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Marshalling Rabbinic Alumni's Potential to Meet Contemporary Halakhic Problems

The subject assigned to me dictates a decidedly practical focus, so that this discussion constitutes a pragmatic island in an otherwise intellectually oriented conference.  This is somewhat of a change for one who, relatively speaking, is cloistered in a Yeshiva ivory tower – albeit not the "tour d'ivoire" within which Sainte-Beuve complained that Alfred Vigny confined himself, but the migdal hashen which, according to the midrash, signifies the lishkat hagazit; yet an ivory tower nonetheless.  Moreover, it may seem slightly presumptuous for me to present some armchair strategy to battle-scarred veterans of milhamot Hashem gathered here for a brief respite before they plunge once again into the maelstrom of communal life.  Nevertheless, there are valid reasons for making the attempt.  For one thing, the practical area involved is that of halakhah and hora'ah proper.  For another, the notion of a radical distinction between town and gown has never struck deep Jewish roots.  On the contrary, we have always emphasized the interaction of talmud and ma'aseh, and we have traditionally sought both social and intellectual leadership from the same inspired source.  Finally, within the last few years, even within the general American community, the gap between the academic and the "pragmatic" sectors has been narrowed considerably.  I hope, therefore, that I shall be able to make a modest practical contribution, at least by way of suggestion.  If this scholarly excursus becomes nothing more than a prelude to further discussion, it will be well worth the effort.

 

            Having presented this prologue, I shall permit myself the liberty of opening the body of my discussion with some "academic" remarks after all.  I do so, however, not by way of abandoning a pragmatic orientation but rather as the first step toward realizing it.  We can "meet" halakhic problems in two senses – either by proposing their solutions or by implementing them.  I shall be concerned with the first – with the scientific rather than the technological aspect, so to speak – and to this extent we shall find ourselves moving on a theoretical plane.  However, inasmuch as our focus shall not be the intellectual means of coping with halakhic questions but rather the practical and logistic methods of organizing the personnel and machinery to deal with them, our thrust will be pragmatic.  We shall not deal with modes of "learning" and scholarly approaches, but rather with the problem of marshalling present and potential Rabbinic Alumni for coping with issues of halakhah and hora'ah.

 

II

 

            In virtually every area of Jewish life, the critical problem is that of personnel.  Hora'ah is no exception, and we might therefore best begin by asking: What type of person, generally and ideally speaking, should the moreh hora'ah be?  With which qualities should he be endowed?

 

            I presume you are all familiar with the qualities of character and intellect which the Rambam, drawing upon the Yerushalmi, the Sifre, and other sources, posited for a dayan.  Every member of a bet din, even of the smallest, three-man tribunal, "must be endowed," he tells us, "with seven qualities, and they are the following: hokhmah, anavah, yir'ah, sin'at mamon, ahavat ha'emet, ahavat ha'b'riyot lahen, and ba'alei shem tov."[1]  While the Rambam deals directly with a dayan, acting formally and officially as a member of a bet din, it should be obvious that the same qualities are equally requisite for the moreh hora'ah generally.  Indeed, we might recall that the Rambam[2] held that semikhah, in the original and technical sense of the term, applied not only to civil or criminal judgment but to decisions of issur v'heter, as well.  Nevertheless, for our immediate purposes, I should like, by expanding upon some of the Rambam's criteria and by introducing others, to present, in slightly different terms, another list, drawn up with an eye upon our current situation.  Of course, one could simplify matters greatly by just saying that a moreh hora'ah should be a lamdan, and a zaddik.  But apart from the fact that I'm not sure I could define what a zaddik is, I suspect the very breadth of such a definition would preclude any real insight into our problem.  Perhaps a more specific, if more prosaic, catalogue should therefore be set forth after all.  To be sure, the moreh hora'ah is much more - qualitatively more – than the sum total of his attributes.  Nevertheless, it might be useful to see what these are.

 

            To begin with the intellectual qualities, while the Rambam requires only one all-embracing endowment, hokhmah (the Sifre, incidentally, also lists binah) we might best analyze it into at least five components.  First, the posek must of course know halakhah; and not only halakhah but halakhot.  He should have mastered basic texts, he must be able to thread his way through major collections of teshuvot and he must have a clear idea of the historical development of certain institutions.  It is not necessary that he have everything in his head simultaneously; nor, generally speaking, is this feasible.  As has been suggested with respect to the Rambam's view that a samukh for even a limited area must be ra'uy lekhal hadevarim,[3] the crucial point is that he must have ready access to all areas, that he have the key with which, upon reasonable notice, he can master a given problem.

 

            Second, the posek must not only know but understand.  He must be able to analyze texts and concepts in depth, to distinguish between controlling ideas and incidental details, to dismiss superficial resemblance, on the one hand, and to detect hidden similarity, on the other.  And no less important, third, is the quality of imagination.  Whether or not, as Napoleon contended, it rules the world, imagination (I use the term more in Whitehead's sense than in Wordsworth's) is certainly the motive force in the process of hora'ah.  The capacity to grasp a problem vividly, to energize knowledge, to probe boldly and to think creatively – this is the very heart, although by no means the whole of the process.

 

            Fourth, the posek must not only know and understand halakhah and be able to handle it imaginatively, he must also be familiar with methods and modes of hora'ah.  This involves far more than hermeneutics or logic.  It entails the knowledge – in a sense, it is more than knowledge – of how much weight to assign to conflicting claims, of how various opinions may be balanced or combined, of the scope and the limits of halakhic flexibility.  It entails, in short, not only a knowledge of halakhah but of how one applies halakhah.

 

            In this connection, finally, another element is crucial.  It is not enough to know ideal principles; one must also know the reality to which these must be applied.  I need hardly point out that, in modern times, this has become increasingly difficult.  I am not thinking so much – as perhaps most of you are – of technological questions.  These, while often complex, are generally well-defined in scope, and, in dealing with them, one can usually obtain authoritative guidance from a competent consultant.  I am thinking primarily of social issues (which, to be sure, may often be the result of technological change).  Within a highly mobile and interdependent society, the origins and the ramifications of a problem are not easily defined, and the posek who would grapple with it must have a clear sociological and historical perspective.

 

            So much for hokhmah.  With what other, non-intellectual, attributes must the posek be endowed?  I think we can agree upon five basic qualities.  He must, first of all, be a man of unflinching honesty, both personal and intellectual.  Secondly, he must be totally committed to Torah and its values.  Hence, he is painstakingly careful to avoid both outright error and compromising either the letter or the spirit of halakhah.  Thirdly, the ideal posek is endowed with profound humaneness.  Proper application of halakhah requires genuine sympathy for people and their needs.  To be sure, the ideal moreh hora'ah will be at neither pole of the facile dichotomy: neither of those who would destroy every Jew for a din nor of those who would destroy every din for a Jew.  But he will be sensitive to the human dimensions of a situation, to the manner in which halakhah can enrich it, in one sense, and take account of it in another.

 

            As a person, the posek is fourthly, firm – at times, even aggressive.  He is aware of his awesome responsibility as a custodian and transmitter of masorah, and he resists vigorously the pressures of those who would debase or destroy it.  He is not shaken by mere clamor nor is he overwhelmed by the latest popular fad.  He has a sense of his own authority.  He knows (to paraphrase Jackson's celebrated dictum) that if, in one sense, he is right because he is final, in another sense – as the vehicle of the masorah – he is final because he is right.  Finally, if the posek is staunch on the one hand, he is genuinely humble on the other.  While he can be vigorous in opposing the debunkers of Torah, he is ever ready to listen to those who speak out of commitment to it.  Eventually, of course, he will arrive at his own decision, but never with a trace of arrogance.  The very sense of the importance of his function precludes it.  He works, in Milton's phrase, "as ever in my great Taskmaster's eye."

 

III

 

            Such, in brief, is the typological portrait of an ideal moreh hora'ah.  Needless to say, even under the best of circumstances, we can expect no abundance of men who can significantly satisfy every criterion.  It is not only that, statistically speaking, the fortuitous union of so many sterling qualities is highly unlikely.  Worse than this, some of the attributes themselves are, to a certain extent, mutually exclusive.  Not in theory, of course, but very much so in practice.  The imaginative daring and the penetrating insight which are the hallmark of the genuine lamdan are precisely the characteristics likely to deter him from the laborious and labyrinthine plodding often necessary for hora'ah.  Conversely, the balanced and judicious temperament which is so admirably suited for rendering routine decisions tends to preclude the sweep and scope so desperately needed in confronting basic halakhic issues.

 

            Or, to take an example which has special contemporary relevance, the very devotion to Torah which enables the posek to develop authoritative knowledge of halakhah militates against his attaining the broad awareness of his social and natural milieu which can alone enable him to apply it meaningfully in all areas of life.  This conflict derives, in part, from the real difficulty of insufficient time, and, in part, albeit unfortunately so, from a lack of initiative and inclination.  Talmidei hakhomim, for their part, are disinclined to involve themselves too deeply in mundane affairs.  How many would emulate Rav and spend eighteen months on a farm in order to study animal physiology?  Rav's was perhaps a radical example but even far more modest tasks – say, some basic reading in economics or chemistry – frequently go untended.  Conversely, those who are securely grounded in worldly knowledge – I speak even of those who have received a basic halakhic training – often lack the commitment requisite for the true mastery of halakhah.

 

            One could cite a number of other factors but I think I've said enough to indicate the nature of the difficulty of developing outstanding morei hora'ah.  Its inherent and perennial character is aggravated, however, by a number of specifically current factors.  One – of which I shall have more to say later – is the problem of attracting qualified young talmidei hakhomim to those careers which will enable them to become first-rate poskim.  At a time when, on the one hand, secular professions attract many of the ablest Yeshiva trained college graduates, and when, on the other hand, the tragic polarization of our religious life has mutually alienated some of our leading Yeshivot and much of the overall Orthodox community, this is no mean task.

 

 Secondly, halakhic problems proper have become intrinsically more difficult.  For one thing, the case of the typical modern sh'eylah, conceived even as an isolated phenomenon, tends to be more complicated than were sh'eylot even as recently as the turn of the century.  Technology, urbanization, and a host of other factors have rendered the basic elements of our social and physical life far more complex than would have been imagined by the Hatam Sofer or the Netziv.  Moreover, due to both the passage of time and, especially, to the acceleration of change within the modern world, it is increasingly unlikely that the specific question at hand, or even a clear-cut equivalent, will have been already treated in standard poskim.  Most crucial, finally, is the fact that the modern sh'eylah very often does not deal with an isolated phenomenon.  The hallmark of a modern industrialized society is interdependence, in almost every sphere and at virtually every level.  Whether the subject is birth control, labor relations, free trade, or air pollution, the complex of interacting social, economic, and political elements sweeps an increasingly wider arc.  Dislocation in one sector of life has a significant impact – not simply the tenuous influence of which the ba'alei ha-mussar spoke, but a directly traceable and palpable impact – upon innumerable other sectors.  Correspondingly, the task of providing halakhic guidance, in both the narrower and the broader sense of the term, becomes ever more difficult, even as, ironically enough, the need for it increases constantly.

 

            The growing complexity of contemporary hora'ah may be indicated by yet another factor.  Modern halakhic problems are not only more complex but frequently also more elusive, even in a crude physical sense.  The issue at hand may not concern the familiar tangible realities of the Shulhan Arukh but rather more subtle, more sophisticated, and, halakhically speaking, more murky phenomena.  And this is true not only of the moral order, whose contemporary chiaroscuro character has often been noted, but of the physical order likewise.  Consider, for instance, the concept of ko'ah, literally "force," but perhaps better translated as "cause."  It is clearly a basic concept, concerned with defining one facet of human action and responsibility for it, and we encounter it in numerous halakhic contexts: shehitah, mazik, shabbat, heset, yayin nesekh, rozeah, and others.  In its familiar form, it deals with some rather concrete realities: a stone is hurled and shatters a window, or some wine is poured from a bottle.  What of less palpable instances, however?  Does affecting a change in an electromagnetic field which may, in turn, produce a chain of significant consequences, constitute melakhah on shabbat?  To what extent should a laser beam be considered koho?  To take another example, we ordinarily think of theft as the surreptitious removal of a physical object from its owner's premises.  But what of xeroxing a document without absconding with it?  Or the "theft" of an idea, copyrighted or not, as exemplified by industrial espionage?  Should we assume that pilfering a toothbrush constitutes gezelah but the imitation of multimillion-dollar drawings does not?  Perhaps, but it's a sensitive and awkward question.  Likewise, how are we to judge – legally, and not just morally – numerous forms of imperceptible invasions of privacy?  And, in an age of subliminal advertising, how much latitude should be given the concept of mekah ta'ut?

 

            I do not mention these difficulties as being either unprecedented or insuperable.  I am neither so ignorant nor so presumptuous as to suppose that problems of this type have never arisen previously, and I do not have so little faith in halakhah as to imagine that they are insoluble.  However, I do feel that their scope is different from anything we have experienced recently, and I think an awareness of both the nature and the magnitude of our present problems is an essential first step toward their solution.  In developing or designating morei hora'ah, the one direction in which we ought not move is that of underestimating the difficulties.  What we can least afford is compromising our standards and relaxing our efforts.  Even those attributes which are, to an extent, mutually exclusive, must be preserved.  Genuine lomdut, in the fullest sense of the term, must be the sine qua non of hora'ah.  This has always been important, but at a time when fewer and fewer sh'eylot can be "looked up" in an explicit reference, the need for sound theoretical underpinnings and a basic insight into central issues is absolutely crucial.  And to take our second example, at the highest level, certainly, we must have poskim who, without accepting its mores, are fully attuned to the realities of modern life.

 

IV

 

            I have stated that the problem is primarily one of personnel; I have broadly depicted an ideal posek, and I have briefly indicated why, at any time but especially at present, he is not easily found.  Where, practically speaking, do we, the Rabbinic Alumni, go from here?

 

            We are addressed by this question in two capacities: qua bnei Torah generally, and qua musmakhei ha-yeshiva specifically; and our responses may be correspondingly different, although of course the general thrust is the same.  As students and devotees of Torah, we have a responsibility to lighten the unconscionable burden currently being borne by our gedolim.  Theirs is an almost unbearable load, and, to the extent that the situation can be remedied, it is nothing short of criminal.  When we read the Rambam's graphic account of his daily schedule and the fatigue resulting from ministering to the medical needs of Saladin's court, harem and all, we are shocked and grieved that such precious energy was wasted upon so relatively unimportant a task; one which, moreover, could just as easily have been performed by a far lesser person.  Yet, do we husband our own spiritual riches any more carefully?  Don't we impose substantial drudgery, from fund-raising to administration to organizational politics, upon our greatest?  What opportunity do we allow them simply to think – or, for that matter, to learn?  How much of their time is truly theirs – to reflect upon both immediate and ultimate realities, to observe the present and to relate it to a transcendent past and future?

 

            The ramification of this question extend far beyond our immediate subject.  But one has to start somewhere, and, in the area of hora'ah, the call for relief has, at any rate, an unimpeachable precedent.  I refer of course to Yithro's ominous warning, as relevant in our day as in his.  From personal observation, I am familiar with the incessant jangle of the telephone in the Rav's home, and I gather from Rebbitzen Feinstein – as if one couldn't have envisioned it anyhow – that the situation in her home is, generally, worse.  I know that both the Rav and Rav Mosheh Feinstein are extremely conscientious about accepting sh'eylot, answering them even when they might be inclined to decline other calls; and I've heard neither complain about this particular onus.  Yet, I cannot help but ask myself two related questions: How often have they had a train of thought interrupted by a call?  How many times has peace of mind been shattered by a ring?  How many fleeting insights have gone the way of the latter part of Kubla Khan?  And what has been the toll in frayed nerves and personal attrition?  What the cost in unwritten essays and unedited hiddushim? Secondly, is their burden, indeed, inevitable?  Could not many, if not most, of the sh'eylot have been easily answered by men of lesser stature?  Must every be'atha b'cutha be referred to gedolei hador?  And if not, isn't the overwhelming burden we impose upon them a shameful testimony to our collective inefficiency and insufficiency, our selfishness and our sloth?

 

            These questions are of course all rhetorical, and they point to a single solution.  It is, again, Yithro's.  We should relieve our gedolim, by setting up local or regional centers for hora'ah to whom sh'eylot from a given area would be referred.  These centers would be staffed by men who are competent and knowledgeable, although not necessarily first-rate poskim of the type I have depicted.  Before assuming their positions, they would be briefed on pesakim concerning a number of key issues and standard she'eylot in a given sphere, and these they could then proceed to apply.  V'hadavar hakosheh – the more difficult questions, and these alone, would be referred to a gadol for decision.  Of course, the participating individuals would have to master the basic material – to this end, some preliminary seminar-type groups might be organized – and, above all, they should know how to diagnose a sh'eylah even when they cannot solve it.  They must have the capacity, the honesty and the courage, to distinguish between what does and does not lie within their competence.  They need not be giants, however; and I am confident that men – or rather, groups of men, for it might be advisable to assign different halakhic areas to individuals who could specialize in them – who are able and willing to serve in such a capacity, can be found in sufficient numbers.

 

            The resultant benefit would be threefold.  First, of course, some of the pressure could be taken off some of our gedolim.  They would deal with fewer sh'eylot, and even those which would be referred to them could often be presented at a single session rather than as a series of interruptions.  Our foremost figures could thus channel their energies to more creative work, to tasks which truly demand men of their stature.  Secondly, such a program would provide fresh elan for the participating rabbis.  It would challenge them intellectually and it would engage them communally.  It would overcome the helplessness which many feel in attempting to bridge the gap between halakhah and ma'aseh.  And, of course, as an aspect of shimush, it could constitute an invaluable apprenticeship for future first-rank poskim.  Finally, the creation of such regional centers would help reinvigorate the communities within which they would be located.  Not that this would necessarily affect the average layman; we oughtn't be excessively sanguine.  However, it could have a definite impact upon anyone who has had, at one point or another, significant contact with the study of Torah she'b'al-peh.  This is no mean attainment.

 

            A second program could aid not only in applying hora'ah but in formulating it as well.  We could assign an individual or a group to research a given subject – to posit its practical and theoretical problems and to work up and organize its material – and to present it in a tentative position paper upon which gedolim could then draw.  Such service would be roughly analogous to that performed by a clerk to a justice of the Supreme Court, and the results could be equally beneficial.  The older and the younger member could both profit greatly from a mutually fructifying relationship.  Of course, the prerequisites for participating in this program would necessarily be more rigorous than for the first.  However, here again, given the right conditions, I think men of the proper caliber can be found.

 

            A third program, of no less help to the tyro than to the mature posek – would develop basic tools rather than provide auxiliary personnel.  As compared with secular fields – and indeed, by any other standard – we are woefully short of research equipment which can lend ready access to works of both past and present poskim, not to mention the most fundamental halakhic texts.  Mining the rich lodes of the past and retaining the findings in one's personal storehouse as well as keeping au courant with rapidly changing contemporary problems are tasks which stagger the imagination.  Both could be considerably eased by the availability of serviceable and reliable research tools.  Current digests, abstracts, indices, bibliographies – all are in short supply and (or at least they should be) in great demand.  We have very few reference works dealing with rishonim; and the later periods, which have been more generously treated, could also use fresher and fuller treatment.  The Pitchei Teshuvah is not exactly recent.  Some work in this direction is currently being done in Eretz Yisrael, of course, but it's only a start – and, in a number of instances, a rather unpromising start at that.[4]

 

            I am by no means unmindful of the dangers inherent in moving in this general direction.  Alexandrianism and academicism; the incarceration, if not interment, of a living tradition within scholarly sarcophagi; the leveling attendant upon including the brilliant and the insipid within the same comprehensive compilation; the loss of vitality and sweep resulting from a pseudo-scientific quest for "scholarly" precision – these are all dangers of which I am acutely, I might almost say, obsessively, aware.  I have seen something of their corrosive impact upon humanistic studies and I think it crucial that we avoid such corrosion.  Talmud Torah must remain a vital pursuit, experiential as well as intellectual.  We can never be content with the tone-color of a Wissenschaft des Judentums, even though we may appreciate some of its contributions.  Nevertheless, I don't believe we must throw out the baby with the bath water.  If we approach our task with sufficient religious commitment, we should be able to integrate a measure of "scholarship" without stultifying either imagination or inspiration.  Moreover, this problem impinges upon education in far greater measure than upon hora'ah.  On the one hand, the potential dangers are less ominous.  To the posek, heavy reliance upon the whole corpus of critical apparatus comes after a profound emotional nexus to Talmud Torah has already been established.  It does not substitute for the evocative atmosphere of the bet hamedrash but rather is subordinated to it.  The clear, cold light of the research facility does not supplant the kumi roni balaylah, but rather supplements it.  On the other hand, the need for instant access to knowledge as well as for comprehensiveness and precision is greater for the posek than for the melamed.  Gilbert Highet once wrote that scholarship must be accurate, while teaching must be interesting, even if not wholly accurate.  The teaching – and the study – of Torah must be not only interesting but inspiring.  Yet its very creative character lends it a provisional dimension.  We do not definitively decide a sh'eylah on the basis of an idea tentatively advanced in a shiur.  In hora'ah, there is no such leeway, however; hence, the far greater need for maximal certainty.

 

V

 

            So much for what we, the Rabbinic Alumni, can do as members of the general community of bnei Torah.  Is there anything we can do further in our specific capacity of alumni, as musmakhim of our Yeshiva who are particularly concerned for its welfare and in a position to have some impact upon its action?  I believe there is, and here I come to a genuinely practical question – the current economic status of roshei yeshiva.  Let me, however, preface my remarks with one emphatic disclaimer.  I have not come here to lament my own situation.  While I would not claim to be genuinely wealthy according to the mishnah's definition, a complete sameah b'helko, I am definitely not in the habit of complaining about my financial condition, nor, personally, have I much cause for lament.  I discuss this matter only insofar as it has a direct bearing upon our immediate topic, although the implications of what I shall say obviously extend a good deal further.

 

            Does any such bearing exist?  Well, I am far – very far – from being a Marxist, but I think the answer is indisputably "yes."  Consider the situation.  I have stated that the critical problem is that of personnel.  Let us imagine, now, that an excellent prospect is at hand, a talmid of our Yeshiva with the proper personal and intellectual, moral and religious qualifications.  I discuss with him the possibility of devoting his life to the study and dissemination of Torah.  I stress the urgency of our collective need for spiritual guidance and I point out his responsibility to help meet this need.  We discuss ways and means and I suggest that, while the rabbinate can be very rewarding, given his own bent, he could fulfill himself and serve the community best by becoming a rosh yeshiva.  To this end, I encourage him to devote a few years to intensive learning – preferably to enter the Kollel – so that he could truly grow as a talmid hakham.  The idea takes root.  Our prospect realizes, of course, that there are drawbacks, nor do I attempt to distract him from them.  He knows that the relative leisure and acclaim which could be his as a professor or a physicist are beyond the rosh yeshiva's ken.  He recognizes the burdens of communal leadership.  He has no doubt but that it would be far easier to undertake a secular career and simply become an honored member of someone else's shul.  But he loves learning, he has a deep sense of commitment, and he perceives that, while the rosh yeshiva's heartaches are incomparably greater than the chemist's, so are his personal joys.  So the idea takes root.  If he should ask me, however, at some point, what he might expect to earn at, say, our Yeshiva, I must hang my head in shame and tell him that the prospective remuneration is far below that of peers entering the fields of medicine or law.

 

            I shall not dwell upon the injustice of the situation.  It is, in any event, far too obvious to require discussion.  Consider, rather, the implications for our particular problem.  For a position which, by any responsible educational criterion is full-time in every sense of the word, our prospect will earn a salary barely sufficient to designate him as middle-class.  Remember that, almost by definition, our prospect is no cloistered batlan.  If he is indeed to be a potential future mentor, he must be aware of the world around him.  It is virtually certain, for instance, that he knows that, at the City University or at Fordham, not to mention even more lucrative scientific careers – he could start at double his initial salary as a rosh yeshiva.  With equivalent preparation – the years spent learning for semikhah and/or in the Kollel would be about enough to earn a doctorate – and for fewer hours, he could earn many additional thousand dollars a year.  To put it differently, in asking him to become a rosh yeshiva, I am asking him to contribute almost half his future potential annual income to the Yeshiva.  How many of us have contributed this much lately?

 

            For some of our older roshei yeshiva, the higher salaries available elsewhere are simply so much grass on the other side of the fence.  The positions or careers which command those salaries no longer constitute – if indeed, they ever did – real alternatives.  To our young prospect, however, they are a fork in the road.  If, again, he is genuinely our man, that chair at Stony Brook or a post at I.B.M. are live options.  His question about salary is not a reflection of idle curiosity.  It concerns a matter which will affect a vital decision.

 

            What are we prepared to do, haverim, to formulate a better answer?  It will not do to rejoin that the question should never have been posed.  Of course, anyone entering upon a spiritual vocation – certainly, any potential leader – should be idealistically motivated, and it may strike you as a bit crass that so ungenteel an item as money should be mentioned.  I am fully aware, moreover, of the Rambam's strictures concerning those who use spiritual positions to attain material gain.  Before we give vent to pious horror, however, let us keep a few things in mind.  First, it is one thing to say that wealth should be no motive; it is quite another to say that hardship should be no deterrent.  There is no question here of amassing riches, just of rising above subsistence levels.  However one answers the Rambam[5] – after all, our universal practice has been contravening him for centuries – monastic vows of poverty are not part of our tradition.

 

            Secondly, the question of salary is not purely material; it is spiritual as well.  For the simple fact is that the rosh yeshiva will probably not be able to maintain a reasonable standard of living on his yeshiva salary alone.  So he will moonlight.  Rabbanut, other teaching positions, hekhsherim – anything which will help meet his bills, on the one hand, but which may stunt his growth, on the other.  The opportunity to learn, to think, to create, to publish – all may be partly frustrated by both the additional work load and the anxiety generated by economic insecurity.  I am not unmindful of the "uses of adversity;" and I am sufficiently under the spell of Robert Frost to recognize that, at a certain level, one kind of genius thrives most under stress.  Nevertheless, as the gemara in Kiddushin might remind us, one normally learns and grows best when he is not weighted down by a financial albatross.  Sustained creative effort ordinarily requires a degree of leisure of which our roshei yeshiva currently enjoy far too little.  This lack is reflected, incidentally, in another way: the fact that roshei yeshiva are not, as are all other faculty members at our university, granted sabbaticals.  The chance to refresh and recreate one's mind, to expand horizons or to exhaust an area, to reflect or to concentrate – this chance is not afforded them.

 

            For both selfish and altruistic reasons, we dare not content ourselves with lecturing budding talmidei hakhamim on the need for idealistic motivation.  If we can agree that a measure of justified apprehension over his financial future does not automatically disqualify someone from becoming a moreh hora'ah, then we should stop asking why he isn't willing to make even greater sacrifices than he must make, even with a decent salary.  Let us rather recognize that we have no right to demand them, or rather, that we have a duty to obviate the need for them.  Let us exert our efforts to assure, first, that, both within our own institution and within the broader Jewish community to which it relates and upon which it draws, proper Torah priorities are sustained; and, second, that the means requisite to redressing the current situation become available.[6]  To be sure, money alone will hardly suffice.  Leadership is not a commodity.  But in a competitive world, it can be a highly significant factor.

 

            I began by indicating I would speak in a practical vein, and it is on this note, having possibly exceeded my bounds, that I conclude.  I trust that these remarks will be practical not only in their content but also in their consequences.  Some could be of immediate relevance, others are of a long-range nature.  The crucial thing is to begin moving in the right direction.  Let us just start marshalling.

 

[1]  MT, Sanhedrin 2:7; see Lehem Mishneh, ad locum.  Cf. Sifre on Dev. 1:15, and the comment of Emek Hanetziv thereon.

[2]  See Sanhedrin 4:8, based upon Yerushalmi, Hagigah, 1:8.

[3]  See loc. cit.  The source for this position, too, is in the same passage in the Yerushalmi.  The interpretation to which I here allude was cited by the Rav [z.t.l.] in the name of his father, Rav Mosheh Soloveichik z.t.l.

[4]  This is, obviously, a highly dated paragraph, perhaps better omitted.  I have retained it, nonetheless – in part, in order to convey a sense of how our situation was perceived, barely a generation ago; in part, because mutatis mutandis, some of the lacunae, especially as regards current work in progress, still exist; and in part, because sensitivity to some of the broader concerns raised in the next paragraph, is still very much an issue.

[5] See Perush Hamishnayot, Abot 4:5, and MT, Talmud Torah 3:11-12.  For an opposing view, see Tashbez, 1:42-47.

[6]  To an extent, this last section, too, is somewhat dated, as the situation has certainly improved during the last thirty years; but only to an extent.

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