both the oil and the wick – two types of light: a
darkened light directly on the wick, and the clarified white light.[11]
This differentiation acts as a springboard for a discourse upon two pathways in
religious life. To a certain extent, it is possible to posit that the discourse
is the product of the Admor ha-Zaken’s meditation upon the different colors of
light in the candle’s flame, and without that, there would be no discourse to
speak of.

The motif of the candle and the imaginings it
conjures are a frequent theme in scripture and in rabbinic writing – The Mitzvah Candle; Candle of the Soul; The
Candle of God – in its wake arise many Hasidic discourses seeking to
explain the relationship between ‘The Soul’ [נר נשמה]
and ‘The Commandment’ [נר מצוה], and between ‘The
Commandment’ and God [נר ה׳]. In our study of
the discourse of the Admor ha-Zaken, we will most importantly encounter the
tension between the godly and the commanded – the infinitude of the divine as
opposed to the borders, limits, and finitude of the system of commandments [תרי״ג מצוות]. However, prior to doing so, we will
focus our attention for a moment on the tension between the soul and the
commandment – the internal spiritual life of the believer relative to the
externalized performance of the commandment.

The emergence of Hasidism brought to the fore
the following challenge – does the fact of an increased individual emphasis
upon internal spiritual life mean that they will of necessity distance
themselves from the practical framework of Halakha? In a different formulation,
does the focus of Hasidism upon the ‘soul-candle’ mean that the light of the
‘commandment-candle’ will be dimmed? The tension between the two is clear: one’s
obligation to do specific things affixed to specific times stands in opposition
to one’s attunement with and attention to their own inner voice. Our own eyes
see, and not just in connection with Jewish religious life, but that when one
prefers their own personal truth, they do not behave according to the dictates
and accepted norms of society at large. For example, one who desires to be
‘more authentic’ may be less polite, as the rules of etiquette are seen as
external social constructions that dull one’s inner life. Similarly, for this
type of individual, when it comes to Halakha, it will be approached and
understood as a system that holds him back from his own truth, and not only
that, but it sometimes will be perceived as a lie: from a Halakhic point of view,
he must pray at specifically ordained times, but in his heart of hearts he
knows that right now his prayers will not be fully sincere – but rather just
‘going through the motions’. Must this individual now answer the external call
to prayer, or should they rather hold fast to their inner calling, thereby
relaxing the connection to the outer Halakhic reality?[12]

In truth, this question has yet another
dimension, within which we may be able to sharpen our understanding – the chasm
between objective and subjective experience. Should an individual seek out ‘The
Truth’ through their own subjective experience, or should they rather find it
in the absolutist objective realm of reality? Once a person apprehends ‘The
Truth’ as a construction of their own subjective internal experience, the
concept of truth loses its totality and becomes relativized. Truth instead
becomes dependent upon one’s specific perspective, their emotions, feelings,
and personal experiences. In this sense, Halakha is identified with the absolute
and fixed sphere of reality – within which God commanded us, and this type of
relativism is untenable in relation to it. (א)

It is possible to argue that the ideal state
is when the internal, personal truth is identified with the objective, external
truth.[13] The meaning of this situation is that on one hand, the individual’s
internal life is strong, on fire, and yet his sense of obligation to this
internality is unassailable. This leads to a perspective where the inner life
is understood as objective reality, absolute. A person in this type of
situation loses their sense of relativity and their inner directives obtain the
strength of an outside command, possessing no less force of obligation or
truth.

The problem with the situation within which we live is that our inner lives lack
strength and force; Our inner lives are prone to ups and downs, steps forward
and back. Because of the dullness of our internal lives, they are susceptible
to all kinds of outside influences, and thus there is a subsequent lack of
authenticity. This is the reason the Shulhan
Arukh – not internal spirituality – is the basis for our religious
obligations, it is the absolute cornerstone of our lives.

To be sure, divine truth is revealed on a
number of different levels and planes in our lives, and it is forbidden for an
individual to think that this truth is obtainable only in one dimension – not
in the internal or external life alone. An encompassing, total reality takes
both lives into account and unifies them – both the internal and external;
however, in an incomplete, non-ideal reality, to every dimension and
perspective there are benefits and detriments, and we ignore either at our own
peril. To this end, our rabbis taught us that we must serve God through both
‘fear’ [יראה] and ‘love’ [אהבה]:
and so Hazal said, serve out of fear,
serve out of love.'[14]

Admor ha-Zaken

Until now, we have seen the apposition between
the mitzvah candle and the neshama candle, to wit – the conflict
between the formal Halakhic system and the unmediated spirituality sought by
Hasidism. This is a spirituality that has as a central prerequisite the
authenticity of action, an authenticity that stands in opposition to the fact
that the believer stands commanded to perform certain actions at appointed,
limited times. In his discourse for Hanukkah, Admor ha-Zaken deals with yet
another tension addressed by Hasidism, especially in the system of Habad
Hasidism: What is the connection of physical actions – the performance of the
commandments – with the metaphysical, spiritual ‘payoff’ they are supposed to
engender, such as an attainment of closeness with God?

Furthermore, the commandments, as they are
sensed and experienced through action, are part of the world of tangibility [יש] – the finite and created human reality.
Therefore, what connection can these have with faith in the divine infinity? As
it appears, the progression of the Admor ha-Zaken is a dialectical approach:
one on hand, he presents the commandments in a strictly utilitarian manner without
any truly inherent value, but on the other, it is this very groundedness of the
commandments in our reality that accords to them their roots in the pure divine
will:

It is written: ‘A Mitzvah is a candle and
the Torah is Light,’ that the Mitzvot are called ‘candle.’ And it is also
written: ‘the candle of God is the soul of Man’, that the soul is called
‘candle’. And in the Zohar it is explained that the Mitzvot are called
‘garments’… and in order to be fully clothed, the soul must fulfill all 613 Mitzvot…
and to explain the matter of the soul’s garments… [that]
there are boundless illuminations… for there are countless understandings of
the light and the glow, which is an emanation of the infinite light of [God] Blessed
be He…

The delights that derive from the
infinite light, which is the source of all delights, are without end. Just as
we perceive with our senses even… physical delights are also without measure,
for there are infinite ways to experience pleasure… Because of this, the soul –
which is in the aspect of the finite – is unable to fully apprehend the
revelation of this glow, which is the very being of the divine, except through
a garment – a filter – and through that garment and filter [the soul] is able to receive the light and the glow.[15]

The soul requires ‘garments’, for without
these garments and filters, there is no comprehension. I will try to explain
what I mean here: for example, when we speak of ‘eternal memory’ [זכרון נצח], are we talking about remembering the
content of that person’s life, as if we are recording into a computer a
reporter’s notes that are now being entered into the system? Of course that is
not what we are referring to. All these moments of a person’s life are
‘garments’, a medium for the real
that occurred in them. This real is
not something specific, not a definable factor, but rather is the thing that
grants meaning to the content of those experiences, even though it itself is
undefinable.[16] Thus, ‘eternal life’ is life that retains with it the meaning
of these experiences – something which can never be quantified or simply
entered into a computer.[17]

This undefinable thing that grants meaning,
the ‘lifeforce’ to everything else, is what Admor ha-Zaken calls the ‘glow of
the infinite light’ [זיו מאור אינסוף].
It is not simply ‘meaning’, but rather the ‘meaning of all meaning’. In the
discourse before us, as well as in other discourses of his, Admor ha-Zaken
draws a line, a parallel, between this glow and the actual substance of delight
and pleasure that in our world always appears via a medium, some physical
object. Pleasure will never materialize in this world in its pure state – like delight in the earthly realm that
always devolves from something outside it, like when we take pleasure in some
delicious food or in the study of some wisdom.[18] If so, the commandments
are garments through which our world obtains its substance and standing – its
meaning. In the language of Admor ha-Zaken, the commandments act as a conduit
for the infinite light to penetrate into our world. That is to say, the
commandments as an entire system of life form a space within which a person may
experience the eros of true meaning. (ב)
Through them, an individual may feel alive, that is sensations of satisfaction,
excitement, longing, the joy of commandment, and intimacy – all these we may
incorporate metonymically into the word ‘light’ or ‘holiness’, that which Admor
ha-Zaken would call ‘delight’ or ‘pleasure’.

In order for this light to be apprehended, it
must be garbed in the outer trappings of the commandments. This is to say, that
the commandments themselves are not the essence of the light and de-light, that
they are not the meaningful point of existence, but rather only a garment, that
receives its light only by dint of the fact that the subjective experience of
holiness and pleasure are felt through it. As Admor ha-Zaken explains in the
discourse we are studying: behold, the
Mitzvah act… is not the way of the divine infinite light to be infused in them [Mitzvot] unless it is through… the Godly soul itself that performs the Mitzvah,
and draws forth through them a revelation of the divine infinite light. As it
is written [about Mitzvot]: ‘that the individual shall perform them’ –
that it is the individual that makes them into Mitzvot, in drawing forth
through them the infinite light.[19]

The Source of The Commandments

To be sure, it is possible to say that any way
of life or cultural system is but a garment for the infinite light, for it is
this system which bears the weight of the meaning of life and the essence of
reality [for its adherents]. An individual experiences life through cultural
constructs and the social systems – especially the most critical ones such as
love, longing, lower/higher fears, loyalty, etc. – all these things grant to
life meaning and purpose, something we wouldn’t trade for anything. Therefore,
in Hasidism, recognition of this truth is related to the fact that the world
was created through ‘ten utterances’ [עשרה מאמרות] – that is to say, even without a specifically
religious language, such as the ‘ten
statements’ [עשרת הדיברות] through which the divine light is
revealed. For Admor ha-Zaken’s part, there remains a difference between these
systems and the system of the commandments: while it is true that the
commandments are a ‘human system’, ideally/from their very inception they are
rooted in the infinite reality from which they devolved. At this point, Admor
ha-Zaken ceases to see the commandments as merely a garment or tool alone, but
rather that they themselves represent constitute a direct encounter with the
presence of the divine in our reality. This is to say that the commandments are
a system meant to signify and symbolize the infinite itself.[20] They don’t
simply give expression to it, but direct us to it as well. How do the
commandments symbolize? As a system, they point to the divine will itself, for
as a closed system, they lack resolution, purpose. One might even say that it
is not that we have here a symbol signifying something that we are meant to
understand, but rather that the signified is incomprehensibility itself, the ‘void within the void’ [חור שבחור]. In order to understand these things, we
must pay attention to the differentiation Admor ha-Zaken makes between ‘the
infinite light’ [אור אינסוף] and the ‘essential
will of the infinite light’ [עצם רצון אא״ס]
:

It is impossible for the essential will
of the infinite light to be revealed to any created being, unless that divine
will is embodied in some physical act, the performance of the Mitzvah… and the
root of the Mitzvot is very lofty, rooted in the uppermost realms of the
supernal crown, ‘Keter’… until it devolves into our realm through physical
actions and things, Tzitzit and Sukkah, and it is specifically in these things
that the divine will is revealed, ‘the final in deed is first in thought’ [סוף מעשה במחשבה תחילה]… In action heaven was [created] first… but
in thought physicality came first… for the light is revealed from the aspect
of divinity that encompasses all realms… Thus the performance of Mitzvot,
whose root lies in this encompassing aspect of divinity – the supernal ‘Keter’
– cannot be expressed below in the aspect of ‘inner light’ [אור פנימי],
[in finite and internal experience], but rather must find their expression in
exterior, physical actions, as it is well known that that which in its essence
is more lofty and elevated falls to the deeper depths.

Therefore, through the performance of
Mitzvot, there is created a covering, an encompassing screen, so that through
the Mitzvot the [soul] may be able to delight in the delight of the infinite
light…[21]

Admor ha-Zaken locates in the commandments a
type of dual identity based on the system he constructs: as a garment [לבוש], they are only a vessel through which the
infinite divine light finds expression – the delight of the soul, holiness, all
that is perceived as the essence of this world. The commandments themselves are
not the inner aspect of life but rather a medium for this interiority. On the
other hand, Admor ha-Zaken identifies them with the ‘encompassing’ lights [מקיפים]; a reality that cannot be truly
apprehended or experienced within ours. This is to say that the root of the
commandments are as vessels, conduits of a reality beyond ours – ‘the essential
will of the infinite light’. Manifest in this is a classic HaBaD teaching,
which Admor ha-Zaken formulates thusly: that
which in its essence is more lofty and elevated falls to the deeper depths.
We locate the root of the commandments, which in reality are purely utilitarian
and without their own essential, inherent meaning, in the very essence and core
of the divine.

The claim of Admor ha-Zaken is that the source
of the commandments is to be found in the the divine will itself. The meaning
of the commandments is not resolved through adhering to some system of rules,
some ethical or moral ideal, or some historical-progressive idea through which
they were conceived.[22] In the most simple sense, God ‘wanted’
commandments, and through this there developed a system with meaning and sense,
which we might call ‘wisdom’ [חכמה],
but that system does not fully define the will of the creator, nor is it necessary in the absolute sense. In the
aforementioned discourse, Admor ha-Zaken holds that the actual ‘end’ action
precedes the thought that somehow explains and gives it meaning, because in
truth it is the action, the physical performance of the commandment is affixed
to the divine will that warrants it to be done this particular way and no
differently – for no humanly discernable reason. This is the way of the divine
will, to ‘desire’ without dependence upon any externally motivating factor. One
might say that as they [the commandments] are affixed in the divine will, the
commandments as such signify a degree
of arbitrariness and happenstance.[23] The commandments serve as a reminder of
the ultimate unknowability of the divine will that tautologically ‘desires
because it desires’. This is also the reason why the commandments primarily
take the form of actions and not intentions. As actions, the commandments
manifest themselves as closed, sealed objects, their meanings not easily teased
out nor defined by the meanings attached to them – ultimately, there is just
the [darkness and] light and the delight that we are able to attain through it.

______

Notes:

[1] For example, see “Shnayim
Ohazin: A Conversation Between R. Aharon Lichtenstein and R. Shagar”, Shma’atin Journal vol. 136 (Nissan
1998); also appearing in Meimad, Vol.
17, August 1999; see further the synopsis and translation by Rachel Schloss for
the Lookstein teacher’s resource archive here; See also questions posed to R. Uri Sherki,
a popular National Religious lecturer and teacher on the topic of R. Shagar and
postmodernism, here.

[2] Two of R. Shagar’s monographs have been released in English: Chance and Providence (פור היא הגורל), trans. Naftali Moses (Efrat: Yeshivat
Siach Yitzchak, 2005), 108 pp. and The
Human and the Infinite: Discourses on the Meaning of Penitence (על כפות המנעול), trans. Naftali Moses (Jerusalem: Toby
Press, 2010), 88 pp.

[3] To my knowledge, the most extensive study of R. Shagar in English
to date has been conducted by Miriam Feldmann Kaye of the Van Leer Institute
and Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Dr. Kaye holds a PhD from the University of
Haifa, and her doctoral dissertation deals extensively with the encounter of
Judaism and postmodernism in the thought of R. Shagar and Tamar Ross. It is
forthcoming as Jewish Theology in a
Postmodern Age published by The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization
[2017]. Kaye’s draft study, “Hasidic Philosophy in the Age of Postmodernism and
Relativism: The Case of Rav Shagar” was discussed at the March 2015 Orthodox
Forum, “The Contemporary Uses and Forms of Hasidut” chaired by R. Shmuel Hain
and R. Shlomo Zuckier. Hopefully Kaye’s fascinating paper will see light in the
upcoming volume of in the Orthodox Forum series.

Ilan Fuchs deals, inter alia,
with R. Shagar’s perspective on Torah learning for women and Orthodox feminism
in Women’s Torah Study: Orthodox
Education and Modernity (Routledge press: New York, 2014), 209-220

See Alan Jotkowitz, “And Now the Child Will Ask: The Post-Modern
Theology of Rav Shagar,” Tradition 45:2
(2012); R. Yair Dreyfuss, “Torah Study in Contemporary Times: Conservatism or
Revolution?”, Tradition 45:2 (2012);
Admiel Kosman, “A Letter in Search of a Destination” [review of The Remainder of Faith] in Ha’aretz, 2/27/15, available here;
R. Zvi Leshem, “Book Review: B’Torato
Yehageh: Limud Gemara Kibakashat Elokim,” available here;
Alan Brill has dedicated several fascinating posts to R. Shagar, his thought,
and its larger ramifications for Israeli society on his blog, ‘The Book of Doctrines
and Opinions’. A good starting point is his discussion of a curious film about
R. Shagar produced by the Ma’aleh film school, available here.

[4] l’Ha’ir et ha-Petahim
(Efrat: Makhon Kitve ha-Rav Shagar, 2014) 242 pp.

[5] Other volumes that have already been released include In the Shadow of Faith (בצל האמונה) on Sukkot, A Time for Freedom (זמן של חירות)
on Passover, and On That Day (ביום ההוא) on Israeli national holidays.

[6] In general, see Roman A. Foxbrunner, Habad:
The Hasidism of R. Shneur Zalman of Lyady (Jason Aronson, 1993); Immanuel Etkes, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady: The Origins of
Chabad Hasidism (Brandeis University Press, 2015); Naftali Loewenthal, Communicating the Infinite: The Emergence of the Habad
School, (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1990).

[7] R. Shagar is accused of a certain naivete with regard to the
possibility and rigor of this type of thinking, see Kosman, idem. and see also
the editor’s introduction to R. Shagar, Luhot
ve-Shivrei Luhot (Yediot Ahronot, 2013); 407 pp. for a discussion of the
autodidactic nature of R. Shagar’s engagement with general philosophy,
specifically postmodern thought.

[8] לכב׳ ראש השנה לחסידות יום שיחרור אדמוה״ז
זיע״א י״ט כסלו ה׳תשע״ו.

[9] Thanks is due to R. Eli Rubin for his insight and comments.

[10] R. Hershel Schachter once quipped that perhaps the name “Schneur”
was a portmanteau of שני אור (= two lights), in
the naming after two different people with the name “Meir” – quite appropriate
for one who was able to draw such deep meaning from even the two lights within
the candle’s flame.

[11] Torah Ohr, Miketz 33a.

[12] A prime example of this would be the controversy surrounding the
practice of postponing prayer times. During the formative years of Hasidism,
many Hasidic leaders (such as the the Seer of Lublin, The Holy Jew, and The
Kotzker Rebbe) held that in order to focus the heart properly for prayer it is
permissible to delay the time for prayer, despite violating the clear Halakhic
guidelines governing it in the Shulhan
Arukh.

[13] Thus we reduce conflict between the soul-life and the
practical-life. See further torah no.
33 in Lectures on Likkutei Moharan
vol. 1, 295-310; torah no. 6, ad
loc., 68.

[14] Commentary of R. Ovadia Bartenura on the Mishnah, Avot 1:3. I
will point out, however, that it is basically impossible to impose upon someone
a completely external commandment, and so in this way even the ability to
follow an external command is a matter of personal prerogative, and therefore
related to the realm of personal freedom. This is to say that the internality
of a person itself transitions between many different phases – sometimes
appearing as the freedom to be unfree/limited and inauthentic.

[15] Torah Ohr, ad loc. 32d.

[16] We must differentiate between ‘sense’ and ‘meaning’ [english in
the original; JR]. As we shall soon see, ‘the glow of the infinite’ [that is to
say, the ‘spiritual background radiation’, the reflection of the infinite
source of light illuminating our moon-world; JR] is what gives ‘sense’ to
‘meaning’ [without it, the slip into nihilism begins; JR]. As long as ‘sense’
is completely attached to the level of content – words, actions, situations –
‘meaning’ becomes the internal, animating force behind these, granting these
things spiritual ‘weight’.

[17] There is a touch of autobiography here. R. Shagar worked
extensively on notes and files from his oeuvre, hundreds of which were saved on
his computer, from which the Institute for the Publication of the Works of R.
Shagar compiles, edits, and publishes his voluminous writings posthumously.

[18] R. Schneur Zalman of Liady, Likkutei
Torah, addenda to Parshat Vayikra,
52a.

[19] Torah Ohr, ad loc. 33c.

[20] This may be likened to the Lacanian idea of the real. [see Jacques Lacan, Symbol and Language: The Language of the
Self (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956); Dylan Evans, An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge,
1996), entry: “real”. JR]

[21] Torah Ohr, ad loc. pp.
32d-33a.

[22] The position of the Admor ha-Zaken here parallels in a certain
sense the positions of Yeshayahu Leibowitz with regards to the commandments.
See further R. Shagar, “Faith and Language According to the Admor ha-Zaken of
Habad,” Nehalekh b’Regesh, pp.
175-178.

[23] See R. Shagar, Pur hu ha-Goral;
32-37 (בענ׳ את יעקב אהבתי ואת עשו שנאתי).

Pursuing the Quest: Selected Writings of Louis Jacobs has just appeared. The Seforim Blog is happy to present the following excerpts from the book. (The Note on Artscroll is part of a longer article.)

References in literature to the use of tobacco by hasidic Jews are numerous [1]. Although there is little direct evidence to indicate how widespread it was, the references suggest it was fairly extensive. Let us examine some of these. In his autobiography Solomon Maimon (d. 1800) describes a youthful visit to the court of Dov Ber of Mezhirech, the founder of the hasidic movement. Maimon remarks:

There is no reason to doubt the accuracy of Maimon’s report, which is substantiated by other early sources. For example, Shivhei Habesht, [3] the legendary biography of the Baal Shem Tov, refers to the famous lulke [4] which the founder of the hasidic movement used to smoke. While recent scholarship [5] tends to treat this work with less scepticism than did earlier scholars, even if all references to the Baal Shem Tov smoking tobacco [6] are fabrications, it is true that hasidim were known to smoke, for their early opponents, the mitnagedim, repeatedly castigated them for wasting time on smoking, which the hasidim believed prepared them for prayer.

One characteristic example in an anti-hasidic polemic is the statement in Zemir aritzim veharvot terurim (published in Alexnitz near Brody in 1772). This work criticizes the hasidim for delaying their prayers in the morning so that they can ‘place incense in their nostrils’. [7] In a letter written from Vilna in 1772, the mitnagedim say of hasidim: ‘They wait many hours before reciting their prayers . . . and they spend all their days in the smoke which proceeds from their mouth.’ [8] In all these early sources smoking as an aid to prayer does not have any special hasidic significance: it is only a means to contemplation. This is probably also true for the hasidic tradition, [9] which holds: ‘When the Baal Shem Tov wished to proceed to the upper worlds he would inhale tobacco and at each puff he would proceed from world to world.’ [10]

There do not seem to be any references to tobacco in the classical hasidic works of doctrine, the hasidic Torah. Their absence from these sources may be because aids to contemplation (such as tobacco) were considered irrelevant to the ideal itself, although contemplation was clearly important in hasidic thought. Rabbi Phinehas of Koretz (Korzec) (1725-91), an associate of the Baal Shem Tov, reportedly observed:

With regard to imbibing tobacco, anything the body requires for it to be healthy is the same for all men. Therefore, since not everyone imbibes tobacco, it follows that it is not a permanent feature in
creation, but only has healing powers for some. It has no healing power, and can do harm, to the majority of men, since it dries up the [bodily] fluid. [11]

Similarly, another reliable source records that Jacob Isaac Horowitz, the Seer of Lublin (1745-1825), used to take snuff during his prayers as an aid to concentration [12] It was not until the middle of the nineteenth century that various mystical and specifically hasidic ideas were imputed to smoking tobacco. While the mitnagedim state that hasidim ‘place incense in their nostrils’, the reference to this is no more than an extrapolation on the verse ‘They shall put incense before Thee’ (Deut. 33: 10). It is not itself conclusive evidence that early hasidim associated smoking with offering incense in the Temple. [13] In Sperling’s Ta’amei haminhagim (a very late work), [14] however, we find that the disciples of the Baal Shem Tov believe that ‘the weed known as tobacco is considered by the zaddikim to be like incense’. Moreover, following from the mystical idea of ‘raising the sparks’ that had fallen to the realms of the demonic powers [15] smoking was thought to be necessary to elevate the very subtle sparks that reside in tobacco. Unlike the sparks in food, which can be elevated when someone who is in a spirit of holiness eats the food [16] tobacco sparks cannot rise that way. Those subtle sparks can only be rescued for the holy by smoking or taking snuff.

A passage from the Talmud (Keritot 6a) states that a minute quantity of ‘smoke-raiser’ (a herb that causes smoke from the incense to rise) was added to the incense in the Temple. This passage is interpreted to mean that smoking tobacco raises the very small holy sparks which cannot be raised any other way. Sperling also refers to the healing properties of tobacco, which he calls segulah, a quasi-magical method. [17] If a woman finds it difficult to give birth, she should be given a pinch of snuff and this will help ease the birth. Nevertheless, Sperling was unable to discover a single reference to tobacco in classical hasidic works.

Rabbi Abraham Judah Schwartz (1827-83), a prominent non-hasidic Hungarian rabbi, was eventually won over to Hasidism. In the biography written by Dov Beer Spitzer (Schwartz’s grandson), [18] we read:

My grandfather, of blessed memory, used to smoke tobacco (including cigars) to the extent that, occasionally, when he was engrossed in his studies and also when he taught his pupils in the beit midrash, it was as if he stood in the midst of a cloud so that it was impossible to come near to him. His son Naphtali Hakohen, of blessed memory, repeated in his name that the zaddikim intend great tikunim [19] and have the following in mind. [20] The pipe is made of clay, which is a mineral. The wood stem represents the plant. The bone mouthpiece comes from an animal. The smoker is a speaking creature [medaber, a human being, and fourth among the categories of mineral, plant, animal, and human] and he elevates all the stages beneath him (mineral, plant, and animal) to the stage of the speaking creature. For the zaddikim never carry out any empty act, Heaven forbid, but have their hearts concentrated on Heaven.

It is also reported that Rabbi Henikh of Olesko (1800-84), son-in-law of Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz (1779-1855), would take his snuff-box in his hand and inhale the snuff on Friday nights when he recited ‘Kegavna’, the kabbalistic prayer. [21] He would sing certain tones as he inhaled, and if any people were present who were ill or possessed by a dybbuk, a wandering soul which enters the body of a human being as a refuge from the demons which pursue it, they would begin to dance and move while the rabbi inhaled the snuff [22]. Those close to him realized that it was an especially propitious time. Further, Rabbi Eliezer Zevi of Komarno (d. 1898) was reported to have said that the letters of the word tabak have the same numerical value (112) as those of the word yabok, which stands for yihud, berakhah, kedushah (‘unification’, ‘blessing`, and ‘holiness’) and also ya’anenu beyom korenu (‘He will answer us on the day we call’). [23] Thus, he believed that tobacco helped the zaddik to achieve union, bestow blessings on his followers, and raise himself to greater heights of holiness, as well as predispose God to answer his prayers.

Although the hasidic master Rabbi Solomon Shapira (1832-93) is reported to have smoked only at the close of Simhat Torah, on Purim, and on Shushan Purim, [24] on those occasions he would smoke heavily.
In his later years he was also reported to have smoked at the festive meal to celebrate the completion of a talmudic tractate and during Hanukah. At the celebratory meal following a circumcision he was also known to have smoked. Besides the reports of smoking on religious holy days, when Shapira was under severe stress he would smoke cigars in moderation to calm him and keep him from having a nervous breakdown. On the other hand, he was known to have smoked heavily when he travelled: on those occasions he never took a book with him to read and would seldom speak. As he smoked he appeared to be lost in contemplation.

A hasid who knew that Shapira had smoked heavily in his youth once asked him why he gave up the habit when he grew older. The hasid added that since Rabbi Hayim Halberstam of Sanz (1793-1876) used to smoke very heavily, he wondered why Shapira did not follow his example. [25] Shapira replied that Halberstam was reputed to have been ‘one of the serafim’ (Isaiah 6: 6); he was a seraf (fiery angel) and none could match him. But the real reason for giving up smoking, Shapira said, was that it wasted time; it
was better to achieve union through study of the Torah and follow its precepts, engaging in practices essential for bodily strength rather than in luxuries like smoking, which one can live without.

There is a tendency among hasidic masters and hasidim generally to minimize the importance of smoking. In Rahamei ha’av, [26] a short work that first appeared in Lvov in 1868, the author, Jacob Klein (d. 1890), states that young men should not smoke cigars because such a practice is only vanity. [27] Klein also refers to the suggestion ‘in the holy books of the disciples of the Baal Shem Tov’ that tobacco is like incense, even
though that motif cannot be found in the classical hasidic works. He adds that although Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz used to smoke as a young man, he gave it up when he noticed that a colleague in the beit midrash spent a great deal of time cleaning his pipe, while he (Shalom) could study an entire page of Talmud in the time his colleague took to clean his pipe. Klein also reports that the hasidic master Rabbi Moses ben Zvi Teitelbaum of Ujhely (1759-1841) never smoked.

Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin (1797-1850) was known to have been a heavy smoker. [28] When Rabbi Moses ben Israel Polier of Kobrin visited the rebbe of Ruzhin on the eve of the Sabbath, he found him with a pipe in his hand in a smoke-filled room. Noticing his guest’s surprise, the rebbe of Ruzhin told the following story. A pious Jew lost his way just as the Sabbath was about to begin. Seeing a house in front of him, he went inside. To his alarm he saw there a notorious bandit sitting at a table upon which there rested a frightening blunderbuss. The man thought: if I try to run away, the bandit will shoot me in the back, but if I stay here he will probably kill me. The only way out seemed to be to seize the gun and fire at the bandit. If I succeed in killing him, he thought, well and good. But, even if I miss, the room will be filled with smoke and I will be able to escape in the confusion. Then the rebbe of Ruzhin laid his pipe aside and said: now it is the Sabbath. Thus, for the rebbe of Ruzhin the pipe was a smoke-screen against the blandishments of the yetzer hara (the evil inclination). Smoking is a diversion, a risky indulgence through which the zaddik can gain the upper hand over his enemy, the yetzer hara.

The early hasidim undoubtedly used tobacco as an aid to concentration; their smoking was only unusual in the amount of time they allotted for it. Although tobacco was brought to Europe from the New World, where it had been used as part of the American Indian religious ceremonies, [29] the hasidim (and Western smokers in general) did not use it in this sense. Rather, the early hasidim smoked tobacco as an aid to concentration. It was only much later that the incense motif and the idea of raising holy sparks were
introduced. Zaddikim such as Hayim Halberstam of Sanz and Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin were heavy smokers, while others such as Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz and Rabbi Moses ben Zvi Teitelbaum either gave up smoking or had never smoked at all.Today, despite the acknowledged health dangers of smoking, there is no evidence that the hasidim have given up the habit, and it is too early to say if they will (a speculation equally valid for those who are not hasidim). In any event, smoking tobacco was always peripheral for the hasidim; in the hasidic literature it had no special significance.

On verse 1: “By the rivers of Babylon”, the Artscroll refers to the Midrash Pesikta Rabbati (28) where R. Johanan says that the Jewish people, accustomed to the pure water of their homeland, were now forced to drink the insanitary waters of the Euphrates from which many of them died. Here again the Artscroll fails to see the historical background to R. Johanan’s saying. To anyone with an historical sense it is obvious that R. Johanan, a Palestinian, was reading homiletically into the Biblical text the superiority, even in matters of health, of the Holy Land over Babylonia, the land of the rival Babylonian Rabbis. There are numerous instances of the Rabbis applying the Biblical texts to conditions of their own day. R. Johanan’s comment tells the historian nothing about what the Psalmist meant by “the rivers of Babylon” but everything about R. Johanan’s views, in the third century CE, regarding the desirability for Jews not to leave the Holy Land to reside in the apparently more salubrious Babylonia. It is not so, declares R. Johanan, the Holy Land is superior not only with regard to the study of the Torah but also with regard to its health-giving properties. R. Johanan’s comment has its place in a study of third-century Jewry. It has no place at all in a commentary to the Bible.

Notes1. On the halakhic problems connected with
smoking, see I. Z. Kahana, ‘Hatabak besifrut hahalakhah’, in his Mehkarim
besifrut hahalakhah (Jerusalem, 1973). The earliest discussion of these
questions is found in the works of the Turkish rabbi Hayim Benveniste
(1603-73), and Mordecai Halevy (d. 1684), who was dayan and a halakhic
authority in Cairo for more than forty years. They discuss the issue as part of
their treatment of the Turkish narghile, or hookah, in which the smoke
passes through water, hence the expression (later used for smoking a pipe and
taking snuff) ‘drinking titon’ (the Turkish (and Polish) name for
tobacco).

2. See Gershon David Hundert (ed.), Essential
Papers an Hasidism: Origins to the Present (New York, 1991), which contains
an Eng. trans. of Maimon’s account, pp. 11-24. The reference to the pipe-smoker
is on p. 17.

3. On this discussion, see the less than
adequate Eng. trans. of the Shivhei Habesht in In Praise of the Baal
Shem, trans. Dan Ben-Amos and Jerome R. Mintz (Bloomington, Ind., l970).

4. Ibid. where the Persian word is
transliterated incorrectly as lolkeh. On p. xxvi, puzzled by the
reference to ‘one lulke’ in the story related on p. 105 (no. 80), Mintz
interprets lulke to mean ‘a hand-rolled cigarette’. The lulke is really
a pipe with a long stem-a churchwarden’s pipe-and ‘one lulke’ simply
stands for a single pipeful or a single turn at the pipe. See ibid., index,
s.v. lolkeh for a list of all references to the pipe of the Besht and
others.

5. Murray J. Rosman, ‘Miedzyboz and Rabbi Israel
Baal Shem Tov’, in Hundert (ed.), Essential Papers on Hasidism.

6. Yaffa Eliach, ‘The Russian Dissenting Sects
and their Influence on Israel Baal Shem, Founder of Hasidism’, Proceedings
of the American Academy for Jewish Research, 36 (1968), 57-88, suggests
that the Baal Shem Tov’s lulke was a kind of tube filled with a far less
innocent substance than tobacco (pp. 80-1). There is no foundation for implying
that the Baal Shem Tov took drugs.

7. Mordecai Wilensky, Hasidim umitnagedim
(Jerusalem, 1970), i. 54. In the first letter quoted in Joseph Perl’s Megaleh
temirin (Vienna, 1819), 3a, an imaginary hasid tells how he handed the
zaddik his lulke but did not have the merit to light it for him.

8. Wilensky, Hasidim umitnagedim, i.
36-9. Cf. Wilensky’s index, s.v. ishun bemikteret, and his note on
hasidim and smoking on p. 39 n. 20.

9. Simeon Ze’ev of Meyenchov, ‘Doresh Tov’,
in Sefarim hakedoshim mikol talmidei habesht hakadosh, i (Brooklyn,
1980), no. 17, p. 111.

10. On the ascent of the Baal Shem Tov’s soul,
see the letter at the end of Jacob Joseph of Polonoye, Ben porat yosef
(Korzec, 1871). There is a translation of this in Louis Jacobs, Jewish
Mystical Testimonies (New York, 1977), 148-55. There is, however, no
mention that the ascent was achieved through smoking a pipe. On the ascent of
soul, see Moshe Idel, Hasidism: Between Ecstasy and Magic (Albany, NY,
1995), 104-5.

11. M. Spiegel (ed.), Tosefta lemidrash
pinhas (Lvov, 1896), no. 167, p. 16a.

12. Samuel of Shinov (Sieniawa) (ed.), Ramatayim
tsofim (Jerusalem, 1970), 51a n. 13.

13. That Jews have not used incense in the
synagogue is probably intended to distinguish worship in the synagogue from
worship in the Temple. Nevertheless, the later hasidic identification of
smoking with incense suggests that some hasidim did see smoking as similar to
the incense of the Temple. I knew a hasidic rabbi who would regularly smoke a
Turkish cigarette before reciting the afternoon prayer, in which in hasidic
practice the biblical and talmudic passages about incense are recited.

14. Abraham Isaac Sperling (ed.), Ta’amei
haminhagim umekorei hadinim (Jerusalem, n.d.), 102. Cf. Aaron Wertheim, Halakhot
vehalikhot behasidut (Jerusalem, 1960), 224-5. Wertheim, like Sperling, can
produce only very few references to smoking among hasidim.

15. On the Lurianic doctrine of the sacred
sparks, see I. Tishby, Torat hara vehakelipah bekabalat ha’ari
(Jerusalem, 1965).

16. Louis Jacobs, ‘Eating as an Act of Worship
in Hasidic Thought’, in Siegfried Stein and Raphael Loewe (eds.), Studies in
Jewish Religious and Intellectual History Presented to Alexander Altmann
(Tuscaloosa, Ala., 1979).

17. Sperling (ed.), Ta’amei haminhagim,
581.

18. Eliezer Ehrenreich (ed.), Toledot kol
aryeh (2nd edn. Brooklyn, 1976), no. 36, pp. 27-8.
19. As in kabbalistic thought generally, the
doctrine of tikun, that human activities have a cosmic effect and can
‘put right’ the flaws on high, looms large in Hasidism.

20. This is probably the meaning of the
expression po’el bedimyono.

21. Zvi Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim, xiv
(Jerusalem, 1955), no. 6, pp. 70-1.

22.
See Gershon Winkler, Dybbuk (New York, 1981), on the dybbuk and
exorcism.

23. Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim.

24.
Ibid. p. 32, nos. 8 and 9.

25. On Hayim Halberstam as a heavy smoker, see
Yosef David Weisbert, Rabenu hakadosh mizantz (Jerusalem, 1976), 197,
211, and Yosef David Weisbert, Otzar hahayim (Jerusalem, 1978), 20. In
Isaac Landau’s account in Zikaron tov (Piotrkow, 1882), 16-17, no. 17,
Isaac of Neskhiv was another hasidic rebbe who smoked in his youth but gave it
up later. This account contains a puzzling statement that when Isaac did smoke in
his youth he was advised not to use Turkish tobacco by Levi Isaac of Berdichev,
possibly because of the association with the Turkish pretender Shabbatai Zvi.
26. (Jerusalem, 1977), no. 11, pp. 8b-9a, under ga’avah.

27. Although the book was first published
anonymously, it later became known that the author was Klein, a Hungarian rabbi
with hasidic leanings, though not himself a follower of any particular zaddik.
The passage is also quoted by Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim, no. 7, p. 31.

28. Reuben ben Zvi David (ed.), Keneset
yisra’el (Warsaw, 1905), 16.

29. See Mircea Eliade (ed.), Encyclopedia of
Religion (New York, 1987), s.v. ‘smoking’, vol. xiii, pp. 365-70, and
‘tobacco’, vol. xiv, pp. 544-6.