Author Archives: yishmaelgunzhard

por Shraga Simmons

Jerusalem no tiene valor estratégico. Tampoco tiene importancia comercial o industrial, y no es un centro cultural.

¿Cómo fue que esta antigua ciudad, aparentemente sin importancia, se convirtió en el eje de la discordia entre Israel y los palestinos respecto al futuro de la tierra de Israel? ¿Por qué debe preocuparnos lo que ocurre con Jerusalem?

Tenemos que comenzar por entender la importancia de la memoria. La memoria no es historia ni recuerdos muertos. Por definición, los recuerdos del pasado crean el presente. La represión de los recuerdos crea enfermedades mentales. La salud llega con la recuperación de la memoria. Los dictadores consolidan su poder alterando la memoria. Stalin borró de las fotografías a Trotsky y a Bujarin. Los revisionistas niegan que el Holocausto haya sucedido. ¿Por qué esto es importante?

En hebreo, hombre se dice “zajar”. Memoria se dice “zejer”. El hombre es la memoria. La gente que sufre pérdida de la memoria por una enfermedad o un accidente no sólo olvida dónde puso las llaves. Pierden su mismo ser. Se pierden en el tiempo, están a la deriva, porque sin memoria el momento actual no tiene contexto ni significado.

La primera vez que los judíos fueron exilados de Jerusalem, el Rey David dijo: “Si te olvidara Jerusalem, que mi mano derecha pierda su fuerza. Que mi lengua se pegue a mi paladar si dejo de recordarte, si dejo de elevar a Jerusalem por sobre mi mayor alegría”. El recuerdo de Jerusalem de alguna manera está ligado a nuestro vigor actual como pueblo. ¿Pero de qué manera? ¿Cuál es el recuerdo de Jerusalem y qué es lo que él contribuye a lo que somos?

El recuerdo de Jerusalem de alguna manera está ligado a nuestro vigor actual como pueblo.

Londres viene de una palabra céltica que significa “un pueblo salvaje y de madera”. El Cairo es la versión española del nombre árabe de Marte, el dios romano de la guerra. París recibió su nombre por el París del mito griego, a quien los dioses le dieron a elegir entre amor, sabiduría y poder. Él eligió el amor, el amor de Elena de Troya.

El Talmud dice que Jerusalem recibió su nombre de Dios. El nombre tiene dos partes: Irá, que significa “ver” y shalem, que significa “paz”.

Jerusalem es el lugar donde Abraham fue a sacrificar a Itzjak, y Abraham dijo de Jerusalem: “Este es el lugar donde se ve a Dios”.

En cualquier otro lado, Dios es una teoría, pero en Jerusalem se ve a Dios, se lo siente, es una presencia tangible. En Jerusalem vamos más allá de la fragilidad y de la vulnerabilidad de nuestras vidas; sentimos y deseamos la trascendencia. En cualquier otro lugar buscamos a tientas el entendimiento. En Jerusalem anticipamos la claridad. París puede ser para los amantes, pero Jerusalem es para los visionarios.

En Jerusalem se ve a Dios, se lo siente, es una presencia tangible.

Jerusalem es una metáfora de un mundo perfeccionado, y nos da una perspectiva sobre nuestras vidas. Cuando Aldous Huxley dijo: “Cada uno tiene su Jerusalem”, se refirió a mucho más que a una ciudad temporal con taxis y embotellamientos de tránsito. Él aludió a una visión de lo que puede ser la vida.

Nos rendimos a la visión de la promesa de la vida porque nos da fuerzas para vivir. Durante los dos mil años de exilio, los judíos dijeron: “El próximo año en Jerusalem”, y en medio de la pobreza y la opresión preservaron el sueño de un mundo en el cual el hombre va a vivir por el amor y la justicia y no por el poder y los intereses personales.

Una parte del nombre de Jerusalem significa “visión”. La otra parte del nombre significa paz, pero la paz de Jerusalem no es la ausencia de conflicto. Jerusalem prácticamente no conoció otra cosa más que conflicto. La paz de Jerusalem es la paz en el centro de los rayos de una rueda, donde las fuerzas opuestas pueden estar delicadamente equilibradas y reconciliadas.

El Talmud dice que la creación comenzó en Jerusalem, y desde allí el mundo se expandió. Los mapas medievales muestran a Jerusalem en el epicentro de Asia, Europa y África. El mundo fluye desde ese sitio, y allí resuenan todas las fuerzas vitales. Desde este lugar, todo el mundo adquiere perspectiva.

Jerusalem, el centro que da perspectiva al resto del mundo. Jerusalem, donde se ve a Dios. Jerusalem, el mundo perfeccionado. La humanidad hace mucho ha entendido que quien controla a Jerusalem controla la memoria del mundo. Controla la forma en que se ve a Dios. Controla la manera en que las fuerzas vitales son puestas en perspectiva. Controla cómo vemos colectivamente nuestro futuro.

En una época, el Monte del Templo era el punto más alto de la ciudad de Jerusalem, pero en el año 135 los esclavos romanos sacaron la tierra de la montaña y la convirtieron en el valle que ahora nosotros observamos hacia abajo desde la Ciudad Vieja. Los romanos expulsaron a los judíos de Jerusalem y les impidieron volver a entrar bajo pena de muerte. Ellos proclamaron que la vida judía había terminado.

Los cruzados reescribieron la importancia de Jerusalem, ya no más el centro del drama nacional judío, sino el sitio de la pasión y muerte de Jesús. Al igual que los romanos, ellos expulsaron a los judíos y destruyeron las sinagogas.

Después llegaron los musulmanes, y al igual que sus predecesores volvieron a escribir la memoria de Jerusalem, expulsando a los judíos y a los cristianos. Sistemáticamente construyeron mezquitas en casa sitio sagrado judío. Borraron todo el pasado.

Al reescribir la historia de Jerusalem, cada una de estas culturas volvió a escribir nuestro lugar, el lugar judío, en la historia. Ellos creyeron consignarnos al basurero de la historia: una vez un gran pueblo, ahora abandonados por Dios. Superados por el tiempo.

En Jerusalem, cada cultura volvió a escribir el lugar judío en la historia.

Pero los judíos preservaron a Jerusalem como un recuerdo. Cuando construimos nuestras casas dejamos un cuadrado sin revocar y rompemos una copa en las bodas en recuerdo de Jerusalem. Desde todos los rincones del mundo nos damos vuelta y rezamos en dirección a Jerusalem, y debido a que ese recuerdo se mantuvo vivo, el pueblo judío vive.

Cuando Jerusalem fue liberada, el tiempo se confundió. El pasado se volvió presente. Lo que tanto ansiábamos se volvió nuestro. Lo que habíamos soñado se volvió real, y los soldados lloraron porque un país adolescente del Mediterráneo de repente recuperó la memoria perdida durante 2.000 años. El pasado instantáneamente fue el presente, increíble y trascendentalmente, transformando lo que sabíamos que éramos.

¿Quiénes somos? No somos itinerantes despreciados y pobres, que sobreviven gracias a la buena voluntad de otras naciones, No somos una nación de campesinos que recuperan pantanos, ni guerreros… aunque cuando es necesario somos todas estas cosas.

Somos una nación de sacerdotes y profetas, una luz para la humanidad. Nosotros le enseñamos al mundo “a transformar sus espadas en arados”, “a amar al prójimo como a ti mismo”, la igualdad ante la justicia, y que la admiración no pertenece a los ricos y poderosos sino al bueno, al sabio, al bondadoso. Hitler dijo: “Los judíos infligieron dos heridas a la humanidad: la circuncisión en el cuerpo y la consciencia en el alma”. ¡Cuánta razón tenía y cuánto más tenemos que hacer! ¡Qué trágico es cuando nos fallamos a nosotros mismos!

De por sí dividido por el lenguaje, la geografía e incluso por la religión, nuestro pueblo sólo está unido por los hilos de la memoria y de la esperanza. Estos hilos son sumamente frágiles. Si se cortan nos fragmentaremos, y el Talmud dice que el largo y amargo exilio de nuestro pueblo (que todavía no ha culminado por completo), es consecuencia de las disensiones que nos dividen.

A esta amenaza, Jerusalem provee un contrapunto, porque Jerusalem personifica nuestros recuerdos y esperanzas. Jerusalem es una memoria viva, una visión de Dios en nuestras vidas, una imagen de un mundo perfeccionado. Jerusalem nos da la fuerza para lograr lo que debemos hacer como pueblo, para unirnos y santificar este mundo.

Por eso Jerusalem es importante.

Segun tomado de, https://www.aishlatino.com/iymj/j/Por-que-Jerusalem-es-importante.html?s=sh1

The Korach rebellion was not just the worst of the revolts from the wilderness years. It was also different in kind because it was a direct assault on Moses and Aaron. Korach and his fellow rebels in essence accused Moses of nepotism, of failure, and above all of being a fraud – of attributing to God decisions and laws that Moses had devised himself for his own ends. So grave was the attack that it became, for the Sages, a paradigm of the worst kind of disagreement:

Which is an argument for the sake of Heaven? The argument between Hillel and Shammai. Which is an argument not for the sake of Heaven? The argument of Korach and his company. (Mishnah Avot 5:17)

Menahem Meiri (Catalonia, 1249–1306) explains this teaching in the following terms:

The argument between Hillel and Shammai: In their debates, one of them would render a decision and the other would argue against it, out of a desire to discover the truth, not out of cantankerousness or a wish to prevail over his fellow. An argument not for the sake of Heaven was that of Korach and his company, for they came to undermine Moses, our master, may he rest in peace, and his position, out of envy and contentiousness and ambition for victory.[1]

The Sages were drawing a fundamental distinction between two kinds of conflict: argument for the sake of truth and argument for the sake of victory.

The passage must be read this way, because of the glaring discrepancy between what the rebels said and what they sought. What they said was that the people did not need leaders. They were all holy. They had all heard the word of God. There should be no distinction of rank, no hierarchy of holiness, within Israel. “Why then do you set yourselves above the Lord’s assembly?” (Num. 16:3). Yet from Moses’ reply, it is clear that he had heard something altogether different behind their words:

Moses also said to Korach, “Now listen, you Levites! Is it not enough for you that the God of Israel has separated you from the rest of the Israelite community and brought you near Himself to do the work at the Lord’s Tabernacle and to stand before the community and minister to them? He has brought you and all your fellow Levites near Himself, but now you are trying to get the Priesthood too.” (Num. 16:8–10)

It was not that they wanted a community without leaders. It is, rather, that they wanted to be the leaders. The rebels’ rhetoric had nothing to do with the pursuit of truth and everything to do with the pursuit of honour, status, and (as they saw it) power. They wanted not to learn but to win. They sought not verity but victory.

We can trace the impact of this in terms of the sequence of events that followed. First, Moses proposed a simple test. Let the rebels bring an offering of incense the next day and God would show whether He accepted or rejected their offering. This is a rational response. Since what was at issue was what God wanted, let God decide. It was a controlled experiment, an empirical test. God would let the people know, in an unambiguous way, who was right. It would establish, once and for all, the truth.

But Moses did not stop there, as he would have done if truth were the only issue involved. As we saw in the quote above, Moses tried to argue Korach out of his dissent, not by addressing his argument but by speaking to the resentment that lay behind it. He told him that he had been given a position of honour. He may not have been a Priest but he was a Levite, and the Levites had special sacred status not shared by the other tribes. He was telling him to be satisfied with the honour he had and not let his ambition overreach itself.

He then turned to Datan and Aviram, the Reubenites. Given the chance, he would have said something different to them since the source of their discontent was different from that of Korach. But they refused to meet with him altogether – another sign that they were not interested in the truth. They had rebelled out of a profound sense of slight that the tribe of Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn son, seemed to have been left out altogether from the allocation of honours.

At this point, the confrontation became yet more intense. For the one and only time in his life, Moses staked his leadership on the occurrence of a miracle:

Then Moses said, “By this you shall know that it was the Lord who sent me to do all these things, that they were not of my own devising: If these men die a natural death and suffer the fate of all mankind, then the Lord has not sent me. But if the Lord brings about something totally new, and the earth opens its mouth and swallows them, with everything that belongs to them, and they go down alive into the grave, then you will know that these men have treated the Lord with contempt.” (Num. 16:28–30)

No sooner had he finished speaking than “the ground under them split apart and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them” (Num. 16:32). The rebels “went down alive into the grave” (16:33). One cannot imagine a more dramatic vindication. God had shown, beyond possibility of doubt, that Moses was right and the rebels wrong. Yet this did not end the argument. That is what is extraordinary. Far from being apologetic and repentant, the people returned the next morning still complaining – this time, not about who should lead whom but about the way Moses had chosen to end the dispute: “The next day the whole Israelite community grumbled against Moses and Aaron. ‘You have killed the Lord’s people,’ they said” (17:6).

You may be right, they implied, and Korach may have been wrong. But is this a way to win an argument? To cause your opponents to be swallowed up alive? This time, God suggested an entirely different way of resolving the dispute. He told Moses to have each of the tribes take a staff and write their name on it, and place them in the Tent of Meeting. On the staff of the tribe of Levi, he should write the name of Aaron. One of the staffs would sprout, and that would signal whom God had chosen. The tribes did so, and the next morning they returned to find that Aaron’s staff had budded, blossomed, and produced almonds. That, finally, ended the argument (Num. 17:16–24).

What resolved the dispute, in other words, was not a show of power but something altogether different. We cannot be sure, because the text does not spell this out, but the fact that Aaron’s rod produced almond blossoms seems to have had rich symbolism. In the Near East, the almond is the first tree to blossom, its white flowers signalling the end of winter and the emergence of new life. In his first prophetic vision, Jeremiah saw a branch of an almond tree (shaked) and was told by God that this was a sign that He, God, was “watching” (shoked) to see that His word was fulfilled (Jer. 1:11–12).[2] The almond flowers recalled the gold flowers on the Menorah (Ex. 25:31; 37:17), lit daily by Aaron in the Sanctuary. The Hebrew word tzitz, used here to mean “blossom,” recalls the tzitz, the “frontlet” of pure gold worn as part of Aaron’s headdress, on which were inscribed the words “Holy to the Lord” (Ex. 28:36).[3] The sprouting almond branch was therefore more than a sign. It was a multifaceted symbol of life, light, holiness, and the watchful presence of God.

One could almost say that the almond branch symbolised the priestly will to life as against the rebels’ will to power.[4] The Priest does not rule the people; he blesses them. He is the conduit through which God’s life-giving energies flow.[5] He connects the nation to the Divine Presence. Moses answered Korach in Korach’s terms, by a show of force. God answered in a quite different way, showing that leadership is not self-assertion but self-effacement.

What the entire episode shows is the destructive nature of argument not for the sake of Heaven – that is, argument for the sake of victory. In such a conflict, what is at stake is not truth but power, and the result is that both sides suffer. If you win, I lose. But if I win, I also lose, because in diminishing you, I diminish myself. Even a Moses is brought low, laying himself open to the charge that “you have killed the Lord’s people.” Argument for the sake of power is a lose-lose scenario.

The opposite is the case when the argument is for the sake of truth. If I win, I win. But if I lose I also win – because being defeated by the truth is the only form of defeat that is also a victory.

In a famous passage, the Talmud explains why Jewish law tend to follow the view of the School of Hillel rather than their opponents, the School of Shammai:

[The law is in accord with the School of Hillel] because they were kindly and modest, because they studied not only their own rulings but also those of the School of Shammai, and because they taught the words of the School of Shammai before their own. (Eiruvin 13b)

They sought truth, not victory. That is why they listened to the views of their opponents, and indeed taught them before they taught their own traditions. In the eloquent words of a contemporary scientist, Timothy Ferris:

All who genuinely seek to learn, whether atheist or believer, scientist or mystic, are united in having not a faith, but faith itself. Its token is reverence, its habit to respect the eloquence of silence. For God’s hand may be a human hand, if you reach out in loving kindness, and God’s voice your voice, if you but speak the truth.[6]

Judaism has sometimes been called a “culture of argument.”[7] It is the only religious literature known to me whose key texts – the Hebrew Bible, Midrash, Mishnah, Talmud, the codes of Jewish law, and the compendia of biblical interpretation – are anthologies of arguments. That is the glory of Judaism. The Divine Presence is to be found not in this voice as against that, but in the totality of the conversation.[8]

In an argument for the sake of truth, both sides win, for each is willing to listen to the views of its opponents, and is thereby enlarged. In argument as the collaborative pursuit of truth, the participants use reason, logic, shared texts, and shared reverence for texts. They do not use ad hominem arguments, abuse, contempt, or disingenuous appeals to emotion. Each is willing, if refuted, to say, “I was wrong.” There is no triumphalism in victory, no anger or anguish in defeat.

The story of Korach remains the classic example of how argument can be dishonoured. The Schools of Hillel and Shammai remind us that there is another way. “Argument for the sake of Heaven” is one of Judaism’s noblest ideals – conflict resolution by honouring both sides and employing humility in the pursuit of truth.

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Meiri, Beit HaBechira ad loc.

[2] See L. Yarden, The Tree of Light (London: East and West Library, 1971), 40–42.

[3] There may also be a hint of a connection with the tzitzit, the fringes with their thread of blue, that according to the Midrash was the occasion for the Korach revolt.

[4] On the contemporary relevance of this, see Jonathan Sacks, Not in God’s Name (New York: Schocken, 2015), 252–268.

[5] The phrase that comes to mind is Dylan Thomas’ “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower” (from the poem by the same name). Just as life flows through the tree to produce flowers and fruit, so a Divine life force flows through the Priest to produce blessings among the people.

[6] Timothy Ferris, The Whole Shebang (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997), 312.

[7] David Dishon, The Culture of Argument in Judaism [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1984).

[8] I have written more extensively on this in Future Tense (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 2009), 181–206.

As taken from, http://rabbisacks.org/argument-for-the-sake-of-heaven-korach-5779/

The episode of the spies was one of the most tragic in the entire Torah. Who sent them and to what end is not entirely clear. In this week’s parsha, the text says that it was God who told Moses to do so (Num. 13:1–2). In Deuteronomy (1:22), Moses says that it was the people who made the request. Either way, the result was disaster. An entire generation was deprived of the chance to enter the Promised Land. The entry itself was delayed by forty years. According to the Sages, it cast its shadow long into the future.[1]

Moses told the spies to go and see the land and bring back a report about it: Are the people many or few, strong or weak? What is the land itself like? Are the cities open or fortified? Is the soil fertile? They were also tasked with bringing back some of its fruit. The spies returned with a positive report about the land itself: “It is indeed flowing with milk and honey, and this is its fruit” There then followed one of the most famous ‘buts’ in Jewish history: “But – the people who live there are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large. We even saw descendants of Anak [‘the giant’] there” (Num. 13:28).

Sensing that their words were demoralising the people, Caleb, one of the spies, interrupted with a message of reassurance: “We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it.” However, the other spies insisted: “We cannot attack those people; they are stronger than we are.… All the people we saw there are of great size.… We seemed like grasshoppers…” (Num. 13:30–33). The next day, the people, persuaded that the challenge was completely beyond them, expressed regret that they had ever embarked on the Exodus and said, “Let us appoint a leader and go back to Egypt” (Num. 14:4).

Thus far the narrative. However, it is monumentally difficult to understand. It was this that led the Lubavitcher Rebbe to give a radically revisionary interpretation of the episode.[2] He asked the obvious question. How could ten of the spies come back with a defeatist report? They had seen with their own eyes how God had sent a series of plagues that brought Egypt, the strongest and longest-lived of all the empires of the ancient world, to its knees. They had seen the Egyptian army with its cutting-edge military technology, the horse-drawn chariot, drown in the sea while the Israelites passed through it on dry land. Egypt was far stronger than the Canaanites, Perizzites, Jebusites, and other minor kingdoms that they would have to confront in conquering the land. Nor was this an ancient memory. It had happened not much more than a year before.

What is more, they were entirely wrong about the people of the land. We discover this from the book of Joshua, in the passage read as the haftarah to Shelach Lecha. When Joshua sent spies to Jericho, the woman who sheltered them, Rahab, described for them what her people felt when they heard that that the Israelites were on their way:

I know that the Lord has given this land to you. A great fear of you has fallen on us…We have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea for you when you came out of Egypt.… When we heard of it, our hearts melted and everyone’s courage failed because of you, for the Lord your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below. (Josh. 2:9–11)

The people of Jericho were not giants. They were as fearful of the Israelites as the Israelites were of them. Nor was this something that was disclosed only later. The Israelites of Moses’ day had already sung in the Song at the Sea:

The peoples have heard; they tremble;

Pangs have seized the inhabitants of Philistia.

Now are the chiefs of Edom dismayed;

Trembling seizes the leaders of Moab;

All the inhabitants of Canaan have melted away.

Terror and dread fall upon them;

Because of the greatness of Your arm, they are still as a stone.

(Ex. 15:14–16)

How was it that they forgot what, not long before, they knew?

What is more, continued the Rebbe, the spies were not people plucked at random from among the population. The Torah states that they were “men who were heads of the People of Israel.” They were leaders. They were not people given lightly to fear. The questions are straightforward, but the answer the Rebbe gave was utterly unexpected. The spies were not afraid of failure, he said. They were afraid of success.

Never had a people lived so close to God.

If they entered the land, their lifestyle of camping around the Sanctuary, eating manna from heaven, living in continuous contact with the Shechinah would vanish. They would have to fight battles, maintain an army, create an economy, farm the land, worry about the weather and their crops, and all the other thousand distractions that come from living in the world. What would happen to their closeness to God? They would be preoccupied with mundane and material pursuits. Here they could spend their entire lives learning Torah, lit by the radiance of the Divine. There they would be one more nation in a world of nations with the same kind of economic, social, and political problems that every other nation has to deal with.

They were afraid of success, and the subsequent change it would bring about. They wanted to spend their lives in the closest possible proximity to God. What they did not understand was that God seeks, in the Midrashic phrase, “a dwelling in the lower worlds.”[3] One of the great differences between Judaism and other religions is that while others seek to lift people to heaven, Judaism seeks to bring heaven down to earth.

Much of Torah is about things not conventionally seen as religious at all: labour relations, agriculture, welfare provisions, loans and debts, land ownership, and so on. It is not difficult to have an intense religious experience in the desert, or in a monastic retreat, or in an ashram. Most religions have holy places and holy people who live far removed from the stresses and strains of everyday life. About this there is nothing unusual at all.

But that is not the Jewish project, the Jewish mission. God wanted the Israelites to create a model society where human beings were not treated as slaves, where rulers were not worshipped as demigods, where human dignity was respected, where law was impartially administered to rich and poor alike, where no one was destitute, no one was abandoned to isolation, no one was above the law, and no realm of life was a morality-free zone. That requires a society, and a society needs a land. It requires an economy, an army, fields and flocks, labour and enterprise. All these, in Judaism, become ways of bringing the Shechinah into the shared spaces of our collective life.

The spies did not doubt that Israel could win its battles with the inhabitants of the land. Their concern was not physical but spiritual. They did not want to leave the wilderness. They did not want to become just another nation among the nations of the earth. They did not want to lose their unique relationship with God in the reverberating silence of the desert, far removed from civilisation and its discontents. This was the mistake of deeply religious men – but it was a mistake.

Clearly, this is not the plain sense of the narrative, but we should not dismiss it on that account. It is, as it were, a psychoanalytical reading of the unconscious mindset of the spies. They did not want to let go of the intimacy and innocence of the time-out-of-time and place-out-of-place that was the experience of the wilderness. Ultimately the spies feared freedom and its responsibilities.

But Torah is about the responsibilities of freedom. Judaism is not a religion of monastic retreat from the world. It is a religion of engagement with the world. God chose Israel to make His presence visible in the world. Therefore Israel must live in the world. The Jewish people were not without their desert-dwellers and ascetics. The Talmud speaks of R. Shimon b. Yochai living for thirteen years in a cave. When he emerged, he could not bear to see people engaged in such earthly pursuits as ploughing a field (Shabbat 33b). He held that engagement with the world was fundamentally incompatible with the heights of spirituality (Brachot 35b). But the mainstream held otherwise.[4] It maintained that “Torah study without an occupation will in the end fail and lead to sin” (Mishnah Avot 2:2).

Maimonides speaks of people who live as hermits in the desert to escape the corruptions of society.[5] But these were the exceptions, not the rule. It is not the destiny of Israel to live outside time and space as the world’s recluses. Far from being the supreme height of faith, such a fear of freedom and its responsibilities is, according to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, the sin of the spies.

They did not want to contaminate Judaism by bringing it into contact with the real world. They sought the eternal dependence of God’s protection and the endless embrace of His all-encompassing love. There is something noble about this desire, but also something profoundly irresponsible. The spies demoralised the people and provoked the anger of God. The Jewish project – the Torah as the constitution of the Jewish nation under the sovereignty of God – is about building a society in the land of Israel that so honours human dignity and freedom that it will one day lead the world to say, “Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people” (Deut. 4:6).

The Jewish task is not to fear the real world but to enter and transform it, healing some of its wounds and bringing to places often shrouded in darkness fragments of Divine light.

Shabbat Shalom

NOTES

[1] On the phrase, “the people wept that night” (Num. 14:1), the Talmud says that God vowed, “I will make this a day of weeping throughout the generations.” That day was Tisha B’Av, on which, in later centuries, the First and Second Temples were destroyed (Taanit 29a; Sota 35a).

[2] A translation can be found in Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, Torah Studies, adapted by Jonathan Sacks (London: Lubavitch Foundation, 1986), 239–245.

[3] See Midrash Tanchuma, parshat Naso 16.

[4] Brachot 35b cites the view of R. Ishmael as evaluated by Abaye.

[5] Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Deot 6:1; Shemoneh Perakim, ch. 4.

As taken from, http://rabbisacks.org/fear-of-freedom-shelach-lecha-5779/

by Rabbi Dr. Nathan Lopes Cardozo

In your writings, you quote both rabbis and philosophers. On the one hand, you draw your insights from great rabbis such as the Rambam, the Kotzker Rebbe, Rav Kook, Rav Abraham Joshua Heschel, and Rav Eliezer Berkovits. On the other hand, you seem to equally find inspiration from great philosophers such as Baruch Spinoza, Emmanuel Levinas, Franz Rosenzweig, and Martin Buber. Rabbis tend to focus on loyalty to tradition, while philosophers seem to feel freer to question and seek truth regardless of tradition. Rav Cardozo, do you see yourself more as a rabbi, or as a philosopher? And part two of this question: Do you think that having the official title of “Rabbi Cardozo” suppresses your true thoughts, or does it rather help to express them?

While I am proud to be called “Rabbi” Cardozo, I also feel handicapped by the title. First of all, it’s an enormous responsibility to be called “rabbi.” The moment you carry that title, you are held to higher moral standards than most other people, and you need to always be on your best behavior. People expect you to behave like an angel, which is extremely hard because at the end of the day you’re just a human being with all the limitations that go along with it. Who says I am able to live up to this? I do my best but I know my shortcomings. So this title of rabbi is somewhat unsettling.

But there is much more. As a rabbi, you are expected to toe the rabbinical party line. One has to comply with other “greater” and more influential rabbis and chief rabbis, and you’re not allowed to express your own ideas and halachic insights unless you work by the conventional guidelines established by most present-day halachists who have, in my humble opinion, a most narrow reading of Halacha.

This was not the case in the past, when it was taken for granted that there was freedom of expression and any rabbi could suggest his ideas without them being vetoed. Sure, he had to show that his arguments were based on a proper halachic argument and profound Talmudic scholarship. But that scholarship included minority opinions, unusual readings of the Talmud, the courage to state that some Talmudic rules no longer applied, and taking into account that the Talmud came into existence in a particular period in history. Later Halacha often veered from the Talmud’s rulings, sometimes to the extreme. (To study how far this went and to what extent Halacha has changed over the years since the days of the Talmud, the best sources are Menachem Elon’s four-volume work Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles, JPS, Philadelphia/Jerusalem, 5754/1994 and Louis Jacobs’ A Tree of Life: Diversity, Flexibility, and Creativity in Jewish Law, 2^nd edition, Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, London/Oregon, 2000)

Every halachic authority should read these and similar works, in order to have a profound understanding of what Halacha is all about and how it developed. (Yes, it developed! It is organic, and that is its vitality!)

Without that knowledge, it is entirely impossible to pasken (decide) Halacha correctly.

Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss the world of “Meta Halacha,” which gives much more attention to the ideological, theological, and religious dimensions of the world of Halacha and its application. To study that topic, see Philosophia shel Halacha (Hebrew), edited by Avinoam Rosenak, Machon Van Leer, Jerusalem, 2012; Masa el HaHalacha (Hebrew), edited by Amichai Berholtz, Yediot Acharonot, Jerusalem, 2003; Philosophia shel Halacha (Hebrew), edited by Aviezer Ravitzky and Avinoam Rosenak, Machon Van Leer, Jerusalem, 2008; and HaHalacha haNevu’it (Hebrew), edited by Avinoam Rosenak, Magnes, Jerusalem, 5766.

This open-mindedness was even truer regarding theological matters, where one could express almost any opinion as long as it wouldn’t undermine basic Jewish beliefs, which in themselves are very flexible and open to debate. Just think of the fundamental disagreements between Maimonides’ philosophical work Guide for the Perplexed and the celebrated Kuzari of Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi (c. 1075-1141). One should also not forget that Maimonides’ famous 13 principles of faith, in which he tried to establish dogmas, came under heavy fire and were never accepted as axiomatic. (See Marc B. Shapiro’s The Limits of Orthodox Theology: Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles Reappraised, Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, Oxford/Oregon, 2004 and Menachem Kellner’s Must a Jew Believe Anything?, 2^nd edition, Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2006.)

* * * * * *

Since I view all literature as a commentary on the Torah— because the Torah is the blueprint of the world—all philosophies, whether of Baruch Spinoza, Emmanuel Levinas, Franz Rosenzweig, or Martin Buber, are part of this blueprint and consequently must be able to fit into the great tradition called Judaism. One can bring everything back to Torah, and nothing has to be left out. Sure, it means that we have to think through some of these philosophers’ ideas, reformulate them, and expand on them, but ultimately they will find their way back to Torah. Even atheism has religious meaning. (See Alasdair Macintyre & Paul Ricoeur’s The Religious Significance of Atheism, Columbia University Press, NY, 1967)

Just take notice of the remarkable observation by the eminent Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi (1513-1586)—disciple of both Rabbi Yosef Karo (1488-1575), author of the Shulchan Aruch, and Rabbi Moshe Alshich (1508-c.1600)—who was a most original Torah commentator. He writes:

Concerning the faith in the (contemporary) human being, it is said in Parashat Nitzavim (Devarim 29:13-14) “And not with you alone do I establish this covenant…but with those who are here with us and with those who are not here with us today.” Therefore, each and every one of us, our children and grandchildren, until the conclusion of all the generations who have entered the covenant, are duty-bound to examine the secrets of the Torah and to straighten out our faith concerning it, by accepting the truth from whoever says it…. Nor should we be concerned about the logic of others—even if they preceded us—preventing our own individual investigation. Much to the contrary…. Just as (our forebears) did not wish to indiscriminately accept the truth from those who preceded them, and that which they did not choose (to accept) they rejected, so it is fitting for us to do…. Only on the basis of gathering many different opinions will the truth be tested. Thus, it is valuable to us to complete the views (of our predecessors) and to investigate (the meaning of the Torah) in accordance with our own mind’s understanding.

And even if in the course of investigation into the secrets of the Torah through our love for it, we err, it will not be judged against us, even as an unwitting thing, because our intent was for the sake of Heaven. But we shall be guilty if we desist from investigating the secrets of our Torah by declaring: The lions have already established supremacy, so let us accept their words as they are…. Rather, it is proper for us to investigate and analyze according to our understanding and to write our interpretations for the good of those who come after us, whether they will agree or not….

You must struggle to scale the heights and to understand our Torah…. and do not be dismayed by the names of the great personalities when you find them in disagreement with your belief; you must investigate and choose, because for this purpose were you created, and wisdom was granted you from Above, and this will benefit you…. (Sefer Ma’asei Hashem, Sha’ar Ma’aseh Torah, Parashat Balak, Merkaz HaSefer, Jerusalem, 2005).

Indeed, this sage wisdom is often forgotten in certain religious circles, a phenomenon that has been detrimental to the future of a living Judaism. Yes, there are rules of interpretation and nobody can just disagree with the foundations of Judaism. But within those very flexible parameters, the call to fresh thinking is fundamental in order to guarantee the Torah’s eternal message.

Now, however, a good part of the rabbinical establishment has decided that this is no longer the case. One must follow whatever Maimonides and the gedolei hador (great rabbis of our generation), and others say; even when it has nothing to do with Halacha and is purely aggadic or theological.

This is called Da’as Torah, a claim that in non-halachic matters these rabbis have a kind of prophetic insight that makes their philosophies and ideologies infallible and not to be questioned. It is a modern invention and as un-Jewish as can be. It’s unclear to me why this idea was suddenly introduced. Some of its critics maintain that it’s only to give these rabbis more authority and power. It probably became very popular because it functioned as an escape from thinking on your own, making your own decisions, and taking responsibility. It reminds me of the infallibility of the papacy and the theology of dogma as presented by the Church.

To me, all of this is unacceptable because my reading of authentic Judaism tells me that it’s completely untrue. Sure, I believe that there is something called “Torah inspired” and that prominent rabbis can give advice based on their understanding of the Torah. But this can include many opposing ideas; no one can claim that their idea is the only true prophetic one.

This relates to still another factor. As a rabbi, I am constantly being asked to defend the “rabbinical position” on a variety of subjects: Da’as Torah; the position of Israel’s Chief Rabbinate on some crucial issues, such as the aguna problem; giyur (conversion); homosexuality; the validity or illegality of a get (bill of divorce); the very need for a get; and more. I am absolutely not prepared to do that, because I vehemently oppose their attitudes on some of these matters, based on halachic sources.

This puts me in an awkward position. First of all, because these rabbis are my colleagues, some of them are even my friends, and I love and respect them. Secondly, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m out to undermine their positions and harm them financially. Or that I consider myself to be a greater halachist than they are. I’m not. But I cannot deny that I know many things they don’t know in the fields of halachic innovation and Jewish theology, which only few halachists have been educated in.

It reminds me of an observation once made by Chief Rabbi Joseph H. Hertz of England (1872-1946), a powerful and militant figure who was a great scholar but not an outstanding talmid chacham, in the conventional sense of the word. (It was said that he was in favor of resolving disagreements by calm discussion— when all other methods had failed!) He was speaking to his Av Beit Din (the head of his rabbinical court), the powerful Dayan Rabbi Yechezkel Abramsky (1886-1976), who in his earlier days was sentenced to five years hard labor in Siberia, where he composed Talmudic commentaries on translucent cigarette papers. I once read in a book or paper which, to my regret, I can no longer identify that Chief Rabbi Hertz said to Dayan Abramsky: It is no doubt true that you know a lot of Halacha that I do not know. But I know a lot of things (in the world of Jewish theology) that you do not know. And that is right to the point.

To a certain extent, this is my problem as well. No doubt I know much less Halacha than some great poskim do, but my reading of the nature of Halacha is very different. Showing me a source that opposes my halachic view doesn’t do much for me, because I know of other views and I know that one can approach such an opinion very differently than some conventional poskim do. That doesn’t diminish my respect for them, but I am definitely not prepared to state that I agree with them. I’ll explain their views to my students, with integrity, but to say that I agree with them would be dishonest.

I am constantly attacked by rabbis and other people who don’t take the time to read carefully what I write and therefore draw erroneous conclusions. Some of these rabbis should know better. They attack me for halachic opinions that they believe are anti-halachic, while in fact I have shown that I rely on renowned halachic authorities whose works and opinions they don’t know. They are guilty of selective reading and are not always honest.

Most important is the fact that I agree with Rabbi Yitz Greenberg that, since the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel, we are going through the birth pangs of a third epoch in Jewish history. See “The Third Era of Jewish History: Power and Politics,” in Perspectives, National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, New York, 1981, pp. 45-55. This means that radical changes will take place in the condition and nature of the Jewish people and in Orthodox Judaism and Halacha. While during the last 2,000 years Halacha was “exile-orientated” and “defensive,” we are slowly growing out of this.

It will therefore no longer be possible to apply “exile Halacha,” and sources that until now were the basis for Halacha will have to be replaced by new Orthodox / Israeli “prophetic” Halacha. The first signs of this are already taking place. See LeNevuchei HaDor by Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak Kook (1865-1935); Dor Revi’i by Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Glasner (1856-1924); Malki BaKodesh by Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn (1857-1935); and Halacha: Kocha v’Tafkida by Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits (1908-1992). All of these rabbis were outstanding Orthodox halachists of the past. They were grand visionaries who saw times changing and responded with remarkable erudition. And we see similar signs with great, present-day Orthodox halachists, such as Rabbi Professor Daniel Sperber and Rabbi David Bigman. Lately, many articles have been written on this topic. (See, for example, “Welcoming the Jewsraelis” by Alan Rosenbaum, The Jerusalem Post, June 23, 2019.)

I predict that in the next 50 years we’ll see a very different Orthodox Judaism appear. See my recent book, Jewish Law as Rebellion: A Plea for Religious Authenticity and Halachic Courage, Urim Publications, Jerusalem/New York, 2018.

I fully understand that I am a threat to my opponents because I stand for these “post-exile” halachic views, while contributing my own as well. It’s a difficult position to be in, since there is so much good in ultra- and modern-Orthodoxy that should not get lost. At the same time, we need to let go of some important but dated matters that are now starting to interfere and hurt the future of this new Orthodox Judaism. In fact, it seems that some Modern Orthodox rabbis are moving over to ultra-Orthodox views regarding Halacha and ideology on topics where they should precisely not be going.

I admit that there is one matter that may seriously challenge my views and those of my colleagues. It is something I struggle with in my own life: How will this new Orthodox Judaism be able to provide enough inspiration to our young people and ensure that they see their Judaism as the great passion of their lives? I believe that the writings of people like Rabbi Kook and Rabbi Shagar (1949-2007), as well as some others, will be able to help us out and show us the way.

My opponents will have to acquaint themselves with this new literature, halachic thinking and worldview, which they are clearly not aware of. Once they do so and come with clear reasoning to prove me and my colleagues wrong, I will be the first one to listen to them and declare defeat. So far, none of this has happened. Nor does it seem likely to happen anytime soon.

As taken from, https://mailchi.mp/cardozoacademy/ttp-1352929?e=ea5f46c325

Una persona mentirosa, niega la verdad, manipula sus relaciones personales, confunde, marea, lastima, defrauda y termina por destruir todas sus posibilidades para tener una buena vida. Finalmente, y sin pensar, a la primera persona que un mentiroso miente, es a sí mismo, y esa es la peor mentira que hay.

¿Por qué miente la gente?

Es difícil entender por qué mienten las personas. Desde luego que no es justo decir que todos mienten por una misma razón, sin embargo, hay algunas características que se encuentran presentes en la mayoría de las situaciones, cuando se trata de entender a las personas que mienten.

Una persona miente porque siente vergüenza de alguna mala decisión que tomó. Miente porque no tiene valor para enfrentar su realidad. Porque no se acepta a sí misma y siente la necesidad de fabricar otra personalidad con “mejores atributos” para poder impresionar. Porque quiere conseguir la atención, el cariño o el respeto de otras personas; o simplemente, porque quiere cumplir las expectativas de personas que ha defraudado en el pasado.

Hay personas que mienten porque no saben hablar con la verdad. Es decir, han crecido en un mundo turbio, lleno de mentiras y de traiciones, por lo que les es imposible distinguir la verdad de la falsedad. Estas personas mienten cada vez que tienen una buena oportunidad.

Se dice que hay ocasiones en las que se miente “para no ofender” o “para no faltar el respeto”. Para evitar herir los sentimientos de personas que, a pesar de sus buenas intenciones, su comida, sus combinaciones o sus elecciones no son las mejores.

También existen las personas que mienten por miedo. Temor a ser castigados o por incomodidad a confrontarse con una persona que los puede lastimar. Así, la mentira sirve como escudo y protección emocional.

Finalmente hay personas que mienten por lealtad o por ganase la confianza del núcleo equivocado de amigos.

Hay mentirosos elocuentes, ingeniosos e inteligentes que cuando mienten son profesionales, es imposible detectar la mentira. Dominan el uso de la palabra y conocen a la perfección a las personas que los escuchan.

Claro que también hay aquellos mentirosos que mienten y se les reconoce de inmediato ya que no tienen gracia, no tienen buena imaginación y además tienen mala memoria, se les olvida muy rápido lo que dijeron.

Tarde o temprano nadie les termina creyendo a los mentirosos. De hecho, nadie los escucha, porque, aunque en su mente su intención nunca fue lastimar, terminan causando más daño del que estaban preparados para manejar.

De hecho, el castigo más grande que un mentiroso puede tener es que aún en las ocasiones cuando dicen la verdad, ya nadie les cree.

Los mentirosos cavan su propia tumba, mienten, se creen sus propias mentiras y finalmente se terminan dañado a sí mismos, más que a los demás.

La receta: Valor para decir la verdad

Ingredientes:

• Responsabilidad – obligación con uno mismo para ser íntegro
• Conciencia – reconocer el daño que se puede evitar
• Fortaleza – para confrontar la realidad con honestidad
• Aceptación – tener valor para verse como uno es, las fortalezas y las debilidades
• Confianza en uno mismo – seguridad, amor propio y gratitud por quien uno es

Afirmación positiva para no caer en la mentira:

La verdad es una cualidad que me ayuda a enfrentar las situaciones difíciles de mi vida. Ser íntegro y reconocer la realidad que me toca vivir, me hace ser una persona valiosa y digna de ser respetada. Tengo el valor que necesito para hablar con la verdad y conducirme con integridad. Puedo hablar con la verdad, sin lastimar, ni ofender.

Como tratar con gente mentirosa:

1. A los mentirosos se les conoce y se les reconoce. Hay que tener cuidado para no caer en las trampas y en las manipulaciones de personas que tienen por costumbre platicar historias complicadas y relatar hechos heroicos o aventuras propias.
2. No hay que tenerle miedo a hablar con la verdad. Siempre se puede aprender a dialogar con claridad, delicadeza y prudencia sin tener que mentir para evitar lastimar.
3. Es importante cuidar las relaciones personales para no tener que mentir. Duele más una decepción y una traición, que poder hablar con la verdad y enfrentar la realidad por más dolorosa que sea.

“Si de verdad quieres a una persona NO le mientas, ni la defraudes, habla con honestidad y defiende tu dignidad”.

Segun tomado de, https://www.aishlatino.com/fm/recetas-para-la-vida/Como-tratar-con-un-mentiroso.html?s=mm

“Y Hashem habló a Moshé, para decir: Háblales a los hijos de Israel y diles: Al entrar a la tierra a donde Yo los llevo, sucederá que cuando coman del pan de la tierra deberán apartar una porción separada para Hashem. Lo primero de la masa de ustedes apartarán, una hogaza como porción separada, como la porción separada del silo, así la pondrán aparte. De lo primero de la masa le darán la porción separada a Hashem, a través de sus generaciones”(Bamidbar 15:17 – 21).

Esos versículos enseñan la mitzvá de jalá. Así como debemos separar el diezmo de todo lo producido y darle la porción apropiada al cohen (además de los otros diezmos que reciben el leví, los pobres, etc.), también debemos separar para diezmo una porción pequeña de cada hogaza (que tiene el tamaño requerido) y dársela al cohen. Esta porción del diezmo se denomina jalá, y la mitzvá de separarla se llama hafrashat jalá.

Rashi resalta la expresión “bevoajem el haáretz – al entrar a la tierra”. Por lo general, cuando la Torá se refiere a las mitzvot hatluiot baáretz utiliza la expresión “ki tavou -cuando entren. Rashi explica que esta discrepancia nos enseña que a diferencia de otras mitzvot que dependen de la tierra y que sólo comenzaron a tener efecto después de la conquista y de asentarnos allí, la mitzvá de jalá comenzó a tener efecto de inmediato, apenas entraron a la Tierra.

La pregunta obvia es: ¿a qué se debe esta distinción?

Al describir la mitzvá de jalá, el pasuk dice: “reshit arisoteijem, la primera de sus hogazas”. Nuestros Sabios explican que esta expresión implica que debe ser un pan propio, del que uno ya conoce su existencia. Sin embargo, en ese momento, los judíos aún no habían entrado a la tierra y no habían comenzado a hacer pan. Por lo tanto, dicen los Sabios, esto debe ser una referencia a la porción diaria de maná que recibían en el desierto. Los Sabios continúan explicando que esta correlación es para enseñarnos la cantidad de harina que debe tener la masa para que se deba separar de ella la porción de jalá. Sólo requiere hafrashat jalá una hogaza que tiene un tamaño igual o mayor al de las porciones de maná.

Podemos preguntar por qué se nos debía enseñarnos cuál es la cantidad necesaria de esta forma. ¿Por qué no decirnos explícitamente cuál es la cantidad?

La conclusión ineludible parece ser que Hashem deseaba que el acto de hafrashat jalá sirviera como un recordatorio constante del maná que recibimos en el desierto.

Mientras estuvimos en el desierto, nos sustentó completamente la gracia de Hashem; no necesitamos trabajar para obtener nuestra parnasá, nuestra manutención. En el desierto era absolutamente claro que Dios es el proveedor único y supremo.

Al pasar a una situación en la que debemos esforzarnos para ganarnos la vida, Hashem quiere que tengamos consciencia de que, en realidad, Él es Quien provee nuestra parnasá. Cuando nos esforzamos y nos concentramos en ganarnos la vida, existe el peligro real de llegar a olvidarnos de Hashem: “y dirás en tu corazón: ‘Es mi fortaleza y el poder de mi mano lo que acumuló para mí esta fortuna’” (1). Hafrashat jalá nos ayuda a recordar que esos pensamientos son falsos. A través de su esencia y su asociación con el maná, esta mitzvá declara: “y recordarás a Hashem tu Dios, porque Él es Quien te da fortaleza para acumular riqueza”(2).

El pan es el sustento básico del ser humano. Por lo tanto, consumir ese pan ganado con tanto sacrificio manifiesta, más que ninguna otra cosa, que el hombre se beneficia del fruto de su labor. Por eso el momento en que uno consume su pan es el momento crucial y decisivo para establecer la perspectiva y la conciencia adecuadas.

“Reshit arisoteijem – lo primero de la masa separarán”.

Antes de que se nos permita beneficiarnos del fruto de toda nuestra labor, se nos ordena separar una porción para Hashem, una porción que se le da al cohen y que nos recuerda que “A Hashem le pertenece el mundo y todo lo que hay en él” (3), y que en verdad Hashem es Quien nos provee nuestro sustento.

Con este enfoque, ahora podemos entender por qué esta mitzvá en particular entró en efecto apenas entramos a la Tierra de Israel.

Cuando entramos a la Tierra fue el momento crítico en que pasamos de tener todas nuestras necesidades satisfechas directamente por Hashem a una situación en la que debíamos comenzar a esforzarnos. En ese momento, estábamos obligados a comenzar a cumplir la mitzvá de conquistar la tierra, tomarla de las naciones que la ocupaban. Se nos ordenó crear un ejército y esforzarnos sistemáticamente para lograr el objetivo de conquistar la Tierra. Y, por supuesto, a medida que conquistaban cada porción de la tierra, seguramente algunas personas comenzaban a construir viviendas, a trabajar el suelo, etc., para que las mujeres y los niños (y todos los que no participaban en las batallas) pudieran tener un lugar en el que vivir y alimentos para comer.

Este cambio en la dinámica abrió la puerta a la posibilidad de que llegáramos a olvidar a Hashem. Por eso la mitzvá de jalá entró en efecto inmediatamente al entrar a la Tierra, para recordarnos constantemente la verdad de que “Hashem luchará por ustedes” (4) y de que Él es nuestro verdadero proveedor. Esto sirvió como un recordatorio inmediato y constante de que todos nuestros esfuerzos son simplemente eso, esfuerzos, pero que Hashem es Quien nos da el éxito.

Quizás con esto en mente, también podemos proponer un enfoque novedoso para entender la costumbre de hornear jalot (5) para Shabat, en cantidad suficiente para realizar hafrashat jalá.

Shabat es un momento en el que nos sentamos a la mesa, completamente relajados, junto a nuestra familia, a menudo también con huéspedes y amigos. En esta situación, la persona realmente puede disfrutar la bendición que tiene: todos visten sus mejores ropas, usan su mejor vajilla y sirven las delicias más exquisitas. “Mimarse” en Shabat de esta forma puede tener la consecuencia negativa de llevar a la persona a sentirse arrogante. Por supuesto, una de las ideas centrales del Shabat es que descansamos de las labores y reflexionamos sobre Hashem, que es el verdadero Proveedor, pero eso no cambia la realidad de que una persona pueda, jas veShalom, terminar cayendo en un proceso de pensamiento opuesto.

Por eso, para alentarnos a reflexionar en Shabat de la forma correcta, las mujeres judías, con su biná ieterá (entendimiento adicional), se comprometieron a hornear panes especiales para Shabat que requieren hafrashat jalá. De esta forma, cuando comenzamos las seudot de Shabat disfrutando las jalot especiales del día (6), recordamos que debemos conservar y refrescar nuestra conciencia de que Hashem es el Proveedor verdadero.

Notas:

1. Parashat Ékev (Devarim 8:17).

2. Ibíd., 18.

3. Tehilim 24:1.

4. Shemot, parashat Beshalaj 14:14, Devarim 1:30.

5. Parece obvio que esta es también la razón por la que llamamos jalá al pan especial que comemos en Shabat: porque la costumbre principal es hacer jalot del tamaño necesario para realizar hafrashat jalá.

6. Coloquialmente no se le llama jalá a la porción separada, que es técnicamente la jalá, sino a los panes que comemos. Está prohibido comer la porción separada y, en la actualidad, debe ser desechada porque se asume que ninguna persona está ritualmente pura y, por lo tanto, tampoco el cohen la puede comer.

Segun tomado de, https://www.aishlatino.com/tp/i/reflexiones/No-depende-de-ti-depende-de-Dios.html?s=mm

Cuanto más Torá aprendía, más entendía que el objetivo del judaísmo es cambiar por completo al mundo.

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En la universidad fui un activista.

Organicé, protesté, participé en manifestaciones, grité y sostuve carteles por causas en las que creía. En mi tiempo libre pegué anuncios, repartí panfletos y escribí artículos editoriales para alentar a otros a interesarse en las causas que yo defendía.

El activismo se convirtió en mi pasión, mi filosofía, mi círculo social, mi visión del mundo.

El activismo me cambió e impactó mi forma de vida. Desde los libros que leía y los alimentos que consumía, hasta los productos que compraba (o no compraba). Fue la primera vez en mi vida que invertí todo mi ser en algo.

Sin embargo, después de muchos años de trabajar para lograr un cambio social en una variedad de frentes (liberar al Tíbet, limpieza étnica en Bosnia, problemas del medio ambiente, etc.), sentí un gran desgaste. Estaba abrumado. A veces incluso me deprimía.

Cuando abres tus ojos a los problemas de nuestro mundo, cuando llegas a ser casi un experto en detectar los males de la sociedad que te rodea, es difícil no sentirse de esa forma.

Adonde miraba, siempre veía algo mal. Otra cosa que los humanos arruinaban. Otro problema que había que tratar de arreglar. Otra manifestación a la que debía asistir para despertar al mundo de su aletargamiento.

Aunque sabía que el activismo social era mi pasión y lo que se debía hacer, también sabía que esa forma de vida no era sustentable.

Entonces, a los 20 años, descubrí el Shabat. Y todo cambió.

Me convertí en una nueva clase de persona; y en una nueva clase de activista.

De repente apareció una visión más general. Una imagen diferente. Un contexto más amplio. Y una forma diferente de trabajar en pos del cambio social.

Conectarme con el Shabat fue la puerta que me permitió explorar más profundamente mis raíces judías y, eventualmente, me llevó a elegir un estilo de vida basado en los rituales y las leyes del judaísmo. Al aprender más sobre el contenido de la Torá, comencé a entender que la larga lista de obligaciones y prohibiciones de la Torá era, en realidad, un sistema cuidadosamente diseñado cuyo objetivo supremo es cambiar radical y completamente el mundo en que vivimos. Dar inicio a una era en la que toda la humanidad vivirá con más compasión y con una mayor conciencia espiritual.

Como judíos, debemos ser activistas en todo momento, y continuamente nos vemos enfrentados a oportunidades para generar un impacto positivo en el mundo que nos rodea.

Con este entendimiento comprendí que, en esencia, el judaísmo es un movimiento de activismo, quizás el mayor que alguna vez haya existido. Porque el judaísmo considera que el cambio social no sólo tiene lugar en eventos organizados como protestas, marchas y manifestaciones, sino que el trabajo para mejorar nuestro mundo debe realizarse cada día, a cada hora y en cada minuto. Como judíos, debemos ser activistas en todo momento, y continuamente nos vemos enfrentados a oportunidades para generar un impacto positivo en el mundo que nos rodea.

En el epicentro de todo, estaba el Shabat. El día judío de descanso que, probablemente, sea la más radical de las leyes y costumbres judías. Y la más esencial para la acción social.

El Shabat viene a recordarnos que debe haber un momento en el que simplemente nos detenemos y descansamos. Dejar de hacer todas las cosas que hacemos constante, regular y rutinariamente durante la semana. La interminable lista de quehaceres, la perpetua “tan sólo una cosa más” que simplemente tenemos que hacer, el constante ir y venir, incluso si todo esto está dirigido hacia el cambio social y la mejora del planeta. El Shabat nos permite retirarnos a un estado de existencia desacelerada, para recuperar nuestra energía y motivación para continuar haciendo el trabajo necesario para hacer de nuestro mundo un lugar mejor.

El Shabat es un momento para ser humildes y recordar que no todo gira a nuestro alrededor. Que el mundo puede existir sin nuestra constante intervención e interferencia. Que somos sólo una pequeña pieza en un rompecabezas gigante, que sólo tenemos un rol más en medio de una larga lista de personajes. Un día a la semana de disminución de acción puede ayudarnos a contemplar esa imagen más amplia de la que los humanos somos parte y, como resultado, entender mejor nuestro rol único en ella.

El Shabat es un tiempo de introspección. Un tiempo para mirarnos honestamente a nosotros mismos. Para evaluarnos. Para juzgar con amor nuestras acciones. Para hacer los ajustes necesarios y alinear mejor nuestros pensamientos, habla y acciones con el mundo que queremos ver y que tratamos de generar. Para asegurar que quién, cómo y qué somos sea un fiel reflejo del cambio que queremos ver en el mundo. Para recordarnos que nuestro crecimiento personal es crucial en el proceso de mejorar al mundo. Al esforzarnos para reparar nuestras imperfecciones, contribuimos a la reparación de nuestro mundo imperfecto.

A través de las plegarias del Shabat atestiguamos que el Shabat es un zéjer lemaasé bereshit, un recordatorio del acto de la Creación. Estas tres palabras contienen el más profundo secreto del Shabat y su conexión con la acción social. Por ser humanos, tendemos a olvidar. Desde el lugar donde dejamos las llaves del auto hasta la razón por la que fuimos creados e incluso por qué existe el mundo. El Shabat evoca un distante recuerdo de los comienzos mismos de la creación, un recuerdo grabado profundamente en nuestra psiquis, para reconectarnos con el objetivo original del mundo. Al recordar cómo debía ser el mundo, y cómo podría ser, recordamos lo que podemos hacer para tener un rol activo en el proceso de tikún olam, de reparar el mundo.

En el kidush del viernes a la noche decimos que el Shabat es zéjer leietziat Mitzráim, un recordatorio de la salida de Egipto. ¿Cuál es la conexión entre el Shabat y el éxodo judío de la esclavitud ocurrido hace unos 3500 años? Entre otras cosas, esto “utiliza” al Shabat como un recordatorio del sufrimiento pasado de nuestro pueblo para inspirarnos a tener consciencia del sufrimiento de otras personas en el mundo actual. Recordar que en medio de la vorágine de nuestra realidad cotidiana no deberíamos estar ciegos ni sordos ante quienes sufren opresión, persecución o maltrato. Que ser judío es un acto de equilibrio entre fortalecer y cuidar a Am Israel y mantener los ojos abiertos al mundo, para ver cómo podemos ayudar también a otros con sus sufrimientos y dificultades.

El Shabat nos obliga a detener las publicaciones en las redes sociales y nuestras críticas a la sociedad, y prestar atención a lo que ya es hermoso, inspirador y completo en el mundo.

En la universidad entendí que los miembros de una comunidad de activistas estábamos, por definición, siempre luchando contra de algo: en contra de lo que considerábamos equivocado o malvado, enojados ante la injusticia que prevalece en la sociedad. Pero era muy raro que nos detuviéramos para celebrar lo que realmente queríamos ver en el mundo y lo que ya era realmente bueno. El Shabat nos obliga, cada semana, a hacer exactamente eso. A detener el griterío y las marchas, las publicaciones en las redes sociales y nuestras críticas a la sociedad, y nos permite prestar atención a lo que ya es hermoso, inspirador y completo en el mundo. A agradecer por lo que tenemos y reconocer las abundantes bendiciones que nos rodean. El Shabat nos entrena a tener un “buen ojo”, a ver lo bueno que nos rodea, lo que a su vez nos ayuda a no vernos consumidos ni paralizados por los profundos problemas de nuestro mundo y a fortalecer nuestra esperanza en que un día la oscuridad que existe hoy se transformará en luz.

La idea está resumida en una línea de una canción popular de Shabat, que dice que Shabat es meein olam habá, que nos permite sentir el sabor del Mundo Venidero. A nivel espiritual, nos da una impresión, un indicio, un vistazo de lo que será el mundo cuando todo haya sido reparado y corregido. Es como si el Shabat viniera del futuro una vez a la semana para decirnos: “Sí, llegaremos allí y será parecido a esto”. Esto tiene un potencial gigante para mantenernos en el camino, para que no renunciemos ni cedamos y para fortalecer nuestra creencia en que, sí, un día triunfaremos.

El Shabat es el “día libre” perfecto para los activistas, libre de su activismo regular. Toma un descanso. Haz una pausa. Celebra lo bueno. Pero, más que eso, el Shabat es un poderoso “día de actividad” que nos permite afectar al mundo de formas diferentes, más sutiles, más reflexivas, personales y espirituales. Y comprender que dar cada semana un paso al costado y dejar nuestras acciones cotidianas puede llegar a ser lo mejor que podemos hacer por el mundo.

Segun tomado de, https://www.aishlatino.com/e/oe/El-Shabat-como-activismo-social.html?s=mm

por Alicia Korenbrot

Henry Louis Bergson, el segundo de siete hijos, de padre polaco y madre inglesa, ambos judíos, nació el 18 de octubre de 1859 en Paris, su vida fue un cumulo de aventuras y triunfos espectaculares. Fue el primero en elaborar una filosofía de proceso y no de búsqueda de verdades absolutas, de valores estáticos, buscaba una filosofía de cambio y evolución. Muy admirado en todo el mundo tuvo enorme influencia en la primera mitad del Siglo XX en la filosofía, en el arte. Maestro en estilo literario, tanto de atractivo académico como popular, recibió el premio Nobel en literatura en 1927 “en reconocimiento a su rico y fecundo ideario, expuesto con excepcional brillantez.” Años más tarde se comentó:” La popularidad del idealismo bergsoniano a principios del siglo XX….y la sustancial identidad del sistema de Bergson con el espíritu de Nobel salva de su aparente incongruencia la decisión de la Academia Sueca en conceder un premio de literatura a un filósofo.

En su filosofía, Bergson distingue dos modos profundamente diferentes de conocer: el método analítico característico de las ciencias y el método intuitivo informado por una simpatía intelectual que permite penetrar en el objetivo e identificarse con él. Todas las verdades metafísicas se pueden adquirir por intuición filosófica, por ella se llega a conocer el ser más profundo y la esencia de lo nuevo, lo que llamo duración o espíritu vital que mantienen el agente creativo en el mundo. Fue de los pensadores más inteligentes de finales de siglo XIX y principios del XX. Su fama decreció después de la II Guerra Mundial para volver a la primera plana, en especial, por su concepto de multiplicidad que encuentra la unificación por continuidad. En el presente se le considera revolucionario porque despeja el camino a una re-conceptuación de la comunidad. Revolucionario porque pone el pensamiento en contacto con la realidad finita, se puede alcanzar un orden intrínseco que es uno e idéntico con el orden experimentado en la vida misma. Afirma la creación como un continúo buscando una secuencia intuitiva más que lógica. En esa secuencia lo real es esencialmente positivo, obedece a cierta clase de organización de multiplicidad cualitativa. La intuición coincide con el espíritu y eventualmente con la vida misma, unifica la simplicidad del espíritu y la diversidad del cuerpo unificando el espíritu con la diversidad de la materia. Es una filosofía que se puede colocar en el impulso creativo y reestablece lo absoluto del conocimiento definido por su coincidencia con el llegar a ser absoluto.

Fue un alumno excepcional. Originalmente se dedicó a las matemáticas, ganó el prestigioso premio “Concourse General”, pero prefirió dedicarse a la literatura y las humanidades, inscribiéndose en la Escuela Normal Superior de Paris.

Se graduó en 1881 y se distinguió en filosofía. Fue maestro en el Liceo y en la universidad de Clermont-Fernand durante cinco años. Su primera publicación apareció en La Revista Filosófica, un ensayo sobre psicología adelantándose a Freud y Breuer.

En 1888 presento dos tesis doctorales: Ensayo sobre los Datos Inmediatos de la Conciencia, publicada un año más tarde como libro, Tiempo y Libre Voluntad. La segunda fue en latín como era requerido, Concepción del Tiempo en Aristóteles.

A diferencia de la fenomenología donde la multiplicidad de fenómenos se relaciona siempre en una conciencia unificadora, en Bergson los datos inmediatos de la conciencia son una multiplicidad y propone para definir la conciencia, la libertad, diferenciar entre espacio y tiempo; los datos son temporales, tienen duración, no hay causalidad mecánica. La duración es multiplicidad cualitativa no cuantitativa, se exteriorizan en un espacio homogéneo, es movilidad no mezcla y la libertad es movilidad. No hay dos momentos idénticos en la conciencia, por la memoria la duración tiene movimiento, no admite imágenes que carecen de movimiento. La serie de datos de lo que es otro es lo que constituye el método de la intuición, en la memoria el dualismo materia-espíritu se vuelve monismo en el movimiento de la duración.

Su segundo libro se publicó en 1896, Materia y Memoria, por su importancia lo nombraron miembro del Colegio de Francia. En 1898 recibió la Catedra de Filosofía en la Escuela Normal Superior y se rehusó a participar en los debates del Caso Dreyfuss.

Su libro, La Risa: Un Ensayo en el Significado de lo Cómico, apareció en 1900 y Bergson mereció la asignatura de la Catedra de Filosofía Antigua en el Colegio de Francia. Fue el principio de su gran fama. El libro responde a la tendencia de racionalizar lo aparentemente efímero y subjetivo para afirmar lo que reta al sentido común. La risa no expresa emoción, nadie ríe solo, pero, sin embargo, participa de una lógica inevitable.

El éxito del libro se debe al estudio de lo cómico y su novedad, a lo que trata incidentalmente, cuestiones importantes como una teoría general del arte. Además, es parte de la evolución del modernismo.Bergson no quiere aprisionar lo cómico en una d efinición, lo considera, sobre todo, una cosa viva. Por trivial que sea, lo trata con el respeto debido a la vida. El espíritu tiene una lógica propia, admite que suena, pero en sus sueños arma visiones que son aceptadas y entendidas por un grupo social. La risa alumbra una forma del funcionamiento de la imaginación nacida de la vida real y cercana al arte. Son tres los factores que descubre:

Lo cómico no existe fuera del marco estrictamente humano; descansa en una ausencia de sentimientos, parece que lo cómico tiene efecto en un alma que está en calma, la indiferencia es su ámbito natural, se dirige a la inteligencia, pura y simplemente. Esta inteligencia debe estar en contacto con otras inteligencias y este es el tercer factor, debe tener significado social, su medio natural es la sociedad, también su utilidad. Los tres factores convergen cuando un grupo de hombres concentra su atención en uno de ellos, imponiendo silencio a sus emociones y llamando a la inteligencia.

En 1903 publicó en la prestigiosa Revista de Metafísica un artículo: Introducción a la Metafísica, reproducido años más tarde en su libro La Mente Creativa y marcó el principio del bergsonismo y su influencia en el cubismo, la literatura y el pragmatismo de Estados Unidos.

La fuente de la leyenda bergsoniana fue la Evolución Creativa publicado en 1907, causó múltiples controversias y culminó en un culto. Sus clases en el Colegio Normal se llenaban, allí estaba la generación de filósofos y poetas jóvenes. En la Evolución Creativa distingue dos sentidos opuestos en la vida: 1} el movimiento absoluto temporal informado por la duración y sostenido por la memoria. 2} las necesidades practicas impuestas por el cuerpo y presentes en nuestro modo habitual de conocer en términos espaciales. La creación activa expone la continuidad de todo ser vivo –como creatura- y la discontinuidad implícita en la cualidad evolutiva de esta creación. Ambos se pueden conciliar examinando la vida real en cuatro pasos: 1, como causa, el impulso general común, su famoso impulso vital, elan vital. 2, un principio de divergencia y diferenciación que explica la evolución, 3, las dos tendencias divergentes se pueden identificar como instinto e inteligencia, la inteligencia no puede alcanzar la esencia de la vida, en cambio el instinto permite volver al impulso creativo original y vencer los obstáculos en el camino al conocimiento verdadero. Inteligencia e instinto coinciden, aunque sea parcialmente con el impulso vital original, fundamentando, finalmente, en 4, la intuición.

En 1913 viajó a Estados Unidos a impartir un curso en la Universidad de Columbia. El New York Times publicó un artículo sobre Bergson que despertó tal entusiasmo entre sus lectores que causó el primer embotellamiento en Broadway camino a la universidad. Ese año, en Londres, fue electo presidente de la Sociedad de Investigaciones Psíquicas. Su prestación se tituló “Fantasmas de la investigación Viva y Psíquica”. Al año siguiente fue electo miembro de la Academia Francesa, el primer miembro judío en su historia. Continuó con sus clases regulares mientras su fama internacional seguía creciendo. Viajó a Edimburgo para un curso especial en la universidad y terminó el año con la reacción de la Iglesia Católica opuesta a la teoría evolucionista que condenó la filosofía de Bergson.

Empezó la I Guerra Mundial y Bergson entró a la política: viajo a España en 1917 y, lo más importante, el gobierno francés lo mandó a Estados Unidos como emisario diplomático a reunirse con el presidente Wilson, sabía que la paz solo podía llegar de Washington.D.C. Después de su viaje dijo: “He vivido horas inolvidables, la humanidad parece transfigurada…Francia fue salvada, fue la alegría más grande de mi vida.”

También trabajo con el gobierno de Wilson para formar la Liga de las Naciones que incluiría representantes de todas las naciones con el objeto de establecer y mantener la paz. La liga existió hasta 1946 cuando fue reemplazada por las Naciones Unidas.

Bergson se hizo más famoso por su acción política. En 1919 publico Energía de la Mente y se retiró del magisterio. En ’22 fue nombrado presidente de la Comisión Internacional para la Cooperación Intelectual, precursora de la UNESCO, participó en un debate con Einstein, publico sus reflexiones en Duración y Simultaneidad, calificado y controvertido como “crisis de la razón”.

En los años siguientes, Bergson enfermó de artritis severa que lo forzó a retirarse de la vida pública. En 32 sorprendió a todos con la publicación de su último libro, fue de los más importantes: Las dos Fuentes de la Moralidad y la Religión, causando nuevos debates.

Las dos fuentes de la moralidad y la religión son: Una moralidad cerrada cuya religión es estática y una moralidad abierta cuya religión es dinámica. La primera se ocupa de cohesión social, es una especie natural de individuos que no pueden vivir solos, sus necesidades son la fuente de esta moral. Es una forma de la imaginación que crea ‘alucinaciones voluntarias’, asegurando una obediencia estricta y cohesión social. La segunda coincide con la creatividad y el progreso que incluyen a todos, es universal y su objetivo es la paz, su fuente son las ‘emociones creativas’, en ellas se tiene el sentimiento que después crea la representación.

Al lado de la fuerza del hábito y la obligación hay una segunda fuerza que Bergson llama ‘el ímpetu del amor’, una emoción creativa como la alegría o la simpatía que debe ser explicada en acción y representación. Creación y cohesión se mezclan en la razón que puede entrenar a la voluntad, la idea exige su realización porque las dos fuerzas son manifestaciones complementarias de la vida.
En 1934 se publicó la colección de sus ensayos en La Mente Creativa.

Corrió un rumor de que se había convertido, pero su esposa, su viuda, aclaró que era falso, Bergson dijo en su oportunidad: “me habría convertido al catolicismo si no hubiera visto durante muchos años la gran ola de anti-semitismo preparándose para expandirse por el mundo.”

Cuando los nazis llegaron a Paris, el gobierno de Vichy le ofreció exención de las regulaciones anti-semitas, Bergson lo rechazó. Quería ser judío como todos los judíos. En su silla de ruedas hacia las colas necesarias…También se dice que el resfrío que causó su muerte se originó mientras esperaba en la cola para registrarse como judío.
Henry Bergson murió el 4 de junio de 1941 en Paris.

Aparentemente, su testamento pedía que todos sus trabajos fueran quemados y su esposa cumplió quemando todos sus papeles. Sus archivos en París solo tienen los libros de su biblioteca personal a diferencia de los archivos masivos de otros filósofos inmortales.

Después de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, la filosofía de Bergson se debilitó con las inquietudes de los nuevos filósofos y la influencia de la filosofía alemana, la filosofía de Bergson sirvió y sirve a la rebelión contra la fenomenología con su conceptos de multiplicidad, de duración y misticismo que no armonizan con la fenomenología en boga y su crítica de la negación tan importante en la dialéctica. Sobre todo, porque el pensamiento Bergson es una alternativa en la cuestión de la vida misma y no la vuelta a la cuestión del ser; más la idea de la multiplicidad de una comunidad futura donde está la influencia siempre presente de la sociedad abierta y la paz.

Segun tomado de, https://diariojudio.com/ticker/la-filosofia-de-la-vida/300925/

In your writings, you quote both rabbis and philosophers. On the one hand, you draw your insights from great rabbis such as the Rambam, the Kotzker Rebbe, Rav Kook, Rav Abraham Joshua Heschel, and Rav Eliezer Berkovits. On the other hand, you seem to equally find inspiration from great philosophers such as Baruch Spinoza, Emmanuel Levinas, Franz Rosenzweig, and Martin Buber. Rabbis tend to focus on loyalty to tradition, while philosophers seem to feel freer to question and seek truth regardless of tradition. Rav Cardozo, do you see yourself more as a rabbi, or as a philosopher? And part two of this question: Do you think that having the official title of “Rabbi Cardozo” suppresses your true thoughts, or does it rather help to express them? 

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Nathan Lopes Cardozo:

Now, I’m going to make an unexpected switch. I know that I’m running the risk of having some readers not understand what I’m trying to get at, having them accuse me of arrogance, and even infuriating them. Still, I’ll take that risk for reasons that I will try to explain:

I often wonder how I would have done had I been the pope. Yes, that’s a strange question to ask. But I believe I would have done pretty well. The reason is obvious. There is no greater spiritual business opportunity than the papacy. The Catholic Church consists of 1.2 billion people spread throughout the world. When you follow the life of Pope John Paul II (1920-2005), you can see how great is the power of speech and how many people you can bring into “the faith.” John Paul was larger than life and possessed unusual charisma. He was known as “the flying pope,” because much of his time was spent in airplanes that took him to every corner of the world to preach the gospel. When you watch the massive Masses he conducted, where a gathering of a million—largely consisting of young people—was considered a small crowd, or if you see what happened at St. Peter’s Square in Rome when he appeared for the first time as pope, or how millions of people including non-Catholics came to bid him farewell after he died, you are utterly astonished by the outpouring of religious spontaneity, emotional responses, and spiritual upheaval.

This is unprecedented. The same seems to happen with the current Pope Francis. He, too, has a great deal of charisma; and his humility and desire to live an austere life makes him extremely popular and influential.

One must realize that the pontificate was originally founded on the position of the Kohein Gadol (High Priest) in the days of the Temple in Yerushalayim. Later on, the Church disconnected it from the position of High Priest and transferred it to Peter in the New Testament. So that’s really a later invention to avoid admitting that the papacy has its roots in Judaism, and is an attempt to reject Judaism in its entirety. While the High Priest was to primarily serve the Jewish people, the truth is that his task was to serve all of humankind, since the Temple was to be a place where all the nations of the world could worship God (Yeshayahu 56: 6-7); and it was the Kohein Gadol who stood at the center of the Temple service.

However blasphemous this may sound, the Kohein Gadol was to be the original pope. Basically, the papacy is a Jewish function, tasked not with the mission of spreading the gospel, but rather promulgating monotheism, morality and the Torah, as far as it is applicable to the non-Jewish world. I therefore claim that, while I doubt I have the charisma of John Paul II, or of Francis, I could have done a reasonable job as a Jewish pope. And so could other rabbis.

In fact, I can think of rabbis of the past and present who could have done a much better job than I could ever do: Maimonides, Rav Kook, Rav Abraham Joshua Heschel and, lehavdil ben chayim lechayim, Rav Yitz Greenberg, one of the most important Orthodox rabbis in the United States and, sadly, almost completely unknown in Israel. (By the way, Rav Kook was a Kohein, and so is Rav Greenberg. I, however, am not!)

Although I am not a follower of Chabad, I believe that the last Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson z”l, would have been an excellent candidate. While he was a fervent traditionalist, he possessed a messianic and universal vision in which Judaism would play an important role in the future. Not only did he build the largest Jewish outreach program worldwide, which despite its shortcomings was and is remarkably successful even after his passing, but his shlichim (emissaries) are to be found in every corner of the world. (Not much different from the Catholic Church, but on a much smaller scale!) Moreover, he constantly emphasized the need to make contact with the non-Jewish world and promulgate “the seven mitzvot of Noach,” as expressed by the sages in the Talmud and by Maimonides (Sanhedrin 56a-60b, and Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Melachim 8:10; 10:12). These laws may be called the “Ten Commandments” for the non-Jewish world. They are the basis of all monotheistic morality and played an enormous role in the development of international law. (See the works of the great non-Jewish jurists: Hugo Grotius’s De Jure Belli ac Pacis, 1625, and John Selden’s De Jure Naturali et Gentium Juxta Disciplinam Ebraeorum, 1640.) The Rebbe asked President Ronald Reagan to publicly emphasize these seven commandments, which the president did on April 4, 1982, in celebration of the Rebbe’s 80th birthday.

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However, the truth is that over time the Kohein Gadol was unable to do the job. There are several reasons for this.

Firstly, the position of High Priest was compromised in the days after Yehudah the Maccabee, when it was taken over by the Hasmonean dynasty in defiance of Jewish law. After the Roman conquest (63 BCE), and especially during Herod’s rule (37-4 BCE), the position of Kohein Gadol deteriorated and ultimately became a political tool in the hands of the Romans. It later fell into the hands of the Sadducees who rejected the Oral Law, after which the sages of Israel denied it any authority.

Secondly, convincing the non-Jews to accept pure monotheism was a very difficult, if not impossible, task. It required enormous manpower and power of persuasion, which the Jews were unable to provide. The non-Jewish, hedonistic world was deeply committed to idol worship. It just could not buy into pure, uncompromising monotheism. Nor were they ready to accept the moral values taught by the Torah, because they were deeply rooted in unethical practices including (possible) child sacrifices and other abominable rituals.

Thirdly, the Jews themselves had great difficulty extricating themselves from every form of idolatry and immoral practice, and they just could not muster the strength to take up this task of spreading monotheism and morality with the High Priest at its center. They also suffered from severe infighting and consequently didn’t have the time or energy to turn outward and focus on the non-Jewish world.

Somewhere along the way, we Jews lost the plot and left it to the non-Jews and the Church to take over. Instead of the High Priest or the chief rabbi becoming the pope, the task was left to a non-Jew. This is not a kind of “replacement theology”—as the Church wanted to see it—by which the Jews stopped being the Chosen People, but a “theology of missed opportunity.”

There may however be another primary reason why the task of High Priest fell into the hands of the pope. As mentioned before, the hedonistic world just could not fully accept monotheism and its ethical values. It was still too grounded in modes of idol-worship and immoral practices. The famous concept of Maimonides in relation to sacrifices in the Temple is that one cannot just go from one extreme to the other overnight and completely abolish sacrifices, which the (non-)Jewish world was originally used to as a major expression of religiosity. Based on this concept, a compromise to human weakness was necessary, and sacrifices were still permitted, but this time in the service of God (see A Guide for the Perplexed, 3:32), with the hope that one day it would just vanish.

One could argue that Catholicism is built on the Maimonidean concept of compromise due to human weakness. It provided and still provides a compromised kind of monotheism, which includes ideas such as the trinity and incarnation.

It was therefore not possible for the Kohein Gadol to take on the task of what would later be the pope’s, since there was one thing that Judaism could never compromise on and that was unadulterated monotheism. To put it differently: Judaism could never allow a compromised monotheism, even as an intermediate stage, and even if it was due to human weakness. It may have permitted this (according to Maimonides) with the sacrifices, but not with something as fundamental as monotheism. So it had to leave this to the Church and the papacy, until the Church would grow out of these beliefs and practices. I would even argue that “this was from God” (Tehillim 118:23). And so it fell into the hands of the Catholic Church and the pope, with the hope that one day they would grow out of these ideas (I think there are already signs of this) and would give up on these beliefs.

Then, the papacy would return to its original task, which means returning to its full glory by way of the High Priest. In other words: The pope is a compromised and diluted Kohein Gadol; and once the Church purifies itself from its weaknesses, it will have to return this task to the real High Priest in Yerushalayim.

This is closely related to the fact that—to use an expression by Rabbi Yitz Greenberg—we may be living (since the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel) in the third epoch of Jewish history, which requires a new approach to religion, Halacha, and our attitude toward gentiles. It seems that the Lubavitcher Rebbe was aware of this, at least to a certain degree. (For a comprehensive overview of Rabbi Greenberg’s ideas, see A Torah Giant: The Intellectual Legacy of Rabbi Dr. Irving (Yitz) Greenberg, ed. Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz, Ktav-Urim Publications, Jerusalem/New York, 2018. See also LeNevuchei HaDor by Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak Kook.)

It is important to mention that whether there will indeed be a third Temple built on the Temple Mount is a matter of debate. It may be a metaphysical concept with no physical manifestation (See Rabbi Ovadia Sforno on Shemot 25:9 s.v. ve-chein ta’asu). Whether this will affect the position of the Kohein Gadol is unclear. That position may slowly transform into the role of the Mashiach. But we’ll have to leave that discussion for another time.

Well, I still have not answered all your questions, so we’ll continue next week.

As taken from, https://mailchi.mp/cardozoacademy/ttp-1352921?e=ea5f46c325

A yeshivah is a place where Jews gather to study Torah and rabbinic traditions. Originally referring to an academy for advanced scholars, today the term also refers to Jewish elementary schools where Judaic studies comprise a significant portion of the curriculum.

History of the Yeshivah

According to tradition, the institution of the yeshivah predates even the giving of the Torah. Shem and Eber (Noah’s son and grandson) led a yeshivah, in which Abraham,1 Isaac,2 and Jacob3 all studied. Accordingly, before Jacob and his clan relocated to Egypt, he sent Judah to establish a yeshivah there as well.4

After the Torah was given, the yeshivah was where the Torah and the oral traditions were passed on from generation to generation. During the Second Temple era, there were large yeshivot led by the great sages of the day. The teachings of these academies were recorded in the Mishnah, Midrash, Gemara and other texts from that period.

This continued even after the Jewish people were exiled. As the Jewish community in the Holy Land truncated, the yeshivot of Bavel (modern day Iran and Iraq) rose in prominence as centers of Jewish scholarship.

During the period of the Rishonim (approximately 1000-1500 CE) they were replaced by yeshivot in Spain (Sepharad) and France-Germany (Ashkenaz).

In many communities, the rabbi of the city also led a yeshivah. These were often ad hoc affairs, in which students studied in a small annex to the rabbi’s home or the local synagogue.

The Yeshivah Movement

Throughout the 19^th century, a new wave of yeshivot opened in Central and Eastern Europe. With official staff, curricula, and study halls, they infused Torah study with purpose, dedication, and pride. Notable examples include the Volozhin Yeshivah—a template which was duplicated all over Lithuania, and the Pressburg Yeshivah—in what is now Bratislava—which left an indelible mark upon Austro-Hungarian Jewry.

In 1896, Rabbi Shalom Dov Ber Schneersohn, the fifth Chabad Rebbe, opened a unique yeshivah in the Russian city of Lubavitch, where, in addition to the long hours dedicated to Talmud and Jewish law, a significant part of the day—morning and evening—was devoted to the study of Chassidic teachings. This yeshivah has spawned the many Chabad yeshivot one now sees all over the world (including the underground network of Chabad yeshivot that operated in the Soviet Union) .

Important Yeshivah Terms

Mesivta: The Aramaic word for yeshivah is metivta (or mesivta in Ashkenazi pronunciation). In many circles, mesivta may be used as a proper noun as part of the name of a given yeshivah, but it is not used as a generic term referring to a place of Torah study. In Chabad parlance, mesivta refers to a yeshivah ketanah (“small yeshivah”) for high school students.

Beit Midrash: (beis medrash in Ashkenazi pronunciation) means “house of study.” Unlike the synagogue, where the primary activity is praying, the beit midrash is used mostly for Torah study, although praying happens there as well. In addition to referring to the actual study space, it often refers to a yeshivah for older, post high school students, also known as a “yeshivah gedolah.”

Kollel: Literally “collective,” a kollel is a yeshivah program for married men, who often receive a small stipend to facilitate their devotion to Torah study.

Who Is Who in the Yeshivah?

Rosh Yeshivah: The “head of the academy,” the rosh yeshivah may teach all students or only the more accomplished scholars.

Mashgiach: The “supervisor” is responsible for the performance and wellbeing of yeshivah students. In some yeshivahs, the mashgiach may address the students regularly.

Mashpia: In the Chabad yeshivah system, many of the responsibilities associated with the mashgiach are in the domain of the mashpia (“giver”), who teaches the students Chassidic texts and provides guidance in matters of spiritual advancement and personal development.

Menahel: The director may be responsible for student admissions, logistics, policy decisions, and generally ensuring that everything is running well.

Talmid: Hebrew for “student,” the talmid is the backbone of the yeshivah and the raison d’être for its existence.

This can be further broken down into two categories:

Avreich: Hebrew for “peer,” it refers to a kollel fellow.
Bochur: Alternatively translated as “youth” or “chosen one,” it refers specifically to an unmarried student.

Footnotes

1. Yoma 58b.

2. Jerusalem Targum Genesis 24:62-63

3. Genesis Rabbah 63:27.

4. Genesis Rabbah 95:3. Presumably, even though the Torah had not been “given,” they studied the Divine knowledge and instruction as communicated to Adam, Noah, and others.

As taken from, https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/4407857/jewish/What-Is-a-Yeshivah.htm