There are any number of reasons why someone might not be buried in the presence of their children. In pre-modern times, those included frozen ground, that couldn't be broken until the spring thaw (without jackhammers and back hoes). Or people's remains might be sent to a distant town or to the Land of Israel for burial, a journey that once took a week or more. In our day, those reasons include the cases of parents who demand to be cremated or to donate their remains to research. While those modern choices may not conform to Jewish tradition, that need not affect the mourning by their children. According to Jewish norms, when mourners will not be present at the burial of their loved ones, they should begin shiva "when they turn their faces away" from the funeral cortege. In other words, when you have done everything that you can possibly to aid in the burial of your loved one, and you "turn your face" from the process of disposing of the body and bid your loved one farewell, then shiva should begin, and the mourner can say kaddish. In the case described, I would say that if your friend feels duty bound to honor his mother's wishes, then once he consigns her body to the university, he has done what he can to dispose of her remains honorably, and should begin shiva and say kaddish.

 

For nearly 2,000 years, Jewish status has been passed matrilineally - through the mother. The precise theory behind this position or historical source for this rule may be debatable. But as a handy explanation for why, I would cite the Talmudic view that "a fetus is considered a part of the mother's body." This means that a baby gestated by a Jewish woman is considered to be constituted as a Jewish body already. (And obviously a person gestated by a non-Jewish woman would have gentile status.)

 

So as a theoretical matter, if you could demonstrate that your birth mother was Jewish, then yes, by traditional Jewish law you'd be Jewish too. The questioner has not said whether he or she is a he or a she. So whether your own children are born Jewish would follow the status of their birth mother - whether that's the questioner herself or the questioner's wife. 

 

I will leave it to more liberal Jews to explain how this person might be treated under patrilineal views. My inclination as a Conservative Jew would be to see the questioner's Jewish birth as something like satisfying a biological pre-condition, but not itself sufficient reason to be seen as fully Jewish. That is, if you never knew your birth mother, and you had no Jewish upbringing or education, and were raised by a non-Jewish father, then you probably have only the barest possible sense of a Jewish identity.

 

As a matter of Halakha, Jewish law, no, you don't need to convert to be a Jew. But a biological qualification as a Jew can only get you in the door of Jewish community. We'll be glad to welcome you home. But once you walk in the door, we want to know: how are you going to build a full Jewish identity? What are you going to study about the faith and culture of your maternal ancestors? What practices will you take on to shape a Jewish life? 

 

 

This is exactly the kind of tough question that modern American Jews will always have to answer: how do we affirm principled stands that can sometimes hurt people's feelings?

 

I myself would not perform an intermarriage, certainly. But I also have to be warm and welcoming and kind to my intermarried congregants. Can I do that in a gentle way without alienating them?

 

Among Conservative rabbis it is a standard that we are not supposed to even attend intermarriages within our own families, let alone not perform them. I myself disagree with this stance. I think it is counter-productive to building relationships to boycott people's smachot. One day your niece-in-law may decide to convert. One day your grand-nephews and nieces might have bnei mitzvah. I think those outcomes are more likely if we celebrate their happiness to the degree we can, not by boycotting it.

 

But this is a subtle judgment call. Each of us have our own redlines (as I would decline to perform the wedding) and I do understand why you might decline to attend the event itself.

 

That said, I think your response of wanting to give a gift is exactly the right approach. Tell them: Because of my commitments to Jewish tradition, I cannot participate in your wedding event. But I still love you and wish you happiness together.  That will leave the door open to building a better relationship with them down the line, and will show your nephew and niece-in-law that Judaism is a religion of love, not nastiness and severity.

Torah study is indispensible for our Jewish communal spiritual needs. But we have other needs as well, including the need for practical military service in defense of Israeli society. Pursuing one sacred goal cannot exempt an entire sector of society from this other necessary communal need. This is not a case where "one who is engaged in a mitzvah is exempt from other mitzvot." Admittedly, in this day and age, Israeli military needs have changed as technology has changed. It may well no longer be necessary for every able bodied young adult to serve in the IDF, as was necessary 20 or 30 or 40 years ago.

But it is certainly not "defense" work in any conventional way to pursue the cultural, spiritual, religious work of Torah study. Anyone who thinks that studying Torah builds up a protective shield around sages should consult what happened to the great yeshivot and their students in the Nazi era. That is nothing but magical thinking, may God save us. When many citizens of Israel take on the dangerous and onerous work of military service, it is indefensible that some other citizens are broadly exempt from those burdens. 

The Talmudic Sages knew this. They understood that in cases of wars of self-defense, everyone must serve, "even the groom must leave his chamber and the bride must leave her canopy" [Sotah 44b]. Not everything the IDF does counts as a "commanded war," but generally speaking, the defense of the society requires that people not escape their obligations and justify it as if God will reward them thanks to their labor in the Talmud. 

I am tempted to wonder whether you are serious in asking such a question, or whether you're just playing with me here. If you're mocking me, I forgive you. If you're serious here are my thoughts:

 

People are entitled to all kinds of naughty fantasies, and if imagining yourselves getting all wild in semi-public places does it for you, then I don't see the harm.

 

But to act on such fantasies?  I think that would be most inappropriate. Let me count the ways.

Second, in most (perhaps all) jurisdictions in the United States it is also illegal. In certain jurisdictions, you could end up a registered sex offender for the sake of a little thrill. Don't be dumb. Absent a major moral claim or protest action like civil disobedience, Jews should follow the laws of the land. This law deserves to be obeyed.

 

Third of all, it's extremely rude toward others. If the definition of good manners is to help others feel comfortable and treated with dignity, then it would be most impolite to make others feel uncomfortable if they were to see you or intrude on your liason in a public place. What if children happened to interrupt you? How would you explain yourselves to their parents?

 

Ask yourself why Jewish and American law agree that such behavior is inappropriate. A major motivation, as noted, is that it would make others feel uncomfortable to see you. Furthermore, and most important in my mind, sex is an act of great intimacy between partners. Ideally, it should cultivate emotional and spiritual bonds between you. Those bonds can only be cheapened and weakened by public exposure. Ultimately, privacy is needed to share real loving.

 

Jewish law certainly recognizes that people are entitled to use force to defend their own lives against assault. We are even enjoined not to be uninvolved by-standers, but to use force to save the innocent from victimization by criminals. Don't be a sap. If someone is coming to kill you, wake up early and kill him first, says the Talmud.

 

But in every such case, the ethical use of force demands that we use only the minimum amount necessary. You cannot shoot someone in the head if shooting him in the foot would stop the assault and save yourself. If you can disarm a criminal with a tackle, but instead you kill him, says the Talmud, that's murder. Of course, in real life, we cannot always be sure just how much is enough. It is conceivable, God forbid, that a person might misjudge a threat and end up dying as a result.

 

But in America today we seem overly ready to pronounce situations worthy of violent force. Being frightened is not the same thing as being lethally threatened. And even feeling lethally threatened does not mean that one is trained to handle weapons.

 

As a general and abstract rule, using violent force in self-defense is an absolutely legitimate right. But in practice, people are not expert in evaluating such threats, and not expert in using the right amount of force to defuse the threat. That's what the police are for. Call them and ask for help.

 

 

Jewish law tends to be instinctively traditional about local custom, and often the ruling principle has been minhag avotenu be'yadenu or "we hold fast to our ancestors' customs." That's often beautiful, and does help us preserve a sense of continuity with our parents' parents' parents.

 

But now after centuries when almost all Jews lived in the same places where their ancestors lived (Poland or Morocco or whatever), the 20th century saw all that change. The Kibbutz Galuyot ("ingathering of the exiles") in the State of Israel and mass immigration to the west has scrambled up lots of Jewish communities, exposing each of us to new traditions and customs, and recombining our communities. For instance, plenty of American suburbs, let alone Israeli cities, find the descendents of Hungarian Jews living beside Persian ones, and sometimes marrying each other. Who are their children? Ashkenazim or Mizrachi'im?

 

Personally I find both creative scrambling of traditions and the preservation of distinct traditions to be meaningful. Most Jews need both. I recommend that Ashkenazi Jews participate in the customs of their various Jewish brothers and sisters, by learning about their customs and attending their celebrations. There is no reason you cannot attend and participate. But if you want to "take on" these rites, and make them your own regular practice, to be passed on to your children, it would require another level of commitment - not only to admire these cool practices, but to stick to them in discipline. That seems less likely to me, but I wouldn't tell you not to.

Yes and No.

 

One of Judaism's best skills is to fill old bottles with new wine. This minor festival on the Jewish calendar is a perfect example. It had an ancient meaning, a distinctly different late medieval one, and now yet other ones for modern times.

 

What Tu B'Shvat meant in ancient times is indeed largely connected to the Land of Israel. The 15th of Shevat was the date that a tree was deemed to have aged a year for purposes of the mitzvah of Orlah (that a person may not use the produce of a tree for its first 3 years of life + 1 year's produce given to the Temple) and as a marker of the "fiscal year" for tithes (i.e. that the produce of a tree gathered before this date would apply to the previous year's tithes, while what grew after this date applied to the next year's tithes). That meaning is specific to the land of Israel, among the Mitzvot hateluyot ba'aretz, the commandments tied to the land. There was no ritual celebration of this date, and it cannot really be considered a holiday.

 

In the 16th century, a new approach emerged among the Safed kabbalists. Long before them, the Jewish mystical tradition had employed the metaphor of the divine or cosmic tree. Now this group imbued the agricultural fact of the early blossoming of the almond tree with a mythical meaning relating to different "worlds" of emanation. They initiated a ritual component of a seder for Tu B'Shvat, in which different fruits were eaten and different colored wines were drunk, giving each a mystical significance. This ritual became popular among mystically inclined Sephardic communities. (Less among Ashkenazim, although the practice did develop of eating Land-of-Israel fruits on this winter date.) You can practice this mystical rite anywhere. It is not specific to the Land of Israel.

 

In modern times, two other meanings developed. The Zionists, enflamed with the love of the land, celebrated its fruitfulness by planting trees around Tu B'Shvat. This is memorialized in a popular song: "Here go the planters, with joy in their hearts and spades in their hands!" Obviously, this is a day of celebration of the land itself.

 

Finally, in the wake of the ecological crisis, Tu B'Shvat has become a kind of Jewish earth day, with environmental teachers and activists marking the day as an opportunity to think about human stewardship of the earth and the damage we cause. If you'd like to read more about this, check out a book called Trees, Earth and Torah: A Tu B'Shvat Anthology, edited by Arthur Waskow, Naomi Hyman and Ari Elon. This meaning applies everywhere.

 

 

The word "mitzvah" in Talmudic literature can mean both a technical "commandment," incumbent upon you with full legal force; it can also mean "a virtuous practice," something that people really ought to do, but is not necessarily its own requirement.

 

I would place aliya to Israel in the latter category: it is a virtuous path, and can be a tremendous contribution to building the third Jewish commonwealth. But it is not necessarily an obligation with the full force of laying tefillin, refraining from pork and giving Tzedaka.

 

Until the 20th century, most Jews throughout history decided to remain in the diaspora -- sometimes very near to Israel -- without moving there. Maimonides, for instance, lived most of his life in Cairo, but probably never visited Israel. The Talmudic sage Rav Yehuda stated that it was forbidden to leave the rich Jewish culture of Babylonia for the relative poverty of Israel.

 

Of course, all those things happened long ago, when Jewish life in our ancestral homeland was poor and dangerous. That's not the case now. Even despite terrorism, Israel can be a great place to live. So plenty of people have argued that since nowadays there are no necessary impediments to living in Israel, Jews should pick themselves up and come on. That argument has something to commend it, I admit.

 

But in this day and age, for those like me living in a free, democratic republic like the United States, participating in a vibrant, liberal Jewish community, I do not think moving to Israel is an absolute requirement.

 

The real question we all face is: even if we live abroad, are we contributing to the building of the third Jewish commonwealth? Are we helping establish Jewish sovereignty and security in our ancestral homeland? Are we helping materially and culturally with the renewal of Jewish life? Even if we live in America, those remain important mitzvot.

 

 

But in some cases embryo reduction can be necessary to sustain a pregnancy and to help a woman deliver healthy children. Often infertility doctors place multiple embryos into a woman’s uterus, to increase the likelihood that at least one will thrive. But sometimes they get too lucky. Ironically, a woman who has struggled with infertility may now carry five embryos. Multiple pregnancies have much decreased rates of successful delivery, much higher rates of fetal defect. Sometimes, it is medically directed to “reduce” – that is, selectively abort – some embryos so that others may survive.

 

While Jewish law forbids killing one person to save another – for as the Talmud says, “how do you know whose blood is redder?” – legal authorities across all streams widely agree that it is appropriate to terminate some fetuses so that others will make it healthily to birth. The point, after all, is to be fruitful and multiply and raise another generation of Jews.

 

There remain two hard questions, however. First, how do you choose which fetus(es) to abort? Is it ethical to use this as an opportunity to select sex or some other trait? Jewish ethics prohibit that kind of manipulation. Often doctors can identify that some fetus is genetically or constitutionally weaker, already less likely to survive. That fetus is the first candidate for reduction. If you cannot distinguish based on the strength of the fetus itself, the next candidate might be its position within the uterus. Some fetuses might be more accessible for the doctors to terminate with less chance of complication. But if there is no objective way to distinguish between fetuses, pure random chance – a coin flip, effectively – is the only fair way to select abortion candidates. Any other method of choosing who will live and die becomes a kind of playing God that is likely to diminish our reverence for each life.

 

Next, what number should be reduced to save what number of others? Couples face this hard problem all the time. No one would question the need to reduce five implanted embryos – people are not normally capable of carrying and delivering five babies. But the hardest cases and grayest areas come when reducing from three embryos to two, or from two to one. In principle, we should follow the expert advice of physicians. When doctors recommend aborting a third fetus to carry two, we should follow that advice without hesitation.

 

But doctors sometimes endorse carrying triplets, and rarely recommend reducing from twins. Understandably, parents might anxiously prefer singletons and not want twins or triplets. Nonetheless, medical indications are the principal reason to reduce. Absent doctor’s advice to abort for the sake of increased likelihood of successful delivery, I would argue against reduction. To avoid having to make such ambiguous decisions, couples might implant no more than two embryos at once. Although this could decrease the likelihood that any of the embryos would “take,” it would also keep you from having to terminate a potential life.

 

The Bible (Proverbs 18.21) states that "Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those that indulge it will suffer the consequences."

 

Then - in what I assume is the source of your quote - the Talmud (Bava Metzia 58b-59a) says that "one who publicly shames another is as if he shed blood." Why so? Because when a person is embarrassed, his or her face blanches, and it seems that the blood has drained away. Thus, it is as if the person who shamed them had taken their blood away. The text goes on to say it would be better to commit suicide by jumping into a furnace rather than publicly shame another person.

 

This is a homily - a poetic explanation that should inspire our hearts to virtue, and not only tell us the rules of behavior. But it's a touching metaphor, not a legal analysis. (So, no - please don't commit suicide to avoid shaming another. Come up with a less extreme method of improving your social ethics.)

 

By the way, note that the Talmudic text is about publicly shaming another -- not about gossip per se. Gossip is a biblically-legislated prohibition, so that's a big deal! But techincally it is the shaming that is metaphorized as violence, not the gossip.

 

But this teaching has been invoked all too often to draw a narrow limit to our obligations of love on ideological grounds. I can't love him, some of us say, he wants to give away the Land of Israel! I can't love her, she violates Shabbat! Those guys are homophobic! He's a heretic! She's a fundamentalist!

 

Which "original" tragedy are you talking about? While the destructions of the two Temples -- more than 600 years apart from each other, by the way -- are the central focus of the "peshat" of this holiday, they are not the "original" catastrophe of this date. According to the Mishna [Taanit 4.6], this was the date that God decreed that the generation of the Exodus could not enter the Land of Israel, and instead they would have to spend 40 years wandering the desert. That same Mishna associates another fast day, the 17th of Tammuz - ostensibly about the destruction of the Jerusalem city walls - with the date Moses smashed the tablets upon seeing the people worshipping the golden calf.

 

It seems to me that our tradition has taken the 9th of Av (and the 17th of Tammuz) not simply as reports of a single historical tragedy. If that were the case, then your question would be on target, since heaping up subsequent tragedies might obscure the "original" one. But instead, I think the tradition understands these fast days as symbols of a ruptured universe, in which the divine presence - like the people Israel, like Adam and Eve and all their children - has been driven into exile. If that's the case, then there is no single "original" tragedy. The destructions of the two Temples and all the subsequent slaughters, wars, plagues and punishments clarify the deep pattern, not obscure it.

 

I have no doubt that Osama bin Laden's execution was just. When people commit crimes, the proper response comes through criminal justice mechanisms, like arrests by the police and a trial with due process before judges, with the accused represented by attorneys.

But when people engage in acts of war, the proper response is through military means. Is there any doubt that the September 11, 2001 attacks were military, not criminal, in nature?

Jewish tradition has a developed body of thought about obligatory wars (basically limited to wars of self-defense against an invading enemy and the biblical era conquests) and discretionary wars, the most common example of which would be a pre-emptive war to weaken the enemy, before he can strike. Al-Qaida certainly intended more strikes on Western targets. America was duty bound to reduce that threat. So in Jewish terms, I would regard the assassination of Osama bin Laden as a proper discretionary act of war.  Osama's blood in on his own head.

But you also asked whether you should be "glad" about the assassination. In my view, no person should ever rejoice at the death and suffering of another. Sometimes acts of justice are nonetheless regrettable. I shed no tears over Osama bin Laden, but that is not the same thing as rejoicing at his demise. Proverbs 24:17 states: "When your enemy falls, do not rejoice. Do not celebrate when he stumbles." I follow that approach.

When it comes to the laws of Shabbat, one cannot analyze a question by looking only at one or two of the restrictions. There might be other questions you have to ask beyond "what about electricity" or "what if you don't have to drive yourself." For instance, what kind of spirit of Shabbat does the action create? Is it restful and reverent?

 

Some of the specific prohibitions that might be involved in such travel include: 1) the "techum" of Shabbat - the prohibition on travelling beyond 2,000 Amot (about a kilometer) beyond the edge of a city; and 2) not instructing a non-Jew to work for a Jew on Shabbat. So for example, if such a boat travelled more than a km from the shore, regardless of who drove it, this would be forbidden. And if a passenger had to signal a trolley to stop for pick up or alighting, this would constitute "instructing a non-Jew" to do your work, and would be forbidden. And then there is the more general question about Shabbat atmosphere: if the travel was highly demanding - such as riding in a speedboat which produced ... let's call it "intestinal drama" -- that would likely be forbidden as inappropriate for the day of rest.

 

When modern public transportation was first introduced in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, some rabbis ruled leniently about things like trolleys, which made only prearranged stops, and which permitted one to buy tickets in advance. Such a view would permit a Jew staying at the DisneyWorld complex, for instance, to ride the monorail, which runs pre-programmed whether there are 100 riders or none, does not stop at any individual's instruction or request, and does not require payment. But this would not permit you to stand at a bus stop and reach out your arm to get the driver to stop.

 

In a large city subway system, the 2,000-cubit limit would not be breached and the trains stop regardless of any passenger's request. This seems promising. But there are two additional considerations: 1) using your "metrocard" or other electronic pass is generally regarded as forbidden. The old token system would have presented fewer problems. And 2) there is a socially negative effect (also known as marit ayin) of seeing religious Jews entering the subway. This would likely erode people's reverence for Shabbat.

 

Finally, there is one more consideration: safety. It is a mitzvah to guard your own life and health. So to the questioner, let me ask: WHAT IS A PRE-PROGRAMMED AUTOMOBILE?! That sounds like a terrible idea. You could get killed!

 

If you believe someone to be the (potential) victim of a crime you are certainly ethically bound to intervene. The Talmud  (Sanhedrin 73a) says, for instance, that if you hear of thieves plotting against someone, you must intervene. And the fact that you weren't supposed to know of this unfair treatment in advance - just as in the Talmud's case, you weren't supposed to spy the thieves laying in wait - doesn't absolve you of this responsibility. Once you know and you could help, you must help.

 

But ... there is always a but.

 

First, how bad is this treatment, really? Is it a royal ... mistreatment? Something that could cost your friend a job? Or just a minor irritant - like a bad assignment. Or something in the middle, like a passed-over promotion? That might affect how much risk you should take on yourself to save your friend.

 

More importantly, how do you know that the boss (let's call him Reuven) is going to harm your friend Shimon. Are you sure that this is the case? Or does it seem likely to you that this is Reuven's plan, but you're not really sure. If based on mere conjecture or inference, you went to Shimon and said: You know that Reuven is a bad guy and he's gonna get you ... well then that itself could be an ethical failing, potentially slander (lashon hara) or even groundless suspicion (known as hoshed ba'kesherim.).

 

It's not easy, but I think you have to have an unpleasant conversation with Reuven, and ascertain his intention. If in fact Shimon will be at risk for losing a job or suffering lasting harm, then you should use the power you have, by virtue of your knowledge and position, to protect Shimon from exploitation.

Your question is phrased somewhat incorrectly.

 

Ashkenazim and Sefaradim agree on what constitutes Hametz: any amount whatsoever of any leavened product made from wheat, barley, oats, spelt and rye. These products must not even be owned during passover, nor may one derive any economic benefit from them.

 

But different communities have different traditions about what should constitute "fences around the Torah" - those additional measures instituted by sages and communities through the centuries to ensure that there are no accidental violations of the Torah's ban on Hametz. Ashkenazim have the custom of not eating "kitniyot" (a catch-all category, not co-equal to the botanical term "legume") for a handful of reasons. Perhaps the custom began because these items (like corn) can be made into flour and used for bread-like substances, so it would be better to avoid them. Perhaps it began because these items are so small (like rice) that if any kernels of genuine Hametz would be mixed in with them in the course of marketing, and one would inadvertantly transgress the prohibition of Hametz itself. 

 

(By the way, Sefaradim are not totally unconcerned with these issues also. Sefaradim sift through their kitniyot before Passover to check for the presence of foreign matter. And in some cases - especially in Israel - they are able to buy kitniyot certified for Passover.)

 

Whatever the original reason, Ashkenazim have avoided these products for centuries. The power of "minhag avoteinu," ancestral custom, is strong in Judaism. All things being equal, absent some compelling extrinsic factor, I recommend Ashkenazim continue keeping Passover in the way their forebears did. This policy would maintain familial continuity and reduce the possibility of familial strife. And this is my own personal behavior.

 

However, it seems to me that there are some circumstances which warrant changing the custom. First, someone newly observant who comes from generations of non-observant Ashkenazi Jews, whose parents and grandparents did not observe the prohibition on Hametz, let alone kitniyot, should feel free to adopt Sefardic practice, which is indubitably cogent as Halakha. Second, vegetarians who need protein should consider eating beans and lentils, if purchased before Passover and sifted to ensure that no extraneous Hametz has been mixed in. Finally, a strong argument can be made that, in Israel, eating Kitniyot is a gesture toward Jewish unity, as the various exiles -- from Iraq to Morocco to Poland to Germany -- are now mingled again.

 

It is unquestionably an obligation for Jews to support the continued stregnthening of the Jewish community in our ancestral homeland. One excellent possible component of that support, if not the only one, would be a visit to Eretz Israel, supporting your brothers and sisters with money and love. Moreover, visiting the Land of Israel -- seeing the places where our ancestors and sages lived and worked and built and celebrated and fought and sacrificed -- is all but certain to strengthen one's own Jewish identity today.

 

That said, there is probably no formal obligation in Jewish tradition to visit the Land of Israel, at least if one is not intending to settle there (at least semi-) permanently.

 

Medieval and ancient sages debated whether there was a formal commandment for every Jew to live in the homeland. They all agreed it was good to live there. But was it required? Even for those who thought it was itself a mitzvah to live in Israel, it is unlikely that they would have regarded it as an obligation to visit there in the merely temporary pilgrimage of a visit.

 

But even if it is not a mitzvah to visit, it is still a blessing and a privilege to be able to do so. Those who can afford such a trip should take every opportunity they can to visit. As the Talmud [Ketubot 110b] says: Anyone privileged to walk four paces in the Land of Israel is certainly worthy of the world to come. Amen to that.

There are 613 commandments in the Torah (according to Talmudic tradition) and innumerable other commandments imposed by the Sages and adopted by Jewish communities over time. While many are related to kashrut, obviously the vast majority lie in other fields. And in most of these fields -- and in kashrut too -- there is more nuance to be found than simply ruling things kosher or "treif." (By the way, since "treif" is a technical term for a particular kashrut violation, I recommend we use the more general term "forbidden" or assur.) I would counsel patience and reticence before pronouncing all kinds of things assur.

 

Instead, taking a global look at Jewish virtues, we'll find that some things coincide perfectly with Jewish values and practices; we would say that it is required, or a hiyyuv, to engage in those things. Other things are impossible to align with Jewish values; these are assur, forbidden. For an example of the first, all Jews are required to cease from work on Shabbat. By contrast, we are all forbidden from eating pork.

 

But all kinds of things fall in some middle ground, neither required, nor forbidden, but partly manifesting various virtues and abutting various laws. I think you raise such an example. No one has ever heard of a prohibition on aluminum or plastic anywhere in Jewish tradition. There is a general positive value of caring for God's creation, and a specific negative prohibition, bal tash'hit [Deut 20.20] against wanton destruction of trees, and by extension the rest of creation. I would say that virtuous Jewish living tries to fulfill those values and avoid violating those rules.

 

Under those guidelines, I see no absolute prohibition on aluminum or plastic. Can you use disposable pans or plastic cups responsibly and frugally, perhaps washing them for re-use, and recycling them? I would only apply the term assur, "forbidden" to behavior and items that fall to the level of "impossible to align with Jewish values." I don't think this is it.

Outside of very narrowly defined ultra-Orthodox enclaves, questions like this will continue to come up among American Jews. As long as we go to colleges with and work alongside non-Jews, we will meet and develop close relationships with them. And we'll have to answer sticky problems like this.

Intermarriage is a very threatening phenomenon to American Jewish life. In my view, we should oppose intermarriage, encourage endogamy, and when that fails, we should work to encourage non-Jewish partners to convert and adopt Judaism with enthusiasm. But the next question is: what good would it do to boycott the wedding of your family member? Does that accomplish anything? Or does it wreck a relationship for the sake of making a rhetorical statement of your values, which your family member likely knows anyway?

I believe we have ethical obligations to our family members - especially our parents, through the mitzvah of kibbud av v'em, but not only to them. We owe love and care to our children and siblings and others as well. Those obligations include respecting their decisions of conscience and of the heart. A parent cannot demand that a child violate his or her Jewish duties. They cannot ask you to eat treif or violate Shabbat. But neither should a child (or parent or sibling) say: since you're making a choice I deeply disagree with, I must boycott you and potentially destroy our relationship. May my children never put me in such a situation, but yes, I would attend their interfaith wedding.

Judaism has a long tradition of praising modesty in the Mitzvah of Tzedaka. The Talmud in particular states that one who gives charity anonymously is "greater that Moses" [Bava Batra 9b]. Following this and other precedents, Maimonides [Gifts to the Poor, 10.7] says that the second greatest kind of charity is when neither the donor nor recipient is aware of each other's identity.

However, as the Torah itself, and subsequent law, culture and archaeology all attest, Jews have always inscribed their names on the gifts they have given, both to the poor and to religious life, stretching back to the Biblical tabernacle, the Jerusalem Temple [see Mishna Yoma 3.10] and to synagogues ever since. 

The tension here is succinctly summed up by R. Moshe Isserles, the major early modern codifier, who wrote [Shulhan Arukh Yoreh Deah 249.13] that one deserves punishment for being a self-aggrandizing show-off in giving Tzedaka, but that one is nonetheless permitted to inscribe one's name on objects that one gives to synagogues. As R. Isserles implies, there is a big difference between claiming credit for a gift - which is permitted - and being a show-off about it, which is profane.

Moreover, I would argue that there is something actually good about publicizing one's gift if it will spur future giving by others. As the book of Daniel 12.3 states: "those who induce the many to give Tzedaka will shine like stars eternally." It seems to me that Zuckerberg's gift can have a tremendous positive impact not only on the recipients of his contribution, but to impress an excellent generous example on others

 

 

 

Throughout modernity, thinkers have wondered whether ethics could admit any hyphenated identity. Could there be a Jewish ethics about any moral problems that differed from Catholic, Islamic, Chinese or Bulgarian ethics? Or should every ethical imperative be universal, transcending the differences of particular cultures?

 

In most cases, I think, people recognize that the world’s specific cultures impart at least shape and nuance to different people’s ethical views. So indeed there can be Jewish business ethics that emerge from our texts, traditions and values that will overlap Christian or Islamic ethics but not be identical to them. Jewish duties regarding sex, war, medicine, poverty, loyalty, speech and other topics will often resemble those of other cultures, but will also emerge from different wells, will be expressed differently, and sometimes differ in substance.

 

This is true regarding environmental ethics as well. I would imagine that the world’s religious traditions would resemble one another closely in prescribing benevolent, modest, unselfish, far-sighted stewardship of natural resources and of our fellow creatures. But they will not be identical in every respect.

 

Jewish responses to this human-made disaster might begin with the reading of Psalm 104, the paean to creation; might command stewardly veneration of God’s manifold creatures, for if God created seabirds and shrimp, we must not destroy them; and might exact rigorous tort obligations devolving upon the operator of a dangerous business that became a public nuisance, poisoning the livelihood of many.

Dear Questioner,