A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism

A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism By Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter This article appeared in Ami Magazine July 11, 2018/ 28 Tamuz 5778 and is reprinted here with permission.

This is not my first conversation with the Polish scholar Marcin Wodzinski. In 2013, following the release of his book on chasidism and politics, he visited my office together with the well-known askan Reb Duvid Singer. Today as then, my conversation with him elicits paradoxical emotions. His knowledge of chasidism, particularly its roots and subsequent development, is shockingly broad. In fact, many chasidim turn to him for information about their origins, and Professor Wodzinski’s research has saved for posterity much of that history. Of course, the mere fact that chasidism, a vibrant Jewish movement that once thrived in Eastern Europe and Russia, has been reduced to a scholarly discipline for a Polish academician is saddening. Poland was once the center of chasidic and Jewish life in general, but it now has very few Jews living there. And it goes without saying that Poland is devoid of any vibrant Jewish culture. “That loss,” he tells me, “is very acutely felt in Poland on many levels. One significant expression of this is the Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw. I was its head historian for some time, as well as the chief designer of the gallery that depicts the 19th century. Three years after its opening, it is now the most successful museum in Poland.” Unfortunately, it hurts to hear that, because that is precisely what Hitler was trying to accomplish. The Nazis wanted to reduce Jews and Judaism to relics and artifacts found only in a museum, and I tell the sympathetic professor as much. “That’s true, but I would say that Poland as a country can’t do anything about it because there are so few Jews living there. But in terms of recognizing the tragedy and the loss and as an expression of pain, this museum is extremely important. And there are many other examples of how the non- Jewish community is trying to integrate an understanding of Jewish culture into what it means to be Polish today. There are at least four centers of academic Jewish studies in the country, which is the same number that exists in Israel. Each center has many scholars who are doing valuable research and earning PhDs in the subject. These schools attract people who want to study Jewish history and culture. Many of them write important articles and books that are read by a lot of Poles. “The Jews are not an extinct race,” he says with fervor, “and this notion among Poles is even stronger today than it was 50 and 100 years ago, when Polish culture was very antagonistic towards Jews and sought to exclude them. Today, an increasing number of people realize that you can’t understand Poland without understanding the Jews.” Field of Study Marcin hails from a town in Poland that is 50 kilometers away from Breslau, or Wrocław as it is known in Polish, which before the Holocaust was the epicenter of the haskalah, rather than chasidism. Yet ironically, it was the chasidic movement that drew his interest. “Of course. There weren’t any chasidim here. The city of Wrocław is best-known for the Beit Midrash l’Rabbanim, which was part of the so-called Conservative movement. Abraham Geiger, who one of the leaders of the Reform movement, was also quite active in Wrocław for over two decades. And the Jewish historian Heinrich Groetz spent his entire academic Marcin Wodzinski accompanying chasidim at a kever. Seen in the background is Reb Duvid Singer. life at its university,” he tells me when I confide in him that given his place of birth and alma mater (he also attended the University of Wrocław), I find his interest in chasidism rather peculiar. “But there were also some important chasidic books that were published in Wrocław, such as the first edition of Kol Simchah, which is the collected teachings of Rav Simchah Bunim of Peshischa.” “So you’re a goy,” I tease him, “born in the birthplace of the maskilim, but chasidism became your field of interest.” “That’s right!” he replies good-naturedly. “I’m trying to bridge ideas and interests. My interest in Jewish history and culture began with Jewish cemeteries, which was very typical at the time because it was the most visible presence of both the Jewish presence and absence in Poland in the 1980s. I learned Hebrew so I could write down the inscriptions, and I was fascinated by seeing the rebirth of chasidic pilgrimages to the gravesites of tzaddikim in Lizhensk, Peshischa, Lublin and other places. Then I started researching chasidic life, which is what I’ve been involved in for the past three decades. “Two weeks ago I published a book called An Historical Atlas of Hasidism, which is going to be very important for chasidic studies. It contains 280 pages of full-color maps and images from the inception of chasidism until today. The maps present an entirely new way of understanding the movement, and there are a lot of previously unknown historical images. The book was published by the prestigious Princeton University Press. “I also recently published a book entitled Hasidism: Key Questions. That one was printed by Oxford University Press. That is the volume of which I am the most proud, as it summarizes my entire investigation into chasidism. It has seven chapters, each of which addresses a different central question: the definition of chasidus, women in chasidism, chasidic leadership and the role of a tzaddik, the demographics of chasidim historically and today, the geography of where they lived, the economics of chasidic life, and finally, the end of chasidus in Eastern Europe and how it moved to the United States and Israel. I put forth the argument that this shift was not only because of World War II but actually started during the First World War. The book has around 350 pages.” “What do you think you’ve added to the understanding of chasidus?” I ask. “There are several things that are unique about my work. First of all, I am equally interested in the lives of the rank-and- file chasidim as I am in the lives of the tzaddikim. To me, a tzaddik isn’t a leader if he doesn’t have followers. That is why I believe that much of the research so far has been misguided by omitting the tzaddik’s thousands of followers from the picture. I think it’s critically important to understand not only the teachings of the great chasidic minds but also—and perhaps more so—to understand how they reached the simple folk and affected their lives. Another innovation in my work is that I don’t just delve into intellectual topics. I also look at the social, economic and other aspects of history, which are aspects that have only been properly addressed by very few scholars. This results in an entirely different perspective. “But perhaps most importantly, the vast majority of scholarship on chasidism has focused on its early years. We know quite a lot about the Baal Shem Tov and Rav Dovber of Mezritch, and we know some things about their disciples, but we know very little about chasidism in the 19th and early-20th centuries before the Holocaust. We know about some leaders, but very little about the lives of the chasidic communities. Both of these two recent books expand the scope of interest. I call the 19th century the ‘golden age’ of chasidism, because that’s when the number of people who considered themselves chasidim reached its peak. There were many regions of central Poland, Galicia and Volhynia [the region where Ukraine, Poland and Belarus meet] where chasidim constituted the majority of Jews, and it’s critically important to understand what their lives were like then.” “How much of the actual Torah of the tzaddikim do you study? Is it something you consider necessary for your research, or do you completely ignore it?” “Obviously, there are many people who are bigger experts on that than I am. I’m not even an am haaretz; I’m a goy!” he says unapologetically, “so it’s not really something for me to study.” “So you don’t think it’s important or that you’re missing something in your research?” “It’s obviously important, and that’s why many people study it. But I can’t do everything. I do need to understand the chasidic concepts, but I don’t study them myself; I read what other scholars have written. That’s the best I can do. I can’t be a specialist on everything. What I’m trying to do is to show that beyond Torah, there is a huge area of chasidic life that hasn’t been properly looked into, such as the relative power of individual groups. These are things that everyone would love to know. It also gives you an understanding of the spiritual leadership of various tzaddikim, because if one tzaddik has 100,000 followers, his relationship with his followers is very different from that of a tzaddik with 50 followers. “We can also see how far the shtieblach were located from the court. For Chabad, the average distance between the court and the shtiebel was 400 kilometers, which means that the vast majority of chasidim only visited the Rebbe once or twice in their lives. For Vizhnitz, which was very strong in Hungary, the average distance was less than 100 kilometers, which means that most of the chasidim came to see the Rebbe several times a year because it was relatively easy to get there. This means that the relationship of the typical Vizhnitzer chasid and his Rebbe was very different from that of the typical Lubavitcher chasid and his Rebbe. “Then there were courts that were even closer to their shtieblach. For example, Kretchnif’s average distance was 30 kilometers, which means that they could go to their Rebbe every Shabbos and he knew his chasidim personally. The Gerrer Rebbe had 100,000 chasidim, which means that he didn’t know all of them by face and name, with the result that the spiritual inspiration they received was different from that received by chasidim of a smaller chasidus. So while this kind of information isn’t part of the teachings of any particular group, it’s still very important to understand. “It’s hard to summarize everything I believe I bring to the field. But as I said, I try to capture the totality of chasidic life, not just its spiritual aspects but also its economic, social and cultural ones.” “Has your work brought you emotionally closer to the Jewish community, or is it just a field of research to you?” “Whenever anyone chooses a field of research he feels some sort of connection. The most difficult thing for anyone to do is to decipher himself.” “You speak Hebrew and English fluently, but in which language do you write?” “Lately, I’ve been writing more and more in English instead of Polish because my books are addressed primarily to international audiences. But I still write articles in Polish, so I’m pretty much bilingual in my academic life.” “Is the objective of your research to understand Poland or to understand Jews?” I ask next. “I might be exceptional in some sense because I focus on Jewish history; I don’t research so-called Polish-Jewish relations. I’m interested in chasidism, the haskalah and Jewish cemeteries and that’s it. But I would say that the majority of scholars in Poland who are interested in Jews study the relationship between Poles and Jews.” “As a non-Jew, are you welcomed by Jewish researchers of chasidism, or do you feel like an outsider?” “There isn’t any bias against non-Jewish scholars in academia, or at least I’ve never experienced it. As a whole, the scholars studying chasidism are extremely openminded people. I’m very happy to be part of this community and I feel very welcome and supported both intellectually and emotionally. The research I do is very broad, so I often have to rely on support from other people, which is always forthcoming. “I would also say that over time I have established increasingly good relations with the chasidic community and with many individual chasidim who seem to appreciate my research. A big part of the atlas in my book maps out contemporary chasidism. In order to do it I had to ask a critical question—how many chasidim are there today?—because without the answer it’s impossible to continue any further. Are the numbers bigger or smaller than before the war? Where do they live? Which is the biggest chasidic court today? Celebrating at a Belz wedding To obtain the answer, I decided to turn to the chasidic phone directories and counted the number of households. Based on the 42 directories I received I arrived at a total of 130,000, which I believe covers almost all of the chasidic households in existence today. This allowed me to estimate the demographic and geographic distribution of chasidim and many other issues, and it was only possible thanks to the goodwill of the chasidic communities that appreciated my research and shared their directories with me. I am extremely pleased to have gotten support not only from my fellow scholars but also from chasidic people.” “Which is the largest chasidus today?” “You know the answer to that: Satmar, with 26,000 households split between the two groups.” “Which is second?” “Chabad, with 16,000, followed by Ger, with 12,000. Belz has 7,500 households. The most difficult to calculate is Breslov because they use different categories for inclusion, but I estimate them at 7,000. Sanz has 4,000; Bobov has 3,000; and another 1,500 for Bobov-45. I am very proud to have done this research.” Bustling Centers of Chasidic Life “Where was the center of chasidic activity in the 19th century, Poland or Ukraine?” “That’s a very good question. I have a set of maps in my atlas depicting where the tzaddikim lived and how this changed over time. I also have a map showing 70% of all the existing chasidic shtieblach at the beginning of the 20th century. This was an enormous undertaking. I managed to locate 2,854 shtieblach, which, as I said, represents some 70% of the total during that time period. It is very clear that the cradle of chasidism was Podolia and Volhynia, which are Ukrainian territories. At the end of the 18th century it moved north to Belarus and west to Galicia. In the 19th century, the epicenter was Galicia and the southern part of central Poland. Then it moved south again into Hungary and Romania.” “Where does Czechoslovakia, where my own parents hail from, come into play?” “Slovakia is part of Greater Hungary, because up until 1918 it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, so when I say ‘Hungary’ I am including Slovakia. By contrast, the area that is now the Czech Republic isn’t significant to us because there were very few chasidim there if at all. In fact, only the eastern part of Slovakia, which later became TransCarpathian Ruthenia and was incorporated into Hungary, Romania and now Ukraine, is relevant to this topic, but it was never a center of chasidic life. As for the Hungarian territories, it was mostly Maramures and Transylvania that were heavily chasidic.” “According to your calculations, would you say that the majority of the Jews at that time were religious, and a majority of the religious Jews were chasidim?” “Up until the interwar period in the 1920s and ’30s, the majority of the population was religious, although not all were chasidim; it depended on the area. In Lithuania the majority were Litvish—either misnagdim or ambivalent towards chasidim—while only a minority were chasidim. But in Galicia, especially Eastern and Central Galicia, the majority were chasidim. Many communities were dominated by chasidim. Poland was also divided: Eastern Poland was mostly chasidic, but in Western Poland the numbers were much smaller. “In general, the vast majority of Eastern European Jews in the 19th century were Orthodox, but this changed radically in the interwar period. In the Soviet Union, the number of religious people dropped dramatically because of the Communists’ anti- religious stance, and the chasidim were heavily persecuted and their leaders sent to Siberia. For example, the Machnovka Rebbe was only allowed to leave his exile in the 1960s. In Poland there wasn’t any religious persecution between the wars, but because of the trend towards modernization and the influence of secularism and politics, the number of people who were still religious dropped to one-third of the Jewish population. Of those who were religious, I’d say that the majority were chasidim. This loss was acutely felt by the chasidic community. “If you look at the activities of the Piaseczno, Aleksander Rebbe and Gerrer Rebbes, much of their activity was inspired by the crisis of many members of the younger generation leaving the community and becoming communists or Zionists. They understood that they had to reinvent the structure of the traditional chasidic community, particularly during the First World War and immediately afterwards.” “They say that history is written by the victors. There were many large chasidic courts before the Holocaust but they are no longer remembered, and other chasidic groups are far more dominant now. This makes people believe that they were dominant before the war as well, but it’s not necessarily true.” “My atlas corrects this misconception. As I told you, I found 2,854 shtieblach in the early part of the last century. By comparing the number of shtieblach of different courts, I was able to establish their relative power, and the numbers are very precise. In Central Poland, 22% of shtieblach were Ger; 13% were Aleksander; 6% were Kotzk and its offspring, followed by Amshinov, Otvotzk (Vorka), and other smaller groups. Perhaps the biggest one that’s completely unknown today is Olik, which may have been the third largest in Volhynia during the interwar period. “Which was the biggest in Ukraine?” “Between the wars, the biggest court in Ukraine was Trisk, with 16%. The second largest was Sadigura, which was really in Bukovina, outside Ukraine, with 8%. The third was Olik, followed by Karlin-Stolin, Makarov, Tolne, Chernobyl, Stepan, Lubavitch, Skver, Brzezan, Hornosteipel and others.” “Where was Lubavitch the most dominant?” “Lubavitch was the dominant group in Lithuania and Belarus, where they had 32% of all the shtieblach. Every third shtiebel was Lubavitch, and there were other shtieblach belonging to other Chabad courts. Four percent belonged to Kapust; 3% to Liadi, and 3% to Strashelye. If you count all of them together, almost half of the shtieblach were Chabad. The next largest one in Belarus and Lithuania was Karlin-Stolin with 10%, followed by Slonim, Kobrin, Koidanov and several others.” “Do you see a common denominator between all of these groups despite their differences?” “Yes, and one of them is their common origin. The understanding that they all come from the Baal Shem Tov informs every single chasidic community. It also affects the relationships between groups, because it is much easier to move from one chasidic group to another than it is to move from chasidism to non-chasidism or vice versa. There are also elements that are shared by every group. The role of the tzaddik is one such element. Even to the groups like the ‘toite chasidim,’ as the Breslovers were once called since they don’t have a live Rebbe, there is still an understanding of the Rebbe as an essential spiritual experience for every chasid. “Perhaps this is something that distinguishes me from many other scholars of chasidism. Whereas most of them concentrate on the theology and books, my approach is more in line with the statement of Rav Zusha of Anipoli. When he was in the court of Rav Dovber of Mezritch, he said that he learned more Torah from the way his Rebbe tied his shoelaces than he would ever learn from his lectures. To me, the interaction with the Rebbe is what defines the life of the community. My research brings this aspect to light, whereas other scholars tend to overlook it.” Economic Life and Political Power “How do you make a distinction in your research between religious Jews and chasidic Jews in terms of their economic, social and cultural lives? They were probably almost the same.” “That’s true as far as economics is concerned,” he admits. “It’s very difficult to differentiate between chasidim and non-chasidim, and finding sources was extremely difficult. But I managed to locate the complete lists of several communities in Poland and Belarus, and I also came into possession of complete lists of taxpayers and their professions. By comparing the two lists, I could see how chasidim fit into the picture of the general Jewish economic activity. “There’s a popular stereotype both in the secular world and among chasidic writers that the early chasidim were poor, even in the 19th century. One of the things I wanted to know was whether chasidim on average were richer or poorer than the average nonchasid. I also wanted to know if there was any specific profile for chasidic economic activity. Where did the money they used to sustain their families come from? “Thanks to the comparison between the lists of chasidim and the lists of other Jews in central Poland and Belarus, I came to the conclusion— which was quite surprising to me—that chasidic communities were on average wealthier than nonchasidic ones. Even more interesting, the chasidim preferred to engage in trade and weren’t so involved in artisanship and crafts. Also, there were very few chasidim who were unskilled workers, although there was a lot overrepresentation when it came to the communal professions such as rabbi, gabbai, shames, mohel and shochet. So when you compare chasidim to other religious groups with similar profiles, you understand why their communal structure was as I described.” “In what sense?” “In the sense of emunah and bitachon supporting the economic activity. In the 19th century, the average boy starting an enterprise would get money from his family or in-laws and establish a business. Some of them would succeed, while others would go bankrupt. Many people needed to go bankrupt several times before starting to make money. In the traditional non- chasidic world, a person might start a business once or twice with his family’s support, but if he didn’t succeed he simply went bankrupt. “Then there was another tier of support in the chasidic world: If a person failed using the money from his family, he could still count on assistance from his community. There is much documentation of chasidic solidarity being very important for internal economic support. If there was a wealthy person in a small chasidic town and he knew that another person had failed at his enterprise, he was willing to help him. This meant that people were given another chance. “Also, chasidim preferred to be in trade rather than crafts, which usually generates a higher income. Being a chasid actually supported engaging in trade, because a non-chasid’s economic relations extended to his immediate business partners and family, but for a chasid this network was wider since he had to visit the court of the tzaddik several times a year, where he was able to build very strong relationships with people from other towns. This meant that he had access to business partners in a very large geographical region. It was therefore much easier for him to have a successful enterprise because he had a much larger pool of potential partners. “Another important factor is the role of the tzaddik as arbitrator, not only in spiritual or familial matters but also economically. This is one more level that wasn’t available to a non-chasidic community, and it was enough to put chasidim in a relatively better financial situation.” “Tell me about the political power chasidim wielded in their various countries of residence in Eastern Europe, which is the subject of the book you released in 2013.” “It’s very interesting to see that some of the tzaddikim—most prominently Rav Yitzchak of Vurka and later the Chidushei HaRim—functioned as shtadlanim, representatives of the Jewish community to the non-Jewish authorities. It is also very instructive to see that behind their activity there were what I would call legal advisers, people who were very knowledgeable and skillful in navigating the law of the country. These were generally big entrepreneurs who had major financial influence and dealt with the authorities on a day- to-day basis. Those people weren’t visible, however; they lent their expertise to the tzaddik, who was the face of the political power. But it was really a wider enterprise undertaken by the entire community and not just the tzaddikim themselves.” “Who do you think was the most politically astute and active among the Rebbes? “In the 19th century, it is clear to me that the biggest innovation in the understanding of politics among tzaddikim came from Rav Yitzchak of Vurka. Around the same time the Tzemach Tzedek, Rav Menachem Mendel Schneersohn, was also very influential in political matters in Russia. You can see the structure of support from very wealthy Jews in St. Petersburg and Moscow, who brought their expertise into the service of the chasidic community. Those two should be listed as the most skillful political leaders of that period. In a sense they established the path for other segments of the Orthodox Jewish community. In the next century you have the founders of Agudat Yisrael in Poland, but that was a very different concept because by then it was mostly electoral politics predicated on parties.” “Was the political power held only by the Rebbes or the chasidim as well?” “I would say that any political activity required a very developed cooperation of many levels of political involvement. The tzaddik would never act alone, and it is obvious that without support he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what he did. At the same time, without him others would be unable to have power. They were entirely interdependent, so it’s impossible to say which was the more important. The beauty is that they managed to invent new ways of being politically active, because traditional Jewish politics had been based on shtadlanim. “The way it worked up until then was that the Jewish community would hire a political activist who would go to the Polish court or nobleman and try to obtain certain political privileges. This changed in the late-18th century because there was no longer a Polish court, so the entire legal system changed. Under the new system, the Jewish community was deprived of political power, not because of antiSemitism—which of course existed—but because the authorities claimed that the Jews weren’t a community but only individual citizens. Every citizen could represent his own interests, but no one could speak in the name of a group. Jews were permitted to organize for religious purposes, but they were forbidden to organize politically. This meant having to reinvent how to represent themselves to the government, but somehow the tzaddikim managed to present themselves as the representatives of the entire Jewish population.” “What’s fascinating is that all of this developed in antiSemitic environments. Would you agree with that statement?” “The political elite were certainly more or less antiSemitic, but they were trying to present themselves as neutral. Those who were skillful used this supposed ambivalence to their advantage. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka, for example, was as successful as he was because he was able to neutralize the anti-Semitic bias of many politicians. He forced them to act against their will by citing legal precedents in support of his arguments that they couldn’t reject. One such case involved the right of rabbanim to control the kashrut of meat in Poland. Absurdly, the right to sell kosher meat and levy the special tax on it had been given over to a Christian enterprise, which was obviously a major problem. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka managed to present this as destructive to the state budget and contrary to its revenue laws. By using this argument, he managed to help the Jewish community regain control. The political bias and anti-Semitism of many of the politicians was rendered ineffective, because they had to follow the legal procedures established by the law of the land. One of the most important factors in the politics of the 19th century was that even the most oppressive countries were trying to establish themselves as places that operated under the rule of law.” “Tell me about the Tzemach Tzedek’s successes. What was his style of political activity?” “He was active in Russia in a different context. When he passed away in 1866 there was a visible break in the political representation in Russia, mainly because his succession was unclear; his sons established other courts in other towns, and his youngest son, Rav Shmuel, remained in Lubavitch. This was only slowly regained by his grandson, Rav Shalom Dovber, but his was a time of lesser political success. Concurrently, the Chidushei HaRim established himself as an extremely successful political leader in central Poland. He was succeeded by the Sfas Emes, who was also very successful, as was his son, the Imrei Emes, who was very involved in the creation of Agudat Yisrael. By then the political climate in central Poland was under Russian control, but because it was ethnically different, it maintained a separate legal system that encouraged political activity far more than Russia. So I would say that after 1866 and the passing of the Tzemach Tzedek, there was no longer a real parallel of politics in Russia and Poland.” “By ‘political activism’ you mean efforts to benefit Jewish life in the places they lived.” “I am referring to those actions that were undertaken by chasidic leaders with the support of their constituencies to guarantee certain privileges or rights for the Jewish community at large, not just the chasidic community. Aside from the right to have control over the supply of kosher meat, this would include the ability of Jewish prisoners to have kosher food or the right to establish eiruvin in Jewish districts. This was a very important change from the earlier chasidic involvement in politics like that of Rav Meir of Apta, who was mostly active in defending the rights of chasidim to establish their own shtieblach, or to prevent the persecution of the chasidic community.” “Every Jewish leader really fought for the rights of the Jewish community, so how were the chasidic leaders different in that regard?” “True, many of their efforts weren’t very different from those of non-chasidic rabbanim, but the whole structure of chasidism empowered its leaders far more than other rabbanim. Let’s say that there was a rabbi of a town—even a very important posek in a big city. Who was behind him? He had only his personal charisma and his community. The Gerrer Rebbe, however, had 50,000 followers all over Poland. This gave him the ability to engineer a campaign to support his political actions in a very broad way. This structure of support that wasn’t confined to specific territories and could cover large areas of Eastern Europe gave additional power to chasidic representation.” “Did you get the feeling that the growth of a particular court was dependent on the political skills of its leader?” “That’s something that’s very hard to establish, because no direct testimonies would say such a thing, that this tzaddik was more powerful because he was politically skilled. But if you observe the correlation between political involvement and the number of followers, it’s very significant that those tzaddikim who became more politically involved eventually gained wider followings and vice versa; by having wider followings they were able to be more effective politicians. So these two phenomena were interdependent both ways. “This is also very true of the interwar period. The tzaddikim who were engaged in the reinvention of chasidism after the First World War, establishing new school systems and other activities of that kind, eventually turned out to be more effective than others. For example, before WWI the Tchortkover and Belzer Rebbes were equally as powerful. But after the war the Tchortkover Rebbe’s power shrank dramatically, and the same holds true of many other Rebbes in central Poland. Another example would be the Gerrer Rebbe, whose political involvement and institution of new infrastructures in the yeshivos and Bais Yankevs [sic] gave him a very strong boost. He had 100,000 followers in the interwar period, which was unparalleled. So a connection exists between politics and the internal relative power of certain Rebbes.” Concerns and Lessons The country of Poland is currently going through difficult political times. Last week, the government effectively forced more than two dozen justices out of their jobs. The purged judges refused to recognize their dismissal, while the government officials insisted that they would no longer be allowed to hear cases. Surrounded by cheering supporters, the top Supreme Court justice took a defiant stand on the courthouse steps, and vowed to keep fighting to protect the Polish constitution and the independence of that nation’s courts. The confrontation was followed by dueling news conferences, fiery speeches and more street protests. I ask Marcin if he thinks Poland is moving towards a more dictatorial type of government. “Poland has been losing its democratic institutions with increasing rapidity over the last three years since the ruling party took power,” he admits. “I can already see a lot of manifestations of an authoritarian state. While the Supreme Court is currently in the news it’s really only the tip of the iceberg, because we see many such things on a daily basis, such as the use of police against the political enemies of the present government, which is typically authoritarian. Then there’s the use of the media as a propaganda tool for the current government. Using public money in support of one political option totally demolishes the constitutional structure. I am very afraid that if the ruling party wins again next year, that will be the last free election in Poland.” “Do you think that the Jews who live in Poland and the Jewish community at large should be concerned about this?” I want to know. “The ruling party is right-wing, and in Europe right- wing parties are very closely associated with anti-Semitic ideologies, but they are very wary of being labeled antiSemitic. For this reason, the ruling party won’t openly attack the Jewish community in the foreseeable future. But just by looking at the Holocaust law that was passed in January you can see that even without the direct intention of the regime there’s been a rise of anti-Semitic sentiment, which is fueled by the current political climate. This might be a concern in the long run, and is something that has been expressed by many representatives of the Jewish community over the last year.” “Are you concerned as an academic about the freedom to do your research?” “Yes. My understanding of the Holocaust law, which was somewhat rescinded, was that the objective wasn’t to persecute people who discussed the involvement of Poles in the killing of Jews during the Holocaust; it was more about creating a general feeling of fear and auto-censorship of what can be said in public these days.” My final question to the professor is whether he thinks that what his research reveals about chasidic life contains lessons for the world at large. “That’s a difficult question for me because I’m an academic; my work isn’t so much about finding moral lessons. But it is very clear to me that chasidism holds a huge cultural and spiritual attraction to the world. If you look at its impact on cultural imagery, the image of the traditional Jewish world to many non-Jews is identical to chasidism. This is a huge success, which is due to the spiritual attractiveness of chasidism. But I’m much more interested in analyzing it as a religious phenomenon that shows the interrelationship between religion and other aspects of daily life. I’m not saying that chasidism isn’t a religious movement; of course it is. But being a chasid is something so comprehensive that it affects cultural expressions, economic life and many other areas of activity. “My research articulates the totality of the experience and helps people understand chasidism as a vibrant movement that isn’t black and white, which is the way it is often portrayed. It has very rich and complicated structures, which have a very big influence not only on the Jewish community but on the larger, non-Jewish societies in which chasidim live. It is also very deeply embedded in geographical location. My Historical Atlas of Hasidism shows how much the spirituality of chasidism is conditioned by the geographical context in which it developed, which is yet another aspect. “What I would love to achieve with my publications,” he finally allows, “is to promote the understanding that because chasidism is so unique, it allows us to understand much of the world around us, and not just chasidism itself.”

Book announcement: Two books on Karlin-Stolin Chasidim

Book announcement: Two books on Karlin-Stolin Chasidim By Eliezer Brodt בנימין בראון, כספינה מיטלטלת, חסידות קרלין בין עליות למשברים, 659 עמודים, מרכז זלמן שזר ר’ אברהם אביש שור, כתבים, פרקי תולדות ועיון במשנת קרלין-סטולין, תדפיסים מתוך קובץ בית אהרן וישראל, 1229 + 18 עמודים. Recently a good amount of literature devoted to Chasidim has appeared. In this announcement I am just mentioning two recent works, related specifically to Karlin-Stolin Chasidim. One is written by an academic (outsider) and one is written by a Stoliner Chassid (insider). This would be a great way to compare them, based on Chaim Liberman’s classic essay “Keitzad Chokrim Chasidus BYisrael?” (Ohel Rochel, 1, pp. 1-49). The first volume is from Dr. Benny Brown, renowned for his massive book on the Chazon Ish a few years back (mentioned here and here) and for a more recent book edited by him (mentioned here) called HaGedolim. Last year Dr. Brown wrote a book devoted to understanding Charedim (451 pp.) called Madrich Lechevrah HaCharedis, where part of it he focuses on Chassidim. A few months ago his latest volume appeared, devoted to Karlin-Stolin (659 pp.) titled כספינה .מיטלטלת This book also includes many documents which he got from insiders (no idea why they gave it to him). I was happy to see some discussion of a special Karliner Chasid that I had the great privilege to have a close relationship with, R’ Yossel Zeinvorth. The table of contents to this work may be viewed here (link). Here is the cover:

The second book just released earlier this week is called Kesavim from Rabbi Abish Shor. R’ Abish is one of the most prolific writers in the Charedi Chasidic world. His articles have been featured in the Karlin-Stolin journal Kovetz Beis Aron V’Yisroel for the past thirty years. This is a collection of all his essays that appeared in that journal arranged in chronological and topical order. This volume has important information related to the history of Chasidim in general, based on numerous manuscripts amongst other sources. This huge volume was printed in a limited edition and for a short time is available for sale through me at [email protected]

View the table of contents to the work here (link). Here is the cover: Hasidism in America

Hasidism in America

Marc B. Shapiro There is a tape of R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik in the 1950s saying that there is no real Hasidism in the United States. He says that he saw real Hasidism in Warsaw, and America does not have it. When the Rav made this statement, I think most non- hasidim would have agreed that Hasidism did not have any real future in the United States. The 1950s was a time when the focus was on the melting pot. In such an era, Hasidism would have been as out of place in wider American society as Muslim women walking down the streets of New York City or Los Angeles wearing hijabs. How things have changed! There are many reasons for the great success of Hasidism in the United States, among them the turn to multiculturalism which has made the public square more welcoming of a variety of lifestyles. The coarsening of the wider culture has also pushed religious people to a more inward direction, and those looking to escape from this culture can easily be drawn towards Hasidism. Also important is that for many young hasidim the wider culture does not have the same draw it once did. And for those who do want to be part of the wider culture, in today’s day and age one can be a hasid and live a much more open life, even if only virtually, then people did a generation or two ago. The rise of the welfare state has also been crucial to hasidic growth, as without the welfare state hasidic communities as we know them would be unsustainable.[1] Finally, there is one other element that has been important to hasidic growth, and also to its fracturing, and that is the leadership that has been able to provide guidance in post-war America. Samuel Heilman’s engrossing new book discusses this very point, that of leadership. Its title is Who Will Lead Us? The Story of Five Hasidic Dynasties in America, and it is required reading for anyone interested in the contemporary hasidic world. The dynasties Heilman focuses on are Munkács, Boyan, Bobov, Satmar, and Lubavitch. There is also an introductory chapter on succession in Hasidism which itself is an important issue. I do not know if people in the hasidic world give it much thought, but for non-hasidim the whole matter of succession is somewhat strange, since by what right should a son (sometimes even a very young son) or son-in-law be able to take over religious leadership? Very few outsiders will be impressed with the hasidic concept of “holy seed,” as in the non-hasidic world, at least until recent years, it was understood that one rises to greatness based on one’s own achievements, not based on who one’s father was (though that always helps). It is thus interesting to learn that in the early years of Hasidism the concept of family succession did not exist.[2] Yet as we all know, for many years now succession has been based on lineage and in that way the hasidic court is just like the royal court.[3] (I was struck by Heilman’s use of the term “dowager” to describe the widow of the rebbe. I have never seen the term used in this way but is a good usage.) Of course, there have been times when there were disputes as to who should be the rightful successor, and this always had the potential to lead to a split in a hasidic group, a point we will return to. Heilman was fortunate that he “was helped immensely by several rebbes who graciously consented to be interviewed and who for long hours and over many months and years opened their lives to me” (p. xv). Some readers might find it strange for a rebbe to be so open with an academic researcher, but it shows that at least some rebbes are interested that academic discussions about them be accurate, and that their perspectives be taken into account.[4] Heilman’s chapter dealing with Munkács is riveting, and never before has the story been told in print. By “story,” I have in mind the life of R. Baruch (Boruchel) Rabinowitz, the rebbe of Munkács, who did what is almost unheard of, namely, giving up his “rebbeship.” Freed from this role, he was able to become more “modern” and publicly abandon the anti-Zionism so much associated with his father-in-law, R. Hayyim Eleazar Shapira, his predecessor as rebbe of Munkács. While living as a rabbi in Brazil (the “chief rabbi” of São Paulo), he even acceded to his new wife’s wishes to get a dog (which he himself walked). He read widely in secular literature, earned a university degree in philosophy and psychology, and taught philosophy at the University of São Paulo. (p. 51). While some have seen the Holocaust as changing R. Baruch’s outlook, it appears that this is not entirely the case. As Heilman informs us (p. 44), during the Munkácser Rebbe’s famous 1930 trip to the Land of Israel, in which R. Baruch the future son-in-law accompanied him, R. Baruch snuck out at night to meet secretly with R. Yaakov Moshe Charlop, the leading follower of R. Kook. (Heilman refers to R. Charlop as head of Yeshivat Merkaz ha-Rav, but that would only happen after R. Kook’s death.) This shows that already in his youth he had a much broader perspective than his future father-in- law. By the time his metamorphosis is complete, it appears that R. Baruch should be categorized as a Religious Zionist – or perhaps even a Modern Orthodox – rabbi. There is a picture in the book of him with Ben Gurion. Unfortunately, Heilman does not identify the other rabbi in the picture – R. Shlomo Goren. Here is another picture of R. Baruch in the Sinai desert after the 1967 war.[5]

Because R. Baruch had given up the role of rebbe, this meant that it was to pass to his son. Yet R. Baruch did not seem too happy about this and appears to have never regarded it as a real option, as he did not raise any of his sons to become a rebbe. Heilman does a wonderful job describing how it came to pass that the young Moshe Leib became the rebbe. The story he tells is also one of great sadness, of a deep human tragedy, as in the end there was a complete break between R. Baruch and three of his children from his first marriage (which includes the current Munkácser Rebbe), even to the extent of R. Baruch forbidding them to attend his funeral or to say Kaddish for him. (You can see R. Baruch’s letter here.) Is there anything more tragic for a family than this? While it is often stated that the hasidim rejected R. Baruch because he became a Zionist, the truth is that he rejected them, in that he chose not to continue as the rebbe. The bitter and public break with his children was a real family tragedy, but it is difficult to read the book and not conclude that the fault for this lay in R. Baruch’s unresolved issues – Heilman speaks of “Oedipal overtones” (p. 63) – seen most vividly in R. Baruch’s shocking behavior at R. Moshe Leib’s wedding. The result of all this is that R. Baruch has been completely erased from Munkács history and has no significance to the movement. When a book with his approbation is reprinted, such as R. Joseph Lustig’sAmudei Esh le-Veit Yosef, it is not surprising that the approbation is removed. Here is the title page of the edition with the approbation removed. Despite the family tragedy, it must be said that R. Baruch’s son and successor, R. Moshe Leib, has been remarkably successful in leading a revival of the dynasty. He has also played a role in wider Jewish affairs, both publicly and behind the scenes, and is a fine example of what a successful rebbe can be. Let me add a few more points about R. Baruch that are not mentioned in Heilman’s book. One might have assumed that as R. Baruch became more modern he would distance himself from his father-in-law, a man very much identified with extremism. But that did not happen. Until the end of his life he continued to display awe for R. Hayyim Eleazar Shapira. InBinat Nevonim (2012 ed.) pp. 153-154, he defends R. Shapira against the accusation that he was a “ba’al machloket.” What about his well-known attacks against the Religious Zionists and those non-Zionist Orthodox who wished to go on aliyah intending to work the land?[6] R. Baruch explains, very unconvincingly, that R. Shapira reacted the way he did because he hoped that the Messiah would soon arrive and people would then be able to immigrate to the Land of Israel without confronting any irreligiosity. R. Baruch’s own opinion comes a few pages later, p. 157, where he writes that the ingathering of Jews, including non-religious, to the Land of Israel is a fulfillment of biblical prophecy. Only later will God send His Holy Spirit to purify the people from all of its sins, and then He will send the Messiah. Such a perspective is very much at odds with what R. Shapira advocated. Interestingly, in dealing with the accusation that his father- in-law was a “ba’al machloket,” R. Baruch says nothing about R. Shapira’s battles against the Agudah and its rabbis,[7] or his battles against non-Agudah rabbis and rebbes, in particular the Spinka Rebbe, R. Isaac Eizik Weiss, and the Belzer Rebbe, R. Yissachar Dov Rokeah. In the latter case, R. Shapira’s actions were very extreme, and it was alleged that he even attempted to get the government to expel the Belzer Rebbe from the city.[8] He attacked the Belzer Rebbe His [חזירי בעלז.[personally and referred to his hasidim as 9 attacks on Belz did not stop even after the Belzer Rebbe’s death, and the Belzer community of Munkács decided to separate from the wider Orthodox community of the city which was controlled by R. Shapira.[10] Since they were not legally allowed to create another Orthodox community, they officially became the Neolog community of Munkács. Although they were as distant from the Neologs as their persecutor, R. Shapira, declaring themselves as Neolog was the only way for them to create their own community which would be recognized by the government.[11] In Binat Nevonim, pp 173-174, we see very clearly R. Baruch’s Religious Zionist feelings. He reviews the modern growth of the Land of Israel beginning with the early immigrations, and mentions how Jews hoped that this growth was the beginning of the redemption. He even states that the British did not live up to their expected role when they removed a large part of biblical Israel from the Jewish homeland. Could anything be further from the old Munkács approach than the following words from R. Baruch, after summarizing the various nineteenth- century attempts to build up the Land of Israel (p. 174)? הארץ השוממה מתחילה לנשום ולהחיות מחדש. היא מתחילה להעלות תקווה בלב יושבי הארץ ובלב העם היהודי כולו, שהנה הגיע הזמן של שיבת ציון של חזון הגאולה לעם ישראל ולחזון הגאולה לכל העמים שעם יהודי נשא בקרבו מאז אברהם אבינו דרך הנביאים עד היום הזה. He recognizes that we have not yet reached the end of the road, but like any Religious Zionist he is confident that the time is coming when the State of Israel will live up to its promise (p. 176): עם ישראל, זה הנולד לגדולות ולנצורות, לא בדור הזה שהוא כדורו של דוד המלך ייהפך לאור לגויים, לא בדור הזה יהפוך את מדינתו למדינה לדוגמא. אבל יבוא הדור, דור שיהיה דומה לדורו של שלמה, דור שידע מנוחה, דור שלא יצטרך לנהל מלחמות, דור שידע להעמיד את כח החכמה לפני כח הגבורה – והדור הזה יקים את המדינה לדוגמא, מדינה שבה מדע התורה, המוסר, והצדק, והשוויון ישמשו תשתית לחיי האנושות, ואז יבוא משיח צדקנו, נצר דוד מלכנו ומציון תצא תורה ודבר ה’ מירושלים. In discussing the Holocaust, R. Baruch states that we cannot ask why God was silent and did not hear the cries of the millions of victims (p. 158). He strongly rejects the notion that the Holocaust, which was an unparalleled national suffering, can be explained as due to any particular sins (p. 198). Regarding the Holocaust, it is also important to mention that R. Baruch was very involved in the efforts to save Hungarian Jewry.[12] Returning to Heilman, the story of Boyan, which he tells with great skill, did not have the conflict and tragic aspects that were described in the chapter on Munkács. Yet here too we find the same theme, namely, a dynasty without an obvious successor. And again, we see that with the right man, and with proper guidance from the hasidic elders, he can grow into the role. As with Munkács, the Boyaner Rebbe has blossomed into a respected rebbe, either overcoming his more modern background (as some would say), or using this background to allow him to better understand the Jewish people as a whole. For those interested in conflict in religious life, the chapters on Bobov and Satmar, focusing on the split in these movements, provide plenty of that. In fact, even before the dispute over who would be the current Satmar rebbe, conflict was a basic feature of Satmar life already in Europe. Heilman writes, “For Satmar hasidim conflicts served as a form of socialization and identity formation. . . . [T]his relish for conflict, framed as a steadfast ideological purity, would become the essential identity of Satmar Hasidism.” (pp. 163, 164) In addition to discussing the conflicts over succession, Heilman also provides the necessary background to understand matters. Thus, in the chapter on Bobov, long before we get to the conflict that led to the split in the movement, Heilman reviews the history of Bobov, its fate during the Holocaust, and its rebirth after the war. Heilman does the same in all of the chapters, allowing readers to appreciate the unique aspects of each of the different Hasidic groups. In his chapter on Satmar, here is how Heilman summarizes what defined this group for its rebbe, R. Joel Teitelbaum. The struggle to remain apart as well as distinctive and to argue that these positions were the only and authentic way of being Jewish not only made Yoelish’s followers feel that they were part of a great cause and the true defenders of Jewry and Judaism but made Satmarism and its inventor a kind of model for what steadfast Orthodox Judaism was meant to be, a vanguard of contra- acculturation and authenticity. Second, he had to make sure that his educational system did not provide his hasidim with the skills that would make leaving the enclave easy. Third, he had to demonize the world outside so that his followers would either be afraid of entering it or be confident that their own ways were infinitely superior. (p. 173) I would like to add a few final comments and corrections. I am not sure why Heilman includes a chapter on Chabad. While obviously the story here is not the fight over succession but the fact that there has not been a succession, for those who read Heilman’s and Menachem Friedman’s biography of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, the material in Who Will Lead Us? focusing on R. Menachem Mendel is not new. The first half of the chapter deals with prior Lubavitcher rebbes, not really the focus of the book which deals with the American scene, but helpful to understanding later events.[13] It seems that spending so much time among the hasidim has led some of their hagiography to rub off on Heilman. How else to explain his statements that R. Baruch knew Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed by heart (p. 42) and R. Joel Teitelbaum “was able to review a folio of Talmud at age five” (p. 156)? Both of these men were scholars, and thus the hagiography focuses on their scholarship. I would be interested to know if in the hagiography about current rebbes, and in particular the ones discussed by Heilman, is scholarship even mentioned. Do current hasidim even assume that their rebbes are great Torah scholars? In the preface, p. xiv, Heilman tells us that he will look at five different successions. In Munkács and Boyan a successor was lacking. In Bobov and Satmar two individuals claimed the throne. In Habad, the “hasidim denied a need for a successor at all, claiming that their rebbe had never really died.” While it is true that the Habad hasidim have no interest in a successor, there is only a very small number who claim that the Rebbe did not die (and thus they do not go to his grave). The mainstream messianist view is that the Rebbe indeed died and will be resurrected as the Messiah.[14] Even those who do do not deny that the Rebbe died and was זי”ע or זצ”ל not write buried. Yet they assume that his soul is still involved in this world and as such they do not want to treat him as someone who has passed from the scene. P. 58. Heilman writes that the Lubavitcher Rebbe “claimed to have attended the Sorbonne and other European universities.” (p. 58) I do not understand the use of the word “claimed,” as it appears to cast doubt on what the Rebbe said. Yet in Heilman’s book, The Rebbe, he himself mentions that the Rebbe was a registered student at both the University of Berlin and the Sorbonne. Pp. 85-86. Heilman states that R. Yerucham Gorelick “came from Slutzk, Belarus, and had studied in the famous non-Hasidic yeshiva there.” This is incorrect as R. Gorelick studied in Lomza, Radin, and also in Brisk, but not in Slutzk. In fact, in 1923 (when R. Gorelick was twelve years old) the Slutzk yeshiva moved to Kletzk. P. 169. In discussing the Kasztner train and the inclusion in it of the Satmar Rebbe, Heilman writes: “Kasztner was persuaded, after someone paid a ‘huge sum,’ to include Yoelish and some of those connected to him among the 1670 in the train.” Why the leading anti-Zionist, R. Joel Teitelbaum, was included on the Kasztner train is a question that has never been convincingly answered. A popular legend is that Kasztner’s mother appeared to him in a dream and requested that he include the Rebbe. Yet even if this explains why the Rebbe was included, there were also other anti-Zionist rabbis who were on the train, which was a microcosm of larger Hungarian Jewish society.[15] Before reading Heilman’s book, I had never heard that it was only money that enabled the Rebbe to be rescued. The source Heilman provides for this is a Satmar biography of the Rebbe that relied on an item that appeared in the Satmar paper Der Yid. These are precisely the sorts of sources that have to be used very carefully, and in many cases are simply useless if one is trying to find out the truth. At the very least, Heilman should have written that it is “alleged” that someone paid a huge sum, rather than state it as fact. One of the “problems” of the Satmar Rebbe’s biography is that despite being saved by the Zionist Kasztner, there is no evidence of the Rebbe ever having expressed any gratitude towards Kasztner or the Zionists as a whole for saving his life, something that has often troubled people. However, if the only reason the Rebbe was on the train was because of a simple monetary transaction, then he would have no reason to feel grateful to Kasztner or the Zionists. To put it another way, there is good reason for Satmar writers to portray the event this way in order to burnish the reputation of the Rebbe. As such, the unsubstantiated report Heilman relies on here must be treated with a great deal of suspicion. The hasidic world is obviously of great significance in Orthodoxy. There are so many different hasidic groups that just when I think I know them all, I see an article about another rebbe whom I have never heard of. In fact, some years ago someone produced a “yellow pages” of all the hasidic rebbes. There are 554 listed, and by now no doubt a few more need to be added. Here is the first page.

There are significantly more rebbes now than a hundred years ago. Marcin Wodzinski has written that “there were approximately three hundred tsaddikim active in 1900.”[16] What I know from friends in the hasidic world is that there are also people who should be regarded as “independent hasidim.” I first heard this expression a few years ago in Budapest where I became friendly with a visiting American hasid. When I asked him which group he was part of, he replied, “independent.” Here was a man who looked like a hasid, who considered himself a hasid, who valued the hasidic way of life, and yet he did not have a rebbe. Since then I have met other “independent hasidim,” and their story is pretty much the same. They grew up as hasidim and love Hasidut, but they do not find any of the rebbes appealing. Some of them have also seen things that caused them to be disillusioned with the contemporary rebbes. They do not deny the value of a rebbe, and believe that great rebbes existed in the past. It is just that today they do not see such figures. I would love to see an article dealing with the phenomenon of the independent hasidim. Is this something that can continue in a family over generations, or is it a one generation event, with the children brought up in such a family generally joining a hasidic group or linking up with the yeshiva world? Interestingly, Wodzinski notes the existence of independent hasidim around the time of World War I, and I wonder when they first appeared. In Wodzinski’s words: “During the war and after it, shtiblekh sprang up, gathering the half-rejects and half-deserts from the Hasidic world, shtiblekh unaffiliated with any court.”[17] The independent hasidim should be distinguished from what Wodzinski has termed “à la carte Hasidism.” This is a phenomenon that also existed in the early twentieth century, and consisted of “young Hasidim who sampled different courts, picking various festivals with different tsaddikim depending on individual taste or indeed on the way different tsaddikim enacted different elements of Hasidic ritual.”[18] Another point of interest which has not yet been analyzed is the position of the rebbe when he was still a child and teenager. Heilman’s book discusses this with regard to the current Munkácser Rebbe, but when he was young there was not yet an expectation that he would become the rebbe. What about those who knew that they would become rebbe. What type of childhood did they have? Did they have friends like other children, or were they regarded as too special to mix with the masses? And how about when they were teenagers and realized the significance of their fathers, who served as rebbes? It would be fascinating to hear from current rebbes about how they experienced childhood and young adulthood. People often forget that even the most important figures were once young and enjoyed the same sort of fun that all young people do. I actually have a photo of a young Shlomo Halberstam (1907-2000) in his bathing suit having fun in a lake. Heilman discusses in detail his experiences during the war and how after the war he rebuilt the Bobov dynasty, a task that fell to him as his father, R. Ben Zion, was murdered by the Nazis.[19] Yet the photo I just mentioned reminds us that even future rebbes were able to enjoy themselves like everyone else. * * * * * * Since this post deals with Hasidism, it is a good place to call attention to an unfortunate example of censorship in the writings of the Hatam Sofer. Here is the title page of volume 2 of the Derashot of the Hatam Sofer, first published by R. Joseph Naphtali Stern in 1929. R. Stern’s edition is based on the Hatam Sofer’s own manuscripts. Beginning on p. 371a one can find the eulogy for the Hatam Sofer’s teacher, R. Nathan Adler. On p. 373a, in speaking of ולא :the great piety of R. Adler, the Hatam Sofer writes .כחסידי הזמן ח”ו Now take a look at the Pressburg 1881 edition of Torat Moshe, ולא כחסידי הזמן Va-Yikra, p. 41b. You can see that the words do not appear. It is not known if the publisher was ח”ו responsible for this censorship, as he informs us in the introduction to volume 1 that some of what appears in the book was copied from the Hatam Sofer’s manuscripts and sent to him.

And while on the topic of censorship, here is another example dealing with a leading student of the Hatam Sofer, R. Moses Schick. Here is Derashot Maharam Schick, p. 30b, published in Cluj around 1936.[20]

You can see that he mentions Wessely’s Yein Levanon. Now take a look at the Derashot Maharam Schick published in Jerusalem, 2003. As you can see, the reference toYein Levanon has been removed. R. Moses Schick believed that Yein Levanon was a fine book, worthy of being quoted. However, the publisher thought differently. Ironically, the new edition was published by Makhon Maharam Schick. Here is the title page So we have a publishing institute named after R. Moses Schick, and the people who run it would no doubt insist that they have the greatest respect for R. Schick. Yet this respect does not include respecting the sanctity of what he actually wrote. R. Moses Schick refers to Wessely’s comment to Avot 1:1. In the new edition of Yein Levanon (Rishon le-Tzion, 2003), p. 44, the editor points out that R. Samson Raphael Hirsch, in his commentary to Avot 1:1, also cites Wessely by name. While this comment appears uncensored in the English translation of Hirsch’s commentary, in the Hebrew translation Wessely’s name has been replaced by “one of the commentators.” The editor adds: “The translators think that they are wiser and more understanding than R. Samson Raphael Hirsch.”

* * * * * * In Changing the Immutable, p. 211, I write that R. Hayyim Vital “records” and “mentions” certain negative information about Israel Najara. Yitzy Weinberg commented to me that I neglected to state a very important point, namely, the source of R Vital’s information. Weinberg feels, and others probably do as well, that knowing the source is important, since if R. Vital recorded information that he had personal knowledge of it would have more significance than if it came from another source. Before coming to this point, I must note from a modern perspective, it is hard not to conclude that R. Vital was overly credulous. He was ready to believe the most far-fetched tales of angels, demons, magic, spirit possession, and exorcisms, and has no reticence in describing personal experiences with some of these things. He himself was even possessed by a powerful evil spirit. Morris M. Faierstein has recently discussed this episode and reaches the following striking conclusion: “Within the universe of Lurianic Kabbalah and the stories found in Vital’s mystical diary, the Book of Visions [Sefer Hezyonot], it can only be Jesus of Nazareth who was the evil spirit that possessed Hayyim Vital.”[21]

Knowing all this, I do not believe that the information about Najara quoted by R. Vital should be accepted at face value,[22] especially when the charges made (homosexual behavior and sexual relations with a non-Jewish woman) are so serious. I would say this even if the ultimate source of this information was R. Vital himself.[23] Nevertheless, I agree that I should have mentioned that the information recorded by R. Vital came from a spirit that had entered a woman (a phenomenon that only after R. Vital’s time came to be known as a dybbuk[24]). Furthermore, in the book I noted: “Because of this, Vital wrote that ‘the hymns that he has composed are themselves good, but whoever speaks to him and whatever leaves his mouth is forbidden, because he always used foul languages and was a drunkard his whole life.’” This too is a statement from the spirit. Among the information revealed by the spirit was that “between the fast days,” Najara “prepared a meal at that hour at the house of Jacob Monides, put his hat on the ground, sang songs in a loud voice, ate meat, drank wine, and even became drunk.”[25] R. Vital writes that Najara admitted that this incident occurred, meaning that in this case R. Vital wants us to know that the spirit spoke the truth. R. Vital does not record asking Najara about the spirit’s more serious accusations, and he would have told us if he had.[26] Despite what I have just written, some seem to assume that everything that appears in R. Vital’s Sefer ha-Hezyonot must be attributed to himself, even if he attributes it to a spirit. Thus, Lawrence Fine writes: “In his dream diary, Vital alleges that Israel Najara engaged in homosexual behavior in his drunkenness, and contends, in connection with Damascus, that ‘there is much homosexuality . . . in this land.’”[27] As you can see, Fine does not mention the spirit but states that “Vital alleges.” Another example is that Israel Zinberg writes that “Vital declares,” and then cites the passage I quoted in my book, which first appeared in Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital.[28] “The hymns that he has composed are themselves good, but whoever speaks to him and whatever leaves his mouth is forbidden, because he always used foul language and was a drunkard his whole life.” Zinberg does not mention the spirit. Avraham Amazleg writes as follows (emphasis added)[29]: שם רח”ו גם בפי הרוחדברי גנאי וביקורת על נג’ארה. רח”ו או הרוחאמנם מודים שהפזמונים שהוא חיבר הם טובים, אבל אסור לאומרם או לדבר עם המחבר, כי פיו דובר נבלה, וממילא הוא שיכור כל ימיו. Almog Behar writes[30]: המקובל רבי חיים ויטאל, תלמיד האר”י, בן תקופתו, כתב עליו ב”ספר החזיונות” שלו. I could bring a number of additional examples where the words of the spirit are attributed to R. Vital, but I think readers get the point. Although in all texts of Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital Najara’s name was deleted – it first appeared in the 1954 edition of R. Vital’s Sefer ha-Hezyonot – it was not too difficult for Zinberg and others to figure out who was being referred to. R. Moses Sofer appears to have also been aware of the passage in Shivhei R. Hayyim Vital, or perhaps there even was an oral tradition about the more serious charges against Najara that only appeared in print in 1954. I say this because when asked by his son why he did not sing Najara’s spiritually moving Y- ah Ribon, the Hatam Sofer replied: “Rather than telling you why I do not sing it, it is better to sing it.” From that point on he sang Y-ah Ribon.[31] * * * * * * R. Yechiel Goldhaber is well known as an outstanding scholar, whose many publications are always enlightening.[32] Not many know that he also offers tours of the Old City of Jerusalem. Having had the pleasure of participating in one of his tours, I highly recommend it to all who are interested in the history of Jerusalem (which I believe includes all Seforim Blog readers). My own Torah in Motion tours to Europe in summer 2018 have also been announced. You can read about them here. The young scholars R. Yisachar Dov Hoffman and R. Ovadiah Hoffman are known to many Seforim Blog readers. R. Yisachar has authored Avodat Ovadiah which focuses on practices of R. Ovadiah Yosef. R. Ovadiah Hoffman is a Seforim Blog contributor, and both of them have published three volumes of Ha-Mashbir, dedicated to studies on R. Ovadiah Yosef. I think readers will be interested to know about an event they are organizing to commemorate the yahrzeit of R. Ovadiah Yosef. It is to take place on Sunday, October 22, 2017, from 6:25pm-9pm (refreshments available), followed by maariv. It will be an evening of shiurim dealing with contemporary halakhic issues and reflections on the legacy of R. Ovadiah Yosef. It will be held at Beis Midrash Kerem Shlomo, 1880 East 27th Street (between Ave. R and S), in Brooklyn. The scheduled speakers are R. Herschel Schachter, R. Aryeh Ralbag, R. Yitzchok Yisraeli, and R. Betzalel Rudinsky. It promises to be a fascinating evening.

[1] See Heilman, Who Will Lead Us, p. 193, where he mentions that in 1984, under the leadership of R. Moshe Teitelbaum, the Satmar were officially designated by the government as a “disadvantaged minority, which allowed them access to various government benefits.” [2] R. Hayyim Halberstam, Divrei Hayyim,vol. 2, Hoshen Mishpat. no. 32, writes against the practice of family succession when it comes to the Rebbe, and contrasts this with the position of town rav where there is such a concept: ועל דבר ירושת הכבוד הנה במח”ת כ”ת הבוררים הרבנים וכי רבני החסידים שליטתם בתורת משרה כמו רב שבנו קודם הלא ידוע שהקדוש ר”א ואביו הק’ זלה”ה לא היו רבנים ורק מחמת גודל קדושתם ויראתם נשמעו דבריהם לכל הגליל וינהו אחריהם ללמוד תורה ויראה מהם גם נתנו להם נדבות לכבד יראי השם כמותם ירבו בישראל ושאלו עצות כאשר ישאל איש בדבר אלקים כי היו בעלי רוח הקודש ותפלתם ודיבורם בקדושה עשו פרי ומה נעשה אם הבאים אחריהם אין בהם קדושה זו. מה ירשו לשאול עצה דעת אין בהם. אם להתפלל מי יודע העולה למעלה לא ידעתי שום צד ירושה בזה. והנה מצינו למופת כגון הרב הקדוש איש אלקים רשכבה”ג מו”ה דוב בער זלה”ה ממעזריטש השאיר הגדולה לתלמידיו הרב הק’ מברדישטוב ומאור עינים ואור המאיר זלה”ה, וכן רבו הבעש”ט הניח המשרה זו לתלמידיו לא לבנו שהי’ קדוש ה’ וכן רבינו הקדוש בעהמ”ח נועם אלימלך הניח המשרה לתלמידיו לא לבנו הגם שהיו קדושים למאד כידוע לכן אין בזה שום ירושה ורק מעשיו יקרבוהו ומעשיו ירחקוהו. [3] In R. Zvi Yehudah Kook’s recently published Sihot R. Zvi Yehudah: Emunah, ed. S. Aviner (Jerusalem, 2017), p. 200, Berdyczewski is quoted explaining what led him to abandon traditional Judaism. In short, it was seeing how his learned grandfather had to humble himself before a young rebbe. While Hasidism and attachment to a (worthy) rebbe are wonderful things, one should always remember what R. Kook states in Orot, p. 146, about the possible dangers: הדבקות בצדיקים, כדי שיתערב כח המציאות שבנשמתם עם הנשמה הבלתי- נשלמת, היא דבר נכבד מאד במהלך התפתחות הנפשות, אבל צריך שמירה גדולה, שאם יטעה בצדיק אחד, וידבק בו דבקות פנימים הויתית, וידבק ג”כ בחסרונותיו, הם יפעלו לפעמים על הדבק במדה גרועה הרבה ממה שהם פועלים על האיש המקורי. אשריהם ישראל שהם דבקים בנשמת האומה, שהיא טוב מוחלט, לשאוב על ידה אור ד’ הטוב

[4] Heilman never mentions a rebbe by name as his source, but on p. 53, in quoting the recollections of an unnamed family member, it is the Munkácser Rebbe who is being quoted. There were only two family members who were present at the event discussed, the Rebbe (R. Moshe Leib) and his brother, Chaim Elazar. Since Chaim Elazar spoke on the record and on numerous occasions is mentioned by name as the source for information, the “unnamed family member” must be the Rebbe himself. The Rebbe must also be the source for the information on pp. 57-58, where Heilman records what R. Baruch told the young Moshe Leib, including his recommendation that Moshe Leib attend university. Heilman also mentions what Moshe Leib told his father: “Today, if someone puts a college diploma on his wall, his rebistve is finished.” [5] The picture comes from this article. For a bar mitzvah video made by one of R. Baruch’s grandsons, see here. [6] See Yitzhak Alfasi,Ha-Hasidut ve-Eretz Yisrael (Jerusalem, 2010), pp. 175-176; Menachem Keren-Kratz, “The Politics of Jewish Orthodoxy: The Case of Hungary 1868-1918,” Modern Judaism 36 (October 2016), 8pp. 232-233. [7] As part of his battle against the Agudah, he also took on Daf Yomi which in his mind was simply ridiculous: טפשות וצחוק מכאיב “For how can one learn a page every day when the pages almost always end in the middle of a subject.”Divrei Torah (Brooklyn, 1998), vol. 6, no. 82. Elsewhere he explained that the great danger in joining a Daf Yomi group is that one might be led to adopt the Agudat Israel ideology, “and Heaven forbid to join with them.” Iggerot Shapirin (Brooklyn, 1983), p. 319. He also accused the Agudah of initiating the Daf Yomi in order to have at its disposal ready-made groups that could be used to colonize the Land of Israel. SeeSha’ar Yisaschar (Brooklyn, 1992), p. 382. For other examples of rabbinic opposition to Daf Yomi, due to its association with Agudat Israel, see Tikun Olam (Munkács, 1936), p. 106; Aharon Rosenberg, ed., Mishkenot ha-Ro’im (New York, 1987), vol. 3, pp. 901-902; Nitzotzei Or 3 (Elul, 5758), pp. 33-41. While I do not think that R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik can be called an opponent of Daf Yomi, I was present at a shiur in the summer of 1985 where he expressed his dismay that due to the growing popularity of Daf Yomi, people were no longer studying all six orders of the Mishnah, much of which has no Talmud and is thus not included in the Daf Yomi cycle. (For reasons that are unclear, Middot and Kinnim are the only tractates of Mishnah included in Daf Yomi.) [8] See Yeshayahu A. Jelinek, The Carpathian Diaspora: The Jews of Subcarpathian Rus’ and Mukavchevo, 1848-1948 (New York, 2007), p. 172; Shmuel ha-Kohen Weingarten, “Pulmus Munkács-Belz,” in Yehudah Erez, ed.,Entziklopedyah shel Galuyot: Karpatoros (Jerusalem-Tel Aviv, 1959), p. 230; and my Changing the Immutable (Oxford, 2015), p. 229. [9] See Weingarten, “Pulmus Munkács-Belz,” p. 230. [10] Not surprisingly, this dispute led to violence. The topic of violence, which has been a part of certain hasidic courts, is worthy of a study. Let me offer a few relevant sources. There is a report of hasidim murdering a mitnaged. See Mordechai Wilensky, Hasidim u-Mitnagdim (Jerusalem, 1970), vol. 2, p. 178. This report, contained in the early anti- hasidic text Shever Posh’im, includes names and places and was written not long after the event described. Nevertheless, I would not accept the story as historically accurate without confirmation from other sources, which as far as I know has not been found. See also S.’s posthere which discusses another alleged murder by hasidim. (I do not believe there is any truth to this story.) There are, unfortunately, hasidic stories that present violence as an acceptable option to settle disputes. It is safe to assume that such teachings have an impact on some impressionable minds (think New Square). For example, in Sippurei Niflaot mi-Gedolei Yisrael (Tel Aviv, 1969), p. 279, it reports that R. Menahem Mendel of Kotzk thought that R. Shmelke of Nikolsburg made a mistake when he forced his “enlightened” opponents to leave the city. What he should have done, according to the Kotzker, is have them killed. Some relevant material is found in the bookZikhron Asher (1980) by R. Asher Edelstein. This book is not found on Otzar ha-Chochmah or hebrewbooks.org. I learnt about it from R. Nahum Abraham,Darkhei ha-Ma’amarim (n.p., 2017), section Peti Ya’amin le-Khol Davar, pp. 113-114 (who cites the stories I mention). Here is the title page. Here is pp. 14-15 where we are told that the Kosover Rebbe tried to drown the follower of another rebbe. Following this it mentions how each of the rebbes discussed would bring punishments upon the followers of the other rebbe.

Here is pp. 31-32 where it records that the Kosover Rebbe was angry that one of his hasidim went to the Belzer Rebbe, and this anger caused the man’s factory to burn down. It also tells a story of violence that took place at the wedding of one of the Ruzhiner Rebbe’s sons. This story ends with the death of the man who during the wedding had stabbed the Kosover Rebbe with a needle.

Here is pp. 63-64 where it describes how the rebbe R. Yissoschar Berish Eichenstein once removed a fly from his plate on Shabbat, in violation of the halakhah. When this was mentioned to him by R. Menahem Mendel Stern, the rav of Sighet, R. Eichenstein replied that a man had been reincarnated in this fly, and he had to be metaken it. R. Stern replied that he does not seen anytikunim but only regular Shabbat violation. The story ends that R. Eichenstein’s brother cursed R. Stern and R. Stern returned the curse, leading to the brother’s early death and R. Stern not having any “nachas” from his descendants. None of the pages I have reproduced are found in the 2004 edition of Zikhron Asher. Here is the title page. Yitzhak Even, Mahloket Sanz ve-Sadegura (New York, 1916), has a lot to see about violence between the Sanzer and Sadegura hasidim. On p. 68, he tells how some Sanzer hasidim murdered a Sadegura hasid. On pp. 79-80, he discusses the stabbing of a Sanzer hasid and further violence against Sanzer hasidim. He also mentions a report that in response to being attacked, the Sanzers murdered an elderly Sadegura hasid. See also pp. 83, 86-87. I do not know how reliable Even’s information is. [11] See here. This action led to R. Shapira issuing the following statement in 1929, declaring that the Belz community is to be regarded as no different than the Reform community: הן כבר הודענו כי אותן שמחזיקים בבית התפלה של הנעאלאגים דפה – דינם כמו שאר הנעאלאגים האוכלים נבילות וטריפות – ופשוט שאין להם נאמנות וחזקת כשרות כלל. See Weingarten, “Pulmus Munkács-Belz,” col. 230 n. 2. See also ibid., col. 232, that originally the Belzers wished to be recognized as a Status Quo community. Only when the government did not agree to this, did they then request, and receive, government recognition as a Neolog community. Weingarten’s father was the secretary of the Munkács community. See Weingarten, “Ha-Admor Mi- Munkács, Rabbi Hayyim Eleazar Shapira,” Shanah be-Shanah (1980), p. 447. Even though Weingarten was a Zionist, he still had a very good relationship with R. Shapira. See Weingarten,Perurim mi- Shulhanam shel Gedolei Yisrael (Jerusalem, 2004), pp. 17-37. [12] Regarding this, see Binat Nevonim. [13] On p. 216, Heilman mentions that already the Tzemach Tzedek sent out shluchim to the wider Jewish world. Apropos of this, I know that some have wondered why Chabad calls its which any Hebrew dictionary שליחי, and not שלוחים emissaries Yet as R. Meir Mazuz .שליח will tell you is the plural of .שלוחים points out, in rabbinic Hebrew the plural is indeed על ששה חדשים השלוחין :Thus, we find inRosh ha-Shanah 18a Also, Maimonides has a section inMishneh the .יוצאים See R. Mazuz’s note .הלכות שלוחין ושותפין Torah that is called to Hannah Peretz, Patish he-Hazak (Bnei Brak, 2013), vol. 2, p. 384 n. 26, and his recently published Mi-Gedolei ha-Dor, vol. 3, p. 129 n. 2. R. Mazuz thinks that the originates in Christian circles, and that it was שליחים term Yet as .שלוחים perhaps because of this that Jews used the term far as I know there is no evidence that Christians used the .in the days of the Mishnah שליחים term appears in classicשלוח I do not believe that the term rabbinic literature, but we do have it with a suffix. E.g., See Ben Yehudah’s .ששלוחו של אדם כמותו :Mishnah Berakhot 5:5 explains ,שלוח .Ben Yehudah, s.v .שלוח, שליח .dictionary, s.v :as follows שליח and שלוח the difference between [שלוח] זה שנשלח, בהבדל מה מן שליח, שתפקידו הקבוע הוא לשמש כנשלח בשליחות. :he writes שליח .In s.v ואפשר שבא שליח בעקר כצורה ארמית שליח, שליחא במק’ שלוח בעבר. [14] The only time I have ever had contact with a Chabad group that apparently denies the Rebbe’s death was in New Delhi. Here is a picture of the sign in front of the Chabad House and the stamp that is found in its siddurim and seforim. means that the Rebbe’s soul continues to ללא שינוי דגניזה function in his body as there was no death. [15] R. Jacob Elimelech Panet, the rav of Dej, Hungary, was on Kasztner’s list as one of the rabbis to be saved. However, R. Panet refused to leave the Dej ghetto and was later murdered in Auschwitz. See Shlomo Spitzer,Kehilot Hungaryah (Jerusalem, 2009), p. 111. [16] “War and Religion; or, How the First World War Changed Hasidism,” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (Summer 2016), p. 289 n. 20. [17] Wodzinski, “War and Religion,” p. 305. [18] Wodzinski, “War and Religion,” p. 299. [19] In the recently published English translation of R. Pinchas Hirschprung’s Holocaust memoir, The Vale of Tears, trans. Vivian Felsen (Toronto, 2016), pp. 152-153, he discusses the Shabbat he spent with R. Ben Zion in Lemberg shortly after the start of the war. This memoir originally appeared in Yiddish in 1944. Fortunately, it was not translated by ArtScroll or one of the other haredi publishing houses as I am certain they would have deleted some of R. Hirschprung’s wonderfully honest comments. See e.g., p. 222, where he confesses that he thought of suicide. On p. 156, he writes, “I slept well, woke up past noon and recited the morning prayers far too late.” P. 160: “I was envious of this woman’s profound belief in divine providence.” P. 166: “I stealthily took some water from the town ritual bath.” On p. 221, he writes that R. Chaim Ozer Grodzinski told him that he was not worried about Lithuania losing its independence, a view that was soon shown to be incorrect. On pp. 246-247, he writes about how R. Chaim Ozer told him that he and his yeshiva should not take the visas for Curacao that were available, but should remain in Vilna. Had R. Hirschprung and his colleagues listened to R. Chaim Ozer it would have meant their deaths. I do not think that a haredi publication would ever record such an error in Daas Torah. R. Hirschprung also mentions how a hasid who was with him argued that precisely because R. Chaim Ozer, the misnaged, said not to get the visas, that this was a sign from heaven to do the exact opposite. Regarding R. Hirschprung, in 1985 I was present at a siyum ha- shas where R. Shlomo Goren said that R. Hirschprung was the only person alive who knew the entire Talmud by heart. I found two talmudic notes published by R. Hirschprung when he was only fourteen years old. See Or Torah )Lvov) 1 (1926), p. 18, Beit Va’ad le-Hakhamim )Satmar), Adar 5686 (1926), p. 67. See also ibid., Kislev 5687 (1927), pp. 37-38. When he was sixteen he began to edit the Cracow Torah journal Ohel Torah. Regarding R. Hirschprung’s book Peri Menahem, which was written when he was apparently only thirteen years old, see Gedulat Pinhas (Brooklyn, 1999), p. 14; Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, Amudim be-Toldot ha-Sefer ha-Ivri: Be-Sha’arei ha- Defus (Jerusalem, 2014), p. 65. At a future time I can discuss the rabbis who told people to remain in Europe even after World War II had begun. Since in this post I have discussed the Satmar Rebbe, I will only mention that R. Asher Anshil Yehudah Miller reports that during the Holocaust the Rebbe told his followers to remain in Hungary, which in hindsight was clearly a wrong decision. See Miller, Olamo shel Abba (Jerusalem, 1984), p. 309. R. Miller writes: בשעה שהיהודים עמדו במבוכה ולא ידעו להחליט האם כדאי לברוח, מכיון שלא הכירו את מזימתם ואכזריותם של הגרמנים, עשו הוראותיו של האדמ”ר מסאטמער רושם עצום על כל יהודי חרדי “לא להבהל ולא להמלט, כי קרובה הישועה לבוא”. לדאבונינו לא כך היו פני הדברים – אלפי נפשות של יהודים טובים עם בני משפחותיהם הגיעו למחנות השמדה, למרות שהתגוררו בקרבות הגבול. [20] There is no publication date on the title page, but the introduction is dated 1936. [21] See Faierstein, “The Possession of Rabbi Hayyim Vital by Jesus of Nazareth,” Kabbalah 37 (2017), p. 36. [22] In his introduction Jewishto Mystical Autobiographies (New York, 1999), p. 12, Morris M. Faierstein writes: A related question is how are we to deal with Vital’s assertions when he cites the dreams and visions of others that were supposedly told to him, or when he recounts various “omens” that foretold his greatness in his childhood or youth. Similarly, when he ascribes certain thoughts or actions to others, should we assume that he is a reliable reporter or that these are his own invention? Data that cannot be verified from external sources, and this includes most of the contents of the Book of Visions, must be treated as Vital’s perception or belief. It would not be helpful to use judgmental terms like fantasy or invention or say that Vital “alleges” this or that. It is obvious that we are dealing with a “visionary” document and it should be approached from that perspective. Regarding the larger question of how seriously we should take accusations found in written works, especially when we know that the author had negative feelings about the person he was writing about, I saw something relevant in Pawel Maciejko’s new book, Sabbatian Heresy. This is a very helpful book, which includes translations of a number of important texts. In the introduction, p. xxiv, Maciejko writes as follows: While Sabbatians did not always display a positive or even tolerant attitude toward non-Jews, they never ignored other religions and traditions. They studied them with an intensity that sometimes bordered on obsession (according to contemporary testimony, Rabbi Jonathan Eibeschuetz developed an “uncontrolled urge to read books of the priests”).

What is the source for the information about R. Eibeschuetz? None other than R. Jacob Emden, who said all sorts of negative things about R. Eibeschuetz. Thus, I do not feel it is appropriate to refer to such a source as “contemporary testimony.” [23] Israel Zinberg, who died before the most serious accusations against Najara were published, wrote as follows:

To be sure, Hayyim Vital is not a completely reliable witness. Apparently, he had some personal scores to settle with the poet. Furthermore, the vain and arrogant Vital envied Najara, because Isaac Luria was so enchanted by his verses. Luria used to say that even among the “family on high” Najara’s hymns are received with great enthusiasm, and that his soul is a “spark” of no less a soul than that of King David, the godly poet of the Psalms. (A History of Jewish Literature, trans. B. Martin [Cincinnati and New York, 1975], vol. 5, p. 95) It is one thing to say that R. Vital believed in all sorts of superstitions, but Zinberg crosses the scholarly line by casting aspersions on R. Vital’s character. See also Meir Benayahu, “Rabbi Yisrael Najara,”Asupot 4 (1990), pp. 234-235, who defends Najara against the attacks on him, in particular by R. Menahem Lonzano. He writes: ואולי דווקא משום הדרשות לתשובה שהיה ר’ ישראל נאגארה דורש ורבים חסידים וישרים נלקטו אליו בג’ובאר, שכל מעיינם היה בתיקון עצמם וקירוב זמן הגאולה, קינאו בו וטפלו עליו דברים שלא כן? In his criticism of Najara, R. Lonzano pointed to what he regarded as the totally inappropriate erotic language used by Najara in describing the loving relationship between man and God. See Benayahu, “Rabbi Yisrael Najara,”, pp. 223ff. One ידד example of such erotic language is found in Najara’s poem .Shirim,( ed. Tova Beeri [Tel Aviv, 2015], pp שנת עיני 126-127): לו אהיה יונק ואתה אומני אינק שדי יופיך צמאי אשברה דוד נעלה חמדת מהללי . . . לו אהיה אהל ואתה שוכני נתעלסה אהב בגיל נתאזרה דוד נעלה חמדת מהללי לו אהיה לשון ואתה מעני אשקיט יקוד חשקך בשיר ואזמרה דוד נעלה חמדת מהללי Here is my attempt at a translation: If I were a suckling infant and You my wet nurse I would suckle at Your beautiful breasts, quenching my thirst My beloved, exalted and praiseworthy . . . If I were a tent and You dwelled within We would revel in love, gird ourselves in joy My beloved, exalted and praiseworthy If I were a tongue and You my response I would calm my flaming desire for You with song My beloved, exalted and praiseworthy The first line of the last stanza is difficult. I have followed Prof. Joseph Yahalom’s suggestion. Prof. Tova Beeri in her note to the passage believes that the translation should be, “If I were a tongue and You the enabler of my At .פירוש .speech,” based on Prov. 16:1. See alsohere s.v this time, let me thank the incomparable Peter Cole for his e- mails to me discussing some of the problems of translations of poetry. Najara would no doubt defend himself against R. Lonzano’s criticism by stating that he was following in the path of Song of Songs. Cf. Andreas Tietze and Joseph Yahalom,Ottoman Melodies Hebrew Hymns (Budapest, 1995), p. 19. [24] See Encyclopaedia Judaica, s.v. Dibbuk. [25] Faierstein, Jewish Mystical Autobiographies, p. 71. [26] Sefer ha-Hezyonot, p. 34. Benayahu, “Rabbi Yisrael Najara,” p. 231, quotes all the bad things the spirit said about Najara and writes (emphasis added): הרח”ו ראה בכך אשמה כבדה ולכן סיפר לנאג’ארה על כל אשר נאמר ,עליו והוא כותב: “והודה לי שכן היה”. Yet this is incorrect. As I indicated in the text, R. Vital did not speak with Najara about the more serious accusations. [27] Physician of the Soul, Healer of the Cosmos: Isaac Luria and His Kabbalistic Fellowship (Stanford, 2003), p. 176. [28] A History of Jewish Literature, vol. 5, p. 95. [29] Ha-Moreshet ha-Musikalit shel Kehilot Yisrael, vols. 7-8 (Tel Aviv, 1986), p. 76. [30] See here. [31] Minhagei Ba’al Hatam Sofer, ch. 5:14 n. 1; Zemirot le- Shabbat Beit Soferim (London, 2015), p. 57. See also here. [32] A recent video of a lecture of his on “Mesoros of Esrogim” can be seen here.

Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul

Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul by Josh Rosenfeld Josh Rosenfeld is the Assistant Rabbi at Lincoln Square Synagogue and on the Judaic Studies Faculty at SAR High School. This is his third contribution to the Seforim blog. His first essay, on “The Nazir in New York,” is available here, and his second essay, “The Princess and I: Academic Kabbalists/Kabbalist Academics,“ is available here. ב״ה אור לנר ג׳, חנוכה ה׳תשע״ו Recent years have witnessed a remarkable trend in the widespread study of Hasidic texts within Orthodox communities that themselves do not self-identify as traditionally Hasidic. Whether in much-discussed Modern Orthodox neo-Hasidic circles or amongst the National-Religious in Israel, Hasidic texts canonical and obscure merit serious teaching, engagement, and even reverence in these communities. One of the earliest expressions of this trend was the introduction of such texts into the curricula of Hesder Yeshivot, and arguably the man most responsible for this was R. Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Shagar; 1949-2007). R. Shagar began his career in the Hesder Yeshivot first as a student at Yeshivat Kerem b’Yavneh, eventually returning from the Yom Kippur war to become a popular RaM at Yeshivat Hakotel, even filling in as interim Rosh ha-Yeshiva when R. Yeshayahu Hadari took a sabbatical. R. Shagar, known as a Talmudic prodigy, branched out to both found and direct other institutions on the cutting edge of the National Religious educational framework, such as Beit Midrash Ma’aleh and Beit Morasha, and finally, Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak in Efrat, with his longtime friend and study partner, R. Yair Dreyfuss (1949- ). After a difficult period of suffering, R. Shagar passed away from Pancreatic cancer on June 11, 2007, a month after the announcement of a committee to begin preparing his voluminous writings for publication. R. Shagar wrote and taught on a level characterized as “extremely deep”, and despite the resurgence of interest and posthumous publications of his writings, a close student of his once told me “it was not always such a great honor to be counted amongst his students.” There was some opposition to some of his ideas, especially those relating to education and Talmud pedagogy.[1] R. Shagar’s writings exhibit a sustained engagement with, in my opinion, three central themes: postmodernism and its challenge to traditional religion, spirituality and faith in the Modern Orthodox and National Religious, and the development of a viable language, a discourse – based upon traditional texts – to think and talk about the aforementioned themes. R. Shagar’s writings are as quick to quote R. Schnuer Zalman of Liadi as Slavoj Zizek, the Slovenian cultural critic and philosopher. For English speakers, much of R. Shagar’s oeuvre remains a closed book,[2] despite the rapid pace with which new material of his – developed from the reportedly hundreds of files he left behind – is being published, and the resurgence in his popularity in Israel. Despite that, a few articles and introductions to his thought have appeared in English.[3] What follows is an attempt at translation of an excerpt from one of the most recent of R. Shagar’s works, To [להאיר את הפתחים).[Illuminate the Openings (4 The book is primarily a collection of R. Shagar’s discourses on the holiday of (לזמן הזה) ”Hanukkah, part of the “For This Time series of R. Shagars derashot on the cycle of Jewish holidays and festivals.[5] This particular essay, “Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul” is an expansion and presentation of R. Schneur Zalman of Liadi’s[6] phenomenological discourse on the candles of Hanukkah. R. Shagar uses the language of philosophy, Maimonides, and Lacanian psychoanalysis to explain the two religious paths that R. Schneur Zalman sees as represented in the candles, wicks, and flames of Hanukkah. In doing so, a rich tapestry of religious thought is woven, with R. Shagar characteristically bringing such diverse thinkers as the founder of Chabad Hasidism and Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz in conversation with each other.[7]

“Screen for the Spirit, Garment for the Soul” {A Translation and Annotation of R. Shimon Gershon Rosenberg, “To Illuminate the Openings” (Machon Kitve ha-Rav Shagar: Efrat, 2014), 53-61}[8][9] כִּי אַתָּה תָּאִיר נֵרִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהַי יַגִּיהַּ חָשְׁכִּי (תהילים י״ח, כט). כִּי נֵר מִצְוָה וְתוֹרָה אוֹר (משלי ו׳, כג). נֵר יְהוָה נִשְׁמַת אָדָם (שם כ׳, כז). The Soul and the Commandment There is a well-known custom of many Hasidic rabbis on Hanukah to sit by the candles after lighting and to meditate upon them, sometimes for hours. This meditation washes over the spirit and allows the psyche to open up to a whole host of imaginings, gleanings, thoughts, and emotions – that afterward blossom into the ‘words of the living God’, to use the Habad formulation. Therefore, it is instructive for us to look at the physical entity, the elements of the candle and its light as crucial elements in the development of these words of exegesis – the meditation upon the candlelight. For example, in one stage of the discourse of R. Schneur Zalman of Liadi[10] (1745-1812; henceforth, Admor ha-Zaken) that we shall discuss, Admor ha-Zaken distinguishes between two different types of light emanating from the candle: and the fact of the matter is that the candle consists of both the oil and the wick – two types of light: a darkened light directly on the wick, and the clarified white light.[11] This differentiation acts as a springboard for a discourse upon two pathways in religious life. To a certain extent, it is possible to posit that the discourse is the product of the Admor ha-Zaken’s meditation upon the different colors of light in the candle’s flame, and without that, there would be no discourse to speak of. The motif of the candle and the imaginings it conjures are a frequent theme in scripture and in rabbinic writing – The Mitzvah Candle; Candle of the Soul; The Candle of God – in its wake arise many Hasidic discourses seeking to [נר נשמה] ’explain the relationship between ‘The Soul and between ‘The ,[נר מצוה] ’and ‘The Commandment In our study of .[נר ה׳] Commandment’ and God the discourse of the Admor ha-Zaken, we will most importantly encounter the tension between the godly and the commanded – the infinitude of the divine as opposed to the borders, limits, and finitude of the system of However, prior to doing so, we .[תרי״ג מצוות] commandments will focus our attention for a moment on the tension between the soul and the commandment – the internal spiritual life of the believer relative to the externalized performance of the commandment. The emergence of Hasidism brought to the fore the following challenge – does the fact of an increased individual emphasis upon internal spiritual life mean that they will of necessity distance themselves from the practical framework of Halakha? In a different formulation, does the focus of Hasidism upon the ‘soul-candle’ mean that the light of the ‘commandment-candle’ will be dimmed? The tension between the two is clear: one’s obligation to do specific things affixed to specific times stands in opposition to one’s attunement with and attention to their own inner voice. Our own eyes see, and not just in connection with Jewish religious life, but that when one prefers their own personal truth, they do not behave according to the dictates and accepted norms of society at large. For example, one who desires to be ‘more authentic’ may be less polite, as the rules of etiquette are seen as external social constructions that dull one’s inner life. Similarly, for this type of individual, when it comes to Halakha, it will be approached and understood as a system that holds him back from his own truth, and not only that, but it sometimes will be perceived as a lie: from a Halakhic point of view, he must pray at specifically ordained times, but in his heart of hearts he knows that right now his prayers will not be fully sincere – but rather just ‘going through the motions’. Must this individual now answer the external call to prayer, or should they rather hold fast to their inner calling, thereby relaxing the connection to the outer Halakhic reality?[12] In truth, this question has yet another dimension, within which we may be able to sharpen our understanding – the chasm between objective and subjective experience. Should an individual seek out ‘The Truth’ through their own subjective experience, or should they rather find it in the absolutist objective realm of reality? Once a person apprehends ‘The Truth’ as a construction of their own subjective internal experience, the concept of truth loses its totality and becomes relativized. Truth instead becomes dependent upon one’s specific perspective, their emotions, feelings, and personal experiences. In this sense, Halakha is identified with the absolute and fixed sphere of reality – within which God commanded us, and this type of (א) .relativism is untenable in relation to it It is possible to argue that the ideal state is when the internal, personal truth is identified with the objective, external truth.[13] The meaning of this situation is that on one hand, the individual’s internal life is strong, on fire, and yet his sense of obligation to this internality is unassailable. This leads to a perspective where the inner life is understood as objective reality, absolute. A person in this type of situation loses their sense of relativity and their inner directives obtain the strength of an outside command, possessing no less force of obligation or truth. The problem with the situation within which we live is that our inner lives lack strength and force; Our inner lives are prone to ups and downs, steps forward and back. Because of the dullness of our internal lives, they are susceptible to all kinds of outside influences, and thus there is a subsequent lack of authenticity. This is the reason the Shulhan Arukh – not internal spirituality – is the basis for our religious obligations, it is the absolute cornerstone of our lives. To be sure, divine truth is revealed on a number of different levels and planes in our lives, and it is forbidden for an individual to think that this truth is obtainable only in one dimension – not in the internal or external life alone. An encompassing, total reality takes both lives into account and unifies them – both the internal and external; however, in an incomplete, non-ideal reality, to every dimension and perspective there are benefits and detriments, and we ignore either at our own peril. To this end, our rabbis taught us that we must serve God through both :[אהבה] ’and ‘love [יראה] ’fear‘ and so Hazal said, serve out of fear, serve out of love.'[14] Admor ha-Zaken Until now, we have seen the apposition between the mitzvah candle and the neshama candle, to wit – the conflict between the formal Halakhic system and the unmediated spirituality sought by Hasidism. This is a spirituality that has as a central prerequisite the authenticity of action, an authenticity that stands in opposition to the fact that the believer stands commanded to perform certain actions at appointed, limited times. In his discourse for Hanukkah, Admor ha-Zaken deals with yet another tension addressed by Hasidism, especially in the system of Habad Hasidism: What is the connection of physical actions – the performance of the commandments – with the metaphysical, spiritual ‘payoff’ they are supposed to engender, such as an attainment of closeness with God? Furthermore, the commandments, as they are sensed and experienced through action, are part of the world .the finite and created human reality – [יש] of tangibility Therefore, what connection can these have with faith in the divine infinity? As it appears, the progression of the Admor ha-Zaken is a dialectical approach: one on hand, he presents the commandments in a strictly utilitarian manner without any truly inherent value, but on the other, it is this very groundedness of the commandments in our reality that accords to them their roots in the pure divine will: It is written: ‘A Mitzvah is a candle and the Torah is Light,’ that the Mitzvot are called ‘candle.’ And it is also written: ‘the candle of God is the soul of Man’, that the soul is called ‘candle’. And in the Zohar it is explained that the Mitzvot are called ‘garments’… and in order to be fully clothed, the soul must fulfill all 613 Mitzvot… and to explain the matter of the soul’s garments… [that] there are boundless illuminations… for there are countless understandings of the light and the glow, which is an emanation of the infinite light of [God] Blessed be He… The delights that derive from the infinite light, which is the source of all delights, are without end. Just as we perceive with our senses even… physical delights are also without measure, for there are infinite ways to experience pleasure… Because of this, the soul – which is in the aspect of the finite – is unable to fully apprehend the revelation of this glow, which is the very being of the divine, except through a garment – a filter – and through that garment and filter [the soul] is able to receive the light and the glow.[15] The soul requires ‘garments’, for without these garments and filters, there is no comprehension. I will try to explain what I mean here: for example, when we speak of ‘eternal are we talking about remembering the ,[זכרון נצח] ’memory content of that person’s life, as if we are recording into a computer a reporter’s notes that are now being entered into the system? Of course that is not what we are referring to. All these moments of a person’s life are ‘garments’, a medium for the real that occurred in them. This real is not something specific, not a definable factor, but rather is the thing that grants meaning to the content of those experiences, even though it itself is undefinable.[16] Thus, ‘eternal life’ is life that retains with it the meaning of these experiences – something which can never be quantified or simply entered into a computer.[17] This undefinable thing that grants meaning, the ‘lifeforce’ to everything else, is what Admor ha-Zaken calls the ‘glow of .[זיו מאור אינסוף] ’the infinite light It is not simply ‘meaning’, but rather the ‘meaning of all meaning’. In the discourse before us, as well as in other discourses of his, Admor ha-Zaken draws a line, a parallel, between this glow and the actual substance of delight and pleasure that in our world always appears via a medium, some physical object. Pleasure will never materialize in this world in its pure state – like delight in the earthly realm that always devolves from something outside it, like when we take pleasure in some delicious food or in the study of some wisdom.[18] If so, the commandments are garments through which our world obtains its substance and standing – its meaning. In the language of Admor ha-Zaken, the commandments act as a conduit for the infinite light to penetrate into our world. That is to say, the commandments as an entire system of life form a space within which a person may (ב) .experience the eros of true meaning Through them, an individual may feel alive, that is sensations of satisfaction, excitement, longing, the joy of commandment, and intimacy – all these we may incorporate metonymically into the word ‘light’ or ‘holiness’, that which Admor ha-Zaken would call ‘delight’ or ‘pleasure’. In order for this light to be apprehended, it must be garbed in the outer trappings of the commandments. This is to say, that the commandments themselves are not the essence of the light and de-light, that they are not the meaningful point of existence, but rather only a garment, that receives its light only by dint of the fact that the subjective experience of holiness and pleasure are felt through it. As Admor ha-Zaken explains in the discourse we are studying: behold, the Mitzvah act… is not the way of the divine infinite light to be infused in them [Mitzvot] unless it is through… the Godly soul itself that performs the Mitzvah, and draws forth through them a revelation of the divine infinite light. As it is written [about Mitzvot]: ‘that the individual shall perform them’ – that it is the individual that makes them into Mitzvot, in drawing forth through them the infinite light.[19] The Source of The Commandments To be sure, it is possible to say that any way of life or cultural system is but a garment for the infinite light, for it is this system which bears the weight of the meaning of life and the essence of reality [for its adherents]. An individual experiences life through cultural constructs and the social systems – especially the most critical ones such as love, longing, lower/higher fears, loyalty, etc. – all these things grant to life meaning and purpose, something we wouldn’t trade for anything. Therefore, in Hasidism, recognition of this truth is related to the fact that the world that is – [עשרה מאמרות] ’was created through ‘ten utterances to say, even without a specifically religious language, such as the ‘ten through which the divine light is [עשרת הדיברות] ’statements revealed. For Admor ha-Zaken’s part, there remains a difference between these systems and the system of the commandments: while it is true that the commandments are a ‘human system’, ideally/from their very inception they are rooted in the infinite reality from which they devolved. At this point, Admor ha-Zaken ceases to see the commandments as merely a garment or tool alone, but rather that they themselves represent constitute a direct encounter with the presence of the divine in our reality. This is to say that the commandments are a system meant to signify and symbolize the infinite itself.[20] They don’t simply give expression to it, but direct us to it as well. How do the commandments symbolize? As a system, they point to the divine will itself, for as a closed system, they lack resolution, purpose. One might even say that it is not that we have here a symbol signifying something that we are meant to understand, but rather that the signified is חור] ’incomprehensibility itself, the void‘ within the void In order to understand these things, we .[שבחור must pay attention to the differentiation Admor ha-Zaken makes between ‘the and the ‘essential [אור אינסוף] ’infinite light [עצם רצון אא״ס] ’will of the infinite light : It is impossible for the essential will of the infinite light to be revealed to any created being, unless that divine will is embodied in some physical act, the performance of the Mitzvah… and the root of the Mitzvot is very lofty, rooted in the uppermost realms of the supernal crown, ‘Keter’… until it devolves into our realm through physical actions and things, Tzitzit and Sukkah, and it is specifically in these things that the divine will is revealed, ‘the final in deed is In action …[סוף מעשה במחשבה תחילה]’first in thought heaven was [created] first… but in thought physicality came first… for the light is revealed from the aspect of divinity that encompasses all realms… Thus the performance of Mitzvot, whose root lies in this encompassing aspect of divinity – the supernal ‘Keter’ – cannot be expressed below in the aspect of ‘inner light’ ,[אור פנימי] [in finite and internal experience], but rather must find their expression in exterior, physical actions, as it is well known that that which in its essence is more lofty and elevated falls to the deeper depths. Therefore, through the performance of Mitzvot, there is created a covering, an encompassing screen, so that through the Mitzvot the [soul] may be able to delight in the delight of the infinite light…[21] Admor ha-Zaken locates in the commandments a type of dual identity based on the system he constructs: as a they are only a vessel through which the ,[לבוש] garment infinite divine light finds expression – the delight of the soul, holiness, all that is perceived as the essence of this world. The commandments themselves are not the inner aspect of life but rather a medium for this interiority. On the other hand, Admor ha-Zaken identifies them with the a reality that cannot be truly ;[מקיפים] encompassing’ lights‘ apprehended or experienced within ours. This is to say that the root of the commandments are as vessels, conduits of a reality beyond ours – ‘the essential will of the infinite light’. Manifest in this is a classic HaBaD teaching, which Admor ha-Zaken formulates thusly: that which in its essence is more lofty and elevated falls to the deeper depths. We locate the root of the commandments, which in reality are purely utilitarian and without their own essential, inherent meaning, in the very essence and core of the divine. The claim of Admor ha-Zaken is that the source of the commandments is to be found in the the divine will itself. The meaning of the commandments is not resolved through adhering to some system of rules, some ethical or moral ideal, or some historical-progressive idea through which they were conceived.[22] In the most simple sense, God ‘wanted’ commandments, and through this there developed a system with meaning and sense, ,[חכמה] ’which we might call ‘wisdom but that system does not fully define the will of the creator, nor is it necessary in the absolute sense. In the aforementioned discourse, Admor ha-Zaken holds that the actual ‘end’ action precedes the thought that somehow explains and gives it meaning, because in truth it is the action, the physical performance of the commandment is affixed to the divine will that warrants it to be done this particular way and no differently – for no humanly discernable reason. This is the way of the divine will, to ‘desire’ without dependence upon any externally motivating factor. One might say that as they [the commandments] are affixed in the divine will, the commandments as such signify a degree of arbitrariness and happenstance.[23] The commandments serve as a reminder of the ultimate unknowability of the divine will that tautologically ‘desires because it desires’. This is also the reason why the commandments primarily take the form of actions and not intentions. As actions, the commandments manifest themselves as closed, sealed objects, their meanings not easily teased out nor defined by the meanings attached to them – ultimately, there is just the [darkness and] light and the delight that we are able to attain through it. ______Notes: [1] For example, see “Shnayim Ohazin: A Conversation Between R. Aharon Lichtenstein and R. Shagar”, Shma’atin Journal vol. 136 (Nissan 1998); also appearing in Meimad, Vol. 17, August 1999; see further the synopsis and translation by Rachel Schloss for the Lookstein teacher’s resource archivehere ; See also questions posed to R. Uri Sherki, a popular National Religious lecturer and teacher on the topic of R. Shagar and postmodernism, here. [2] Two of R. Shagar’s monographs have been released in trans. Naftali ,(פור היא הגורל) English: Chance and Providence Moses (Efrat: Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak, 2005), 108 pp. and The Human and the Infinite: Discourses on the Meaning of Penitence trans. Naftali Moses (Jerusalem: Toby ,(על כפות המנעול) Press, 2010), 88 pp. [3] To my knowledge, the most extensive study of R. Shagar in English to date has been conducted by Miriam Feldmann Kaye of the Van Leer Institute and Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Dr. Kaye holds a PhD from the University of Haifa, and her doctoral dissertation deals extensively with the encounter of Judaism and postmodernism in the thought of R. Shagar and Tamar Ross. It is forthcoming as Jewish Theology in a Postmodern Age published by The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization [2017]. Kaye’s draft study, “Hasidic Philosophy in the Age of Postmodernism and Relativism: The Case of Rav Shagar” was discussed at the March 2015 Orthodox Forum, “The Contemporary Uses and Forms of Hasidut” chaired by R. Shmuel Hain and R. Shlomo Zuckier. Hopefully Kaye’s fascinating paper will see light in the upcoming volume of in the Orthodox Forum series. Ilan Fuchs deals, inter alia, with R. Shagar’s perspective on Torah learning for women and Orthodox feminism in Women’s Torah Study: Orthodox Education and Modernity (Routledge press: New York, 2014), 209-220 See Alan Jotkowitz, “And Now the Child Will Ask: The Post- Modern Theology of Rav Shagar,” Tradition 45:2 (2012); R. Yair Dreyfuss, “Torah Study in Contemporary Times: Conservatism or Revolution?”, Tradition 45:2 (2012); Admiel Kosman, “A Letter in Search of a Destination” [review of The Remainder of Faith] in Ha’aretz, 2/27/15, available here; R. Zvi Leshem, “Book Review: B’Torato Yehageh: Limud Gemara Kibakashat Elokim,” available here; Alan Brill has dedicated several fascinating posts to R. Shagar, his thought, and its larger ramifications for Israeli society on his blog, ‘The Book of Doctrines and Opinions’. A good starting point is his discussion of a curious film about R. Shagar produced by the Ma’aleh film school, available here. [4] l’Ha’ir et ha-Petahim (Efrat: Makhon Kitve ha-Rav Shagar, 2014) 242 pp. [5] Other volumes that have already been released include In on Sukkot, A Time for Freedom (בצל האמונה) the Shadow of Faith (זמן של חירות) on Israeli national (ביום ההוא) on Passover, and On That Day holidays. [6] In general, see Roman A. Foxbrunner, Habad: The Hasidism of R. Shneur Zalman of Lyady(Jason Aronson, 1993); Immanuel Etkes, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady: The Origins of Chabad Hasidism (Brandeis University Press, 2015); Naftali Loewenthal, Communicating the Infinite: The Emergence of the Habad School, (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1990). [7] R. Shagar is accused of a certain naivete with regard to the possibility and rigor of this type of thinking, see Kosman, idem. and see also the editor’s introduction to R. Shagar, Luhot ve-Shivrei Luhot (Yediot Ahronot, 2013); 407 pp. for a discussion of the autodidactic nature of R. Shagar’s engagement with general philosophy, specifically postmodern thought. לכב׳ ראש השנה לחסידות יום שיחרור אדמוה״ז [8] .זיע״א י״ט כסלו ה׳תשע״ו [9] Thanks is due to R. Eli Rubin for his insight and comments. [10] R. Hershel Schachter once quipped that perhaps the name “Schneur” two lights), in =) שני אור was a portmanteau of the naming after two different people with the name “Meir” – quite appropriate for one who was able to draw such deep meaning from even the two lights within the candle’s flame. [11] Torah Ohr, Miketz 33a. [12] A prime example of this would be the controversy surrounding the practice of postponing prayer times. During the formative years of Hasidism, many Hasidic leaders (such as the the Seer of Lublin, The Holy Jew, and The Kotzker Rebbe) held that in order to focus the heart properly for prayer it is permissible to delay the time for prayer, despite violating the clear Halakhic guidelines governing it in the Shulhan Arukh. [13] Thus we reduce conflict between the soul-life and the practical-life. See further torah no. 33 in Lectures on Likkutei Moharan vol. 1, 295-310; torah no. 6, ad loc., 68. [14] Commentary of R. Ovadia Bartenura on the Mishnah, Avot 1:3. I will point out, however, that it is basically impossible to impose upon someone a completely external commandment, and so in this way even the ability to follow an external command is a matter of personal prerogative, and therefore related to the realm of personal freedom. This is to say that the internality of a person itself transitions between many different phases – sometimes appearing as the freedom to be unfree/limited and inauthentic. [15] Torah Ohr, ad loc. 32d. [16] We must differentiate between ‘sense’ and ‘meaning’ [english in the original; JR]. As we shall soon see, ‘the glow of the infinite’ [that is to say, the ‘spiritual background radiation’, the reflection of the infinite source of light illuminating our moon-world; JR] is what gives ‘sense’ to ‘meaning’ [without it, the slip into nihilism begins; JR]. As long as ‘sense’ is completely attached to the level of content – words, actions, situations – ‘meaning’ becomes the internal, animating force behind these, granting these things spiritual ‘weight’. [17] There is a touch of autobiography here. R. Shagar worked extensively on notes and files from his oeuvre, hundreds of which were saved on his computer, from which the Institute for the Publication of the Works of R. Shagar compiles, edits, and publishes his voluminous writings posthumously. [18] R. Schneur Zalman of Liady, Likkutei Torah, addenda to Parshat Vayikra, 52a. [19] Torah Ohr, ad loc. 33c. [20] This may be likened to the Lacanian idea of the real. [see Jacques Lacan, Symbol and Language: The Language of the Self (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956); Dylan Evans, An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge, 1996), entry: “real”. JR] [21] Torah Ohr, ad loc. pp. 32d-33a. [22] The position of the Admor ha-Zaken here parallels in a certain sense the positions of Yeshayahu Leibowitz with regards to the commandments. See further R. Shagar, “Faith and Language According to the Admor ha-Zaken of Habad,” Nehalekh b’Regesh, pp. 175-178. [23] See R. Shagar, Pur hu ha-Goral; .(בענ׳ את יעקב אהבתי ואת עשו שנאתי) 32-37

How to Read Hasidic Texts: A Quick Guide

How to Read Hasidic Texts: A Quick Guide by Ariel Evan Mayse Ariel Evan Mayse is completing his doctorate in Jewish Studies at Harvard University, where he is working with Professors Arthur Green and Bernard Septimus. He has been a student of Jewish mysticism for many years, and he teaches Hasidic thought and theology in Jerusalem, where he lives with his wife and son. Ariel’s forthcoming dissertation, entitled “Beyond the Letters: The Question of Language in the Teachings of R. Dov Baer of Mezritch,” explores the philosophy of language of one of the most important early Hasidic leaders. He is a co-editor of the two-volume collection Speaking Torah: Spiritual Teachings From Around the Maggid’s Table (Jewish Lights, 2013), available here and here, and editor of the recent From the Depth of the Well: An Anthology of Jewish Mysticism (Paulist Press), available here.

This is his second contribution to the Seforim blog, his first can be found in Ariel Evan Mayse, “Kindler of Hearts and Illuminator of Letters: An Essay in Memory of Reb Levi Yitzhak ben Sara Sasha of Berdyczów,” the Seforim Blog (29 September 2010), available (here).

Learning how to read Hasidic texts is a challenging but rewarding enterprise. The following short outline is intended help illustrate the process in a step-by-step manner. 1. LOOK IT UP – As you read, look up the biblical verses cited throughout the text and read them in their original context. Whenever possible, do the same with the rabbinic/zoharic passages. Try to locate the question or difficulty in the verse or story which becomes the point of departure for the homily. Then consider: How is the Hasidic master reinterpreting the plain-sense meaning of the passage, and to what extent does his teaching amplify preexisting elements already present? 2. VOCABULARY – Hasidic books often use familiar words and terms but give them specific definitions, so don’t be afraid to look up in a dictionary something you think you might already know. The limited vocabulary used by the Hasidic masters to describe complex psychological processes and interior mystical experiences was inherited from medieval Kabbalah and philosophy, so it is crucial to recognize when a term is being employed in its original sense, and when the Hasidic master is using it to articulate a newer idea. The move is often one from the metaphysical toward the psychological. 3. THE POINT – After you’ve read the text and are satisfied that you understand the basics of its language, think about the deeper ideas the author is trying to convey. These teachings always have a personal message meant to concretize abstract theology into spiritual praxis. Similarly, what underlying question(s) is he trying to answer? The Hasidic masters stand on the shoulders of many generations of Jewish thinkers (philosophers, kabbalists, talmudists) who have continuously engaged with the existential and spiritual questions by reinterpreting earlier sources. Hasidic texts should be read as a part of this conversation. 4. THE CONTEXT – Now reflect on the text in two ways: First, try to read the text on its own terms. How might this message have sounded to its original audience, and why might it have been an appropriate teaching for that time and place? 5. PERSONAL REFLECTION – Second, step back for a moment and examine it once more from a personal perspective. What do you find meaningful in its words, and what do you find challenging or difficult? How are the spiritual issues at the forefront of the text relevant to your own journey? 6. THE BIG PICTURE – Hasidut emerged from the teachings of the Ba’al Shem Tov, but each Hasidic master since then has lent his own unique voice to its theological chorus. Consider how the teachings of different Hasidic masters compare to and contrast with one another? Do they agree on all points of theology? Do they articulate the same vision of spiritual growth and mystical experience? 7. THE REBBE – As you read more teachings from a particular teacher, think about how they relate to one another. Does this particular Hasidic master have certain themes he returns to again and again? And how do these written teachings relate to any stories you may have heard about him? 8. THE EVENT – Remember that in most cases the written text was originally a homily delivered orally in Yiddish. Hearing these sermons was a special experience for the Hasidim, and these texts are only a transcribed echo of that original event. Don’t forget this framing! 9. TEACH AND TRANSLATE – Think you understand? Now it’s time to take one (or both) of the challenging next steps. First, teach the text to someone else! Second, try translating it, first for yourself and then for someone who wouldn’t be able to read it in the original Hebrew.

Tobacco and the Hasidim and a Comment on Artscroll

Pursuing the Quest: Selected Writings of Louis Jacobs has just appeared. The Seforim Blog is happy to present the following excerpts from the book. (The Note on Artscroll is part of a longer article.) Tobacco and the Hasidim and a Comment on Artscroll Louis Jacobs References in literature to the use of tobacco by hasidic Jews are numerous [1]. Although there is little direct evidence to indicate how widespread it was, the references suggest it was fairly extensive. Let us examine some of these. In his autobiography Solomon Maimon (d. 1800) describes a youthful visit to the court of Dov Ber of Mezhirech, the founder of the hasidic movement. Maimon remarks: ‘Some simple men of this sect, who saunter about idly the entire day, pipe in mouth, when asked what they were thinking about, replied, “We are thinking about God”.’ [2]

There is no reason to doubt the accuracy of Maimon’s report, which is substantiated by other early sources. For example, Shivhei Habesht, [3] the legendary biography of the Baal Shem Tov, refers to the famous lulke [4] which the founder of the hasidic movement used to smoke. While recent scholarship [5] tends to treat this work with less scepticism than did earlier scholars, even if all references to the Baal Shem Tov smoking tobacco [6] are fabrications, it is true that hasidim were known to smoke, for their early opponents, the mitnagedim, repeatedly castigated them for wasting time on smoking, which the hasidim believed prepared them for prayer.

One characteristic example in an anti-hasidic polemic is the statement in Zemir aritzim veharvot terurim (published in Alexnitz near Brody in 1772). This work criticizes the hasidim for delaying their prayers in the morning so that they can ‘place incense in their nostrils’. [7] In a letter written from Vilna in 1772, the mitnagedim say of hasidim: ‘They wait many hours before reciting their prayers . . . and they spend all their days in the smoke which proceeds from their mouth.’ [8] In all these early sources smoking as an aid to prayer does not have any special hasidic significance: it is only a means to contemplation. This is probably also true for the hasidic tradition, [9] which holds: ‘When the Baal Shem Tov wished to proceed to the upper worlds he would inhale tobacco and at each puff he would proceed from world to world.’ [10] There do not seem to be any references to tobacco in the classical hasidic works of doctrine, the hasidic Torah. Their absence from these sources may be because aids to contemplation (such as tobacco) were considered irrelevant to the ideal itself, although contemplation was clearly important in hasidic thought. Rabbi Phinehas of Koretz (Korzec) (1725-91), an associate of the Baal Shem Tov, reportedly observed:

With regard to imbibing tobacco, anything the body requires for it to be healthy is the same for all men. Therefore, since not everyone imbibes tobacco, it follows that it is not a permanent feature in creation, but only has healing powers for some. It has no healing power, and can do harm, to the majority of men, since it dries up the [bodily] fluid. [11] Similarly, another reliable source records that Jacob Isaac Horowitz, the Seer of Lublin (1745-1825), used to take snuff during his prayers as an aid to concentration [12] It was not until the middle of the nineteenth century that various mystical and specifically hasidic ideas were imputed to smoking tobacco. While the mitnagedim state that hasidim ‘place incense in their nostrils’, the reference to this is no more than an extrapolation on the verse ‘They shall put incense before Thee’ (Deut. 33: 10). It is not itself conclusive evidence that early hasidim associated smoking with offering incense in the Temple. [13] In Sperling’s Ta’amei haminhagim (a very late work), [14] however, we find that the disciples of the Baal Shem Tov believe that ‘the weed known as tobacco is considered by the zaddikim to be like incense’. Moreover, following from the mystical idea of ‘raising the sparks’ that had fallen to the realms of the demonic powers [15] smoking was thought to be necessary to elevate the very subtle sparks that reside in tobacco. Unlike the sparks in food, which can be elevated when someone who is in a spirit of holiness eats the food [16] tobacco sparks cannot rise that way. Those subtle sparks can only be rescued for the holy by smoking or taking snuff.

A passage from the Talmud (Keritot 6a) states that a minute quantity of ‘smoke-raiser’ (a herb that causes smoke from the incense to rise) was added to the incense in the Temple. This passage is interpreted to mean that smoking tobacco raises the very small holy sparks which cannot be raised any other way. Sperling also refers to the healing properties of tobacco, which he calls segulah, a quasi-magical method. [17] If a woman finds it difficult to give birth, she should be given a pinch of snuff and this will help ease the birth. Nevertheless, Sperling was unable to discover a single reference to tobacco in classical hasidic works. Rabbi Abraham Judah Schwartz (1827-83), a prominent non-hasidic Hungarian rabbi, was eventually won over to Hasidism. In the biography written by Dov Beer Spitzer (Schwartz’s grandson), [18] we read:

My grandfather, of blessed memory, used to smoke tobacco (including cigars) to the extent that, occasionally, when he was engrossed in his studies and also when he taught his pupils in the beit midrash, it was as if he stood in the midst of a cloud so that it was impossible to come near to him. His son Naphtali Hakohen, of blessed memory, repeated in his name that the zaddikim intend great tikunim [19] and have the following in mind. [20] The pipe is made of clay, which is a mineral. The wood stem represents the plant. The bone mouthpiece comes from an animal. The smoker is a speaking creature [medaber, a human being, and fourth among the categories of mineral, plant, animal, and human] and he elevates all the stages beneath him (mineral, plant, and animal) to the stage of the speaking creature. For the zaddikim never carry out any empty act, Heaven forbid, but have their hearts concentrated on Heaven.

It is also reported that Rabbi Henikh of Olesko (1800-84), son-in-law of Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz (1779-1855), would take his snuff-box in his hand and inhale the snuff on Friday nights when he recited ‘Kegavna’, the kabbalistic prayer. [21] He would sing certain tones as he inhaled, and if any people were present who were ill or possessed by a dybbuk, a wandering soul which enters the body of a human being as a refuge from the demons which pursue it, they would begin to dance and move while the rabbi inhaled the snuff [22]. Those close to him realized that it was an especially propitious time. Further, Rabbi Eliezer Zevi of Komarno (d. 1898) was reported to have said that the letters of the word tabak have the same numerical value (112) as those of the word yabok, which stands foryihud, berakhah, kedushah (‘unification’, ‘blessing`, and ‘holiness’) and also ya’anenu beyom korenu (‘He will answer us on the day we call’). [23] Thus, he believed that tobacco helped the zaddik to achieve union, bestow blessings on his followers, and raise himself to greater heights of holiness, as well as predispose God to answer his prayers.

Although the hasidic master Rabbi Solomon Shapira (1832-93) is reported to have smoked only at the close of Simhat Torah, on Purim, and on Shushan Purim, [24] on those occasions he would smoke heavily. In his later years he was also reported to have smoked at the festive meal to celebrate the completion of a talmudic tractate and during Hanukah. At the celebratory meal following a circumcision he was also known to have smoked. Besides the reports of smoking on religious holy days, when Shapira was under severe stress he would smoke cigars in moderation to calm him and keep him from having a nervous breakdown. On the other hand, he was known to have smoked heavily when he travelled: on those occasions he never took a book with him to read and would seldom speak. As he smoked he appeared to be lost in contemplation.

A hasid who knew that Shapira had smoked heavily in his youth once asked him why he gave up the habit when he grew older. The hasid added that since Rabbi Hayim Halberstam of Sanz (1793-1876) used to smoke very heavily, he wondered why Shapira did not follow his example. [25] Shapira replied that Halberstam was reputed to have been ‘one of the serafim’ (Isaiah 6: 6); he was a seraf (fiery angel) and none could match him. But the real reason for giving up smoking, Shapira said, was that it wasted time; it was better to achieve union through study of the Torah and follow its precepts, engaging in practices essential for bodily strength rather than in luxuries like smoking, which one can live without.

There is a tendency among hasidic masters and hasidim generally to minimize the importance of smoking. In Rahamei ha’av, [26] a short work that first appeared in Lvov in 1868, the author, Jacob Klein (d. 1890), states that young men should not smoke cigars because such a practice is only vanity. [27] Klein also refers to the suggestion ‘in the holy books of the disciples of the Baal Shem Tov’ that tobacco is like incense, even though that motif cannot be found in the classical hasidic works. He adds that although Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz used to smoke as a young man, he gave it up when he noticed that a colleague in the beit midrash spent a great deal of time cleaning his pipe, while he (Shalom) could study an entire page of Talmud in the time his colleague took to clean his pipe. Klein also reports that the hasidic master Rabbi Moses ben Zvi Teitelbaum of Ujhely (1759-1841) never smoked.

Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin (1797-1850) was known to have been a heavy smoker. [28] When Rabbi Moses ben Israel Polier of Kobrin visited the rebbe of Ruzhin on the eve of the Sabbath, he found him with a pipe in his hand in a smoke-filled room. Noticing his guest’s surprise, the rebbe of Ruzhin told the following story. A pious Jew lost his way just as the Sabbath was about to begin. Seeing a house in front of him, he went inside. To his alarm he saw there a notorious bandit sitting at a table upon which there rested a frightening blunderbuss. The man thought: if I try to run away, the bandit will shoot me in the back, but if I stay here he will probably kill me. The only way out seemed to be to seize the gun and fire at the bandit. If I succeed in killing him, he thought, well and good. But, even if I miss, the room will be filled with smoke and I will be able to escape in the confusion. Then the rebbe of Ruzhin laid his pipe aside and said: now it is the Sabbath. Thus, for the rebbe of Ruzhin the pipe was a smoke-screen against the blandishments of the yetzer hara (the evil inclination). Smoking is a diversion, a risky indulgence through which the zaddik can gain the upper hand over his enemy, the yetzer hara.

The early hasidim undoubtedly used tobacco as an aid to concentration; their smoking was only unusual in the amount of time they allotted for it. Although tobacco was brought to Europe from the New World, where it had been used as part of the American Indian religious ceremonies, [29] the hasidim (and Western smokers in general) did not use it in this sense. Rather, the early hasidim smoked tobacco as an aid to concentration. It was only much later that the incense motif and the idea of raising holy sparks were introduced. Zaddikim such as Hayim Halberstam of Sanz and Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin were heavy smokers, while others such as Rabbi Shalom Roke’ah of Belz and Rabbi Moses ben Zvi Teitelbaum either gave up smoking or had never smoked at all. Today, despite the acknowledged health dangers of smoking, there is no evidence that the hasidim have given up the habit, and it is too early to say if they will (a speculation equally valid for those who are not hasidim). In any event, smoking tobacco was always peripheral for the hasidim; in the hasidic literature it had no special significance.

A Note on Artscroll’s Commentary to Psalms ch. 137

On verse 1: “By the rivers of Babylon”, the Artscroll refers to the Midrash Pesikta Rabbati (28) where R. Johanan says that the Jewish people, accustomed to the pure water of their homeland, were now forced to drink the insanitary waters of the Euphrates from which many of them died. Here again the Artscroll fails to see the historical background to R. Johanan’s saying. To anyone with an historical sense it is obvious that R. Johanan, a Palestinian, was reading homiletically into the Biblical text the superiority, even in matters of health, of the Holy Land over Babylonia, the land of the rival Babylonian Rabbis. There are numerous instances of the Rabbis applying the Biblical texts to conditions of their own day. R. Johanan’s comment tells the historian nothing about what the Psalmist meant by “the rivers of Babylon” but everything about R. Johanan’s views, in the third century CE, regarding the desirability for Jews not to leave the Holy Land to reside in the apparently more salubrious Babylonia. It is not so, declares R. Johanan, the Holy Land is superior not only with regard to the study of the Torah but also with regard to its health-giving properties. R. Johanan’s comment has its place in a study of third-century Jewry. It has no place at all in a commentary to the Bible. Notes 1. On the halakhic problems connected with smoking, see I. Z. Kahana, ‘Hatabak besifrut hahalakhah’, in his Mehkarim besifrut hahalakhah (Jerusalem, 1973). The earliest discussion of these questions is found in the works of the Turkish rabbi Hayim Benveniste (1603-73), and Mordecai Halevy (d. 1684), who was dayan and a halakhic authority in Cairo for more than forty years. They discuss the issue as part of their treatment of the Turkish narghile, or hookah, in which the smoke passes through water, hence the expression (later used for smoking a pipe and taking snuff) ‘drinking titon’ (the Turkish (and Polish) name for tobacco).

2. See Gershon David Hundert (ed.), Essential Papers an Hasidism: Origins to the Present (New York, 1991), which contains an Eng. trans. of Maimon’s account, pp. 11-24. The reference to the pipe-smoker is on p. 17.

3. On this discussion, see the less than adequate Eng. trans. of the Shivhei Habesht in In Praise of the Baal Shem, trans. Dan Ben-Amos and Jerome R. Mintz (Bloomington, Ind., l970).

4. Ibid. where the Persian word is transliterated incorrectly as lolkeh. On p. xxvi, puzzled by the reference to ‘one lulke’ in the story related on p. 105 (no. 80), Mintz interprets lulke to mean ‘a hand-rolled cigarette’. The lulke is really a pipe with a long stem-a churchwarden’s pipe-and ‘one lulke’ simply stands for a single pipeful or a single turn at the pipe. See ibid., index, s.v. lolkeh for a list of all references to the pipe of the Besht and others.

5. Murray J. Rosman, ‘Miedzyboz and Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov’, in Hundert (ed.),Essential Papers on Hasidism.

6. Yaffa Eliach, ‘The Russian Dissenting Sects and their Influence on Israel Baal Shem, Founder of Hasidism’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research, 36 (1968), 57-88, suggests that the Baal Shem Tov’s lulke was a kind of tube filled with a far less innocent substance than tobacco (pp. 80-1). There is no foundation for implying that the Baal Shem Tov took drugs.

7. Mordecai Wilensky, Hasidim umitnagedim (Jerusalem, 1970), i. 54. In the first letter quoted in Joseph Perl’s Megaleh temirin (Vienna, 1819), 3a, an imaginary hasid tells how he handed the zaddik his lulke but did not have the merit to light it for him.

8. Wilensky, Hasidim umitnagedim, i. 36-9. Cf. Wilensky’s index, s.v. ishun bemikteret, and his note on hasidim and smoking on p. 39 n. 20.

9. Simeon Ze’ev of Meyenchov, ‘Doresh Tov’, in Sefarim hakedoshim mikol talmidei habesht hakadosh, i (Brooklyn, 1980), no. 17, p. 111.

10. On the ascent of the Baal Shem Tov’s soul, see the letter at the end of Jacob Joseph of Polonoye,Ben porat yosef (Korzec, 1871). There is a translation of this in Louis Jacobs, Jewish Mystical Testimonies (New York, 1977), 148-55. There is, however, no mention that the ascent was achieved through smoking a pipe. On the ascent of soul, see Moshe Idel, Hasidism: Between Ecstasy and Magic (Albany, NY, 1995), 104-5.

11. M. Spiegel (ed.), Tosefta lemidrash pinhas (Lvov, 1896), no. 167, p. 16a.

12. Samuel of Shinov (Sieniawa) (ed.), Ramatayim tsofim (Jerusalem, 1970), 51a n. 13.

13. That Jews have not used incense in the synagogue is probably intended to distinguish worship in the synagogue from worship in the Temple. Nevertheless, the later hasidic identification of smoking with incense suggests that some hasidim did see smoking as similar to the incense of the Temple. I knew a hasidic rabbi who would regularly smoke a Turkish cigarette before reciting the afternoon prayer, in which in hasidic practice the biblical and talmudic passages about incense are recited.

14. Abraham Isaac Sperling (ed.), Ta’amei haminhagim umekorei hadinim (Jerusalem, n.d.), 102. Cf. Aaron Wertheim, Halakhot vehalikhot behasidut (Jerusalem, 1960), 224-5. Wertheim, like Sperling, can produce only very few references to smoking among hasidim.

15. On the Lurianic doctrine of the sacred sparks, see I. Tishby, Torat hara vehakelipah bekabalat ha’ari (Jerusalem, 1965).

16. Louis Jacobs, ‘Eating as an Act of Worship in Hasidic Thought’, in Siegfried Stein and Raphael Loewe (eds.), Studies in Jewish Religious and Intellectual History Presented to Alexander Altmann (Tuscaloosa, Ala., 1979).

17. Sperling (ed.), Ta’amei haminhagim, 581.

18. Eliezer Ehrenreich (ed.), Toledot kol aryeh (2nd edn. Brooklyn, 1976), no. 36, pp. 27-8. 19. As in kabbalistic thought generally, the doctrine of tikun, that human activities have a cosmic effect and can ‘put right’ the flaws on high, looms large in Hasidism.

20. This is probably the meaning of the expression po’el bedimyono.

21. Zvi Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim, xiv (Jerusalem, 1955), no. 6, pp. 70-1.

22. See Gershon Winkler, Dybbuk (New York, 1981), on the dybbuk and exorcism. 23. Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim.

24. Ibid. p. 32, nos. 8 and 9. 25. On Hayim Halberstam as a heavy smoker, see Yosef David Weisbert, Rabenu hakadosh mizantz (Jerusalem, 1976), 197, 211, and Yosef David Weisbert,Otzar hahayim (Jerusalem, 1978), 20. In Isaac Landau’s account in Zikaron tov (Piotrkow, 1882), 16-17, no. 17, Isaac of Neskhiv was another hasidic rebbe who smoked in his youth but gave it up later. This account contains a puzzling statement that when Isaac did smoke in his youth he was advised not to use Turkish tobacco by Levi Isaac of Berdichev, possibly because of the association with the Turkish pretender Shabbatai Zvi. 26. (Jerusalem, 1977), no. 11, pp. 8b-9a, under ga’avah.

27. Although the book was first published anonymously, it later became known that the author was Klein, a Hungarian rabbi with hasidic leanings, though not himself a follower of any particular zaddik. The passage is also quoted by Moskovitch, Otzar hasipurim, no. 7, p. 31.

28. Reuben ben Zvi David (ed.), Keneset yisra’el (Warsaw, 1905), 16.

29. See Mircea Eliade (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religion (New York, 1987), s.v. ‘smoking’, vol. xiii, pp. 365-70, and ‘tobacco’, vol. xiv, pp. 544-6.