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.

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Hanukkah 2018 Shiur – Where do we draw the line between Judaism and the Outside World?

 

Sources:

I. The Weather Outside is Frightful – Franz Rosenzweig’s “Apologetic Thinking,”

Translation from “Philosophical and Theological Writings,” eds. and trans. P. Franks and M. Morgan

  1. Judaism in­deed has dogmas, but no dogmatics. […] The community does not wish to be only a spiri­tual community, but wants rather to be what it actually is in contrast to other communities connected by spirit/intellect alone: a natural com­munity, a people.

  2. The Guide of the Perplexed, however, would dis­appoint one who approaches it in the expectation of finding a system. […] The defense is directed against the attacks of philosophy, not or only peripherally against other religions, by which the defense could therefore have been taken over. The apologetic nature of the funda­mental attitude yields the completely unpedantic character, which still today is a fresh breeze for the reader and strikes him as in no way “scholastic”; this thinking has what systematic thinking cannot have so easily: the fascination—and the truthfulness—of thought reacting to the occasion; but therefore a limit is also set for it which only systematic thinking removes: exactly the limit of the occasional; only systematic thinking determines the circle of its objects itself; apologetic thinking remains dependent on the cause, the adversary.

  3. And in this sense Jewish thinking remains apologetic thinking. […] One did not become a Jewish thinker in the undisturbed circle of Judaism. Here, thinking did not become a think­ing about Judaism, which was simply the most self-evident thing of all, more a being than an “ism,” but rather it became a thinking within Judaism, a learning; thus ultimately not a fundamental but rather an or­namental thinking. Anyone who was supposed to reflect on Judaism had somehow, if not psychologically then at least spiritually, to be torn at the border of Judaism. Therefore, however, his thinking was then de­termined by the power which had led him to the border, and the depth horizon of his gaze was determined by the degree to which he had been carried to, on, or across the border. The apologetic is the legitimate force of this thinking but also its dan­ger.

  4. Why is the word “apologetics” particularly afflicted with such a bad odor? In this regard, it is probably similar to the apologetic profession par excellence, that of the lawyer. Against him, too, exists widely the prejudice that considers lying, as it were, his legitimate task. It may be that a certain professional routine appears to justify this prejudice. And yet, defending can be one of the noblest human occupations. Namely, if it goes to the very ground of things and souls and, renouncing the petty devices of a lie, ex-culpates with the truth, nothing but the truth. In this broad sense, literary apologetics can also defend. It would then embellish nothing, still less evade a vulnerable point, but would rather make precisely the most endangered points the basis of the defense. In a word: it would defend the whole, not this or that particular. It would not at all be a defense in the usual sense, but rather a candid exposition, yet not of some cause, but rather of one’s own [self].

 

II. But the Fire is So Delightful – Rav Shagar’s “Translation and Living in Multiple Worlds”

Translation by Levi Morrow, forthcoming

  1. For better or worse, we are citizen of multiple cultures and we live in more than one world of values. We are not able to deny this situation, nor would we deny it if we could. Denying it would be self-denial, leading to deep, radical injury to our religious faith itself. Rebbe Naḥman’s approach to translation is therefore not only desirable, but also the only option for elevating the translation that is already happening anyway.
    I see great importance in this characterization because we do not first experience the true problem of the encounter between Torah, religious life, and the Greek language – affecting us through the media, academia, literature, and much more – when we come across this language in our university studies after years of learning in yeshiva. Rather, much earlier, in the religious education that we received, in the foundation of our faith, and in the limited constructs that we make its content. We therefore need a substantial religious-spiritual-Jewish alternative, without which it is impossible to avoid internal contradictions that bear a heavy price.
  2. The multiple, split identity model puts together different worlds without recognizing compartmentalized truth-values or different realms of truth. We should describe the Religious Zionist soul as a soul that lives not in one world but in many worlds, which it likely cannot integrate. It does not compartmentalize them – Torah versus Avodah, faith versus science, religion versus secularism – but rather manages a confusing and often even schizophrenic set of relationships between them.
    A new type of religiosity has therefore developed nowadays, one that cannot be defined by its location on any graph; it is scattered across many different (shonim), you could even call them “strange” (meshunim), centers. This religiosity does not define itself with the regular religious definitions, but enables a weaving of unusual identities, integrating multiple worlds – in a way that is not a way. It presents a deep personal faith that, in my opinion, carries the potential for religious redemption
  3.  As per Rebbe Naḥman, the deep meaning of preserving the covenant (shemirat habrit) is eros. This is the significance of the small jug of oil with the seal of the high priest: the harmony of an individual with who and what he is, without locking himself into a specific identity; he can be who he is, whoever that may be.

Smashing the Aravot to Bits as a Reenactment of Jewish History

Sukkot is, to modern eyes, perhaps the strangest Jewish holiday, and its seventh day is by far the strangest. For the whole week of Sukkot, Orthodox Jews take a four-part floral arrangement and shake it in all directions. On the seventh day, known as “Hoshanah Rabbah,” they take one of the four parts, willow branches, and smash a bundle of them into the ground repeatedly. The original reason behind the ritual is unknown, but it’s energetic alienness demands explanation. While attempts to divine it’s reason abound, none can ever definitively claim to be the original reason. In what follows, I want to do something different, similar to what John Caputo has called a “short-circuit” (See the first few chapters of “The Weakness of God”) – I want to wire together this ritual with several texts that never had each other in mind, because they resonate deeply with each other, and because this short-circuit produces something true and worth saying. By the end of this process, I hope to have arrived not at the meaning of the ritual, but a meaning the ritual may bear today.

Jumping right in, there is a famous rabbinic text comparing the four species of flora use on Sukkot to four different types of Jews, based on their possessing or lacking A. Torah and B. good deeds (Vayikra Rabbah 30:12, which I have previously written about here). The last of the four that the text discusses is the willow: “‘And brook willows’ – these are [referring to] Israel. Just like this willow, which has no smell and has no taste, so too Israel has among them people that have no Torah and have no good deeds.” The willow branches, as opposed to the other plants, represent Jews who have nothing specifically Jewish about them. They are characterized neither by Jewish cognitive content, Torah, nor by Jewish actions. In short, they are Jewish in name only.

Being Jewish in name only is a topic that Rav Tsadok Hakohen Rabinowitz of Lublin explores in Tsidkat Hatsadik #54 (English translation to come when the time allows):

עיקר היהדות – בקריאת שם ישראל. כמו שנאמר זה יאמר לה’ אני וגו’ ובשם ישראל יכנה. שלא יהיה לו רק מעלה זו שמכונה בשם ישראל די. ומצינו בריש פרק כלל גדול (שבת סח:) גר שנתגייר בין האומות ומביא חטאת על החלב והדם והשבת ועבודה זרה, עיין שם דלא ידע כלל שזה אסורה ואפילו על עבודה זרה ושבת. ונמצא שלא ידע כלל מכל התורה, ובמה הוא גר להתחייב חטאת, רק בקריאת שם ישראל די.

In this first paragraph, Rav Tsadok discusses the Babylonian Talmud’s statement (Shabbat 68b) that a convert who converted among non-Jews has to bring a sacrifice when they join the Jewish community, to atone for sins they may have committed unknowingly. The convert has no knowledge of even Shabbat or idolatry so in what sense have they converted, ask Rav Tsadok. His answer: they are called by the name “Israel” – they are Jewish in name, if only that. This, in fact, is the essence of conversion, for “the essence of Judaism is being called by the name ‘Israel.”

What does it mean to be Jewish in name, and even only in name, that it is so much more significant than having Jewish thoughts or actions? What is the advantage of the willow branches over the other Sukkot plants?

When you have Jewish thoughts or actions, then you have specific Jewish parts of who you are. You do Jewish acts and you think Jewish thoughts, and you may participate in non-Jewish thoughts and actions alongside these. When you are Jewish in name, then all of your thoughts and actions are Jewish by definition, regardless of their content. To be Jewish in name is to be all-pervasively Jewish; every part of you is Jewish simply by definition. It is this Jewish name that characterizes willow branch-Jews, as opposed to all others.

 

What does all of this mean for the Hoshanah Rabbah ritual, wherein the willow branches are smashed against the ground, coming apart with every blow? I would like to explain that in light of a passage from Frank Rosenzweig’s “The Star of Redemption.” In context of a discussion of Jewish chosenness, Rosenzweig states:

Judaism, and it alone in all the world, maintains itself by subtraction, by contraction, by the forma­tion of ever new remnants. This happens quite extensively in the face of the constant external secession. But it is equally true also within Judaism itself. It constantly divests itself of un-Jewish elements in order to produce out of itself ever new remnants of archetypal Jewish elements. Outwardly it constantly assimilates only to be able again and again to set itself apart on the inside. (trans. William Hallo, p. 404)

Whereas other nations and religions maintain themselves by expanding, Rosenzweig says, Judaism maintains itself by contracting. Like other groups, Judaism constantly develops new forms, absorbs new ideas, and generally finds new ways to grow. Unlike other groups, however, Judaism quickly sheds all of these new manifestations, in a constant process of elimination, ever condensing toward a core Jewishness, a Jewishness that has no content, that is Jewish in name only. This core, which Rosenzweig identifies with the prophetic “remnant of Israel” (שארית ישראל), is what persisted throughout Jewish history, as all kinds of specific types of Judaism have  disappeared or broken away. That isn’t to say that Rosenzweig identifies the remnant of Israel with traditional Rabbinic Judaism. Rather, he identifies it with Jews who are Jewish in name, whose whole existence is bound up in being Jewish, so that everything they do and say is Jewish, by definition.

Smashing the willow branches against the ground reenacts Rosenzweig’s vision of Jewish history. The willow branches, representing the in-name-only Jews, the Jews who are Jewish whether or not they know Torah or do mitsvot, are smashed against the ground of history. They slowly come apart, losing bits of leaf with every strike, but the core of the branch remains. So too the core of Judaism, the Jews whose Judaism has defined them inherently, regardless of their thoughts or deeds, has survived the travails of history. When we smash the willow branches into the ground, we may remind ourselves of the necessity of this in-name-only Jewishness. The ritual could challenge us, calling us to be “called by the name ‘Israel.’”

 

[as with many of my recent posts, much of my thinking and interpreting here is owed to influence from Yishai Mevorach, a student of Rav Shagar and an editor of his writings, and an interesting thinker in his own right. An English interview with Prof. Alan Brill about Mevorach’s new book, “A Theology of Absence” can be found here, and Mevorach’s Hebrew lectures on a variety of topics can be found on his youtube channel here.]

Where We Start and How We Continue: Tsidkat HaTsadik #1-2

The first chapter of Tsidkat Hatsadik, by Rav Tsadok Hakohen of Lublin, discusses passages from the first chapter of the talmudic tractate Berakhot from a Hasidic perspective. The first two paragraphs of the book, however, diverge from this commentary-esque character, with the first discussing the Pesaḥ sacrifice and the second discussing Berakhot only in the most abstract sense.

The two paragraphs meditate on the same issues: where do we start and how do we continue (serving God and studying Torah/making blessings, respectively), touching on fundamental issues regarding the respective roles of God and man in the service of God and in life more generally. Below are the passages and their translations, followed by an exploration of the ideas contained therein.

Continue reading “Where We Start and How We Continue: Tsidkat HaTsadik #1-2”