A trenchant and rather paradoxical Hasidic saying asserts the following: He who believes the tall tales told by the Hasidim may be a fool, but he who does not believe them is a heretic.Footnote 1 It turns out that many secular writers have in fact read and examined Hasidic tales sympathetically, without necessarily regarding them as true. But what exactly is the relationship of such non-believers to Hasidism? Can a secularist genuinely connect with texts that seem to be totally immersed in their religious context and driven by specifically religious interests? Can a reader who repudiates the assumptions of the original author (and even of his intended audience) nevertheless engage in a personally uplifting or even spiritually-inspired reading of such texts? Is there a spiritual dimension capable of traversing the barriers of religious doctrine, and penetrating the inner world of the heretic?
At the turn of the twentieth century, a new phenomenon, often termed “neo-Hasidism” emerged. A particular group of writers, which included literary figures such as Mikha Yosef Berdichevsky, Y. L. Peretz, Samuel Abba Horodezky, David Cohen, Pinḥas Sadeh, Eliezer Steinman, many of whom were far removed not only from Hasidism, but also from traditional Judaism at large, engaged in a sympathetic retroactive reading of the literary heritage of the Hasidic movement from the time of its establishment by the Baal Shem Tov through the twentieth century.Footnote 2 Their post-traditional mode of reading Hasidic texts was oriented towards the current needs of their contemporaries and related their approach to modern twentieth-century quests for Jewish identity. But given the fact that these writers were intellectuals who had consciously rebelled against the halakhic Judaism of the Shulḥan Arukh, and no longer shared simple naive acceptance of what were commonly regarded as the mandatory “principles of Jewish belief,” worth exploring is the meaning and significance of their modern reading of Hasidism: how have modern, secular Jewish writers of a “neo-Hasidic” bent related to the clearly religious dimension of the Hasidic tradition? More specifically, what role has God played for the modern writers turning to Hasidism for inspiration in a fundamentally secular or “faithless” cultural milieu?
Grappling with the religious character and content of Hasidic sources is most problematic precisely when it comes to dealing with the relevance of this traditional heritage for a secular reader, who is now called upon to address these texts empathetically from a contemporary perspective, and view them as a cultural resource capable of providing fresh inspiration and guidance. While the phenomenon of neo-Hasidism goes back to the work of modern Jewish writers from the first half of the twentieth century, more recent expressions of neo-Hasidism are also exhibited in the writings of contemporary figures such as Arthur Green and Elie Wiesel.
The task of secular Jewish writers who undertake to reintroduce Hasidic sources to a new audience can properly be described as one of translation—not merely in the narrow linguistic sense, but first and foremost in a cultural, ideological, and even moral sense. When such a translation in effect requires smoothing over elements that are foreign to the new context for which it is intended, clearly the task is not merely technical but also creative: a bridge needs to be constructed that did not previously exist, in order to establish a cultural link between two more or less incompatible worlds. This raises compelling questions: How does the modern writer create this link? What are the ideological terms that demand translation? Are the solutions that he or she finds for transposing the traditional source into a modern context indeed convincing and faithful, in some form or other, to the original? From a modern perspective, especially interesting are those cultural transpositions that do indeed deviate from the original, as they truly represent acts of innovation, exploiting the traditional source for non-traditional purposes and presenting it in a new light. The significance of such a reading ought to be explained in terms of the current needs of the modern reader, which may entail not only personal motives related to the past, such as remnants of biographical or nostalgic affinities to the old heritage, but also more ideological motives, present or future-oriented, which have to do with the desire of the “new Jew” to foster and perpetuate a sense of connection to a “national” legacy.
The attempt on the part of modern writers to present Hasidism as a contemporary source of inspiration might be compared to similar attempts of other writers to present the biblical corpus in terms of the Jewish Enlightenment movement, as, for instance, in the romantic novels of Abraham Mapu,Footnote 3 or to revive the Golden Age in Spain by focusing on the personalities and legacies of exemplary figures such as Yehuda ha-Levi or Shmuel ha-Nagid, as exemplified in nineteenth-century German-Jewish literary works such as A. S. Friedberg's Memories of the House of David series.Footnote 4 Presumably any literary choice of this sort had its own rationale and ideological significance. Those who elected to re-read or translate the biblical world into the language of their time might be understood as calling upon their Jewish contemporaries to favor certain attitudes and values characteristic of biblical Judaism over others that were subsequently developed in the Diaspora. Those who chose to portray the Jewish Golden Age in Spain were similarly preaching for a contemporary realization of precisely the ethos and productive social and cultural relations between Jews and their non-Jewish environment that typified that historical context. It should be noted that, in all of these cases, the decision to focus on a specific cultural phenomenon from within a diverse and abundant treasure chest of Jewish tradition was developed over the course of generations. In an ideological sense, such selectivity is indicative not only of positive identification with a particular aspect of tradition by seeking its precise parallel in the past, but also of a negative attitude towards other aspects lacking specific traits attractive to the modern reader. The same may be said regarding the decision to engage in a sympathetic contemporary reading of the Hasidic legacy. From an ideological perspective, identification is established with a certain facet found to be typical of Hasidism, but indirectly this often also entails disassociation from other non-Hasidic elements of the Jewish tradition. Thus, it would seem that the decision of modern writers who no longer identify with the religious tradition nevertheless to embrace the Hasidic legacy as their preferred source of inspiration does indeed bear unique significance. This holds especially true when their choice appears to be deliberate and is accompanied by a strong awareness of the fundamentally religious character of this particular movement.
To draw a parallel, post-traditional writers who engaged in a re-reading of the Bible were particularly interested in dwelling on the secular, worldly aspects of this text. Thus, the romantic novels of the Jewish Enlightenment focus on the similarity between biblical heroes and secular life, and underemphasize the relation of these same heroes to religion, which became secondary in the light of new interests of modern authors and readers.Footnote 5 The same applies to Enlightenment expressions of nostalgia for the Jewish “Golden Age” in Spain. It is not the religious devotion of these same medieval Jews that was the focus of modern interest, but rather other aspects of their world, such as their interests in philosophy and science.
In contrast to the treatment of medieval Spanish Jewish thinkers, in modern Jewish literature the Hasidic world remains an unmistakably religious one, primarily concerned with the relationship between man and God. Thus, for example, Y. L. Peretz, who himself was especially interested in the social nature of Hasidism, nevertheless described Hasidism as a primarily religious phenomenon. The tzaddikim who inhabit his Hasidic masterpieces, such as “If Not Higher” and “Between Two Peaks,” are involved in a quest for “the soul of Torah,” rather than in its secular aspects.Footnote 6 Mikha Yosef Berdichevsky depicts the “soul” of Hasidism as a version of spirituality that does not merely reduce God to the function of “Our Father in Heaven,” but rather is centered on divinity for its own sake, without subjugating it to human needs.Footnote 7
Given the fact that Hasidism continued to represent a trend in Judaism with a decidedly religious orientation, one might naturally be prompted to ask: How should we interpret the fact that a group of modern writers, some of whom were agnostics or atheists, deliberately chose to focus on a legacy so manifestly religious in nature, even though they had less problematic alternatives readily available? If such writers sought a traditional Jewish phenomenon with which to identify, why would they have chosen one that stood in such stark contrast to their contemporary secular ethos? A secularist seeking some palatable form of religious affinity may have viewed Hasidism as a likely source for two complementary reasons: On the one hand, Hasidism was perceived as a suitable conduit for transposing religion to an emotional plane. On the other hand, it was regarded for this very reason as providing a viable alternative to the institutionalized and formalistic strait-jacket of rabbinic Judaism. These two mirror-images of Hasidism were indeed massively developed at the turn of the century, when the first wave of neo-Hasidic writers emerged. Nevertheless, the choice of such writers to engage with Hasidism precisely on the religious or spiritual level did not necessarily entail a call for return to its original traditional framework.Footnote 8
Most of the new writers who engaged in a sympathetic reading of Hasidic tradition did not alter their own modern lifestyles in light of the demands of authentic Hasidism, nor did they close their geographic and cultural distance from the inner circle of the Hasidic community. Their modern embracing of Hasidic religiosity represented a different form of negotiation with the traditional religious dimension. In considering this connection, Eliezer Schweid's distinction between what he terms “totalitarian secularism,” a variety of secularism that totally negates religious tradition, and “humanist secularism,” which does not entirely sever its connection to its religious heritage, is instructive.Footnote 9 The sympathetic reading of Hasidic tradition conducted by the majority of neo-Hasidic writers clearly belongs to the latter category. However, what is involved is not merely a neutral, polite, and external sufferance of the religious phenomenon embodied by Hasidism, but rather a modern attempt to formulate an alternative brand of religiosity or spirituality in hope that this alternative would enable non-believers such as themselves, or anyone else who seeking to shed traditional halakhic constraints, to occupy the deliberately ambiguous space between religious and secular identity.
Describing the neo-Hasidic literary corpus as a “secular reading” of Hasidism is therefore imprecise and even misleading. As Eliezer Steinman wrote: “One does not approach the Hasidic garden via the gate of culture, or, at any rate, not via the secular gate alone.”Footnote 10 Instead of a “secular” reading, it would be more accurate to speak of a “modern” reading of Hasidism, where the latter term is meant to stand in opposition to a simple orthodox reading of Hasidism. An orthodox reading views Hasidism not only as a movement that vehemently opposes any modern deviation from existing tradition, but also as one from which nothing can be gained if unaccompanied by acceptance of the ancient tenets of faith. But the truth of the matter is that a sharp and oversimplified distinction between “religious” and “secular,” implicitly sufficing with sociological determinants of identity, simply does not hold water. The more subtle truth is that not every writer who goes bareheaded or avoids houses of prayer is in fact “secular.” This is especially true of ostensibly “secular” writers and thinkers who advocated a sympathetic re-reading of Hasidic writings and blurred the distinction between religious and secular space by deliberately drawing upon Hasidic ideas conducive to such obscuring of boundaries. Hence, there is certainly nothing absurd or contradictory in speaking of a “secular” reader's quest for Hasidic sources of religious inspiration. In the literary context of secular Hebrew culture, one can point, for example, to the case of early modern Hebrew poetry—including poets who were appeared to be far removed from institutional religion or a religious definition of their self-identity. As Hamutal Bar-Yosef has recently shown, these poets drew upon classic universal and Jewish motifs of mystical longing, including a plethora of applications of the specific mystical symbols and images of Jewish tradition.Footnote 11 In the flexible parlance of modern Hebrew—thanks, perhaps, to Martin Buber—“religiosity” is a broader and far more ambiguous term than dat (religion), implying that even the supposedly secular person, who forgoes the yoke of institutional religion, is unwilling to cut himself off entirely from a link to the Absolute, whatever the precise metaphysical nature of the latter might be.
Neo-Hasidic Strategies for Coping with the Centrality of Religion in Traditional Hasidic Texts
Posing Hasidism as representative of an emotional variety of religion is an important key to understanding its spiritual appeal for agnostics. Already in the early nineteenth century, Friedrich Schleiermacher related the modern contempt for religion to a tendency of intellectuals to examine the validity of religion's metaphysical claims on a factual-rational plane. Hence for Schleiermacher, salvaging the honor and value of religion is tied up with the argument that religion is based on sentiment, or more precisely the sentiment of total dependence. The nature or very existence of the metaphysical object is no longer the important touchstone for the possibility or plausibility of religion. Instead, it is subjective human feeling that sustains religion and even justifies it on a phenomenological level.Footnote 12 Yet, how exactly is a present-day link of identification and inspiration between the secular reader and the religious dimension at the center of Hasidism to be established? Appealing to Hasidism as a source of inspiration bearing a decidedly religious thrust virtually forces the sympathetic interest of the modern reader to focus precisely on that aspect of tradition that drives a wedge between him and the pre-modern Jewish world.
The various readings and translations of this religious core that neo-Hasidic writers offered their readers as solutions to the problem veered between several alternatives. One approach strove to resuscitate the religious aspect of Hasidism by re-inventing the relationship between man and God in contemporary terms. The most obvious example of a contemporary effort of this sort is Martin Buber, who aspired—via Hasidism— to rekindle in the heart of moderns the religious consciousness that lies at its center. And yet, even religious exhortation such as this stems from a modern, post-traditional reading of Hasidism; one that fundamentally differs from the original. Especially noteworthy is Buber's sharp distinction between religion as an authoritative formal discipline (to which he was averse) and its great message as a human, voluntary, and experiential relationship with God (for which he exhibited great enthusiasm). In this context, Buber posed the institutionalized type of spirituality promoted by official representatives of religion as counter-productive to the alternative variety which he himself sought. In an article published in 1913, Buber stressed his interest in cultivating “religiosity” rather than “religion,”Footnote 13 viewing the former as a spiritual-emotional system of maintaining direct and spontaneous contact with God, contrasting it with the artificially imposed ritualistic system lacking personal religious sentiment that “religion” represented in his eyes. However, such terminology, which links Buber to Georg Simmel's Sociology of Religion,Footnote 14 raises the possibility that even the young Buber, like Simmel before him, actually steered clear of the argument for God's objective existence, or even expunged it completely from his actual religious doctrine. In its place Buber offered the religiosity of human subjective feeling, a sense of the Absolute. Simmel himself thought that it was possible to abolish the concept of God and to ascribe the same absolute value that our religious sentiments deify to other objects.Footnote 15
Buber identified this contemporary “gospel” that deviated from institutional religion, theological dogma, the halakhic system and its religious dignitaries, with the original message of Hasidism.Footnote 16 Thus, even a “religious” reading such as this one deliberately blurs the distinction between religious tradition and the post-traditional Jew, who rejects the yoke of religious obligation, by injecting a third, more confusing model: Buber was faithful to the clearly religious focus, while refusing to relate to tradition as a set of obligatory commandments. Even he viewed Hasidism and Jewish tradition in general from a post-traditional perspective, engaging in a complex and selective dialogue with these.
A more contemporary example of such a “spirituality seeker” is Arthur Green. Like Buber, Green has too found in the diverse sources of Hasidism a fertile reservoir of expression and inspiration for his own existential quest, and he too has attributed the legitimacy of this form of religious spirituality to inner, personal experience without committing himself further to any more superficial external evidence testifying the nature of its transcendental metaphysical object. It is we, states Green, who have arbitrarily chosen to call the spiritual entity or experience we encounter “God,” but we must nevertheless be cognizant of the fact that another course is equally possible.Footnote 17 Only the experience of our spiritual encounter is real, but not necessarily the description or characterization of the entity that serves as its trigger. Green has written of the sense of distance or dissonance between his modern world and the antiquated world of religious tradition whose texts he reads and out of which he creates his own. He has admitted that he may have initially turned to religious tradition for inspiration without any conviction regarding its truth.Footnote 18 Green described his hesitation regarding this adaptation of tradition given the fact that the traditional narrative was not precisely his own. He admitted that he did not “believe” in the ordinary sense of the term, but nevertheless derived religious inspiration from his reading of Jewish tradition (and Hasidism in particular).Footnote 19
How can one be inspired by a religious movement such as Hasidism without accepting its beliefs as one's own? Green has tried to resolve this question by relating to its specific details, concepts, and beliefs as mere metaphors, expressions of a truth that goes far beyond the specific truth claims of the ancient religion itself.Footnote 20 Green did not “translate” religious metaphors into a secular language that is alienated from the spirit of the original traditional metaphor. Instead, he has deliberately elected to incorporate these ancient metaphors in his spiritual life and creative consciousness, in order to express a modern spirituality that has similarly assumed an unmistakably religious trajectory.
A second strategy of dealing with the religious basis of Hasidism dispenses with the pretense of transposing the original religious consciousness of that movement to the non-believer's world. Such a reading presumes that there is no point in returning to religious belief, or even any real possibility of doing so. When drawing upon Hasidic inspiration, the modern reader would not ultimately stand before God, as He was already lost, never to return. Hence, although the deliberate revival of Hasidic tradition is meant to express the longing for a religious experience like that which was so vibrantly and conspicuously manifest in the Hasidic world, one must make a clear distinction between nostalgic yearnings and the actual possibility of reviving the religious dimension of traditional faith in the present. Mikha Berdichevsky concluded his admiring essay on Hasidism entitled “The Soul of the Hasidim” with the pathetic cry, “If only my lot were with them,” but this is merely the rhetorical exclamation of one who knows that he will never actually be part of the Hasidic world.Footnote 21 Despite the exalted nature of religiosity, and the reader's yearning for a manifestation of it in his own world, his secular reality does not allow for a true return to the religious dimension of Hasidism. One can only speak of it with praise as one would lament a dead ancestor, fully aware that he or she will never return.
The contemporary renditions of the religious experience of Hasidism were meant to challenge or deride the supposed emptiness or superficiality of modern secularism. The stress on what is ostensibly the diametric opposite of Hasidism is meant to suggest a preferred alternative to the current secular state of affairs, even though the writers adopting this approach orientation do not envision any real possibility of returning to such an alternative as, for them, naïve belief has been irrevocably banished from the face of the earth. Instructive in this connection is Yosef Shechter's comment regarding the Hasidic interpretation of the verse, “Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him” (Psalms 91:14). The Hasidic interpretation determines that it is spiritual love or longing that leads to redemption. Shechter applied these words to the modern situation: we cast doubt on modern man's ability to ever again achieve faith, or to pray. But the Hasidic phrase lends inspiration by telling us that, even in the absence of faith, we still have the desire to believe, and that therein already lays the potential for spiritual redemption.Footnote 22
Another neo-Hasidic strategy for coping with the gap between the naïve faith of the Hasid and the sober skepticism of the modern reader is an explicit recommendation to abandon momentarily the latter in order to allow the spiritual inspiration of Hasidism to take effect. A reading undertaken with modesty is the main recommendation of Eliezer Steinman, who invited his contemporaries to take off their shoes and sense the sanctity of Hasidic soil with their own bare feet, even if they did not share its faith. According to Steinman, “One should not approach the spiritual assets of our predecessors after the fashion of judges and assessors… we do not scrutinize them, rather they scrutinize us… nay, we scrutinize ourselves in their light: to what extent can we still be impressed by a life of innocence and devoutness… to what extent does naive discourse still make waves in our heart.”Footnote 23 Steinman here suggested a reading of Hasidism whereby the modern reader assumed the position of a pupil before his master, a pupil who did not dispute his master's word, but, on the contrary, acknowledged the superiority of the Hasidic text as bearing greater status and value. As Jonathan Cohen has demonstrated in his article on different modern models of reading traditional texts, even in the case of a reading such as this – which may be termed “deferential interpretation”—the contemporary reader may be well aware that the traditional text is contradicted by alternative texts or reliable data. Nevertheless, at the time of reading, he or she is obliged to assume the role of a humble student, who, while immersed in the study of a Hasidic text, “must study it in the hope that it embodies absolute truth.”Footnote 24
The same applies to Elie Wiesel, who has stated that, from an “external” perspective, Hasidic tales are meaningless, and we possess no certainty regarding their veracity. But the solution that Wiesel has suggested for an effective reading of Hasidic narratives is to get inside them: “one must enter them, for their truth may be measured only from the inside.”Footnote 25 Wiesel called on readers to believe the Hasidic narrative in the same way that the original Hasidim did in their time, and especially to avoid revising them or lending them any modern form. The new narrator, contends Wiesel, reads Hasidism as he read it in his Hasidic childhood. When Wiesel tells the stories, he hears the voices of his father and grandfather; the Hasidic stories “are what link the survivor to their memory.”Footnote 26 Weisel has rejected the very possibility or significance of a secular reading of Hasidism, and calls upon the new Jew to read Hasidism “from the inside” as a kind of temporary flight from modern secularization.Footnote 27
Retroactive use of the Hasidic religious legacy in order to challenge the emptiness of materialistic secularism leads to the next form of reading of the religious element in Hasidism employed by moderns. The majority of writers dealing with the inspiration Hasidism holds for their secular brethren have not assumed, as Buber did, that there is any possibility of restoring God to a central place in the life of the new Jew. However, this does not mean that they ignore or avoid the clearly religious emphasis that characterizes Hasidism. On the contrary, the religious emphasis is the central factor contributing to the practical relevance that these modern writers have found in Hasidism as a preferable alternative to secular vapidity. The modern affinity for Hasidism takes the form of a “redressive relationship,” whose concern is the contemporary secularist's dissatisfaction with his present condition.Footnote 28 While the old religious faith cannot in their view be restored to those who have lost their innocence, the message of a Hasidic religious revival can nevertheless inspire the call for a version of modernity that incorporates spirituality, albeit not in its typically traditional religious form.
Some writers, such as Yosef Shechter, have emphasized the contemporary relevance of the Hasidic legacy not only for those who seek a type of religiosity centered upon the worship of God, but also for those looking for a secular form of spirituality or meaning that is not focused on worship of God at all.Footnote 29 Shechter suggested that the modern reader seeking personal inspiration in Hasidism translate the original metaphysical language into a purely secular spiritual one—that is, a language that renounces religious terms and replaces them with a spiritual vocabulary that entails no allusion to man's focus on God and does not depend on His existence. Thus, for instance, when Shechter cited in reference to the proper way of worshipping God ḥava‘at ha-tivash, a Hasidic anthology of teachings and instructions attributed to the Baal Shem Tov and his successor, R. Dov Ber, he suggested that the modern reader alter the original terminology and speak rather of “inner worship.”Footnote 30 Instead of the Hasidic religious vocabulary of worship, Shechter quite consistently proposed a secular spiritual language rooted in psychology and concerned with “inner worship” at the human level, independent of any metaphysical assumptions regarding the existence or presence of God.
In sum, what emerges here are two apparent extremes in the range of possibilities for a contemporary reading of the religious foundation of Hasidism. At one end, there is Martin Buber, who preached for a return to religiosity itself, and at the opposite end, Yosef Shechter, who was prepared to dispense entirely with the religious language of the Hasidic source and translate it into a purely secular nomenclature of spirituality. Nonetheless, the majority of neo-Hasidic writers who have turned to the religious foundations of Hasidism cannot properly be located at either pole. The typical position adopted by most is one of deliberate conceptual ambiguity. This usually involves paying lip service to the religious vocabulary of Hasidism, while in fact largely refraining from adopting its original metaphysical platform. Thus, the “original” Hasidic God is not the same God as conceived by the modern non-believers, and the traditional belief in the concrete existence of a metaphysical God undergoes a general process of reduction or reductive interpretation in the neo-Hasidic context.
The tendency towards a “rationalistic” or skeptical reduction of Hasidism is characteristic of every version of this appropriation of its religious element—not only in readings marked by the watered-down yearning called for by Berdichevsky, but even in the writings of Martin Buber, despite his insistence upon the religious relationship between man and God as an essential feature of Hasidism's appeal for moderns. In this connection, two clear neo-Hasidic examples of this deliberate reductionism, whereby the return to Hasidism serves as the basis for formulating a notion of God more ideologically palatable to non-believers, are particularly worthy of note. The first example involves emphasis on the immanent, or even pantheistic, element in Hasidism, locating aspects of Hasidic thought conducive to such an extreme interpretation while at the same time giving a nod to a Spinozian interpretation that identifies God with the world itself. This formulation has allowed the secularist writers to appropriate the religious message of Hasidism with relative ease, as it does not necessarily require belief in the separate existence of a transcendent God, but rather attributes “divine” traits to reality itself. Modern works of Y. L. Peretz or Itzik Manger, for example, that represent Hasidism in general, and the Baal Shem Tov and R. Naḥman of Breslov, in particular, as relocating the center of holiness in the poetic, earthly beauty of nature are typical of this interest in cultivating an atmosphere of holiness, without acknowledging the separate existence of a metaphysical, transcendental, holy God.Footnote 31 The object of holiness—if it can be said to exist at all in this new reading of Hasidism—becomes the world itself.
A clear illustration of this trend can be viewed in the shift that Gershom Scholem pointed to in Buber's humanistic reading of Hasidism, namely, the metamorphosis that Buber effects in the Hasidic-Kabbalistic concept of “raising sparks.” While the Hasidic sources rehash the Kabbalistic myth of the liberation and raising of the holy sparks and their restoration to their supreme origin in transcendental space, Buber was preoccupied with the location and materialization of the sparks in the contemporary world, suggesting that he did not believe at all in the existence of a transcendent world separate from concrete reality.Footnote 32 For this reason, Buber attributed to Hasidism the mitzvah of rejoicing in the concrete reality of this world; the sacred encounter with tangible reality in all its fullness was in and of itself an encounter with divinity.Footnote 33 The same can be said, as demonstrated by Buber's disciple, Maurice Friedman, regarding the transformation undergone by the Hasidic-Kabbalistic concept of “intentions” (kavannot). The neo-Hasidic writer tends to prefer using the term “intention” (kavannah) in the singular, since the original “intentions” concerned transferring the implications of this-worldly action to the celestial levels of the sefirot, or the various constellations of the Godhead, and the “upper worlds,” ha-‘olamot ha-‘elyonim. By contrast, the “intention” with which the modern spiritualist identifies is one that attaches the virtue of “purity of heart” to physical action, so that the action serves to sanctify our earthly here and now.Footnote 34
The second neo-Hasidic example of religious reductionism is transformation of the conventional concept of God into a psychological factor dwelling in the human heart. This encourages transferring religious language alluding to the concrete existence of a celestial God to the human level, and to human experience of the religious dimension. The quintessentially religious element at the center of the Hasidic inspiration remains intact, but undergoes a conceptual metamorphosis from the metaphysical level to the experiential, locating divinity in the life of the soul. Thus, for example, S. A. Horodezky writes of the significance of “the emotion of mystery,” and yet is ambiguous about the nature of the God to whom he refers. It is not clear if Horodezky refers to God as a living God, or a metaphorical “god of the nation” that is ethereal, mysterious, and yet functions as the subject of a community's loyalty and zeal.Footnote 35
Typical as well of the psychological reduction of the concept of God is Berdichevsky's reinterpretation of the Hasidic God. In Sefer Ḥasidim, Berdichevsky asserted, the same “Lord of the Universe” is solely a product of the human consciousness, and that it is only through this consciousness that God is revealed at all: “Without man there is no ladder to God.”Footnote 36 We are “the only shepherds” in the universe and without us there is no “open eye.” Berdichevsky determined this claim concerning God and man precisely in the context of his attraction to Hasidic spirituality. Therefore, notwithstanding the Hasidic concept of God, there is no reference here to a distinct divine entity with its own consciousness, independent of human subjectivity. Thus, Berdichevsky's interpretation of Hasidic religiosity is in fact quite heretical, or as Joseph Klausner rightfully notes, Kantian, where religion emerges only within the limits of reason.Footnote 37
The Special Appeal of R. Naḥman of Breslov's Crises of Faith
Post-traditionalists turning to Hasidism as a resource for their own spiritual quest were no doubt encouraged by the diversity it offered. The Hasidic movement features numerous “courts” (ḥaẓerot), thereby affording spirituality seekers the opportunity of picking and choosing precisely those streams that suited their own subjective, tendentious proclivities. In their attempt to locate points of affinity between modern and Hasidic sensibilities, neo-Hasidic thinkers and writers were not oblivious to the unmistakable disparity between this effort and the evident hostility of most contemporary Hasidic courts towards any manifestation of modern values. Romanticizing and deriving positive inspiration from the treasure troves of Hasidism came up against a contemporary reality in which the Hasidic movement served as the arch expression of a conservative parochialism that was often regarded as a serious barrier to genuine and spontaneous spiritual inspiration. Hence, many modern readers sought to draw a sharp line distinguishing between the original starting-point of the Hasidic movement—with which they purported to find both a common denominator and basis for their current spiritual inspiration – and the fanatical, institutional, and anti-modern facets of its subsequent development. Moreover, such readers tended to emphasize the inception of Hasidism as an innovative move, a rereading of the old tradition in order to derive contemporary relevance.Footnote 38 This perception allowed them to view the beginnings of the Hasidic movement as a prototypical source of inspiration not only in terms of its specific spiritual message, but as a refreshing precedent for creative, tendentious, and independent adaptations of an older traditional legacy. Thus, for instance, when Arthur Green reads Hasidic literature and Kabbalah as a personal expression of “the faith of the (modern) seeker,” he explicitly presents this reading as a search for inspiration which is focused on an intra-Hasidic epoch that has long passed:
As will become clear to the informed reader, the present work is a contemporary response to Jewish faith primarily as it is formulated by the two great mystical teachers of the late eighteenth century who founded the Bratslav and HaBaD schools. While I do not live either as a Breslaver or a HaBaDnik, I recognize gratefully the spiritual influence of both these teachers who selected, distilled and redirected much of the earlier mystical heritage. I believe that a similar process needs to be undertaken in our day, as sometimes mystical insights need to be brought into line with contemporary perspectives, both on Judaism and on the world in which we live. This volume attempts a small contribution toward that effort.Footnote 39
Unlike Green himself, who shares the awareness and caution of scholars in distinguishing between the various Hasidic courts and denominations, some spirituality-seekers tend to relate to Hasidism in sweeping generalizations, and to attribute a position or tendency promoted by a specific Hasidic rabbi to the movement as a whole.Footnote 40 A cumulative bias of this sort fostered the construction of a “modern” and especially attractive image of “Hasidism” as a homogenous entity, all of whose parts were equally capable of providing spiritual inspiration for post-traditional readers and skeptics. Although there are a number of leading Hasidic figures especially romanticized by modern writers, there is no doubt that the most prominent of the lot is R. Naḥman of Breslov.Footnote 41 Decades before Arthur Green, neo-Hasidic writers at the turn of the century already “rediscovered” R. Naḥman and his unique writings, and began stressing the significance of his legacy. They found in R. Naḥman's legacy ideas, literary materials, and precedents that appeared semi-modern in their eyes. One of the earliest examples is the 1888 essay by Mikha Josef Berdichevsky on the life history of R. Naḥman. In the following decades, several works by Y. L. Peretz based on the tales and teachings of Breslov, Martin Buber's first neo-Hasidic treatise, which met with monumental success, several of Hillel Zeitlin's essays and compositions, and the modern Hebrew edition of the “Tales” of Breslov initiated by Samuel Abba Horodezky appeared. Ever since, the modern popularity that the special legacy of R. Naḥman of Breslov gained has not only persisted, but actually intensified.Footnote 42
To understand better the reclaiming of R. Naḥman by skeptical spirituality seekers, his teachings regarding heterodoxy and faith are particularly worthy of note. Thus, for instance, special importance is attached to section 64 (Torah samekh-daled) of his seminal work Likkutei Moharan (Collected Teachings of Our Teacher, Rabbi Naḥman), where the tzaddik unexpectedly stated that some questions were too difficult for believers to address, and for which adequate answers could not be provided.Footnote 43 To explain this perplexing situation, R. Naḥman enlisted support of the Lurianic Kabbalah. In order to create space for a material world that is outside of Himself, God had to engage in an act of self-contraction. Although God subsequently drew upon His actual substance to effect the creation of a yesh (a separate being, or existence), R. Naḥman exploited the notion of an “empty space” phase that preceded creation in order to explain the possibility of heresy in the present. And so, according to this new presentation of the Lurianic myth of God's self-contraction, to the extent we touch upon matters having to do with the empty space itself, God is indeed absent. In R. Naḥman's eyes, this determination regarding divine “concealment” apparently bore not only epistemological import (indicating a flaw in human consciousness), but also actual ontological significance: The space itself is indeed devoid of God's presence. It is no wonder then that this “empty space” teaching of R. Naḥman's etched itself easily in the recesses of modern spirituality seekers' sensibilities, allowing them to understand their sense of God's remoteness as stemming not merely from the limitations of a subjective experiential perspective.Footnote 44
Equally appealing was R. Naḥman's solution to this dilemma; as a rule, he advocated an approach of deliberate evasion. Instead of confronting or contesting the nagging validity of doubt on a rational plane, he preferred the path of the unsophisticated simple believer who “flees from erudition.” Even if neo-Hasidic skeptics were unable to accept R. Naḥman's recommendation carte blanche, they often adopted the mantle of religiosity out of a keen awareness of the limits of human consciousness, a point stressed by R. Naḥman as justification of his despair of rational “investigations” as a reliable method of dealing with issues of faith. In the same 64th section of Likkutei Moharan, R. Naḥman advised the believer troubled by doubt to “Cast thy burden on the Lord, blessed be He.” He further endorsed “skipping and passing over erudition.” This phrase in particular conjured up shades of Kierkegaard's “leap of faith” concept in the minds of neo-Hasidim of the existentialist variety, who could draw in this context one possible conclusion that if indeed the foundation of our reality lied in the “empty space” that was devoid of God's presence, then we should not seek God in our given reality, but rather rely on our own powers in order to independently create spiritual meaning.Footnote 45
Recent research that has focused, particularly over the last few years, upon study and analysis of this intriguing section in Likkutei Moharan, Footnote 46 attests to the unmistakable appeal for moderns of R. Naḥman's surprising and radical statement concerning the “absence” of God in the “empty space” as reinforcing the legitimacy of questions without answers, as well as his suggestion of “skipping and passing over erudition.”Footnote 47 No less important than his explicit teachings are R. Naḥman's hinted allusions to his own personal quandaries or “trials” in matters of faith, and more precisely his ongoing self-characterization as a “seeker,” struggling, perplexed, and sometimes even failing along the way. It is therefore no wonder that modern writers chose to highlight precisely these episodes in his life and his spiritual path.Footnote 48 From amidst the entire range of quasi-modern attributes exhibited in the unique personality and writings of R. Naḥman of Breslov, the particular inspiration that he provided for those grappling with the modern twists and turns of atheism or scepticism is particularly striking.
Spirituality without Religiosity? Robert Solomon's “Spirituality for Skeptics” versus the Neo-Hasidic Endeavor
Robert Solomon's 2002 book Spirituality for the Skeptic: The Thoughtful Love of Life is based on the premise that spirituality need not belong exclusively to the religious sphere, much less to any parochial or authoritative religious system.Footnote 49 Solomon realized that in consistently avoiding the hazards of religion, he originally “threw the baby out with the bathwater,” severing himself from spirituality in general.Footnote 50 Solomon's solution to this dilemma is a sharp and avowed distinction between religion, from which he sought to distance himself, and spirituality, which he wished to adopt. His book argues that people tend erroneously to combine the two, when religion and spirituality should actually be established analytically as two separate and independent phenomena. Solomon emphasized the gap between the sober spirituality he endorsed and an amorphous open spirituality, such as “New Age” eccentric trends and fashions, which seemed nothing but banal, superficial hollowness or even total hallucination. Solomon describes some of these trends as “brain dead but benign new-consciousness pap.”Footnote 51 At the same time, Solomon took care not to divest religion of its spirituality, or even to claim that there was no inherent link between the devotional character of organized religion and its spiritual nature, even if for believers themselves, such a link certainly existed.Footnote 52 Solomon rejected claims to a religious-spiritual identity and its attributes: spirituality mandating faith; spirituality depending on acceding to certain dogmas; spirituality describing connection to a sphere that lies beyond our present world.
Instead, spirituality, in Solomon's view, is a vital dimension of human life and refers to “the thoughtful love of life.”Footnote 53 Stressing the positive aspect of life is central to his project, and in this context Solomon attempted to define its object. Spirituality is related, for example, to the love of beauty or majesty of nature, or love of this world that presents itself in the here and now of our actual lives. This emphasis contrasts with the converse image of “spirituality” as standing in fundamental opposition to our current material reality.
The same can be said of Martin Buber's the later stages of his writing, in which he presented Hasidism as an appealing source of inspiration for a spirituality that sanctified the here and now, and rejected the contrary emphasis of conventional religious tradition (rabbinic and Kabbalistic alike), which tended to identify spirituality with religious detachment from this world.Footnote 54 In Buber's writing, this stress not only has a general spiritual ring to it but also a quintessentially religious one: it now appears as a metaphysical view of spirituality, assuming the immanence of God in our world. Such metaphysical pretensions are totally absent from Robert Solomon's corresponding emphasis on the sublime experience of revealing the spiritual dimension of our natural, corporeal world in the here and now. This form of spirituality, then, replicates the metaphysical sphere of the gods, but the precise venue for the new and more sober form of spirituality that Solomon suggested, required, in the author's view, conceptual elaboration and development. Must we indeed speak of an inner, spiritual sphere of the individual person? Must spirituality rely, for example, on belief in the existence of a spirit or soul distinct from the body?
Robert Solomon stressed the naturalness with which spirituality and a scientific rationalism can co-exist. This contrasts with attempts of various neo-Hasidic writers to present Hasidic spirituality as antithetical to the Enlightenment emphasis on the rationalism or intellectualism of Mitnagdic scholarship. However, common to all these conceptions is the notion that “spirituality” represents an added asset, not to be identified with the value of intellect or thought on its own. Spirituality refers to an experience or sense of the sublime, or the striving for what Solomon termed “love.” All of these are active attributes of an extra dimension in the human soul, which distinguishes us from the computer or from cold intellect devoid of feeling or desire. And again, according to Solomon, in order to qualify for the epithet of “spirituality,” an experience that involved a certain type of wisdom was requisite. Neo-Hasidim did not necessarily place emphasis on the rational and reflective element of the experiential spirituality with which they identified.
The prevailing assumption that Solomon rejected tends to bind spirituality to a particular religion, and to its organized and institutionalized aspect. On the one hand, the neo-Hasidic authors, like Solomon, railed against the religious establishment view of spirituality and point to a spiritual alternative that lies outside the religious establishment. On the other, the neo-Hasidic position differs from Solomon's, as neo-Hasidic writers seeking Hasidic inspiration for “another” spirituality tended toward a more militant and biting claim that negates the spiritual value of institutionalized religiosity altogether, because in their view institutionalism and orthodox adherence to the technical aspects of religion are not only unnecessary conditions for the fulfillment of spirituality, but actual impediments to its achievement.
Juxtaposing and contrasting the secular reading of Hasidism by neo-Hasidim with Solomon's suggestion regarding the need to cultivate a spirituality that is free of religion reveals that there is a very significant difference between the type of sensibility sought by someone who seeks to formulate a spirituality totally independent and free of any connection with traditional religion (or God), as did Solomon in his decidedly confrontational manner, and the nature of spiritual longing emerging from the neo-Hasidic project. Despite their extreme skepticism regarding the religious tenets of Judaism and emphatic opposition to the conventional version of religiosity offered by the religious establishment, neo-Hasidic writers nevertheless chose to embrace a form of spirituality that was still firmly attached to a specific religious tradition, that of Hasidism. This leads us back to the original question with our discussion of the neo-Hasidic paradox began: Why was this so? What was the special attraction that Hasidism held for secularists, which forced them to grapple in some form or other with its decidedly religious thrust?
A Solution to the Paradox: Hasidic Potential for Blurring Binary Distinctions between Religiosity and Secular Spirituality
It may be said that Hasidism was chosen by neo-Hasidic writers as a source for spiritual inspiration for modern Jewish skeptics not in spite of its undeniably religious character but precisely because of it. This is because, unlike their view of other religious corpuses, more than a few of these writers hoped to discover in the Hasidic tradition elements that would allow them to take the subjective step necessary for blurring boundaries between the religious and secular domain, enabling the creation of a more ambiguous and open spiritual space unfettered by strict metaphysical beliefs and definitions. Not only did these writers choose to translate their new-found Hasidic inspiration into a contemporary language capable of addressing modern readers who felt far removed from the original metaphysical world of Hasidism, but they also related the blurred and ambiguous nature of the resultant form of spirituality to authentic Hasidism itself. Thus, the neo-Hasidic writers sought a quasi-traditional framework that would afford them and their readership a quasi-religious existence without reverting to beliefs and norms that their secular conscience and conviction prevented them from accepting at face value.
The most congenial solution that the neo-Hasidim envisioned was renouncement, or at least significant reduction, of the metaphysical aspect of religiosity, transferring its focus from ontological claims regarding the existence of God and His conduct to the human level of subjective religious experience. Martin Buber termed this type of shift “from mythos to ethos.”Footnote 55 It was for precisely this reason that Hasidism was found to be a more fitting source of inspiration than other conventional modes of Judaism, as the new writers credited Hasidism with this accomplishment. The same applies to the pantheistic facet of Hasidism, and its tendency to view God as pervading our earthly reality. This religious interpretation was similarly perceived as support for a secularized reduction of the concept of God, and hence a convenient traditional base for forging a more amorphous continuum between religious faith and secular consciousness. This perceived ability of Hasidism to fulfill this promise underlies the neo-Hasidic quest for a place in tradition in which the seeker can safely rest his modern foot.
Some modern sceptics among the neo-Hasidim offered distorted and subjective interpretations of Hasidism and tendentiously singled out those Hasidic values that appeared particularly attractive to secularists in order to construct a favourable image of Hasidism as a whole. For example, neo-Hasidic readers sought to emphasize the forgiving attitude of various Hasidic leaders toward transgressors not conscientious about keeping the mitzvot. In his series of “Hasidic stories,” the Zionist educator and writer David Cohen reworked authentic Hasidic traditions, adding to them stories invented from scratch. These adaptations were then presented as if they had emerged directly from the original Hasidic tradition. At the focal point of one of his tales, Cohen placed what appears to be Hasidic mercy toward transgressors driven by an idealistic spiritual fervour. The well-known Hasidic adage regarding “the attributes of love” that the Baal Shem Tov bestowed upon the world was in Cohen's story also applied to Zionist pioneers who rebelled against the Torah and faith. Because their actions were imbued with a profound love of Zion and Ereẓ Yisrael, the Rebbe is depicted to understand that their religious transgressions were to be forgiven.Footnote 56 Such an image was especially congenial to post-traditional writers and their audience, who had already divested themselves of the yoke of halakhah. Thus Hasidic religiosity offered a promising model to be emulated, at least in principle, even without accepting the burden of the 613 mitzvot.Footnote 57
Another specific example is the attempt of a few neo-Hasidic writers to accord great significance to the Hasidic concept of “corporeal worship” (ʿavodah be-gashmiyut) as a positive medium for modern expressions of spirituality. Martin Buber, for example, stressed this Hasidic notion and presented it as the central core of Hasidic thought as a whole, appropriating it for himself as the most meaningful Hasidic concept. He argued that the main arena of life is our this-worldly concrete reality, and no other “worlds.” Supreme and spiritual as they may be, can negate it. If our job is to seek holiness, it must be sought through involvement in the physical here and now.Footnote 58 This concept appealed not only to those who wished to combine religious sensibilities with full secular involvement in the material world, but even to those who denied the existence of a metaphysical object transcending our concrete reality and therefore sought a type of spirituality that does not posit itself as antithetical to it.Footnote 59
The cumulative effect of these, and others, tendentious portrayals of Hasidism in neo-Hasidic literature was the construction of a quasi-modern image of Hasidism that was meant to provide an attractive image of Jewish spirituality worthy of emulation. Neo-Hasidic writers enlisted their interpretive powers to build this image in the hope that its more flexible understanding of spirituality would serve to reduce the gap between a clearly secular orientation and the more traditional religious mindset. They tapped the Hasidic legacy for whatever seemed to resemble modern reservations regarding the stringent institutional standards with which the secular reader could hardly identify. In its new contemporary role, Hasidism became the flag-bearer, or at least an early beacon, of an enlightened form of spirituality that could make sense to the modern Jew. Hasidism was represented henceforth as a religious movement that challenges the validity or centrality of halakhah, contests the authority of the rabbis, and in their stead elevates the experience or inner feeling of “purity of heart” as the major element of religious life. Hasidism was taken to be a version of humanistic religiosity that blurs the distinctions between the traditional believer of the metaphysical variety and the modern non-believer, and allows the latter to formulate his own religious ideal.
