Jewish law understands that people are not perfect. And there are different kinds of imperfection addressed in Jewish law. In the case of an ill individual’s eating, the law was not addressing a sinner but someone whose health leaves no recourse other than to eat non-kosher food. The scope of the law, however, addresses those who break the law due to sin as well. Jewish law understands that a religious person who sins is not an oxymoron but a part of reality as it has been from time immemorial. Imperfection does not exclude us from Jewish law. Jewish law speaks to everyone—saints and sinners. Indeed, as the wisest of men said, “there is no one righteous in the land who does good without sinning” (Eccl. 7:20). The Talmud (Bava Batra 165a) in fact says that everyone succumbs to “avak lashon hara” (a form of defamation rabbinically prohibited). Jewish law is not oblivious to imperfection—it anticipates and addresses our imperfections and failures.
What to Wear to a Sin
On Shabbat we wear special clothes. Dress codes help us align emotionally with whatever occasion or event we attend. School, weddings, graduations, and vacations all have their own dress codes—whether implicit or explicit. It seems silly to consider, but does sinning have suggested attire? Of course for sinning to have a dress code, one would have already have had to resign themselves to the idea that they were in fact committing a sin. But do unavoidable sins of such magnitude even exist? And if one finds oneself in a situation of grave sin (for instance, in a house of ill repute) should he take off his yarmulke or other identifying religious objects?
If only such a scenario were actually so outlandish. It does not take a very active imagination to think of places of sin where one would want to remove any religious markers. But aside from the question of removing religious markers, to which we will return, the Talmud actually considers whether an entirely different dress code is recommended. The Talmud (Kiddushin 40a and Hagigah 16a) states:
R. Ilai the Elder said: If a person sees he is overcome with illicit desire, he should go to a place where he is not recognized, don black clothes and do what his heart desires rather than desecrate God’s name in public.
This surprising text seems to permit the commission of sin. Can it be? Commentators dispute whether this statement is meant as a strategy to avoid sin or instructions for how to minimize sin’s damage. Rabbeinu Hananel (Hagigah ibid.) explains that Rabbi Ilai is not offering any dispensation for someone who succumbs to temptation. Rather, the statement is a strategy to avoid sin. He understands this opinion in the Talmud as describing someone who has not yet succumbed to sin and, through the process of donning somber clothes and traveling to a distant location, will hopefully abate his desires. By delaying and complicating sin, Rabbi Ilai hopes to prevent it.
The Tosafists (Kiddushin and Hagigah ibid.), however, disagree. The language of the passage, according to the Tosafists, indicates a more literal dispensation. Someone who is going to sin should indeed just ensure it is done privately, where he will not be recognized. This is not permission to sin but advice to minimize it. The recommended dress code is not a way to avoid sin but to avoid the recognition of the sinner. Sin, but better not to be recognized so as to avoid additional desecration of God’s name.
Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi in his Talmudic commentary (Kiddushin ibid.) as well as Rabbi Asher ben Yehi’el (Moed Katan 3:11) seem to side with Tosafot’s understanding. In explaining why they rule against the statement of Rabbi Ilai, they cite the Talmudic passage (Berakhos 33b) that “all is in the hands of heaven except the fear of heaven.” Clearly, Rabbi Alfasi and Rabbi Asher ben Yehi’el understand Rabbi Ilai’s statement to be predicated on the fact that some sins are simply outside of one’s control. Since as they understand, the Talmud in Berakhos does not allow for any circumstance of sin to transcend a person’s “fear of heaven,” they reject Rabbi Ilai’s opinion as a minority view. Rabbi Ilai allows for some sins to exist outside of man’s control and squarely within the confines of the “hands of heaven.”
Interestingly, Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman (1874–1941) is baffled by the interpretation of Rabbis Alfasi and Asher ben Yehi’el.125 How can it be, Rabbi Wasserman questions, that they were even willing to consider that an opinion in the Talmud disagrees with the statement that “all is in the hands of heaven except the fear of heaven”? In his words, “It is the foundation of the entire Torah that man was given the ability to choose between right and wrong.” How could it be, he asks, that any opinion allows for some sins to transcend free will? He leaves this question unresolved—but it is an issue that others have addressed. The existence of sins that transcend free will may have concerned Rabbi Wasserman, but it is an idea that was very familiar in the Hasidic world of Izbica.
The Alleged Heresies of the Hasidic School of Izbica
Izbica Hasidut has a controversial history. The Hasidic court of Izbica was established on Simhat Torah in 1839 when, dramatically and mysteriously, Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef Leiner (1801–54) left Kotzk to establish his own community. A range of explanations have been posed as to why Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef left Kotzk, but the eschatological import of the year was likely a factor.126 Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef led the Hasidic community of Izbica until his passing in 1854. A reformation from the individualistic revolution perpetuated in Kotzk, which in turn was a response to the initial leader-centric Hasidut, Izbica Hasidut continues to have innovative and radical implications within the Jewish community.
Aside from its founder Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef, who are the primary personalities who fashioned the theology of Izbica? There are three leaders who merit special attention: Rabbi Yaakov Leiner (1818–78),127 Rabbi Gershon Henokh Leiner (1839–91),128 and Rabbi Zadok of Lublin (1823–1900).129 Following the passing of Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef, the court of Izbica amicably divided into two parts. One community remained in Izbica and was led by Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef’s son Rabbi Yaakov, and afterwards by Rabbi Yaakov’s son Rabbi Gershon Henokh, who moved the Hasidut to Radzyn. The other community, initially led by Rabbi Leible Eiger (1816–88),130 respective son and grandson of famed rabbinic leaders Rabbi Shlomo and Rabbi Akiva Eiger, moved to Lublin where, following Rabbi Leible’s passing, it was led by Rabbi Zadok Ha-Kohen Rabinowitz. Though each of the aforementioned leaders certainly had his own unique style and approach to the radical elements of Izbician theology, together they constitute the essential intellectual legacy of this profound Hasidic movement.
Explaining the essential source of controversy within Izbica-Lublin Hasidut is fairly simple; the complexity lies in how these controversial ideas should be applied. The controversy stems from the repurposing of the Talmudic phrase “All is in the hands of heaven, except for the fear of heaven” in Izbica Hasidut, wherein the refrain is decidedly found “All is in the hands of heaven, including the fear of heaven.”131 This raises the old problem, both in general philosophy and specifically in Hasidic thought, of determinism. The reason this seemingly deterministic formulation is so controversial is because it can be understood to pave the way towards antinomianism, the abrogation of the law. As neatly presented by Morris Fairstein:
There is an inherent danger in Mordecai Joseph’s teaching that the purpose of the mitzvoth is to bring man to an awareness that all is in the hands of God. For example, is the person who has already attained this level of understanding still required to fulfill the obligations imposed by the commandments?132
Or as presented by Rabbi Herzl Hefter, a contemporary scholar of Izbica, “[B]eyond a doubt, from the Orthodox perspective, we have here a potentially dangerous doctrine of radical Divine immanence which at times justifies antinomian behavior.”133 If all action and thought derives from God, can sin be deemed an appropriate religious expression?
The allure of antinomianism within Izbician thought was acknowledged by its leaders. Several biblical and Talmudic personalities are explained within Izbica Hasidut as mistaking the doctrine of divine immanence with an allowance (or even encouragement) of antinomian behavior. Of note are the stories of Adam and Eve, Korah, the death of the son
s of Aaron, the nation of Amalek, Pinhas’ confrontation with Zimri, and the heresy of the Talmudic sage Aher,134 all of which are stories that are reimagined as cautionary tales in properly negotiating between a personal spiritual intuition invested with divine significance and the antinomian tendencies that can arise from such an intuition. Each of these personalities was left to grapple with the question that if indeed the personal revelations I experience are also part of God’s will, then how should I respond when my intuition conflicts with God’s will as expressed by the Torah?
While the theological rationale for positing such a radical conception of divine immanence varies among the different leaders within Izbica-Lublin, with Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef Leiner’s appealing to internal religious phenomenology135 and Rabbi Zadok’s grounding this conception in Lurianic kabbalistic doctrine,136 the normative world they construct is still decidedly Halakhic. In fact no one, scholar or Hasid, disputes the Halakhic nature of Izbician life, giving cause for many writers to wonder why this radical theology gave rise to such a traditional community.
Coping with Sin outside of Our Control: The Floor and the Ceiling
The Izbician concept of sin outside of our control rightfully raises some serious concerns. Rabbi Wasserman’s initial reaction that such a view undermines the entire Torah system is not without merit. True, his reaction may not have considered the Izbica school, but how should those with Izbician inclinations integrate this radical view practically within their own lives? How did the adherents of Izbica prevent their deterministic notion of sin from devolving into an antinomian conception of Judaism?
Shaul Magid emphasizes the importance of this question in his seminal study of Izbica, though he admits that it remains unresolved:
The question that looms large above all of the previous scholarly studies in Hasidism in general and Izbica/Radzin in particular is how and why these radical thinkers were able to remain within the halakhic tradition and not take the route of Sabbateans, who either repudiated the radical antinomian doctrines of Sabbatei Sevi and Nathan of Gaza and became reabsorbed into traditional communities or, like the Frankists, abandoned Judaism altogether.137
Rabbi Hefter, suggests two considerations.138 The first assumes that the conservative lifestyle within Izbica Hasidut was a public policy consideration. As Rabbi Hefter writes, “The mass awareness of ‘All is in the hands of Heaven’ would be detrimental to the stability of the community, which requires normative behavior by its members.” This “conspiracy theory” approach is belied in most respects by the first publication of Izbician theology, Mei ha-Shiloah, which Rabbi Gershon Henokh published based on the teachings of his grandfather. Even given its introductory cautionary note, to which we will return, if the leaders of Izbica wanted to withhold these ideas from the masses they surely should not have published them. Censorship in order to prevent misinterpretation was actually employed in the publication of Rabbi Zadok’s works,139 but the Izbician notion of “All is in the Hands of Heaven” was nonetheless still cleared for publication.
A second consideration presented by Rabbi Hefter, quoting Magid, attributes cognitive dissonance to Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef Leiner. Rabbi Hefter writes, “Perhaps the [Mei ha-Shiloah] was simply ‘too frum,’ that is to say, in the end he was emotionally unwilling to countenance in practice the far-reaching ramifications of his doctrines.”140 This suggestion also seems untenable. Aside from casting Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef as lacking the courage of his convictions, it doesn’t seem to have a historical basis. Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef had already been ostracized by much of mainstream Polish Hasidic leadership for his theology. Why would he shy away from embracing the full implications of his beliefs? It seems more likely that the radical interpretations which seem to create a contradiction between Rabbi Mordekhai Yosef’s actions and his beliefs are the creation of the modern reader.
Instead, I would like to present other frameworks for considering the question of the divide between Izbician theology and practice. My chief concern is not resolving this particular historical question but rather how addressing this question can provide some perspective on incorporating the theologically rich and oftentimes radical aspects of Izbica Hasidut into the contemporary Jewish community.
Religious life has both a floor and a ceiling. The ceiling is built upon the ideals and values we reach towards, which we may never attain. The floor, however, is the framework and perspective from which we deal with failure and those still mired in sin. Much of religious life is spent vacillating somewhere in the middle. The more radical deterministic elements of Izbica-Lublin can provide cushions and comfort on the floor of Judaism without altering the ceiling. Sometimes, when religious life feels closer to the floor, there may be a feeling that Godliness and spiritual meaning are unattainable. It is here that Izbician theology is most instructive, reminding us that “[w]herever a Jew may fall, he falls into the lap of God.”141
Applying a deterministic theology as a retrospective means of making spiritual sense of religious failure can be done without insisting on a deterministic perspective that undermines the ideals we are working towards.142 For instance, the encouragement and strategies we develop for someone struggling with the Halakhic observance of Shabbat need not become the ideal way in which we present Shabbat observance. Failure and sin may indeed both be intractable parts of religious life, but the theological means with which we soften our “floor” don’t have to become the theological ends with which we secure our “ceiling.” The communal world of Izbica-Lublin likely remained traditional because they adapted this distinction in applying their radical theology.
A fascinating presentation on the need for an aspirational ceiling in Judaism despite the failures and inconsistencies of those on the floor is given by Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove. Rabbi Cosgrove, a Conservative rabbi, presents Chabad Hasidut as a model for Conservative Jewry to focus less on Halakhic accommodation and instead realize that part of the allure of religion is that its aspirational ideals make people uncomfortable. His words, which I will quote in full, may give pause to those calling for ritual innovation in more progressive factions in the Orthodox community. He writes:
There is, and we shall explore this a bit further, a theory that people come to religion to feel the comfort of home, to see their values given expression in prayer, ritual and community. By this formulation, religion is a form of self-affirmation in that religion must accommodate the values we hold dear. There is, however, another side of the discussion, a side that says that when people come to religion, whether it is here in the sanctuary, in their homes or elsewhere, they do so not to affirm the familiar, but just the opposite. People come to religion because it engages a totally different muscle group and set of expectations. The rites and rituals of any faith tradition are supposed to be a bit irrational, they are intended to make us feel out of place. After all, what is the point of religion if not to give expression to the sacred, the unfamiliar, or to use the technical term—the numinous.143
Dr. Jennie Rosenfeld’s 2008 dissertation on sexuality in the Modern Orthodox community serves as a fine example of the contemporary application of Izbica-Lublin theology, balancing its more radical elements with traditional ideals. Her presentation of the thought of Izbica-Lublin, which relies heavily on Brill’s scholarship, provides a paradigm for the application of Izbician thought to address a contemporary struggle without jeopardizing the communal ideal. She addresses those who are struggling with Halakhic ideals in the areas of sexuality and, through the work of Rabbi Zadok, provides encouragement in dealing with the guilt and shame that can result from such shortcomings. What she doesn’t do is say that Rabbi Zadok abrogates the need to continue to make an effort towards living a sexually pure life. She writes:
R. Zadok’s message of teshuvah—what repentance is and how it can reframe a person’s life—is critically important for those who are at a point where they can hear this message. For those who are at a place in which repentance and return to full halakhic observance in the sexual realm i
s not an option at this point, R. Zadok’s message must at least stand in the background, as a hope for the future if not the present.144
What is most notable about her work is not her analysis of Hasidic thought but rather the maturity and discipline of her application. Izbica-Lublin thought is not used to replace the aspirational notions of sexual purity and holiness but rather is artfully used to address those who are already struggling. As she notes, Rabbi Zadok couches much of his approach to sin in the Talmudic phrase, “A person cannot stand on words of Torah until they have caused him to stumble.”145 In some contemporary applications of Hasidic thought, not even exclusively as it relates to matters of sexuality, the idealized notion of “standing” becomes obscured in the effort to validate the preliminary falls.146 Such interpretations, however, ignore how the theology was applied within the community of Izbica-Lublin; in Izbica-Lublin, radical theology did not beget radical communal innovation. The floor was carpeted, but the ceiling remained in place.
“Intimates who understand their true value”: On Divorcing Theology from Community
In 1994 Dr. Haym Soloveitchik published his renowned article “Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy,” which addressed many of the sociological changes in the Orthodox community in the second half of the twentieth century.147 Soloveitchik describes a community that has shifted from a mimetic tradition, one that “is not learned but rather absorbed,”148 to a text based tradition. As it relates to the mitnagdic community, which by his own admission is Soloveitchik’s focus, the mimetic and textual traditions are considered in terms of the community’s Halakhic observance. Among other communal innovations, Soloveitchik notes how the over-reliance on text has contributed to the development of a more radicalized Orthodox community. He writes:
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