Author: Avram Israel Reisner

Avram Israel Reisner

Judaism is not a civilization.1

It is a way of life.

Halakhah is its guidebook. Halakhah, from the root meaning “to walk,” sets out the way to walk, the path, the Tao of Judaism.

How does one describe or instantiate that way of life? Let us begin as observers. Living halakhah, one’s life is divided and structured by a Jewish flow of time, each week moving toward Shabbat, the day that Abraham Joshua Heschel describes as a “palace in time.”² Each week begins with workaday vigor but by midweek has begun its inexorable turn toward awareness of Shabbat. Perfunctory emails sent on Wednesday or Thursday end reflexively with “Shabbat shalom.” And Shabbat itself is a day spent at home or in synagogue, in family and community, aware of the Torah and pleasures of reading and thought, unplugged, a bit removed from the hurly-burly of the news and greater tensions outside. Together, they share a language of Torah and mitzvot that marks the community as unlike any other.

The year is likewise marked by the Jewish holidays. As I write, in the month of Adar, those who are living halakhah are oriented to the coming holiday of Purim and looming requirements of Pesaḥ. Come fall, the High Holidays will figure prominently in their consciousness. For better or worse, Tishah b’Av interrupts summer’s reverie, for Jewish time overwrites the world’s other patterns.

Judaism speaks of kashrut, and, for those who adhere to it, that food discipline completely transforms their lives. It structures their every shopping experience by accustoming them to the products they buy and those they do not. It affects what restaurants they frequent and which are beyond their experience, and how they negotiate those they enter. Living in this way is rarely experienced as a constraint. It is, simply put, a way of life.

Again, depending on how thickly you incorporate halakhah into your life, each day may be punctuated by acknowledgments of God’s place in the universe through blessings and prayer, and the mezuzah on the door. It is likely that the art in your home, the books on your shelves, the very visual environment surrounding your every day is distinctively Jewish—and shared by others in your community, although there is no halakhah requiring that. This is the stuff of thick belonging. It is the product of the halakhah we live and are taught in our homes, in our synagogues, and through our associations.

This is not a necessary life pattern. It is a choice. And different in untold regards from another life.

So why live this life, when, in our emancipated reality, other options exist before us?

There are, broadly speaking, two answers to that question.

The first and strongest is the belief that God gave us the Torah—or at very least that it represents the teaching that He has inspired in us. The Torah, with all of its family stories and national history, is nothing if not clear about its message: God has ordained a way that we should live, has commanded us mitzvot and adjures us to follow them and not to transgress them. In the words of the Shema (Deuteronomy 6:4–9), because we love God and cling to Him, we choose to adopt the words of Torah as our life, to live by them, to speak of them, and to teach them to our children. This way of life, this complex of mitzvot, this halakhah woven through our existence is who we are, or choose to be.

If/since God created the universe and is the sole source of its meaning, there can be no higher human purpose than to fulfill in our lives that which God intends and fervently wishes that we do. Our presence here is precisely in order to fulfill the role of furthering His creation through our action, as guided by the Torah, mitzvot, and halakhah—our ordained way of life.

Can this be true? Do we not have a human purpose, a different task—namely, to pursue the good of every human being? Of course that is our task, but it is not a different task. It is part of the divine path, to be acted upon within the ambit of our daily lives lived ʿal haderekh, or “on the path.” The fourteenth-century sage Jacob Bar Asher starts one of the four sections of his law code, known as the Tur, with this declaration: “May the Holy One’s Name be praised, for He is eager for the welfare of His creatures” (Arbaʿah Turim, Even haʿezer 1:1). As this is God’s will, it is part of our purpose.

Halakhah, as it has been developed over the ages, is intended to answer in every situation the question answered more generally by the prophet Micah: “What does God seek from you?” (Micah 6:8).³ Answering that question broadly, and as fully aware of its implications as possible, generations of halakhists (known also as posqim, “decisors”) have grappled with these questions. And we, those who choose to live the life of halakhah, the life of Torah umitsvot, have sought to incorporate their thoughts, decisions, and rulings into the daily life that we live. That is the strong answer, and for those who can commit to the belief statement at its core, who believe that the Torah is God’s instruction manual and commandment for us, it imbues this way of life with sanctity and incomparable meaning. And that meaning is reinforced and supported by a community of like-minded adherents speaking together the language of Torah, the language of halakhah.

There is yet another, less potent answer to the question of why choose to live this life. By referring to this approach as “less potent,” I mean not to denigrate it but simply to describe it. This second answer speaks the language of emotional affinity, of comfort and meaning and self-fulfillment. It is available to those who do not or cannot subscribe to the first approach. The reason to choose to live within this community, then, to choose this way of life, is that it is supportive and warm and rich, that it embeds you within a community that you know shares its values and its identity with you. This is something that other lifestyles may not offer. Recall that any other way of life is challenged by the selfsame question of why choose to live this way. It is not self-evident that any other way of life offers a richer life.

The primary way people find their place in such a community and find themselves drawn to live their lives in this way is through their upbringing. Raised in such a family and community, it seems natural and comfortable—right and affirming and somehow sacred, if not quite divine—to continue in the ways that were modeled for us and that we so appreciate, and in turn to offer these to our children, whom we hope will want to be our continuers. This is the sense in which the Conservative Movement’s name is precisely correct. It is the sentiment of Fiddler on the Roof’s “Tradition.” If, looking around you, you see no comparable life that might offer you more (but only less), and you feel the warmth of your community and upbringing, then even without the conviction of God’s direction, this life that you know and cherish recommends itself as the life to choose to live.

But a not insignificant number of people arrive at this place of their own intellectual search or the encounters they have with this world. The many Hillel and Chabad houses on university campuses pitch themselves to precisely these young Jews who may find direction, meaning, community, and warmth at their Shabbat meals and programs and choose to mold their lives toward an observant life. Some of these may find their way to belief, but others will choose this way of life because it is fulfilling, thick and intense and warm and affirming. That, too, is fine.

The truth is, though, that the Conservative Movement has not excelled at drawing in members through this door. More often it draws adherents through the pathway. of love and family. The other group of people who choose to live the thick life of mitzvot are the spouses and children of those already committed to the life of Jewish observance, who bring their chosen families with them into their Jewish life. These people may convert, which our communities welcome, or, increasingly they may not, while still choosing to raise a Jewish family within the world of synagogue, holidays, and even kashrut. These, too, choose to live the Jewish way of life and seek to perpetuate it by teaching it to their children by living the life and speaking the language of mitzvot.

I write these words as a long-standing member of the Conservative Movement’s Committee on Jewish Law and Standards (CJLS). The CJLS represents the Conservative Movement’s iteration of Judaism’s continuing commitment to the ongoing progress of halakhah. In the past, individual rabbis who were recognized (in some amorphous way) as masters of Jewish law, sought on their own, and in response to the questions raised by the community, to consider the continually changing face of reality and new twists of events, to determine what halakhah—what the Jewish path—should be in such new circumstances. These judgments were then catalogued and passed along, becoming the newest face of the halakhic way. The Conservative Movement judged, perhaps in light of newer democratic ideas, that fresher, more foresighted rulings would come from many individuals than from a single mind, so it established a committee, today consisting of twenty­-five rabbis and several lay participants, to respond to halakhic questions.

But CJLS does not teach halakhah directly to the Conservative Movement.⁴ It is an advisory body whose opinions, although available to all, are regularly conveyed to the Movement’s rabbis. It is they who lead the discourse of a Jewish lifestyle in their communities and congregations by modeling, speaking, and teaching halakhah and mitzvot. That is as it should be. For that is where Jewish life is lived, where the community chooses to share its identity, its values and commitments, and Torah and halakhah find their purpose. In living an observant Jewish life, we feel rich and happy with our lives. As Ben Zoma taught, “Who is rich? One who is happy with his lot” (איזהו עשיר? השמח בחלקו, Pirkei Avot 4:1).

Avram Israel Reisner is rabbi emeritus of Congregation Chevrei Tzedek in Baltimore, Maryland. He is a long-standing member of the Conservative Movement’s Committee of Jewish Law and Standards, was an editor of the two-volume Siddur Sim Shalom published in 1998–2003 and is the creator of the triennial haftarah cycle. He serves as a governor’s appointee to the Maryland Stem Cell Research Commission.

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1. ¹ Mordecai Kaplan, Judaism as a Civilization (Thomas Yoseloff, 1934) insisted it was best understood that way.

2. ² Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1951).

3. ³ A similar question, less often quoted, is asked in Deuteronomy 6:12: “Israel, what does God ask of you?”

4. ⁴ There has been an attempt of late to push CJLS to undertake the teaching function in order to popularize its rulings. That project may succeed, or it may fail. It is not there but in our congregations and communities under the tutelage of their rabbis that the Jewish way of life shall extend across generations.

Zack Wainer

For many Conservative Jews, truly engaging with halakhah—the living tradition of Jewish law and practice—is the purview of rabbis and scholars. Congregants at Conservative synagogues can see Judaism as core to their identities and connect with certain aspects of halakhah without thinking of their Judaism in terms of halakhah or how halakhah affects their own observance; if these individuals consider halakhah, it is often as a distant or abstract concept – something that is peripheral to who they are. At its worst, halakhah can seem stale, elitist, and irrelevant. But many Conservative Jews miss what it can be at its best: a collective language, a shared practice, and a dynamic force that shapes the spiritual and intellectual lives of individuals and communities alike.

How, then, can we help more Conservative Jews experience the best of halakhah and ultimately choose to “opt in” to a halakhic life? We need to create joyous, unapologetically Jewish spaces where a critical mass of individuals are invested in living halakhically. For people not already invested in such a lifestyle, these spaces will offer a taste and a chance to opt in. The Conservative Movement once predicated its youth programming, including Ramah and United Synagogue Youth, on this very premise.

At Congregation Beth Sholom (CBS) in Teaneck, New Jersey, there is a critical mass of individuals who have committed to living in a halakhic community. That’s not to say that every member of our kehillah has a certain level of halakhic observance, or that each individual considers halakhah to be a key aspect of his or her Jewish identity. CBS welcomes individuals with different levels and conceptions of halakhic practice to actively come together as part of our halakhic community. We strive to cultivate a culture of halakhic engagement that is both deeply rooted in tradition and truly responsive to modern needs. When we succeed, we approach halakhah with kavvanah and creativity, offering an array of educational initiatives, leadership opportunities, and grass roots programming that appeals to different swaths of our community.

In this article, I analyze specific CBS halakhic learning opportunities, with a special focus on who leads and how that leadership is manifest. “Top-down halakhah” refers to rabbi-led teaching and decision making, where the mara deʾatra guides the community through structured learning and halakhic processes. “Middle-out halakhah” captures the importance of skilled laypeople, who step into the role of educator and lead their peers in halakhic inquiry. Finally, “bottom-up halakhah” describes grass roots learning initiatives in which halakhic engagement is largely self-directed but still highly effective.

By examining how halakhic learning unfolds across these three dimensions through examples from the Jewish textual tradition and the CBS community, I try to paint a picture of Jewish law as dynamic, iterative, and deeply intertwined with the rhythms of communal and personal life. More than painting a picture, I hope this article challenges us to think through two related things: how we can nurture communities of all types that energize individuals to truly “opt in” to and take ownership of halakhah, and what it would take to create a broad, multigenerational halakhic culture that is both intellectually rigorous and spiritually fulfilling.

Top-Down Halakhah

Top-down halakhah has a strong analog in the Torah (and rabbinic literature), where the main expression of halakhic transmission and learning can be described as “top down” or “frontal.” God gives the majority of his instruction to Moses on Mount Sinai, with Moses bringing the law to the children of Israel. Sometimes, it’s clear that there’s some larger impulse for God giving a set of laws to Moses – as with the Passover laws transmitted to Moses (and Aaron) before the last plague in Egypt (and Israel’s impending freedom);¹ In other cases, there is no clear logic within the Torah for why certain laws are given when they are, although our sages certainly try to connect some of these laws to proximate narratives or events. There are a few instances where a slight wrinkle is introduced to this paradigm of top-down halakhah. The classic story of the daughters of Zelophehad toward the end of Bamidbar is one of those instances:

The daughters of Zelophehad—son of Hepher, son of Gilead, son of Machir, son of Manasseh—of the family of Manasseh, son of Joseph, came forward. These were the names of his daughters—Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. They stood before Moses, Elazar the priest, the chieftains, and the whole assembly, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, saying: “Our father died in the wilderness. He was not part of the faction that banded together against the Eternal—the faction of Korah—but died for his own sin; he had no sons. Why should our father’s name be withdrawn from his family just because he had no son? Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” Moses brought their case before the Eternal, and the Eternal said to Moses: “Zelophehad’s daughters are speaking truth—you should certainly give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen and transfer their father’s share to them. Further, speak to the Israelites as follows: ‘If someone dies without leaving a son, you should transfer his property to his daughter. If he has no daughter, you should give his property to his brothers. If he has no brothers, you should give his property to his father’s brothers. If his father had no brothers, you should give his property to his nearest relative in his own family, who will inherit it.’ This will be the procedure law for the Israelites,” in accordance with the Eternal’s command to Moses (Numbers 27:1–11).²

The top-down halakhic paradigm is true to form in verses 6–8. Here, God speaks to Moses, tells him what the law should be, and then commands Moses to transmit that law to the Israelites. But verses 1–5 introduce a complication to this paradigm. Instead of appearing as part of a larger group of laws (which is common in broad swaths of the Torah),³ the laws in verses 6–11 are fronted by a short pericope that explains how they came to be. In this text, the daughters of Zelophehad expose a key gap in the Israelite system of inheritance law to Moses, as the system does not account for men who die without male heirs. This is not simply an academic exercise for Zelophehad’s daughters; their father recently died without any sons, and so they have standing. Here, the people’s own experiences and questions trigger God to create a new law and transmit it to Moses, who is entrusted with giving it to the people.

The mara deʾatra at CBS, Rabbi Joel Pitkowsky, also leads the congregation in halakhic exposition when the community is confronted with new situations. In the mid 2010s, congregational leadership brought the question of whether the shaliaḥ tsibbur could, or should, include immahot within the Amidah. Instead of simply deciding himself (or in consultation with congregational leadership) whether or not to allow immahot—as would be his right as mara deʾatra—Rabbi Pitkowsky decided to turn the question into a halakhic learning experience. He did his own research on the topic and gathered a range of opinions (with different practical implications) that he could support. Over a period of six–twelve months, Rabbi Pitkowsky, along with the ritual committee and other leadership, shepherded the shul through a process that included congregational surveys, discussions, and learning, all in the service of creating new halakhic parameters for davening at CBS. As the centerpiece of this process, the rabbi led various learning opportunities during which members of the congregation could read and discuss teshuvot connected to the inclusion of immahot from different ideological and denominational viewpoints. Members of CBS grappled with age-old Jewish questions and modern sensibilities, all while gaining a greater appreciation for the strategic choices and exegetical approaches that differentiated these halakhic building blocks from one another.

Importantly, Rabbi Pitkowsky and synagogue leadership did not begin this process with a “right answer” that they wanted the shul to get to on the question of “immahot.” Instead, success was defined as a well-run process in which individuals had ample opportunities to learn about and discuss the intricacies of the question at hand. In the end, the congregation voted to allow the shaliaḥ tsibbur to choose whether or not to include immahot within the first paragraph of an Amidah; the ḥatimah of that first berakhah would remain unchanged even if the leader had included immahot within the body of the first berakhah, which sidesteps the problem of changing the concluding formula of a blessing.4 For example, Shabbat morning davening at CBS could include immahot in the first paragraph of the Shaḥarit Amidah (but not in the ḥatimah) and a more traditional Musaf Amidah, depending on the decisions of the sheliḥei tsibbur. While this solution did not please everyone, it best represents where the congregation was (and is) on this issue.

In a related form of top-down learning, Rabbi Pitkowsky often leads individual sessions for the congregation that explore how new halakhah is created through teshuvot. While the learning opportunities connected to the inclusion of immahot occurred over a set period of time in order to prime the community for halakhic change, these individual sessions are ongoing and purely leshem shamayim, or learning “for the sake of heaven.” These learning opportunities, variously offered on Shavuot or at the shul’s annual Shabbaton, have focused on Conservative teshuvot that respond to hot-button issues. While some Conservative Jews have a basic idea of how the halakhic process works in our movement, fewer have read through and dissected a modern teshuvah. By diving into this process of halakhic innovation, the rabbi both draws back the curtain, so to speak, on a core system of Conservative Judaism and invites his congregation to weigh in on the process.

While there are many differences between the story of Zelophehad’s daughters and both of these examples of top-down halakhah at CBS, the similarities that obtain are instructive. Each case moves beyond simple paradigms, where halakhic decisions can feel as if they are made “on high”—parallel to, but not part of, the world of real human interaction. In both cases, change occurs as a response to evolving communal needs and through real interactions between a community and its leader. In the biblical pericope, the laws of inheritance are altered because of a complaint brought by Zelophehad’s daughters when they see that the current system does not account for them. Moses listens to their account and, through divine consultation, creates a new law to fit the evolving needs of his people. At CBS, some congregants expressed interest in using a liturgy that better fit their spiritual views and needs with Rabbi Pitkowsky, who then led the community in a months-long process of learning that culminated in giving the shaliaḥ tsibbur the option to include immahot in the repetition of the Amidah.

Halakhic discussion is not an isolated enterprise in either case presented here. Instead, it is an iterative and productive activity. Some of the after-effects of Moses’s ruling for the daughters of Zelophehad are felt at the very end of Numbers, where tribal heads from Manasseh come to Moses and note that, if the daughters of Zelophehad, who are from Manasseh and have now inherited property, marry out of the tribe, then some of the tribal territory will be lost. Moses deals with this potential downstream effect by proclaiming that the daughters of Zelophehad have to marry within the tribe so that Manasseh retains its territorial integrity. At CBS, engagement with the halakhic process is not limited to times of communal change. In fact, congregants have a chance to learn about how halakhic decisions are made in our movement at different times throughout the year with deep-dives into Conservative teshuvot. The case of Zelophehad’s daughters and the two forms of rabbi-led learning at CBS are all strong examples of top-down halakhah—responsive to current needs, deeply connected to the community, and essentially iterative and ongoing.

Middle-Out Halakhah

In top-down halakhah, the community leader engages congregants in halakhic learning. Middle-out halakhah is still a top-down enterprise, but skilled congregants assume the role of halakhic educator in place of the mara deʾatra. Middle-out halakhic engagement is evident in the Tanakh, although it is not as common as its top-down counterpart. This mode of teaching is potentially present in a number of biblical texts that allude to it in passing; for example, Deuteronomy mentions the “Levitical priests” and “elders of Israel” as enjoining the people, alongside Moses, to keep various aspects of the Law.⁵ In addition to these subtle allusions, a few texts do elaborate on middle-out aspects of teaching, including the Deuteronomic example of a group of officials (or potentially scribal functionaries, depending on how one understands the term שוטר) who speak to the troops before battle and excuse those soldiers who meet certain criteria (Deuteronomy 20:1–8).⁶ What may be the strongest description of middle-out halakhic engagement in the Tanakh can be found in the book of Nehemiah:

On the first day of the seventh month, Ezra the priest brought the Torah before the congregation, men and women and all who could listen with understanding. He read from it, facing the square before the Water Gate, from the first light until midday, to the men and the women and those who could understand; the ears of all the people were focused on the scroll of the Torah… And Yeshua, Bani, Sherebiah, Yamin, Akkub, Shabbethai, Hodiah, Maaseiah, Kelita, Azariah, Yozabad, Hanan, Pelaiah and (the rest of) the Levites were explaining the Torah as the people were standing there. They [the Levites] read from the scroll, explaining from the Torah of God and giving (it) sense; so they [the people] understood the reading (Nehemiah 8:2–3, 7–8).

In this biblical depiction of middle-out halakhah in action, Ezra, a priest and scribe who leads the newly returned Judean community, is the primary educator, reading the Torah to the population that has come back to Jerusalem from Babylonia. While Ezra teaches the Torah to those “who could listen with understanding,” Levitical educators seemingly pick up where Ezra leaves off and explain the Torah to the people. Unlike Ezra, who is described only as reading from the Torah, these Levites both read from the scroll and explain it to the people so that they can make sense of the ideas therein. In this pericope, the Levites act as halakhic intermediaries of sorts, both reading the Torah and interpreting it in order to ensure that its ideas are accessible to the larger populace. While the Levites are somewhat set apart from the rest of the returnees through their education and tribal affiliation, they clearly connect with the rest of people, intermingling with them and teaching them Torah in such a way that it can be understood.

At CBS, congregants (regardless of tribal affiliation) draw on their knowledge and talents to become middle-out halakhic educators. In this role, individuals can volunteer to lead one-off sessions at the shul’s annual learning Shabbaton or teach “Mini U’s” that dive into different aspects of a single topic over three lessons. Although many Shabbaton sessions and “Mini-U’s” do not focus on halakhic issues per se, some do cover law, often from a practical perspective. In addition to these regular opportunities for middle-out teaching, congregants at CBS are also empowered to propose and lead extemporaneous educational undertakings that delve into different aspects of halakhah.

In January 2024, the CBS Shabbaton featured sessions especially connected to ideas of Israel, Zionism, and contemporary Judaism in light of the horrific events of October 7th and their aftermath. A number of sessions at that Shabbaton dealt with halakhic issues, including one concentrated on the laws of war. This session drew on hilkhot milḥamah from the Tanakh, the Talmud, various Rishonim, and more modern posqim to paint a complex and varied halakhic picture of a topic that had been all but theoretical for centuries but is unfortunately more timely now than ever. The congregant who led this session is an esteemed scholar who has real facility for the sources he employed but is not an expert on Jewish laws of war. Instead, he volunteered to lead a halakhic discussion on a timely topic during a session set aside for open inquiry, when congregants are encouraged to lead their peers in learning, whether or not they are specialists on the topics in question.

After the passage from Nehemiah quoted above, the Levites come together with the priests and heads of the ancestral houses to learn more Torah with Ezra. They read about Sukkot and its customs and ostensibly instruct the people how to observe the festival, so that the people could then go and build sukkot themselves. The Levites’ instruction is timely, teaching the people about the festival of Sukkot just when it should have been celebrated. While the topic could not have been further from Sukkot, the individual who led the Shabbaton session on hilkhot milḥamah similarly chose a germane and fitting subject to explore. Both examinations of halakhah were immediately applicable, although under dramatically different circumstances.

In the first half of 2025, another congregant led a three-session “Mini-U” focused on Jewish rituals of death and dying. While “Mini-U’s” are premised on lay teaching and learning, they do not necessarily focus on halakhah. The community member who led this “Mini-U” incorporated Jewish law and halakhic discussions within the larger framework of death in Judaism. The leader now works in the funerary field and is well versed in both Jewish death practices and halakhah, although he is not necessarily an expert on the halakhot of death. He leveraged his professional skills and interests to teach other congregants about an integral halakhic topic that, while potentially less taboo than it once was, is still not as discussed and studied as it should be. In explaining the Torah to the returning Judeans eager to better understand their own tradition, the Levites leaned on their professional training as well to expound on halakhic ideas that were clearly not common topics of discourse during the time of Ezra.⁷

In addition to these structured opportunities for middle-out teaching, CBS community members are encouraged to act on their own ideas for halakhic initiatives. A number of congregants have been studying Talmud in the current Daf Yomi cycle, and one of them came up with a creative way to engage others in this learning on a limited basis. For Masechet Makkot, one of the shortest tractates in the Talmud, this congregant brought together a group of middle and high school students to commit to learning the tractate on the Daf Yomi cycle. While some of these students were actively engaged with Talmud through school, others were not, and almost none had regularly learned Talmud outside of school before. Over a number of Shabbatot, this individual gathered the students to connect with one another and discuss the halakhic and aggadic highlights of Masechet Makkot from the past week, further reinforcing their learning. He also told any of the participants who were interested about an online Haredi Daf Yomi program that had resources to augment their daily study, including videos posted by learners from around the world, easily digestible summaries of the daf, and more.

This example of middle-out learning, like the case of the Levites in the time of Ezra, exposed individuals to halakhah in new settings with strong results. While not fully clear, the passage from Nehemiah above implies that the exiles who returned to Jerusalem were communally engaging with Torah in Jerusalem for the first time during the public reading of the text. This unique opportunity caused the people to start observing specific laws, including the building of sukkot for the upcoming holiday, and to react strongly to what they heard from Ezra and the Levites.

For middle and high school students learning Masechet Makkot, engaging with Talmud outside of a classroom setting and among friends from shul allowed them to explore and relate to Jewish texts in new ways. Moreover, it pushed these kids to grow as both individuals and learners. In this Daf Yomi program, participants did the learning and preparation themselves because they wanted to, not as a requirement for school. Although the learning atmosphere was relatively informal, participants felt responsible to the larger group, so they continued to engage and grapple with the text even if there were no grades involved. Participants learned as much from their peers as they did from the text itself. The leader of this group also tried to instill in participants how remarkable it was that they were engaging in Daf Yomi as middle and high school students and pushed them to understand that if they continued to seriously learn Jewish texts outside of school, they would develop skills and cultivate knowledge that few do, both in our movement and beyond. Indeed, one of the strongest effects of this Daf Yomi program was how it exposed adolescents to the potentially transformative nature of informal learning opportunities, which are the linchpins for continued Jewish growth as one leaves the structure of school and enters adulthood.

Another potentially transformative effect of this Daf Yomi program was how it challenged participants to see themselves within the larger Jewish world. All of the participants in this program were part of CBS and came from Conservative Jewish homes. Their conceptions of Judaism, whether they knew it or not, were heavily colored by the fact that they now lived (and most had grown up) in Northern New Jersey, with its strong Jewish culture. Additionally, many went to pluralistic or Modern Orthodox day schools throughout the school year and attended pluralistic, Conservative, or Modern Orthodox camps over the summer. Those individuals who used the online Daf Yomi program encountered videos and other materials made by Jews from around the world—from South Africa to Australia, Europe, and South America. Participants got a real taste of the geographical diversity of our people and the differences that may come with that diversity. Additionally, the participants who engaged with the online Daf Yomi program were often presented with materials that came from a (radically) different hashqafah than what they were used to. While these perspectives could pose some difficulties, the larger Shabbat discussion groups that gave participants opportunities to digest what they were learning were also places for them to understand similarities and points of departure between their own perspectives and those expressed in materials from the online program. Encountering these materials gave participants a way to engage with diverse Jewish viewpoints in a familiar space. Moreover, it concretized for participants the idea that the Daf Yomi project in particular, and a commitment to engaging with halakhah more generally, can be a point of connection for communities and individuals across ideological and geographical lines of difference.

This idea of Jewish learning as a unifying force is present in the text from Nehemiah as well. In that text, the community of returnees from Babylonia gathers together in Jerusalem to engage with Torah, although this community is far from homogenous. The previous chapter in Nehemiah details the different ancestral locations within Judea, Benjamin, and the wider land from where the exiled families (if not the individuals themselves) had originally come from and to which they returned (Nehemiah 7:6–60); the gathering in Jerusalem crosses those geographical boundaries and ostensibly includes returned exiles from each of these locales. Moreover, Ezra and the Levites explicitly teach Torah to both men and women together (Nehemiah 8:2–3), and because the text notes that “the entire people were assembled,” we can infer that attendees from different social, economic, and religious strata came together here as well, to say nothing of the different viewpoints or experiences these individuals must have had.⁸

Bottom-Up Halakhah

I have dubbed the final type of learning we will investigate in this article “bottom-up halakhah.” Each of the other forms of halakhic engagement that we have encountered are led by someone, whether that individual is the leader of the community or a learned layperson. In bottom-up halakhic engagement, a layperson may organize the circumstances in which learning takes place, but there is no leader to speak of. Instead, bottom-up halakhic engagement is characterized by individuals taking up the mantle of learning themselves, often in small groups. They may have broader latitude over what, how, and even when they want to connect with halakhah. The leader here can plan certain aspects of the initiative, including setting intentions and larger goals for engagement, helping participants with questions that arise during learning, or even organizing when and how participants should come together. But this individual typically does not develop source sheets or bring others on a highly curated learning journey. Instead, participants take the initiative and wrestle with halakhah themselves.

Classical Jewish sources are overwhelmingly created by and cater toward the elite (in some sense of the word), so examples of bottom-up halakhah are relatively sparse.⁹ Still, there are a few instances where subsets of the population come together and take on halakhic ḥumrot, or stringencies, themselves. A good example of this is recounted in the Talmud with the so-called Humra deRabbi Zeira:

Rav Yosef said Rav Yehuda said (that) Rav said: Rabbi (Yehuda haNasi) decreed (that) in the fields, if (a woman) saw (blood on) one day, she must sit (for) six (days without a discharge) and that (first day—as if she were menstruating, even though she could be only a minor zava who is impure for one day). (If she sees blood for) two (days), she must sit (for) six (days without a discharge) and those (first two days, for a total of eight days—as if she were a minor zava for a day and menstruating for a day). (If she sees blood for) three (days) she must sit (for) seven clean (days, for a total of ten days—as she might be a greater zava who must count seven clean days). Rabbi Zeira said: the daughters of Israel were stringent with themselves, so that even if they see a drop of blood like (the size of) a mustard (seed), they sit seven clean (days) for it (as if they are greater zavot) (b. Niddah 66a).¹⁰

The gemara above conveys two related ideas about women’s impurity as a result of vaginal discharge. The first, which was only operative in “the fields” (places where there were no rabbinic authorities), presents a stringent heuristic that tries to eliminate doubt connected to a woman’s purity.¹¹ This ruling was instituted from the top, by Rabbi Yehudah haNasi, with no mention in the text of how it was accepted by women themselves. The idea related by the third-generation Amora, Rabbi Zeira, also tries to eliminate doubt connected to women’s purity, this time through a ḥumrah that the “daughters of Israel” took upon themselves, not through a rabbinic ruling. Importantly, the statement of Rabbi Zeira is instituted from the bottom up; although it is conveyed by a rabbi in our gemara, it does not come about through a top-down decree. Instead, the idea for this ḥumrah seemingly came from the same women who were affected by the law; as such, it is a prime example of women taking halakhah into their own hands.12

Two examples of recent bottom-up halakhic engagement at CBS illustrate how transformative this type of learning can be. The first case took shape as a way to honor Rabbi Pitkowsky before he went on sabbatical in early 2025. A congregant took it upon himself to organize a community-wide program in honor of the rabbi and set a goal of studying the entire Mishnah as a congregation before the sabbatical began. While there was initially some skepticism over whether we could accomplish this goal, the congregant in charge of this endeavor pushed through, putting together a shared spreadsheet that included each chapter of the Mishnah and encouraging individuals and small groups of congregants from across the CBS community to sign up to learn. As with the construction of the Mishkan, individuals volunteered to contribute what they could toward this common goal and, in so doing, came together in a way that was nothing short of spectacular. People signed up for single chapters, pledged to learn entire masekhtot, and, at the end, studied whatever chapters were left to ensure that the congregation could meet its goal. Congregants read the Mishnah in translation, in the original Hebrew, and in a mix of the two, with and without the help of various commentaries. Individuals signed up to learn, friends learned in groups, couples volunteered to learn as one, families learned together, and grandparents took advantage of the opportunity to learn with their grandchildren.

This initiative was a wide-ranging, bottom-up endeavor that energized congregants from all walks of life to personally engage with halakhah in the service of something bigger. As such, it had an oversized impact on our congregation. One individual took on learning all of Masekhet Ḥallah because he was a regular (and accomplished) challah baker. This initiative gave him a reason to study the debates and learn the halakhah around a practice that is directly connected to his own life, helping to enrich and reinforce the ritual aspect of something that could otherwise slip into the mundane.

At the siyyum to celebrate this communal achievement and honor our mara deʾatra, we heard from a number of individuals who were especially affected by this initiative. One was an older couple, neither of whom had studied Mishnah independently before, who went on to discuss what it was like for them to learn from this foundational Jewish text as both a first-time ḥevruta and part of a larger community. Another group that told its story was a grandfather and his two young grandchildren; while the grandfather was well-versed in Torah, the trio were learning Mishnah together for the first time. When they learned chapters of Masechet Sukkot, this group went beyond the text, reinforcing that learning and bringing it to life by creating edible models of what they had studied. In both groups, the initiative spurred individuals to forge real learning partnerships, all while engaging with special people in their lives in new ways.

This second example of bottom-up halakhic engagement at CBS, like the initiative to study the entire Mishnah as a congregation, has a strong intergenerational learning component, although here intergenerational engagement through text is the goal, as opposed to a potential (desirable) outcome. In our community, a number of Orthodox synagogues run parent-child learning motsei Shabbat in the fall and winter and normally attract dozens of participants. After some CBS members attended a few of these sessions and experienced what it was like to regularly learn with their children in an energetic beit midrash setting, two individuals decided to start a similar program at CBS.

Parent-child learning at CBS takes advantage of early Shabbat start-times to offer monthly programming on Saturday night in the fall and winter; during the spring and summer, this learning shifts to Shabbat afternoon, after kiddush. A hallmark of parent-child learning is the inherently multivocal and bottom-up nature of the program. Each ḥevruta of (grand)parents and (grand)children chooses its own course of study depending on the interests and abilities of the learners involved, from reading and discussing Torah in translation to probing the depths of a sugya of Gemara in its original language (and everything in between). For those ḥevrutot that want to participate but do not know what to study, there are always engaging materials available connected to the weekly parashah or an upcoming holiday. In addition to ḥevruta-based text study, participants can expect snacks (including kosher pizza for sessions after Shabbat), prizes, games, and the unrivaled din of a beit midrash. The program attracts a wide range of learners, including children in both day school and public school, (grand)parents who regularly study Torah, those with some background but without a regular learning practice, and individuals who are relatively new to Jewish learning.

Participants in parent-child learning understand what makes the program special. For (grand)parents, it is an amazing opportunity to learn closely with (grand)children, to demonstrate for them that the study of Torah is a core value and inculcate them with a lifelong love of learning. Kids enjoy engaging with Torah over snacks in a laid-back atmosphere, spending time with friends, winning prizes, developing text skills, and getting an opportunity to share the knowledge they have acquired outside of a classroom setting with some of the people they love the most. No matter their age, learners come out of the program having learned something new and with a drive to continue that learning in the weeks and months to come.

In the Humra deRabbi Zeira, the way the daughters of Israel adopt a ḥumrah for how to deal with vaginal bleeding is deceptively simple. The brevity of the text smoothes over the inevitable complications this process of bottom-up halakhic change would have entailed; a critical mass of Jewish women would have potentially needed to bridge socioeconomic, geographical, religious, and other differences to achieve the communal buy-in needed to codify this halakhic practice in the first place and make it stick over the long term. The Meiri notes that the Humra deRabbi Zeira came about because a core of “scrupulous” women (benot zerizot) decided together that they would set themselves apart for seven days no matter the length and type of bleeding; in so doing, this group created a standard not just for themselves, but for the Jewish community as a whole.¹³

In the Humra deRabbi Zeira, as with the two CBS initiatives explored above, individuals came together in service of Jewish Law. Moreover, these three examples of bottom-up halakhic engagement reinforce the importance of halakhah as a cornerstone of contemporary community and a link that simultaneously connects us to our past and our future. Both in studying the Mishnah as a congregation and at parent-child learning, “scrupulous” individuals set the bar for others, showing them that acts of bottom-up learning and halakhic engagement are important. A few congregants, including the person who suggested the idea of studying the entire Mishnah in the first place, closely followed the Mishnah sign-ups over months and learned any free masekhtot to ensure that the congregation could complete its goal on time. In the case of parent-child learning, a core group of ḥevrutot (including the individual who suggested CBS adopt this program and the congregant who now runs it) not only make an effort to attend each monthly session but reach out to others to invite them to participate as well. Without core groups, it is doubtful whether these two bottom-up initiatives would have gotten off the ground, let alone thrive as they have.

Conclusion

Halakhah, when approached with intentionality and creativity, can become a unifying communal force that invites participation, fosters ownership, and deepens connection. When we get things right, halakhic engagement at CBS is not confined to the pulpit; it is woven into the fabric of communal experience, shaped by rabbis, lay leaders, and congregants alike. Whether through structured rabbinic teaching, peer-led inquiry, or grassroots initiatives, CBS endeavors to make halakhah dynamic, inclusive, and deeply personal.

The challenge we all face is to construct communities that truly showcase the joy and meaning of halakhah; where halakhic discourse is accessible, compelling, and relevant; where Jews of all backgrounds “opt in” to a halakhic life that is communally focused, individually fulfilling, and spiritually alive. While this article outlines what a halakhah-centered community looks like at CBS, we all know that what works for one congregation may not work for another. To make this article more actionable, I will finish with a few key takeaways from the initiatives described above that can be adapted to fit any circumstance:

1. Find inspiration anywhere, even from other communities. CBS’s parent-child learning was inspired by similar initiatives in neighboring Orthodox synagogues. What other ideas exist adjacent to our communities that we could adapt to our own needs?
2. Design content-rich initiatives that are broadly accessible. The organizer of the community-wide Mishnah study worked hard to get different congregational cohorts involved. It is easy for us to constrain ideas to the audiences most likely to be receptive to them. What would happen if we did that less often?
3. Lean in to the expertise of congregants. A CBS member with professional experience in the funerary field led a Mini-U on Jewish end-of-life rituals. What kind of expertise remains untapped that we can leverage to help us have better halakhic conversations?
4. Create spaces for open inquiry where congregants are empowered to lead. A member took the initiative to organize a Daf Yomi group for teens at shul, encouraging them to connect to Talmud in new ways. How can we catalyze more individuals to step up?
5. Do not let fear of failure constrain innovation. Despite initial skepticism, CBS completed its goal of studying the entire Mishnah before the rabbi’s sabbatical, thanks to persistent leadership and communal buy-in. All too often, we abandon good ideas because we think they will not succeed. Instead, let’s put more effort into removing the obstacles those ideas face.
6. Leverage halakhah to build bridges across difference. Multivocality is a cornerstone of the Jewish textual tradition, and an idea that came to the fore as CBS decided whether to include immahot in the Amidah. At a time when people are struggling to connect—or even talk—to individuals who hold different opinions, we should lean into Jewish life and learning to help us rebuild this lost skill.

Zack Wainer grew up in the Conservative Movement. He is the Director of Special Initiatives at Maimonides Fund and received his Ph.D. in ancient Near Eastern studies from Brown University. Along with his wife and four children, he lives in Teaneck, New Jersey and is an active member of the Congregation Beth Sholom community.

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1. ¹ See Exodus 12:1–28, 43–51; 13:3–10. While these laws associated with the Passover sacrifice are located within the larger Passover story, laws about Passover and its sacrifices are included in many other places in the Torah outside the Exodus narrative; see, for example, Exodus 34:18, 25; Leviticus 23:5–8; Numbers 28:16–25; Deuteronomy 16:1–8.

2. ² For translations of the Tanakh in this article, I’ve used the most recent NJPS as a base with my own alterations included throughout.

3. ³ See, for example, Exodus 21–23, Leviticus 17–26, and Deuteronomy 12–26 (the so-called Covenant, Holiness, and Deuteronomic Codes) for different collections of laws within the Torah.

4. ⁴ But see the well-known (and accepted) opinion of Rav in b. Berakhot 12b to change the ḥatimot of the third and eleventh berakhot during the ʿaseret yemei teshuvah, as well as the brief (but enlightening) manuscript discussion in Joseph Tabory, “The Changes to the Amidah Blessings during the Ten Days of Penitence, TheGemara.com (2016) https://thegemara.com/article/the-changes-to-the-amidah-blessings-during-the-ten-days-of-penitence/.

5. ⁵ See esp. Deuteronomy 27:1, 9.

6. ⁶ While the dynamics in this text are not fully clear, these officials seem to have some standing within the community, although they are not its leader(s). Instead, one would imagine that the leader is an empowered chieftain (as depicted in the book of Judges), a king (as is common later in the history of Israel and Judah), and/or a high priest (potentially to be identified as the priestly speaker in Deuteronomy 20:2–4).

7. ⁷ It is not explicitly stated in the text that the Levites here are teaching about ideas that were not common topics of discussion. This can be derived from the verses immediately after those quoted above (Nehemiah 8:9–12), where the people’s initial reaction at hearing the public recitation and explanation of the Torah is to weep (which one would not expect if these ideas were already common knowledge in the community); they have to be instructed by Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Levites to instead celebrate with those around them.

8. ⁸ For an idea of the different social, economic, and religious groupings among the returned exiles, see Nehemiah 7:5, 72; 8:13.

9. ⁹ Notwithstanding the times when the people’s collective initiative is praised in the Tanakh, including Moses’s response to the prophesying of Eldad and Medad—“if only all the Eternal’s people were prophets” (Numbers 11:29)—or the people’s famous response when presented with the law at Sinai, “we will do and we will listen” (Exodus 24:7).

10. ¹⁰ The translation here is an adaptation of the Koren (Steinsaltz) Talmud.

11. ¹¹ For this interpretation of “in the fields,” which is now the de facto (although certainly not the only possible) understanding here, see Rashi’s comment on this word.

12. ¹² So the Meiri on b. Berakhot 31a. Other mepharshim see a rabbinic basis for this ḥumrah; for more, see Miriam Berkowitz, “Reshaping the Laws of Family Purity for the Modern World” (approved September 13, 2006), 12–13, https://www.rabbinicalassembly.org/sites/default/files/public/halakhah/teshuvot/20052010/berkowitz_niddah.pdf.

13. ¹³ See the Meiri on b. Berakhot 31a, where this ḥumrah is presented as an example of a “conclusive halakhah” (halakhah pesuqah).

Michael McCloskey

I’m not a halakhic Jew. This may seem like a strange statement coming from an officer of the Cantors Assembly, a rabbi-cantor within a Conservative/Masorti synagogue, and moreover, someone who sits on the Committee for Jewish Laws and Standards (CJLS). Yet most of my congregants at Temple Emeth in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts are not halakhic Jews, either. Very few observe Shabbat by refraining from the thirty-nine categories of labor delineated in the Mishnah and so voluminously elaborated and interpreted by our Talmuds, Geonic literature, and legal codes.

However, I am in relationship with halakhah, as are all Jews and Jew-adjacents, whether we live within the “four cubits” or not; whether we accept or reject it, renew it, mitigate it; whether we are “Sinai” or “uprooters of mountains.” We are compelled or inspired (or something in between) to wrestle with questions of peoplehood like Who is Jewish? With whom and what can we eat? Who prepared the food, and were they treated fairly? How do the particular and universal play into our marriage choices, and what are the benefits, challenges, and consequences of our preference in partners? We are likewise presented with more universal halakhic queries such as Who is included within the category of “loving our neighbor as ourselves”? What is our obligation to the stranger in our midst? and Must we love our enemies and, if so, to what degree?

As my colleague, Aaron Alexander, who sits with me on the CJLS, teaches: Each morning, as we prepare to depart our homes, perhaps drop off kids at school, get coffee, and negotiate traffic, we are making hundreds of halakhic decisions, whether consciously or not. My goal as a rabbi, ḥazzan, and educator is to be and empower others to be conscious and mindful about such choices.

In fact, scholars of the ancient Near East like the late Tikva Freymer-Kensky point to the Babylonian origins of both halakhah and torah, (in Akkadian, alaktu and lamadu, respectively) as reflective of spiritual attunement. Both of these terms relate to roots that mean “to go” and have their origins in oracular activity, the former through consulting astrological omens and the latter through extispicy, consulting the liver or other entrails of an animal for omens. The Hebrew root of the word torah, yod-resh-heh, also carries the meaning of “to aim or shoot arrows.” In other words, there is or should be something inherently gutsy and dynamic about torah, cutting straight to the heart, impelling us to move. Alaktu, the antecedent of halakhah describes not only the astrological path of the deity but, more important to our concern, the arc of the deity’s ethics and justice. Both terms imply imitatio Dei, a desire to draw near to God through walking in God’s paths and internalizing God’s teachings.1

Halakhah, as I teach it and strive to embody it, is, to quote Frymer-Kensky, “mapped but not forced.” The Torah reveals, to my mind, our ancestors’ striving to build an awareness of a transcendent dimension within a community of former slaves. Through legislation, or proto-halakhah, our ancestors aimed to help the people embody this kind of holiness in their actions and relations, finding a sense of sovereignty and agency, as people of the King of King of Kings. What a formidable and awesome challenge this was for them and is for us!

The question that animates me as rabbi, educator, ḥazzan, and pastor, is how to bring the halakhah, or halakhic values, into conversation with the challenges of our particular time. Enlivening each siman or mishnah within a halakhic code is a talmudic sugya or a series of sugyot, and these sugyot are vivified by implicit principles and/or values that are accessible to the sensitive reader and sometimes in conflict with one another. The delicious challenge for me is empowering students to be able to discern these values and envision the conversations and concerns beneath the surface of the text.

For example, two years ago, for the siyum bekhorin, I taught about the ritual of the ʿeglah ʿarufah as envisioned not only by the biblical text, but also by the two Talmuds. When zooming out, we discovered the sages grappling with the tension between “law and order” and “social welfare.” These texts compel us to ask: what best creates a safe society wherein vulnerable people are not found dead in the public square, whether George Floyd or Yaron Lichinsky and Sarah Milgrim? Moreover, we considered these talmudic sugyot and classic commentators in light of rhetoric about “law and order” that has been utilized to justify racism, marginalization, and dehumanization from the time of Richard Nixon to the era of current president Donald Trump.

Similarly, during the COVID-19 epidemic, in the context of a course on Digital Presence from Jewish Perspectives, we did a deep dive into halakhic sources on what comprises community and being together. Our study, discussion, and debate ultimately guided us as a community to choose to continue Zoom rather than YouTube Live for our hybrid services due to the possibilities for greater interactivity and engagement in the former.

My partner and I were even moved to reflect upon our own practices a number of years ago when we taught a course on both classical and innovative Shabbat practices and, in it, reflected deeply upon the commandments and values animating Shabbat observance. How could we “walk in the ways of the Unconditional,” embodying Shabbat praxis in a way that felt personal, meaningful, and authentic? We began by hosting guests nearly every Friday evening. With the joyous addition of our children and a lot more stuff and balagan, and inspired by the advice of a friend, I began the practice of a Friday morning deep clean of our house to help engender the relaxing atmosphere of Shabbat. As our children became a bit older, we added the purchase of pastries on Friday morning to enjoy on Saturday morning before attending synagogue.

All of these home practices inspired me to consider how we could bring this atmosphere of ʿoneg Shabbat into our congregation in order to create a more cohesive community, because one important truth about halakhah is that it creates a container for community. So, about eleven years ago, in that spirit we created our Shabbat K’ley Zemer program. It entails a service with a group of leaders utilizing both their voices and their instruments (violin, clarinet, piano, percussion, and guitar) to create an atmosphere of uplifting and transporting worship. Riding upon this emotional and spiritual high, our community joins together for an equally delightful meal prepared by our in-house Moroccan-Israeli caterer. This year, we added an additional monthly program, Shishi B’yachad, which is a simplified version of K’ley Zemer, simply a Shabbat dinner preceded by Kiddush, Motsi, and a few zemirot (Sabbath hymns). Our Hebrew school students, when asked about the highlights of their year, recently told us that celebrating Shabbat together with their family and friends at Temple Emeth was the greatest joy of their year!

In addition to serving as rabbi-cantor in my shul, I am honored to teach in the Jewish philosophy department at the Academy for Jewish Religion in Yonkers, New York, the institution wherein I received my ordination. Currently, I am team-teaching a group of thirty or so students in a pluralism course, which is a requirement for cantorial and rabbinic students. Pluralism is an animating principle and practice that is integrated into all coursework and very much part of the active and democratic process of the school community.

One of the issues we have wrestled with this trimester is that of authority, asking questions such as Who wields it? and What substantiates it? One of the challenges that comes up again and again in our discussions is that of constitutive authority, which means that a judicial or legislative body itself constitutes or comprises authority. A positive characteristic of this kind of authority is that it empowers judges and legislators to interpret halakhah creatively and broadly, adapting it to the needs of the time. However, when the law-making body has a questionable agenda, emanating from a spirit of factionalism, this becomes a kind of tyranny. Our students wrestle with the implications of this model, particularly vis-à-vis decisions of the Israeli Ultra-Orthodox rabbinate regarding conversion, marriages, and the broader question of who is Jewish. Questions have been raised as well about our eroding faith in institutions when they command more than the people can bear. According to another model of authority, institutions and a corpus of law are given authority by their acceptance over time by the people. Our learners have engaged this question more specifically through the evolving stances of Conservative/Masorti Judaism toward marriage to gentiles. Finally, our future ḥazzanim and rabbanim have wrestled with the blessing and challenge of an epistemic model of authority vis-à-vis halakhah. They have discussed the kind of spiritual leaders they want to be, wielding authority through truth and knowledge but much more democratically, engaging and empowering many partners in our community to learn together and then make decisions. The greatest hurdle to this model is the high bar for literacy, let alone, fluency. This goal, although well worth it, really demands rabbi-educators and cantor-educators.

Most importantly, I envision, feel, and try to embody and teach halakhah as a polyphonic entity. “Words of the living God” demand a constant investment of vitality and life within each generation and a counterpoint of different voices, temperaments, views, expertise, and social and cultural backgrounds. You will not find this kind of counterpoint at asktherabbi.com or chabad.org, but I have found it in the halls of the Academy for Jewish Religion, teaching Talmud in my community, and in my own weekly ḥevruta study with my rabbi-cantor colleague Luis Cattan. In the words of Yehiel Mikhl Epstein from the introduction to Ḥoshen Mishpat in his halakhic code Arukh Hashulchan,

And, in truth, every dispute of the Tannaim, Amoraim, Geonim, and Poskim in order to understand the ultimate course of the matter, they are “words of the Living God,” and to each of them belongs a facet of halakhah. And contrary [to the view that disputes are by necessity toxic], this is the beauty of our holy and pure Torah! And all of the Torah is called “song,” and the “song’s” beauty is when the voices are polyphonic and this is the essence of harmony. And whoever swims in the Sea of Talmud sees the harmony in all the diverse voices.

This is the essence of being in relationship with halakhah. Human beings are not meant to be bound or coerced, but related to. This is not a monistic approach to halakhah but a pluralistic one. It is halakhah not in mono but in stereo!

Rabbi Cantor Michael McCloskey, musician, educator, and poet is Rav-Hazzan at Temple Emeth in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts. He teaches Jewish philosophy and Jewish music at the Academy for Jewish Religion and Jewish music at Hebrew College.

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1. ¹ Tikva Frymer-Kensky, Studies in Bible and Feminist Criticism (Jewish Publication Society, 2006).

Eytan Kenter

Camp is a place where rules are established quickly, passionately, and firmly. Among the halakhot of Ramah Berkshires is that Gesher (our oldest ʿedah, or camp community) must wear black on the final Friday night of their final summer as a representation of their sadness. The role of Friday night song leaders is passed down from the oldest ʿedah to the next one in the middle of the night just before that same final Shabbat. Brussels sprouts must be served on Friday night and chipwiches on Shabbat afternoons. If any of these rules were to be breached, the consequences would be steep. These are not simply camp customs. They are the halakhot of camp.

From the inception of this camp, there has existed the idea of having rules for camp and people designated to enforce them. In November 1986, at a conference to mark forty years of the Ramah movement, the specific concept of halakhah at camp was addressed. In an attempt to discuss the realities that then existed at the Ramah camps, as well as to provide a forum in which to anticipate the future of this camping movement, papers were presented by scholars and educators on the past, present, and future of Ramah. Joel Roth authored one of these papers, “Halakhah in Ramah.”1 He differentiates between a halakhist/consultant and a halakhist/educator. While the consultant is only invested in pesaq halakhah and making the rules for the camp, the educator is invested in sharing halakhah as a part of the educational goals of the camp. For this halakhist/educator, halakhah could be a means to personal and communal growth, not just an end in itself. In his paper, Rabbi Roth calls for more halakhist/educators in our Ramah camps so that halakhah can be taught and imbued into all that camp is and could yet be.

Nearly forty years later, Rabbi Roth’s paper continues to resonate for me as a Ramah director. As a Ramah camp, we certainly have religious policies. Our camp hires a mashgiaḥ for our dining hall and establishes an ʿeruv surrounding our camp for Shabbat. In addition to serving as director, I am the mara deʾatra, or halakhic decisor, for our camp, and I establish our halakhic policies, a natural role for a halakhist/consultant. The true work of camp—indeed, the magic of camp—is the work we attempt every summer as halakhist/educators, which often goes unexpressed and unnoticed. Yet this work is among the most essential components of the Ramah experience. The implied halakhic curriculum of camp is not just about what we do, but about the way that our campers come to internalize the logic of what we do. For example, our campers cannot use their cell phones while at camp. While it is not addressed daily, the experience of being off of social media and fully engaged with their peers “in the flesh” is something that they come to appreciate and internalize. Once they have understood the value, the lessons become deeper and the behaviors can last longer. The halakhot we enforce at camp not only make camp better but enrich the lives of our campers throughout the year.

We cannot explore the topic of halakhah at Ramah Berkshires without a deeper understanding of how I understand halakhah to be defined and implemented. Not only are there myriad understandings of halakhah within the broader Jewish world, there are also a wealth of definitions and applications even with Conservative Judaism. As Elliot Dorff posits in The Unfolding Tradition: Jewish Law After Sinai:

The particular processes rabbis use to interpret Jewish law depends critically on their deeper convictions concerning the nature and goals of Judaism, the place of God and human beings in determining the content of Jewish law, the degree to which historical, moral, social, and economic considerations can and should have a role in shaping and Jewish law, and the reasons why one should obey Jewish law—or at the very least pay attention to it-in the first place. All of these larger issues are treated in a person’s theory of law.2

Halakhah, gratefully, encompasses not only what the laws are, but, as its name implies, the processes, values, and contexts that determine how they are to be enforced. As Rabbis Roth and Dorff have both suggested, an exploration of the rules and policies of Ramah Berkshires would not truly represent the essential role that camp plays in creating an environment to live according to halakhah but also in how we can teach the next generation of Jews to best approach matters of Jewish law in their own lives.

One of the primary ways this is accomplished at Ramah Berkshires is through living our values. Ramah Berkshires is guided by five middot (or, core values), expressed in a mnemonic we created in 2024 in which the first letters of each aspiration spell out “Ramah.” These values are:

Ruaḥ (fun and joy)

Aḥrayut (responsibility and respect)

Malkhut (wonder)

Ahavat Yisraʾel (love of the People and Land of Israel)

Ḥaverut (friendship and community)

Everything we do at camp is meant to help us live these values. Halakhah at camp is no different. The observance of Shabbat is a perfect example of a rule at camp that is lived and loved because it is observed according to our middot.

Ruaḥ (Fun and Joy)

Everything at camp is meant to be fun and joyful; the observance of Shabbat is no different. While Ramah Berkshires is proud to offer outstanding outdoor education, performing arts, sports (and more), the parts of camp that are most often named as campers’ favorite are those connected to our observance of Shabbat. When I ask campers and returning staff what their favorite part of the camp program is, they almost always answer Kabbalat Shabbat overlooking the ʿagam (Lake Ellis) or Friday night Shirah. Last summer, when we took our oldest campers to Canada for five days, the only thing that disappointed them was missing a Shabbat at our camp. A big factor is that those same campers are the ones who lead Friday night Shirah. I myself have never experienced anything quite like Friday night Shirah—the sheer power and passion of half of our camp singing together in our ḥadar okhel (dining hall). For our campers, Shabbat is not a time where they miss out on the most fun parts of camp, Shabbat is the most fun part of camp. It is not a day when campers feel that they are missing out; it is a day they desperately do not want to miss. Ramah Berkshires imbues Shabbat with so much fun and joy that our campers realize how special a day it can be, not only at camp, but all year round.

Aḥrayut (Responsibility and Respect)

In a world that is increasingly homogeneous, it is rare to encounter communities as blessedly diverse as Ramah Berkshires. We have people at camp who observe Shabbat every week as well as those who do so only while at camp. We have people who have never used electricity on Shabbat and people who have never been off their phone for twenty-five hours. We have Israelis who have never experienced an observant, egalitarian community and non-Jews who have never before heard the Hebrew language. This is the beauty of Ramah. As such, part of the experience of Shabbat at camp is learning to live with other people whose practice is very different from our own and to be open to them and their needs. Every member of our community learns the importance of respecting our fellow campers and staff and their practices. While the communal practice is to leave off the lights in the main cabin room and leave on the lights in the bathroom, we still have campers who will turn on a flashlight to read a book or because they cannot sleep if it is fully dark. Those same campers, however, are learning that while they may use that light, they cannot shine it toward their peers or play games with it on Shabbat, as that is disrespectful of the needs and practices of other campers. They learn responsibility by remembering not to turn lights on or off as a way to assure that everyone has what they need. Many take on the aḥrayut of reading from the Torah on Shabbat, some for the very first time. Shabbat is a time of fun, but also a time that is imbued with the values of responsibility and respect in all that we do.

Malkhut (Wonder)

The value of malkhut focuses on camp as a place where campers and staff try new things and realize all that they can accomplish. While we often speak of climbing the high ropes or taking a lead role in a play as the moments when this takes place, Shabbat is also a time where malkhut is sought and often accomplished. In different ʿedot, varying amounts of Torah are read. In our youngest ʿedot, campers recite only one verse for an ʿAliyah, while our oldest campers recite the full Torah reading. This is partly an effort to be mindful that our services are age-appropriate, but it is also about affording as many campers as possible the opportunity to read from the Torah over the summer. Watching our kokhavim (rising fourth-grade) campers enthusiastically and diligently volunteer to read from the Torah every week is a highlight of my job. Dozens of kids are eager for the chance to read from the Torah and show off what they learned. Listening to ten-year-olds chant Eichah (Lamentations) or Israeli women take an ʿAliyah for the very first time underscore the halakhot we practice at camp.

Ahavat Yisraʾel (Love of Israel)

At its heart, this middah is about Ramah Berkshire’s love for Israel as well as our love for all Jewish people. We are blessed at camp to have Jewish staff from Europe, Africa, Israel, and throughout North America. During the week, these staff members serve as counselors, life guards, art educators, fishing instructors, and more. Because Shabbat is spent not engaged in these activities, we dedicate time during Shabbat for these members of our staff to share themselves and not just their talents with our campers. They do hargaʿot on Friday night, which involves sharing stories about their lives with our campers as the campers drift off to sleep at the end of an exhilarating Friday evening. They help lead peʿulot (“activities”) throughout the day that focus more on their passions than their talents. The slowing down of Shabbat and the prohibition of certain activities makes space for even more ahavat Yisraʾel to be experienced and enjoyed on that day.

Ḥaverut (Community and Friendship)

At any given time during the summer of 2025, there will be between 650 and 700 people living together at camp. It is nearly impossible to facilitate engaging programming (or honestly to find the space) to bring the whole camp together over the course of the week. Meals and plays are done in two shifts, and much of amp operates as either A side or B side. It is on Shabbat that our full camp community is able to gather together. Whether at our pre-Shabbat pep rally to celebrate our weekly successes, Kabbalat Shabbat overlooking the lake, or Havdalah with singing and dancing, there is something special about sharing these moments together. Moreover, it is on Shabbat that the deepest conversations are possible and relationships are able to grow. The slower pace of the day allows deeper connections to be established and lifelong bonds to be formed. Community and friendships are enriched by the presence of Shabbat in camp. The realization of what can be accomplished by being together and without technology is accomplished through these meaningful Shabbat experiences at Camp.

While I decided to use Shabbat to illustrate the ways in which our values inform and enrich the policies and practices of camp, Ramah Berkshires establishes rules and grounds them in our approach to Jewish life in countless other ways. Two summers ago, we made some changes to our dress code. In explaining the camp’s decision, it was made clear to our campers and their families that two Jewish values guided the decision making. While ʿanava (“modesty”) was certainly one of those middot, the community truly internalized the fact that the policy was also informed by our commitment to gender equity/egalitarianism. All too often, dress codes are overly punitive toward women, such as limiting what tops could be worn by female-identifying members of our camp community, while allowing our male-identifying community members to play sports or walk around camp without a shirt at all. The camp’s new policy was designed to assure that the expectations for all campers’ attire would be the same. We likewise created a food policy in which only nut-free, resealable, and kosher foods could be brought into camp. When discussing this rule, we ground the conversation in the values of pikuaḥ nefesh (the priority of keeping people healthy and safe) and kol Yisraʾel ʿarevim zeh bazeh (we are all responsible for one another). Our rules are not meant to be punitive or arbitrary; they are created in order to assure that we are all able to live our values. 

One of the blessings and challenges of Ramah is that it exists, much like Shabbat, according to Abraham Joshua Heschel, as a “palace in time,” allowing the camp experience to be singular and, in some ways, unable to be replicated. While the ability of Ramah Berkshires to dictate certain policies for our campers is certainly a piece of this success, I believe that our approach to instilling these values not only will inspire our campers to continue these practices when they return home at the end of the summer but are also easily replicable in all of our homes. While the famous Jewish summer camp joke has a child lamenting that they cannot do Havdalah at home because there is no lake, our program is designed to inspire campers to bring the magic and beauty of camp into their everyday lives.

The idea that actions have consequences undergirds any legal system. In camp life and Jewish law, “consequences” is erroneously understood to mean “punishments,” whether losing free time or, for the rabbis of the Talmud, lashes or karet (“expulsion”). What is often missed is that the consequences of abiding by halakhah are even more powerful than the potential consequences of breaking it. That is the lesson at the heart of the camp experience. The food we eat, the holidays we observe, and the social mores that we keep—these practices are done not because of fear of abrogation, but because of how meaningful and inspiring they are. Only with a true appreciation for the rationale behind the laws, the taʿamei hamitsvot can the fullness of the experience be accomplished. This is equally possible in our families, schools, and shuls.

Ramah Berkshires is a camp firmly guided and governed by halakhah. We pray every day, our food is kosher, Shabbat is observed, and we study Judaism daily. But that is not what halakhah is. The practices of Jewish life, just like the practices within camp, are ever-changing. Camp rules can and will always adjust over time. Halakhah, the approach to applying and enforceing those rules, is what remains constant. We encourage our campers to observe and perpetuate halakhah not only by exposing them to camp practices that are inspiring, but also by making sure they understand why the rules are what they are. Only by being required to be off their phones for the summer can our campers realize how impactful this can be in their daily lives and every Shabbat. Experiencing and truly comprehending the deep meaning behind our Jewish laws and practices is what inspires them to engage meaningfully with them at camp and beyond.

It is a tremendous privilege to be the cirector of a Ramah camp. I feel this most strongly in my ability to help train, inspire, and learn from the next generation of leaders in our movement and in our world. Perhaps in no way are we more able to accomplish that goal than through our approach to halakhah at Ramah Berkshires. Rabbi Ḥanina taught, “I have learned much from my teachers, more from my colleagues, and most from students.” Thank you to my teachers, colleagues, friends, and campers who continue to inspire me in this work every day. I am so glad to be able to share those chipwiches with you every Shabbat afternoon.

Rabbi Eytan Kenter serves as Director of Camp Ramah in the Berkshires.

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1. ¹ Joel Roth, “Halakhah in Ramah,” in The Ramah Experience: Community and Commitment, ed. Sylvia Ettenberg and Geraldine Rosenfield (Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989), 63–68.

2. ² Elliot Dorff, The Unfolding Tradition: Jewish Law after Sinai (Oxford University Press, 2005), xi.

Steven Wernick

Beth Tzedec Congregation, located in Toronto, is the largest Conservative synagogue in North America. It is a traditional, egalitarian synagogue deeply rooted in the rhythms of halakhic Judaism and committed to the vision of an inclusive Jewish community. The landscape of Conservative Judaism in Toronto is somewhat distinct from its American counterpart. While egalitarianism and the inclusion of the queer community emerged as pressing issues for many American congregations in the 1990s and early 2000s, these questions arrived later and with more caution in the Canadian context. Canadian congregations often maintained more traditional practices for longer, shaped by different communal dynamics and patterns of immigration.

When I was invited to interview for the position of senior rabbi at Beth Tzedec Congregation in Toronto, one of the defining criteria articulated by the search committee was a desire for “more inclusive halakhic decisions.” This phrase stuck with me. It was not a call for halakhic abandonment but a yearning for a halakhic approach that took seriously both tradition and inclusion. As we clarified the committee’s intent, it became evident that Beth Tzedec wanted religious decisions to be framed and supported by halakhic process yet responsive to the evolving moral consciousness of a diverse and engaged congregational community. This philosophy shaped our most significant halakhic undertaking to date: the adoption of a policy to perform same-gender weddings.

This essay is not about the halakhic permissibility of such ceremonies per se, but about how we teach halakhah in the context of real, contemporary congregational life. Specifically, I reflect on how our community was brought into serious engagement with halakhic texts and process, and how halakhah itself was taught through a transparent, respectful, and inclusive model of decision-making.

Framing the Question

Our process began by recognizing that our community was already asking: If we proclaim ourselves as an inclusive and egalitarian Conservative synagogue, how do we treat same-gender couples who seek marriage under our huppah? How do we teach our values without contradiction or compromise?

To answer these questions, we began with the halakhic literature. Our ritual committee and then the congregation at large undertook a structured study of the relevant teshuvot of the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards (CJLS), specifically:

• The teshuvah by Elliot Dorff, Daniel Nevins, and Avram Reisner (2006) permitting commitment ceremonies for same-sex couples and the ordination of openly gay and lesbian rabbis based on kavod habriyot (human dignity).
• The teshuvah by Joel Roth (2006) upholding the traditional prohibition based on Leviticus 18:22 and the halakhic system’s constraints.
• The dissenting paper by Gordon Tucker (submitted 2006), which critiqued the halakhic method of the CJLS and proposed a broader theological and legal framework for halakhic development, ultimately supporting full normalization.

Each paper was discussed not only for its conclusions but also for its methods. This was a teaching moment. Congregants and committee members were introduced to how halakhic arguments are constructed, the nature of precedent, and the interplay between law and evolving community norms. Rabbi Tucker’s paper, while not accepted by the CJLS, became a pivotal document. As mara deʾatra, I found his theological and jurisprudential approach most compelling for our context.

Halakhic Principles Guiding the Process

In addition to kavod habriyot and puq ḥazi maʾi ʿama davar (“go out and see what the people are doing”), several additional halakhic principles framed our deliberations:

• Lo titosh torat imekha (“Do not abandon the teaching of your mother,” Proverbs 1:8), which reflects our commitment to maintaining fidelity to the halakhic process even as we adapt it for contemporary needs.
• Horaʾat shaʿah, or the concept of a temporary ruling made in response to urgent or emergent communal needs. While our ruling is permanent, the spirit of horaʾat shaʿah informed our sensitivity to the moment and the needs of our community.
• Darkhei shalom (“The ways of peace”), which promotes communal harmony and was central to how we taught and applied halakhah in an inclusive manner.
• Koaḥ dehetera ʿadif (“The power to permit is greater [than the power to forbid]”), which acknowledges that leniencies, when responsibly applied, reflect halakhic courage and vision.

Puq ḥazi: Seeing the People

Teaching halakhah means not only studying texts but also attending to lived experience. As part of our process, we hosted a session with members of the LGBTQ+ community. They shared how exclusion from Jewish ritual impacts them and their families. The stories were personal, often painful, and deeply humanizing. We learned how decisions about ritual and recognition land in the hearts of people. We also examined the impact on the ceremony itself. We studied the egalitarian same-gender ketubbahs and ritual frameworks by Pamela Barmash and Gail Labovitz. Rabbi Labovitz’s work provided a model that was both rooted in halakhic language and adapted for new realities.

Community Learning and Transparency

Teaching halakhah means modeling it as an accessible, living tradition. We hosted public sessions to discuss the teshuvot. We invited Gordon Tucker to speak directly to our congregation about halakhic method, meta-halakhah, and his dissenting paper. The presence of our emeritus rabbi, Benjamin Friedberg z″l, at every session added gravitas. At the end of the process, Rabbi Friedberg, who did not agree with the ultimate conclusion, told me that, while he dissented from the outcome, “the scholarship and process were first rate.” His comment underscored our true goal: not uniformity but integrity. We were not striving for unanimous agreement. We were striving to be taken seriously.

Outcomes and Reflections

The decision to perform same-gender weddings was announced in June 2022. We adopted Rabbi Labovitz’s ceremony and ketubah and made it available to couples of all genders. The response was overwhelmingly positive. We lost a few families but gained many more. The process was characterized by seriousness, transparency, and care. And in teaching halakhah through this process, we elevated halakhic literacy, communal ownership, and the dignity of all.

Halakhah, when taught in context, becomes more than a rulebook. It becomes a mirror of our moral commitments and a path to sacred action. At Beth Tzedec, we did not teach about halakhah; we taught through halakhah. That, I believe, is the essential nature and strength of Conservative Judaism.

Rabbi Steven C. Wernick is the Senior Rabbi of Beth Tzedec Congregation in Toronto and a leading voice in contemporary Jewish life. A former CEO of the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism, he is known for weaving Torah, moral clarity, and strategic leadership into the urgent questions facing the Jewish community today.