The Need for a 'Thin' Theology (Column 222)

With God's help

This morning someone sent me a report in Israel Hayom saying that Yuval Dayan, the husband of Noa Yaron Dayan, had decided to abandon—at least in a certain sense—his religious way of life. He is a well-known person, and I heard that he gave many very popular lessons and even brought many people to religious observance (mainly to Breslov). It is no wonder that this is making waves. It seems to me that this is part of the phenomenon of celebrities who become religious but remain somewhat in their old world, even while they very much enjoy building themselves up on its ruins. By virtue of their celebrity, they very quickly acquire the status of social leaders, and sometimes spiritual ones too, soon after they enter the world of Torah and commandments (I still remember Uri Zohar and Popik  Arnon, who immediately became Rabbi Popik and Rabbi Uri, and two weeks after becoming religious, when their beards had barely begun to sprout stubble, they were already explaining under every leafy tree to everyone—religious and secular alike—where they were wrong and what the truth was. And of course they already knew everything, so nobody should tell them anything…).

I confess, without shame, that I had never heard of this Jew in my life. I tried to read his wife Noa's book, Makimi, and after a few pages I nearly vomited from disgust, so I abandoned it. The book expresses a repellent self-satisfaction, a celebrityhood that remains even after the process of becoming religious, and in my eyes, despite the smell of authenticity that many people detect in it, there is also something very inauthentic there: "I was at the top of the world," "I know everything," "Nobody can tell me anything new," "I'm not one of those people who can be sold a bill of goods—not by outreach rabbis and not by secular people," and the like. This is the continuation of a secular-celebrity lifestyle that I find repulsive into the religious world, all while spitting into the well from which they still drink (apparently with great enjoyment). They walk around in the clothes of shepherds from the fiftieth century BCE in present-day Tel Aviv, give interviews to gossip columns, and bask in the radiance of the Divine Presence (they really are dancing in Rabbi Shagar's "circle of differences").

Dayan's Post

Dayan took his step through a jarring post, a "dramatic post" in his words, which was published this morning. Because it is a powerful text, I bring it here in full (here is a link to it):

Let me begin by saying that I have no problem with God Himself; my problem is with everything that surrounds Him. All the politics and the carnival and the narrow-mindedness and the delusions and the megalomania and the sense of importance of most of His faithful emissaries, myself among them. With a life crammed with meetings and lessons and students and rabbinic standing and honor, but devoid of joy and excitement and faith and purpose, I almost broke completely—but then God heard my prayer and redeemed me, and in a big way. 

So for anyone who is not yet up to date, let me say that recently I removed every external religious marker—not in order to deny or to provoke any person or any sector, whatever sector it may be. I was simply finished. And I understood that in order to keep taking part in this, I needed blind faith, and I no longer have that. It ran out.  

To my credit, I will note that I was spiritual enough to believe that a hard life plus a complicated and sick soul like mine could earn me a ticket to heaven, because after all לפום צערא אגרא (the reward is according to the pain). I had already been a Buddhist, and I had been a Christian, and I even studied Shinto; but when at long last my soul awoke and I returned home to the embracing bosom of Judaism, in the blink of an eye I turned from a talented boy searching for meaning into a religious man, righteous and right, stripped of an independent opinion, stripped of gluten, and above all stripped of the most basic ability to manage in the dangerous world that God created for us in order that we fail in it. I became a flagellant under Judaism's auspices, beating himself bloody at night, consumed by self-hatred and inferiority feelings before His well-aligned servants with the precise accent and the right family name. Because if the devil wears Prada, then surely God wears a shtreimel (fur hat), doesn't He?

Twenty-five years is far too long not to tell myself a damn thing about myself. I was ready to die for the sanctification of God's name, but unfortunately no one asked that of me. It took me time to cast doubt and ask how it is that everything God wants from me boils down to turning myself into a borderline personality, almost erased by all the holiness and purity and meticulous stringencies and self-nullification before the Supreme One and equivalence of form and all that. What remains there in the end under all the layers and clothes and coverings and concealments and lies upon lies upon lies that sustain entire communities? I once thought that some deeply hidden secret was concealed there; today I know that there is nothing there but money and honor and money and honor and nothing more. A thousand voices speak inside my head. Moses our Teacher, Rabbi Nachman, Rabbi Natan, Rabbi Yisrael Ber, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, the Baal Shem Tov and all sixty of his disciples, the Tannaim, the Amoraim, the Savoraim, the Geonim, the medieval authorities (Rishonim), and the later authorities (Acharonim)—all of them speak words of wisdom, understanding, and knowledge, but I have long since stopped being able to hear myself.  

I admit that I never had blind faith. I dressed myself up as blind faith because that was what I understood was required of a holy Jew. I made a career out of being blind and innocent and learned and wise and righteous. I left everything I had and emigrated to a new and fascinating sector, which spat me and my children out with utter disgust, as though we were sticky lumps of plastic—and for that they have my sincere thanks. Who knows what would have become of us had we, Heaven forbid, been absorbed into them; we would probably have been lost forever, God save us. 

Sometimes I feel that all this bringing-the-distant-near is just an excuse, one big performance. Moving, sweeping, well-produced, breaking box-office records—but still a performance. Who is distant, and to where is he being brought near? And who can even open his mouth and testify that he knows who is far and who is near? And of course I do not presume to claim that the Torah is false and that God does not exist. I only claim that I personally am not a sufficiently reliable source for you to rely on, and the truest thing in me is that I do not know. I truly do not know. And the Sages already said, למד לשונך לומר איני יודע ("Train your tongue to say: I do not know"), and it took me a quarter of a century to learn that—somewhat slow, but still much faster than most of the great rabbis, spiritual guides, and outreach figures whom you and I know, who know, oh how they know.  

I have a great deal to say about the sector I have decided to leave and about the bizarre mutations of faith it breeds, but I will keep my tongue on a leash and only say that I finally understood that they and I do not believe in the same God, and I had to do something—and the sooner the better.

I know that many good people among you are disappointed in me to the depths of their souls. I want to ask your forgiveness for the fact that I am still alive and kicking; it is not personal against you. I must continue on my journey. I wish all of us good and fulfilling lives.

My first reaction upon reading these words was mixed. On the one hand, I very much appreciate the honesty and courage he shows here, and I also strongly agree with many of his descriptions. On the other hand, I am not sure I understand the meaning of the step he took or his conclusions.

The reasons he gives concern the Breslov religious conception (and perhaps not only it) that he now condemns. It did not give him what it promised. It seems hollow and hypocritical to him. The question is why that is a reason to abandon the religious way of life altogether. If there is a God and a Torah was given, and if there is an obligation to observe it, why should the pomposity and hypocrisy of people matter, even if they are religious leaders? If he does not want to turn himself into a self-effacing borderline personality (as he puts it), and if in his view God does not demand that of him, then what exactly is the problem?! Let him simply not be that. True, in Breslov they taught him that this is Judaism, but he has already sobered up from that. And perhaps that is precisely what he means? It may be that he is shedding outward markers while remaining committed to the Torah. I do not know, and I did not understand that from his words. Therefore, from here on I will deal with the phenomenon and not with him personally.

An Example of Similar Logic: The Attitude toward Kiddushin

This logic reminds me of an article I wrote in the latest issue of Akdamot (in its renewed incarnation), as a response to Rivka Lubitch's article. She interpreted (mistakenly, in my opinion, as I showed there quite clearly) the passages, the medieval authorities, and the later authorities in such a way that kiddushin is the imposition of proprietary ownership by the husband over his wife. From that she concluded (as a feminist) that one should give it up and live without kiddushin. To that I replied (beyond the actual error in her interpretation of the sources themselves) that if she is right, then the God in whom she believes certainly would not want something so immoral. Why, then, does He command us to have kiddushin before marriage? The necessary conclusion is that God apparently does not want kiddushin that are proprietary ownership of the husband over his wife, but kiddushin in some other sense (perhaps the one I suggested there—kiddushin as a contract). The Torah itself commands kiddushin. On her own view, the conclusion should have been to perform kiddushin as the Torah commands, but not to see them as the husband's ownership of his wife (that itself is proof of the interpretation I proposed, beyond the fact that I showed that it is compelled by most of the sources themselves).

I argued there that giving up kiddushin is not a consistent conclusion on her own premises (even if she were right that this is indeed their meaning. And, as stated, she is not). The God she does not believe in ought not obligate her. But she decided that she was not willing to serve the God she does not believe in (and by force of that, not the God she actually ought to believe in either).

"The God You Don't Believe In"

A common rabbinic response to questions of faith is: "The God you don't believe in—I don't believe in Him either." That has long since become a standing joke among those who leave religion. But it is a joke only because that statement is perceived as inauthentic, as an attempt at escape by someone who has no answers. After all, that is indeed the God you educated me to believe in! So now, when I have stopped buying your bill of goods and you have discovered that you have no answers, you suddenly agree with me?! Can you perhaps explain to me who the God is that you do believe in? Usually the questioner receives no answer to these questions.

On the other hand, there is something very true in that answer (even a stopped clock…). In many cases, people build for themselves a picture of God, reach the conclusion that it is not convincing or not lovable to them (that it is not the God they want to serve), and therefore they abandon faith. When I meet such a person (and I have met many כאלה) and present him with a different theological picture, he throws back at me that this is not the God on whom he was raised. He was taught something else (the punctilious ones throw at me that I am a heretic and an unbeliever—literally so!). I try to tell him that indeed, the God on whom he was raised is mistaken; but if, in his view, that God does not exist, why should that say anything about a God who does exist?! If you have reached the conclusion that God is not X, and I show you that God is Y, does it make sense to insist forcefully: "No, the God I decided not to believe in is specifically X and not Y"? After all, you yourself have reached the conclusion that He is not like that.

This reminds me of the story about Yocheved and Berel who abandoned their faith in the period of the Haskalah (or the Holocaust, or the massacres of 1648–49. Take your pick). One day Yocheved hears Berel hurling harsh words, reviling and blaspheming toward Heaven. She is shocked and scolds Berel: "Berel, how can you speak to God like that?!" And of course he replies: "Yocheved, did you forget? We no longer believe in Him." But she is not confused: "Yes, but the God I don't believe in is רחום וחנון, ארך אפיים ורב חסד (compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abundant in kindness). One does not speak to Him that way." This may sound like a joke to you, but believe me, this is life itself. I have met not one or two such people. You (=I) cannot speak that way about the God they do not believe in. Once I was asked to speak with soldiers from the Haredi Nahal unit who had gone out to a squad-commanders' course (at the beginning of the Haredi Nahal's existence). I was warned in advance that almost all of them were dropouts: some of them violated the Sabbath, others went out with girls and stole a car for joyrides on Sabbath night. But, the officer added, do not you dare speak to them about Rabbi Kook. If they see that you relate to them as "mizruchnikes" (Religious-Zionist types), they will be very offended. That is not the God they do not believe in.

Yocheved's words (and perhaps also the approach of those soldiers) sometimes express a hidden faith. Deep down, a person believes in a different God, a good and gracious one, but he was educated on a God whom he is not prepared to serve and perhaps not even to believe exists. So he abandons and denies God. This reminds me of a conversation with a good friend, an unmistakably secular man, who once told me: I do not know whether there is or is not a God, but in light of His conduct, even if He exists I am severing diplomatic relations with Him.

And If He Really Does Not Believe?

Of course, if our doubter has independent considerations showing that God really is X and that there is no other God, then the conclusion he has reached—that there is no God who is X—indeed also means from his perspective that there is no God. Thus, for example, if the tradition really does say clearly that God is X, then once I have reached the conclusion that there is no such God, or that I do not want/am not willing to serve Him, the conclusion indeed is that there is no God (or no obligation and/or plausibility to serve Him). The tradition has turned out to be unreliable from my point of view. If someone now comes and invents for me another God, more sympathetic, and says to me, "The God you don't believe in—I don't believe in Him either," I will regard that as an ad hoc invention meant to escape the difficulties, and I will not accept it—and rightly so.

My claim is that in many cases the picture of God on which we were raised is not a reflection of the religious tradition itself, but of one very specific interpretation of it. In such a case, the necessary conclusion is that this interpretation is incorrect and that another interpretation should be sought (as I explained in the kiddushin example above). To do that, we must carefully examine the tradition we received, and not accept it as is, wholesale, but rather examine and sift and formulate an interpretive and philosophical position behind which we are willing to stand. If we do this, then even if we reach the conclusion that our rabbinic leadership is pompous and hypocritical and does not deliver the goods, or that it is selling us a bill of goods and is unconvincing, that means only that the interpretation it offers should not be accepted. There is no injury in that to religious commitment itself. After all, we ourselves reached the conclusion that God is not like that—so why deny Him because of an incorrect description offered to us by people whom we do not respect?!

The Eve and the Serpent Effect

Many like to illustrate the dictum כל המוסיף גורע ("whoever adds, subtracts") through the midrash about Eve and the serpent, brought by Rashi (Genesis 3:3):

ולא תגעו בו – הוסיפה על הצווי, לפיכך באה לידי גרעון, הוא שנאמר (משלי ל ו) אל תוסף על דבריו ("'And you shall not touch it'—she added to the command; therefore she came to diminish it, as it says (Proverbs 30:6), 'Do not add to His words'"):

God commanded not to eat, but Eve told the serpent that God had commanded not to touch. The serpent pushed her so that she would see that nothing happens to one who touches, and when she saw this she decided to violate the (original) command and also eat from the fruit of the tree. When one adds to the command beyond what was in it, one ends up violating it. This is a phenomenon that occurs in a great many contexts (I mentioned it in discussions of the question of esotericism and full disclosure in halakhic ruling, and of the duty to distinguish between policy and extra-halakhic considerations on the one hand and the halakhic ruling itself on the other).

A clear example of this is Yaron Yadan. The aforementioned man was a newly religious Torah scholar, head of a Litvish kollel in Kfar Hasidim (or Rechasim), who one fine day decided to abandon everything together with his family, and began to work energetically against faith and religious commitment and against the community of believers. He founded a website (with the Haredi name "Da'at Emet." Head of a kollel or not? Newly religious or not?), wrote booklets, and gave lectures in which he pointed to scientific errors among the Sages and moral problems in the Torah and Jewish law. Most of the difficulties he raises have fairly simple answers, and in my opinion he is a clear example of the Eve-and-the-serpent effect. He was educated (from the time he became religious) to think that the Torah must give answers to everything; that it is the pinnacle of morality; that Torah sages are charismatic know-it-alls who never err. When he did not find all this in the Torah and the Talmud (that is, from the moment he was willing honestly to admit that he had never seen all this in the Torah—something many others are not willing to do), he abandoned everything with great courage. This is a courageous and honest step that deserves much appreciation, but his conclusion is mistaken (in my opinion). The Torah is not a moral compass, and the sages of Jewish law are human beings like me and you, who can err and indeed do so not infrequently. If one adopts such a sensible picture of Jewish law and Torah, one is disappointed less. What is forbidden is only eating from the fruit of the tree. There is no prohibition at all on touching it.

The case of Yuval Dayan, although he belonged to the Hasidic wing and not the Litvish one like Yaron Yadan, seems to me very similar in terms of its logic. Yuval Dayan's words make clear that he expected the Torah to give him a great and deep truth, emphatic certainty, charismatic and all-knowing leaders, religious experiences, a direct connection with God, and perhaps above all self-realization—in other words, a collection of responses to various existential needs that are very widespread in our generation. When he did not receive what he expected, he leaves. But who said that the Torah indeed offers all this? Judaism that promises all this (Breslov as a parable) is, in my view, a cheap answer to New Age and existential longings. In my view, one who adopts it is not a true believer in Torah and God, but is seeking a system to fulfill his needs (Leibowitz—if only you were alive to see this!). The existentialist awakening of our generation is not, in my eyes, an authentic religious awakening, but a response to various needs: connection to the sources—the Hebrew Bible (Tanakh), certainty, decisive and supreme morality, human superiority, connection to the transcendent, meaning in life. It is part of the worldwide New Age phenomenon. Whoever gets all this from the Torah—good for him (I do not). But whoever chooses the Torah because of all this is not a true believer. In my view, a person like Yuval Dayan (again, not him specifically. I do not know him) was never a believer. He has simply sobered up now and finally understood that.

People say that alienated and cold commitment to Jewish law is not authentic religiosity. They accuse me of being a gentile who keeps commandments. But I admit the facts and deny the charge. In my view this is the most authentic religiosity there is (as a generalization, of course). A Jew is a gentile who keeps commandments. Nothing more.[1]

The Need for a "Thin" Theology

This brings me to my trilogy, whose editing is now nearing completion. My feelings are very similar to those of Yuval Dayan. The Jewish tradition has reached us heavily burdened with excess baggage and very fossilized. The gap between it and life leads many of us to lives of hypocrisy, and to a troubling split between what we do and what we really believe. The morality of the Torah does not at all seem supreme to me in any sense. In fact, in my opinion there is really no such creature as "the morality of the Torah." Torah sages are people like me and like you, and I do not buy the stories about divine inspiration for all the Amoraim, and certainly not for the medieval and later authorities. And I have not even mentioned the phenomena of mysticism and contemporary religious charlatanry, but those are really marginal.

My main aim in the trilogy is to refine and present a "thin" theology that will contain only the necessary framework and will make it possible to adapt the rest (thought and Jewish law) to our real and contemporary beliefs, each person according to his own understanding. To do this we must give up the "papal" conception that sees the sages of the generations (including the Tannaim and the Amoraim) as a kind of all-knowing figures. They were human beings like me and like you, and they could err like me and like you (and, as stated, they indeed made no negligible use of that ability). I do not see supreme morality in the Torah, and I do not see in Jews anything essentially different from gentiles (apart from the fact that this is my people, of which I am a part and to which I feel connected). I am not inclined to believe in knowledge founded on superior spiritual charisma, nor in miracles and day-to-day divine involvement as we were educated to believe. I do not have unqualified trust in the tradition we received, and I certainly allow myself to dilute and filter it.

In the end, I arrived at a disillusionment similar to Yuval Dayan's. I am not willing to take anything for granted, even if there is wall-to-wall consensus about it. Those who are willing to accept it may perhaps be more pious and greater saints, but it is possible that in the end what happened to Yuval Dayan will happen to some of them. They will suddenly discover surprising honesty and will grow sick of the picture that they (and religious society) forced themselves to adopt. My feeling is that there is something very inauthentic about clinging to ideals that we all understand have become obsolete, merely because of the fear of losing the framework and being considered a heretic. Out of that fear, what happens (as with Yuval Dayan) is that… one loses the framework and becomes a heretic.

Therefore I suggest arriving, out of those same feelings, at a different conclusion: simply stop believing in the God I do not believe in. Believe only in what I do believe. Modestly, with careful examination of sources and philosophical arguments, but in the end to reach conclusions behind which I am willing to stand, and of course without any pretension to certainty (as I have already written more than once, this is one of the greatest mistakes of religious education, both substantively and tactically).

The trilogy is, in a certain sense, my own "deconversion." As stated, my feelings are similar to those expressed by Yuval Dayan, though my expectations and needs are very different from his. I never felt any closeness to Breslov (and I always looked down on both them and their rabbi). Existentialism seems to me sheer nonsense, and so does the New Age (Hasidic and non-Hasidic alike). I have no objection to someone who finds these things in the Torah and in Judaism, particularly if he has such needs (nobody is perfect). But I do object to someone who sees in them the essence of Judaism, and who belongs to it and is committed to it because of them. Such a person is not truly committed to the Jewish religion, but sees it as a tool for satisfying his needs (yes, I am Leibowitzian on this point). In my view Judaism is Jewish law and nothing more. As stated, I am a proud "gentile who keeps commandments." This is the "thin" theology I have arrived at, and all the rest is wrapping (in the terminology I once defined, "Torah in the person") that one may accept and may also not accept, and almost all of it is entirely universal (and not specifically Jewish). True, "nothing human is alien to me," and human values and needs exist among Jews too, but that is not the essence of Judaism (only Jewish law is "Torah in the object," and even there there are fatty wrappings that require thinning and filtering). Even wearing pants or putting on glasses is a human act performed by Jews. I do not see that as Judaism (despite the obvious difference from morality and thought. I am not equating the two).

I very much hope that the trilogy will do at least this. Even if the reader is not convinced by the whole move, I will at least try to persuade him to build an alternative move of his own behind which he will be willing to stand. To a considerable extent, that is more important to me than persuading him of my own move. If someone leaves religion following an encounter with the trilogy (I have been told that such things have already happened, following my previous books, articles, and lectures)[2], I am not alarmed even by that. In my view there is value in a person who formulates a position for himself and acts on it (cf. Yuval Dayan), perhaps more than in someone who continues on the right path (in my opinion) only out of inertia or lack of courage. I regret that such a person is mistaken (in my opinion), but I very much appreciate him for his honesty and courage. And if I may, I am almost certain that God does too…

[1] In column 142 I explained that Litvaks, too, have experiences, except that theirs are connected to the analytic study-intellect. The image according to which this is something cold and alienated misses something very deep there. A fine description of this can be found in Rabbi Soloveitchik's Halakhic Man .

[2] I cannot resist. I was told that in Siach Yedidya yeshiva it was customary to say that Michael Abraham is a פרה אדומה: מטהר את הטמאים ומטמא את הטהורים (a red heifer: it purifies the impure and defiles the pure). As stated, I am happy with both of these processes (though more with the first). By contrast, on Facebook I once saw someone write that Michael Abraham preserved the kippah on his head, and another answered him there that Michael Abraham preserved for him the head beneath the kippah. Here I am no longer sure which of those two sayings makes me happier, but it seems to me that it is the second.