It is customary to light eight candles during the Jewish festival of Hanukah, one per night. The question is this: In which order should they be lit? On this issue two famous rabbinic schools of the first century CE disagreed. We read in the Talmud: “Beth Shammai maintains: On the first night eight lights are lit and thereafter they are gradually reduced. However, Beth Hillel says: On the first night one is lit and thereafter they are progressively increased” (BT Shab. 21b).
What is Shammai’s justification? They argue that the candle lighting should correspond to the sacrifices offered during the festival of Sukkot with one less each day (cf. Num. 29). The school of Hillel, however, argues that in matters of holiness we must increase and not reduce.
The difference between the two schools has to do with the way in which each views the festival. Shammai considers the whole picture, whereas Hillel wants to emphasize the potential, the ever-increasing power of the mind, of the human will, of God’s blessings. Today, Jewish communities around the world follow the pattern of Hillel. We, therefore, add one more candle each night to the Hanukah Menorah, called, Hanukiyah.
Hillel’s message makes sense to me. When it comes to questions of religion and spirituality, we need to take things one step at a time. Ultimately faith, which is certainty of one’s convictions, requires a leap of faith. For, we are all fallible. However, as we absorb more knowledge about the universe and as we engage in a variety of spiritual exercises, our sensitivity increases, and with that comes a deepening sense of sanctity and wonder for all existence.
The adding of the candles reminds us that religious conscientiousness is broadened slowly. We build one block upon the other. At times, we stumble, we are burdened with questions, we struggle with doubts and with answers that do not satisfy the mind. But, with faith based on a positive attitude, we plug along, and discover glimpses of lights here and there, finding deeper meaning and purpose in our existential condition that we never knew existed before. And that spells human growth.
Rifat Sonsino
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
HOW HAVE THE MIGHTY FALLEN?
It seems as if every time we get a newspaper or listen to the news on TV, we learn that another American soldier has been killed in Iraq or in Afghanistan. Their families are devastated, loved ones mourn in profound grief, and we, as a nation, suffer deep pain. We recall the words of King David, “How Have the Might Fallen?” (II Sam. 1: 25), words he allegedly wrote in reference to his beloved friend Jonathan and his father, King Saul, who had died in battle against the Philistines.
In our days, we have just started to learn how appreciate the sanctity of human life, and therefore are capable of sharing the agony of every family member who looses a son or a daughter in war. This is the reason why on Oct. 29, 2009 President Obama flew before dawn to the Dover Air Force Base in Delaware to welcome the 18 Afghan war soldiers who died recently. It is also the reason why Israel is agonizing as it tries to obtain the freedom of one single Israeli soldier, Gilad Shalit, who had been abducted by Hamas on June 25, 2006 during a cross border raid, even if it means releasing hundreds of Arab murderess from Israeli jails. Human life counts.
By comparison, a cursory survey of past wars presents such a dismal image of human loss that it is utterly unimaginable for many of us now. Just look at these figures: During our Revolutionary War, 4435 soldiers died, and 6188 were wounded. During the Civil war, the number dramatically went up, for both North and South, to 191,963 dead and 354,805 wounded. At the end of the World War II, they have counted 291,557 US dead with 671,846 wounded. These numbers are beyond belief, but still not as bad as what happened to the rest of the world. It is estimated that between 50 to 70 million people died during this war, with the USSR losing around 26 million, Germany between 6 to 8 million, and Jews alone 6 million.
Some of these atrocities are attributable to some individuals or governments. Stalin alone was responsible for the dead of 17 million of his compatriots in the Soviet Union, and the Chinese cultural revolution of 1965-1968 caused the lives of about 30 million. In our time, starting in April 1994, and for the following 100 days, about 800,000 Tutsis were murdered by Hutu militias. These numbers are unfathomable. It is beyond comprehension in any civilized society.
Ancient Rabbis proclaimed the sanctity of every human being, and declared that “if a man causes the death of a single human being, Scripture imputes it to him as though he had caused a whole world to perish.” And, conversely, “when a person saves another one, Scriptures imputes to him as though he had saved a whole world” (M Sanh. 4: 5). Every human being, I maintain, is sacred, and deserves to be treated as such. No one has the right to take another person’s life, unless it is in self-defense or to stop the carnage caused by this individual. And that includes, the death penalty imposed by governments. Life is sacred and a gift from God. When will we learn this lesson, and internalize it so that it becomes part of our nature? I don’t think we are there yet. Maybe, some day.
Rifat Sonsino
In our days, we have just started to learn how appreciate the sanctity of human life, and therefore are capable of sharing the agony of every family member who looses a son or a daughter in war. This is the reason why on Oct. 29, 2009 President Obama flew before dawn to the Dover Air Force Base in Delaware to welcome the 18 Afghan war soldiers who died recently. It is also the reason why Israel is agonizing as it tries to obtain the freedom of one single Israeli soldier, Gilad Shalit, who had been abducted by Hamas on June 25, 2006 during a cross border raid, even if it means releasing hundreds of Arab murderess from Israeli jails. Human life counts.
By comparison, a cursory survey of past wars presents such a dismal image of human loss that it is utterly unimaginable for many of us now. Just look at these figures: During our Revolutionary War, 4435 soldiers died, and 6188 were wounded. During the Civil war, the number dramatically went up, for both North and South, to 191,963 dead and 354,805 wounded. At the end of the World War II, they have counted 291,557 US dead with 671,846 wounded. These numbers are beyond belief, but still not as bad as what happened to the rest of the world. It is estimated that between 50 to 70 million people died during this war, with the USSR losing around 26 million, Germany between 6 to 8 million, and Jews alone 6 million.
Some of these atrocities are attributable to some individuals or governments. Stalin alone was responsible for the dead of 17 million of his compatriots in the Soviet Union, and the Chinese cultural revolution of 1965-1968 caused the lives of about 30 million. In our time, starting in April 1994, and for the following 100 days, about 800,000 Tutsis were murdered by Hutu militias. These numbers are unfathomable. It is beyond comprehension in any civilized society.
Ancient Rabbis proclaimed the sanctity of every human being, and declared that “if a man causes the death of a single human being, Scripture imputes it to him as though he had caused a whole world to perish.” And, conversely, “when a person saves another one, Scriptures imputes to him as though he had saved a whole world” (M Sanh. 4: 5). Every human being, I maintain, is sacred, and deserves to be treated as such. No one has the right to take another person’s life, unless it is in self-defense or to stop the carnage caused by this individual. And that includes, the death penalty imposed by governments. Life is sacred and a gift from God. When will we learn this lesson, and internalize it so that it becomes part of our nature? I don’t think we are there yet. Maybe, some day.
Rifat Sonsino
Friday, November 20, 2009
HOW FREE ARE WE?
Many of us grew up with the belief that we are free to do whatever we want. The sky is the limit, we are told. Yet, others maintain that God, being omniscient, determines everything. All we do is follow our fate. This is not a new issue. It has been debated by philosophers for centuries. And it is not going to go away, because we confront it everyday.
What is the Jewish position on this puzzling question? In many parts of the Bible, the hand of God can be seen not only in miraculous interventions (like, the parting of the Reed Sea) but also in ordinary life experiences. Take for instance the case of Joseph: the brothers may have had a scheme in mind when they sold him to others, but it was ultimately God that had a different pre-ordained plan for him. Joseph is only a tool in God’s hands; he is to become a life saver: “Do not be distressed or reproach yourselves,” Joseph says to his brothers in Egypt, “because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you” (Gen. 45: 5). Here is another example: God “hardens the heart of the Pharaoh” (e.g., Ex. 10: 1), and then punishes him for the king’s evil acts. It is not fair! If God knows ahead of time what we will do, thus controlling our actions, how can we be free to do good or not, and, therefore, be responsible?
The Bible does not deal with this philosophical question systematically. On the one hand it states: “I have set before you life and prosperity, death and adversity” (Deut. 30: 15), yet, on the other, it maintains that “Many designs are in a man’s mind; But it the Lord’s plan that is accomplished” (Prov. 19: 21).
The matter became of greater concern for the early Rabbis and medieval Jewish philosophers. Some Rabbis have recognized the dilemma but left it unsolved: Thus, in the 2nd cent. CE, Rabbi Akiba taught: “All is foreseen but freedom of choice is given” (Avot 3: 19). In medieval times Crescas argued that God has total foreknowledge and therefore humans are not free. Gersonides maintained the opposite: we have some freedom; this is because God only knows things in general, not in their particularity. Maimonides compromised by saying that, everything is produced by a cause, and, consequently, God is ultimately responsible for our actions. So, when we do something, we imagine that we are doing it freely, without realizing that these acts are the workings of the divine providence, which is unknown to the human mind.
Maybe Maimonides is right. We do not fully understand how the world operates, and we act with the assumption that we have free will. In reality, I maintain, our freedom is very limited. At this very moment, I would love to be in Hawaii lounging by the beach, but I cannot be there, because of my family and professional commitments here and now. Similarly, I would love to be able to play the violin like Yitzhak Perlman but I cannot, simply because I do not have his talent.
So, I say, we do have some freedom: I can opt to give to this charity instead of that one; I can go to a lecture or to a movie; I can sign up for this course or another; I can decide to invest in this stock or the other one; but beside these mundane options, our freedom is rather limited by our biology and conscience. But there is plenty in that area to keep us busy and fulfilled. Also don’t forget that no amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck!
Rifat Sonsino
Nov. 20, 2009
What is the Jewish position on this puzzling question? In many parts of the Bible, the hand of God can be seen not only in miraculous interventions (like, the parting of the Reed Sea) but also in ordinary life experiences. Take for instance the case of Joseph: the brothers may have had a scheme in mind when they sold him to others, but it was ultimately God that had a different pre-ordained plan for him. Joseph is only a tool in God’s hands; he is to become a life saver: “Do not be distressed or reproach yourselves,” Joseph says to his brothers in Egypt, “because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you” (Gen. 45: 5). Here is another example: God “hardens the heart of the Pharaoh” (e.g., Ex. 10: 1), and then punishes him for the king’s evil acts. It is not fair! If God knows ahead of time what we will do, thus controlling our actions, how can we be free to do good or not, and, therefore, be responsible?
The Bible does not deal with this philosophical question systematically. On the one hand it states: “I have set before you life and prosperity, death and adversity” (Deut. 30: 15), yet, on the other, it maintains that “Many designs are in a man’s mind; But it the Lord’s plan that is accomplished” (Prov. 19: 21).
The matter became of greater concern for the early Rabbis and medieval Jewish philosophers. Some Rabbis have recognized the dilemma but left it unsolved: Thus, in the 2nd cent. CE, Rabbi Akiba taught: “All is foreseen but freedom of choice is given” (Avot 3: 19). In medieval times Crescas argued that God has total foreknowledge and therefore humans are not free. Gersonides maintained the opposite: we have some freedom; this is because God only knows things in general, not in their particularity. Maimonides compromised by saying that, everything is produced by a cause, and, consequently, God is ultimately responsible for our actions. So, when we do something, we imagine that we are doing it freely, without realizing that these acts are the workings of the divine providence, which is unknown to the human mind.
Maybe Maimonides is right. We do not fully understand how the world operates, and we act with the assumption that we have free will. In reality, I maintain, our freedom is very limited. At this very moment, I would love to be in Hawaii lounging by the beach, but I cannot be there, because of my family and professional commitments here and now. Similarly, I would love to be able to play the violin like Yitzhak Perlman but I cannot, simply because I do not have his talent.
So, I say, we do have some freedom: I can opt to give to this charity instead of that one; I can go to a lecture or to a movie; I can sign up for this course or another; I can decide to invest in this stock or the other one; but beside these mundane options, our freedom is rather limited by our biology and conscience. But there is plenty in that area to keep us busy and fulfilled. Also don’t forget that no amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck!
Rifat Sonsino
Nov. 20, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
HOW I GOT TO KNOW PROF. GERSHOM SCHOLEM
Gershom Scholem was the founder of the modern academic studies of Jewish Mysticism, Kabbalah. Born in Berlin in 1897, he studied philosophy and Hebrew at the University of Berlin. In 1923 he left for Palestine and became the head of the department of Hebrew and Judaica at the National Library. Subsequently he taught at the Hebrew University until his retirement in 1965. He died in 1982 in Jerusalem at the age of 85.
His writings on Jewish mysticism set the pattern for the study of Kabbalah from a critical and historical perspective. Among his most important books are, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, On Kabbalah and its Symbolism, Sabbatai Zevi; The Mystical Messiah; The Messianic Idea in Judaism. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber once remarked, "All of us have students, schools, but only Gershom Scholem has created a whole academic discipline!"
When I was a rabbinic student at the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, Ohio, Dr. Scholem came to the College to do research on Kabbalah. He remained in residence just a short time, from March to May of 1966. In the 60’s Jewish mysticism was not an academic subject for which many of us would have signed up. Rationalism dominated the rabbinic curriculum. Consequently, I never had Dr. Scholem as a teacher but his room was adjacent to mine in the dormitory. Being a neighbor, I saw him often in the hall, library or the dining room. Once in a while, especially on a Saturday night, if I did not have something special to do, I would knock at his door, and ask him if he wanted to go out. He was by himself and not always socially busy. So, on a number of occasions we would hit a movie or get a cup of coffee at a local diner.
Dr. Scholem was a very formal individual, always wearing tie and jacket, even when we went to see a show. He was a stern man with a dry sense of humor. He spoke English well, though with a strong German accent. With me, he was friendly and cordial. I don’t remember what we talked about during our outings. But one thing is sure: I had no idea then that I was in the company of one of the most insightful scholars of our generation. It was only later on, when I started to read about Jewish mysticism that I realized how lucky I was to have spent quality time with Prof. Scholem. I wish I knew then what I know now, and could have asked him so many questions that still puzzle me about Kabbalah, but I will have to contend myself with a few wonderful memories I have of him. Well, c’est la vie!
Rifat Sonsino
His writings on Jewish mysticism set the pattern for the study of Kabbalah from a critical and historical perspective. Among his most important books are, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, On Kabbalah and its Symbolism, Sabbatai Zevi; The Mystical Messiah; The Messianic Idea in Judaism. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber once remarked, "All of us have students, schools, but only Gershom Scholem has created a whole academic discipline!"
When I was a rabbinic student at the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, Ohio, Dr. Scholem came to the College to do research on Kabbalah. He remained in residence just a short time, from March to May of 1966. In the 60’s Jewish mysticism was not an academic subject for which many of us would have signed up. Rationalism dominated the rabbinic curriculum. Consequently, I never had Dr. Scholem as a teacher but his room was adjacent to mine in the dormitory. Being a neighbor, I saw him often in the hall, library or the dining room. Once in a while, especially on a Saturday night, if I did not have something special to do, I would knock at his door, and ask him if he wanted to go out. He was by himself and not always socially busy. So, on a number of occasions we would hit a movie or get a cup of coffee at a local diner.
Dr. Scholem was a very formal individual, always wearing tie and jacket, even when we went to see a show. He was a stern man with a dry sense of humor. He spoke English well, though with a strong German accent. With me, he was friendly and cordial. I don’t remember what we talked about during our outings. But one thing is sure: I had no idea then that I was in the company of one of the most insightful scholars of our generation. It was only later on, when I started to read about Jewish mysticism that I realized how lucky I was to have spent quality time with Prof. Scholem. I wish I knew then what I know now, and could have asked him so many questions that still puzzle me about Kabbalah, but I will have to contend myself with a few wonderful memories I have of him. Well, c’est la vie!
Rifat Sonsino
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
LIEUTENANT RIFAT
For a year and a half I served in the Turkish army, and I consider it one of the great experiences of my life.
In my days, being in the army was not voluntary. Every male was drafted either as an ordinary soldier or, if you had a college degree, as an officer. In my case, after I got my law degree from the University of Istanbul in June, 1959, I was sent to a military school in Ankara, the capital of Turkey, as an officer-in-training. I remained there for six months, and assigned to the tank corps. My studies at the academy included strategy, use of firearms as well as boring practices, such as learning how to salute an officer--an exercise that took a whole week! But, being a college grad, I was also given an opportunity to teach classes to soldiers. The subject, if I remember correctly, was Turkish history.
After graduation as a second-lieutenant, I was sent to Babaeski, a small village near the Greek border, and was assigned to the repair shop, an assignment which surprised me, because I knew nothing about repairing a tank. But soon I learned that my responsibility was only to administer the shop, something I could handle easily. I was also given five tanks under my command, and often participated in military exercises in full gear.
I did not live in the military compound, but had rented a room in the only hotel in town. Every morning my Kurdish driver would pick me up and take me to my office. There I made charts, created inventories, recorded the number of tanks that came in for repair etc.
As an ally of the US, we had a number of American personnel who stayed at my hotel, including two sergeants who knew how to fix our USA-made tanks. Once in a while, I interacted with them and practiced my English, but they got drunk so often that my contacts were useless.
In May, 1960, there was a military coup in Turkey, and my brigade commander was one of the instigators. We were ordered to march to Istanbul to take over the main radio station. At dawn I got up, and showed up at my unit ready to launch the invasion. My five tanks were on their way to the city when a jeep showed up next to my lead tank, and the officer on the vehicle ordered me to see the general right away. He told me, “I understand you have a law degree. Correct?” “Yes, my general,” I responded. He then said: “Go back and report to the military court.” I could not believe my luck! I wasn’t going to do any fighting but instead take over the military jail. Thus, I served a whole a year in Babaeski, making sure the prisoners were kept in place and safe. Once in a while, because of my knowledge of rudimentary English, I also functioned as an interpreter to a few American generals. As a Jew, I experienced no anti-Semitism and no antagonism from others, perhaps a bit of jealousy because I was in an enviable position of power.
My military service ended in December of 1960. I was discharged honorably without much ceremony. I took a bus and returned home to Istanbul, ready to leave for Paris, France within a few weeks.
The reason why I consider my military experience of such importance in my personal growth is that, unlike American kids who go away for summer camps, attend a semester-abroad during college, or travel in and out of the country, the military service in Turkey was then the first opportunity many of us had to leave the security of home, and learn how to become independent. It was in the Turkish army, with its discipline, respect for rank and its structured life that I learned how to fend for myself, depending only on my own wits, a lesson that came in handy many times in my life.
Rifat Sonsino
rsonsino@tbsneedham.org
In my days, being in the army was not voluntary. Every male was drafted either as an ordinary soldier or, if you had a college degree, as an officer. In my case, after I got my law degree from the University of Istanbul in June, 1959, I was sent to a military school in Ankara, the capital of Turkey, as an officer-in-training. I remained there for six months, and assigned to the tank corps. My studies at the academy included strategy, use of firearms as well as boring practices, such as learning how to salute an officer--an exercise that took a whole week! But, being a college grad, I was also given an opportunity to teach classes to soldiers. The subject, if I remember correctly, was Turkish history.
After graduation as a second-lieutenant, I was sent to Babaeski, a small village near the Greek border, and was assigned to the repair shop, an assignment which surprised me, because I knew nothing about repairing a tank. But soon I learned that my responsibility was only to administer the shop, something I could handle easily. I was also given five tanks under my command, and often participated in military exercises in full gear.
I did not live in the military compound, but had rented a room in the only hotel in town. Every morning my Kurdish driver would pick me up and take me to my office. There I made charts, created inventories, recorded the number of tanks that came in for repair etc.
As an ally of the US, we had a number of American personnel who stayed at my hotel, including two sergeants who knew how to fix our USA-made tanks. Once in a while, I interacted with them and practiced my English, but they got drunk so often that my contacts were useless.
In May, 1960, there was a military coup in Turkey, and my brigade commander was one of the instigators. We were ordered to march to Istanbul to take over the main radio station. At dawn I got up, and showed up at my unit ready to launch the invasion. My five tanks were on their way to the city when a jeep showed up next to my lead tank, and the officer on the vehicle ordered me to see the general right away. He told me, “I understand you have a law degree. Correct?” “Yes, my general,” I responded. He then said: “Go back and report to the military court.” I could not believe my luck! I wasn’t going to do any fighting but instead take over the military jail. Thus, I served a whole a year in Babaeski, making sure the prisoners were kept in place and safe. Once in a while, because of my knowledge of rudimentary English, I also functioned as an interpreter to a few American generals. As a Jew, I experienced no anti-Semitism and no antagonism from others, perhaps a bit of jealousy because I was in an enviable position of power.
My military service ended in December of 1960. I was discharged honorably without much ceremony. I took a bus and returned home to Istanbul, ready to leave for Paris, France within a few weeks.
The reason why I consider my military experience of such importance in my personal growth is that, unlike American kids who go away for summer camps, attend a semester-abroad during college, or travel in and out of the country, the military service in Turkey was then the first opportunity many of us had to leave the security of home, and learn how to become independent. It was in the Turkish army, with its discipline, respect for rank and its structured life that I learned how to fend for myself, depending only on my own wits, a lesson that came in handy many times in my life.
Rifat Sonsino
rsonsino@tbsneedham.org
Thursday, October 1, 2009
GOD DOES NOT NEED A NAME
In Mishkan T’filah, the new prayerbook published by the Reform Jewish movement in the US (CCAR, 2007), God is often addressed in English prayers as Adonai, such as, “Praise to You, Adonai, who sanctifies Shabbat.” I am uncomfortable with this practice, for the simple reason that Adonai is not God’s personal name. I would add that even if we knew God’s real name, it would not be appropriate to address God by using a proper name, for God is incapable of being expressed in words, let alone with a personal name.
Jewish classical texts contain various names for God, but the only one that can be considered as God’s personal name in the Hebrew Bible is YHVH (from the verbal root hvh, an older form of hyh, meaning “to be”), which can be translated as “[God] is;” or, “[God] is present,” or, even “[God] causes to be.” It is found in the Bible more than 6800 times, and was uttered by the priests in the Temple of Jerusalem only during certain occasions. In time, its pronunciation was lost and the Rabbis substituted for it the name Adonai (which means, “My Master”). They taught, “Not as I am written, am I pronounced. I am written YHVH, but I am pronounced Adonai.” So, Adonai is NOT God’s personal name; only YHVH is, and we do not even know how to say it.
In the past, gods had multiple names. Marduk, the national god of Babylonia had 50. Knowing a name implied an ability to relate as well as (so in magic) to wield power over the one or thing that is named. In our time, if God stands for the ground of existence, or, the energy that sustains the universe, or, as the fountain of ultimate meaning (you can add here your own concept of God), God should be invoked simply as “existence,” without a personal name. We do not exert power over God by using God’s proper name.
The word God is a symbol. It stands for something. I agree with Erich Fromm who writes, “The truly religious person…does not expect anything from God; he does not love God as a child loves his father or his mother; he has acquired the humility of sensing his limitations, to the degree of knowing that he knows nothing about God.” For me, in English prayers, using a generic term such as “God” is enough. Let people apply to it their own meaning. The divinity does not need or require a personal name.
Rifat Sonsino
Oct. 1, 2009
Jewish classical texts contain various names for God, but the only one that can be considered as God’s personal name in the Hebrew Bible is YHVH (from the verbal root hvh, an older form of hyh, meaning “to be”), which can be translated as “[God] is;” or, “[God] is present,” or, even “[God] causes to be.” It is found in the Bible more than 6800 times, and was uttered by the priests in the Temple of Jerusalem only during certain occasions. In time, its pronunciation was lost and the Rabbis substituted for it the name Adonai (which means, “My Master”). They taught, “Not as I am written, am I pronounced. I am written YHVH, but I am pronounced Adonai.” So, Adonai is NOT God’s personal name; only YHVH is, and we do not even know how to say it.
In the past, gods had multiple names. Marduk, the national god of Babylonia had 50. Knowing a name implied an ability to relate as well as (so in magic) to wield power over the one or thing that is named. In our time, if God stands for the ground of existence, or, the energy that sustains the universe, or, as the fountain of ultimate meaning (you can add here your own concept of God), God should be invoked simply as “existence,” without a personal name. We do not exert power over God by using God’s proper name.
The word God is a symbol. It stands for something. I agree with Erich Fromm who writes, “The truly religious person…does not expect anything from God; he does not love God as a child loves his father or his mother; he has acquired the humility of sensing his limitations, to the degree of knowing that he knows nothing about God.” For me, in English prayers, using a generic term such as “God” is enough. Let people apply to it their own meaning. The divinity does not need or require a personal name.
Rifat Sonsino
Oct. 1, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
TEACHING AT BOSTON COLLEGE
This is my tenth year at Boston College (BC). When I started to teach in the Theology Department, I was given just one course. Within a year, however, I was already teaching two courses per week, both during the Fall and Spring semesters, one on Bible and the other on Jewish Thought. Even after my retirement from the congregational rabbinate in 2003, I kept my position at BC, and love it.
Boston College is a Jesuit school, and well-known throughout the country. The faculty of the Theology Department is top-notch and highly liberal. There are only two Rabbis on our faculty: Ruth Langer and me. She is full-time; I am only part-time. When, a few years ago, I was asked to teach an Introduction to the Old Testament, they re-named it, “An Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,” in deference to my being an ordained Rabbi. I appreciated that gesture.
BC attracts students not only from the greater Boston area but from many quarters of the world. Most of my students come from staunch Catholic homes; others are only culturally Christian. I have also had a few Jewish students, but most of them have not done well in my classes; they were surprised to find out that what they knew about their religion was not only minimal but mostly wrong.
For many of my students, whether local or foreign, studying with a Rabbi is a new experience. I am usually addressed as “Professor” or “Rabbi.” But a couple of times, by sheer custom, I was also called, “Father.” Then we all laughed a bit!
Some students, not having dealt with a Rabbi before, are puzzled about what to say in my presence. Last year, a foreign student from Australia, asked me whether it was acceptable to mention Jesus to a Jewish Clergy. The question surprised me. I guess in the back of this student’s mind, it was not appropriate to cite Jesus in a prayer, so as not offend his/her religious sensitivities. But we were in class. I quickly answered, “If the discussion requires, there is nothing wrong with mentioning Jesus to a Rabbi. After all, Jesus was a Jew who lived like a Jew and died like a Jew. We are not praying in class, so it is perfectly OK to deal with his life and message.”
One of the great difficulties my students have is how to deal with Jewish diversity in thought and practice. Coming from the Catholic perspective, where the Pope is considered to have the last word on religious matters, they find it very hard to accept there are so many Jewish opinions on almost every topic, be it God, Revelation, the Bible, life after death etc. I tell my students that there has never been a time in Jewish history when Jews did not disagree with one another, yet we have remained one people and shared the same fate. Little do my students know that there is also a great diversity among Christians, even among Catholics of different bent, as witnessed by the academic discourse that is prevalent at BC and other Catholic institutions of higher learning.
What I have found appalling is how little Christians know about Judaism, on which their faith is based, and how ignorant- I would even say, uninterested- many Jews are about fundamental Christian beliefs and practices. Yet, in the USA and other parts of the world, we live side by side, and rarely do we attempt to find out what our neighbors hold sacred. I think this should be remedied, and more comparative religion courses ought to be made available for peoples of all ages. Some of us are doing our share, but it is still a drop in the bucket.
Rifat Sonsino, Rabbi, Ph.D.
Sept. 21, 2009
Boston College is a Jesuit school, and well-known throughout the country. The faculty of the Theology Department is top-notch and highly liberal. There are only two Rabbis on our faculty: Ruth Langer and me. She is full-time; I am only part-time. When, a few years ago, I was asked to teach an Introduction to the Old Testament, they re-named it, “An Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,” in deference to my being an ordained Rabbi. I appreciated that gesture.
BC attracts students not only from the greater Boston area but from many quarters of the world. Most of my students come from staunch Catholic homes; others are only culturally Christian. I have also had a few Jewish students, but most of them have not done well in my classes; they were surprised to find out that what they knew about their religion was not only minimal but mostly wrong.
For many of my students, whether local or foreign, studying with a Rabbi is a new experience. I am usually addressed as “Professor” or “Rabbi.” But a couple of times, by sheer custom, I was also called, “Father.” Then we all laughed a bit!
Some students, not having dealt with a Rabbi before, are puzzled about what to say in my presence. Last year, a foreign student from Australia, asked me whether it was acceptable to mention Jesus to a Jewish Clergy. The question surprised me. I guess in the back of this student’s mind, it was not appropriate to cite Jesus in a prayer, so as not offend his/her religious sensitivities. But we were in class. I quickly answered, “If the discussion requires, there is nothing wrong with mentioning Jesus to a Rabbi. After all, Jesus was a Jew who lived like a Jew and died like a Jew. We are not praying in class, so it is perfectly OK to deal with his life and message.”
One of the great difficulties my students have is how to deal with Jewish diversity in thought and practice. Coming from the Catholic perspective, where the Pope is considered to have the last word on religious matters, they find it very hard to accept there are so many Jewish opinions on almost every topic, be it God, Revelation, the Bible, life after death etc. I tell my students that there has never been a time in Jewish history when Jews did not disagree with one another, yet we have remained one people and shared the same fate. Little do my students know that there is also a great diversity among Christians, even among Catholics of different bent, as witnessed by the academic discourse that is prevalent at BC and other Catholic institutions of higher learning.
What I have found appalling is how little Christians know about Judaism, on which their faith is based, and how ignorant- I would even say, uninterested- many Jews are about fundamental Christian beliefs and practices. Yet, in the USA and other parts of the world, we live side by side, and rarely do we attempt to find out what our neighbors hold sacred. I think this should be remedied, and more comparative religion courses ought to be made available for peoples of all ages. Some of us are doing our share, but it is still a drop in the bucket.
Rifat Sonsino, Rabbi, Ph.D.
Sept. 21, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
THE LANGUAGES I CAN HANDLE
Over the last seven decades, I have managed to learn a number of languages- none of them perfect. Growing in Istanbul, Turkey, we already started with a few: at home we spoke Ladino, which is a Jewish-Spanish dialect spoken by Jews who were expelled from Spain in the 15th century. Over the years, Ladino welcomed words from other languages, such as Hebrew, Italian, Greek, or Turkish. It is now written in Latin characters, but in the past it was written in Soletreo, a Rashi-type script. My father knew how to read Soletreo. Most of my generation cannot. Though our home language was Ladino, we spoke Turkish in the schools and in the streets.
For my first grade my parents sent me to the local Greek elementary school (in the Asian side of Istanbul) where most classes were taught in Greek. For the second grade I went to the community Turkish school, and from the third grade on, I attended the Jewish High School in the European section of Istanbul. (The school covered all grades from one to twelve).
The school curriculum included a number of languages: we began with Hebrew in the 2nd grade (?), French in the 3rd, and English was added to the 9th. While attending Law School in Istanbul, I took private lessons in Greek, Latin, Arabic and Italian. In Paris, France, where I spent a semester at the Institut International d'Etudes Hebraiques (first half of 1961), my French improved considerably to the point that I could take my exams in French.
When I enrolled in the rabbinic program of the Hebrew Union College (HUC) in Cincinnati (Sept. 1961), English became my primary language. From then on, I wrote to my parents and my brother in Istanbul only in English. At the seminary, in addition to studying Hebrew intensively, I also learned Aramaic, the language of some of the biblical texts and the Talmud.
Following ordination in 1966 I left Cincinnati for Buenos Aires, Argentina to become a congregational rabbi, and there I had to learn modern Spanish, really Argentinean, which was an easy jump from Ladino. I also took private lessons in German in order to understand what the Orthodox Rabbis were speaking in Yiddish behind my back. They did not approve of Reform Judaism, and were trying to impede my work there. (I didn’t want to study Yiddish, but I understood it).
In 1969, I came back to the States, and enrolled in a doctoral program at the University of Pennsylvania in the field of Bible and ancient Near Eastern Literature. As part of my studies I had to take all the Akkadian dialects (Mari, Alalakh, Nuzi etc), but also Ugaritic, Arabic, and Sumerian. I never learned Egyptian.
There are many advantages to studying different idioms: You acquire a large vocabulary. You become aware that certain ideas or concepts can be fully expressed only by a particular language (e.g., “Derekh Eretz,” “Joie de Vivre”, Sitz im Leben,” “Spreadsheet”). You also develop a love for the culture of that language. Furthermore, it is much easier to learn a new language when you have studied a few others of the same family. I never studied Portuguese or Catalan, but, with my Spanish, I can understand most of it.
In spite of this wide exposure to so many languages, at times, I wish I could master just one well.
Rifat Sonsino
Sept. 8, 2009
For my first grade my parents sent me to the local Greek elementary school (in the Asian side of Istanbul) where most classes were taught in Greek. For the second grade I went to the community Turkish school, and from the third grade on, I attended the Jewish High School in the European section of Istanbul. (The school covered all grades from one to twelve).
The school curriculum included a number of languages: we began with Hebrew in the 2nd grade (?), French in the 3rd, and English was added to the 9th. While attending Law School in Istanbul, I took private lessons in Greek, Latin, Arabic and Italian. In Paris, France, where I spent a semester at the Institut International d'Etudes Hebraiques (first half of 1961), my French improved considerably to the point that I could take my exams in French.
When I enrolled in the rabbinic program of the Hebrew Union College (HUC) in Cincinnati (Sept. 1961), English became my primary language. From then on, I wrote to my parents and my brother in Istanbul only in English. At the seminary, in addition to studying Hebrew intensively, I also learned Aramaic, the language of some of the biblical texts and the Talmud.
Following ordination in 1966 I left Cincinnati for Buenos Aires, Argentina to become a congregational rabbi, and there I had to learn modern Spanish, really Argentinean, which was an easy jump from Ladino. I also took private lessons in German in order to understand what the Orthodox Rabbis were speaking in Yiddish behind my back. They did not approve of Reform Judaism, and were trying to impede my work there. (I didn’t want to study Yiddish, but I understood it).
In 1969, I came back to the States, and enrolled in a doctoral program at the University of Pennsylvania in the field of Bible and ancient Near Eastern Literature. As part of my studies I had to take all the Akkadian dialects (Mari, Alalakh, Nuzi etc), but also Ugaritic, Arabic, and Sumerian. I never learned Egyptian.
There are many advantages to studying different idioms: You acquire a large vocabulary. You become aware that certain ideas or concepts can be fully expressed only by a particular language (e.g., “Derekh Eretz,” “Joie de Vivre”, Sitz im Leben,” “Spreadsheet”). You also develop a love for the culture of that language. Furthermore, it is much easier to learn a new language when you have studied a few others of the same family. I never studied Portuguese or Catalan, but, with my Spanish, I can understand most of it.
In spite of this wide exposure to so many languages, at times, I wish I could master just one well.
Rifat Sonsino
Sept. 8, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
THE CHIEF RABBI AND I
It is well known that most Orthodox Jews do not have high regard for Reform Jews. They consider the Reformers as assimilationists and even "lesser Jews" because of the Reformers' alleged lack of religious observance and their "devious" theological views. I grew up Orthodox in Istanbul, Turkey in the early 40's. The then Chief Rabbi, David Asseo (z'l), was formerly my Hebrew teacher in the Jewish High School . He knew me well. Yet, when, much later, I visited him, along with other Reform Rabbis of the USA, he excoriated me in front of all of them for "leaving the only true religious path."
This does not have to be the pattern of relationship between Orthodox and Reform Jews today. It is possible to transcend the feeling of animosity between them if there is goodwill and personal rapport between us. My friendship with the present Chief Rabbi of Turkey, Isaac Haleva, is a good example.
Isaac and I were part of Mahazike Hatorah ("Supporters of Torah"), a group of young Turkish Jews who were interested in synagogue life. We attended weekly Judaica classes taught by its director, Mr. Nisim Behar, who later on was ordained Rabbi in the State of Israel. Isaac was just a few years younger than me, but we were both part of the same Havurah, and remained personal friends our entire life.
This past summer, I went to Turkey for my 50th Law School reunion, and on the spur of the moment decided to see my childhood friend, Isaac. I called up the Chief Rabbinate and asked for a few minutes with the Chief Rabbi. I was told that without a prior appointment it was impossible to have an audience with him. I told his secretary, "Just tell him Rifat Sonsino is in town and wants to give him a hug. "Oh, no," said his secretary, "you cannot hug the Chief Rabbi." "Well," I said," just tell him Rifat Sonsino wants to see you." He apparently did, because within a few seconds, Isaac came on the phone and told me to come right over.
Ines, my wife, and I then drove to the Chief Rabbinate located in the Galata section of Istanbul, and proceeded to enter the building. I think it is easier to enter Fort Knox than to go into the Hahambasilik (Chief Rabbinate, in Turkish). There is so much security! Once inside, we walked up a flight of stairs, and came to the office of the Chief Rabbi. The secretary ushered us in, and Isaac, who was meeting with two diplomats, came rushing out to a friendly embrace. I had not seen him in a few years. He looked well, all dressed up in an embroidered blue gown, the traditional garb of the Turkish Chief Rabbi. We spent a few minuted together, reminisced a bit, and I left him with a big hug.
I am certain religious divides can be overcome if there is mutual trust and respect. I don't expect Orthodox Jews to approve of my theological stand. They cannot: they believe in verbal divine revelation at Mt. Sinai. I maintain that the Torah is a human document that evolved over the last 3000 plus years. Orthodox Jews, by definition, are bound by Jewish Law. For me, Jewish practice is part of the Jewish tradition that has, as Mordecai Kaplan would say, "a vote not a veto" on my religious life. What I expect is this: mutual respect, and a recognition that no one has the ultimate answer to our existential questions. We are all seekers of truth. My friendship with the Chief Rabbi of Turkey is a good example of this possibility.
Rifat Sonsino
Aug. 24, 2009
This does not have to be the pattern of relationship between Orthodox and Reform Jews today. It is possible to transcend the feeling of animosity between them if there is goodwill and personal rapport between us. My friendship with the present Chief Rabbi of Turkey, Isaac Haleva, is a good example.
Isaac and I were part of Mahazike Hatorah ("Supporters of Torah"), a group of young Turkish Jews who were interested in synagogue life. We attended weekly Judaica classes taught by its director, Mr. Nisim Behar, who later on was ordained Rabbi in the State of Israel. Isaac was just a few years younger than me, but we were both part of the same Havurah, and remained personal friends our entire life.
This past summer, I went to Turkey for my 50th Law School reunion, and on the spur of the moment decided to see my childhood friend, Isaac. I called up the Chief Rabbinate and asked for a few minutes with the Chief Rabbi. I was told that without a prior appointment it was impossible to have an audience with him. I told his secretary, "Just tell him Rifat Sonsino is in town and wants to give him a hug. "Oh, no," said his secretary, "you cannot hug the Chief Rabbi." "Well," I said," just tell him Rifat Sonsino wants to see you." He apparently did, because within a few seconds, Isaac came on the phone and told me to come right over.
Ines, my wife, and I then drove to the Chief Rabbinate located in the Galata section of Istanbul, and proceeded to enter the building. I think it is easier to enter Fort Knox than to go into the Hahambasilik (Chief Rabbinate, in Turkish). There is so much security! Once inside, we walked up a flight of stairs, and came to the office of the Chief Rabbi. The secretary ushered us in, and Isaac, who was meeting with two diplomats, came rushing out to a friendly embrace. I had not seen him in a few years. He looked well, all dressed up in an embroidered blue gown, the traditional garb of the Turkish Chief Rabbi. We spent a few minuted together, reminisced a bit, and I left him with a big hug.
I am certain religious divides can be overcome if there is mutual trust and respect. I don't expect Orthodox Jews to approve of my theological stand. They cannot: they believe in verbal divine revelation at Mt. Sinai. I maintain that the Torah is a human document that evolved over the last 3000 plus years. Orthodox Jews, by definition, are bound by Jewish Law. For me, Jewish practice is part of the Jewish tradition that has, as Mordecai Kaplan would say, "a vote not a veto" on my religious life. What I expect is this: mutual respect, and a recognition that no one has the ultimate answer to our existential questions. We are all seekers of truth. My friendship with the Chief Rabbi of Turkey is a good example of this possibility.
Rifat Sonsino
Aug. 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
From Istanbul to Boston
Hello Friends,
This is my first blog. As an ordained rabbi but also as an academic, I plan to write about various issues, including the limits of liberal religion, different biblical teachings, various challenges facing World Jewry, but also about classical music and family, two topics of personal interest. I maintain that dialogue is possible when there is good will and when people respect one another. I plan to write clearly and succinctly.
I welcome your comments.
Best wishes.
Rifat Sonsino
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