The Oral Law is necessary for other reasons as well. While 613 commandments might sound like a lot,6 they are hardly sufficient to cover every exigency in a person’s or a nation’s life. For example, the Torah takes marriage for granted. Early in Genesis, when God creates Eve as a companion to Adam, the Bible makes it clear that marriage should be the natural state for human beings: “Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife and they shall be one flesh” (Gen. 2:24). Later, the Bible describes the wedding of Jacob to Leah (unfortunately for Jacob, he thinks he is marrying Rachel). Other marriages also are recorded in the Bible. But nowhere does the Bible record how an actual wedding ceremony is conducted, or any words that need to be said or documents that need to be signed. Rather, the marriage ceremony, eventually set down by the rabbis, is part of the Oral Law.
Therefore, when the non-Jew says to Shammai, “I am willing to accept the Written Torah but not the Oral Torah,” he is, in essence, saying, “I want to become a Jew, but a totally different kind of Jew than you and all the other Jews. I want to become a Jew on my terms, not yours, but still I insist that you convert me.” To revert to a modern-day analogy, it would be as if a man were to come before a judge to be confirmed as an American citizen. But then, just before the swearing in takes place, he tells the judge that he willingly accepts as binding all the laws of the Constitution, but not the rulings of the Supreme Court concerning how the Constitution is to be understood and applied.
Would the judge accept such a condition? No—and neither would Shammai.
But Hillel, as we have seen, regards this more as a teaching opportunity and is in no way disheartened or antagonized by the man’s demand.
The third non-Jew who wishes to be converted gives the initial impression of being a bit simpleminded. The Talmud describes him as walking past a Jewish school where he hears a teacher expounding on a verse from the Torah dealing with some special clothing: “These are the vestments they are to make: a breastpiece, an ephod, a robe, a fringed tunic, a headdress, and a sash.” (Exod. 28:4). The man is intrigued by what sounds like some very elaborate and ornate garments and inquires, “For whom are these lavish garments?” He is told that it is for the High Priest. The man reasons to himself—this is the basis for my assuming him to be simple—“I will go and convert to Judaism so that they will appoint me High Priest.”
He goes to Shammai and announces, “Convert me to Judaism on condition that you have me appointed High Priest.”
Imagine Shammai’s mind-set at this point. It’s not enough that a non-Jew asks him to reduce a lifetime of study to a few phrases, or that another non-Jew asks him, in effect, to reject the very teachings that define Pharisaic Judaism, the cause to which he has devoted his life. Now, a Gentile is demanding to be converted so that he can be immediately appointed to the highest spiritual position in Jewish life. It is, after all, the High Priest who enters the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur to offer prayers on the nation’s behalf before God. Clearly, Shammai regards the man as a nuisance at best, or as exceedingly arrogant at worst, and again raises the measuring rod in his hand (perhaps just a long ruler) and chases the man away.
Undeterred, the man goes to Hillel and poses the same request: “Convert me to Judaism on condition that you have me appointed as High Priest.” Hillel converts him.
Why? The text gives no indication of what motivates Hillel to do so; the man does, after all, seem to be a somewhat unworthy candidate. But then, master pedagogue that he is, Hillel makes a commonsense request of the man: “Can we appoint anyone as king unless he is familiar with the ceremonies of royalty? Go and learn about the ceremonies of royalty [in this case, the regulations applying to the priesthood].” The man starts to study the relevant biblical passages and soon comes across the verse, “You shall make Aaron and his sons [and descendants] responsible for observing their priestly duties, and any stranger [that is, a non-priest] who approaches [to perform the duties of the priest] shall die” (Num. 3:10; see also 18:7).
The man asks Hillel, “About whom is this verse stated?” Hillel answers, “It is said even about David, king of Israel.”
The man reasons to himself, “If it says concerning native-born Israelites who are not of priestly descent, ‘the stranger who approaches shall die,’ how much more will I be regarded as a stranger?”
From this story alone, we witness Hillel’s ability to model the most effective form of teaching, one that leads the student himself to the appropriate conclusion without forcing it upon him.
And now, for just a moment, the Talmud shifts gears and lets this new convert assume center stage. There is a biblical commandment: “Do not hate your brother in your heart,” which is understood in Jewish law as meaning that if somebody has hurt you, you should not keep the animosity bottled up inside, but express the hurt to the person who inflicted it and, if necessary, criticize the person: “Reprove, yes, reprove your fellow” (Lev. 19:17). So the man heads straight back to Shammai and says to him, “Could I possibly have been fit to be High Priest? Is it not written in the Torah, ‘A stranger who comes near shall die’?”
The Talmud quotes no more of what the man says, but it is clear what he is conveying to the quick-tempered Shammai: Why did you treat me like a creature with whom you don’t bother to reason and whom you chase away with a stick? You could have explained to me, even in a sentence or two, the laws of priesthood and why I was not qualified to be a priest.
The Talmud does not record any response by Shammai to the man’s disapproval, but this tale is clearly written in a manner sympathetic to the convert. It is also interesting that in Ethics of the Fathers, Shammai is credited with the teaching, “Receive every man with a cheerful expression” (Pirkei Avot 1:15). Who knows? Perhaps this teaching was formulated in the aftermath of this man’s criticism.
The convert, aware now of just how audacious his earlier request to Hillel had been, seeks out Hillel and says to him: “Let blessings come to rest upon your head, for through your guidance you brought me under the wings of the Divine Presence.”
The stories of Hillel and the three converts challenge three common and widely held assumptions of Jewish life: that Judaism is not interested in non-Jews converting; that if a non-Jew comes to convert, the rabbi’s first obligation is to discourage him from doing so; and that a conversion should be valid only if the proselyte formally undertakes to fully observe all Jewish laws.* There is certainly a basis for these attitudes in the Talmud (see, for example, Kiddushin 70b, Yevamot 47a, and the note below), but it is also clear that these teachings are not the whole story.
In light of the behavior of a rabbi such as Shammai, what is remarkable is just how open Hillel is to converts. Perhaps this is in part because, as the Talmud mentions, Hillel’s two most significant teachers, Shmaya and Avtalion, were descended from converts (Gittin 57b). Presumably, Shmaya and Avtalion were Shammai’s teachers as well, and so that explanation, like many others, may dissolve before the mystery of temperament and character. Perhaps Hillel was simply someone who was open to others, whether through inborn disposition or hard-earned experience, and he saw that openness as a natural part of Judaism’s mission.
This is not to discount the effect on Hillel of his teachers’ backgrounds. He might well have been sympathetic to would-be converts because he understood from personal experience that converts and their descendants could turn into wonderful Jews. He also understood that there were people who had been cruel to Shmaya and Avtalion specifically because of their backgrounds. The Talmud relates: “There was an incident involving a certain High Priest who came out of the Temple on Yom Kippur after performing the service. And all the people were following him home in a display of respect. But as soon as they saw Shmaya and Avtalion, they left the High Priest and followed Shmaya and Avtalion instead. After a while, the two rabbis came to take leave of the High Priest, and he greeted them scornfully: ‘May the descendants of Gentiles go in peace.’ ” Hillel, surely
aware of such stories, might well have decided to compensate with the greatest kindness for the elitist behavior displayed by some to would-be converts, to converts, and to their descendants. It should also be noted that Hillel’s teachers gave as good as they got. Shmaya and Avtalion retorted: ‘May the descendants of Gentiles who do the work of Aaron [Israel’s original High Priest] go in peace, but may the descendants of Aaron who do not do the work of Aaron not go in peace” (Yoma 71b). Their comfort with their Gentile ancestry and their confidence in their current place in Jewish society must also have had its effect on Hillel.
No doubt Hillel was also welcoming to Gentiles interested in Judaism because he felt confident that the teachings of Judaism could bless the lives of non-Jews as well as of Jews, and that the Jewish community would be fortunate to augment its numbers with people attracted to its teachings. In short, he understood that it is possible to be a descendant of Aaron (who was one of Hillel’s great heroes; see this page), and not be a good Jew, and equally possible to be of Gentile stock and be the worthy successor of Aaron.
I emphasize Hillel’s unprecedented openness to converts because, in truth, all three of these men approached Hillel (and earlier Shammai) with such unreasonable demands that Hillel could easily have dismissed them. But it is clear that that is exactly what he did not want to do. When unreasonable conditions were thrown at him, he set out to see how he could still win the person over to Judaism.
What is also clear and even more striking is that the Talmud approves of Hillel’s behavior and disapproves of Shammai’s. Indeed, the Talmud gives the last words in the story not to Shammai or to Hillel, but to the three proselytes themselves: “Some time later, the three converts met in one place. They concluded: ‘Shammai’s great impatience sought to drive us from the world, but Hillel’s gentleness brought us under the wings of the Divine Presence’ ” (Shabbat 31a).*
Yet a Fourth Talmudic Tale
In the stories told about the non-Jews who approach Hillel, none of the three is motivated to convert by the factor that motivates so many conversions today, the desire to marry a Jew. The rabbis were by no means unfamiliar with such a motivation, and it is the subject of one of the Talmud’s most unusual, and certainly most romantic, stories. In this case, the rabbi involved was Rabbi Chiyya (late second century C.E.), who, like Hillel, was born in Babylonia and immigrated to Israel (see Sanhedrin 5a and Ketubot 5a), and who, again like Hillel, was referred to by the other rabbis as “the Babylonian” (Genesis Rabbah 26:4). Chiyya was the outstanding student of Rabbi Judah the Prince, editor of the Mishnah and a direct descendant of Hillel. Chiyya’s stature was such that the Talmud compares his achievements with those of Hillel: “At first, when Torah was forgotten from Israel, Ezra came up from Babylonia and reestablished it. Again, it was forgotten, and Hillel the Babylonian came and reestablished it. Again, it was forgotten and Rabbi Chiyya and his sons came up and reestablished it” (Sukkah 20a).
The Talmud relates that a student of Rabbi Chiyya’s was particularly scrupulous in observing the law of tzitzit (ritual fringes). Nonetheless, when he heard of a beautiful prostitute in a far-off land who demanded four hundred gold coins as her price, he sent her the fee and set a date to meet her.
When the day arrived, he waited by the prostitute’s door. Her maid came and told her, “The man who sent you four hundred gold coins is waiting at the door.” The woman replied: “Let him come in.”
When he entered … the prostitute went to her bed and lay down upon it naked. He too started toward her bed in his desire to sit naked with her when, all of a sudden, the four ritual fringes on his garment flew up and struck him across the face; at that point, he moved away from her and sat down on the ground.
The woman stepped down from her bed and sat down on the ground opposite him. “By the head of the Roman Empire,” she swore, “I will not leave you alone until you tell me what blemish you saw in me [that caused you to leave my bed].”
He replied: “By the Temple, never have I seen a woman as beautiful as you are, but there is a commandment that the Lord our God has commanded us. It is called tzitzit.” [He went on to explain that the fringes are intended to remind Jews to observe God’s commandments; also, that God will reward those who keep His commandments and punish those who do not.] “Now the four fringes of the tzitzit appeared to me as four witnesses [testifying against me concerning the sin I was about to commit].”
The woman said: “I will not let you leave here until you tell me your name, the name of your town, the name of your teacher, and the name of the school in which you study Torah.” He wrote all this down and put it in her hand. Thereupon [the man departed for home] and the woman divided her estate into three parts, one third to the Roman government, one third to be distributed among the poor, and the final third she [converted into jewelry and cash, which she] took with her. The linens on her bed, however, she kept. She then traveled to the yeshiva headed by Rabbi Chiyya, and said to him, “Master, instruct the rabbis to convert me to Judaism.”
“My daughter,” he replied, “perhaps you have set your eyes on one of my students?”
She took out the paper the young man had given her and handed it to Rabbi Chiyya. “Go,” said he, “and enjoy your acquisition.” [The woman was converted, and she married the young man. And so, the Talmud concludes]: “The very linens she had spread out for him for an illicit purpose, she now spread out for him lawfully.” (Menachot 44a)
This story—which for obvious reasons is rarely taught in Jewish schools—suggests that romantic feelings leading to an interest in Judaism is not a uniquely modern phenomenon. Indeed, Rabbi Chiyya assumes that this is the woman’s motive for wishing to convert. However, it quickly becomes clear that the man’s Jewish values are crucial factors in the woman’s being drawn to him, as indicated by her asking the man about his teacher and the school in which he studies. Although Rabbi Chiyya is correct in speculating that she has set her eyes on one of his students, he converts her because he believes that attraction to a Jew should not be a barrier to conversion, as long as the potential proselyte is also drawn to Judaism.
Rabbi Chiyya’s precedent would seem to establish the principle that even if a non-Jew’s initial interest in Judaism is stimulated by romance, that alone is not a reason to bar the person’s conversion.*
On Hillel, Chiyya, and the Jews of Today
Anxiety within Judaism about the place of converts has taken different forms at different moments in history. Questions of conversion cut to the heart of the “Who is a Jew?” question, one that, more than any other question in Jewish life, has the capability of turning intra-religious disagreements over conversion protocol into an outright separation that will divide Judaism not into movements like Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, and Reconstructionist but into truly schismatic denominations that will pull Jews apart from one another as much as Protestants and Catholics.
As a rabbi for almost forty years, I have seen the issue of conversion become an increasingly central concern in Jewish life. During my childhood in the 1950s, conversion was rarely discussed—certainly not in the traditional Jewish community in which I was raised—and rarely encouraged. Few Jews then were intermarrying. Until 1960, it is estimated that intermarriage rates were only about 6 percent. It is not that American Jews were necessarily so much more religious then than they are today, but even nonreligious Jews, many of them raised in Yiddish-speaking homes (as was very commonly the case in the 1920s and 1930s), were unlikely to be so socially at ease with non-Jews that they would marry them (non-Jews apparently felt the same).
Those days are long past. Jews today live among non-Jews in a way they didn’t previously. Two generations ago, for example, Jews who attended college generally studied at public universities and lived at home (in the 1930s, CCNY, the City College of New York, was estimated to have a student body that was more than 80 percent Jewish). In contrast, many young Jews today attend residential colleges and graduate schools (and, later, accept jobs) far from
their homes and, not surprisingly, often fall in love with non-Jewish peers whom they meet there.
Since the 1970s, intermarriage rates in the Diaspora have grown to more than 40 percent, and it is now clear that unless Jews find ways to bring the non-Jewish spouses of Jews, and the children of intermarried couples, into the Jewish community, the Jewish population will decline precipitously. In 1938, just before World War II, the worldwide Jewish population was estimated at 17 million, or more than three-quarters of 1 percent of a world population of some 2.2 billion. As of 2009, the world’s population had more than tripled, to about 6.8 billion, while Jewry’s numbers had fallen to about 14 milion, or less than one-quarter of 1 percent of the world’s population. The decline both in absolute numbers and in Jews as a percentage of the population over the past seventy years is due in large measure, of course, to the Holocaust. But not only to the Holocaust. In the United States, a country in which (aside from American Jews serving in the military) no Jews died because of Nazi persecution, Jews have gone from 4 percent of the population to under 2 percent today. And all this despite large post–World War II migrations of Holocaust survivors, Israelis, and Jews from Russia, Iran, and South Africa (in contrast, an average of 2,000 to 3,000 Jews leave the United States annually to live in Israel).
Two thousand years ago, Judaism—from which Christianity sprang and from which Muhammad acknowledged that he first learned about God—was the world’s only monotheist faith. Christianity was just beginning, and Islam would not come into existence for another six hundred years. Today, not only is Judaism the smallest of the three monotheist faiths, but there are more than a hundred Christians (including Catholics, Protestants, and adherents of the Orthodox churches) and almost a hundred Muslims for every Jew.
Rabbi Joseph Telushkin Page 4