My parents anguish and their sighs depressed me. Alas, would that my parents had been cruel, would that they had excoriated and humiliated me, or had lifted a hand to punish my rebelliousness, for then I would have already departed and found my path in life. But my merciful, kind parents, who loved me more than themselves, melted and tortured me with their tears and their distress, and though my heart was torn by pity I was unable to still or to calm them.314
The cultural openness ushered in by the Enlightenment made such parental pain all too common. As the walls around the Jewish ghetto eroded, families and communities were left unsure how to stem the tides of assimilation. For children of rabbis the pain of departure includes an added element whereby the very efficacy of their parents’ rabbinic powers could be called into question. If the communal rabbi cannot inspire his own children, how can he expect the community to be any different? Such questions, however, disregard the prevalence of rabbinic children who chose another path. Far from being an indictment on the parents, the history of children of rabbis who struggle with religion, as we will soon see, may be as old as the rabbinate itself.
A Rabbinic Dynasty Considers Why Rabbinic Dynasty May Be Challenging
One of the most successful rabbinic dynasties in history is undoubtedly the Sofer family. Begun by Rabbi Moshe Sofer (1762–1839), also referred to as the Hatam Sofer, his descendants continue to serve in rabbinic leadership positions in the Jewish community. All of Rabbi Moshe Sofer’s sons became rabbis. Following Rabbi Sofer’s death, his eldest son Avraham Shmuel, also known as the Ktav Sofer, assumed his father’s position as head of the Pressburg Yeshiva. Curiously, this famed father-son rabbinic success story both (in separate essays) ascribe the first incident of struggling rabbinic children to the first rabbinic leader of the Jewish people: Moshe.315
“These are the offspring of Aaron and Moshe on that day God spoke to Moshe at Mount Sinai” (Bamidbar 3:1). Oddly, however, the Torah proceeds to recount only the children of Aaron. Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, noticing the discrepancy in his famed commentary Rashi, explains that although only Aaron’s sons are mentioned they are still considered the offspring of Moshe as a lesson that whoever teaches a child Torah, it is as if the child is that person’s offspring. Still, why leave out Moshe’ children altogether? In an astonishing indictment on Moshe’s parental focus, both Sofer father316 and son317 contend that Moshe’s communal obligations obstructed his parental obligations. Moshe’s sons are absent from the recitation of his offspring because they did not appreciate or benefit from Moshe as a parent. In fact, adds Rabbi Moshe Sofer, the verse specifically recalls God’s revelation to Moshe at Mount Sinai to reinforce that it was the experience of revelation—and the subsequent communal responsibility it demanded—that interrupted Moshe’s focus on his biological children.318
The Sofer family were certainly no strangers to the demands of communal responsibility and the potential strains it places on the family. Their successful negotiation of these demands likely presented a newfound appreciation for the ease with which some parents may succumb to finding the proper balance between communal and familial responsibility. For those for whom finding the proper balance has proven elusive, there is consolation in knowing that Moshe, our first rabbinic leader, dealt with the same struggle.
A Talmudic Take on Rabbinic Children
The Talmud was not oblivious to the struggle of children of rabbinic parents as they come to terms with their religious affliction and expression. In fact, the Talmud (Nedarim 81a) asks outright, “Why do the children of rabbis so rarely become rabbis themselves?” In response to this question the Talmud presents five approaches:
Rav Yosef says it is so that people do not say Torah is an inheritance. Rav Sheishet the son of Rav Idi says so that they do not become arrogant among the community. Mar Zutra says so that they do not become too dictatorial against the community. Rav Ashi says it is because they call people asses. Ravina explained because they do not make the requisite blessing on the Torah.
Of all of the explanations, Ravina’s seems to be the most puzzling. What does the blessing of the Torah have to do with the religious outcome of one’s children? And are we really to assume that great rabbinic scholars all skipped the biblically mandated blessing on the Torah that is normally made each morning? Surely, the connection between the blessing on the Torah and the struggles of rabbinic children needs to be more carefully considered.
Rabbi Yehudah Loew (1512–1609), known as the Maharal, explains why the blessing on the Torah is so critical for the success of the children of rabbis.319 Love of Torah can be divisive. Torah learning is inherently a pursuit for the religious ideals of life. The love for the ideals contained in Torah can easily distract from one’s love of God or even love for other people. Many families have surely been party to the potential discord buried within the quest for religious advancement. Personal ideals easily pave the way for expectations for others. Individual religious achievement is sometimes built upon the dissatisfaction or disapprobation of others’ religious laxity. In order for personal religious achievement to translate into interpersonal success we need to recite the blessing on the Torah. The blessing of the Torah is not a typical blessing that one makes, for instance, on food or even other commandments, but it is also a prayer of sorts that our love for scholarship does not obscure our love for people.
The text of the blessing of the Torah, when read carefully, contains a reminder that our personal pursuits of religious perfection do not come at the expense of our appreciation of others. The blessing reads:
Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has made us holy through our commandments and has commanded us to engage in study of the words of Torah. Please, Lord our God, make the words of Your Torah sweet in our mouths and in the mouths of Your people, the house of Israel, so that we, our descendants (and their descendants), and the descendants of Your people, the house of Israel, may all know Your name and study Your Torah for its own sake. Blessed are You, Lord, who teaches Torah to His people Israel.
We do not simply recite a blessing on the commandment to study Torah, but we pray that it is received by those who study and those we teach with sweetness. It is not just a blessing on our scholarship but a prayer for scholars and students. Our Torah, we plea, should not divide—it should unite, for this generation and the next.
The Blessed Reminder of the Kohanic Blessing
This theme emerges not just in the blessing of the Torah but can also be seen in the text of Torah chosen as the staple text on which we recite the blessing. Standardized in each siddur, following the blessing of the Torah is the text of the blessing of the Kohanim (Numbers ch. 6). Why was this text chosen as the standard-bearer for the first Torah text we study each day? This question is further underscored when we consider that the other texts chosen to be studied immediately after the blessing on the Torah each relate to the importance of Torah. Why, then, did they not select verses that relate specifically to Torah study? What message does the blessing of the Kohanim contain related to our daily affirmation of our obligation to study Torah?320
For many Jews who are themselves not Kohanim, the blessing of the Kohanim evokes memories of listening quietly to the Kohanic chants while under a tallit or with faces buried inside of a prayer book. Surely, the blessing of the Kohen seems like an odd choice to juxtapose next to the blessing of the Torah. But the true nature of the blessing of Kohanim is lost on many. The Kohanic blessing is not just an obligation for the Kohen to bless, but it is also in many ways an obligation on the people to feel blessed.321 Before the Kohanim recite their blessing they say a blessing of their own “to bless the people of Israel with love.” No other blessing ends with this particular formulation. We do not recite the blessing on the lulav to “take it with love” or a blessing on matzah “to eat it with love.” Only the blessing of the Kohen ends specifically with an acknowledgment of love because inherent in the obligation of the blessing is that the recipient, the people of Israel, fe
el beloved. In fact, a Kohen who is not in good standing within the community or is involved in communal disputes is not allowed to bless the people. Rabbi Leible Eiger (1817–88), himself a scion of a famed rabbinic family, summarized the essence of the blessing of the Kohanim as “a reminder to root within our hearts the love of the Jewish people that each person should seek the good in his fellow man.”322 Specifically, he writes, “If there is, God forbid, some burden pressing on a particular individual, then we should anticipate and long for expansiveness to be bestowed on such a person.” The blessing of Kohanim is an acknowledgement that the Jewish people are blessed and beloved.323
This in turn may be why the blessing of the Kohanim is situated so prominently following our blessing of the Torah. As we begin each day recognizing the centrality of our obligation to pursue our attainment of Torah, we also pause to recognize the possible dangers inherent within a singular focus on Torah study. The ideals of Torah study cannot be achieved at the expense of the appreciation of the people. Our study of Torah, like the blessing of the Kohanim, should leave those in our lives feeling more beloved and more blessed. The blessing of the Kohanim and the blessing of the Torah preceding it dually ensure that our Torah study is not just the fulfillment of a commandment but an endeavor that is sweet for all those around us: sweet for us and our children.
“For the rabbi’s child,” concludes Levitz, “self-esteem is enhanced with the experience of feeling valued as an integral part of the family group in its designated work with the congregation.” It is a sad fact of religious life that our personal growth can often come at the expense of others’ self-worth and self-esteem. The Torah and Talmud were both acutely aware of this danger. The ideals and expectations of religious life can be divisive wedges within families and communities. Each morning, when saying the blessing of the Torah followed by the blessing of the Kohanim, we pause and tacitly acknowledge that concern. But if our blessings are successful, we can rest assured that our religious commitments remain “sweet in our mouths and in the mouths of Your people.”
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JONAH AND THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS MOTIVATION:
RELIGIOUS FRUSTRATION AS A FACTOR IN RELIGIOUS MOTIVATION
The consolations of Religion, my beloved, can alone support you; and these you have a right to enjoy. Fly to the bosom of your God and be comforted.
—Letter of Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, July 4th 1804
RUST COHLE. What do you think the average IQ of this group is, huh?
MARTY HART. Can you see Texas up there on your high horse? What do you know about these people?
RUST COHLE. Just observation and deduction. I see a propensity for obesity, poverty, a yen for fairy tales, folks putting what few bucks they do have into little wicker baskets being passed around. I think it’s safe to say that nobody here is gonna be splitting the atom, Marty.
— True Detective, Season 1, “The Locked Room”
An Educator’s Frustration
The journey towards more fervent religious life so often begins with personal turmoil. Some people turn to religion because they are lonely, some are looking to cope with feelings of mortality, and others may turn to religion in the hopes that it will serve as a respite from a broken family. As a religious educator, it is hard to ignore the gnawing feeling that the object of these people’s search is not authentic spirituality but a very—almost secularly driven—emotional catharsis from the everyday pain of life. Of course, as an educator I have a duty to remain egalitarian as to the religious motivations of those who seek counsel, but can I be faulted for noticing that so many people who are seeking religious commitment would seem to be better suited in finding simple, healthy social interactions? Does the teenager looking to make sense of her or his parents’ impending divorce really need theological purpose or would she or he be better suited with the guidance of a mental health professional and a friend?
I don’t think I am the first educator to develop fatigue from watching many who begin with intense motivation and then slowly watch said motivation (d)evolve into either disappointment or disuse. The prime suspect in my eyes of such abortive entries into religious life has often been the nature and substance of the motivation that brought people there in the first place. Perhaps, I wondered, if people came to religion for the “right reasons,” if such can even be said to exist, the resulting religious experience would be more fruitful.
Of course I recognize that everyone is welcome to seek meaning where they see fit, but my frustration was couched not so much in the breadth of what motivates religiosity as by incredulity towards the religious commitment that emerges from such fleeting emotional pain. A person can surely find God after a devastating diagnosis, but what enduring sense of duty could such motivation produce? Can religious motivation devoid of theological urgency still foster lasting religious commitment? It is an uncomfortable question to ask, for who has the authority to question others’ religious search? But it was a question I nonetheless found myself asking, however quietly.
I don’t know if I ever found a definitive answer to my difficulties, but my frustrations were assuaged somehow. In December of 2014 I was invited to deliver a series of classes at a weekend program for teenagers. Many of the participants would have the personal backgrounds that typically irked me in my endeavors at religious education. But those classes changed my view on the varieties of religious motivation and experience. My classes focused on a personality, who I learned dealt with a set of frustrations and difficulties similar to the ones with which I had been grappling. His name was Jonah.324
Jonah’s Frustration
Jonah was approached by God to convince the people of Nineveh to repent and return to Him. Instead of listening, Jonah chose to run. Why did Jonah, a prophet, decide to run?
Like many biblical characters, Jonah’s underlying religious ethos is alluded to in his name. He was Jonah the son of Amittai, which derives from the Hebrew word emet—meaning truth. Jonah was a man of truth. He was not interested in religious comfort or convenience. He was not concerned with escaping the terror of death and finitude. Jonah was motivated by truth. Jonah’s religiosity was founded on theological fact and doctrinal integrity.
After fleeing, Jonah finds himself on a boat in a tempestuous storm. His fellow sailors begin to panic. “And the mariners were afraid, and cried every man unto his god.” Throughout the story the operative description of the sailors is fear. The religious motivation of the seamen is based on the impending crisis of their own mortality. Jonah, however, takes a nap. He is not interested in being a prophet on this boat. The task of reminding them of repentance so as to escape death’s grasp is the very job from which he’d absconded by running away from Nineveh. Jonah understands that the people on that boat are not seeking religious truth but rather religious comfort.
After being thrown overboard in the midst of the storm, Jonah is saved from drowning by miraculously being swallowed by a fish. Inside the fish Jonah prays and recommits himself to God, who in return ensures he is safely returned to dry land. Jonah, now seemingly reformed, agrees to return to Nineveh—which he does. The Nineveh community, hearing Jonah’s exhortations to repent, promptly responds with a communal commitment to return from evil, which God just as promptly accepts.
Jonah, however, is still in pain. His outreach work still leaves him unfulfilled. He finally discloses to God why he ran (Jonah 4:2):
He prayed to God and said: Please, God, was this not my contention when I was still on my own soil? Because of this I fled towards Tarshish; for I knew that You are a gracious and merciful God, slow to anger, abundant in kindness, and who relents of evi1.
While Jonah clearly intends to offer an explanation as to why he ran, his justification at first glance still remains unclear. A close reader, however, will notice that Jonah invokes the opening of the familiar refrain of Moshe (or God, depending on whom you ask) known as the Thirteen Attributes, which are repeated throughout the High Holiday season—albeit with one
exception. The standard sequence of God’s attributes that most readers are surely familiar with ends not with the term niham al ha-ra’ah but rather with the term emet—truth. The word niham derives from the word nehamah, comfort. Jonah in his aggravated description of God substitutes comfort for truth. Jonah the son of Amittai finally discloses his frustration with outreach to God. “You want to know why I ran away? Because for most people God, religion, spirituality—it’s not about truth—it’s about comfort.”
Why does the fear of death and mortality seem to have no bearing on Jonah’s religious outlook? Perhaps it was his childhood. I Kings, chapter 17 presents the story of the widow Zarephath, whose son dies only to be revived by the Prophet Elijah. That son, according the Midrash, is Jonah.325 Death for Jonah, then, is not an abstract fear lurking in his future but a reality he has already experienced. Having already lived through the terror of death, Jonah seeks another motivation to ground his religious commitment: truth.
Jonah’s concern has been articulated by many critics of religion. David Hume, in his History of Natural Religion, considers the concerns that motivated the advent of religious commitment. Hume, who was quite skeptical of religion, assumes that religion began not in the search for truth but rather in a search for comfort:
But what passion shall we here have recourse to, for explaining an effect of such mighty consequence [i.e., religion]? Not speculative curiosity surely, or the pure love of truth. That motive is too refined for such gross apprehensions; and would lead men into enquiries concerning the frame of nature, a subject too large and comprehensive for their narrow capacities. No passions, therefore, can be supposed to work upon such barbarians, but the ordinary affections of human life; the anxious concern for happiness, the dread of future misery, the terror of death, the thirst of revenge, the appetite for food and other necessaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this nature, especially the latter, men scrutinize, with a trembling curiosity, the course of future causes, and examine the various and contrary events of human life. And in this disordered scene, with eyes still more disordered and astonished, they see the first obscure traces of divinity.326
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