(This was originally presented orally to a set of Bnei Akiva parents on Shabbat 22nd June 2014 at Seuda Shelishit. I was planning to develop it further, but current events, including the Bnei Akiva controversy, have made me feel that it is important to share with only minor editing.)
Over two and a half thousand years ago, in 597 BCE, the Babylonian Emperor Nebuchadnezzar cemented his new found power in the Ancient World by conquering the land of Israel. He overpowered the final remnants of the kingdom of Judah and installed a puppet leader in place of the Monarch. Unwilling to heed the sober political advice of the prophet Jeremiah, the residents of Jerusalem launched a rebellion against the Empire and tried to free themselves from its grip.
There was no fairytale ending. Babylon used the uprising as a pretext to show its fearsome power and to deter other provinces from rebelling in kind. In 586 BCE they put Jerusalem under siege, attempting to conquer the city through starvation. Men, woman and children perished in this gruesome episode; we can only hope that Lamentations was exaggerating when it says that parents were forced into eating the flesh of their dead babies.
As the people weakened, Nebuchadnezzar moved in for the kill. The walls were breached on the 17th of Tammuz and the army entered the walled city. Taking control and continuing the slaughter, they completed their rout through the symbolically charged act of defiling the temple and setting it alight.
As the Temple burned in the eyes of the remaining people, they realised in their humiliation that the dream of a republic in Judah had come to a close, around 400 years after King David had initiated it. Their God would no longer have a home, their worship would no longer have a centre of focus, they would have nowhere to bring their offerings of atonement and thanksgiving.
A dark age of homelessness was beginning.
Unwilling even to allow the orphaned and bereft people to remain in their land, the Babylonians exiled them, taking many civilians – including the brightest and best – with them to Babylon, where they would be put to work in the service of the Empire. For those who were willing to comply, there was the possibility of a decent life, with opportunities for power, influence and financial reward. Some no doubt embraced this opportunity, leaving behind the heartache and nightmare that Judean history had become. Memory was exchanged for membership in a new dynasty, and this willingness to adapt and change yielded favourable results.
For some however, moving on was not so straightforward. One of the educated scribes and musicians of the time sat on the banks of Babel’s rivers and poured his heart into a paean to the lost world. Taunted by his captors to provide entertainment with the songs of Zion, he found himself choked and unable, the mere thought of Jerusalem bringing him to tears. How, he asked, could one possibly sing the songs of the Lord in a strange and alien land. The music of majesty and splendour could not be recreated in the shattered world of exile, in the uncertainty and rootlessness of ruin.
Binding himself instead to his pain, nursing it with his creativity, he instead composed a new form of music, tragic and broken in tone, a hymn of exile which put loss and longing at its centre.
‘If I forget thee Jerusalem, let my right hand, the symbol and source of my power, be forgotten.
May I lose the capacity for poetry and song, for music and joy, and may my tongue become stuck in the roof of my mouth if I fail to remember thee, if I fail to place the shadow of Jerusalem at the apex of my life, if I fail to recall her even in my highest moments of joy.
Joy, indeed, has been stolen from me, perhaps in the future we will love and dance again, the happy voices of bride and groom will return to Judah, but for now it barely seems possible, our souls are frozen in mourning, our hearts devastated by their condition of despair.’
In that moment a new Judaism was born. Not since Abraham bound his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, and lifted his knife to murder him, had the Jews had such a vivid sense that their national aspirations might fail to be realised, that the vision of a strong and powerful kingdom might not be their fate. Moses, in spite of ultimate personal frustration, never doubted that the people would be a powerful Sovereign entity; David and Solomon inherited his vision of historic certitude and laid down the foundations for greatness. Doubt was banished, their faith in God was strongly aligned with their faith in the triumph of Judaic Civilisation.
Indeed, one might say that Zionism was actually initiated at that moment in Babylon, for only as a lost homeland, as a place to which return was impossible, did the symbolic power of Zion take root in the Jewish Imagination. From that point on, Jews would cast their mind’s eye towards the Promised Land and dream of happier times, of the return of Divine Protection, of completeness, wholeness and redemption.
But more than the hope of return, it was the sense of loss and incompleteness which had the strongest impact on Jewish civilisation. We were a people with a full consciousness of our pain, chosen but apparently forgotten, Divinely empowered, and yet, by all worldly measures, utterly powerless.
Perhaps we hoped that in our commitment to remember Jerusalem we would encourage God not to forget us, to keep in mind the fragmented remnant of Israel.
We enacted our pain ritually, at every wedding we quite literally placed Jerusalem above our joy, singing these words – ‘Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim’ – in a variety of haunting melodies before shattering a glass underfoot. This helped remind ourselves that something about us was broken, something distant and external, but something deep in our souls as well.
When we built a house we left a corner unpainted, for how could we lavishly decorate our own palace while the Divine presence remained homeless and exiled, whilst Its Sanctuary and Temple lay in ruins?
Another moment at which we paused to recall Jerusalem was at moments just like the one we are sharing now, at Seuda Shelishit, the third and final meal of Shabbat.
Shabbat, originally a day of ascetic restraint and even fasting, became for the Jews in exile a day of replenishment and rejuvenation, on the spiritual, emotional and even physical planes. It came to be described as a taste of the world to come, a temporary refuge in time and space wherein weary and exhausted Jews could pause from their daily lives, a day with an otherworldly feel, wherein the anxieties and concerns of one’s routine could be briefly forgotten, wherein a greater sense of wholeness and completeness could be felt.
The day was welcomed in with enthusiasm and joy, a custom developed wherein people would go out to the fields to welcome the bride, a tradition which lives on in our singing of Lekah Dodi Li’krat Kalah, ‘come my beloved to welcome the Bride’.
But on the other side of Shabbat, as the sun hung low in the sky and the people sensed that Shabbat would soon be leaving them, a different mood set in. The fullness and temporary sense of redemption would be replaced by the reminder that it must leave them, that the world they inhabited was far from perfect, that pain and longing were the more usual tone of their lives.
At this juncture of transition, a sense of tragedy would overtake them, and songs of melancholy and pining became the order of the moment. In this mood the mind’s eye turned towards Jerusalem and felt a strong sense of solidarity with its state of ruin, with the sense that it was awaiting the return of its people and God, that it was a deeply unrequited lover.
Im eshkachaich Yerushalayim, If I forget thee Jerusalem, became the finale of this bittersweet medley, leading into psalm 130, which looked forward to the return to Zion.
I am sure I am not alone in saying that one of my strongest and most enduring Bnei Akiva memories is of sitting in a tent in Somerset, barely able to see the person sitting next to me for the darkness, and singing these songs at Seuda Shelishit: Veli’yerushalayim Irkha, Kol Be’rama Nishma, and culminating in Im Eshkachaich.
Jews stayed close to this sense of the tragic, and it served them well for the next 2500 years.
It is hard to sufficiently emphasise the paradoxical notion that this tragedy was the best thing that ever happened to the Jews. There is a sense in which the entire purpose of the religion was to teach man that he is not omnipotent and invincible, to approach the world with a bearing of humility and respect, which might sometimes become awe and wonder. It seems however that the temple and its offerings were not quite able to effect this change in the heart of humanity. Excessive pride in military conquest and inflated arrogance at their own feats of building combined with the corruption of a ruling elite and the complacency of economic success. All of this served to blunt any capacity for spiritual sensitivity and awareness.
The destruction of the temple however, the memory of crushing defeat and brutal humiliation, these seemed to sow a seed in Judaic consciousness which neither Moses nor Samuel, Hoshea nor Isaiah could effect through their teachings.
Suddenly an awareness was born that we are not entirely masters of our destiny, that we will always be subject to forces beyond our control, that pride and independence might be better replaced with gratitude. An inner call arose for a more honest reckoning of all the ways in which we are thoroughly and helplessly dependent.
With this new attitude, the people’s ear suddenly learned to hear the words of their prophets and were able to better attend to the needs of the underprivileged and disadvantaged, to the widow, the orphan, the homeless and the wounded.
The tradition recorded many senses in which this new condition of brokenness represented a positive development in the religion:
There is nothing so complete in the eyes of God as a broken heart, said one Hasidic Master.
The Talmud tells us that following the destruction of the Temple the gates of prayer were closed, but that tears alone had the power to open them.
Or, as the contemporary Jewish prophet Leonard Cohen puts it, in every thing there is a crack, that’s how the light gets in.
Another contemporary Jew, Sigmund Freud, writes in his paper Mourning and Melancholia of the importance of a thorough and rigorous process of mourning, of how attending to our sense of loss can prevent the amnesia and arrogance which lead to depression. One might say that only a Jew could have had this insight, that it is perhaps the singular summation of a profound and important undertone of our civilisation. The Jew never forgot to mourn, never forgot that loss is a part of life, and that if it can’t be borne it will ruin us.
So, what has all this to do with Zionism and Education?
There is a sense in which Jewish Education began with destruction. In the dying days of the second temple, around 69CE, the Romans had Jerusalem under siege and were attempting to starve the people into surrender. The Jews responded as only Jews could , engaging in internal battles and strife. These culminated in the militant mob, the Biryoni, burning down the remaining storehouses of grain.
Witnessing this madness, this utter failure of leadership and responsibility, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, one of the Pharisee leaders engaged in diplomacy with the Romans, managed to escape the walled city. This required his faking his death and leaving in a coffin, a metaphor for his understanding of Judaism at that moment: snowballing suicidally towards its own death, and, to all external appearances, succeeding in self destructing.
Impressing the Roman Emperor Vespasian with his political acumen and foresight, Yochanan ben Zakkai was granted three wishes. In a moment which sent Judaism in a radically different direction, which gave birth to the religion we now know and practice, he decided to give up hope on Jerusalem and to request, in its stead, permission to establish a small academy of scholars at Yavneh.
Judaism ceased to be a nationalist concern, centred around a temple with a corrupt ruling elite, and became a democratic culture with study and domestic practice at its core. Suddenly everyone had access to the wisdom and rituals which might enable mankind to engage the Divine, even the humblest amongst them were encouraged to find a teacher and to learn.
Study was a form of nourishment, a way in which a spark of the Divine might find its way into the mind and soul of every individual, a furnace in which the personality and spirit could be refined and improved. Zion and Jerusalem were lamented, but the religious imagination gradually transformed them into symbols and metaphors, personal ideals which might nourish a person on their own journey through the wilderness.
Freud, in Moses and Monotheism, comments favourably on this as an ‘advance in intellectuality’ for the culture, and even suggests that it had its origins in the prohibition against the formation and worship of physical images of God. For as long as God is not physical, he must be grasped through the intellect, which will forever stretch our powers of thought and imagination. Indeed, Yochanan ben Zakkai was perhaps suggesting that the Temple had become another idol, a failed attempt to concretise the Divine in space and time.
So the ideals of Talmud Torah, of the study of God’s Law and Will, are born at this moment in Yavneh, and probably had very little precedent in the earlier life of Israel. The Talmud may mythologise King David as studying Torah all night long between battles, but we may permit ourselves the understanding that they were projecting their values back into the past. It seems likely that by the time the great academies of Babylon had been established in 600CE, wherein study and meditation had become the supreme value in Jewish life, it would have seemed incredulous to them that King David could have felt otherwise.
Yochanan ben Zakkai is preparing the Jews once more for exile, for a different sort of life, one which will allow them to survive and grow in the different cultures they would inhabit and to make positive contributions to a broader society. The universalism of Isaiah might once more triumph over the nationalistic narrowness of Ezra and Nechemiah, who had led the Jews in the early days of the Second Temple and had embarked on a quest for racial purity and exclusion.
For eighteen hundred years this culture of study and practice flourished, absorbing and influencing a wide variety of host cultures, sustaining the Jews and enabling them to lay down roots wherever their travels took them.
In the late nineteenth century, as Jews began to despair of diaspora life and started to dare to dream of an actual physical return to Zion, this culture of personal study and development was threatened. Its symbolic code, its map of the interior world, borrowed as they were from the images of Zion, Jerusalem and the Temple, were suddenly thrown into jeopardy.
A burning question suddenly emerged – could the culture survive this re-materialisation of its objects? The national religion of the Israelites had been transformed into Judaism through a process of de-Zionisation. Could it survive a very material and literal re-Zionising?
Or, to frame it differently, Yochanan ben Zakkai had shifted the focus of the religion from the Bible to the Talmud. How would we survive the return to the Biblical landscape, to the temptations of Biblical thinking?
The earliest signals were not good. The majority of the early Zionists did indeed view the new movement as replacing any need for the pieties and tenderness of what came to be known as ‘the old Judaism’. As well as the physical efforts and sacrifice to settle the land, there was a blossoming intellectual and spiritual renaissance amongst the Zionists, which largely ignored the rich inner world cultivated in the diaspora past. Some amongst them viewed their project as a Nietzschean overcoming of Jewish weakness and victimhood, and found it difficult to even speak of the ravages of Jewish History.
Judaism was to be forgotten, and it would be replaced with the spirit of the Ancient Israelites. Any sense of loss and incompleteness was banished, and a Secular Messianism, a Nationalist Utopian vision took root in its place.
For the most part, the Jews of Europe viewed this as a straightforward alternative, one became a Zionist or one stayed religious. There were, to be sure, pockets of support amongst traditional communities for the Zionist project, but there was little serious attempt to tackle the educational and religious challenge it presented.
One notable exception to this trend was Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook. Born in modern day Latvia in 1865, he was recognised early on as a Talmudic prodigy and went to study at the radical and ground-breaking Volozhin yeshiva. Even before he arrived in Israel in 1904, he was fascinated by the Zionist phenomenon, though he couldn’t quite agree with its self-understanding as a movement divorced from the Jewish Religion.
He was profoundly moved by the vision of young Jews jeopardising their lives to resettle the land of Israel, to drain swamps and endure hostility, to establish communes with an agenda of radical social justice. They seemed to embody the best of the Biblical Spirit, and he could neither disdain nor feel threatened by this.
On the other hand, he was very conscious of what was being discarded by the Zionist movement, of the part of their heritage they were sacrificing. He could see that in their youthful impatience, in their passion for accessing the spiritual through physical labour, they couldn’t begin to fathom the value of the Jewish life of their Diaspora ancestors, that it seemed petty, limiting, superstitious.
Familiar with the ideas of Hegel, he suggested that Judaism found itself at a moment of critical historical tension. In a sweeping vision of Jewish History, he proposed that the Israelites of the Bible had been doomed to failure because their religion was always cultic and external, rooted in physicality, it had never found its way into their hearts, into the rhythms and textures of everyday life.
The long and difficult exile, fuelled by the sense of longing and loss, had allowed something deeper and richer to develop. The challenge now was to bring these two worlds together, Biblical and Talmudic Judaism, the religions of the Israelites and that of the Rabbis. If it could be done, then something beautiful and redemptive could be achieved, but it would be a struggle, and would require willing, effort and understanding from both sides.
Eventually becoming the first Chief Rabbi of British Mandate Palestine, Rav Kook’s ideas were appreciated and welcomed by many in Israel, from all the diverse strands of society. But whilst he foresaw the challenges that lay ahead, his uniquely imaginative and inclusive vision were not granted to Israel for long enough, dying as he did in 1935, just as matters in Europe and Palestine were becoming critical.
Some of you may be surprised to hear me speak of Rav Kook as sensitive to this tension, for his name has become identified with the Settler movement and the branch of Religious Zionism which holds the complete Land of Israel as an unimpeachable and absolute value. This right wing tendency would seem to be an instance of the powers of Zionism overcoming the patient spiritual discipline of Diaspora Judaism, of Messianic fervour erupting which leaves no place for the pining and humility which became the hallmark of Jewish Civilisation. In our basic terms, it seems to priorities Zionism over Education, the Land over the Spirit.
But before we consider the tale of how his followers were seduced by the physicality of the Land, how it became – some controversially claimed – a new idol for them, a contemporary Golden Calf, let us consider its allure and appeal even to the most hardened secularists in the Zionist movement.
An illustrative moment here is the conquest of Jerusalem as part of the six day war in 1967. Whilst we tend to remember the war as a glorious victory, which brought territorial gains and a resurgence of national confidence to the people, we sometimes forget the extent to which it was a battle for the survival of the state and its people. With survival the first priority for the political and military leadership there were many among them who did not see any value in capturing the Old City of Jerusalem and its holy sites. Yet other protagonists, particularly those who found themselves drawing physically close to the Old City, were suddenly overwhelmed by the notion of Jews returning to the Temple Mount, and found themselves helpless to resist its pull.
In a recent book describing these events and their aftermath, Yossi Klein Halevi describes the moment that General Motta Gur, who was leading the legendary Paratroopers, first glimpsed the Temple Mount from a distance:
Motta sat on the ground and gazed at the walled city. It was a bright, cool morning, and the sun was on his back. The gold and silver domes of the Temple Mount glowed before him. He closed his eyes, as if in prayer. He was about to enter the Jewish pantheon, along with King David, who’d conquered Jerusalem and turned it into his capital; Judah the Maccabee, who’d purified the Temple after its desecration by the Hellenists; Bar Kochba, who’d thrown himself against Rome and lost the Jews’ last desperate battle for Jerusalem. Then came the centuries of enforced separation, landscape transformed into memory. And now landscape was re-emerging from dream, shimmering back into tangible reach.
His was not the only secular heart to melt on beholding this mythical vision. As the first of the Paratroopers arrived on the Temple Mount they placed an Israeli flag atop the Dome of the Rock. This was sacred Jewish ground, they felt, and they were going to pronounce it loudly. It was only when Defence Minister Moshe Dayan saw the flag that he insisted they take it down, for he knew that this could bring the whole Middle East into the flames of a holy war.
But it was not only the Muslim world he should have worried about, for within the Jewish world the re-unification of Jerusalem signalled the beginnings of national division. It gave rise amongst some to a Messianic spirit, an absolutist overconfidence and impatient omnipotence which left no room, as it never does, for the more humdrum and domestic tasks of building a nation. The vision of a people centred around a rich humanism, exemplifying the spiritual sensitivity cultivated in Exile, couldn’t satisfy the demand for the history-shattering total-redemption of the Messianic Imagination.
It was a case of Apocalypse Now, for the intentions of God had become clear to The Chosen.
Returning to Rav Kook, his son Rav Tzvi Yehuda Kook became the spiritual leader of Gush Emunim, a Movement for the settling and retaining of the entirety of the Holy Land. Coming from the opposite direction, my own Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Yehuda Amital, emphasised a different aspect of the elder Rav Kook’s teaching, and emphasised the balancing of values, with the spiritual wellbeing of the Jewish people, anchored in the depths of the Torah’s wisdom, occupying a much more prominent role.
These splits didn’t happen overnight, but unfolded over the course of many years. A watershed moment in its development was the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin. Rabin was the warrior turned peace maker, the Army Chief of Staff in 1967 who had dared to begin a process wherein territorial concession might bring about a new era in the Middle East.
The assassin, a religious Zionist former yeshiva student named Yigal Amir, had been goaded by a string of Rabbis of right wing orientation. They had labelled Rabin a rodef, or a moser, one who endangers Jewish lives or betrays Jewish values.
Perhaps the darkest hour in Religious Zionist history, with echoes of those dark days of the Second Temple, the nation was threatening to fall apart. I remember visiting the coffin in waiting of Yitzchak Rabin as it lay outside the Knesset for 24 hours. I felt deeply self-conscious and uncomfortable in my kipa sruga, my knitted kipa, the identifying sign of the Religious Zionists. As secular Israelis sat around candlelit vigils and shed tears, I felt the divide sharply, as an internal spiritual crisis, and also as a call for serious soul searching.
I remember feeling proud and relieved when Rav Amital was called by the new Prime Minister Shimon Peres into the Cabinet, and was tasked with rebuilding relations amongst the Jews, of promoting dialogue and understanding amongst both sides.
In spite of some successes, the tensions continue to this day, and it is deeply saddening that the current situation has only inflamed some of these antagonisms, and has seen the emergence of racism, hate, and vengefulness in some – and not only the religious – strands of Israeli society. A perception of the split nation has led some commentators to speak of a divide between the State of Jerusalem and the State of Tel Aviv.
But I am not here to speak about politics, I am here to speak about education, in as much as the two can be kept apart.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I am interested in the kind of education, and of religiously oriented education in particular, which can promote a politics of healing and togetherness, which can bridge the rifts in the Jewish world and return us to the vision of Yochanan ben Zakkai. He understood that the disagreements of scholars, the spiritual depths developed through the dialectics of study, could actually bring peace to the world, and could overcome the tendency towards infighting and self destruction.
But returning to our starting point, to our vision of the young poet sitting on the banks of the River Babylon, I also want to resist the idea that all of education should become subservient to political and nationalist aims, however noble and conciliatory they might be. Education is the legacy we bequeath to our children, and the milk with which we continue to nourish ourselves as adults.
It is the medium wherein we learn as children to approach the world with hope and optimism, but wherein we also come to terms with the inevitable disappointments and tragedies that befall us, with the sense that life will never be complete, that the Messiah might be perpetually delayed.
It is the nurturing environment in which we come to actualise the full potentiality of our talents and capabilities, but also the one wherein we accept that we cannot do everything, that we are not omnipotent, that our strength and daring will not be able to overcome all obstacles.
It is the fertile soil wherein we proudly celebrate the remarkable achievements of great individuals and civilisations, wherein we learn pride in our own endeavours, but wherein we also become acquainted with humility and gratitude, with the capacity to cope with disappointment.
The psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott spoke of child rearing as beginning with a process of generating illusion followed by a phase of gradual disillusionment. We need to fill children with love and energy and faith in the future, and in their earliest years we do this without reservation, hoping to securely anchor them in the world and ensure their psychic survival.
But at a certain point, the kindest thing we must do for them is to facilitate their disillusionment, their realisation that life is not a series of fairy tales, that whilst they might be mummy or daddy’s special princess, the world will not always be so abundantly hospitable towards them. We offer them this gradual disillusionment to avoid the alternative: a sudden and catastrophic disillusionment in the future.
As Jews, in whom the spirit of the religion and of Zionism burn strongly, as creatures who inhabit a world of complex and intricate myth and legend, we are forever walking the tightrope between an excess and a deficit of illusion. We may stroll through the streets of a rebuilt Jerusalem, yet in our minds and prayers there is a symbolic Jerusalem lying in ruins, an abandoned and forgotten widow.
There are no easy answers for how to walk this tightrope, and nor should there be, but it is my hope and prayer that through becoming conscious of this complexity, through exploring and engaging with the richness of our history and philosophy, that we might navigate it in a way which lives up to our tradition’s loftiest aspirations.
‘Lo alekha ha’melakha ligmor’ said Rabbi Tarfon, ‘the task is not yours to complete’, a powerful warning from a man who witnessed the destruction of the second Temple. Not only should you not expect to complete it, but perhaps completion is not even the proper aim and endpoint, perhaps there must always be room for an enduring sense of incompleteness.
‘But’, he continues, ‘ve lo ata ben chorin le’hibatel mimena’, but neither are you free to desist from it, to abandon it, to forget about the project and engage in trivial pursuits which squander your gifts and resources.
Education never ends, neither the education of our children nor the education of ourselves. May we be blessed to make a modicum of humble progress, finding space for the symbols of history and the realities of the present, balancing the demands of the nation with the spiritual development of the individual. May our Zionism only serve to enhance our Education, and may our attachment to our nation and children only deepen our resolve to improve the world at large.
I wish to thank Professor Aaron Koller for some helpful suggestions, and Professor William Kolbrener for many discussions on these themes. And, as ever, my wonderful wife Emily Simon, for everything.