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Our Past in Present Tense

Who is a rabbi?
Dr. Yehuda Shabatay                                                                            .
San Diego Jewish Times, August 25, 2006

A short while ago Mr. Moshe Katsav, the president of the State of Israel, created a ruckus by his refusal to refer to the head of the Reform movement as “Rabbi.” When the president was asked for his reason, he stated that “his observant background predisposed him to consider only someone who represents the Jewish religious tradition of the ages to be a ‘Rav.’” Since our tradition also includes the idea that one should not accept any statement without raising questions about its validity, I went back to the sources in order to find out when the title “Rav” came into being and how it developed through the ages.

It seems that the term “rav” was first used in the Mishnah for a “master,” as opposed to a slave (Berachot 10a), and only toward the second century CE did it become a title for a sage whom someone considered his/her “master” (or “rabbee,” which means “my master”). The Talmudic rabbis never considered the rabbinate a source of livelihood, because the study of Torah and its interpretation was the foremost mitzvah (i.e., religious commandment) that could not be used for income. Therefore, it was all rabbis’ duty to find a worldly occupation and then spend as much of the remaining time on learning as possible.

But by the end of the Middle Ages life became far more complicated. While all fairly knowledgeable and honorable men were allowed to conduct prayer services, more and more congregations needed teachers, judges, social planners, and spiritual leaders, with proper training for such tasks. Therefore, they began to compensate rabbis for the time they had to spend on communal service — instead of making a living in any other way. Thus, the rabbinate became an occupation. The next stage of development took place in the 19^th century, first in Germany and then in other Western European countries, where an ever-larger number of Jews became assimilated and pursued secular education. They were no longer satisfied with a spiritual leader whose training was almost exclusively in traditional literature (Talmud, codes, etc.), but wanted their rabbi to speak the vernacular fluently, be well acquainted with the prevalent culture, as well as with certain Jewish subjects that were not taught in yeshivot (Talmudic academies).

As a result, even modern Orthodox institutions of higher learning, like Yeshiva University in New York, began to require a college degree for admission to their rabbinical training program. Only the most “traditional” yeshivot continued to concentrate on the Talmud, as before. In many cases no one supervised the quality of instruction in those institutions, nor their curricula. Yet, their graduates could make a living by providing a wide variety of services to the faithful, including the observance of dietary laws (kashrut), the maintenance of ritual baths (mikvaot), and the handling of lifetime rituals (circumcision, burial, etc.). In Israel the Orthodox rabbinate has an even wider authority by having sole jurisdiction in all matters related to the personal status of all Jewish citizens. Consequently, the rabbinical courts are the only ones that are allowed to handle marriages, divorce and alimony cases, and conversion — unless the Supreme Court interferes (which rarely occurs).

No wonder that the Israeli rabbinate guards its prerogatives zealously and wishes to ascertain that only those whom they recognize may be considered “rabbis.” But, to my knowledge, no one in that august body has ever determined the exact amount of learning such a rabbi must demonstrate in order to be accepted in their midst. Only the source of his semichah (i.e., ordination; literally: “laying”) is checked, namely the identity of the older rabbis who laid their hands on his head and declared that he is authorized to teach and to judge from then on.

The final problem is perhaps the most complicated one: who determines what our “tradition” should be? As I was trying to respond to this question, I remembered a rabbinical story whereby centuries after his death Moses appeared in a “house of study” (bet midrash in Hebrew) and, as much as he tried to understand the rabbis’ discourse, could not comprehend what they were arguing about. Because the world had changed since Moses’s days, the problems were completely different from the ones Moses faced. Was it the same religion that existed when the Israelites left Egypt? Moses became deeply troubled — until he heard a rabbi state: “And this halachah (legal decision) was given to Moses, our great master, at Mount Sinai.” In that moment Moses relaxed because he realized that they still remembered him after so many generations (and attributed to him laws that he never heard in his lifetime).

Things have changed in our society even since the time this story was composed. In the course of the past century, our sages have had to struggle with a wide variety of issues neither Moses nor the Talmudic rabbis had ever faced. Some of the most obvious ones relate to scientific inventions, like electricity. Though the Bible strictly prohibits kindling fire on Shabbat (Ex. 35:3), and Orthodox rabbis decided that turning on electricity was equivalent to making fire, they still allowed its use in various situations. For example: one may turn on a light, or a radio, before the commencement of the Shabbat, and as long as he/she does not touch it, may continue to leave it on throughout the day. Similarly, one may use a special Shabbat elevator that moves automatically from floor to floor, without requiring the push of a button (which may spark a light).

A more serious issue that had to be resolved in Israel, even before the establishment of the State, was the necessity of lending and borrowing money. Anyone who follows the Torahitic laws may not take interest from a fellow Jew, and must forgive all debts in each Sabbatical year (Deut. 15:1-2, 23:20). Since under those circumstances, no bank could operate in a Jewish community, the rabbis had to rely on a Talmudic legal fiction whereby the bank and the borrowers were “business partners” who could enter into any agreement they wished.

 If such major changes in the interpretation of biblical laws are acceptable to President Katsav, perhaps he may reconsider his refusal to recognize the ordination of rabbis who are the graduates of modern training institutions. They may have studied fewer sheets (i.e., double pages) of the Talmud than their colleagues who graduated from yeshivot, but they have certainly learned other subjects of great importance, e.g., Jewish history and Hebrew literature through the ages that their congregants appreciate. Mr. Katsav may also reconsider his abhorrence of women in the rabbinate. Should I mention biblical prophets, — like Miriam, Deborah, and Huldah, and the great Talmudic scholar, Beruryah, to support the case of women’s eligibility to spiritual positions? Though none of those distinguished ladies would be allowed to enter a “traditional” rabbinical school today, they were highly respected by their own contemporaries.

Maybe the time has come to reexamine not only the use of electricity on Shabbat, and the banks’ authority to charge interest, but also who our rabbis are — and ought to be. That could rejuvenate the Israeli rabbinate and make it more appreciated by the majority of their fellow citizens who are less than enthusiastic about their performance today.

Dr. Yehuda Shabatay received rabbinical training in Budapest, a master of jurisprudence degree from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and his doctorate in Hebrew literature from the Jewish Theological Seminary of America in New York. He was engaged in Jewish educational administration over most of his career and now teaches Jewish studies and history at Palomar College and San Diego State University.