On Two Figures of the Torah Scholar, or: The Rabbi for the Community or the Community for the Rabbi

Sefer HaRav – 2011

Rabbi Michael Abraham

My thanks to Prof. Yedidiah Stern for his comments, which contributed no little to the crystallization of this article.

A. Introduction

In this article we shall attempt to discuss two types of Torah scholar: the rabbi who renders halakhic rulings and the gaon (the brilliant analytical scholar; at times, the secluded genius).

These types differ from one another, ostensibly, both in their mode of study and in their conduct, in their contact with other people and with their surroundings, and in their value to society. In terms of public function, the first type is a public-spiritual leader, whereas the second is not necessarily a leader (certainly not in any formal sense). Likewise, in terms of methods and forms of study, usually the first is occupied mainly with practical instruction in Jewish law, whereas the second is occupied with that far less, if at all.

I shall open the discussion with an implicit attitude that found expression in the page sent to the contributors to this volume. Several suggestions were directed there to the article writers, including various topics for discussion and analysis. Some of the topics concerned the relation between the figure of the rabbi and that of the rosh yeshivah or the secluded genius. Questions were proposed there such as: what is the place of the ‘genius,’ the ‘analyst,’ the ‘tent-dweller,’ in the public leadership of Jewish society in our generation; what is the value of the learned Torah literature produced in the yeshivot; and who is its target audience.

Underlying these questions are assumptions regarding the figure and role of the rabbi, and also regarding the service of God in general. In this article I would like to expose some of those underlying assumptions, chiefly in order to deny them.

The principal assumption implicit in questions of this kind is that the public supports figures such as a rabbi or rosh yeshivah and expects an appropriate ‘return’: that they serve as its leaders, produce literature addressed to it and useful to it, and so forth. In other words, the broad public is the goal and end, whereas the spiritual figures are its servants (I do not mean here a rabbi’s service-consciousness, but his concrete practical function and the public’s expectations of him). It follows that the parameters by which we measure his quality, or his contribution, are parameters of direct benefit to the public (producing writings that are understandable and interesting to the broad public is also a ‘benefit’ for this purpose. I do not mean material benefit here).

If we dig more deeply into these questions, we discover that they contain a hidden criticism of the absence of such functions, or at least of their paucity. The rabbinic world in general, and the yeshivot in particular, produce literature that usually does not answer these expectations. Often, contrary to the public’s expectations, they also do not serve as adequate public leadership. Underlying these criticisms are value-assumptions about Torah, leadership, and the role of the human being and society in the world, that is, in the service of God.

In this article we shall try to uncover several layers of this broad and ramified complex, and to point to the connection between them and different rabbinic figures. We shall begin by comparing two models specifically of serving rabbis, and from them we shall continue to discuss other Torah figures, such as the genius and the secluded scholar (the archetype of such a figure is the Vilna Gaon, whose image we shall address briefly later on). We shall continue with a short note on the halakhic aspect and conclude with a discussion of the relevance of these matters to contemporary reality.

B. A Small Town with Three Rabbis

When a contemporary person hears the expression ‘a different kind of rabbi,’ he usually expects to encounter a rabbi involved in the community, familiar with what is going on in it and in the world generally, conversant in various subjects, and perhaps also academically educated in some fields. All these expectations are the product of current common demands made of the rabbinate, expectations that are often not fulfilled. These demands conceal within themselves some of the values mentioned above. To sharpen the point, I would like specifically to present here the opposite figure, ‘a different kind of rabbi’—but this time one different from the stereotypes of a rabbi: a rabbi who does not fulfill those expectations, yet does so on ideological grounds.

R. Joseph Rozin (hereinafter: the Rogatchover) and R. Meir Simcha ha-Kohen (hereinafter: R. Meir Simcha) were both rabbis in the city of Dvinsk[1] at the very same time (the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth).

R. Meir Simcha, author of Meshekh Chokhmah on the Torah and Ohr Sameach on Maimonides, was rabbi of the Misnagdic community (that is, the Perushim, or Ashkenazim). R. Joseph Rozin, the prodigy from Rogachov, author of Tzafnat Pa‘neach on Maimonides, who sent answers by the thousands and tens of thousands to all the great sages of the generation (very few of which were published in the responsa Tzafnat Pa‘neach), was rabbi of the Hasidim. These were two rabbinic figures in the same city (at the height of its flourishing, about thirty thousand Jews lived in Dvinsk, divided almost evenly between Hasidim and opponents of Hasidism), both unique exemplary figures, giants of their generations. The two figures were complete opposites, in almost every possible respect. Through them we shall try to sharpen several points as an opening to the discussion.

Moshe Bloch, one of the yeshivah students in Dvinsk, describes R. Meir Simcha as follows:[2]

The regal and upright bearing of R. Meir Simcha, the ‘opponent of Hasidism,’ bespeaks honor and splendor throughout. He mingles with people, pleasant in his ways, measured in his speech.

By contrast, the Rogatchover is described in the same place as follows:

In contrast, the shepherd of the Hasidic community, the genius from Rogachov. Short in stature but quick in movement, always in the state of ‘all my bones shall say.’ From the light of morning until the pupil of night he would rush about his room to and fro, immersed in his learning. Thousands upon thousands of questions and answers from everywhere to everywhere, a halakhic authority for the great scholars of the generation. On his way to the synagogue he would continue as if in a Talmudic passage of his own and recognized no boundary or restraint. He ran in the middle of the street, practically climbing over whoever happened to be in his way. Everyone moved aside: the coachman stopped his carriage, the peddler his wagon, women hurried off to the sides, and all accompanied with looks of affection and admiration the tiny figure of the generation’s genius. And in the synagogue—always the first to finish the prayer. He would complain about the one leading the service: ‘Why is he lingering there? Why is he ornamenting his melodies before the Master of the Universe? He knows, He knows everything even without his melody. Quickly, quickly!’ And before the prayer shawls had even been folded, he was already hurrying back to the hall of his study, and did not leave it day or night.[3]

And from another source:[4]

He never walked, only ran […] He was so immersed in inner service that he scarcely responded to a greeting—or simply nodded and hastened on his way. When he entered the Planover minyan, he would wave away the Jews who approached to honor him, hurry to his seat beside the Holy Ark, put on his prayer shawl and phylacteries, and sink into the morning prayer while ignoring the synagogue worshippers. If the cantor was too slow in his prayer, he would earn a rebuke from the Rogatchover for wasting the worshippers’ time.

From another, far more problematic angle, the following comparison is brought (the period in question is the beginning of the First World War):

‘Guard your life’ was the slogan of the Rogatchover. He himself packed up his property and belongings and set out on his way with the wealthy David Potash of Petrograd. Although part of his house was destroyed by a stray shell, Rabbi Meir Simcha refused to move from his place. His friends and most of the community pressed him to leave Dvinsk. ‘As long as there are nine Jews in Dvinsk, I shall be the tenth,’ the rabbi answered them. ‘Is your life not important to you?’ they pleaded with him. ‘The fate of the last Jew in Dvinsk will be my fate as well,’ he replied.[5]

And regarding the rabbi’s principal role, answering questions in Jewish law, the following testimony is brought:[6]

His attitude toward people who came to consult him on matters of Jewish law was rather harsh, and he would send them to consult R. Meir Simcha, because he had no time for such matters. ‘I have no time’ became the second name of this impatient rabbi, who seemed to live in other worlds. How his community functioned, or anything of earthly interest, lay outside the range of his concern. His entire life and thought were concentrated on the books of the Talmud. He was more a rabbi for angels than for ordinary mortals.

If we summarize what emerges from the passages above, there were in Dvinsk two ‘different kinds of rabbis.’ The first, R. Meir Simcha, embodied the ideal image of the rabbi, a rabbi every community would dream of: involved with his public, broadly learned in Torah and interested in many fields, sharp-minded and widely knowledgeable in Torah, open, patient, considerate, pleasant in manner, acceptable to Heaven and to human beings. Public affairs and his Torah study did not divert him from his main occupation: leading the community and answering its questions—halakhic and otherwise.

His Hasidic colleague, by contrast, the Rogatchover, was antipathetic,[7] inconsiderate, impatient, and blunt of speech; always in a hurry and almost trampling people on his way (Mr. ‘I have no time’), concerned mainly with himself (fleeing the city when war breaks out), and in the end not fulfilling his role—he does not answer the residents’ questions in Jewish law, though they are the ones paying his salary. Instead of doing what was incumbent on him, he engaged in correspondence with all the sages of the world and referred the residents with their questions to his more pleasant colleague, R. Meir Simcha. As noted, he was ‘a rabbi for angels,’ but not for his community.

Let us note as an anecdote that in Dvinsk there was also a third rabbinic figure, and of this rabbi too one could say that he was ‘a different kind of rabbi,’ though this time in the ordinary sense mentioned above. Rabbi Rotner, the ‘official rabbi,’ was more conversant with the ways of the world, and his conversation and dealings with people were more agreeable. Unfortunately, he was somewhat less learned in Torah. In this case we are speaking specifically of a God-fearing Jew, and therefore he also recognized his real standing in relation to the two giants who operated at his side. They, absurdly enough, were formally defined as his assistants. He used to joke that nowhere in the world was there a Jew who had such ‘assistants.’[8]

But is that really the whole picture? The image of the Rogatchover that emerges from it is, to put it mildly, not impressive. That is certainly how things appear to modern eyes. Yet in order to understand the matter more deeply, we must attend to two important points: one concerns the Rogatchover’s own character; the second is more general, and it will be our main concern here.

As for the first point, for the sake of fairness it is important to note that what we offer here is a one-sided description. There are dozens of stories about the Rogatchover’s deep involvement in private cases and his great concern for the miserable. Moreover, it is important to emphasize that we are dealing with a man of unusual character, who treated his own affairs in the same way. His entire being was immersion in Torah and Torah study. His speech and conduct were saturated with references and quotations, and all his thinking moved within the Talmuds. Let us take another testimony as an example:

At the age of 18 he was ordained as a rabbi. His parents were determined to marry him off quickly. He did not even have time to notice that his bride was somewhat ill. A few years after the wedding she died without leaving children. The rabbi’s second wife was born in Dvinsk, but this time, they say, he took the trouble to inquire about the intended bride.[9]

To conclude, we shall bring an anecdote that faithfully reflects his Torah-saturated way of relating to every event and every situation, and an existence so deeply immersed in Torah. In Dvinsk it was customary to collect money twice a year for the city’s poor. As the approaching winter drew near, the heads of the community asked the Rogatchover to issue a public proclamation calling on the general public to contribute money for a firewood campaign for the city’s poor. He agreed and published the following proclamation (32 words and a signature. The punctuation and brackets are not in the original):[10]

Since winter has already begun, and all the relevant conditions are in tractate Bava Metzia 106b, therefore I request all our brethren, the children of Israel, for cold is a major component of every person’s portion of life, as explained in Bava Metzia 107b under ‘cold,’ and in the Jerusalem Talmud, Sabbath, the chapter ‘Eight Creeping Things’ [where it says: R. Hanina and Shmuel both said: ninety-nine die of cold and one by the hand of Heaven], and I shall be brief. Joseph Rozin, rabbi of this place, as above.

These descriptions seem sufficient to teach us something about the Rogatchover’s unique personality. It is therefore no wonder that despite all that has been said here (and perhaps specifically because of it), the members of his community loved and honored him greatly.[11] They understood the connection between his eccentric conduct and his unusual personality and prodigious gifts. More than that: it was clear to them that this did not stem from corrupt character traits, but from total and absolute immersion in Torah and from conclusions all derived from the Talmuds and from Jewish law. These were the guides that directed the Rogatchover in every step he took, however small. Of course, this is not to say that every rabbi, or every Jew, ought to conduct himself that way, but one must take account of the Rogatchover’s special character and his unique relation to Torah and its study—something that must certainly be taken into consideration when we approach an evaluation of his figure.

In any event, as stated above, for our purposes the second point is specifically the important one, the more principled one. My main claim is that before us stand two paradigmatic rabbinic figures, and we must examine the principled aspects reflected in their modes of conduct. In this article I wish specifically to argue in favor of the model represented by the Rogatchover, mainly because such a figure is almost entirely absent from the scale of values of modern communities.

It should be noted that the discussion here is typological, and therefore, when we come to apply it in reality, we must take the latter’s complexity into account. In every rabbi there may exist an aspect of the Rogatchover and an aspect of R. Meir Simcha. This is mainly a question of dosage, and also of the context within which the rabbi operates (the circumstances and the character of the community).[12] In these terms one may say, in a softened tone, that despite the prevailing tendency described above, we must not ignore the importance of the ‘Rogatchovian’ aspect in the rabbi’s personality and functioning.

C. The Figure of the Rabbi: Underlying Value-Assumptions

As noted, today we expect from the rabbi mainly involvement in the community, interest and knowledge in broad areas, and the best possible fulfillment of his communal role. No doubt he is also required to have Torah learning, and the broader it is the better, but increasingly it is specifically the leadership-communal aspect that is emphasized, sometimes at the expense of greatness in Torah.

The underlying value-assumption is that the rabbi is intended for the members of his community. Of course there is also a monetary-halakhic aspect here, since he receives his salary from the community and the obligations of an employee rest upon him.[13] Yet the roots of this attitude toward the figure of the rabbi seem to lie on planes deeper than the law of hired labor, and are based as well on a certain scale of values. Why indeed do our communities expect the rabbi to have the profile of R. Meir Simcha? Apparently such communities identify less with the figure of the Rogatchover. Had we possessed deep identification with the Rogatchover’s figure, we might also understand that, even from the standpoint of monetary law, the rabbi’s role, as the return for the salary paid him, is primarily to fulfill the functions fulfilled by the Rogatchover in his community. It therefore seems difficult to ground the justification for the contemporary demands made of a community rabbi on monetary law and an employee’s obligation, for the employee is supposed to fulfill the functions his employer expects of him.

The conclusion is that our demands of the figure of the rabbi are based on a deeper assumption, one touching the foundations of our service of God as individuals and as a society. This assumption is intensified all the more in the democratic age in which we live: the world is intended for the society of people that lives in it, and leaders are servants of the public.

Roots of such a conception are to be found also in Torah and in Jewish law, but it is no accident that in the reality of our lives this conception appears in a clear correlation with modern worldviews that see the citizen and his life as a supreme value, and see the essence of systems of leadership and government as those meant to serve him. From this conception there clearly derives a rabbi in the mold of R. Meir Simcha.

By contrast, the model of the Rogatchover expresses another worldview. To put it sharply and somewhat crudely: the rabbi is not meant to serve the community; rather, the community serves the rabbi. When a community appoints over itself a rabbinic leader in the mold of the Rogatchover, it assumes something different about his service of God, and especially about its own: it is willing to support a rabbi whose main concern is engagement in Torah and its study and halakhic give-and-take with Torah scholars throughout the Jewish world, and not necessarily with the members of the community. Such a community sees itself as participating in the fulfillment of the Jewish people’s destiny in the world and in carrying Torah from the past into the future. In the eyes of the community, the burden of supporting the rabbi that it takes upon itself is not merely the payment of an employee’s salary (though this of course also entails the obligations of an employee), but part of its own service of God.[14]

The underlying assumption here is essentially different from the democratic assumption, perhaps even its very opposite: all the citizens see themselves as auxiliary instruments (perhaps even service vessels) out of whom and through whom the gaon and the analytical scholar will emerge, in the spirit of the dictum that a thousand enter Talmud study and one emerges fit to instruct (not necessarily to instruct in practice).

D. The Gaon’s Contribution to the Community: Must the Gaon Be the Community Rabbi?

At this point a question may arise that is difficult to ignore: why should such a figure specifically be maintained in the role of community rabbi? A community that desires this can maintain a kollel, that is, an institute for full-time advanced Torah study, and these Torah scholars can study there. It does not seem reasonable to appoint a ‘Rogatchovian’ figure to the position of community rabbi, for ostensibly a rabbi is supposed to provide services to his community and not merely be supported by it. To put it bluntly: the rabbinate is a kind of ‘job,’ not a different route to study in a kollel.

Even so, it is difficult to ignore the fact that throughout history not a few communities insisted on appointing and maintaining rabbis specifically of this kind. A well-known example is R. Chaim Soloveitchik, who was rabbi of the town of Brisk in the first third of the twentieth century. It is well known that on many occasions R. Chaim distanced himself from practical halakhic ruling and referred halakhic questions that reached him to others.[15] It should, however, be noted that unlike the Rogatchover, R. Chaim definitely did accept upon himself the burden of the spiritual leadership of the Brisk community.[16]

Below we shall try to examine this phenomenon, which, as stated, was shared by many communities throughout the generations, and clarify it by reflecting on two planes:

A. The contribution of the figure of the gaon to the community in which he sits.

B. Examination of the question whether one can enjoy such a contribution even when the gaon does not serve as community rabbi but exists alongside the rabbi in one form or another.

Let us therefore try to examine the contribution of the figure of the gaon to the community of which he is a part, and at each stage ask ourselves whether that gaon’s serving in the office of community rabbi may contribute anything to the aspect under discussion.

It would seem that maintaining such a figure within the community has significance for the community in several respects:

1. The basic datum we require of a community rabbi is Torah knowledge. A person immersed in study day and night is expected to possess comprehensive and deep knowledge of Torah. It is difficult to demand of a rabbi that he deal only with community affairs and the world and not continue to develop himself in Torah. Demand for a rabbi whose figure is that of a gaon immersed in Torah is thus an expression of the understanding that only such a person will be truly great in Torah, something whose functional importance for the community is beyond doubt.

Let us note that a similar model is practiced in the academic world. Universities have always pursued a policy of combining two academic functions that ostensibly seem unrelated: teaching and research. On the face of it, there is no reason in the world to connect those two functions. Teaching requires abilities different from those required by research, and vice versa.[17] The ability of any given lecturer or researcher to combine the two roles is also prone to difficulties (even universities have their well-known ‘antipathetic,’ ‘Rogatchovian’ lecturers, whose research rather than their students occupies the center of their minds). Yet the prevailing policy sees importance in preserving some research aspect in the activity of academic teachers, out of a desire to improve the teacher’s knowledge and freshness.

The same applies to the rabbi who instructs a community in Jewish law—he indeed needs knowledge, but the freshness of that knowledge and its continual updating are conditioned on active involvement in Torah ‘research,’ that is, in study.

It is worth mentioning the influence of Torah study as well on halakhic analysis and on the method of rendering legal rulings. A rabbi who is not immersed in active study tends at times to mechanical rulings drawn from law digests, without deep analysis of the passages that are the source of the accepted ruling. Such an approach harms the halakhic ruling itself, and the figure of the rabbi does not emerge the better for it.

Of course, such a consideration does not indicate the proper dosage of ‘Rogatchovianism’ in the rabbi’s personality and functioning. The dosage depends, of course, also on the community and on the rabbi’s personality, but it strengthens the claim that some such element ought to exist, whatever its dosage may be.

2. The second demand made of the rabbi is connected to the leadership aspect of his office. The figure of the rabbi is supposed to radiate educationally to all members of the community, especially the young, and to serve as a model to which they should aspire. Naturally, the figure of the gaon arouses more admiration than that of the patient and socially involved man. A rabbi who is a gaon in Torah and immersed in it day and night is therefore an inspiring figure that leads others to aspire to imitate it. If there is no such charismatic figure in a community, there will also be no students for the kollel that that community may wish to support.[18]

If we return to the question why not maintain the gaon as a scholar in a kollel, the answer here is less unequivocal. The gaon may indeed serve as a model for imitation even when sitting to the side, and not specifically when he occupies the office of community rabbi. Even so, two points should be taken into account in this context: first, the rabbi is more accessible to members of the community and therefore also more visible and influential. Second, tensions may arise between the figure of the gaon who sits to the side and that of the community rabbi, giving rise to two centers of power and influence, each of which may endanger the other (especially the gaon endangering the rabbi). In this sense there may perhaps be an advantage in maintaining such a figure specifically in the rabbinic office. Thus, for the sake of the rabbi’s functioning and status, it is preferable that he himself be a gaon, although from the aspect of functional influence on the community one may also place a figure of this kind at the rabbi’s side.

3. In the end, it seems that functionally the very presence of the figure of the gaon within the community affects and elevates all members of the community and the whole world of Torah, even if the gaon performs no positive act for that purpose. It should be stressed: this is not only a matter of his being a model for imitation (as detailed above), but of his distinctive and intangible influence, and this may continue through the generations—in the spirit of the midrashic statement (quoted by Rashi on Genesis 28:10): when the righteous man is in the city, he is its splendor, its radiance, and its glory; when he leaves, its splendor, radiance, and glory depart with him.
4. Finally, one should mention a purpose that is not functional at all—doing it for its own sake. This is the element discussed above: in maintaining the figure of the gaon, the community seeks to elevate its contribution toward fulfilling the role of human society in general, and Jewish society in particular, in the service of God. It does so by supporting a rabbi who is a gaon, for whom the entire community mobilizes so that he may fulfill his lofty personal destiny in the best possible way.

In this context, of course, the question whether such a figure serves as rabbi in the community has no significance. On the contrary, the more the gaon is freed for his scholarly pursuits, the better for him and for the world.

Moreover, the fields in which the gaon engages differ essentially from those of the rabbi. If the rabbi deals more with practical legal instruction, the gaon can engage in passages and questions completely detached from the practical world. His distinctive contribution to the development of Torah will be specifically in those non-practical fields, because one will scarcely find anyone else dealing with them.

This is the place to note that in Dvinsk, which served as the opening for our discussion, these differences were less sharp, since R. Meir Simcha himself was a gaon and prodigy, a decisor and an original commentator of broad learning and great scope, whose contribution to the development of Torah and its transmission to future generations was immense (in our terms: he possessed no small ‘Rogatchovian’ side). But not every community finds a rabbi in the mold of R. Meir Simcha, who includes all virtues together.

E. Historical Background

As a rule, one should remember that the institution of the kollel familiar in our day scarcely existed in previous centuries in Eastern Europe. A rabbinic salary served as a means that enabled a Torah scholar to continue engaging in Torah.[19] Paying a salary to a rabbi who in practice sat and studied and did not really function as a community rabbi had implications both for the community, which usually lacked the means to maintain another figure besides the community rabbi, and for the gaon himself, who ordinarily could not have continued to engage in Torah so totally had he not accepted the office of community rabbi.

I shall illustrate the matter with words spoken by R. Israel Salanter when he rebuked his students for not wanting to receive ordination to rule in Jewish law lest they be forced, by economic necessity, to accept rabbinic positions (and thereby stop studying Torah for its own sake):[20]

There is no greater study for its own sake than this. You erred in imagining that you could withstand the test. When, Heaven forbid, the time comes that you need livelihood for your household, all your counsel will dissolve. Then not only will necessity bring you to accept the burden of giving instruction, but it may do so before you are yet fully prepared for all that instruction requires […] Thus the goal of study is not rabbinic office […] but rather so that when necessity compels a person, he will not cause the many to stumble, Heaven forbid.

One should note that R. Israel does not rebuke his students from the ideal plane. In his view, it would indeed have been proper for them to engage in Torah for its own sake, and the use of the rabbinate is indeed less important than Torah study for its own sake.[21] Yet, as R. Israel writes, at times necessity dictates a choice of a non-ideal path, and that path itself is the correct one. In this case, it is the true ‘for its own sake.’

These remarks are certainly correct from the point of view of the scholar himself. Many Torah scholars were forced to accept teaching positions so that they could continue to engage in Torah, and this is well documented in the literature.[22] But—and here is the surprising point—our main claim is that this also characterized the attitude of the community itself toward the appointment of the rabbi.

Time and again we find in Lithuania, as in many other places, communities looking for a rabbi of a stature disproportionate to their needs (today we would call this ‘overqualified’)[23]; and often they do not examine the candidate’s leadership skills or his personal and social inclinations, but only his learning and knowledge in Torah, and perhaps also his righteousness. This is a fascinating historical phenomenon in its own right, but it is entirely clear that it reflects a basic value-dimension: assuming these were not fools who failed to understand their own needs (the scope of the phenomenon does not allow such an interpretation), the conclusion is that this approach contains value-assumptions. A community that appoints over itself a rabbi in the mold of the Rogatchover apparently recognizes the importance of supporting such a person, not necessarily in terms of his functional contribution to the community and its members. It seems that an explanation for these assumptions may be found in the reasons listed in our remarks above.[24]

This way of relating to the figure of the rabbi or scholar, and the system of relationships between him and the community, could be illustrated from many sources. The question concerns the relation between the individual and society and the division of tasks between them, but elaboration here would be superfluous, since the subject with which we are dealing concerns only the application of this approach to the definition of the rabbi’s or scholar’s functions in the community. In any case, for the sake of completeness I shall suffice with citing the well-known words of Maimonides in The Guide of the Perplexed (III:27) regarding the relation between the individual and society. The picture that emerges there (and from many other of his writings) is that society is a space within which the individual can grow and develop in the service of God, in cleaving and in wisdom:

The Torah as a whole has two aims: perfection of the soul and perfection of the body […] But bodily perfection is achieved through proper ordering of people’s dealings with one another, and this is completed through two things: first, removing oppression from among them […] and second, inculcating in every human being traits beneficial for social life, so that the affairs of the state may be well ordered.

And know that of these two aims, one is unquestionably greater in importance—namely, perfection of the soul, meaning the acquisition of correct beliefs. The second, however, comes first by nature and in time—namely, perfection of the body.

For Maimonides it is clear that the primary goal cannot be physical life and physical survival, with which most of the masses are occupied, but rather the intellectual and spiritual ascent in which the individual is engaged (though it is desirable that all individuals engage in this, insofar as possible). According to Maimonides, society is a kind of physical-material body intended to promote engagement with the spirit. We shall discuss this at length in later chapters, but the implications of this unpopular approach of Maimonides for our subject are clear enough.

Of course, it would have been very convenient had the community been able to maintain next to the Rogatchover a figure of the stature of R. Meir Simcha, who could also fulfill the rabbinic functions required in the service of the community. But in ordinary communities, which also need a rabbi who functions in a practical way, it is sometimes difficult to meet such standards.

For this reason it is especially important to return and note here the limits of typological discussion. As stated, even when one chooses a single rabbi, one may evaluate the different sides of his personality: how much of him is ‘Rogatchovian’ and how much of him is R. Meir Simcha. But our claim here is that one should pay attention also to the Rogatchovian aspect in the rabbi’s personality, and not only to the more popular aspect.

Another reservation is needed here. In the remarks above we reversed the direction of vision from the rabbi to the community: after understanding the motives of a person in the mold of the Rogatchover who accepts upon himself the office of community rabbi, we tried to understand the motives of the community that accepts him (indeed, that even crowns him with this office) and offers him that position. But it is equally important to emphasize that the entire description here expresses the relation of the members of the community to the rabbi—they enable him to rise and fulfill his own destiny. At the same time, there is certainly room to reverse the direction once again and direct to the rabbi himself the opposite demand, namely, a demand for empathy and interest in the members of his community to the extent possible. Even if they indeed wish to enable him to study and rise in his service of God, his obligation toward them, even if he is by character and inclination a secluded genius, remains in force, halakhically and morally.[25]

F. The Gaon and the Secluded Scholar

Thus far we have dealt with two figures, both concrete and typological, of serving rabbis in the community of Dvinsk, a community very distant from our own in time and place. Today the institution of the kollel is already widespread, and communities willing to contribute their share to the general service of God can support Torah scholars even outside the framework of rabbinic positions.

It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of the presence of a learned gaon within a community (whether he serves as community rabbi or not). In our remarks above we mentioned in this context two central aspects:

1. The community’s contribution to the gaon’s Torah study, detached as he may be, as part of a chain extending from Mount Sinai into the future. In this sense the community sees itself as a means and not as an end. In this context let us recall the well-known parable of that poor Chinese man who, with the two pennies left in his hand, bought bread and a flower—bread in order to live, and a flower in order to have something for which to live.
2. The scholarly gaon, even if reclusive, is the leaven that ferments and raises the dough around him. The scholar arouses intellectual interest in abstract passages and serves as a model for imitation for members of his community, perhaps even for members of his generation, and in some cases also for future generations.

Such fermentation increases interest in Torah study, which is one of the most important commandments. But it also has a general effect on the cultural-intellectual level of the members of the community, who will occupy their free time (and not-free time) with matters of spirit. Their decision-making too may take on a different character as a result of constant confrontation with intellectual, moral, and ideological challenges continually placed before them.

Examples of this are scattered throughout history, and not only among the Jewish people—from Socrates, who roamed the streets and challenged passersby with questions about basic concepts and foundational ideas in their worldview, to the tendency to support intellectuals and artists that prevailed in the courts of kings and nobles in Italy during the Renaissance and in Europe of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Many today see the university as an institution with similar goals. This is that ‘flower’ for which the poor Chinese man lived.[26] The economic and social systems are all intended for the maintenance of society. But what is the ‘flower’ that gives value to the very existence of society? On the face of it, this ought to be something that has value in itself, and not as a means to something else. According to the proposal that emerges here, abstract intellectual inquiry and engagement with spirit and art are the goals for which society exists. The various planes of existence (economy, society, security, and so forth) are nothing but means for realizing these goals.[27]

To distinguish between the holy and the profane, even in the Torah world there may be instrumental conceptions that see the community and physical and social existence as the main goal, and office-holders as its servants. But there may also be more intellectual conceptions that see the scholars as the goal for whose sake society as a whole exists. According to these approaches, we do not ask what the contribution of the scholar or the intellectual is to the society in which he lives, but what that society contributes to him.

An exemplary figure of this type (also in Lithuania, though in an earlier period) is the Vilna Gaon, known simply as ‘the Gaon,’ one of whose distinctive characteristics was complete detachment from human society. The Vilna Gaon was enclosed within his own four cubits and occupied all his days with Torah study and the service of God.[28] R. Aryeh Levin used to tell of a conversation that took place between the Vilna Gaon and R. Jacob ‘the Maggid of Dubno.’ The Maggid praised the Jew who conducts business faithfully and guards his mouth and tongue while still being involved with people. He turned to the Vilna Gaon and quoted: a person should always be God-fearing in private and in public. ‘As for your fear of Heaven in private, no one disputes it; but what is your standing regarding fear of Heaven in public? If an actual case came before you, would you deal with people with justice and uprightness?’ The Vilna Gaon replied that he indeed feared taking such a risk upon himself, for danger lies in wait for a person when he leaves the life of eternity and occupies himself with the life of the hour.[29]

The Vilna community supported the Vilna Gaon with a monthly stipend from the funds of a special foundation established by his grandfather (R. Moses Rivkes),[30] despite the fact that he stubbornly refused to hold any rabbinic office whatsoever.

This approach is anchored in many places in the Vilna Gaon’s writings.[31] For example, in his book Even Shelemah[32] he writes as follows:

Those who slacken in performing acts of kindness and charity for those devoted to Torah are called rephaim, and of them it is said, ‘the rephaim shall not rise.’ One who is stingy and does not support Torah students—even if he himself studies—the Holy One, blessed be He, hates him and his Torah.[33]

He interprets the Talmudic statement (Berakhot 8b) ‘great is one who benefits from the labor of his hands’ as referring to those who engage in Torah study with toil and exertion.[34] We are not surprised to find the words of his relative by marriage, who writes in the ‘final introduction’ to his book Hayyei Adam in praise of those whose Torah is their craft, like the Vilna Gaon. This is his language:

They occupy themselves with no worldly matter whatsoever, but only delight in the Torah of the Lord; and if a man were to give all the wealth of his house for love of Torah, they would utterly scorn it, for the love of Torah is sweeter in his mouth than honey and the honeycomb.[35]

There is no doubt that the approach we described above among the scholars of Lithuania, who saw accepting rabbinic office as a distancing from study for its own sake, was strongly influenced by the figure and writings of the Vilna Gaon, as well as those of his students.[36] But the influence of the Vilna Gaon was not focused only on this point. The figure of the Vilna Gaon is an example of a secluded scholar whose very existence is clear proof of the importance such a figure has for society, for the community, for Torah and its study, and for the Jewish world as a whole—both in his own time and for future generations. It is difficult to think of a person who exerted a stronger influence on the shape of Judaism, down to our own day, than that reclusive and withdrawn scholar somewhere in eighteenth-century Vilna.

To sharpen the point, let us quote two of the Vilna Gaon’s students with regard to his influence. R. Chaim of Volozhin, in his well-known introduction to his commentary on Sifra di-Tseni‘uta, writes as follows:

In God’s compassion upon us, in order to uphold His good word, ‘for it shall not be forgotten,’ He sent us a wakeful and holy one from Heaven, a man in whom was the spirit of God […] and illumined our eyes through his holy writings in both the revealed and hidden realms of Torah. He brought hidden treasures of wisdom to light, revealing to us what had been concealed.

And echoing him, R. Menashe of Ilya writes as follows:[37]

Given the long duration of our exile, close to the footsteps of our Messiah, and the need to prepare before him the way of truth […] it appears that the Lord sent us a wakeful and holy one from Heaven—the famous gaon, our master Rabbi Elijah of Vilna, of blessed memory—who began in some measure to restore the crown of Torah to its former glory, according to the path of truth and simplicity; and we shall answer after him and add to it many times over, until matters reach complete rectification, until we are worthy that divine light and abundance rest upon us through our righteous Messiah.

To this day many yeshivot maintain married students and rabbis as resident scholars. Their role is not exhausted by answering the questions that arise among the students, but also—and perhaps mainly—by stirring spiritual and intellectual ferment around the passages being studied. Figures of prodigies arouse great admiration in yeshivot, and they play an important role as models for imitation and in their ability to awaken aspirations for greatness among the young, sometimes far more than the rosh yeshivah himself.

The communities that support such figures express what we described above as participation in carrying the torch of the Torah tradition from the past into the future. Supporting the rabbi, or the gaon, is a lofty expression of this approach. The matter becomes even sharper when that gaon is reclusive and does not make any substantial direct contribution to the members of the community. Then his contribution on the planes we have presented is specifically greater.

Such a community does not assess the gaon and the scholar (whether he serves as a rabbi or not) only by functional parameters—how much the literature he writes addresses the broad public, how accessible he himself is to the public, or whether he provides them with this or that service. This is a kind of Copernican revolution whose parameters reverse direction: the community examines the functioning of these figures according to what is good for the community, and not according to what is good for the gaon. Only from such a perspective can one arrive at an attitude of affection and admiration toward an ‘antipathetic’ figure such as the Rogatchover or the Vilna Gaon. From here are derived attitudes toward the rabbi, the rosh yeshivah (who does not educate in practical directions, but in abstract and detached analysis), and especially toward the secluded scholar, whose importance to society is not measured by the ordinary fleshly eyes through which we evaluate every other communal function.

Needless to say, this perspective is not at all common among us.

G. A Halakhic Aspect

Before we move on to discuss the significance of these models for our own time, let us pause briefly over an important halakhic aspect that arises whenever these issues are discussed.

Scholarly functions of the kind described here may be problematic on the halakhic plane, in the sense of using the Torah as a spade with which to dig.[38] This is not the place to enter the full depth of the halakhic issue on this subject (and quite a few have already dealt with it), but one cannot simply say nothing, and therefore we shall try to offer one brief remark about the meaning of the issue in our time, which also touches the roots of the matters with which this article is concerned.

As is well known, Maimonides writes in the Laws of Torah Study (chapter 3, law 10) as follows:

Whoever resolves in his heart to engage in Torah and not work, and to support himself from charity, profanes the divine name, disgraces the Torah, extinguishes the light of religion, causes evil to himself, and forfeits his life in the World to Come, because it is forbidden to derive benefit from words of Torah in this world. The sages said: whoever derives benefit from words of Torah forfeits his life from the world. They further commanded and said: do not make them a crown with which to magnify yourself, nor a spade with which to dig. They further commanded and said: love labor and hate lordship, and any Torah not accompanied by work will in the end cease and lead to sin, and such a person will eventually rob others.

These words of Maimonides aroused major disputes, despite the fact that their basis in the words of the sages is fairly clear. The author of Kesef Mishneh already commented there that many acted in this way and did not succeed, and therefore it is preferable to permit receiving compensation for study and for the rabbinate, so as not to impair the possibility of learning.

It is worth paying attention to an important point to which many do not pay sufficient notice. The sages and Maimonides acted and wrote in a period when every person earned his livelihood by the work of his own hands. Engagement with the spirit was not generally conceived as a task of society as a whole, but as the vision and dedication of the individual. Sacred functionaries and holders of rabbinic office would receive compensation for their work (despite the prohibition on receiving compensation even for sitting in judgment), but not beyond that. Torah study was the concern of the individual. The sages praise Joshua ben Gamla for establishing schools for children, and thus perhaps beginning a trend of social responsibility for the spiritual tasks of the individual. Thus the Talmud says (Bava Batra 21a):

For Rav Judah said in Rav’s name: remember that man Joshua ben Gamla for good, for were it not for him Torah would have been forgotten from Israel. At first, if a child had a father, his father taught him Torah; if he had no father, he would not learn Torah. What verse did they expound? ‘And you shall teach them’—you yourselves shall teach them. They therefore instituted that teachers of children should be appointed in Jerusalem. What verse did they expound? ‘For out of Zion shall go forth Torah.’

And still, if a child had a father, his father would bring him up and teach him; if he had no father, he would not go up and learn. They then instituted that teachers of children should be appointed in every province, and children would be brought to them at the age of sixteen or seventeen; but if the teacher grew angry with him, he would rebel and leave. Until Joshua ben Gamla came and ordained that teachers of children should be appointed in every district and every town, and that children should begin at the age of six or seven.

Now in our day it is accepted in every decent society to support people who engage in matters of the spirit: writers and poets, artists, researchers in various fields, and more. True, different societies have different proportions in the relation between people of spirit and people of action, but it is accepted in every modern society that one recognizes the importance of that part of society (and of every individual) that engages in the life of the spirit. The public conception in our time regarding material support for engagement in the spirit, and social responsibility for it, is therefore completely different from the conception that prevailed in the past in Israel and in most parts of the world.

In such a situation there is room to examine the possibility of change also regarding support for Torah scholars. About this it is said: shall a priestess be no better than an innkeeper?[39] It is entirely possible (though not completely clear)[40] that even Maimonides’ sharp ruling regarding the severity of earning a livelihood from Torah study is not valid in an age in which engagement with the spirit is perceived as a function of society as a whole, and perhaps even as the goal for which it exists (the Chinese man’s ‘flower’). Moreover, engagement with the spirit can be seen as a kind of public office that the community is obligated to support. Earning a livelihood from engagement in Torah need not differ, in terms of legitimacy, from earning a livelihood in other spiritual fields.

It is important to note in this context another point. The decisors have already written that even according to Maimonides it is clear that it is preferable to study and receive compensation if the alternative is not to study at all, or to study in an insignificant way. Maimonides writes his words with the intention of comparing serious study with compensation to serious study without compensation. But when the alternative is insignificant study as opposed to study while receiving compensation, it is clear that it is preferable to continue studying even if one receives pay for doing so (see, for example, Kesef Mishneh ad loc.).

H. Applying These Ideas in Our Time

In our day it seems that the approach of the communities of Eastern Europe, which sought a rabbi of as great a Torah stature as possible, has been preserved mainly in the Haredi world. The common explanation is usually that great Torah stature is also a guarantee of proper and wise leadership. If that is true, that is not the direction we attempted to present in this article. According to our proposal here, even if Torah stature is no guarantee of proper leadership, there is still great value in supporting a rabbi, or another figure, of great Torah stature.[41]

As we have already mentioned, the value-approach described here, which subordinates society to the advancement of the exceptional individual, the gaon, scarcely exists in the modern world. In the democratic age in which we live, the rabbi is perceived as a servant of the community.

It is indeed important to point to the need for some degree of ‘Rogatchovianism’ in the figure of the rabbi even today (for the reasons described above in section D), and, as we have already mentioned, such support does not necessarily have to express itself today in the appointment of community rabbis with ‘Rogatchovian’ qualities or in the image of the Vilna Gaon. Today other paths are accepted for doing this (as noted, the Vilna Gaon himself held no rabbinic office), such as supporting scholars in kollelim or in research institutes (and this is indeed done in various forms, by various actors). But it seems that the basic conceptions of the public have not yet changed, and the common approach of many is that Torah study is meant to train religious functionaries—rabbis, roshei yeshivah, yeshivah teachers, rabbinical judges, and the like.

The root of this conception is apparently in a Maskilic approach common in Lithuania, according to which Torah study is a kind of professional training.[42] A striking expression of this approach is found in Naphtali Herz Wessely’s book Divrei Shalom ve-Emet[43] (one of the earliest books of this genre), where the author argues that specialization in books of Jewish law is not intended for every Jew but only for those few preparing themselves for a Torah office. Following this approach, quite a few rabbinical seminaries (as distinct from yeshivot) were indeed established across Europe, and it has found a home in the modern religious public (as distinct from the Haredi world) down to our own day. The married students who continue to study in Religious-Zionist yeshivot are almost all engaged in Jewish law and training for roles of instruction. Very few continue to sit and study Torah for its own sake over many years. One reason is the absence of a binding atmosphere, that is, one that views this positively. The basic approach is that Torah study in yeshivah is a period of training toward livelihood or preparation for life (but not life itself). It is difficult to see public willingness to support Torah research institutions or ordinary Torah scholars, especially those who do not produce output that addresses, or ‘speaks,’ to the broad public.

In practice this is the same instrumental approach that characterizes Israeli society as a whole (perhaps because of our political, social, security, and economic condition), including the religious public within it. In such an atmosphere we always ask how the scholarly gaon benefits society materially or spiritually, and pay less attention to the question of how we contribute to him. We concentrate on the ‘bread’ and forget the ‘flower.’ Yeshivot that tend to be unpractical and detached are heavily criticized for this and strongly pressed to change the direction of training they give their students.

I return here to the questions that were presented to the writers of this very volume. What is the value of the learned literature produced in the yeshivot? What is the value of the yeshivah scholar in general? These questions reverberate through our world, and they point to implicit underlying value-assumptions that are tied at the navel to the Maskilic approach we mentioned.

As we have seen, in many Jewish communities throughout the generations such questions were not asked.[44] With the means at their disposal they did everything in their power to continue that very chain for whose sake we all live. It is of course true that the Torah is a means that instructs us in the proper path of conduct, and in that sense it has instrumental value for us. But it is equally true that we all constitute an instrument for it. In the end, what is created and accumulated throughout the generations—the meaning of the entire long historical process from the giving of the Torah until the coming of the righteous redeemer—is the transmission and expansion of the Torah that is created in every generation. From such a perspective one may evaluate the rabbi or the scholar one supports not only from the functional standpoint, but also from the opposite standpoints: what is his contribution to the nation, viewed historically, in all respects—commentary, learning, halakhic ruling, service of God, and more.

The yeshivot are supposed to continue this approach. Whether they train community rabbis or train scholars (in most cases the young student does not know at all where he is headed), they presuppose an intellectual rather than an instrumental approach. This approach is important and vital, for it constitutes the ‘flower’ for which we all live.

I. Summary

In this article we tried to sketch, in broad strokes, two models of a rabbi in a European community in exile. We saw that they reflect utterly opposite underlying assumptions in terms of orders of importance, and in fact also regarding the service of God in general, in relation to the question whether the rabbi is intended for the use of the community or the community is intended for the use of the rabbi. In other words, and these are no less relevant in our own time (when the connection of these questions to the institution of the rabbinate is no longer all that relevant): is the Torah intended for the Jewish people, or is the Jewish people intended for the Torah?

In addition, we showed that even on the rabbinic plane there are still dimensions of relevance for the ‘Rogatchovian’ rabbinic model, if not in the sense of contribution to the collective and to future generations, then at least in the sense of contribution to the community. The intention is not only simple functional contribution, but primarily the rabbi’s being a model for imitation, something that enables the growth of scholars who will themselves contribute to the Torah aggregate created through the generations. We also noted that there is room to distinguish between the viewpoint of the members of the community—to whom we came to emphasize specifically the ‘Rogatchovian’ demand—and the viewpoint of the rabbi, from whom one must also demand the moral and halakhic demand in the direction of R. Meir Simcha.

We conclude by saying that the purpose of this article was not to present an ideal figure of the rabbi, but to argue on behalf of a somewhat extreme position in order to correct a prevalent approach in our circles that tends to ignore the ‘Rogatchovian’ aspect. This perspective may shift the prevailing approach somewhat more in the direction of the middle way.[45]

[1]  That is, Dinaburg, present-day Daugavpils.

[2] Cited in the book Yahadut Latvia, and also in the booklet Ohalei Shem. See Yair Boruchov, Ha-Rogatchovi, [no place]: [no publisher], 2005, p. 52. I have not examined the reliability of the sources, but the remarks reflect numerous varied testimonies, some from eyewitnesses, appearing in many books and converging with the picture described here (some of them are quoted in that book). In any event, the remarks are brought for purposes of illustration only, and historical reliability is not essential to the substance of the claims made here.

 Ibid.[3]

[4] From the book of Yudel Flior (also cited there), ‘Dvinsk’ – The Rise and Fall of a Town, translated from Yiddish by Bernard Zaks.

 Above note 3, p. 43.[5]

[6] Ibid., p. 34.

[7] The following descriptions should be read as literary descriptions, as a mode of expression intended to describe and sharpen the aspects that distinguish these two personalities. I am far too small to judge these two figures, and especially the genius of Rogachov, whose Torah I studied for not a few years out of great admiration. The matter becomes sharper in light of the fact that this article comes specifically to side with and support the Rogatchover’s approach. I allowed myself to describe him in these words, but my remarks should not be read as evaluation and judgment, only as description.

[8] Above, note 3, p. 53. The source of the remark is the testimony of Rabbi Abraham Godin, who was in Dvinsk and wrote about it in the article ‘In the Presence of the Gaon,’ published in the weekly Kfar Chabad, as cited there.

 Above note 3, p. 46.[9]

[10] Ibid., p. 63. All his books, as is well known, are built in a similar way. Each passage contains mainly a list of references, with almost no connecting words. Usually it is very difficult to understand to which part of the page or chapter the Rogatchover is referring. This is not, of course, the place to discuss his method of study, which is a fascinating subject in its own right, but it is worth noting that it was characterized by original associative thinking that is not easy to follow.

[11]  See in the testimony quoted above: ‘and all accompanied the tiny figure of the generation’s genius with looks of affection and admiration.’

[12] As stated, both aspects appeared in both figures, but in different proportions. We should therefore not be surprised to discover that the Rogatchover had a greater measure of ‘Rogatchovianism’ than R. Meir Simcha did, and vice versa.

[13] In the Babylonian Talmudic passage in tractate Bava Metzia (97a), the legal relationship between the rabbi and his students is discussed. The Talmud there determines that between them there exists the relationship of borrower and lender (it appears that according to the Talmud’s conclusion, the students are considered borrowed to the rabbi most of the time, because he can choose at will the content being studied, whereas he is considered borrowed to them in the periods close to the pilgrimage festivals, periods in which he cannot avoid dealing with matters of the festival). It appears, however, that the discussion concerns unpaid instruction, and not halakhic instruction but analytical Torah study. This is not the place to elaborate on that passage (see Maimonides, Laws of Borrowing 2:4; Shulḥan Arukh, Hoshen Mishpat sec. 346, para. 13; and the commentaries ad loc.).

[14] Let us note again that the community would certainly prefer to combine with this task also the service that a rabbi can provide through guidance and instruction in Jewish law, but only as a secondary function of his role.

[15]  Such as the rabbinical judge of Brisk, R. Simcha Zelig, and others.

[16] By the way, R. Chaim was the study partner of the Rogatchover for about a year, when they were youths, as they studied together with the former’s father, R. Joseph Dov ha-Levi (author of the responsa Beit Ha-Levi). In many respects there is considerable similarity between these two figures. What is similar and what differs between them is a fascinating subject for research, but this is not the place to discuss it.

[17] This is the reason for the flourishing of colleges, on the one hand, which are occupied mainly with teaching, and, on the other hand, for the flourishing of research institutes, whose main concern is research.

[18] In this context it is worth mentioning a point that touches on the present discussion. Communities looking for a rabbi, or educational institutions looking for teachers, tend to seek a rabbi whose figure will be close to that of his public (the members of the community or the students of the yeshivah). But at times a specifically ‘distant’ rabbinic figure has a number of advantages that the rabbi who belongs to the ‘crowd’ cannot enjoy. Appreciation for the figure of the rabbi, in the sense of ‘a prophet in his own city,’ is sometimes more easily aroused when there is a distance between his figure and that of his public.

Of course, it is not recommended artificially to create a distant figure merely in order to win appreciation, without substantive justification. My point here is only that if that community or institution finds a rabbi worthy of their esteem, they should not recoil from a distance expressed in seclusion and occupation with Torah, all according to time and place.

[19] See Immanuel Etkes, Unique in His Generation – The Gaon of Vilna: Figure and Image, Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1998, chap. 6, sec. A. This joins the descriptions in many biographies of Lithuanian sages, and others as well, who tried to evade rabbinic office in order to study Torah for its own sake, and were forced to accept it by economic necessity.

[20] R. Isaac Blazer (R. Itzele) (ed.), Or Yisrael, Vilna, 1900, p. 112.

[21] Well known in this context is the position of the Hazon Ish, who regarded study for the sake of ordination in instruction or judgeship as study not for its own sake.

[22] Above, note 15. See note 18.

[23] It should be noted that this phenomenon is not accidental. Specifically the prominent Torah scholars, who devoted all their energies to study and saw rabbinic office only as a means of livelihood, sought small communities that would allow them to engage in Torah without demanding from them the energy required by rabbinic office in a large and central city. Etkes (above, note 15, p. 224) cites from the book Zikhron Hillel, by M. M. Zalmanovitz, Vilna 1902, a quotation about R. Hillel Milikovsky, who tried to avoid rabbinic office, and finally, when he had no choice, agreed to become rabbi of Hoslovitz. Zalmanovitz describes his conduct there in these words (Etkes, above, note 15, p. 231):

When our master was there as head of the rabbinical court, he established his residence in the second room belonging to the study hall, and sat in seclusion and great asceticism, studying day and night with tremendous diligence. He conducted himself thus for a long time, so that the burdens of the town and all its concerns would not trouble him. Only matters of religious and legal instruction were decided by his word; in the other affairs of the town he did not involve himself.

[24] For the sake of historical precision, it should be noted that rabbinic salaries were indeed rather meager (ibid., chap. 6, sec. B). It should also be noted that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was customary for the community to maintain for the rabbi also a yeshivah over which he presided. But this custom almost entirely ceased at the beginning of the nineteenth century (ibid., sec. C). In fact, this is how the concept so familiar today, ‘rosh yeshivah,’ began to emerge (and in the end overshadowed the status of the community rabbi; ibid., chap. 6). This figure constitutes a kind of substitute for the figure of the gaon described here, except that he bore a teaching role and did not sit only within his own four cubits. The power struggles that were waged in some places between the two figures (down to our day) indicate the problematic aspect to which we pointed in the previous chapter.

This process had several results, among them the polarization so familiar today between the methods of study and the approach of the halakhic decisor, as opposed to the methods of the analytical scholar.

The reasons for these processes are not sufficiently clear, but it seems that, despite the reservations, the historical phenomenon of communities appointing rabbis who are ‘overqualified’ is highly suggestive.

[25] See Rabbi Yehuda Amital, ‘To Hear the Cry of a Baby,’ Alon Shevut Bogrim 1, Yeshivat Har Etzion, 1994.

[26] It seems that on this matter there are differences in outlook between Europe and the United States. The European, continental conception is more intellectual, whereas the American conception is more instrumental. To my regret, Israeli society and culture, in this matter as in others, follow the American approach. Universities in Israel generally do not encourage intellectual thinking but rather career, specialization, and professional training. This state of affairs only heightens the importance of the intellectual role that the yeshivah world may play.

[27] See in this regard the words of Maimonides quoted in the previous chapter.

[28] See Etkes, above, note 15, chaps. 1 and 7; Betzalel Landau, The Pious Gaon of Vilna, Jerusalem: Usha, 1968, especially chap. 3.

[29] See Landau’s quotation of R. Aryeh Levin’s version of this conversation, ibid..

[30] See ibid., chap. 2 note 30, chap. 16.

[31] See above, note 15, chap. 7.

[32] Vilna, 1873, chap. 7, note 16; see also Landau, above, note 24, chap. 3 note 17.

 [33] Landau (chap. 16) claims that the Vilna Gaon himself was very careful to give one-fifth of his meager means to charity, and strongly instructed his sons to do so as well.

[34] Ibid., chap. 3, note 32.

[35] It is not clear whether his intention is to commandments between man and his fellow man—meaning that there is here a statement about the superiority of Torah over the commandments, as in the path of his outstanding student R. Chaim of Volozhin in his book Nefesh HaHayyim—or whether his intention is the ordinary affairs of human beings. Both interpretations fit the path of the Vilna Gaon.

[36] Here too, the historical reliability of the details in the biography of the Vilna Gaon is not what matters, but rather how his figure was perceived over the generations. When we say ‘his students,’ we are referring primarily to R. Chaim of Volozhin, in his book Nefesh HaHayyim. See above, note 15, p. 229.

[37] Alfei Menasheh, by R. Menashe of Ilya, Vilna, 1822, fol. 73a–b.

[38] See Mishnah Avot 4:5, and also 1:10: love labor and hate lordship.

[39] See the final Mishnah in tractate Yevamot, and Midrash Esther Rabbah 3, s.v. ‘R. Isaac,’ and parallels.

[40] The answer to this question depends on the reason for the prohibition. It may be connected to desecration of the divine name, in which case it is clear that the matter depends on the general social attitude toward support for the life of the spirit. It may be connected to the learner’s dependence on his supporters, a dependence that harms his ability to develop independent positions on matters under discussion. In such a case one can think of various mechanisms that would neutralize that problematic aspect. It is also possible, however, that there is an essential problem in the very fact of earning one’s living from Torah study, and then of course there is no counsel and no understanding against the Lord. In the words of Maimonides quoted above one can discern several nuances, but this is not the place to elaborate.

[41] My thanks to the editor, Yedidiah Stern, who drew my attention to this rationale. His comment raises two opposing points regarding what is said here: (a) it may be that in Eastern Europe they looked for a rabbi of great Torah stature not only out of a desire to support great Torah scholars and contribute to our heritage, but perhaps out of the belief that greatness in Torah is a guarantee of good and proper leadership; (b) even in the Haredi world it is entirely possible that the motive is not only the search for optimal leadership but also the desire to support a person great in Torah. This matter requires more fundamental research, chiefly in the sociology of communities and their relation to their rabbi, and this is not the place for it.

[42] Etkes (above, note 15, pp. 228–230) explains that the opposite approach of Lithuanian scholars, which arose following the Vilna Gaon and his students, was influenced to no small degree by the struggle against the aforesaid Maskilic approach.

[43] Berlin, 1882. See First Epistle, chap. 8.

[44] Of course, there were always those who asked such questions, but the historical phenomenon to which we pointed shows that in practice a different atmosphere prevailed, whose practical consequences indicate underlying assumptions utterly different from the assumptions of the Maskilic approach.

[45] See Maimonides’ well-known words in Laws of Character 2:2, and also in Eight Chapters, chap. 4.