Sin-A-Gogue

by David Bashevkin

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bashevkin, David, 1985- author.

  Title: Sin.a.gogue : sin and failure in Jewish thought / David Bashevkin.

  Description: Boston : Cherry Orchard Books, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018023281 (print) | LCCN 2018023521 (ebook) | ISBN 9781618117984 (ebook) | ISBN 9781618117960 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781618117977 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Sin--Judaism. | Repentance--Judaism.

  Classification: LCC BM630 (ebook) | LCC BM630 .B38 2018 (print) | DDC 296.3/2--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018023281

  ISBN 9781618117960 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9781618117984 (ebook)

  ISBN 9781618117977 (paperback)

  ©Academic Studies Press, 2019

  Book design by Lapiz Digital Services

  On the cover: photograph by Menahem Kahana, reproduced by the author’s permission.

  Published by Cherry Orchard Books, imprint of Academic Studies Press.

  28 Montfern Avenue

  Brighton, MA 02135, USA

  press@academicstudiespress.com

  www.academicstudiespress.com

  CONTENTS

  A Word About the Cover

  Foreword

  Introduction: The Stories We Tell

  Section I The Nature of Sin

  1. What We Talk About When We Talk About Sin

  2. Sin’s Origins and Original Sin

  3. Sick, Sick Thoughts: Intention and Action in Sin

  4. What to Wear to a Sin: Negotiating With Sin

  5. Can Sinning Be Holy?

  6. Does God Repent?

  Section II Case Studies in Sin and Failure

  7. Once a Jew Always a Jew? What Leaving Judaism Tells Us About Judaism

  8. When Leaders Fail

  9. An Alcoholic Walks into a Bar: Putting Yourself in Sin’s Path

  10. Rabbi’s Son Syndrome: Why Religious Commitment Can Lead to Religious Failure

  11. Jonah and the Varieties of Religious Motivation: Religious Frustration as a Factor in Religious Motivation

  Section III Responses to Sin and Failure

  12. I Kind of Forgive You: Half Apologies and Half Repentance

  13. To Whom It May Concern: Rabbinic Correspondence on Sin and Failure

  Endnotes

  Bibliography

  Permissions

  Acknowledgments

  A WORD ABOUT THE COVER

  The photograph on the cover was taken by Menachem Kahana, an Israeli photographer who was given unprecedented access to the Israeli Haredi community. His photographs were later published in a volume called Haredim (Tel Aviv, Israel: Eretz Israel Museum, 2009).

  This photograph was taken from behind the Hasidic Rebbe of Belz as he was conducting a ceremonial meal known as a tisch. Next to the back of the Rebbe is his trusted assistant, known as a shamish. Flanked on both sides are hundreds of Hasidim watching carefully at the Rebbe’s moves and utterances.

  But that’s not why I love the photograph.

  Underneath the table where the Rebbe sits is a lone child, patiently and quietly hiding and listening to the Rebbe. If you look at the picture quickly, you may not even notice the child underneath the table. I like to think that each section of the photograph depicts a different element of the Jewish community. You have your leader, the Rebbe. Each leader has his right-hand men, the proverbial “number two.” And of course, the followers who anxiously wait for direction. But the person that interests me most is the one who is not at the table. The child hiding underneath. The people on the periphery. Such people inspire me, and I think this picture aptly portrays many of the feelings this book will hopefully describe. It’s not enough to connect with leaders and their loyalists—you also need to check who is not at the table.

  FOREWORD

  Let’s face it, most modern Jews have a problem with sin. It’s not that we don’t do it, often even enjoy it, and also repent for doing it, but we don’t like to talk about it much, we don’t like our Judaism to be infused with talk of sin. From Modern Orthodoxy to Reform, Reconstructionism, and Renewal, we like our Judaism positive. Of course, Scripture basically begins with sin and failure and to one degree or another, as David Hartman once said, the Hebrew Bible is a book of Jewish failure. We only get to the third chapter of Genesis when Adam and Eve sin against God. In chapter four, Cain kills his brother Abel, in chapter six it seems like all of humanity is mired in sin except Noah, and in chapter eleven the people rebel and build the Tower of Babel. Then of course, Abraham lies to save his own skin, Jacob lies to get his father’s blessing, Joseph’s brothers throw him in a pit and sell him down to Egypt, and we’re still in Genesis!

  The kabbalist Isaac Luria reads creation as an act of divine failure, of rupture and devastation that is our world. Works like the medieval Sefer Hasidim and the dark world of the Zohar are obsessed with sin, failure, and evil, and the modern Musar Movement’s focus on “tikun ha-midot” (repairing one’s ethical traits) impels a state of failure that pervades its view of human nature.

  The reasons modern Jews are made uncomfortable with sin and failure are varied. In part it may be an attempt to distinguish itself from Christianity, in part simply the produce of a world that chooses to focus on light instead of darkness, part of the American ethos of “morning in America.” In any case, what David Bashevkin shows us in this wonderful book is that sin and failure are not only embedded in the Jewish tradition but that the tradition has fascinating and compelling things to say about the sinfulness of the Jews, and human beings in general, and he examines the ways such insights can contribute to contemporary analyses of questions of human vulnerability and failure in our overly psychologized society.

  By weaving together classical Judaic sources that exhibit Bashevkin’s broad and deep knowledge of the tradition with contemporary discussions from ethicists, scientists, social scientists, literary figures, and philosophers, Bashevkin brings alive material the secular world had no access to, and material the “yeshiva” world did not know existed. There is something daring in “equaling the playing field” in comparing a comment by George Orwell to the Hazon Ish, but that is precisely Bashevkin’s point: to humanize lionized figures in order to truly enter the world of struggle and failure that each experienced and continued to struggle with as part of their human greatness. This is an exercise in intellectual and spiritual war against the genre of hagiography, the fantasized depiction of great figures used so often today to shield such figures from the sins and failures that helped make them great.

  When we look more closely, argues Bashevkin, we find that when we give voice to many Jewish heroes, often through correspondence, what we find is that they undermine their own sense of grandeur and are more concerned with confronting their weaknesses than overlooking them. There are certain obvious cases such as the Hasidic master Nahman of Bratslav, whose homiletic writings are replete with allusions to his own desires and failures. But even in more temperate figures, Bashevkin shows us in intricate detail how they never shied away from the challenges of their humanness and engaged deeply with questions of sin and failure in their own lives.

  This book is a synthetic exercise of modern discomfort with sin and traditional engagements with the challenges of being human that are too often whitewashed because of our desire to see our heroes as figures not burdened by the same desires as we are. Or, because we want our religion to be uplifting and not depressing. In addition, Bashevkin’s comparative perspective enables us to narrow the divide that separates one religious tradition from another, and to see them all as exemplars of the sheer passion and desire to live with the fragility of human existence.
This book will make some readers uncomfortable, some because of its iconoclastic temperament, and some because it all strikes too close to the broken human heart we all share. But there is little doubt that Sin-a-gogue: Sin and Failure in Jewish Thought is a work of deep Judaic learning and creative and refreshing modern interpretation. “Human. All-too-human.”

  Shaul Magid

  Hanover, New Hampshire

  INTRODUCTION: THE STORIES WE TELL

  To pay for my father’s funeral

  I borrowed money from people

  He already owed money to.

  One called him a nobody.

  No, I said, he was a failure.

  You can’t remember

  A nobody’s name, that’s why

  They’re called nobodies.

  Failures are unforgettable.

  —Philip Schultz, “Failure”

  A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  Jews, said Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, as opposed to other cultures, do not tell stories to lull children to sleep but rather to wake them up. But what are those stories, in fact, that wake us up? Typically, Jewish storytelling is associated with lofty tales of hagiographic piety that recount the greatness and righteous deeds of religious leaders. This, however, is not one of those stories. This is a story of sin and failure and its place within Jewish thought and life. It is not a racy exposé or tell-all but a frank and honest discussion of some of the lesser known aspects of sin and failure and their place within Judaism. Ultimately it is a story that I hope wakes up some who seem to be drifting asleep.

  Judaism has a complex relationship with failure and sin, particularly as it relates to storytelling. In 2002 Rabbi Nathan Kaminetsky published a book entitled Making of a Godol. The book was intended to be a multi-volume biography of his father, Rabbi Yaakov Kaminetsky (1891–1986). Only one volume, which covered the first two decades of his father’s life, was published. As a book it is nearly unreadable. There are a little more than sixty pages covering the sequential life of Rabbi Yaakov’s early years; the other twelve hundred pages or so comprise confusing footnotes and excurses delving into each detailed aspect of his life. When it was first published, hardly anyone cared to read it. And then it was banned.1 A group of rabbis in Israel felt that the book was disparaging of the Jewish leaders of previous generations. Their claim was not without merit. Making of a Godol is certainly not your typical religious storybook. For outsiders to the Orthodox community the offending passages seem entirely innocuous. But for those who were raised listening to their parents read saintly tales of rabbis from previous generations, it was certainly jarring to discover that Rabbi Aharon Kotler wrote love letters to his fiancée. Or that the famed Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, known as the Hafetz Hayyim, struggled with depression. Or that Rabbi Yisrael Salanter smoked cigarettes. These were not the stories that mothers told their children. Jewish stories, it seemed, should be carefully sanitized to avoid sullying the reputation of their protagonists or, more dreadfully, the ears of the reader.

  Sanitized stories and ideas are certainly an important part of Jewish education. Rabbi Shimon Schwab admirably defended the importance of sanitized storytelling. He writes:

  What ethical purpose is served by preserving a realistic historic picture? Nothing but the satisfaction of curiosity. We should tell ourselves and our children the good memories of the good people, their unshakeable faith, their staunch defense of tradition, their life of truth, their impeccable honesty, their boundless charity and their great reverence for Torah and Torah sages. What is gained by pointing out their inadequacies and their contradictions? We want to be inspired by their example and learn from their experience.2

  He is not wrong. I, for one, am glad that my mother did not tuck me in at night reading to me the litany of mistakes and infractions committed by rabbis throughout history. It does not bother me when I read a rabbinic biography that exclusively recounts the piety and holiness of leaders from previous generations. In fact I find it inspiring. Others may find that sanitized stories are left with a hospital-like, uncomfortable odor when they are stripped of their more historical—and often borderline-heretical—aspects. I don’t. So why spend so much time discussing sin and failure?

  The Stories We Tell

  An Emory University study illuminates the importance of discussing sin and failure. Dr. Marshall Duke, along with his Emory colleagues Robyn Fivush and Jennifer G. Bohanek, designed a survey called “Do You Know,” which asks children questions about their family narrative. 3 Do you know how your parents met? Do you know where your grandparents grew up? Which person in the family do you act most like? They formed a list of twenty questions about family narrative and discovered that the more children knew about their family, the better they thrived when faced with adversity. Based on these questions, they then explored the different sorts of narratives that shape families. As recounted by Bruce Feiler in his New York Times column “The Stories That Bind Us,” they found there are essentially three thematic narratives that families tell. Feiler writes:

  First, the ascending family narrative: “Son, when we came to this country, we had nothing. Our family worked. We opened a store. Your grandfather went to high school. Your father went to college. And now you…. Second is the descending narrative: “Sweetheart, we used to have it all. Then we lost everything.”4

  The narrative, however, that cultivated the most resilience and strength among families was the third type, which Duke calls “the oscillating family narrative.” This form of family narrative integrates moments of success—wealth, marriages, promotions—with moments of failure such as illness, layoffs, and death. When children hear their family’s oscillating narrative and know that nonetheless their family persevered, a sense of courage and resilience is conveyed that will allow them to transcend their own moments of tribulation. “The bottom line,” writes Feiler, “if you want a happier family, create, refine, and retell the story of your family’s positive moments and your ability to bounce back from the difficult ones. That act alone may increase the odds that your family will thrive for many generations to come.”

  Like family, religion is also a story. It begins with biblical stories but is perpetuated with the continued traditions each family tells. Moments of doubt, moments of inspiration, transitions toward observance and journeys away—our religious practice is informed by different forms of narrative. The Bible itself compares life to a book, each life containing a different story.5

  What stories, then, does Judaism tell? For many it is an ascending narrative with a secular beginning and a religious destination. Others follow a descending narrative in which religious life was primarily an exit door from behavioral constraints and theological frustration. I hope this book, with its candid look at sin and failure, helps others develop an oscillating narrative about their Judaism. Granted, sin and failure cannot be the only stories we tell, and this book thus shouldn’t be the only book on anyone’s shelf. But a book about sin still serves a purpose of sorts and its presence on our shelf helps ensure we tell the right stories.

  Rabbi Yitzhak Hutner (1906–80) was no stranger to oscillating narratives. Born in Warsaw, he narrowly missed the 1929 massacre in Hevron. He spent time studying at the University of Berlin before eventually settling in the United States, where he led Yeshivat Rabbeinu Chaim Berlin in Brooklyn. In September 1970, while traveling with his daughter, her husband, and a student, his plane was hijacked by the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Throughout the harrowing ordeal he managed to maintain his dignity. When offered a can of soda by one of the terrorists, Rabbi Hutner, known for his sharp wit and humor, reminded the terrorist that he prefers his Pepsi cold. While he survived the ordeal, a finished manuscript of his book on Shavuot was lost and had to be rewritten from scratch. Aside from the theologically complex and sophisticated volumes of writing he left, Rabbi Hutner also stands out as a moving advocate for the o
scillating narrative, particularly in his published correspondence.

  “Everyone is in awe of the Hafetz Hayyim,” writes Rabbi Hutner, referring to Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan of Radin (1838–1933), who wrote a famed compendium on proper speech in Jewish law.6 But who actually considers, he asks, how many struggles, difficulties, and battles the Hafetz Hayyim had to wage in order to develop his famed meticulousness with language? This is likely the most oft-cited letter of Rabbi Hutner and for good reason. The letter, which begins by lamenting the hagiographic nature of rabbinic narratives, reminds a student that greatness does not emerge from the serenity of our good inclinations but from our struggles with our baser tendencies. The verse in Proverbs (24:16), “the righteous fall seven times and stand up,” has been perennially misunderstood. It is not despite this failure that the righteous stand up—it is because of the fall that the righteous are able to stand confidently. Greatness does not emerge despite failure; it is a product of failure.

  But our narratives, both personal and religious, have become warped. We think of success as a sequential line that over the course of time points upwards. Instead, success in any endeavor is a winding, meandering journey with many false starts, unfulfilled promises, and public failures. The distinction between the straight, sequential narratives we tell and those more winding and twisted stories we actually live are reflected in the Hebrew words for song. Throughout Psalms, the words shir and mizmor frequently appear as synonyms for hymns. What is the difference between the words shir and mizmor? A shir shares the same root as the word shura , the Hebrew word for straight line. Shirah are our songs of appreciation for those sequential moments of accomplishment in our life as well as prayers that the trajectory of our life should proceed accordingly. The root of the word mizmor is zemer —the Hebrew word for a vine. Vines loop, twist, and curve. During moments of setback and failure, mizmor is a reminder that those moments are part of our song as well. Life surely will be comprised of lines and vines, moments of shir and mizmor—both, however, must be sung.