145
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the
Ḥazon Ish: Minhag and the Crisis of Modernity
By: BENJAMIN BROWN
Translated from the original Hebrew by Btzalel E. Shandelman
in close collaboration with the author.*+
We have seen that from the 1930’s to the 1950’s at least, the position of
the Ḥazon Ish remained consistent and unyielding: A minhag has no
*
+
Excerpted from Benjamin Brown, The Ḥazon Ish: Halakhist, Believer, and Leader
of the Ḥaredi Revolution, (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2011) pp.
460-469. Published here in Ḥakirah with the kind permission of the author and
Hebrew University Magnes Press.
Devarim Vehoraot = R. Meir Greiniman, Kuntres Devarim Vehoraot Mimaran
ZLLHH, at the end of his book Imrei Yosher, Bnei Brak 1973.
Dinim Vehanhagot = R. Meir Greiniman, Likkut Dinim Vehanhagot Mimaran Ha
ḥazon Ish ZLLHH, Bnei Brak 1996.
Ḥazon Ish = R. Avaraham Yesha‘yahu Karelitz, Ḥazon Ish [on talmudic tractates
and sections of the Shulḥan ‘Arukh], Bnei Brak 1994.
Kovetz Iggrot = R. Avraham Yesha‘yahu Karelitz (R. Shmuel Greiniman, ed), Kovetz Iggrot Maran Haḥazon Ish ZLLHH (1-3), Bnei Brak 1990.
Orhot Ish = R. Shemaryahu Greiniman, Orhot Ish—Peninim Ugenazim, 1st edition,
Jerusalem 1989.
Teshuvot Ukhtavim = R. Avraham Yesha‘yahu Karelitz (R. Meir Greiniman, ed.),
Teshuvot Ukhtavim Mimaran Ḥahazon Ish (Orah Ḥayim, Zera‘im, Kodashim), Bnei
Brak 1991.
Benjamin Brown is Professor of Jewish Thought at the Hebrew
University of Jerusalem and a researcher at the Israel Democracy
Institute. His main focus is Orthodox Judaism, which he studies in a
variety of aspects: Jewish Law (Halakhah), Ḥasidism, the Musar
Movement, and Ḥaredi ideology (Hashkafah). He has published many
articles on these topics, and his book The Ḥazon Ish: Halakhist, Believer
and Leader of the Ḥaredi Revolution (2011), from which this article is
excerpted, analyzes the chief “founding father” of the Israeli Ḥaredi
community.
Btzalel (Todd) Shandelman, whose primary occupation is software
engineering, is also a professional translator of Hebrew and Russian. He
currently lives in Houston, Texas, with his wife and son.
Ḥakirah 24 © 2018
146 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
normative status of its own, and at best can only be adduced as evidence
for an actual halakhic ruling, which in turn derives its authority strictly
from corroboration by qualified halakhists. It now remains for us to
clarify the origins of that position.
According to the theory of Friedman and Soloveitchik (preceded, in
a very condensed manner, by J. Katz),153 what we have here is the
expression of a sense of breakdown in the religious life of traditional
society. When Jewish society, the locus for the preservation of Jewish
customs, was breached on every side, its ways no longer reliably
reflected the true religious norm. In such circumstances the halakhist
turns to the reliable sources; that is, to written texts, and likewise to
those persons having the authority to interpret those texts and affirm
what is written in them: the great Torah sages (gedolei haTorah). Friedman
and Soloveitchik argue that the crises of Jewish migration and the
Holocaust intensified that sense of breakdown, thus contributing
decisively to an interruption in the continuity of the living tradition.
It is doubtful whether that claim, when applied to the Ḥazon Ish as
an individual, can withstand critical examination. As already mentioned,
the Litvish (Lithuanian) ethos, having roots in the distant past, and
especially in the nineteenth century onward, places the talmudic scholar
(talmid ḥakham) on a pedestal, seeing him as exemplifying the highest
level of attainment to which one can aspire in religious life.154 It was that
attitude that created Litvish elitism, whose tendencies are to give
credence to talmudic scholars, while displaying a measure of suspicion
toward the ways of the larger community.
We could discern that attitude earlier in the positions of the author
of Ḥokhmat Adam who lived long before the onset of the modernization
process in Lithuania, and of the author of Arukh Hashulḥan, written
during the period in which those processes began to crystallize, but
considered nonetheless to represent a somewhat traditional (preOrthodox) line of halakhic decision making.155 The Ḥazon Ish too, no
153
154
155
Jacob Katz, Leumiyut Yehudit, Jerusalem 1983, pp. 158-159.
See Immanuel Etkes, Yaḥid Bedoro, Jerusalem 1998, pp. 246-264; Shaul
Stampfer, Hayeshivah Halitait beHithavvutah, Jerusalem 1995, index entry “Torah,
‘Erekh haLimmud.” On the very early roots of this attitude, see Haim Hillel
Ben-Sasson, Retzef Utemurah, Tel Aviv 1984, pp. 258-276.
See Haym Soloveitchik, ‘Rupture and Reconstruction—the Transformation of
Contemporary Orthodoxy’, Tradition 28:4 (1994), p. 67. On Rabbi Epstein’s
openness to modernity, see Simcha Fishbane, ‘The Boldness of a Halakhist:
Rabbi Yechiel Mechel Epstein and Modernity’, The Interaction of Scientific
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 147
doubt, was nurtured from a young age on that point of view. Earlier we
examined the sources that demonstrate this, in which the Ḥazon Ish
expresses the view that Torah study is a discipline of abstract concepts
that earns its adherents exalted qualities attainable only by an elite few,
and not by the “intellectually impoverished” (dalat ha‘am). The tradition
of the halakhic decision-making process is thus the prerogative of the
great Torah sages alone.
The Ḥazon Ish expressed this position as early as 1913, in his
“Letter to a Gentile Officer” (v. supra 108-109), which he wrote during
the Beilis trial, while living in Chweidan (Kvedarna), after moving there
from his native Kosova (Kosów Poleski) following his marriage (1906).
As those two towns were rather small (not to say far-flung), it is
doubtful that the modernization movements had a deep influence on
them. Clearly, it is quite difficult to claim that there was any interruption
in the continuity of tradition in that period of Lithuanian Jewish history,
and it was also definitely not a community of Holocaust survivors or
refugees. The very same position is also evident in the Ḥazon Ish’s book
Faith and Trust, probably written after its author was already living in
Israel, and also in the letters of the Ḥazon Ish written in various periods
of his life.
The Litvish elitism to which the Ḥazon Ish subscribed was a
consolidation of various aspects of the myth surrounding the Gaon of
Vilna. And indeed, we find the Ḥazon Ish himself expressing extreme
admiration for the Gaon. The Ḥazon Ish did not, as a rule, hold the later
authorities (the Aḥaronim) in high esteem, except for select individuals.
But the Gaon was in his view such an obvious exception that he saw the
Gaon as one of the earlier authorities (the Rishonim)— following the lead
of R. Ḥayim of Volozhin who had already expressed the same
opinion156—and considered him one of the most important links in the
156
and Jewish Cultures in Modern Times (Y. Rabkin and I. Robinson, editors),
Jewish Studies 14 (1983), pp. 67-85.
Ḥazon Ish on Oraḥ Ḥayim 13:1, et al. On R. Danzig, see his Zikhru Torat
Mosheh, Jerusalem 1957, Introduction, p. 31: “The pious Rabbi Eliyahu [...] was
an angel, similar to one of the Rishonim.” (He does not, however, address the
question of his halakhic authority.); On R. Ḥayim of Volozhin, see R. Barukh
Epstein, Mekor Barukh, Vilnius 1928, vol. 1, p. 584 (where R. Ḥayim of Volozhin is quoted to have said that the Gaon was “not like the amora’im, nor
even like the rabbanan savora’ei or the Geonim, and not like Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi or Maimonides, but perhaps like Naḥmanides.” Here, too, it is not clear
whether or not he is referring to his halakhic authority.) My thanks to Shlomo
148 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
chain of transmission of the Oral Torah (Kovetz Iggerot 132). According
to the testimony of one of his students, the Ḥazon Ish did not dare
disagree with the Gaon until he was in his forties.157
These expressions of glowing admiration aside, the biographies of
the two men also exhibit certain common features, such that it seems
that the image of the Gaon actually served as a model for the Ḥazon Ish.
Like the Gaon, the Ḥazon Ish saw Torah learning as the highest ideal
and dedicated his life to it. Both men were reclusive personalities who
engaged in Torah learning far from public view. They both studied
Torah with rare diligence and their learning embraced virtually all areas
of Halakhah, including the so-called “unpopular” ones. Neither held any
official rabbinical position, nor—so far we know—did either even
receive rabbinical ordination. And both avoided communal
involvements until their later years.
Moreover, the Ḥazon Ish followed in the footsteps of the Gaon also
in the doctrinal plane: He preferred to base his learning, as well as his
halakhic decisions, on talmudic period sources and the Rishonim, and
would admit to the cogency of a minhag only when doing so was fully
consistent with those sources.
As for the distance they kept from the masses, it seems that this was
for both men as much a component of their fundamental outlook as a
feature of their personalities. This was so, in all events, during their
formative years, and essentially through their old age, when both,
notwithstanding their reclusiveness, and almost perforce, became the
most conspicuous leaders of epic historical battles in which they saw
themselves as defending the very foundations of Judaism.158
If the pendulum swings in the history of Halakhah alternate between
the poles of “return to the texts” and “return to minhag,” then the Gaon
is the most visible exemplar of the “return to the texts” school of the
eighteenth century—or, more precisely, of returning to the ancient texts:
157
158
Tikochinsky for bringing this source to my attention. See also R. Dov Eliach,
Hagaon, Jerusalem 2002, vol. 1, pp. 47–56; ibid. vol. 2, pp. 688-697.
R. Yosef Avraham Wolff, Rabboteinu, Bnei Brak 1975, p. 95; R. Shlomo Cohen
et el., Peer Hador, vol. 1, Bnei Brak 1967, p. 169.
Did the biographers of the Ḥazon Ish “stitch together” their account to make
it consistent with that venerable precedent, or did the Ḥazon Ish himself, because of his own veneration for that precedent and what it stands for, mould
his own character under its influence? The history of the Ḥazon Ish as elaborated and analyzed above would seem to better support the second of those
two possibilities.
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 149
the Talmuds and the midrashim of the Sages.159 Although we are not
privy to the Gaon’s thought processes as he pursued that course, we can
infer from his general outlook that he viewed those primary sources as
the purest, simplest, and most lucid foundations of authentic Judaism, as
opposed to the thicket of casuistry on the one hand and the accretion of
popular customs on the other—many of which were based on
superstition—that were then commonplace.
The methods of the Gaon included, inter alia, a critical attitude
toward the halakhic works of the Aḥaronim and even of the Rishonim, a
critical attitude toward printed editions, and—not least—a critical
attitude toward minhagim. His method was to first attempt to anchor the
halakhic norms current in his day to the sources of the Sages, by finding
either explicit mention, or at least oblique allusion, to such customs in
those sources. However, when the Gaon could find no such source, he
did not hesitate to rule against the custom, even in direct opposition to
the Rishonim, the Shulḥan Arukh, or established practice. The Gaon’s
halakhic pronouncements in those areas gave rise to a full corpus of
minhagei haGra, including, inter alia, an independent prayer version,
different from the standard Ashkenazic liturgy, and based on the results
of the Gaon’s critical research into the correct readings of the Jewish
prayers (“Nussaḥ haGra”). As early as the nineteenth century many of the
above were anthologized in a number of works, the best known of
which is the collection Ma‘aseh Rav.
Even if those customs did not garner wide acceptance among the
rank-and-file Jewish population of Lithuanian Jewry to any appreciable
extent, the myth of the Gaon was a major cultural factor in fashioning
the character of that Jewish milieu over the course of generations, and
his fundamental outlook very markedly influenced its learned and
rabbinical elite.
As already mentioned, it is almost certain that this position of the
Gaon concerning minhag, and his critical views in general, are
inextricably linked to the scale of social and human values in which the
Gaon had matured. It seems reasonable to believe that in the Gaon’s
opinion the wisdom of the Torah—about whose superiority he wrote at
great length in his commentary to the book of Proverbs and in other
159
See the introduction of R. Ḥayim of Volozhin to the Gaon’s commentary on
Shulḥan Arukh; Rav Tzair (Chaim Tchernowitz), Toledot Haposkim, New York
1947, vol. 3, pp. 208–210; Etkes, Yaḥid Bedoro, pp. 21–26; Betzalel Landau, Hagaon Heḥasid MiVilna, Jerusalem 1978, pp. 313–317; Eliach, Hagaon, vol. 2, pp.
677–682, 684.
150 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
works—cannot be determined based on random factors, such as
considerations arising from one particular responsum, or as the result of
influences or circumstances specific to a given time or place, or the
popular customs of the general population. The ideal of the recluse who
studies in isolated seclusion is an ideal that demands a clean separation
from all of the above, for the sake of focusing on the wisdom of the
Torah in its theoretical, abstract form.
As stated earlier, the image of the Gaon eventually became a symbol
idealized by all of Lithuanian Jewry, which the Ḥazon Ish too
internalized in the early stages of his spiritual growth, in such places and
at such times that he was only minimally exposed to the ravages of the
crisis of modernity. We can thus suppose that that basic approach,
whose origins are in the ideal of talmid ḥakham, is what informed both
men’s attitudes toward minhag. And as we have seen previously, that
approach may be viewed from various perspectives as an eminently
Litvish one—from the end of the eighteenth century onward, at least.
It is sufficient to consider just a few of the names already mentioned
in this chapter—the Gaon of Vilna, R. Avraham Danzig (author of
Ḥayei Adam), R. Yehiel Mechel Epstein (author of Arukh Hashulḥan), and
even the Ḥafetz Ḥayim (whom Soloveitchik identifies as representing the
“return to the texts” camp) —to see that we speak here of an ideal that
influenced the character of all of Litvish rabbinic culture. We cannot
assert this as a sweeping generalization, of course, for even the
Lithuanian poskim were not totally indifferent to popular custom. But we
can detect their obvious preference for customs based on talmudic
sources, and also their distinct reservations concerning those customs
not firmly anchored in the bedrock of rabbinic authority.
In light of all of the above we may ask ourselves: Is the Ḥazon Ish’s
attitude toward popular custom related to the crisis of the modern era,
and, in particular, the crises of secularization, the Holocaust, and
migration? I believe that the analysis I’ve proposed above provides a
solid basis for answering that question in the negative. For we feel
convinced that the Ḥazon Ish’s position on the status of Torah scholars
for establishing minhag, as opposed to the status of the “intellectually
impoverished” did not originate in crises of that sort. He experienced
those three crises long after his personality and his approach to
Halakhah were formed, including his elitist viewpoints and his
suspicious attitude toward minhag.160
160
As an aside here we should point out that the Ḥazon Ish was no less critical
toward minhagim having a firm basis in written sources than he was toward
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 151
As we’ve already seen, the “return to the texts” approach evident in
the Ḥazon Ish’s halakhic rulings drew its strength from different, earlier
sources, and had no need for any of those other developments. The
sources we mean are, first and foremost, the spirit of exclusivity that
dominated mitnagdic Lithuanian Jewry, compounded with other
elements—primarily terminological—adopted from the rationalist
thinking of the Middle Ages. Thus, regardless of whether the Litvish
spirit of exclusivity received its character from the Gaon and his
disciples, or (as H. H. Ben Sasson argued161) it is rooted in earlier
periods, its origins clearly predate the crisis of modernity.
For the sake of completeness in substantiating our arguments, we
could cite two additional examples to serve as test cases. The first of
those is the Ḥatam Sofer and his successors,162 the “Hungarian school”;
our second example is twentieth-century Hasidism.163 Both of these
groups demonstrated great fidelity to the popular, living tradition and
elevated it to the status of an ideal. Practically speaking, the essential
message of the Ḥatam Sofer’s catchphrase, “The new is forbidden by
the Torah,” refers to the preservation of minhagim, ḥumrot (stringent
rulings), and the like, since the other parts of Jewish law—i.e., those
based on the books—had already been considered immutable even
before him.
As for the ḥasidim, in addition to preserving the customs of ḥasidut
generally, each ḥasidic group also observed, ardently and meticulously,
161
162
163
those that were obviously nothing more than popular custom, as demonstrated
by the case of the tzaddi. Only those customs that accorded with true Halakhah
as defined by venerated sources—the talmudic sages and the Rishonim—as he
understood them had any credibility in his eyes.
See supra, note 154.
On the Ḥatam Sofer’s approach to this question, see Moshe Samet, Heḥadash
Asur Min Hatorah, Jerusalem 2005, pp. 304–309, and the collection of sources
cited by Strasser and Perl in Rabbeinu HeḤatam Sofer Mippi Ketavo, Jerusalem
1993, pp. 33–39. We saw earlier (supra pp. 438–439) the same attitude expressed by Rabbi Menasheh Klein (“the Ungvarer Rov”) in his opinion of the
debate over the units-of-measurement issue.
The attitude of Hasidism toward minhag will require a more detailed study.
Meanwhile, see Aaron Wertheim, Halakhot Vehalikhot Baḥasidut, Jerusalem
1989, p. 63; Rabbi Yesha‘yah Feisch Halevi Ruttenberg (Rebbe of Ruzla),
Zammeru Lishemo, Jerusalem 1996, pp. 4-7; R. Yekutiel Yehudah Halberstam
(Rebbe of Zans-Klausenburg), Shefa‘ Ḥayim: Hamidrash vehama‘aseh, New York
1993, p. 138 (my numbering); Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, Darkhei Yoel: Otzar Minhagei Ḥasidim, Jerusalem 1990, pp. 130–184.
152 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
its own particular minhagim (as attested by several generations of steadily
increasing literature about the customs of the many ḥasidic groups). The
observance of each group’s customs and its fidelity to the historical
dynasty of its rebbes are essential components for preservation of the
“atmosphere” of each contemporary ḥasidic group, and the glue that
bonds it together.
These two Orthodox movements, the Hungarian-Orthodox and the
latter-day hasidic, held fast against the crisis of modernity and against
those phenomena deemed to have caused the interruption in the
continuity of tradition. Note, however, that these two groups did not
opt for the “return to the texts,” but, in a rather sharp contrast, for the
“return to the minhag.” If for the Litvaks the books and the rabbis were
the bedrock of tradition, for the Hungarians and the ḥasidim it was the
home and the community that served this function.
These two Orthodox groups turned minhag into an endless
opportunity for the creation of new ḥumrot. And this only goes to show
that it is not always a broken connection with the “living tradition” that
facilitates the creation of a dynamic of ḥumrot (as Friedman and
Soloveitchik argued). In fact, sometimes the exact opposite is true.164
One might counter that the circumstances here are not comparable.
Among Hungarian Jewry at the onset of the period of the
Emancipation, as likewise in the various Hasidic groups, a relatively
tight-knit community framework still remained, whereas in Israel after
the Holocaust the thread of continuity had been severed absolutely. But
this argument too fails to withstand critical examination.
On the one hand, the ḥasidic groups remained faithful to their
minhagim even after the Holocaust—and not merely as lip service—even
though the historical continuity of their existence had been severed no
less than that of the Litvaks. But on the other hand, in the formative
years of the Ḥazon Ish in late nineteenth-century Lithuania, the
traditional Jewish community remained intact, relatively speaking, such
that even if cracks began to appear here and there, the situation was still
better than that of the Jews of central Europe in earlier generations.
Moreover, the Ḥatam Sofer’s legacy of protecting the minhagim was
furthered by the poskim who succeeded him, although the latter were
faced with a situation of communal disintegration that was far more
serious than in his days.
164
See Benjamin Brown, “Haḥmarah: Ḥamishah Typusim min ha'et haḥadashah”, Dine
Israel 20-21 (2001-2), pp. 123–23.
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 153
We have demonstrated, in any event, that in all these cases the path
of dependence on minhag and the path of viewing minhag with suspicion
were equally viable options for the halakhists, and the decision of which
of those approaches to adopt had to be based more on the dominant
values of a given community’s traditions than on considerations
connected with the struggles and crises of modernity. The critical
attitude toward minhag, and likewise its adoption by the Ḥazon Ish, are
the result of a premodern traditional Litvish ethos (even if that tradition
was a relatively recent one).
However, the phenomenon of “return to the texts” as portrayed by
Friedman and Soloveitchik was not endemic to Ashkenazic ḥaredi
society as a whole, for it occurred only within its Litvish component,
whence those scholars took the bulk of the examples cited in their
research.165
Does all this undermine the Friedman–Soloveitchik theory in its
entirety? Not necessarily (even if the analysis heretofore may seem to be
pointing in that direction). Their rationale does successfully prove that in
the ḥaredi society—the Litvish, at least—there was significant rise in the
strength of the “return to the texts” approach. Taking that as a given,
there is no doubt that the crises of secularization, the aliyah to Israel, and
the Holocaust were all contributing factors. It is inherently difficult to
construct a satisfying explanation of developments in the Jewish world
over the last century without taking those crises into account and
without attaching to them any real importance. Those crises occasioned
changes of such major proportions in the Jewish nation, and were
responsible for such serious trauma in broad segments of its population,
that it is absolutely impossible to suggest that the continuity of tradition
remained unaffected.
Seen from this angle, Friedman’s and Soloveitchik’s arguments can
be considered highly convincing. But we must distinguish here between
two factors: the first, the driving force behind the creation of a given
ethos; and second, the reason that a given ethos is ultimately adopted by
society in the manner and to the extent that it is.
In our specific case—the halakhic methodology of the Ḥazon Ish—
it seems more likely that the factors behind the creation of the
ideological position we’ve described have nothing to do with the crisis
of modernity, and are rooted mostly in matters of environment and
personality, of which the most significant example is the mitnagdic
165
My thanks to the late Professor Yisrael Ta-Shema for bringing this point to my
attention in private conversation.
154 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
tradition of Lithuania (and the Ḥazon Ish’s intellectual development, in
particular), in which Litvish sources were mingled with medieval
philosophical sources.
But as for the reason that the Ḥazon Ish’s approach was adopted by
ḥaredi society, we can assume that the crises of secularization, aliyah, and
the Holocaust all contributed to that process, and all the more so to its
intensification and radicalization.
All that notwithstanding, the role of the individual in history, and, in
our case, the Ḥazon Ish’s role in the history of the ḥaredi society in
Israel—must also be taken into account for the purpose of this inquiry.
In summary, then, we would say that the Friedman-Soloveitchik
theory is found wanting from the standpoint of the first factor, given
that the Ḥazon Ish’s approach is rooted in the mitnagdic ideal of
talmudic scholarship and in medieval Jewish thought, both of which
predated the crisis of modernity. Their theory remains mostly
convincing, however, as concerns the second factor, namely, the reason
that the Ḥazon Ish’s approach was so readily adopted by the ḥaredi
community at large, particularly in Israel.
This distinction, however, rather than being applicable to the Ḥazon
Ish exclusively, would seem to allow us to draw tentative, prima facie
conclusions about the nature of Orthodox Halakhah in general, and the
methodology of and assumptions about the study of Orthodox Judaism.
Jacob Katz’s theory about Orthodoxy are composed of two layers.
The first is his argument of “Orthodoxy as response”; the second is his
claim about the interruption in the continuity of tradition.
The first layer asserts that the crisis of modernity and the
disintegration of the Jewish community occasioned several forms of
response, of which Orthodox Judaism is but one instance. The rabbis,
seeing that Judaism was in a state of distress, and believing that it was
their obligation to protect and fortify it to the best of their ability,
created new forms of response. Instead of the ad hoc approach
employed by the premodern halakhists, they created a response built on
a large-scale comprehensive policy. The exact nature of that policy
varied from country to country and even from city to city, with the full
spectrum spanning a wide arc, beginning with “The new is forbidden by
the Torah,” and ending with the neo-Orthodox “Torah ‘im Derekh Eretz.”
All these were intended to preserve the character of traditional Judaism,
but in actuality they significantly changed it.
The second layer asserts that the changes were sufficiently radical
that, as a result, Judaism turned into a new phenomenon which no
longer extends the continuity of traditional Judaism, but—at best—is
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 155
merely “anchored in tradition” (as Katz put it), or is a “mutation” of
traditional Judaism (in the words of M. Samet).166 According to this
claim, the disintegration of the traditional community and the fact that
the majority of that community ceased to be halakhically observant led
to a situation where traditional Jewish society could no longer maintain
its unbroken, authentic continuity, with the effect that, ultimately, any
phenomenon arising as the result of the challenges of the modern era
must be taken as a completely new phenomenon.
Katz, and a number of his students as well, viewed both of these
layers as comprising a single whole and, by all appearances, they were of
the opinion that both layers are ineluctably inseparable. In my opinion,
however, more careful observation will demonstrate that the two layers
are not by necessity connected, and that it is possible to accept the first
layer, while rejecting, whether completely or in part, the second layer.
It is difficult to disagree with the assertion that the crisis of
modernity forced the rabbis to orient themselves along different battle
lines, and it is likewise difficult to not agree that that new orientation
altered the trajectory and character of the Halakhah. And yet we are
entitled to inquire how profound that change actually was, and whether
it was intrinsic or extrinsic. We should also ask to what extent this
rabbinic response differs from rabbinic responses to earlier ideological
challenges that threatened the very foundations of rabbinic Judaism.
I believe that a sober examination of the above questions leads us to
the answer that the character of the modern challenges, as well as the
rabbinic responses to them, are not so unprecedented as it may first
appear.167 After all, the challenges posed by the Sadducees, by Karaism,
and by Christianity were also a significant threat to the PharasaicRabbinic Judaism of their day, and in response to those threats the
Halakhah likewise established a series of safeguards, precautions, and
other means of defense, but no one claims that those measures changed
the character of Judaism to the point of interrupting the continuity of
tradition.
Indeed, all of those challenges might be viewed as strictly internal
disputes within the traditional world, which is not true of the disputes
with the modernist movements. And indeed none of the
aforementioned challenges actively shook the foundations of the
166
167
Jacob Katz, “Orthodoxy in historical perspective”, Studies in Contemporary Jewry
2 (1986), pp. 3-17.
My thanks to Professor Haninah Ben-Menaḥem for convincing me of this
point in a private conversation.
156 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
fundamental institutions of Jewish authority, such as the rabbinate and
the Jewish community, as the events of the crisis of modernity did. But
if we were to examine the sum total of all those norms of the halakhic
corpus that were altered (added, removed) on account of those changes,
we would find that the percentage points amount to single digits only.
When all was said and done, tefillin were the same tefillin as before, the
Shema was still the same Shema, Shabbat the same Shabbat, and unkosher
foods the same unkosher foods. But if we further consider that even
traditional Halakhah is in a constant state of flux, with pronounced
tendencies toward increased stringency—among the Ashkenazim, at
least—we would find that any claims of an unprecedented revolution in
the trajectory of the Halakhah are exaggerated, and not by little.
Can we say that traditional society remained in place, and the
continuity of tradition went along just as it always had? That sort of
conclusion would be absurd. Moreover, I don’t believe that the above
leads to any far-reaching conclusions that would minimize the
fundamental distinction between tradition and modernity.168 Surely there
were always transitions from traditional society to modern society that
confronted those faithful to tradition with difficult challenges. Surely
there were crises brought on by ideological and political changes. And
surely those crises had halakhic consequences. However, Orthodoxy was
relatively successful at preserving the continuity of tradition from within,
even when the external institutions—political and social—were
crumbling. Orthodoxy’s aptitude for coping with challenges allowed it to
find replacements for the old frameworks, thus bolstering its ability to
preserve a respectable portion of traditional Judaism’s essence.
Orthodoxy—including, to a certain extent, also Modern Orthodoxy—
succeeded at preserving islands of traditionalism within modern society
without the underlying conditions of the frameworks of traditional
society.
What all this means is that not every defining feature of Orthodox
society should be interpreted as the result of a struggle with modernity.
There are changes against which the various segments of Orthodoxy
continue the ideological and normative features that existed before the
crisis of modernity, and they do so not only as a result of an external
dynamic of coping with the new, but also out of an internal dynamic of
developing the old.
168
As some contemporary sociologists have suggested. See Avi Sagi, Hamassa‘
Hayehudi-Yisreeli: Sheelot shel Zehut veshel Tarbut, Jerusalem 2006, pp. 87–116.
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 157
Modernity always was and still is an important challenge for
Orthodox halakhists, but their world is larger than the four ells of that
battle alone. It is therefore difficult to construct a convincing theory in
which every phenomenon is immediately interpreted as a defense against
modernity. For our case, it is difficult to suggest that both loyalty to
minhag and to the critical examination thereof are “defenses against
modernity.” Indeed, we can imagine a situation of two contradictory
responses, both of which are perceived as a defense against some threat;
but this kind of situation requires explanation, and the burden of proof
is on the party that argues for it.
The choice between an enthusiastic embracement of minhagim and
the suspicious approach toward them is a choice between two paths,
each of which has both advantages and disadvantages in the struggle
with modernity. When the Ḥazon Ish adopted his attitude of suspicion,
he “gained” certain advantages, while “losing” others. In some cases he
took his chances on disputes that ultimately contributed neither strength
nor stability to the status of the Halakhah—neither among its guardians
nor among its critics. Only in one case—the question of the kosherness
of the zebu—did we see that he considered factors affecting the battle
with modernity, and sought the protection of minhag as he understood it.
(“In these times, when there is a push toward Reform, we must avoid
doing anything that would appear to permit what minhag has always
considered forbidden.”) And this even where such a position implies the
negation of the established customs of yet other communities of world
Jewry.
In a manner no less convincing we could follow that other axis, the
premodern, in which the halakhic position of the Ḥazon Ish on this
issue finds its development. From the viewpoint of that axis, we can see
that the Ḥazon Ish’s ideological world drew its nourishment not only
from its stance against the forces of modernization, but also from its
stance toward the Gaon and his students. Here, there was no
interruption in the continuity of tradition. Tradition merely developed in
various directions while contracting and expanding in those aspects and
others, as all ideas within a living, seething world culture are wont to do,
regardless of whether that culture happens to be locked in battle with
external forces.
I will not refrain from inserting here yet one more fundamental
observation about methodology. Consider the following. On the one
hand, when the Ḥatam Sofer and his successors, the representatives of
Hungarian Haredi Jewry, demonstrated superlative dedication to their
minhagim, and to repelling any criticism directed toward those, scholars
proclaimed that an “Orthodox response”—the expression of a
158 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
conservative and introverted attitude that tended naturally toward
stringency.169 But then, when in the second half of the twentieth century
the Ḥazon Ish demonstrated an excessively critical approach toward
minhagim—a well-nigh anarchistic position from the Hungarian
viewpoint—that too was proclaimed an “Orthodox response”—the
expression of a conservative and introverted attitude of stringency. We
seem to have no small problem here. The basic premise not infrequently
encountered in the methodology of scholarly study of Orthodox
Judaism views virtually every feature or indicator of exclusivity detected
in the Orthodox world (the very essence of which is conservatism and
introversion) as the direct result of a crisis of modernity. It seems that
that viewpoint should be tempered. Orthodox responses in general
include not a few dynamic extensions of religious principles that have
been integral to various components of premodern tradition. These, too,
must be taken into account for explaining phenomena that arise in the
modern period.
The Ḥazon Ish developed his attitude toward minhag without a
traceable relation to the crisis of modernity. His attitudes were
formulated at a young age based on the Litvish elitism of talmudic
scholarship, which was clothed in the garb of a quasi-philosophical
elitism. It was an elitism directed not only at those who had “thrown off
the yoke” of Torah observance, but also toward the “intellectually
impoverished,” whose Judaism was “mediocre, practiced as mere habit”
(as he himself expresses it in his Kuntres Hashi‘urim, v. supra); that is,
toward the ordinary, observant Jewish populace.
The Ḥazon Ish’s approach is therefore relevant even to issues
having nothing at all to do with the crisis of modernity—the correct
form of the letter tzaddi, for example, in Torah scrolls, tefillin, and
mezuzot, and the proper conversion of the ancient units of measurement
to contemporary ones. Nonetheless, it is only natural that that same
approach would also influence the way the Ḥazon Ish dealt with issues
that were related to modernization—the question of the zebu, for
example (following his own contention, at least, that a lenient ruling
would lend support to the “Reform”). And likewise, as we shall see later,
on the issue of the international date line.
169
Eliezer Katz, HeḤatam Sofer, Jerusalem 1960, pp. 61–64; Samet, Heḥadash
Asur Min Hatorah, pp. 304-305, 308; Jacob Katz, Halakhah Vekabbalah, Jerusalem 1986, pp. 377-378; Michael K. Silber, “The Emergence of UltraOrthodoxy: The Invention of Tradition”, in: The Uses of Tradition (J.
Wertheimer, editor), New York and Jerusalem 1992, pp. 47–66.
The Gaon of Vilna, the Ḥatam Sofer, and the Ḥazon Ish : 159
If Torah scholars are Judaism’s immovable anchor, while the
“intellectually impoverished” are not capable of serving in that capacity,
it follows easily that when calamity threatens, we should place our
reliance on the great Torah sages, not on the “impoverished.” In
contrast to the Ḥatam Sofer, however, those same minhagim and living
tradition were that immovable anchor, and it was thus only natural that
he would rely on them when Judaism came under threat.
The common denominator between them, however, is that both
their responses to modernization were broad-front approaches, bases on
policy considerations and on preexisting conceptual premises having no
direct connection to the crisis of modernity. From this perspective,
Orthodoxy preserves its genuine continuity with tradition, even if certain
traditional components require fortification for dealing with the
struggles of modernity.
Our coverage would be incomplete if we did not dedicate the last
lines of our analysis of the Ḥazon Ish’s approach to its ironic
denouement.
Already when the Ḥazon Ish was still alive, but even more so after
his death, his friends, acquaintances, students, and admirers created a
private circle within Haredi society. The members of this circle, known
as the “Ḥazon-Ishniks,” accepted upon themselves to observe all the
halakhic rulings of their admired teacher. So long as they limited
themselves to his written rulings, there was nothing here new or
surprising; after all, the Ḥazon Ish wrote his decisions precisely for that
purpose. Gradually, however, information began to circulate orally about
what the Ḥazon Ish’s “practices” of religious life had been. These
reports, which were spread, generally speaking, by word of mouth, and
probably included a healthy dose of erroneous information, eventually
saw the light of day in written, published form—first as appendices to
various works, and later as more substantial, stand-alone
compositions.170 Those published works now serve, somewhat
paradoxically, as the corpus of “The Minhagim of the Ḥazon Ish.” At
first glance this paradox is not one of any major proportions, since we
are referring here to customs as practiced not by the “intellectually
impoverished,” but by an eminent scholar. It is doubtful, however,
whether all the customs attributed to the Ḥazon Ish actually originated
170
For examples of orally transmitted information of this type, some of which are
mutually contradictory in minor details, see infra, pp. 491-494, in the section
dealing with the Ḥazon Ish’s opinion on the time of the conclusion of Shabbat.
160 : Ḥakirah, the Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought
with him. And even concerning those minhagim that he did himself
practice, it is likewise an open question whether he did so with a notion
of commitment (opinio juris), i.e., on the basis of a presumption that all
those customs should be practiced by everyone everywhere. The editors
of such compendia are not unaware of these problems, and such works
will thus typically include an introduction with the caveat that the
contents of the book should not be used to determine actual halakhic
practice. (See, for example: Dinim Vehanhagot, pp. 28-29; Teshuvot
Ukhetavim, Oraḥ Ḥayim, introduction; Orḥot Ish, p. 229; Devarim Vehoraot,
forward). But “market forces” tend to get the upper hand in such
situations, and many of the Ḥazon-Ishniks have in fact adopted those
customs as actual practices. Thus, those who claim to be speaking in the
name of the Ḥazon Ish have now given support to a series of minhagim
for which there is frequently no guarantee whatsoever that it was not
merely the “ intellectually impoverished” who invented and promulgated
them.