Haredi-ness Between an Essential Definition and a Sociological–Institutional Definition (Column 731)

Some time ago I received Rabbi Menachem Navat’s book, “Trembling at His Word – Haredi-ness Between Sector and Movement”, which deals with defining Haredi-ness and misconceptions about it (both among Haredim themselves and among others). Those who want a summary can listen to an interview with him here. The book, as one would expect from Rabbi Navat, was fascinating and original, and I agreed with quite a few of the points I found in it. And yet something about his main thesis nagged at me throughout the reading. I constantly felt that Rabbi Navat—who of course is not looking at this phenomenon from the outside—presents Haredi-ness in too pure a way, essentially seeing it in his own image. He is in fact presenting the ideal (as he sees it) rather than describing the real (he even says so more than once). To my mind, the result is not a description of Haredi-ness as it is—which in my view is entirely what he calls a “sector”—but rather some utopian model, what he calls “Haredi-ness as a movement.” The characteristics of Haredi-ness in practice differ from what he describes, and although he is aware of this, he presents it as a deviation from the Haredi model. He calls on Haredim to return to being a movement rather than a sector, and calls on researchers to understand that this is the true nature of Haredi-ness. I identify very much with the religious model Rabbi Navat describes, but precisely for that reason I do not see it as another kind of Haredi-ness but simply as modern religiosity. In other words, I do not agree with his proposal to define Haredi-ness, but I agree with most of the religious model he describes at the substantive level (I will elaborate below).

Even if I accept his very definition of the Haredi movement—even as a utopia—it seems problematic to me as a definition of Haredi-ness. It is a description of some kind of religiosity in general, not necessarily Haredi. I think our main point of disagreement is that, in my view, Haredi-ness is indeed a sector and not a movement, and it is defined based on its social institutions and practical conduct, and less through the substantive essence he proposes. Therefore, Rabbi Navat’s move that tries to present it as a movement, in my opinion, essentially forces it into that definition without justification. I write all this here in order to place what follows in a general context and to help the reader follow the thrust of my argument.

I should qualify my remarks and note that in column 693 I mentioned that although I had always thought of Haredi-ness as a sector, at some point it became clear to me that it also has characteristics of a distinctive movement, beyond the sector within which it exists. I argued there that Haredim see themselves as “people of the World to Come” as opposed to “people of this world.” That is an ideological feature of a distinct Haredi worldview—namely, a Haredi ideology—and not merely a sectoral structure of an establishment and a political movement. See also column 720. But Rabbi Navat’s description does not overlap with this, and that I do not accept.

I will try to show all this in greater detail below, but before that I must preface with an important methodological introduction that touches on the root of the problems I have described.

Methodological Introduction

In my series of columns on poetry (107 – 113) I proposed a systematic methodological approach toward defining the concept of “poetry.” There I discussed at length the difficulty inherent in defining complex concepts. We saw that a definition is by its nature simplistic: it tries to include diverse and complex phenomena within a single simple framework; therefore, there will usually be quite a few phenomena that seem to belong to the defined concept and yet do not fit neatly into its definition. Many think this undermines the proposed definition and perhaps the very aspiration to seek a definition for such concepts. They claim life is more complicated than philosophy and that it is not right to force life into a narrow intellectual mold that is fine for abstract thought but not for life itself.

My aim there was to show that this challenge is neither precise nor necessary. Indeed, analysis does not always capture reality in full, but that is not its task. Analytical study tries to put a finger on the essence of the phenomenon under discussion. Once we understand the essence, we often find exceptional phenomena at the margins of the defined concept. They have the essence, but in varying degrees (somewhat like what I described in my article on “ukimtas”). For example, in that series we saw several genres that contain the foundational element of poetry, but it appears in them in different degrees and mixed with other elements. A definition of poetry tries to capture the essence—the common denominator present in all of its manifestations. The same should be true of defining Haredi-ness. Haredi-ness operates in the world and is made up of flesh-and-blood people, and as such it is complex and hard to fit into a rigid, unequivocal conceptual framework. There are many different shades of Haredim. We should not expect a definition under whose wings every single Haredi will fit. On the other hand, for that reason it is not right to abandon the attempt to define the essence of the concept of Haredi-ness. The claim is that if there is a set of different phenomena and shades that we associate with “Haredi” or “Haredi-ness,” there must be something shared among them that appears in all of them in varying degrees, and the analytical definition strives to uncover it.

This introduction supports Rabbi Navat’s methodology. The fact that he does not capture all Haredi behavior and all Haredi shades should not, in itself, refute the picture he presents. It may be that he has grasped the essence of the phenomenon, and we should not dismiss that because of various marginal phenomena. The question is whether he has indeed captured the essence of Haredi-ness. In my opinion—no.

Beyond this, there is an inherent difficulty in such discussions. When you come to define a phenomenon or a social group, a question arises: to what extent must you adhere to what the participants themselves actually think or to those who belong to the group? I refer here to their conceptions, values, and thought processes, as well as their actual behavior (which does not always, and need not necessarily, reflect their declared conceptions). Are you allowed to present a different model because of personal critique you have of their conceptions and conduct? When defining Haredi-ness, must you stick to what those who define themselves as such actually think and do, or may you discuss the concept a priori and present a picture that does not fully match the thought and behavior of the group’s members? Seemingly one could claim that Haredi-ness is X, and the fact that many (perhaps most) Haredim think it is Y is their mistake in self-perception—or a deviation (intentional or not) from the concept as it originally was.

For example, consider a study about what “Judaism” is. A sociologist is generally expected to describe what Jews think and do and extract from that a definition of Judaism. What should he do if he thinks they are not acting in accordance with the sources of Judaism? Is he allowed to define Judaism according to what he thinks and say that they are mistaken or deviating from the original meaning of the concept, or is he, as a sociologist, obligated to present it as it actually is? There is no single correct answer here. On the face of it, there are two types of study: sociological research and conceptual–theoretical research (for a similar distinction see my article on the humanities).

Research on Haredi-ness is, by its nature, sociological. As such, it should of course adhere to the facts—that is, to the thinking and behavior of the people we are studying. Sociological research is not supposed to criticize people for their way of thinking and conduct, but mainly to describe them. The researcher’s own personality, values, and thoughts should not be inserted into the picture. If, however, there is a discrepancy between the way those people think and the sources on which they themselves rely, or between their practical conduct and their theoretical and ideological positions, the researcher may present this and even criticize them for it. He can present an ideal picture that he believes is more accurate and point out the gaps between that and reality. That is indeed appropriate for research about what “Judaism” is. But as I will show shortly, regarding Haredi-ness this possibility exists less. In any case, at that point we have moved from sociological research to philosophical research, dealing with the conceptual–theoretical plane.

Conceptual research can and should analyze the concept and its sources—the theoretical definitions of Haredi doctrine from its sources—and derive from that the picture of Haredi-ness. The product can, of course, differ from the picture drawn by sociological research, which is primarily descriptive. And naturally, philosophical–theoretical research—unlike sociological research—may indeed criticize the group’s members and claim they have strayed from the path. Not necessarily in the name of what seems right to the researcher himself, but by comparison with the group’s own doctrines and sources. Thus, one may claim that religious Jews are not in practice acting in accordance with the principles of Judaism (every prophet or moral preacher rebuking the people essentially claims this). That is a perfectly legitimate claim on the philosophical–theoretical level, but it is less relevant to sociological research. The sociologist can at most offer explanations for why such a deviation emerged.

However, as noted, with respect to Haredi-ness the situation is somewhat different than with research on Judaism. Haredi-ness has no binding canonical sources. It is a social–sociological phenomenon. There are of course writings and testimonies regarding the aims of Haredi thinkers and leaders, but they do not have binding canonical status, and it is difficult to claim that they define the concept of Haredi-ness. If one discovers that a Jewish group acts contrary to the Torah and the Talmud and the halakhic decisors, he may criticize them for it and claim that they are not truly Jewish (i.e., not thinking and acting in a Jewish way). That is a legitimate result of essential–theoretical analysis (as opposed to sociological research). But if I find that a group of Haredim does not act according to the writings of R. Yaakov Rosenheim or the Chafetz Chaim, it is doubtful this is sufficient to say they are not Haredi. The conclusion is that while in a study of Judaism one can choose the mix of sociology versus essence, a study of Haredi-ness, by its nature, should focus more on sociology than on essence (it is not clear how much “essence” there is at all; more below).

Beyond that, the distinction between these two types of research is not as sharp as it may seem. As I will explain immediately, it is difficult to define sociological research disconnected from essential analysis. Note that sociological research must, by its nature, rely on differentiating definitions between groups that belong to the same genus. For example, between Haredim and Modern Orthodox (religious Zionists), which are two species within the genus of religious Jews. That is, there are Jews (ethnically), and within them (sociologically, even if not essentially)[1] there are religious and non-religious; within the religious there are Haredim and non-Haredim. This taxonomy is a necessary basis for sociological research, since it determines whom I must study to reach conclusions about Haredim or about religious Zionists. A definition that fits every religious Jew, and certainly one that fits every Jew, will not suffice as an answer to what Haredi-ness is. But even a narrower definition that fits a subgroup of religious Judaism—if that subgroup differs from sociological Haredi-ness—is problematic. And here is the problem: in order to study Haredim sociologically, you must decide who is Haredi. Before any study, we must decide who are the members of the group under investigation. Only after defining that can you describe the thoughts and behavior of a Haredi individual or group. Research on Haredi-ness can come only after I know what Haredi-ness is. But as long as I have not studied sociologically what Haredi-ness is, how will I know conceptually who and what is “Haredi”? And as long as I have not determined what Haredi-ness is at the essential level, how will I determine what sociological Haredi-ness is? There is a methodological loop here that does not allow us to separate essential analysis from sociological research—at least when it comes to ideological groups.

Consider a proposed definition X for the concept “Haredi.” It obviously does not fit all those commonly called Haredim. Does that mean not everyone called Haredi is truly Haredi? Does that mean the definition is incorrect? Does it mean that when we examined Haredi-ness we did not study the Haredi group but a different one? It seems one cannot avoid prioritizing conceptual analysis before sociological inquiry—but on what will we base the conceptual analysis if not on the thinking of those who are sociologically defined as Haredim? Moreover, we must be aware that if the scope of the Haredi group that emerges from conceptual–essential research (who is a Haredi) differs greatly from that commonly accepted in sociological definitions (whether it fails to fit all Haredim or whether it also fits members of other groups), then it is important to emphasize this when presenting the results and findings—and in fact to reconsider their validity. The same holds if there is a gap between the actual conduct of the group and the analytical definition we found for it. I described a parallel phenomenon more generally in column 715 (in yeshiva jargon one could call this distinguishing between the “reason” of Haredi-ness and the “definition” of Haredi-ness).

Summary of the Introduction and a Compromise

These preliminaries are important because, in my view, Rabbi Navat’s study fails precisely on these points. He paints a picture of Haredi-ness from an essential perspective (what one ought to think as a Haredi), but that picture ends up being very different from the sociological phenomena of Haredi-ness (Haredim do in fact see themselves as a sector rather than a movement). Conversely, the picture he describes (the “Haredi movement”) also fits many religious Jews who are not Haredi. As I noted above, the root of the problem is that it is unclear how one can even do essential research on Haredi-ness when it has no binding canonical sources. We are dealing with a sociological phenomenon, and as such it is very difficult to separate the essential–normative question from the factual–sociological question. In this sense, Haredi-ness is what Haredim (sociologically) think—and of course, only those features that distinguish Haredi thinking from that of other religious Jews (therefore, their loyalty to Torah and commandments cannot serve as a good definition).

From here on I will critically review the six parts of Rabbi Navat’s book. I strongly recommend keeping these preliminaries in mind while reading. The letters at the beginning of the following headings indicate the part of the book under discussion. I will not review all parts of the book, but will try to cover the first part, which leads us to Rabbi Navat’s proposal on how Haredi-ness should be seen.

A. Researching Haredi-ness

The first part of the book addresses the general methodological question of how to study Haredi-ness—between sociology and ideology. I have already touched on this in the first part of the column and therefore will not revisit it here. Still, it is interesting to bring the opening of Benny Brown’s book, Guide to Haredi Society (which Rabbi Navat also cites, p. 23). In the 1992 budget law, a certain sum was allocated for “cultural activities for Haredim.” The association “Ma’aleh,” which is a religious–Zionist association, petitioned the High Court (Bagatz) demanding a share of that budget. Their claim was that a Haredi is someone who “trembles at the word of God,” and religious Zionists meet that criterion too and therefore deserve part of that budget. The panel headed by Aharon Barak understood there was something vexatious here, and that the legislator’s intention was clearly not that (though the legislator’s intention is not necessarily a relevant criterion in legal interpretation, as Aharon Barak himself wrote more than once). But in justifying their decision, they seemed to twist themselves somewhat to explain why they rejected the petition.

They explained there that the term “Haredi” in the law refers to a particular Jewish religious stream characterized by especially stringent adherence, particularly in matters of education, the character of community life, and lifestyle. In common parlance “Haredi” and “observant Jew” are not identical (which of course does not say much, since one could define a Haredi as someone fully or very committed to Torah and commandments. Not a few people think so. By that definition, some religious Zionists could certainly be included). The law itself also distinguishes between “Haredi culture” and “Torah culture” (incidentally, in my estimation Haredim could benefit from Torah culture budgets as well, since it seems they are also included in the term “Torani.” Wonders of our legislators). The ruling reflects the ambiguity inherent in defining the term “Haredi-ness.” What exactly differentiates them from other religious groups? Incidentally, I think the sentence about stringent adherence in education, special community life, and lifestyle aptly describes any religious group. I do not know whether the ruling also detailed those unique features or settled for this generic description, which of course adds little to understanding the term “Haredi.”

What is interesting is that Rabbi Navat begins his book with this ruling and ends it with a definition that, in my opinion, leaves this ambiguity intact (as I will show below). I think that if the judges had read Rabbi Navat’s book and adopted its conclusions, they would have had to accept the petition and also fund several religious–Zionist and even traditionalist bodies (even though it is clear that was not the legislator’s intent).

Later in the first part, Rabbi Navat surveys existing approaches among different researchers and rejects them. In my view, not always justifiably. For example, he writes that obedience to “gedolei hador” (preeminent rabbis) neither uniquely characterizes Haredim nor characterizes all of them. But as I already noted, outliers do not necessarily threaten the validity of a definition. He himself speaks of flexible definitions for complex phenomena, as I also noted above. But my concern here is to examine the definition he himself proposes, not to compare it to other proposals. Obedience to those whom the group defines as “gedolei hador” is certainly a clear Haredi characteristic, though it is shared by some National-Haredi (Hardal) circles as well. I will add that some of Navat’s definitions are shared by groups even further afield (such as traditionalists).

An Important Interlude: Haredi-ness Between Essence and Politics

At the end of chapter 4, Rabbi Navat writes that Haredi-ness sees itself as an ancient phenomenon continuing Israel’s tradition as it always was, contrary to scholarly claims (primarily following Jacob Katz) that Haredi-ness and Orthodoxy in general are new phenomena—specific responses to modernity. Rabbi Navat argues that although Haredi institutionalization is new, it is merely the use of new tools to defend an old conception and phenomenon. He does not accept the claim that Haredi-ness is new, if only because Haredim themselves do not see themselves as such. Here too I disagree with his methodological claim. The self-conception of group members has some importance, but it is not decisive. It is certainly possible they are living with the illusion that they are continuing the ancient tradition as it was, but that is an illusion. A researcher examining their actual conduct and comparing it to what was in the past may certainly claim that this self-conception is mistaken (a false belief). I once cited here what my uncle, a Hasid living in the U.S., likes to say: Abbaye and Rava surely learned in Yiddish—after all, they knew how to learn (as is well known, anyone who knows how to learn studies in Yiddish). He of course knew that is not factually true, but he lived in a firm consciousness that it was. The same goes for statements praising those who did not change their language and dress—when in fact they dress in the clothes of Polish gentiles from the 17th century and speak a language (Yiddish) that is a German dialect that Moses, Rav Ashi, the Rambam, and the Ba’alei Tosafot certainly never imagined. Haredim excel at inventing founding myths and reworking history and facts for their needs. Relying on their self-judgment regarding the origin of norms and values in their community seems to me a bit naïve and not recommended for improving research objectivity.

I will present here a fundamental comment I have on the entire thrust of the book. The scholars are entirely correct. Haredi-ness is indeed a new phenomenon. It is a new social institutionalization devised to safeguard ancient religious conceptions. But the ancient conceptions being safeguarded are not “Haredi” but rather religiously Jewish. Haredi-ness is only the form of institutionalization and the defensive tactic—not the conceptions themselves. Therefore, it is indeed a new phenomenon, and the scholars are right to focus on the study of Haredi social institutions rather than substantive conceptions. As noted, research on Haredi-ness should focus on sociology rather than essence. And if Haredim themselves conceive matters differently (I doubt that), then they are living in a fantasy. That does not prove the researchers are wrong. As we saw, a sociologist may claim that his research subjects are deluded.

To sharpen this, I will add that if Rabbi Navat thinks he indeed represents the substantive religious stance of the Chafetz Chaim, then he too is deluding himself. The traits of his that appeal to me—like breadth of scope, engagement with external philosophical and academic sources, their integration into the religious conception, inclusion and empowerment of women, and so on—do not at all match the Haredi core (though of course there were a few other Haredi thinkers and leaders like Breuer, etc. They are a negligible minority representing nothing. Moreover, that minority was Modern Orthodox rather than Haredi, except perhaps in its attitude toward Zionism and secularism). In other words, not only is the picture he describes not Haredi-ness, it describes himself—and the implication is that he himself is not Haredi.

On p. 60, Rabbi Navat notes an internal contradiction in the scholarly conception of Haredi-ness (detailed further on p. 69).[2] On the one hand, researchers say it is a new phenomenon—a response to secularization—while on the other they view Haredi-ness as an old conception that has become obsolete. I do not understand what contradiction he sees here. The new phenomenon they point to is not the content Haredim are fighting for and about which they are anxious. The content is indeed old—the Jewish tradition and halakhah. But that is not “Haredi-ness.” What is new in the Haredi way is how one defends against shifts in reality that threaten that content. Haredim try to preserve the old tradition, but they do so in new ways. The claim is that Judaism has always stood against the winds of the times in various ways—but also allowed itself to change in response to them and under their influence. Haredim try to harden the stance toward changes in the world and raise the walls so as not to allow room for such influences, and that policy itself is a new phenomenon—even if its goal is to preserve an old content.

Wearing Polish clothing from the 17th century and speaking a German dialect from the early Middle Ages are old and irrelevant matters (of course, clothes and language are only a metaphor here). Only the insistence on doing so is new—and that is the essence of Haredi-ness. More generally, what Haredim try to preserve is faith and tradition in their old form (though not truly ancient), and the scholars say that in our world that tradition is irrelevant (since our tradition demands changes and adaptations to the new world). Their claim is that the content Haredi-ness preserves in the new world is old and irrelevant. The claim is that Jewish tradition teaches that old traditions must undergo formal changes under the influence of the new world (that is the thesis of Modern Orthodoxy—see columns 475 – 480) to remain relevant. The extreme preservationist policy of Haredim opposes this—and in that it is new. These two claims do not contradict each other at all.[3]

Between Uniqueness and Importance of Features in a Definition

One could of course argue that if we want to define Haredi-ness, we should focus on the content being preserved rather than on the forms and institutions developed for that purpose (clothing, language, parties, rabbinic institutions, separatism, the expansion of concepts like “Da’at Torah,” and so on). The content is indeed old and matches the tradition, and perhaps that old content is precisely what defines Haredi-ness. The institutions and politics are indeed new—but that is not the essence of Haredi-ness. As we will see, Rabbi Navat really does argue exactly that. But already here it is important for me to point out my main critique of his approach. Loyalty to tradition, Torah, and halakhah does not define Haredi-ness, but rather religious, halakhic Judaism in general. Haredi-ness is a particular shade within that tradition (Haredi-ness is a species within the genus of observant Jews—which itself is a genus within the broader category of Jews). What distinguishes this species is precisely the preservationist forms it adopts—i.e., its political dimension. In other words, when defining Haredi-ness we must focus precisely on the political dimensions and not on the content, since the content (loyalty to Torah and halakhah) does not uniquely characterize them.

To clarify: this does not mean politics is more important to them than content (though sometimes that is how it seems). Rather, politics is what distinguishes them, and therefore for definitional purposes we must use it. Just as when defining an observant Jew, I would not focus on the prohibition of murder—even though it is the most serious and important prohibition in halakhah. The reason is that the prohibition of murder does not uniquely characterize observant Jews; therefore, despite its importance, it is not appropriate to base the definition of observance on it. Aristotle already taught us that when defining any concept, we must present the genus to which it belongs and what differentiates it as a species from the other species in that genus. The features included in the definition are chosen for their uniqueness, not their importance. That is not always the same thing. Incidentally, many Haredim stumble into the opposite mistake: they disparage moral values not identified distinctly with halakhah and Torah (as they understand them). Again, for them, if it is not unique to Jews, it is not important. But that is a mistake. There are values and principles that are very important and yet not unique to Judaism. In fact, sometimes precisely because of their importance and fundamental nature they are demanded of all humanity, not just Jews.

B. The Secularization Thesis and Dichotomies

The second part of the book deals with the secularization thesis and its impact on reality itself—and no less on research and the researchers. Rabbi Navat’s claim is that the researchers themselves live within a false consciousness; that is, they are unaware of their own biases when they come to study Haredi-ness. Their conclusions—that it is a new phenomenon (which is also supposed to disappear, according to their assumption)—are based on biases of which they are unaware. The root of these biases is the “secularization thesis.” Researchers see Haredi-ness as a response to secularization; therefore, when examining their statements, we must study the phenomenon of secularization itself.

After describing the emergence of secularization and its meaning, Rabbi Navat turns to the implications for our issue. Once secularization arose, a sharp dichotomy emerged between “secular” and “religious.” Thus religion became the negative of secular freedom and lack of constraints—in thought and in practice. Religion is perceived as opposed to rationality, culture, and science: clinging to the old and resisting the new. The secularization thesis also views secularity as the natural and expected development of the world—a progression. In a secular age, it is religiosity that is perceived as requiring justification. Secularity is the default; religious approaches that cling to the old tradition can at best be seen as a new response to secularization.

Later in the second part, Rabbi Navat focuses on three dichotomies that arose from the secularization thesis: old/new, inner/outer, and heavenly/earthly (sacred/profane). The religious person clings to the old and is alienated from and opposed to the new. He engages with his own concerns, his community’s concerns, and its tradition—not with the broader, global world. The religious person concerns himself with holiness and the metaphysical realm—with religion and spirituality—while the secular person deals with this world and its development. Consequently, the objective world is the secular one; all the rest is subjective, perhaps imagined—confined to the individual’s private domain and perhaps to the community. It does not pertain to the real, objective world. Three chapters (7–9) follow, each dealing with one of these dichotomies.

Again: Between Religiosity and Haredi-ness

Before continuing, I will sharpen an important point. Rabbi Navat challenges the secularization thesis in two different dimensions: (1) the assumption that secularization is the starting point and religious faith requires justification. The burden of proof is on it, and its desire to express itself in the public domain amounts to coercion requiring justification. Rabbi Navat does not accept that. (2) The relegation of religion into the mold of the sacred (heavenly), the old, and the inner. In his view, religion has what to say in all respects and on both sides of these dichotomies. He does not accept the narrowing of religion to these three planes.

Here is the place to return to the point I already made above. In my view, Rabbi Navat is entirely right about religion. I share his views on the bias created by the secularization thesis. But that is true of religiosity—not of Haredi-ness. On the contrary, Haredi-ness is precisely that part of religious Judaism that fully accepts the secularization thesis, and therefore accepts for itself a retreat into the inner, the sacred, and the old. That is the term “Noah’s Ark,” applied mainly to yeshivas but also to Haredi society and community in general—so essential to the Haredi ethos. Modern religiosity is what challenges that, and therefore it is precisely it that is in confrontation with the secularization thesis. Haredi-ness fully shares with secularity its conception of religion—and that is exactly what is new about it. Again, Haredi-ness is indeed a sector, not a movement. One can clearly see that Rabbi Navat himself is not truly Haredi. He vigorously and wisely defends his own conception, but errs in seeing it as a description of a Haredi conception. How can one deny that the essence of Haredi-ness is separatism and withdrawal—separate units in the army (even for the small minority already willing to enlist), separate educational institutions, media and communications (internet and cellular) with heavy censorship of everything outside, which also takes care not to deal with anything happening outside (including analytic domains such as those Rabbi Navat himself often engages in, and of course current affairs and politics). The essence of Haredi-ness is social separatism and institutionalization—not the content that this separatism is meant to preserve. On pp. 76–77 he describes the problem of “integration” of Haredim—a term that ostensibly expresses the perspective of the secularization thesis. The general sphere is secular, and the question is how to integrate Haredim from the “inside” bubble into the “outside.” Yet again he chooses to ignore that all (!) Haredim fully share that view. Even if one accepts the secularization thesis. I wrote “all,” but there are exceptions—like Rabbi Navat himself and a few other outliers. Here again we see that Rabbi Navat represents a modern religious position, not a Haredi one—and insists on presenting it as Haredi.

In chapter 9 he deals with the relation between the heavenly and the earthly—that is, detachment from worldly life and from the sciences (and from facts in general). Again, he is right about the secularization thesis and the biases it creates, but wrong in his diagnosis of Haredi-ness. Haredi-ness fully accepts that thesis and therefore separates itself from worldly life and external wisdom. Modern religiosity is what challenges this dichotomy—and Rabbi Navat is there too, yet still insists on presenting himself as Haredi.

In chapter 10, concluding the second part, Rabbi Navat discusses the biases created by the secularization thesis in the three circles and their “transparency”—i.e., that we are all captive within it without noticing. I fully agree—except that this captivity characterizes both secular and Haredi people (as he himself writes). The only ones who truly oppose these biases are the Modern Orthodox. Rabbi Navat calls on Haredim to free themselves from these biases and this captivity of perspective—which, in his view, turns them from a movement into a sector. But he does not notice that he is essentially calling on Haredim to stop being Haredi and to become Modern Orthodox. Haredi-ness is a sector, not a movement. The movement he speaks of is Judaism (the Torah world), not Haredi-ness. Haredi-ness is that sector within Judaism that lovingly accepts the secularization thesis and therefore retreats into the old–inner–heavenly and separates itself ideologically from all the outer circles.

C. Haredi-ness as a Theological Movement

In this part, Rabbi Navat presents his own proposal for defining Haredi-ness. He argues that concepts commonly tied to Haredi-ness in academic discourse—such as “Da’at Torah,” “society of learners,” “raising the walls,” “Noah’s Ark,” “innovation is forbidden by the Torah,” “rule of the rabbis,” etc.—miss the focal point. This is an external view of the Haredi world. The Haredi individual does not see himself revolving around these concepts but around uncompromising commitment to Torah and commandments. Beyond my earlier remark about the non-binding status of a group’s self-conception as a path to defining it, and beyond the dilemma of looking from inside or outside, a description like this seems to commit another fallacy I mentioned above: confusing “important” with “unique.” There is no doubt that Torah and commandments are more important to a Haredi person than rabbinic rule or Noah’s Ark, since all those serve that end. But is this unique to Haredim? As we have seen, important features do not suffice for defining a phenomenon. They must be, above all, unique. Is this feature unique to Haredim? Hardly. Many religious Jews see commitment to Torah and commandments as the essence of their existence; it is therefore difficult to see this as a unique Haredi feature. If this feature also describes non-Haredi groups, then what remains to distinguish the Haredi group from other religious groups are the social institutions and the list of concepts cited above. Although they are less important, they are the differentiating and unique features, and therefore the definition of Haredi-ness must be based on them.

Rabbi Navat senses this and goes on to argue that only among Haredim is that commitment the essence of existence and the marrow of life. Their entire world and routine, cultural events and various activities revolve around it. The social institutions and their way of life serve that basic idea. Therefore, for the Haredi person, someone who leaves religious commitment and the Haredi world is like a dead person—something not characteristic of other religious worlds. In other religious worlds one may find scrupulous observance, but there it is not necessarily identity-defining or language-constructing.

The rest of the book continues with further, lighter traits, such as a traditionalist conception of Torah (he links Haredi-ness with traditionalism), lack of self-awareness and an absence of ideologies, the “anxiety” of the Haredim, and other social phenomena. All this essentially boils down to the distinction between movement and sector. But the core of Rabbi Navat’s proposal has been set out here. I have much to say about the continuation, but these are specific comments. My goal in this column is to critique the core of his argument and the heart of his approach, and that is what I will do now.

Two Comments

Rabbi Navat essentially proposes replacing the institutional–sociological–social definition (common among researchers) with an essential definition (arrived at by an internal view). Later he describes this as replacing “sector” with “movement,” adding that this is not only a theoretical suggestion but a practical call directed also to Haredi society itself. It too should absorb and internalize that it constitutes a movement and not a sector, since at times it internalizes the external conception of its researchers and gets a bit lost between the essential and the incidental.

Let me preface by saying that I do not at all belittle this suggestion, and it seems there is definitely something to it. It captures an important and essential feature of the Haredi world. And yet I will make two comments:

1. This exists also in the National-Haredi (Hardal) world and perhaps not only there. True, life is conducted across broader planes, but everything is done from within—and in—the language of Torah. One can look at this uncharitably and think it is mere rationalizations: they actually want to live secular lives and give them ex post facto sanction in Torah terms. But that is the wrong view. Their religious world is broader, and yet it certainly stands at the center of their lives. Until not long ago, even in a typical religious–Zionist home, far from Hardal, a child’s departure from religious commitment would be an enormous crisis—just as in the Haredi world. This is changing in recent years for various reasons (e.g., the spread of the phenomenon and greater familiarity with it), but it is true of the Haredi world as well—only that processes there happen more slowly. But it all happens there too.
2. Even if this feature is unique to the Haredi world, abandoning on its account the entire institutional and social structure (expressed in the list of concepts cited above) seems unserious. It is very difficult to accept that all these are deviations from the essence and unrelated to the definition of Haredi-ness. The fact is that other communities who live the religious and Torah world in the same way, but operate through different social structures and institutions, would not be granted the title “Haredi.” One can of course continue to insist that these are deviations and that the essence is Torah as identity-defining and everything else is mere trimmings—but by then the argument is mostly semantic.

The Meaning of the Definition

To sharpen this, let us ask: for what is the definition of Haredi-ness important? What are the implications of whether Haredi-ness is defined via identity commitment to Torah or via its social institutions? Seemingly it is merely a semantic issue—we can define it this way or that, since both definitions describe the group well. So what is the meaning of the claim that one definition is correct and the other is not? Without some consequence to the difference, the discussion is emptied of content.

We may seek such consequences along several lines—for example, on the evaluative level. Is being Haredi by the institutional definition objectionable or unworthy? Later in the book it appears that Rabbi Navat intends to call for changing the institutional conceptions in favor of the essential view—to transform from sector into movement, thereby to forgo some of those institutions or reduce their importance. If so, then Rabbi Navat shares the prevailing critique of Haredi-ness as a sector. He too perceives its ills and calls to change them (not necessarily in every detail). If so, like other critics of Haredi society, he sees it as flawed and calls for its reform. So what difference does it make that he proposes an alternative definition of Haredi society? He essentially calls on us to abandon adherence to technical sectoral institutions and to focus on Torah and commitment to it—just like all other critics of Haredi-ness.

It is important to understand that we are not speaking only about technical institutions but about essential features of Haredi-ness, such as closedness to other worlds, resistance to integrating other domains of knowledge, lack of openness to values that come from outside (even if one finds them a basis in Torah in its broad sense), and so forth. All these are umbilically tied to the same atmosphere in which Torah is the marrow of life.

Haredi-ness and Modern Religiosity

Rabbi Navat essentially calls on Haredi society to divest itself, to some degree, of its technical–institutional features—or at least to reduce their importance—and thereby to become a modern religious society. What is supposed to remain of Haredi-ness in the phase he proposes is apparently an added emphasis on faith and Torah as identity-defining—which he claims is not present in the Modern Orthodox world.

I do not think you will find principled opposition to such a proposal in Modern Orthodox society. Many there would be glad to embrace a broad and open Torah that constitutes the marrow of their existence and the substance of their lives. Incidentally, I am not at all sure this is absent there. Certain circles of Modern Orthodoxy certainly revolve around Torah—only that their concept of “Torah” is much broader. To sharpen it: there we speak of “Torah,” not “Tayreh.” Therefore, I do not think much would remain of Haredi-ness if and when it adopts Rabbi Navat’s proposals (no fear: there is no chance). This in fact indicates that the institutional–social features are precisely the essence of Haredi-ness—and abandoning them would essentially nullify Haredi-ness.

Moreover, if the Modern Orthodox world is, in principle, party to this conception but, in his view, less successful at implementing it (i.e., they have not succeeded there in creating a state in which Torah and the religious language constitute existential identity and the marrow of life), does that not imply that Haredi social institutions are necessary to create that atmosphere—that without them it cannot exist? Is it possible to create a world that breathes Tayreh in all its ways, together with openness to the outside world, its wisdom, and its values? Doubtful. One can create a broad world that breathes Torah, but it is doubtful one can create a broad world that breathes Tayreh. That is a kind of oxymoron, since the difference between “Torah” and “Tayreh” is primarily breadth of scope. Part of Tayreh is the prohibition on examining your beliefs, forming a position yourself, being in contact with people different from you, granting a different status to women, reading external literature—especially in areas like philosophy, biblical criticism and archaeology, comparative religion, etc.—seeing “tzaddik ve-ra lo” (the righteous who suffers) as an ideal model of divine service, and so on. All these belong to institutional Haredi-ness, not essential Haredi-ness (since they are not inherently about commitment to Torah). Even so, can one open all these and still preserve that same naïve and simple Haredi atmosphere (in both senses)—the existential traditionalism he describes? To my judgment—no. It seems that Rabbi Navat essentially calls on us to create a broad religious and Torah world that preserves its narrowness. Beyond the practical difficulty of creating such a world, I can barely make sense of what I just wrote.

In other words, I wonder whether such an argument—proposing to replace the institutional–social definition with essential definitions—does not undercut either the very possibility of change, or alternatively, Haredi-ness altogether. On the face of it, it is very tempting to take the best of all worlds—but it is by no means clear that it is possible. As noted, clinging to Tayreh together with breadth of scope is an oxymoron; clinging to Torah with great breadth of scope already exists in the Modern Orthodox world, and it is implausible to see it as another shade of Haredi-ness. And even if it does not exist, then Rabbi Navat’s proposal is at most to improve Modern Orthodoxy—not to return to being Haredi. The term “Haredi” is emptied of content here—because, as I argued, it truly has no essential content, only institutional–social content. Not for nothing does the Modern Orthodox world not distinguish itself by social institutions and is rather a collection of individuals. That is almost a necessary corollary of such a broad religiosity—and I think in this sense, too, Rabbi Navat himself (as I know him from his writings) is entirely there and not on the Haredi side.

I should add that, in my view, a religious society that clings to Tayreh—even if it were definable and even practicable—is not an ideal society. Life centered around Torah is excellent; life centered around Tayreh is not. That is a narrowed Torah that may be easier to cling to and to breathe as a complete life—but in my understanding, that is not the Torah given to us at Sinai. At best it is a sect that bears some relation to the original Torah (the Haredi sect). The real Torah, given to us at Sinai, must be present in all spheres of life. In such a situation, one can certainly breathe Torah—but it is doubtful one can breathe Tayreh. And as noted, when we breathe Torah in such a broad religious world, you have Modern Orthodoxy in all its glory.

In Conclusion

As noted, the remainder of the book is, in my view, mainly details. The core is here. Since I have already written at length, I will not continue with my critiques of the rest (see another review of Rabbi Navat’s book written by my friend Rabbi Moshe Shochat, where you can find additional points).

I will end by saying that I am prepared to agree that Haredi-ness is a movement and not just a sociological sector—that it is distinguished also by ideology and not only by social institutions—but I think that content is linked to being a collection of “people of the World to Come,” as I explained in columns 693 and 720. Rabbi Navat’s description does not overlap with this, and that, as stated, I do not accept. Existential commitment to a world of Tayreh is indeed a unique Haredi trait—but I do not think Rabbi Navat intends that. At least from my acquaintance with him, he means “Torah,” not “Tayreh,” and here I very much accept it—but I do not see how such modern religiosity can serve as an alternative definition of Haredi-ness.

I know it is not customary to address the person, but here I cannot avoid saying again that, in my opinion, Rabbi Navat himself does not meet these definitions of Haredi-ness. I cannot plumb the depths of his soul and religious consciousness, nor do I know him well enough, but the broad and open Torah I see in him looks to me entirely modern religiosity. As noted, I myself very much identify with that breadth (even if we have quite a few substantive disagreements, as I have found more than once), but that is modern religiosity that I find hard to connect to Haredi-ness.

[1] I am hinting here at my view that there is no such thing as “secular Judaism.” There are secular Jews. See more in my booklet on secular Judaism (and more on this here).

[2] As far as I saw, this point does not appear before p. 60, although he seems to refer to it as if it had already been discussed. The discussion itself, as noted, is on p. 69, and perhaps this changed in the book’s editing.

[3] On p. 70, Rabbi Navat himself notes this distinction, but for some reason he sees it as a refutation of the scholars’ view—whereas it is not.