Rav Shagar’s Turn to Rosenzweig: Post-Liberalism and the Futurity of Redemption

More thesis notes.

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Part of my thesis focuses on Rav Shagar’s turn to Rosenzweig in context of struggling with the state of Israel’s violent actions, “Violence in the struggle over the land [that] contradicts our tradition in a deep way,” most particularly the Disengagement from Gaza and the northern Shomron. Rosenzweig was famously a non-Zionist (in contrast with the anti-Zionist Benno Jacob) and believed that redemption was something we experience as inherently set in the future, rather than as something achievable in the present. The Jewish people cannot achieve redemption, they must wait for it patiently. In this, Rosenzweig self-consciously rejects the ideas of human progress and of the modern liberal state (note: “liberal” here does not have the same sense as in contemporary politics) as an entity capable of elevating human existence (cf. Yehoshua Arieli, “Modern History as Reinstatement of the Saeculum”). In this sense, Rosenzweig is a “post-liberal” thinker, in that he consciously rejects the liberal, modern framework. He is not ignorant of the possibility that people could redeem themselves, he is aware of it and believes it to be false. It is this post-liberal sensibility that Rav Shagar takes up in the passage I discuss here.

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These two ideas, 1) the futurity of redemption and 2) the inability of people to redeem themselves are obviously connected. From one perspective, people cannot redeem themselves because redemption is a state that exists beyond history. From another, redemption lies beyond human history because people are incapable of achieving it.

Religious Zionism was built on the the idea that Jews can in fact bring the redemption rather than simply “yearning” for it, or “entreating” it, in Rosenzweig’s language. Hence the importance of the religious, redemptive nature of the contemporary state of Israel, because it is already the first step in the process of achieving redemption.

Most of the time when Rav Shagar appeals to Rosenzweig in context of Zionism, he presents Rosenzweig’s non-Zionism as one extreme, with Rav Abraham Isaac Kook on the other, enabling him to choose a middle position that he identifies with Rebbe Nahman of Bratslav. However, in an essay entitled “We did not Win in Amona” (Nekudah 288 (Adar 2006), 34-37; Nahalekh Baragesh, 330) he seems to embrace Rosenzweig’s position more whole-heartedly. He still does not propose moving out of Israel or anything, but he does talk about adopting an exilic existence within Israel (something for which he argues in a variety of contexts, and which his student, Yishai Mevorach, develops dramatically in his book, Yehudi Shel Haketsei). Moreover, he embraces the interlocking Rosenzweigian elements of 1) the futurity of redemption and 2) the post-liberal sense that people cannot redeem themselves. While Rav Shagar does not go so far as to say that redemption cannot be achieved by people, he does delay the religious nature of the state, seemingly indefinitely. Strikingly, the relevant section of the aforementioned essay is entitled “Not Yet,” the phrase Rosenzweig uses to denote the futurity of redemption.

In this text, liberal vs. post-liberal ideologies of redemption and progress are framed in terms of bitahon, a word referring both to the religious sense of trust in God and the secular self-confidence of human-driven progress and security. Rav Shagar criticizes the Religious Zionist community for replacing the former, religious meaning with the latter, secular one. Religious Zionists are too liberal (again, not in the sense of contemporary political discourse), believing too strongly in their capacity to create a redemptive state (cf. Dov Schwartz, “Religious Zionism and the Idea of the New Man” [Heb], Yisrael 16 (2009):143-164). They ought to reject this modernist ideology and “throw their lot upon the Lord.” While the appeal to Psalms and Haredi ideology might seem to echo pre-modern, pre-liberal ways of thinking, it is the conscious adoption of these approaches against modern, liberal ideology that makes Rav Shagar post-liberal.

Notably, this text also presents us with Shagar pretty clearly identifying Rosenzweig (and Cohen) with what the Haredi community, something he does in other contexts as well. Ultra-Orthodox, Haredi Judaism is an intensive, minority culture which does not identify with the state of Israel in any religious sense, nor does it believe in human-driven redemption. While explicitly calling for Religious Zionism to remain Religious Zionism, rather than turning toward Haredi Judaism, Rav Shagar still critiques these elements that make Religious Zionism what it is, and argues for the adoption of a more Haredi/Rosenzweigian cultural posture. This leads him to a messianism that exists as dreams, and a Zionism that is most certainly not their fulfillment.

 

The final section of “We did not Win in Amona,” entitled “Not Yet,” is translated in full below.


Not Yet

We have to be faithful to our path; that is the meaning of covenant today. We must adhere to the Religious Zionist path, even in a world of betraying and being betrayed. I call upon us to be Haredim for our path; in my opinion, this is the correct meaning of being “National Religious Haredi” (hardaliyut). It’s not about moving away from the original Religious Zionist Torah, which takes the path of “Tiferet,” the path of combinations, integrations, and shades. Zionism, higher education, social sensitivity, modesty, and faithfulness. Our becoming-Haredi needs to be a becoming-Haredi into religious Zionism. Abandoning this path is itself corrupting the covenant (pegam habrit). Violence in the struggle over the land contradicts our tradition in a deep way. Moreover, a violent struggle just invites the next struggle. Hate nourishes hate. They make us evil, and we make them evil. The holy “Shlah” interpreted the verse “The Egyptians mistreated (vayare’u) us” to mean that the primary sin of the Egyptians was making us evil (ra’im). In my opinion, the only to change direction and start a revolution is the opposite approach. In war, everyone loses, while mercy and patience win even when they lose. In the present situation, any other fight ceases to be a religious fight, and is nothing other than a gross internalization of the crude aspect of the secular Zionist ethos.

We must build Judea, but as a community, not a state. We will remain faithful to the state, and as such to the nation of Israel, but while pointedly maintaining our unique approach and thus our distinctiveness. We will see in isolating ourselves (to a degree) in our community an exile in the midst of redemption, exile within the land of Israel. “After the Disengagement,” said one of the rabbis of Judea, Samaria, and the area around Gaza, “we will go out to exile with a book of kinot in our hands.” However, it is an exile of yearnings, of what is “not yet.” It is an exile that means recognizing the dream that is not yet realized, and that we are not willing to give up on it. This is as opposed to an exile of alienation and estrangement, alienation that comes from an inability to accept the fact that the dream cannot be realized here and now. Like relationships between the sexes, wherein the laws of modesty require us to maintain boundaries (mehitsot), which are sometimes thin and even transparent but always firm and tangible, so two we must maintain the boundary between secularism and religiosity. It will not lead to alienation and rejection of the covenant, but will preserve the “not yet.”

Ultimately, we are unaccustomed to this response. We Religious Zionists committed almost entirely to the Zionist activism of redeeming ourselves under our own power and the ethos of totally rejecting the exile. The confidence (bitahon) of the Religious Zionist is something different, it is the confidence that “he gives you the strength to create wealth” (Deuteronomy 8:18). All we must do, they taught us, is believe that it is not our power but divine providence. It is this belief that distinguishes between forceful violence and action that never loses track of the weak and weakness and grace. However, this activist confidence must pass through the confidence of “Cast your burden upon the Lord” (Psalms 55:23), which is the inner ability to relinquish and set aside; it is this confidence to which we are called at this moment. This confidence enables us to give up on victory today. In other words, we are forbidden to forget the exile. The ethos of rejecting the exile, the confidence in the IDF that replaced the confidence in God, is what I think made the state violent and forceful. We must internalize the exile into the state itself. There were and are Haredi Israelis, and non-Orthodox thinkers like Hermann Cohen and Franz Rosenzweig, who for this reason opposed the very idea of a Jewish state. They claimed that authentic Jewish existence is exilic existence, and that Jewishness is inherently opposed to history and politics. The answer, they claim, must be establishing a state without rejecting the exile. It should be a dialectical, I would even say Hegelian, process, that internalizes the exilicness into the state and thus elevates it to the next phase of political existence, a state of justice and mercy.

In the past, Religious Zionism has resolved this tension by sheltering beneath the wide-spread wings of the secular Zionist state. This often involved intentional ignorance and self-deception, such as have been laid bare by ongoing events. The problem began when Religious Zionism tried to take the burden on itself. The shelter is broken now, and the tension between spirit and force emerges with full intensity. The current solution, fitting to the spirit of the age, is communalist. It’s a solution within the framework of what they call the citizen society, which involves suspending the identity between religion and state. This does not mean that we’ll stop being Religious Zionists and loyal patriots; Hatikvah will still send a shiver down our spines and connect us to two thousand years. However, alongside this feeling of loyalty we will know that the state cannot now fulfill our dreams. Its is exactly from a place of relinquishment, of separation without alienation, that we will be able to receive much deeper empathy for our path and our dreams.

Shiur: “Good” is a Human Word: Rav Shagar’s Approach to Bitahon

Why do we suffer? Can there be a reason for suffering? Is the divine perhaps most manifest in suffering and meaninglessness? Perhaps most importantly, how should we respond to suffering?

We explore all this and more in this shiur, based on the writings of Rav Shagar.

 

1. Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 5a-b

Rava, and some say Rav Ḥisda, said: If a person sees that suffering has befallen him, he should examine his actions. […] If he examined his ways and found no transgression, […] he may be confident that these are afflictions of love, as it is stated: “For whom the Lord loves, He rebukes” (Proverbs 3:12). […]

Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba, fell ill. Rabbi Yoḥanan entered to visit him, and said to him: Is your suffering dear to you? Rabbi Ḥiyya said to him: I welcome neither this suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Yoḥanan said to him: Give me your hand. Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba gave him his hand, and Rabbi Yoḥanan stood him up and restored him to health.

Similarly, Rabbi Yoḥanan fell ill. Rabbi Ḥanina entered to visit him, and said to him: Is your suffering dear to you? Rabbi Yoḥanan said to him: I welcome neither this suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Ḥanina said to him: Give me your hand. He gave him his hand, and Rabbi Ḥanina stood him up and restored him to health.

 

I. Good is a Human Word

2. Bayom Hahu, 62

The great difference between the two mindsets of faith, “there is no death without sin” and “he may be confident that these are sufferings of love” has implications for many fundamental topics in religious life. For example, the differing views of the Hazon Ish, on the one hand, and Rabbeinu Baḥya, on the other, regarding the topic of bitaḥon. The Hazon Ish, in his book, “Emunah and Bitaḥon,” says that trust in God comes from faith in divine justice and providence; not from faith that everything will be good, but from faith that everything will be done through divine justice and providence.

In contrast, Rabbeinu Baḥya said, “I have never found myself in a situation and wished that it were otherwise.” From his perspective, trust in God is rooted in equanimity; the individual is happy in instances, whatever they may be, due to his faith that they express God’s will, and that God’s will is the good. This is a circular thought process, because someone who believes that everything is God’s will and that God’s will is the good, and is willing to accept is as good, will experience good.

 

3. Faith Shattered and Restored, 93-95

Translated by Elie Leshem (with edits)

The pious man’s (ḥasid) […] believes that everything befalling him expresses God’s mercy and absolute goodness. […] To portray the pious man (ḥasid) as someone who has gained a prize is to overlook the deeper meaning of his faith and trust (bitaḥon) in God. The source of his trust is not the divine promise of happiness or redemption. It comes from surrendering his very need for security, and from a willingness to accept the divine will, whatever it may be, and identify it as good. The pious man’s trust is paradoxical, an insecure security, and it entails an excruciating, inhuman concession. His security does not include a material dimension – only thus can it lead to redemption. His world is the best of all worlds, because the meaning of best (tov) has been fundamentally altered – it is a meaning-less meaning. His world is full of nothingness, so his nothingness is full.

 

4. Nahalekh Baragesh, 172

The highest divine revelation appears in the world as shadow. “‘Like the apple tree amidst the trees of the forest, so my beloved among the men,’ which the midrash explains: Just as the apple tree provide no shade and therefore everyone flees from it, so too my beloved… everyone flees from him, but I sit in his shade and enjoy.” This shade does not provide security (bitaḥon) to the one who shelters in it, and despite this the Jewish people desire to sit in this minimal shade. […] The highest divine reality, that of “The Concealed World” (alma de’atkasiya), casts shadows of suffering, but these shadows provide the possibility of a closeness to God greater than all the life of this world.

 

II. Human is a God Word

5. Nahalekh Baragesh, 170

Paradoxically, the logic of self-nullification (bitul) leads to a parabolic movement culminating in a return to the world. The righteous person nullifies himself, but in this the lack of nullification–the non-spiritual, worldly life–itself becomes nullification, a vessel for infinite light, an instance of “existing but not in existence.” The divide between creator and creature, between a righteous person and his creator, blurs. “A person like this is an instance of ‘the righteous person is the foundation (yesod) of the world,’ and he is modeled after the supernal Yesod, ‘for God is in heaven and you are on earth […] you on the earth are modeled after God in Heaven” (!).

 

6. Nahalekh Baragesh, 171

This bitaḥon is the bitaḥon of the messiah, of the righteous person who […] can draw down abundance that is divine and not simply spiritual, and can even guarantee success in the realm of external reality. […] For Rav Paritsch, this messianic bitaḥon is not just certainty about success, but even the ability to create that success! Here too there is a paradox: The righteous person accepts the yoke of the kingship of heaven, which means absolute obedience, even in the realm of action. However, this leads to the unity of the inner and outer world, and to the inverse capacity for control in the  external world. […] The righteous person becomes a god on earth, like the model of God in heaven. The non-spiritual renunciation that is accepting the yoke of the kingship of heaven leads to a spiritualization of reality, without making it any less substantive; reality becomes “a dwelling in the lower realms,” a medium for the divine presence. The righteous person also becomes a chariot for the Shekhinah, a unity that gives him the power of a creator. Bitaḥon, which until now had led to passively responding, becomes the ability to actively create.