On Religious, National, and Other Traditions (Column 620)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

I’ve just watched the second half of the final season of The Crown, which deals with the British royal family during the reign of Elizabeth II (the last queen). Episode six depicts the rise of Tony Blair to the leadership of the Labour Party and then to the premiership, and among other things it raises conflicts regarding the odd and anachronistic traditions of the British monarchy. That episode got me thinking about the question of tradition in general, and I decided to devote this column to those thoughts.

Background: Monarchy and Politics in Britain

Britain’s system combines a monarchy with a democratic political order (it’s considered the cradle of democracy). Over the generations the standing of the monarchy has declined while that of politics has risen at its expense. Edmund Burke, the conservative British political philosopher, wrote his book Reflections on the Revolution in France in response to the French Revolution (it was of course published in Hebrew by Shalem Press). The book is truly fascinating and, to ears accustomed to democracy, decidedly fresh. Burke scolds the French for abolishing the monarchy and founding government on parliament alone. In his view that structure has many drawbacks, and against it he proposes a dual-headed arrangement in the British style. Because the king is not elected, serves for life, and passes the crown to his heirs, he can make long-term decisions that are not dependent on populism and temporary political interests. Parliament and the government balance the power given to him and introduce the democratic dimension and the link to the public and its influence. This dual-headed structure has many advantages, and reading the book helps one appreciate the structural flaws of a parliamentary democracy we’ve grown so used to (even if it’s accompanied by a scarecrow in the shape of a president—especially one elected by the Knesset for a relatively short fixed term, who is usually a former politician. In short, a poor substitute for the British monarchy). We’ll return to the king, but for now let’s cross over for a moment to the other side (= the sitra achra).

Background: Politics in Britain

For those unfamiliar: as in the U.S., British politics revolves around two main parties—the Conservatives (= the Tories) and Labour. The usual alignment is right and left, of course, with the Conservatives paralleling America’s Republicans (the right) and Labour the Democrats (the left). But there are many differences between the systems. In the U.S. there hasn’t really been “out-of-the-closet” socialism (at least until the Bernie Sanders era), and of course there’s no monarchy and no quirky British traditions, though even there tradition—religious, national, and democratic—carries weight far beyond what we’re used to here in the Levant. In Britain, by contrast, the Conservatives champion careful national and religious traditions, first and foremost the monarchy, and advocate preserving its standing and its ancient modes of conduct. Labour, by contrast, represents modernity, tends to oppose the monarchy—at least in its ancient form—leans socialist and, needless to say, has a progressive edge (which even took over the party for two years, 2017–2019, in the person of Jeremy Corbyn, the antisemite and the fool).

On this map, Tony Blair of Labour is quite an outlier. He’s identified with what’s called the “Third Way,” which tries to blur and bridge the divides between left and right. He shifted Labour’s constitution to the right and branded it “New Labour,” and at the same time he’s also known for attempts to trim some of the fossilized traditions of the monarchy and British conservatism. Not for nothing did conservative forces in the media and politics also ally with him. In 1997 he ended 18 consecutive years of Conservative rule and, conversely, broke records by serving as a Labour prime minister for three consecutive terms (until 2007). Upon his rise, Blair enjoyed unprecedented approval ratings, to the point of threatening the monarchy. Well, that passed (as the queen predicts when she hears about his popularity). He led a dramatic peace process that produced the Good Friday Agreement with Northern Ireland, and he brought greater autonomy to Wales and Scotland (and the establishment of separate parliaments in those countries). He’s known as a humanist who advances a politics of moral values (thus he convinced Clinton to intervene militarily in Serbia against Milošević out of concern for the civilians there), and to this day he holds the status of a highly respected international statesman. Blair was and remains active in the Israeli–Palestinian conflict (he even moved to Jerusalem immediately after completing his term as prime minister, and then converted to Catholicism), and since then he has served as the Quartet’s envoy (the U.S., Russia, the UN, and the EU) to the Middle East. No wonder that even these very days his name comes up as a mediator in the “Swords of Iron” war with Gaza—and from the Israeli side at that.

Background: Monarchy and Religion in Britain

So much for politics; now to religion, which brings us back to the king. As is known, the established religion in Britain is Anglicanism, a Protestant stream. And the monarch is the head of the Church of England; that is, in addition to being the sovereign and head of state, he is also its religious leader. That religious stream arose under problematic circumstances, mainly out of Henry VIII’s personal interests (women and power, apparently), which led him to detach from the Vatican and Catholicism and turn it into an autonomous Protestant stream (a kind of Episcopalianism). Needless to say, he placed himself at the head of the new church he created, and since then the monarch has been head of the church. But all that is of course the historians’ business. The people regard Anglicanism as a religion in every sense. It has its own theology and forms of worship, and believers embrace them as sacred and transcendent, as in any religion. Here’s a first comparative note: with us too, if you ask historians, you’ll get unflattering and not particularly transcendent descriptions of the origins of Jewish belief and law (influences of circumstances and interests).

As noted, Henry VIII appointed himself head of the church (with, alongside him, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the ritual-religious leader—a role that had presided over organized religion in England for many centuries earlier), and this status remains with the English monarch to this day. In Britain there is no formal separation of religion and state (though it’s not an especially religious country), and this radiates across the empire (the Commonwealth), some of whose countries still maintain ties to Britain and see the monarch as their head of state.

Accordingly, it’s no wonder that the royal household’s ceremonies blend religious and national dimensions, and it’s quite hard to distinguish between them. I assume this effect is not unique to them. In many religions, elements that operated in the surrounding society blended in and received religious meaning. When a religion operates within a defined state with continuous governance over many centuries (a situation foreign to us)—as in England—it’s only natural that a culture will form that deeply intermixes national and religious elements until it’s hard, perhaps impossible, to tell them apart.

Between Internal and External Mockery

This is a slightly different perspective from the usual one among cynics like you and me, who look at all the British hullabaloo and die of laughter and bewilderment (as the saying goes: “Our generation is a wondrous generation, a generation of marveling”). When someone like me sees all their bizarre ceremonies (and believe me, you don’t know even the tip of the iceberg—see below), we mock because we forget or are unaware that these ceremonies have a religious dimension to their traditions, not just a national one. From that perspective the puzzlement somewhat subsides, which brings me again to a comparative remark. Don’t we have ceremonies that look odd and bewildering to an outside eye?! The willow-beating, lulav-waving, sitting in a sukkah, eating matzah, murmuring prayers several times a day, and even herring and kugel sanctified during the cantor’s repetition of the Mussaf Amidah on Shabbat; the distribution of candies and tobacco in the synagogue; “corrections” yelled in anguish at the Torah reader (“tzeirei, not segol”); sitting on the floor on fast days; wearing white on various holidays; kippot, tzitzit, and tallitot; stepping backward and forward and bowing in the Shemoneh Esrei; prayers in fluent Aramaic when hardly anyone speaks or understands it anymore; and so on and so forth.

We’ve gotten used to all that, of course, since it’s religious, and what is religious is holy and needn’t be understood or rational. Incidentally, folklore without a real religious source often sidles up to religious dimensions, picks up a whiff of sanctity from them, and gains from the windfall. No one asks questions about it either. Thus scribal errors in the Talmud or a foolish custom devoid of meaning (see: kitniyot) receive elaborate kabbalistic explanations and bask in their own halo of sanctity. So it is there in England too, at least to some degree. Nationalism and governance are steeped in a quasi-religious aura, and at least cling as folklore to the religious dimension. I remind you, as I remind myself: remember this when you laugh at them.

Needless to say, the British laugh at their customs just as we laugh at ours (they’re one of the funnier peoples), but that laughter is from within, not from without, and it doesn’t necessarily undermine the commitment itself. To understand this better, let’s return to comparisons. Recall, for example, the joke I mentioned in column 615. The pope, the global Muslim caliph, and the chief rabbi of the universe meet to discuss achieving world peace. They conclude that each must give up something for peace. The pope announces he’ll give up the Holy Trinity. The caliph declares he’ll give up faith in Muhammad and the jihad, and the chief rabbi returns after frantic week-long consultations and tells his two colleagues he’s beginning to see a chance that Jews will be willing to give up the second Yekum Purkan on Shabbat. That joke is internal, of course. Jews constantly laugh at themselves and their customs. But that doesn’t mean that those telling it or laughing at it would actually give up the second Yekum Purkan. Try proposing that in a synagogue of respectable laymen and see what happens. You know what? Not abolish it—just translate it and say it in Hebrew. You might not get out alive. This means it’s an internal joke, not external mockery (which undermines). Think of someone viewing all this from the outside—what would he likely think? What he feels is external derision. The British laughter (at least of those who haven’t yet lost the inner discourse and identification) at their bizarre customs is internal, and therefore not like our laughter at them.

A Few British Gems

To give you a sense of Britain’s traditional richness, I’ll bring here a sampling of functions in their governmental and royal ceremonies (in my enthusiasm I compiled this sample—which I’m sure is very partial—based on what appears in the aforementioned sixth episode. I literally jotted down everything that came up there).

As noted, the context is Tony Blair’s proposals to trim traditional ceremonies, save costs, and improve the monarchy’s standing (so it appears publicly less wasteful and out of touch). In the lead-in to these scenes Blair quips that it’s easier to update Stonehenge (a very famous English monument—an array of huge ancient stones from prehistory) than the royal ceremonies. But that’s a half-internal critique. I got the impression Blair is in the “Third Way” here too. He’s British and, as such, takes these ceremonies somewhat seriously; but he’s also a man of the wider world and thus manages to see them from the outside as well. The half-smiling, half-mocking and half-polite, half-respectful expression on his face in meetings with the queen captures well his ambivalent attitude toward the monarchy and its rituals. Remember that Blair and his proposals represent many in the British public who’ve already lost the connection and view all this entirely from the outside (apparently this goes hand in hand with secularization on the religious plane). His proposals aim to update the monarchy and reduce its expenses in order to bring the people closer to it and bring the monarchy into the modern age. My impression was that, for him, this is done more to appease the wider public than out of his own convictions. In fact, these proposals target not just the people but the monarchy itself no less.

Well then, here’s the list. Some of the customs that came up were pure conservatism: preferring sons to daughters and the firstborn over others (regardless of talent, of course). Familiar? Opposition to members of the royal family marrying Catholics and divorcees (the queen warns this could create a Catholic monarchy and unravel Anglicanism). Familiar? Bear in mind Blair himself is married to a Catholic and later converted. Such proposals threaten the Anglican Church and, through it, the monarchy—which is an essential part of it. There were also claims of pointless waste, such as the outrageous cost—thousands of pounds—of catering for a single royal train journey, and the like. A ceremony is mentioned where the queen arrives in an Irish national carriage, with hundreds of guards lining the way (I didn’t catch the context). But our concern here is mainly with traditional ceremonies and the bizarre officeholders who take part (you have to see the ornate uniforms and gleaming decorations in which all those officials strut). So here are a few.

Take, for example, the post of the Grand Falconer (which is hereditary). If I understood correctly, he’s in charge of the royal falcons used for hunting. The “Grand” is, of course, part of the ceremony (“grand” implies there are juniors beneath him—I can only assume a cadre of lesser falconers). Oh, there’s also the Keeper of the Queen’s Aromatic Herbs, and the Washer of the Sovereign’s Hands (a once-in-a-lifetime act, if I understood correctly). But hey, don’t go—we’re not done. What about the Queen’s Guide to the Sands (who tracks the shifting heights of the dunes—heaven knows where)? And how did I forget the Royal Bargemaster with his 24-person crew. Needless to say there hasn’t been a royal barge flotilla since 1849, but who cares?! And what about the Officer of the Swans, whose job is to oversee the swans on Britain’s inland waterways and ensure a supply of swans for royal banquets in a palace where they haven’t eaten swans in years. Sound familiar? (A few comparisons: think of the months-long waiting periods in halakhah when today we have excellent means of identifying a fetus’s parentage; prayers for the Exilarchs in Babylonia—the first and second Yekum Purkan; prayers for return to the Land; adding a second Yom Tov when knowledge of the new moon exists in real time across the globe; and so on). How did I forget to mention that this exalted role has undergone dramatic changes over the centuries. It began in the 12th century, then the title was “Keeper of Swans,” later it had another title, “Warden of the King’s Swans,” and only now (on their timescale—apparently something like the past three hundred years) has it become merely “Officer of the Swans.” Who says there are no updates, refreshes, and changes in the royal economy?! Why think it’s fossilized?! Incidentally, our Officer of the Swans holds in his delicate hand a sacred handwritten booklet of laws, orders, and customs regarding swans, passed from father to son among the holders of this royal office since 1482. It’s written in 15th-century calligraphy on ancient parchment (remind you of anything?), which no one can read except the seasoned Field Marshal of the Swans. Among other things it contains these pearls: “The swan is a pure and graceful creature; their feathers are white as snow and their lives as short as it, for the swan symbolizes the fleeting nature of beautiful things. Though we might wish to remain stately forever, nothing of what has passed will remain.” Admit it—that’s beautiful…

And we haven’t yet mentioned the ten messengers who take part in every State Opening of Parliament, among them: the Warden of the Red Dragon; the Appointed Messenger from Maltravers; the Bearer of the Golden Staff; the Bearer of the Silver Staff (there’s also some Black Rod, if I recall correctly); the servant of the Lord Bearer of the Sword of State; and more. Ah, and there’s also the Sergeant of the Glass and Porcelain Cupboards—who oversees glass and ceramic ware across the royal palaces. And one cannot but mention, admiring the gender equality practiced there, the Bed-Making Sergeant (the queen herself, in a family discussion, mentions her with undisguised mockery: “She was my favorite”). Add to that the Astronomer Royal; the Sovereign’s Piper (who had a truly stirring performance at the end of the series—really); the senior Lord Admiral of the Wash—whose role includes folding all 170 white linen embroidered napkins. And do not take this lightly, for few artisans have truly mastered the Dutch cap fold like him. No wonder one cannot forgo such skills and duties (remind you of the art of preparing the incense handed down in the House of Avtinas? See Mishnah Shekalim 5:1)[1].

All this reminds me of my late father’s story about the illustrious Hungarian army, in which anyone who could read was a commander, and students (apparently because they could also write) were automatically sent to officers’ school. As part of this, and as befits our family’s glorious martial heritage (which passes through our genes), my valiant warrior father was dispatched with great pomp to serve as a cadet in OCS. He told me that about half the course was devoted to meticulous study of a hefty tome called Laws of the Cavalryman, though for decades there hadn’t been any horses in the Hungarian army. Well, none of you would imagine there could be an officer in an army with such a proud tradition (heirs of Attila—stress on the first of the three syllables—the king of the Huns) who wasn’t versed in the secrets of equine excretion and the laws of brushing horses in the morning. This is literally their second Yekum Purkan.

The Discussion

The discussion between Blair and the royal family about abolishing or trimming these roles was fascinating. Blair says to his skeptical Catholic wife: “They have to change to survive.” She replies that the only way for them to survive is to intensify the madness—like the Catholic Church. And even there, she adds, they moved forward (and of course over the old guard’s objections: Latin, incense, miracles, and mystery—but then the public stopped coming). They too have conservatives and rebels, and there too the people are more righteous than the pope. Believe me, we didn’t invent anything.

In any case, it turns out that the royal family members themselves held a discussion about these proposals. The queen’s first response: “The longer it went on, the more saddened I became. I feel a sense of pride in tradition.” And yet I already noted her (internal, of course) mockery of the Officer of the Swans and the Bed-Making Sergeant. Her younger sister, Margaret, remarks with disdain that they also proposed dispensing with ceremonial hats—even though “they are full of color and character and produce a marvelous sea of vermilion” (what?). How, then, can one give up all this good? There’s a marvelous mix here of inwardly mocking criticism that manages, as if from an outside perspective, to grasp the absurdity of the whole picture—but together with zeal for preserving tradition (the second Yekum Purkan, remember?).

Prince Charles (Elizabeth’s son) observes that there’s nothing wrong with running the monarchy rationally and democratically, to which his mother the queen responds very sharply:

But the monarchy is not rational; it is also not democratic, reasonable, or fair. People do not want to come to a royal palace and receive what they can get at home. When they come to an investiture or a state visit—when they rub shoulders with us—they want the magic and the mystery. And the old, and the different, and the symbolic, and… the exalted. They want to feel as if they have stepped into another world. That is our duty: to elevate people and send them into another world, not bring them down to earth and remind them of what they already have.

These are decrees of Scripture. All are founded upon sacred heights, with lofty mysteries behind them. Whoever seeks logic in all this is a heretic. On the contrary—where philosophy ends, faith/Kabbalah begins. It’s all “above our lowly human intellect.” Be honest—doesn’t this sound familiar?

You can already anticipate a twist in the plot here. After all the criticism and the ridiculous portrayal of these roles and ceremonies (including the royal family’s own mockery), when Blair asks about the proposals before the State Opening of Parliament, the queen gives him her final decision:

Believe it or not, when my eldest son was born, it was still customary to summon the Home Secretary to witness a royal birth. My father stopped the practice—with my agreement—so I am not opposed to reform. The question is what is worth preserving and where the line lies. We conducted a comprehensive review of all the offices in the palace economy and discovered that this is not a matter of unjustified ostentation or luxury, nor of a collection of empty titles from the realm of Ruritania. Rather, it is an exceptional variety of precious specializations—skills handed down from generation to generation, often within the same families (like the priests’ specializations in the incense). What enables this continuity is the Crown. The spell we cast, and have cast for centuries, derives from our unchanging nature. Tradition is the source of our strength (Tevye the Dairyman). Respect for our predecessors, and preservation of their wisdom and the experience acquired over the generations. Modernity is not always the answer. Sometimes the ancient also provides an answer.

In short, the decision is to change nothing. The mockery is a typical British phenomenon, but it’s internal mockery. No one is prepared to give up even the second Yekum Purkan.

This reminds me of our neighborhood rabbi in Haifa, Prof. Rabbi B. Z. Benedict, of blessed memory. He was a dignified figure (a Hungarian yekke who was also a Talmud professor at Tel Aviv University and found himself in all this for reasons fascinating in their own right). He walked in long rabbinic garb in a community of Mizrachi professionals, which didn’t stop them from fawning over him with awe, admiration, and deference. In time, my father—who highly esteemed him (and his wife, who taught a regular Talmud class for the young men in the community)—appointed as the school rabbi he headed a person not really suitable, solely because he resembled Rabbi Benedict. He explained that rabbinic clothing and anachronistic speech toward young students, while seemingly alienating, in practice greatly increased reverence and proper respect for the rabbi. Students need to encounter a figure not of their world. He argued similarly regarding young community rabbis who look exactly like their flock—were with them in Bnei Akiva and served with them in the paratroopers. The claim is that these rituals and garments preserve the halo of sanctity and distance needed for those in positions of authority. The garb of a rabbi or judge, and that of a judge in the courtroom (compare our court rituals), express the same conception and ideas as in the British monarchy (well, don’t forget that with us every such insignia is sacred—straight from Sinai. This is religion, not mere folklore).

Of course the monarchy undergoes significant changes—some of which I noted here (the queen mentions this in the final paragraph; begin with censure and end with praise). Especially in its standing vis-à-vis parliament and politics, which change constantly. But such changes occur very gradually under tight control by the monarch, and certainly not out of populist considerations and surrender to the spirit of the times. On the contrary, they are careful to cultivate estrangement from the spirit of the times and not to yield to it, for that is precisely what bestows the sense of sanctity and eternity. The changes proceed at a pace and in a manner that in effect give the impression that nothing is changing (or that it’s easier to change Stonehenge).

Remind you of anything? As is known, Abbaye and Rava studied in Yiddish and wore a kaftan and shtreimel. “Everything that a seasoned disciple will yet innovate was shown to Moses at Sinai.” Ah yes—and through all the troubles we did not change our dress, our language, and our names (except for all that we did change). The shtreimel goes back to Abraham our forefather. Some of us walk around the Middle East in robes from Poland of centuries past, and no heat will budge us from this sacred anachronistic custom (which, as is known, descended from Sinai). One who looks at all this understands that both with us and in England the ethos need not be tied to reality, but it must be asserted and fixed under strict control and indoctrination of the public (that every detail is holy, came down from Sinai, and is founded on sacred heights) to preserve the ethos and its authentic appearance. You surely recall that behind the nonsense of kitniyot lie exalted secrets—no less exalted than the Bed-Making Sergeant, the Officer of the Swans, or the senior Lord Admiral of the Wash with his napkins, may he live and be well. Not to mention the Rebbe of Gur’s broom, mentioned in the notorious column on kitniyot, which must be placed next to the Chanukah menorah every year. Why? Simply because that’s what was done last year, you heretics. And I haven’t yet mentioned the takunes of Gur, all of which—down to the last—were taken from lions’ lairs (with the pun intended: “there is no guardian against arayot [sexual immorality]/ariyot [lions]”) and from the mountains of leopards (“Can… a leopard remove its spots?”).[2]

A Note on Substantive and Symbolic Aspects

Beyond the aura of sanctity and detached halo, there are also substantive aspects within this madness. The Queen Mother (“the mother of royalty,” in rabbinic parlance) wonders in amazement: “So they don’t want the knock of Black Rod and for the great Lord Chamberlain to walk backwards?” How can anyone imagine giving up those central elements upon which the world subsists by the breath of their mouths?!

But then comes Prince Philip’s (Elizabeth’s husband’s) surprising answer:

The State Opening of Parliament was originally designed to express the limits of the king. He seeks to enter parliament and is refused. The Crown’s representative—Black Rod—knocks on the door of the House of Commons and is turned away three times, because the last time a king overstepped and entered the Commons—Charles I—it led to civil war and his execution. Parliament warns the king: “Don’t forget—we are in charge.”

Precisely against my amused tone, this is a fascinating and impressive explanation. The ceremony is meant to perpetuate a fundamental governmental lesson extracted at the cost of blood. Is such a ceremony also superfluous and to be abolished? Here, I suppose, many would agree with Philip and Elizabeth. The punctilious will find kabbalistic explanations ad hoc behind the entire list above (including the admiral’s napkins and the royal vitrines officer). The lesson is that not everything that seems anachronistic and detached actually is—at least to inside eyes. But on the other hand, remember: not everything that seems anachronistic and detached is not so. Even if something evokes in us a sense of sanctity, reverence, and awe, it can be simply foolish and anachronistic. Not everything detached from our world is drawn from a transcendent, supernal realm. Someone may be playing on our feelings of reverence and our desire to create symbols and heroic, opaque royal courts, building castles in the air on that. Sometimes what seems detached and foolish is… indeed detached and foolish.

Conclusions

My main conclusion from the picture I’ve sketched is that none of us is perfect (not even me). We all have a psychology, and these ceremonies make an impression on us (see: Memorial Day and Independence Day ceremonies, and a variety of religious and national rites). This duck-like anachronism of ceremonies and symbols (flag, anthem, uniforms, festive parades, torch-lighting and the reading of assorted pathetic texts) exerts a magical influence on us earth-dwellers. It’s no accident there’s such avid global interest in the British monarchy—far more than in any other monarchy, and certainly more than in any political leader (say, the U.S. president). None of this depends on the monarchy’s real standing (e.g., compared to the U.S. presidency), which keeps eroding. Nor does it diminish as feelings of disconnect and waste mount; on the contrary, as Her Majesty put it, all these usually amplify the reverence and halo—or, as Blair’s cheeky critic put it, intensifying the madness is precisely what sustains the system, not what undermines it. People don’t seek in the monarchy what they have at home, and they don’t seek of God or of the religious world in general what ordinary people like us think and do. These rituals lift us from the depths of our human materiality and our prosaic mass-mindedness to the transcendent realms—shochnei gavai—beyond our shochnei barai. The philosopher Ernst Cassirer and R. Samson Raphael Hirsch both made much philosophical hay of the meaning of rituals and symbols. R. Hirsch even saw the commandments as a set of symbols, as did many who engaged in the reasons for the commandments. See in the previous column the tzitzit as a symbol meant to remind us of the commandments, the sukkah as a reminder of the Exodus, and so on.

As for me—I scorn all this (I am the Grand Falconer of the Jewish monarchy). It’s herd psychology that appeals to our lower, baser (bestial) side. It causes us to follow the Pied Pipers of Hamelin, bedecked in finery and draped in symbols, bearing staffs—gold, silver, and black—and riding white asses and Irish carriages, while giving us the illusion that this lifts us out of the world in which we wade through our prosaic lives.

But the fact is that we all do have a psychology. A regrettable fact, to be sure, but there is such a human need. One can ignore all this, as I tend to do. One can belittle it and mock it, as I tend to do. That characterizes those who don’t live that reality from within (as I do not, regarding the British). Conversely, one can reconcile oneself to this regrettable psychological fact and cooperate with these rituals out of an understanding of their importance and effect on us as a public and as individuals (since this is how we are—what can you do?!), preferably with a pinch of internal mockery. That characterizes those who live inside this reality and for whom it is part of their world. A stranger will not understand them, but for them this is life. One must understand that it is natural to them like heels for women, mortarboards for academic graduates, and other ceremonies we all take for granted. They can and do mock them, but it will always be mockery from within.

As I said, I tend to belittle all this, and even when I discover such dimensions within myself I chase them down and suppress them mercilessly. But to be honest, it’s probably more correct to relate to all this with a double face: to respect people’s need for these rituals and try (even if not always successfully) not to belittle them too much—though perhaps they deserve it. At the same time I also try to overcome the feelings that, to my regret and disappointment, I sometimes find in myself when I see such a ceremony (again—no one is perfect), while continuing to mock it internally and, in appropriate doses, outwardly as well. After all, mental health and intellectual maturity are no trifles. A person should try to overcome flaws, not make peace with them. But one must not ignore their existence; therefore, even from the outside, one must acknowledge that we truly are earth-dwellers who crave the transcendent and belonging to a herd. Apparently it’s neither possible nor right to ignore this entirely (though it’s advisable to try to overcome it—at least each for himself).

Bottom line: it’s important to maintain balance and proportion and not let either perspective dominate completely. There is room for criticism and healthy mockery, but along with that it’s worth remembering that no one is entirely exempt from all this. I, who mock the British, likely look very similar to others. The only difference is that they’re looking at me from the outside, and I, of course, see it from the inside. And vice versa with His Nibs (= the British citizen).

A Double Gaze

I’ve already mentioned here that one of the early issues of the journal Tzohar published a chapter from a book containing a (so-called) systematic critique by R. Z. Y. Kook of the New Testament (what we in the chevra called: “The New Testament with Hiddushei Hagahot by the RaZiaH”). He brings passage after passage and writes his objections (contradictions, lack of logic, etc.). When I read this ridiculous, juvenile text—rife with begging the question and with fairly silly tendentiousness (things like: “This and that paragraph is against an explicit Ketzot,” and the like)—and beyond the fact that theological debates with Christianity are a truly unnecessary anachronism in our day, I recall thinking that one could find contradictions a thousand times worse and lack of logic a thousand times cruder in our own sources. It all depends on whether you look at them from within or from without. If you’re on the inside, you have empathy and will find a resolution for every contradiction and an explanation for every difficulty; and even if not—it won’t budge you from your faith (not even from the second Yekum Purkan). And if you look from the outside, you’ll of course find laughable contradictions and dismiss the whole thing with a flick of the pen. Children tend to see everything from their own point of view, but adults are supposed to understand this double posture and be sufficiently reflective to recognize that their gaze is external and insufficient to judge a phenomenon. This is a good parable for the double point of view I described above.

With the establishment of scientific anthropology (?! cf. Franz Boas), a fierce debate erupted over whether the researcher should live within the tribe being studied and try to experience their lives from the inside, or, on the contrary, maintain scientific distance and document things objectively (his student Margaret Mead, in her controversial book Coming of Age in Samoa, gives sharp expression to this tension, as is well known. See for example also here and here). My conclusion is that judging sociological and anthropological phenomena—especially those far from us and our world[3]—must be done from both faces together: from within and from without. Someone living on the inside must be able to detach and see from the outside as well—not only to engage in internal mockery but to critique genuinely and be ready to acknowledge difficulties and problems and even to change. And someone living on the outside must understand that he is on the outside and be able to try to experience things from within—or at least be aware that such a perspective exists. Concepts, claims, and rituals like these can be charged with great meaning for those who live them. Incidentally, it’s interesting that the British school advocates participatory anthropology. They apparently know what they’re talking about. In column 139 I noted that in halakhic decision-making too it’s important to preserve this double face (see also column 488 regarding cultural critique).

Bottom line, despite my initial feelings, I keep trying to internalize that not all Britons are idiots, and—believe it or not—I even try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that even Gur Hasidim are perhaps not all completely dimwitted. And believe me—that’s not easy. Somehow, at least from their point of view, there’s some logic in all this madness. It probably says things to them that I can’t quite grasp. Yet it’s hard to shake the feeling that nevertheless it’s more likely truly a detached discourse devoid of sense, and its “inner” meaning is mere illusion (cf. “Hasidism” in columns 104 – 105 and others). Perhaps yes, perhaps no…

What a waste! I could have been an anthropologist…[4]

[1] Thanks to Chayuta for that lovely association.

[2] I recall having dealt with them but couldn’t find it now. Meanwhile see columns 101, 290, 265 and the comment threads there.

[3] Anthropology has undergone an ideological-scientific shift in its attitude toward “primitive” and “Oriental” societies. In the past, such societies were treated differently—as if they were objects of research—whereas modern Western societies didn’t receive that treatment because they were not objects but subjects. They were observed from within, not from without. Today this is, of course, very politically incorrect. But we should remember that most anthropologists are Westerners, and as such it’s only natural that they observe Western society from the inside and “primitive” societies from the outside. This doesn’t necessarily express discrimination or inequality but the outcome of an objective situation. All this is tied to what is now called “qualitative research,” and I can’t expand here (see columns 23, 60, 184, 550, 554, 558, and more).

[4] See column 121 and a bit also in the follow-up column 557.