Joel Roth, Hakol kol Yaʿakov. The Institute of Applied Halakhah at the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies and The Jewish Theological Seminary, 2023.
David Golinkin, ʿAseh lekha rav, volume 2. The Institute of Applied Halakhah at the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies and The Jewish Theological Seminary, 2024.
The two volumes being reviewed are recent publications of The Institute of Applied Halakhah at The Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem. The first volume, Hakol kol Yaʿakov, is a collection of halakhic essays and responsa by Rabbi Joel Roth spanning a number of decades, while the latter, ʿAseh lekha rav, volume 2, is a collection of more recent responsa by Rabbi David Golinkin. These two figures have been central to the development of halakhah within the Conservative and Masorti movements for many years through their writings, the many students whom they have taught, and their public speaking. On the one hand, I approach writing this review with the hesitation of putting my head between two large mountains (t. Yevamot 1:10), but there is also no beit midrash without something new (b. Hagigah 3a). The following are a few thoughts that came to mind when reading these two important volumes; these thoughts are less about specific halakhic opinions and more about process, method, and the place of halakhah within our communities. I will begin with Roth’s volume and then Golinkin’s.
In his responsum “May a Minor Read from the Torah,” Roth demonstrated conclusively that until the Magen Avraham, a seventeeth-century commentary on the Shulchan Arukh by Avraham Gumbiner, the overwhelming majority of halakhic opinion was that it was permitted for minors to read from the Torah. “All the primary sources allow a minor to read from the Torah. The commentators on those primary sources, though occasionally adding minor restrictions, clearly accept the ruling found in those sources.” Roth then continues:
Therefore, in the absence of any better explanation of the reasoning of the Magen Avraham, except for the possibility that he felt that minors, by definition, do not know lemi mevarekhim (a contention we find difficult, to say the least), we must follow the clear and unambiguous ruling found in the primary sources, supported by many of the commentators (Roth, 104).
I am less concerned with the topic itself than with the claim that “we must follow the clear and unambiguous ruling found in the primary sources” (emphasis mine). This statement is somewhat tempered toward the end of the responsum, where he writes that “[it] therefore seems that, given the halachic sources discussed and the conditions of our synagogues, children under 13 years of age may be allowed to read from the Torah” (Roth, 105, emphasis mine). Halakhic discourse is often the result of the tension between what we understand to be a clear halakhic opinion found in literary sources and the behavior and expectations of our communities, as well as our desire to bridge the gap between these factors. The halakhic sources may unequivocally permit a certain behavior, but that does not mean that we must adopt that behavior when it goes against accepted communal traditions.
The second issue that I want to address is the role of a centralized law committee in our movement, whether it be the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards (CJLS) or the Vaʿad halakhah in Israel. In his responsum “Kashrut of Cheese: A New Issue,” Roth addresses the possible implications of new information about the production of cheeses manufactured without rabbinic supervision and whether certain ingredients have the status of davar ḥadash, an ingredient of non-kosher origin that has gone through so much change that it is no longer considered non-kosher. After examining the halakhic sources and modern cheese production, Roth offers a number of possible options that the CJLS could take, and I want to bring the following quote from the option that Roth supports.
The fourth option, the one I recommend, is for the Law Committee to disseminate this paper to the membership of the RA in order to present the facts before them, and suffice with that action alone. The advantage of this course of action is that it fulfills our responsibility to let our membership know that there is some new information about the kashrut of cheeses that they ought, at least, to, be aware of. This paper will provide them with the relevant data and allow them to act responsibly as marei de-atra [halakhic authorities for their communities]. In this instance, I do not think we will be remiss in our obligation to provide guidance to the membership of the RA by taking this action. Individual rabbis may be less qualified than the CJLS to determine whether something is halakhically davar hadash, and they may be unaware of certain decisions of the Law Committee that are based upon a psychological premise. Once provided with that information, however, individual rabbis are not less qualified than the CJLS to determine for themselves whether the psychological factors still apply and to take whatever actions they deem appropriate (Roth, 129–30). [The psychological factors are how people would relate to a davar ḥadash of pig origin.]
The status and role of law committees within our movement has been discussed on more than one occasion, and here Roth sees the CJLS as a vehicle for empowering individual rabbis to make their own decisions and not just defer to a decision of the Law Committee. I would even go so far as seeing its role as empowering all individuals, not only rabbis, to make their own informed halakhic decisions.
These examples and others in this volume show Roth’s sensitivity to the place and role of the halakhic process within our communities and institutions, whether someone is a rabbinic leader, a Ramah camper, or a member of a Conservative synagogue.
Golinkin’s ʿAseh lekha rav, volume 2 (ALR) consists of responsa that were previously published in his Responsa in a Moment, volume 5 (RIM) along with some additional material. I would like to bring a few examples from Golinkin’s ALR to illustrate how critical scholarship and historical inquiry have a role to play in the halakhic decision-making process.
The first is an example that Golinkin himself brings in his introduction, where he briefly discusses his methodology of writing responsa; it is a source that is brought in a responsum addressing mourning practices during the COVID pandemic. Golinkin corrects the text of a responsum of the Maharil that is brought by Moses Isserles in his commentary on the Shulchan Arukh. On the basis of the corrupted text, it seems that the Maharil was of the opinion that “one does not need to mourn in time of plague” (RIM, 24; ALR, 15). Golinkin shows that the corrected text actually addresses only one mourning practice, that of sitting on the ground.
The importance of Golinkin’s thorough examination of the sources becomes clear when you compare his discussion with that of the respected Orthodox halakhic authority Asher Weiss. In his volume of responsa on the COVID pandemic, Minḥat Asher: Mageifat hakorona, Weiss devotes a number of responsa to mourning practices during a pandemic, and in each of them he has to address the Maharil’s opinion (see responsa nos. 145–47). Weiss, whose responsa demonstrate a far-reaching command of halakhic literature, offers numerous explanations as to why this opinion was not and should not be accepted as halakhah, but that it is a corrupted text is not one of them.
A second instance of how textual scholarship might influence halakhic decision-making relates to food cooked by a non-Jew. The common term to describe this area of halakhah is Bishul ʿakum, which literally means food cooked by an idol worshiper. As Golinkin shows, clarifying the correct reading of halakhic sources is essential when addressing this issue. ʿAkum is an abbreviation of ʿovdei kokhavim umazalot—namely, idol worshippers, a term that was introduced into the Talmud and halakhic literature by Christian censorship. Therefore we need to stress at the outset that the correct term for food cooked by non-Jews is bishulei goyim and not bishulei ʿakum. The reading goyim (non-Jews) appears in the uncensored editions of m. Avodah Zarah 2:6, Rambam, Laws of Forbidden Foods, 17:9ff., and Shulchan Arukh, Yoreh Deʿah 113. The change has halakhic significance. If the Mishnah was referring to food cooked by ʿakum or idol-worshippers, it would be possible to permit these foods today because Muslims, according to all posqim, and Christians, according to many, are not idol worshippers. But the original reading is goyim and not ʿakum. (RIM, 245–46; ALR,137–38)
These are but two of the many examples in which Golinkin weaves into his responsa the fruits of textual and historical scholarship, showing how different disciplines can help enrich the halakhic decision-making process.
Both Joel Roth and David Golinkin have been indefatigable and inspiring sources for us and helped create what I would call a “usable halakhic past” to help guide our lives and communities. These two volumes are worthy representations of their scholarly output, and we can only hope to continue to benefit from their work.
Rabbi Michael Pitkowsky, Ph.D., is the Senior Salesforce Administrator at the Kaplen JCC on the Palisades and book review editor of this journal.
Gila Fine, The Madwoman in the Rabbi’s Attic: Rereading the Women of the Talmud. Maggid, 2024.
For Gila Fine, author of The Madwoman in the Rabbi’s Attic, a reader’s relationship with the stories of the Talmud reflects a person’s relationships with any Other. Fine offers four of the most common responses to complicated talmudic texts, which parallel how humans deal with difficult Others. The first is all-out rejection, an assumption that a text is too difficult and will never speak to the reader. “This relationship can never be.” A second possible response is accommodation, where the text stays unchallenged, and readers “sacrifice their identity” to make the relationship work. A third response is subjection, where the reader redefines the text and forces it to meet the modern era. “The text loses its integrity so that the readers may maintain theirs.”
Fine chooses a fourth approach for her book, one built on negotiation. Instead of pushing her own reading onto the text, she understands her role as one part of a mutual connection.
We must bring our whole selves to the encounter with the talmudic text, as we must allow the Talmud to bring its full self to its encounter with us…. It is only when we are who we are, and accept the Talmud for what it is, that a true relationship, a real act of reading—where we learn and evolve and grow—can occur. (xv–xvi)
For those of us who love Talmud but wonder if it loves us back, this book offers us a powerful tool for breaking down any form of dysfunction.
Fine understands “revision” in Adrienne Rich’s sense of the word, as a re-visioning, a “seeing with fresh eyes” that involves a new way of looking at some of the most famous stories of women in the Talmud. For each one, she unpacks a classic female archetype by exploring the cultural and literary history that created it. Using a literary perspective, Fine analyzes the language, the cultural context, and the locations where each story takes place, ultimately breaking down each archetype to reflect a “complex, extraordinary woman, as misunderstood by her own world as by generations of readers” (xiii).
As one example, Fine associates Beruria with the archetype of overreacher (or, as Fine calls her, The Overreacherix) in the tradition of Prometheus, Sisyphus, and Icarus. While these mythic figures reach for the sky or the heavens, Beruria’s overreach involves stepping over to a man’s side of the world, “engaging in a typical masculine pursuit…an act of hubris.” Looking through the lens of the rabbis, this is flying too close to the sun. Is this their critique of Beruria or simply a recognition of the state of the world? Fine suggests the latter, offering a perhaps overly generous reading, as she understands the rabbis to be critiquing rather than creating these gender norms. “It is through their stories that the rabbis articulated their ethics of otherness.” Is this enough to let the rabbis off the hook? Or is it a wishful reading? By playing with this otherness, are they not also cementing it into reality? Fine’s arguments open up a whole series of fascinating questions, begging for a ḥevrutah (or book group, for that matter) to unpack and discuss.
In addition to the feminist rereadings, Fine’s book is replete with amazing new ideas about Talmud in general, including a surprisingly original read of tannur shel ʿAkhnai, among other classics, and articulating the life lessons in passages that we may know well. For instance, in the rabbinic story of the destruction of the Temple, the Talmud suggests that the humility of Rabbi Zekharia ben Avkulas is what brought it about. Fine brings home the core teaching embodied in that suggestion:
For this, precisely, is when humility goes wrong. When it undermines our confidence. When it paralyzes. When the fear of making a mistake prevents us from doing anything—which is often the greatest mistake of all. So humble are the rabbis, so lacking in conviction and a sense of their own authority, they dare not take a stand where one is urgently needed (72).
The breadth of Fine’s research is astounding, as she calls on the work of scholars, philosophers, and influencers from across the ages and makes her footnotes almost as interesting as the body of the book. It is in the rereadings that she sometimes seems to push her faith in the rabbis too far. Did they really “see women as fully fledged human beings who ought to be regarded as such?” Did they really “wish for all Others to be treated this way?” It feels like an overly optimistic fantasy to imagine that the rabbis saw women in this generous light, but even when the reader might be unconvinced, the book lifts up these stories and brings fresh eyes to our reading. This is a powerful addition to the study of aggadah, allowing readers a way in, a path to bringing our own voices to the text with integrity. It is good therapy for those of us who want an open, honest relationship with the Talmud, and, just as important, it is a loving, joyful read.
Rabbi Abby Sosland is the Morah Ruchanit (Spiritual Advisor) and Talmud chair at the Leffell School in Westchester, New York.