The Man Who Measured the Unspoken

Princeton, the kosher dining hall, the academic year 1979-80. Moshe Koppel (b. 1956) had finished a doctorate in mathematics at NYU's Courant Institute a few months earlier, under Martin Davis (1928-2023), and had come down to the Institute for Advanced Study for a postdoctoral year. He was in his early twenties. He had grown up in New York, in yeshiva, and had spent a year at Yeshivat Har Etzion in the Judean hills. He knew Hebrew, Aramaic, Talmud, and recursion theory. He did not know what to say to the woman across the table.

She was Jewish, secular, a graduate student. In the book he wrote forty years later he called her Heidi and acknowledged that the character was partly composite. Her parents kept a kosher home on Long Island and belonged to a Conservative synagogue. At Princeton she had made friends from everywhere. She asked Koppel how he justified his tribal loyalty to the Jews. The lesson of the Holocaust, she said, was that Jews above all should never put their own interests ahead of anyone else's.

Koppel later described his own reaction in three words: “slack-jawed, staring at her uncomprehendingly.”

He had no argument ready. He had grown up around people for whom the question could not arise. His grandfather prayed in a Gerrer shtiebel in Manhattan with a small band of Polish Hasidim who had survived the camps. One of them, a merchant Koppel calls Shimen in the book, had lost his wife and two children in the Holocaust; he came out of Lodz and Auschwitz, and after the war he picked up a handgun and went looking for Jewish children who had been hidden with gentile families. Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) davened in that shtiebel from time to time. Koppel wrote of those men that “one thing they had no patience for was high-minded pieties.” They were funny in a hard way. They took liberties with God because they were on close terms with Him. They would not pour boiling water over a tea bag on Shabbat. The Jewish Press

Shimen could not have answered Heidi either. He would not have understood why she thought an answer was owed.

The rest of Koppel's career is, among other things, a forty-year project to supply the answer, using tools Shimen would have found unrecognizable and Heidi would have found congenial.

The dissertation work was in decidability. In 1979 he published a solution to a problem posed by Davis, Yuri Matiyasevich (b. 1947), and Julia Robinson (1919-1985) about which Diophantine problems can be settled by mechanical procedure. A later paper asked how an investigator chooses among an ordered hierarchy of hypotheses that all fit the observed facts. The recurring question in both: what can be decided from the evidence available, and what remains open no matter how long you compute.

He moved to Israel in 1980 and joined the computer science department at Bar-Ilan University, where he spent his academic career.

The problem he became known for has the same structure as the ones he trained on. A text is visible. Its author is hidden. What in the visible thing survives the author's control?

Not vocabulary, mostly. A historian writing about Napoleon and a physicist writing about superconductivity use different nouns for reasons that have nothing to do with either man. Koppel and his collaborators, chiefly Shlomo Argamon and Jonathan Schler, worked instead on the parts of language a writer does not choose: pronouns, articles, prepositions, conjunctions, suffixes, punctuation, the rate at which a given grammatical form appears. A man can decide to stop using a favorite adjective. He cannot hold three hundred small grammatical habits under conscious guard across ten thousand words.

In 2003 the group reported that the same statistical signals could predict a writer's sex, and later age and native language. The Boston Globe and The New York Times both ran pieces on it that summer. The findings did not say that all women write one way and all men another, and they did not speak to whether the differences were innate. They said that social experience deposits measurable residue in prose the writer is not aware of supplying. That was enough to generate a news cycle.

Koppel and Schler then built the method that carries his name furthest. Train a classifier to separate two bodies of writing. Find the features doing the most separating. Delete them. Retrain. Repeat. If the two bodies come from the same hand, accuracy collapses fast once the surface differences are stripped; the classifier runs out of things to grab. If they come from different hands, deeper differences remain and accuracy degrades slowly. They called it unmasking. It measures not whether two texts differ but how far down the difference goes.

The first serious application was a rabbi who had hidden his own authorship.

Yosef Hayim of Baghdad (1835-1909), known by the title of his best-known work as the Ben Ish Chai, was the leading halakhic authority of Iraqi Jewry. In 1878 he published a collection of 524 responsa called Torah Lishmah, presenting it as an old manuscript he had come across rather than as his own composition. Historians had long suspected he wrote it himself, for reasons ranging from modesty to a wish to have the rulings judged on their merits rather than on his signature.

Koppel and Schler compared Torah Lishmah against 509 responsa Yosef Hayim acknowledged, in Rav Pe'alim, and against collections by four other rabbis of the period. The comparison authors fell away. The distance between the disputed collection and the acknowledged one behaved the way same-author distances behave. This did not prove authorship in any deductive sense, and Koppel has never claimed it did. It supplied a new kind of evidence for a conclusion scholars had reached by other means, and it did so on an unusually hard case, since a man writing under a pseudonym has every incentive to change his habits on purpose.

He later turned the methods on the Kherson Genizah, a trove of letters presented as copies of correspondence among the Baal Shem Tov, Shneur Zalman of Liadi, and other early Hasidic masters, which surfaced in Ukraine around 1917 and which most scholars had already judged fraudulent. Koppel's analysis found that the supposed differences among the various attributed authors did not behave like differences between real independent writers. He published it in Hebrew, in a rabbinic journal, in 2010.

Then came the Bible.

In 2011 Koppel published an ACL paper with his student Navot Akiva and with Nachum Dershowitz (b. 1951) and Idan Dershowitz on splitting a document into stylistic components without any labeled examples. The method builds a list of synonym sets, roughly two hundred of them for biblical Hebrew, generated automatically by finding Hebrew roots that the King James renders with the same English root. For each chunk of text it records which synonym from each set the chunk uses. Chunks that make similar choices cluster together.

To test it, they took two books by two authors, shuffled them, and asked the method to unshuffle them. Jeremiah and Ezekiel. About seventeen percent of the verses could not be classified for lack of any distinguishing word. Of the roughly 2,200 that were classified, 26 landed on the wrong side. A 1.2 percent error rate.

Then they ran it on the Torah. Split into two families, the output matched the standard critical division between Priestly and non-Priestly material for about ninety percent of the verses where the standard authorities agree with each other.

The wire services got hold of it. An algorithm sheds light on the authorship of the Bible. By the time the story returned to Israel, Haaretz readers learned that the head of the project had announced proof of multiple human authorship of the Torah, which was news to the head of the project.

Koppel wrote a correction and published it on the Seforim Blog, a site read by exactly the people who would care. It is the clearest thing he has written about the limits of his own instruments.

The number of families, he explained, is not discovered by the method. It is supplied by the operator. Ask it for two and it gives you two. Ask it to split Moby-Dick into thirteen and it will. That the Torah splits in two therefore says nothing whatsoever about how many authors it had. He also declined to let his readers take too much comfort: with better methods one probably could estimate an optimal number, and the correspondence with the critics' division suggests the split is not an artifact. Ask three families and the correspondence degrades. Ask four or more and the critics' J and E do not appear at all.

On the theological question he was blunter. The work could have no bearing on divine authorship, because inferring multiple authors from multiple styles rests on assumptions about human cognition and human performance, and nobody has a theory of what a divinely written text is supposed to look like. He noted the obvious objection, that this makes the claim unfalsifiable, and said the objection deserved a longer discussion than he was going to give it there.

Of the question that had opened every lecture he ever gave on authorship, “have you analyzed the Bible,” he wrote: “I never really understood the question.” Shomrim

Keep that essay in mind. It is the standard he set for himself in one domain, and it will matter when he moves to another.

His Talmudic work runs on the same problem from the other side. Meta-Halakhah, published in 1996, argues that Jewish law works like a natural language. A grammar can describe a language without generating every judgment a competent speaker makes. Native speakers know a sentence is wrong before they can name the rule it breaks. Accomplished halakhists recognize that an argument does not fit before they can say which principle it violates. The intuition is not sentiment. It is competence built by immersion in cases.

The position sits between two accounts he rejects. One treats halakhah as a closed formal system from which every answer can be derived. The other treats it as an open field where a sufficiently clever reader reaches whatever result he already wanted. A language constrains without being exhaustively codifiable, and it changes through use. So does the law.

He also wrote Seder Kinnim, a mathematical commentary on the Mishnah's tractate about sacrificial birds that get mixed among groups of different legal status, generally reckoned the hardest tractate in the Mishnah. He founded and co-edited Higayon, a journal on rabbinic logic, with Ely Merzbach. He wrote on probability in halakhah and on rules for uncertainty in Talmudic reasoning with the logician Dov Gabbay.

Formalize the tacit; do not claim the formalization replaces it. That is the move, repeated across four decades and five fields.

Dicta, the Israel Center for Text Analysis, is the largest thing he has built that has a test set.

Hebrew is hard for tools designed around English. Prefixes carrying conjunctions, articles and prepositions attach to the front of words. Suffixes carry possession and objects. Ordinary Hebrew drops the vowels, so one written string maps to several pronunciations, several parses, several meanings. Biblical, rabbinic, medieval and modern Hebrew differ in vocabulary, syntax and spelling. Rabbinic texts add Aramaic, dense abbreviation, and orthography that never stabilized.

Dicta's tools do vocalization, abbreviation expansion, morphological analysis, source identification, parallel-text discovery, manuscript reconstruction, authorship analysis. Most are free.

One paper shows the house style. Finding every parallel passage in the Babylonian Talmud by brute force would require something like 1.6 trillion edit-distance calculations, which Koppel and his coauthors Avi Shmidman and Ely Porat estimated at roughly twenty years on one machine. Instead they represented each word by its two rarest letters. This works because the most common Hebrew letters are yod, aleph and vav, which are also the vowel markers and the common prefixes, so throwing them away throws away most of the spelling noise. Then they looked for four- and five-word strings differing by at most one word, and clustered the matches. The run found 4,602 parallel pairs across 1.8 million words in eleven seconds.

That is the pattern: do not try to understand the text; find the smallest signal that survives the corruption you care about.

The models followed. BEREL in 2022, a language model trained on rabbinic Hebrew, on the premise that rabbinic Hebrew is a domain in its own right and not defective modern Hebrew. DictaBERT in 2023, with fine-tuned versions for prefix segmentation, morphological tagging and question answering. DictaLM the same year, DictaLM 2.0 in 2024, adapted from Mistral with a Hebrew evaluation suite. Dicta-LM 3.0 in December 2025, open-weight models at 1.7, 12 and 24 billion parameters, 65,000-token context, trained on roughly 100 billion Hebrew tokens and 30 billion English.

The phrase in the technical report is “sovereign Hebrew.” A society whose inheritance sits in a low-resource language becomes a tenant when the models through which it reads and writes are built abroad. Koppel's answer is to build the datasets, the benchmarks, the morphology, the models, and to release enough that others can check the work.

Through 2023, through the war, through Kohelet's collapse in funding, that work continued.

Judaism Straight Up: Why Real Religion Endures appeared in 2020, forty years after the dining hall. It began as a blog called Judaism Without Apologies.

The book puts Shimen and Heidi side by side, though they never meet. Shimen inhabits an inherited world of ritual, kinship, food restrictions, memory and specific obligation. He cannot give a philosophical defense of most of what he does. His Judaism is a first language. Heidi's is a second language, learned through stated rules in formal settings, and she assumes that a practice earns allegiance only after it justifies itself by independently established principles.

Koppel's argument is that practice precedes belief. Nobody selects a theology and then deduces a life. People acquire habits, loyalties, reflexes and expectations by growing up among other people, and their stated beliefs come along afterward as explanation and repair. A tradition survives because its institutions keep producing people willing and able to carry it, not because each generation re-derives its propositions.

The argument is Hayekian in structure, though Koppel draws on economics, game theory, anthropology and moral psychology rather than applying Friedrich Hayek (1899-1992) to religion. Knowledge can be distributed across a community and stored in practices. A rule that looks pointless in isolation may be holding up a system that produces trust and restraint. The reformer sees the inconvenience. He may not see the network.

Koppel does not claim that survival vindicates a practice. Slavery survived. His claim is narrower and harder to dismiss: inherited practices deserve interpretation before demolition, because they may contain information the reformer cannot see, and the burden falls partly on whoever proposes to dismantle a system whose coordinating functions nobody has mapped. He builds his account of moral foundations on Richard Shweder (b. 1945), arguing that Shimen's world runs on fairness, loyalty and restraint together while Heidi's runs on fairness alone.

The particularism follows from this. Concrete obligations to family, neighbors and Jews are the institutions through which moral responsibility becomes something a person can act on. A man who claims equal concern for everyone may find he owes no one anything in particular. A man embedded in thick relations knows whose children need help this week.

The critics found the construction unfair, and they had a case. Heidi is thin where Shimen is thick, and the coercion and cruelty available inside traditional communities get less attention than the sterility of cosmopolitan life. Benjamin Schvarcz, writing from Princeton's James Madison Program, pressed a different point: Shimen thanks America the way a guest thanks a hotel. If patriotism is a form of loyalty, Shimen has less of it than Heidi does, and Koppel's own Israeli argument depends on the kind of political loyalty his hero lacks. The Fathom reviewer pressed the sharpest one. Shimen's children were murdered. Whether his Judaism transmits across generations is precisely what the case cannot show.

Koppel entered Israeli constitutional politics before he built anything. He sat in on the Knesset Constitution, Law and Justice Committee under Michael Eitan (b. 1944), drafted the sections on religion and state, and later co-authored two complete draft constitutions, one of them with Eitan. He also wrote the 2011 law requiring Israeli nonprofits to disclose funding received from foreign governments. Supporters called it transparency about foreign state intervention. Opponents said it stigmatized European-funded human rights groups while leaving private foreign donations to right-wing organizations in the dark. That objection would come back.

He founded the Kohelet Policy Forum in February 2012, in offices at Am Ve'olamo 8 in Givat Shaul, Jerusalem. It ran on Jewish nationalism, market economics, individual liberty, and a theory of representative government hostile to unelected authority. Avraham Diskin, Avi Bell and Eugene Kontorovich were among the principals.

The innovation was not the ideology. It was the delivery. Israeli parties and members of Knesset have thin research staffs. A think tank that arrives with a finished bill, a memorandum answering the objections, comparative material from six countries, a witness for committee, and a lawyer who will stay through the amendments has leverage that an essay does not have. Kohelet supplied the right with what it had never had: a bench. Its scholars contributed to the 2018 Basic Law declaring Israel the nation-state of the Jewish people, and Ayelet Shaked (b. 1976) drew on its network during her years as justice minister. A former Kohelet researcher became legal adviser to the Knesset's Constitution Committee. A Kohelet fellow became director general of the Education Ministry.

Koppel told the Jerusalem Post in 2024 how he scores this kind of work. A think tank wins when it converts a nonissue into an issue. Judicial reform, he said, had been nothing at all. Kohelet made it something.

On January 4, 2023, six days after Benjamin Netanyahu (b. 1949) assembled his coalition, Justice Minister Yariv Levin (b. 1969) announced a program in five parts. The attorney general's advice would stop binding the government, which could hire its own counsel. Administrative decisions could no longer be struck down on reasonableness alone. Basic Laws would not be subject to judicial review. Statutes could be struck only by a supermajority of a full panel, and the Knesset could override. The judicial selection committee would be reweighted toward elected officials.

Kohelet had been publishing on four of those five for a decade. Levin named Aviad Bakshi, head of Kohelet's legal department, as one of the scholars he had consulted.

Koppel disliked the override from the start, and said so where he thought he was among friends. Sixty-one members of the Knesset could pass a law and then use the same sixty-one to immunize it. In February he told a closed meeting of young immigrants in Tel Aviv that it was a “stupid idea.” In March, Channel 13 aired leaked remarks in which he told a small crowd that Kohelet's advice to Levin and to Simcha Rothman (b. 1980) had been that the override is completely idiotic, and that it was in the package for coalition reasons rather than for anyone's stated ones. The Times of IsraelKohelet Forum

By then the country was in the street, and Kohelet was on the map.

On March 9, 2023, about a hundred demonstrators from Brothers in Arms, the reservists' organization, blocked the Givat Shaul entrance with sandbags and barbed wire. On March 15, protesters followed him through Jerusalem as he met a delegation from the Jewish Federations of North America. On March 22, Israeli expatriates and American Jews filled a street on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a few blocks from where the Gerrer men had prayed, to protest his appearance at an Aish New York event. On April 2, six women from a feminist group entered the offices, and were arrested; the group said it was protesting Kohelet's positions on sexual assault, domestic violence, the poor and the LGBTQ community, and a Kohelet employee wrote that a woman had run at her and tried to hit her. On June 1, demonstrators came to his home in Efrat, in the Judean hills south of Jerusalem, over the Green Line, and posted flyers on his fence: “Here lives a collaborator with a dictator.” A neighbor turned a garden hose on them.

In the essay he wrote that autumn, Koppel recorded two more. A retired chief education officer of the IDF posted a call for his elimination, specifying that he meant the word “in the military sense” and not as a figure of speech. A retired defense minister told him there would be blood in the streets, and that although the minister's own friends would be spilling it, the blood would be on Kohelet's hands.

His account of the meetings is the part of the record that will interest historians most, and it comes from one side only. He and his colleagues met pilots, magnates, former security chiefs, former ministers. He says his interlocutors almost never wanted to discuss the reform's contents or how to improve them. He says he could not make sense of what they were saying until he found the premise that made all of it coherent: that the wrong people had won the election and would keep winning, and that unless the court and the legal bureaucracy retained unlimited power, Israel's unelected institutions would fall into unfit hands. He named the premise the Barbarians at the Gates axiom.

He also produced a scene. Four leaders of the Kaplan Street protests came to Kohelet to demand that the forum renounce the reforms. Koppel and his colleagues said policy should be set by the elected government and legislature. One of the men, a magnate who led the chant of de-mo-krat-ya at rallies, asked whether Koppel seriously imagined his own political preferences should count no more than those of a taxi driver from Beit Shemesh. Koppel replied with the line from The Princess Bride about a word not meaning what the speaker thinks it means. kohelet

The story is his, told in Tablet in June 2026, with no name attached to the magnate and no corroboration offered. Take it as what it is: the memory of a participant with an argument to win. It is also the single most useful thing anyone has published about what those rooms were like, and nobody on the other side has published a competing account of the same meeting.

Meanwhile the compromise track ran. Koppel says opposition politicians refused to sit with Levin, and that he tried repeatedly to get them into a room. He and his counterparts in rival policy shops then negotiated privately for two months and reached detailed agreement on everything except the composition of the selection committee. The package went to President Isaac Herzog (b. 1960), who was hosting the national compromise effort. Herzog, Koppel says, was in close contact with sitting and retired justices, and returned with a proposal much closer to the hard opposition's position. It went nowhere.

Koppel's diagnosis of why compromise failed is the one honest thing in the essay that cuts against his own side's interest. So long as both camps feared a worse outcome, a deal was available. Once pressure on the government not to move without broad consensus made unilateral action unlikely, the opposition had no reason to trade. The people demanding consensus destroyed the conditions for it.

He finished the essay on October 6, 2023.

He did not look at it again for three months. When he did, he left the text alone and added a postscript.

His policy view had not moved. His sense of proportion had. He described it to the Jerusalem Post the following April, in his house in Efrat on a rainy day, as a married couple in the middle of a fight who get hit with a family health crisis and cannot believe what they had been shouting about.

“I don't think I was wrong, but it wasn't that important,” he said. Episciences

He said the reform had been far from perfect, that the opposition had had perfectly good reasons, that there was blame to go around for how the political process ran and that he took his share. His son and son-in-law had spent months in Gaza. Most of Kohelet's senior staff had been there too. He noted in the essay that his interlocutors' sons and his own were serving together, and that a little more grace on both sides would have gone a long way.

He did not convert. He argued in the same postscript that legislation had been the wrong instrument all along, because the court had by then struck down the one piece of the reform that passed and could strike down any future limit on itself. He argued that the war had wrecked the prestige of the institutions he opposed, and that prestige, not statute, is what determines who defers to whom. He borrowed Peter Turchin's (b. 1957) elite overproduction to explain the fury: a generation of Israeli magnates, retired generals and former ministers had been produced in numbers the country's top jobs could not absorb, and Netanyahu's longevity had blocked the rest.

The money went first. Arthur Dantchik, the Philadelphia investor who was Kohelet's principal benefactor, announced on August 4, 2023 that he had stopped giving to Israeli think tanks, saying the country needed to “focus on healing and national unity.” Protesters had been outside his house in Philadelphia; Koppel said afterward that he understood a man not wanting to pay for the privilege of being harassed. Kohelet's income fell from 30 million shekels in 2022 to 24 million in 2023 to 13.6 million in 2024. It let go dozens of employees, cut research, and stopped funding allied groups. Of the roughly four million dollars it took in during 2024, about three and a half million came through the Central Fund of Israel. In January 2025 the Knesset Finance Committee left it off the list of 138 nonprofits approved for donor tax credits while the Tax Authority examined claims that it engaged in partisan political activity; the authority found no basis for the claims, and the committee restored the status in March, with ten coalition members turning up to make sure the vote carried. Kohelet said more than ten thousand Israelis had recently given it money. The Times of Israel

The organization that had once been sustained by one American now advertised a tax refund to small domestic donors.

Shani Granot-Lubaton, a New York-based leader of the protests and of the campaign against Dantchik, was given a right of reply by the Jerusalem Post. She said the Israeli public was troubled by Koppel's attempt to damage Israeli democracy and the rights of women, minorities and everyone else; that Dantchik had faced legal, determined and effective protest and nothing beyond it; and that Koppel's delicacy about being demonized had not extended to the campaigns run against liberal organizations in Israel. She said the protesters were defending Israeli democracy for Koppel's children too.

Then the thing he wanted arrived.

In January 2026 the coalition advanced a bill placing ministry legal advisers under the directors general appointed by ministers rather than under the attorney general. On July 15, 2026, after eleven hours of filibuster and nearly seventy committee sessions run by Rothman, the Knesset passed the central measure: the attorney general's written legal opinions cease to bind the government, which may declare that an opinion does not state the law, and may take its own position in court and hire private counsel if the attorney general will not argue it. Netanyahu was absent from the vote. Bezalel Smotrich (b. 1980) congratulated Rothman on a decision of enormous significance for Jewish identity, Zionism, security and settlement.

That is item one on Levin's list of January 4, 2023, close to word for word, and it is the item Koppel argued for most consistently and most publicly for a decade.

Note how it came. It passed by roughly a dozen votes as part of a bundle assembled with the Haredi parties, who supplied their votes after the coalition advanced a Basic Law on Torah study, froze arrests of draft evaders, and reversed changes to kosher certification. The vote nearly collapsed anyway when Moshe Gafni (b. 1952) held out over funding for ultra-Orthodox kindergarten teachers, and Rothman stretched a speech to buy time while Netanyahu put the funding item on the cabinet agenda. The provision splitting the attorney general's role was dropped. Within thirty days of the law taking effect the government must decide how future attorneys general will be appointed, which critics read as a route to removing Gali Baharav-Miara (b. 1959) without the professional committee that blocked the last attempt.

The law takes effect on January 1, 2027. The election is expected in late October 2026. The coalition that passed it may not be the government that lives under it.

Deputy Attorney General Gil Limon told the committee that once the bill passes the government will decide for itself what the law is. Petitions reached the Supreme Court the same night. The Times of Israel

Koppel's own standard for this class of decision, stated in the essay he finished on October 6, 2023 and sharpened in a Kohelet piece in November 2025, is the veil of ignorance: constitutional arrangements should be designed without knowing which camp will hold power when they are used, because nobody knows what the coalition and the court will look like in thirty years. He applied the test to his opponents and asked whether they would grant the same powers to unelected institutions if Oranges ran them and Blues formed the government. He said we all knew the answer.

The test is available to be run in the other direction on a law passed by sixty-odd votes, in the last weeks of a Knesset, as part of a package traded for draft exemptions and kindergarten money, coming into force after the election. Koppel has not published on it as of this writing.

Set the two halves of the career next to each other.

At Dicta, every claim has a held-out set. Vocalize the text and a scholar can check the vowels. Find the parallels and a Talmudist can open the two pages. Split Jeremiah from Ezekiel and count the twenty-six verses that went wrong. When the wires said his algorithm had proved the Torah had many authors, Koppel wrote three thousand words explaining that the number of authors was an input he had chosen, that the method could not have discovered it, and that the whole exercise was silent on the question everyone actually cared about. He gave away the strongest claim available to him because it was not supported.

At Kohelet there is no held-out set. A constitutional arrangement is run once, on one country, by the people who wanted it, against opponents who will not concede the result. There is no Jeremiah to shuffle with Ezekiel. The output cannot be scored and the error rate cannot be estimated, and the operator's choice of how many families to look for goes uncorrected, because nobody can run the experiment again with the other assumption.

His philosophy holds that a community stores knowledge in practices its members cannot state, and that the man who redesigns the practice from a diagram is likely to break something he never saw. His career has consisted of writing the diagrams. He built classifiers to extract what writers do not know they do, formal logic to describe what halakhists know before they can say it, language models to carry Hebrew that no grammar exhausts, and a policy shop to hand finished statutes to men in a hurry.

He argued that Israel's problem was a small, self-selecting body of credentialed people who converted professional expertise into political authority and could not be voted out. He was right that such a body existed. He answered it by building a small body of credentialed people, funded for a decade by one foreign billionaire, that converted professional expertise into political authority and could not be voted out. Both are true at once, and Koppel, who spent his life on the difference between what a method shows and what it does not, is better placed than most to say so.

Shimen would have had no idea what any of it was for. Heidi got her answer forty years late, in book form, from a man who had spent the interval learning to speak her language well enough to tell her why he would not adopt it. The state is the third party to the argument, and it does not read.

Notes

 Biography and career. Wikipedia, Moshe Koppel (born 1956; NYU Courant 1979 under Martin Davis; IAS postdoc; aliyah 1980; Bar-Ilan; Har Etzion; YU). Kohelet’s own bio page, Prof. Moshe Koppel. Yeshivat Har Etzion, Dr. Moshe Koppel.

The Princeton scene and Heidi. Benjamin Schvarcz, Acton Institute, Tradition: A Guide to Social Survival in the 21st Century. This is the source for the kosher dining hall, Heidi’s challenge, and the “slack-jawed” self-description, and also for the patriotism objection I quote. The reviewer is writing from Princeton’s James Madison Program, which he notes sits at the address of the former kosher dining hall.

Shimen. Book of Books review (Lodz, Auschwitz, wife and two children murdered, the handgun and the hidden children, Wiesel in the shtiebel, the “high-minded pieties” passage). First Things, “Mere Judaism”. Jewish Action review by Rabbi Yitzchok Adlerstein. Fathom review for the objection that Shimen has no surviving children. The blog that became the book was Judaism Without Apologies; Elli Fischer’s Lehrhaus review coined “the Torah of the Kishkes.”

Authorship attribution. Koppel, Schler & Argamon, Computational Methods in Authorship Attribution, JASIST 2009. Koppel, Schler & Bonchek-Dokow, Measuring Differentiability: Unmasking Pseudonymous Authors, JMLR 2007 (the Torah Lishmah case, 524 vs 509 documents). Argamon, Koppel, Pennebaker & Schler, Automatically Profiling the Author of an Anonymous Text, CACM 2009. The 2003 press cycle: Charles McGrath, “Sexed Texts,” New York Times, August 10, 2003; Clive Thompson, “He and She: What’s the Real Difference?”, Boston Globe, July 6, 2003.

The Bible episode. Koppel’s own correction is the key document: Attribution and Misattribution: On Computational Linguistics, Heresy and Journalism, Seforim Blog, July 11, 2011. All the numbers I cite (200 synonym sets, 17% unclassified, 26 of ~2,200 misassigned, ~90% agreement with the Driver/Friedman consensus, no J/E at four or more families) are his. The underlying paper is Koppel, Akiva, I. Dershowitz & N. Dershowitz, Unsupervised Decomposition of a Document Into Authorial Components, ACL 2011. The Kherson Genizah paper is in Hebrew, Yeshurun 23 (2010), 559-566.

Talmudic work. Meta-Halakhah: Logic, Intuition, and the Unfolding of Jewish Law (Jason Aronson, 1996). Seder Kinnim (Hebrew). Higayon, co-edited with Ely Merzbach: journal page. “Uncertainty Rules in Talmudic Reasoning,” with Dov Gabbay, History and Philosophy of Logic 32(1).

Dicta. Shmidman, Koppel & Porat, Identification of Parallel Passages Across a Large Hebrew/Aramaic Corpus (4,602 pairs, 1.8m words; the arXiv abstract says “just over 30 seconds,” the v2 paper text says 11 seconds, and I used 11 with the twenty-year brute-force estimate that appears in the paper). BEREL, DictaBERT, DictaLM, DictaLM 2.0, Dicta-LM 3.0. Organizational overview: European Association for Jewish Studies showcase.

Constitutional work and Kohelet’s founding. Wikipedia, Kohelet Policy Forum (founded 2012, Am Ve’olamo 8, Givat Shaul, Diskin/Bell/Kontorovich). The 2011 foreign-government funding disclosure law and the two constitutional drafts are documented in the Wikipedia biography with links to the Knesset committee archive.

The 2023 fight. Koppel’s own long account, which is where the compromise negotiations, the Herzog proposal, the Barbarians axiom, the Blues and Oranges, the Turchin argument, the “elimination” post, the “blood in the streets” threat, and the demonstration calling him a foreign implant all come from: The Long Road to Democracy, Kohelet, March 30, 2025, originally in Hashiloach. Note one small discrepancy: he writes there of demonstrators in New Jersey and of “44 years” in Israel; the documented March 2023 protest was on the Upper West Side of Manhattan (Jewish Press), and 1980 to 2023 is 43 years. They may be separate events; I kept the Manhattan one, which is sourced, and paraphrased the “foreign implant” line without a location.

The override remarks: Times of Israel, February 23, 2023 (“stupid idea,” closed meeting with young immigrants in Tel Aviv) and Times of Israel, March 26, 2023 (Channel 13 leak, “completely idiotic,” advice to Levin and Rothman). Levin’s citation of Aviad Bakshi is in the same pieces.

The protests: Times of Israel, March 9 blockade and April 2 office entry; JNS on the six arrests; Haaretz on the Breaking Walls action; Times of Israel, June 1, 2023, on the Efrat home protest (the flyer text and the garden hose).

The taxi driver scene. Moshe Koppel, “De-Mo-Krat-Ya!”, Tablet, June 5, 2026, part of a series tied to Tablet Studios’ The Battle for Israel’s Soul.

October 7 and after. Eliav Breuer, Kohelet’s Moshe Koppel reflects on the judicial reforms a year later, Jerusalem Post, April 13, 2024. This is the source for the couple-fight analogy, “I don’t think I was wrong, but it wasn’t that important,” the sons in Gaza, the think-tank-victory remark, the Dantchik harassment comment, and Shani Granot-Lubaton’s reply, which I paraphrased rather than quoted. Also useful: 18Forty interview, November 2024; Daniel Gordis’s two-part interview.
Money. Times of Israel on Dantchik, August 4, 2023; AP/PBS; Shomrim, July 21, 2025 for the 30m/24m/13.6m shekel figures and the Central Fund of Israel share; Times of Israel, January 20, 2025 and JNS, March 3, 2025 on the Section 46 fight and the ten thousand donors.

The 2026 endgame. Times of Israel, January 7, 2026 on the legal-advisers bill; Times of Israel, January 12, 2026 on the wider package; Ynet, July 15, 2026 for the law’s contents, the Haredi bundle, the Gafni holdout, the January 1, 2027 effective date, the thirty-day appointment clause, and Gil Limon’s line; Times of Israel, July 15, 2026 for the eleven-hour filibuster and Smotrich’s remarks. One discrepancy I did not resolve: Ynet reports the tally as 61-51, the Times of Israel as 65-51.
The veil of ignorance. Stated in The Long Road to Democracy and sharpened in Koppel’s November 2025 Kohelet piece, “Restoring Balance to Government Requires the Veil of Ignorance.” Also Jerusalem Post op-ed, February 2025.

Jurispathic: Moshe Koppel and Robert Cover

In 1983 the Harvard Law Review asked Robert Cover (1943-1986) to write its annual Foreword on the Supreme Court’s term. He was forty, a professor at Yale, an observant Jew who read Talmud and taught law, and he had already written a book about antebellum judges who enforced the Fugitive Slave Act against their own convictions. He produced ninety pages called “Nomos and Narrative.” It is now among the most cited law review articles ever published. He died three years later, at forty-two.

The argument runs like this. We inhabit a normative universe, a nomos, and we hold it together with stories. Rules do not stand on their own. No set of legal prescriptions exists apart from the narratives that locate it and give it sense. Strip the story and the rule is noise.

Communities make law constantly. Cover called this jurisgenesis, and his claim was that it happens everywhere people share a narrative and take on obligations, in monasteries and unions and families and yeshivas, with no state required. The state is late to this. It does not manufacture normative meaning. It arrives after meaning is already in production, in surplus.

He distinguished two patterns. The paideic is world-creating: a common body of texts, a shared discourse about how to read them, and interpersonal commitment strong enough to make the reading binding. Its natural home is the small group. It is thick, it educates, it obligates, and it fragments, because every serious reading generates further readings, and the community can hold them together only by teaching harder or by expelling people. The imperial is world-maintaining: thin, universalist, procedural, concerned with keeping distinct worlds from colliding. Its natural home is the state. Cover’s judgment on the imperial mode is severe. He called its virtues weak forces, system-maintaining, and said the organizing principle it supplies cannot itself produce the meaning that is life and growth.

Then the move that gave the essay its shock. Hart and Kelsen and Dworkin had all assumed a shortage of law, and had spent their careers explaining how judges make more of it in hard cases. Cover said the opposite. Law is in oversupply. The problem is fecundity. A hard case is hard because two litigants arrive with two valid nomoi, each intelligible inside its own narrative, and the court must pick. When it picks it does not create law. It destroys the other one.

“Judges are people of violence,” Cover wrote, and the office they hold is the jurispathic office. The law-killing office. He did not mean this as an accusation of bad faith. He meant it as a description of the job. Somebody has to reduce the multiplicity, and the court is the instrument, and what makes the court’s version stick is not that it is more correct but that it commands men with guns. His term for the state’s law is the social organization of law as power, which he set against the organization of law as meaning, and he thought the gap between the two was the permanent tragedy of the enterprise. In “Violence and the Word,” three years later, he put it without any cushioning: legal interpretation takes place in a field of pain and death.
Cardozo Israeli Supreme Court Project

The case he built the Foreword around was Bob Jones University v. United States, decided that term, in which the Court upheld the revocation of tax-exempt status from a Christian university whose religious doctrine forbade interracial dating. Cover was not defending the university’s racial doctrine. What held him was the amicus briefs from Mennonite and Amish groups who had no stake in the racial question at all and who filed anyway, because they understood what the case was about: whether a community may live by its own law when the state’s law says otherwise, and what the state may charge for the privilege. Cover’s complaint against the opinion was that it did the killing without saying so. He called it uncommitted, unwilling to put much on the line, an expression of the passing will of the state rather than a constitutional commitment the state was prepared to own.

Two ways a community can meet the state, in his scheme. Insular: turn inward, ask to be left alone, pay the price of separation. Redemptive: go out, try to remake the whole order in the image of your own nomos. His examples of the second were the abolitionists, Garrison against Douglass on whether the Constitution was a slave document or an antislavery one, both of them reading the same text out of a narrative the state did not share.

And the test that runs under all of it. A legal interpretation “cannot be valid if no one is prepared to live by it.” Meaning is cheap. Commitment is the thing that converts a reading into law. Cover meant lived, and he meant it at cost.

Cardozo Israeli Supreme Court Project

That is the apparatus. I have not found an English-language treatment that runs it over the Israeli constitutional fight of the last three years, which is strange, because the fight is the cleanest specimen the theory has been offered since Cover wrote, and because the man at its intellectual center has spent forty years describing jurisgenesis without ever using the word.

Moshe Koppel (b. 1956) published Meta-Halakhah in 1996. Its thesis is that Jewish law works the way a natural language works. A grammar describes a language without generating every judgment a competent speaker makes. Native speakers know a sentence is wrong before they can name the rule it breaks, and accomplished halakhists recognize that an argument does not fit the tradition before they can say which principle it violates. The intuition is competence, built by immersion in cases, and it exceeds any codification of itself.

That is a theory of jurisgenesis. The law lives in a community’s practice and its stories, the written corpus underdetermines it, and the people who carry it know more than the code contains.

Judaism Straight Up, twenty-four years later, is the same claim scaled up to a society. Koppel sets a Gerrer Hasid he calls Shimen, a survivor of Lodz and Auschwitz who prayed in a Manhattan shtiebel with Koppel’s grandfather, against a Princeton graduate student he calls Heidi. Shimen inhabits a thick weave of ritual, food restrictions, kinship rules, commercial norms, communal memory and specific obligation. His Judaism is a first language and he cannot give a philosophical defense of most of it. Heidi holds a single overriding principle, avoid harm to any person, learned as a rule and applied as a rule. Koppel’s argument is that Shimen’s community can reproduce itself and Heidi’s cannot.

Read that through Cover and it stops being a polemic about Jews and becomes a proposition about law. Shimen’s shtiebel is a paideic nomos: corpus, discourse, commitment. Heidi’s harm principle is imperial: a world-maintaining rule that tells you how to avoid collisions without telling you what to build. Koppel’s charge is that the imperial mode cannot generate normative meaning on its own and is parasitic on paideic communities it did not make and cannot make. That is Cover’s own position, stated on page sixteen of the Foreword, in 1983, by a Yale law professor who would have found Koppel’s politics uncongenial.

Neither man cites the other. Cover was dead before Koppel wrote a word on any of this. Koppel does not seem to have read him.

The machines belong here too. Koppel’s authorship attribution works by finding the residue that a community deposits in a writer without the writer’s knowledge: pronouns, prepositions, suffixes, the rate at which grammatical forms recur. His method for locating parallel passages across the Babylonian Talmud, which found 4,602 of them in 1.8 million words in eleven seconds, is a device for tracing how a nomos propagates itself through repetition and rephrasing. When his group’s clustering algorithm split the Torah along roughly the same line the biblical critics had drawn, he wrote three thousand words on a blog explaining that the number of authors was an input he had chosen and the method could not have discovered it, and that the result was silent on divine authorship because nobody has a theory of what a divine text looks like. He gave away the strongest claim available to him because his data did not support it.

Hold that standard. It comes back.

Now the court.

The doctrines Koppel spent a decade attacking were forged in a single case, and the case was about whether the state may let a community live by its own law.

In 1986 Yehuda Ressler, an attorney and reserve officer, petitioned the High Court of Justice against the defense minister’s blanket deferment of military service for full-time yeshiva students. Earlier petitions on the same subject had been thrown out twice over, for lack of standing and for non-justiciability. Ressler came with an affidavit from a former head of the army’s manpower planning branch stating that he and his fellow petitioners served longer because the yeshiva students did not serve at all.

Aharon Barak (b. 1936) wrote the judgment, delivered in 1988. He granted standing to a petitioner with no personal grievance beyond membership in the public, and he declared that everything is justiciable, including matters of war and peace. Those two holdings are the foundation of everything that followed: the court’s reach into appointments, security, immigration, budgets, religion. On the merits Ressler lost. The deferment survived, within the zone of reasonableness, with a warning attached that if the numbers kept climbing the answer might change.

Cover would have recognized the structure at once. A paideic community had an arrangement with the state, an arrangement that had never been legislated. It began as an understanding between David Ben-Gurion (1886-1973) and the rabbinic authority known as the Chazon Ish, Avraham Yeshayahu Karelitz (1878-1953), covering roughly four hundred students, so that a Torah world destroyed in Europe could be rebuilt. It was a covenant between two nomoi and it existed nowhere in the statute book. The whole subsequent litigation, from Ressler through Rubinstein in 1998, the Tal Law in 2002, the Movement for Quality Government in 2006, Ressler again in 2012, has been the state’s effort to decide whether that unwritten covenant counts as law, and if so at what price.

Barak’s later work extended the jurispathic office in every available direction. Reasonableness, from 1981, let the court substitute its own weighting of considerations for a minister’s whenever it judged the weighting wrong. In 1993 he held that the attorney general’s advice binds the government and that the attorney general is free to argue against the government’s position in court, which put a jurispath inside the executive. In 1995 the court held that ordinary statutes could be struck for conflicting with Basic Laws. In 2019 it agreed to hear a challenge to the validity of a Basic Law, and on January 1, 2024, sitting with all fifteen justices for the first time in Israeli history, it voided one, eight to seven, with twelve of fifteen affirming the power in principle. The amendment it voided was the one that had abolished reasonableness.

Read Koppel’s program against that list and it resolves into a single project. Levin’s five items of January 4, 2023 are, item by item, a contraction of the jurispathic docket. Narrow standing: fewer occasions to kill. End reasonableness: remove the instrument that does most of the killing. Immunize Basic Laws: place certain meanings beyond killing. Supermajority for striking statutes: raise the cost of each killing. Unbind the attorney general: disarm the jurispath inside the government.

Barak’s own defense is where the frame bites hardest. He called the system substantive democracy, and the phrase claims that the court is not choosing among valid nomoi at all, that it is finding the single correct one, that its readings follow from democracy’s nature rather than from the court’s preference. That claim is precisely what Cover set out to demolish. Cover’s target was never the existence of the office. It was the pretense that a court’s interpretation is uniquely correct rather than uniquely enforced, and that what a judge does when he prefers one reading is discovery rather than destruction.

Koppel is thus half a Coverian without knowing it. He has the diagnosis. He has spent a career documenting the paideic. What he does not have is Cover’s conclusion, and the reason is that Cover’s conclusion cuts the other way.

Cover’s communities were weak. Amish, Mennonites, a small Bible college. They asked the state to leave them alone. His preferred settlement was an imperial power modest about its own paideia, holding the ring, cashing out its virtues in freedom of association, declining to impose a story of its own. He worried about a statist paideia because a state committed to its own meaning would use violence to destroy the germ of meanings alternative to those of the power wielders. His famous close was an injunction to stop circumscribing the normative universe and to let new worlds in.

Robert Post (b. 1947), reading the Foreword twenty years later, put his finger on the gap. A community can be insular and turn from the state, or redemptive and try to capture it. But once it holds the levers of government, it seems to lose its association with nomos, because the law it now speaks emanates from a field of pain and death. Cover never worked this out. He wrote as if the paideic communities would always be the ones being crushed.

Koppel’s community is redemptive and it won.

The traditionalist coalition he calls Orange, the amalgam of Revisionists, Sephardi traditionalists, national religious and Haredim, has been winning Israeli elections for most of half a century. It did not ask to be left alone. It went for the state. Koppel built it the instrument it lacked, a policy shop that arrives with finished statutes rather than complaints, and the instrument worked. And on the far side of that victory the roles invert. A nomos that holds the army and the tax authority and the cabinet is no longer the insular community pleading for room. It is the imperial power, and the jurispathic office does not disappear when a court is disarmed. It moves.

The week of July 13, 2026 shows where it went.

On Monday the Knesset passed Basic Law: Torah Study, sixty-three to fifty-two, enshrining Torah study as a foundational value of the state. In Cover’s terms this is a paideic community writing its narrative into the constitutional layer, so that a court reaching for its practice must reach past a Basic Law to get there. On Tuesday the Knesset passed an amendment to the Defense Service Law, fifty-eight to fifty-four, suspending arrest, investigation and criminal proceedings against qualifying yeshiva students through November 30, 2026, and directing the army to set up a committee to decide who qualifies. This is a suspension of the state’s violence against one community, granted by the state, on the community’s terms. On Wednesday the Knesset passed the attorney general law, ending the binding force of the office’s legal opinions and letting the government determine for itself what the law is and how it will be argued in court. Nearly seventy committee sessions had gone into it. The opposition filibustered for eleven hours and so, at the end, did the coalition.

The three were one package. The Haredi parties supplied their votes for the third in exchange for the first two, and the vote nearly collapsed anyway when Moshe Gafni (b. 1952) held out over funding for ultra-Orthodox kindergarten teachers, so Simcha Rothman (b. 1980) stretched a speech at the podium while Benjamin Netanyahu (b. 1949) put the kindergarten item on the cabinet agenda.

Within days Justice Ofer Grosskopf issued a provisional order freezing the arrest suspension and a conditional order requiring the Knesset and government to say why it should not be struck down, citing the implications of halting enforcement against only certain sections of the population. The jurispathic office, still holding the pistol, in the middle of the transfer.

Cover’s test is commitment, and the draft fight is the only place in this story where it is being paid at scale.

The unanimous nine-justice ruling of June 25, 2024 held that with the exemption framework expired there was no legal basis for the blanket deferment or for subsidizing the institutions whose students claimed it, and that the state must act to conscript them. That is the jurispathic office at full extension: the court killing an arrangement that had governed a community’s life for seventy-six years.

The community did not die. It did not report. By early June 2025, of some nineteen thousand summonses issued, about nine hundred and ninety-six men presented themselves at induction centers and two hundred and thirty-two were conscripted. Roughly one in a hundred. Tens of thousands of young men, most of them poor, most of them with no political office and no lawyer, declined to answer the state, and their families absorbed the cut in yeshiva funding, and a portion of them accepted arrest.

By Cover’s standard that is law. Not law he would have endorsed, and not law whose content he would have defended, and the cost of it is carried by other people’s sons at a moment when the army says it is short of men. Cover’s test does not adjudicate content. It asks who is prepared to live by an interpretation, and it registers that a reading nobody will suffer for is not yet law whatever the reporter says. On that measure the yeshiva world’s reading of its own obligation has more purchase in the world than the reading handed down by fifteen justices sitting en banc.

Which is Cover’s point about courts, made from the inside. The court commands violence. It does not command belief. When the two come apart the court can go on issuing orders into a nomos that will not receive them, and this is the position the Israeli Supreme Court has occupied since June 2024.

What Koppel achieved, then, is not the end of jurispathy. It is a change of venue.

A government empowered to declare that the attorney general’s written opinion does not state the law has acquired the office Cover described. It can now select among competing legal meanings and enforce the one it prefers. What it does not acquire, and this is where the frame earns its keep, are the constraints the office carried when a court held it. A court that kills a nomos must publish reasons. It must hear the other side first. It must write in a form that binds it next time. It must do the killing in daylight, under a name, in a document its critics can quote back. Cover thought these were thin protections and said so. He was writing about a court whose violence wore the costume of interpretation, and the costume was what disturbed him, because it let judges believe they were reading when they were choosing.

A cabinet resolution declaring what the law is wears less. Under the new statute the government reports its declaration to a Knesset committee. There is no adversary, no opinion, no precedent, no obligation to be consistent next year.

Cover’s worry about a statist paideia was that a state committed to its own meaning would use force to crush the meanings that compete with it. He assumed the meaning in question would be the secular liberal one, because in 1983 in New Haven that is what a state paideia looked like. The Israeli case runs the experiment with the other side holding the machinery, and it produces the same shape. The law takes effect on January 1, 2027. The election is set for October 27, 2026. Whichever coalition wins will inherit an executive that can decide for itself what the law is, and there is no reason internal to the statute why that coalition should be the one that wrote it.

Koppel has an answer to this in his own writing, and it is the right one. He calls it the veil of ignorance: institutional arrangements should be designed without knowing which camp holds power when they are used, and he applied the test to his opponents and asked whether they would grant the courts these powers if the Oranges ran them and the Blues formed the government. He said everyone knew the answer. He has not, as of this writing, published the same test on a law passed by roughly a dozen votes in the last days of a Knesset, traded for draft exemptions and kindergarten money, coming into force after the election.

Cover has no solution and it is worth saying so plainly, because the frame is not a machine for producing verdicts. He could not explain how plural nomoi coexist once you concede that all of them are jurispathic, that every community sustains its world by excluding the others. Post’s objection stands: Cover would not admit that liberalism is itself a nomos with its own pieties, because admitting it would give liberalism a priority he did not want to grant, and the price of the refusal was that he could never say how the worlds are supposed to live together beyond the weak virtues of an empire he had already declared sterile. He offered no theory of persuasion. He filled the space between communities with conflicts settled in blood, and then he died, and the Foreword ends on an invitation rather than an argument.

That gap is exactly the size of the Israeli problem. Two nomoi, both real, both jurisgenerative, both willing to pay, sharing one army and one tax base and one strip of land, with no umpire either will accept.

What the frame does supply is a way to describe what happened without lying about either side. The court under Barak killed law, which was its office, and dressed the killing as discovery, which was its vice. Koppel documented a paideic world with more precision than anyone else has managed, built machines to make its jurisgenesis visible, and then spent his authority moving the killing office from one set of hands to another while describing the move as its abolition. The yeshiva world, having lost every case, kept its law by declining to appear. And a man who once wrote three thousand words to explain that his own algorithm had not proved what the newspapers said it proved has not yet written the paragraph explaining what the law of July 15, 2026 does and does not establish.

Cover’s last instruction was to stop drawing the boundary so tight and let new worlds in. Israel has let two of them in, and they are standing on the same floor.

Notes

 The frame. Robert M. Cover, “The Supreme Court, 1982 Term — Foreword: Nomos and Narrative,” 97 Harv. L. Rev. 4 (1983). Free copy in Yale’s Faculty Scholarship Series: digitalcommons.law.yale.edu. Page cites for what I used: the nomos and the inseparability of law and narrative at 4-5; jurisgenesis at 11 following; paideic and imperial at 12-13; the imperial virtues as weak, system-maintaining forces at 12 and as incapable of producing meaning at 16; law as power against law as meaning at 18; the oversupply of law and the court as its solution at 40; commitment and the validity of an interpretation nobody will live by at 44; judges as people of violence and the jurispathic office at 53; the critique of Bob Jones at 66-67; the warning about a statist paideia at 61-62; the closing invitation at 68. Also Robert M. Cover, “Violence and the Word,” 95 Yale L.J. 1601 (1986), for the field of pain and death at 1601-02.

Reading Cover. Robert C. Post, “Who’s Afraid of Jurispathic Courts? Violence and Public Reason in Nomos and Narrative,” 17 Yale J.L. & Human. 9 (2005). This is the source for the insular-versus-redemptive point I lean on hardest, that a community which captures the state seems to lose its association with nomos, and for the objection that Cover would not concede liberalism is itself a nomos. The 2005 Yale Journal of Law and the Humanities symposium “Rethinking Robert Cover’s Nomos and Narrative” also contains Judith Resnik, “Living Their Legal Commitments: Paideic Communities, Courts, and Robert Cover,” 17 Yale J.L. & Human. 17 (2005). On Cover’s Jewish sources: Samuel J. Levine, “Halacha and Aggada: Translating Robert Cover’s Nomos and Narrative,” 1998 Utah L. Rev. 465, and Levine, “Law and Redemption,” 34 Yale J.L. & Human. 253 (2023). Cover’s “Obligation: A Jewish Jurisprudence of the Social Order,” 5 J. L. & Religion 65 (1987), argues that Jewish law starts from obligation where American law starts from rights, which is Koppel’s Shimen-and-Heidi thesis stated by a Yale professor thirty-three years earlier; I left it out of the body to keep the essay on the Foreword, but it belongs in any longer treatment.

Bob Jones. Bob Jones University v. United States, 461 U.S. 574 (1983). On the Mennonite and Amish amicus briefs Cover discusses, see Peter Leithart’s summary at Theopolis, which quotes the brief directly.

Novelty. I searched for English-language work applying Cover to the 2023-2026 Israeli fight and found none. I found Cover applied to Kiryas Joel, to Ghanaian courts and Islamic law, to environmental law, to political constitutionalism generally, and to religious liberty in New York, and I found the Foreword anthologized in The New Jewish Canon (2020) with a commentary by Christine Hayes. That is not proof of absence. Someone should check Hebrew-language scholarship, and Menachem Mautner’s Law and the Culture of Israel (Oxford, 2011) is the obvious place where a Coverian reading might already exist under another name.

Ressler and the jurispathic expansion. HCJ 910/86 Ressler v. Minister of Defence, 42(2) PD 441 (1988). English translation at the Cardozo Israeli Supreme Court Project, which is the best free English archive of Israeli constitutional decisions and worth bookmarking. The subsequent line: HC 3267/97 Rubinstein v. Minister of Defense (1998); the Tal Law, 2002; HCJ 6427/02 Movement for Quality Government v. Knesset (2006); HCJ 6298/07 Ressler v. Knesset (2012). Koppel’s own account of the doctrinal history, which I checked against the cases and found accurate on the facts if not on the tone, is in “The Long Road to Democracy”.

The reasonableness ruling. HCJ 5658/23 Movement for Quality Government v. Knesset, decided January 1, 2024, translated at Versa. Fifteen justices en banc for the first time; twelve of fifteen affirmed the power to review Basic Laws; eight of fifteen voided Amendment No. 3. Commentary from both directions: IDI and Verfassungsblog.

The draft. HCJ 6198/23 Movement for Quality Government v. Minister of Defense, June 25, 2024, nine justices, unanimous. Summary from the Law Library of Congress and from IDI. The enforcement figures I cite, roughly 19,000 summonses, 996 reporting, 232 conscripted by early June 2025, are from IDI’s one-year review, which also gives the roughly 480 million shekels in annual yeshiva funding affected. Treat these as one organization’s count; the Defense Ministry publishes its own numbers and they differ.

The July 2026 week. Basic Law: Torah Study passed 63-52 on Monday, July 13 (Jerusalem Post). The Defense Service Bill (Amendment No. 28) suspending arrests through November 30, 2026 passed 58-54 on Tuesday, July 14 (Israel365, Unpacked). The attorney general law passed Wednesday, July 15 (Ynet for the contents, the coalition package, the Gafni holdout, the January 1, 2027 effective date and the thirty-day clause on future appointments; Times of Israel for the eleven-hour filibuster). Justice Ofer Grosskopf’s provisional and conditional orders freezing the arrest suspension: Jerusalem Post. Election set for October 27, 2026.

Vote counts, unresolved. Ynet reported the attorney general law at 61-51, the Times of Israel at 65-51.

Koppel. Meta-Halakhah: Logic, Intuition, and the Unfolding of Jewish Law (Jason Aronson, 1996); Judaism Straight Up: Why Real Religion Endures (Maggid, 2020); “Attribution and Misattribution: On Computational Linguistics, Heresy and Journalism,” Seforim Blog, July 11, 2011; Shmidman, Koppel & Porat, “Identification of Parallel Passages Across a Large Hebrew/Aramaic Corpus,” J. Data Mining & Digital Humanities (2018). His veil-of-ignorance argument is in “The Long Road to Democracy” and in his November 2025 Kohelet piece on restoring balance.

Posted in Torah | Comments Off on The Man Who Measured the Unspoken

Philosopher Moshe Halbertal

On the afternoon of Tuesday, November 3, 2015, Moshe Halbertal (b. 1958) stood at a lectern in Mondale Hall at the University of Minnesota Law School and waited. About a hundred students and faculty had come for the annual John Dewey Lecture in the Philosophy of Law. A law professor named Oren Gross had introduced him. The announced title was “Protecting Civilians: Moral Challenges of Asymmetric Warfare.”

The protesters rose one at a time. Each shouted, and each was walked out by university police. One woman came back through the door screaming after she had been removed. Outside the hall the chanting continued loudly enough that people inside had trouble hearing. Three people, none of them students, were arrested for trespassing. Roughly forty minutes passed before Halbertal could begin. Among the things shouted at him was “baby killer.”

Dale Carpenter, a constitutional law scholar sitting in the audience, later described Halbertal in a Washington Post blog post as “a well-known, widely respected expert on ethics and the law of war.” Meredith Aby-Keirstead of the Anti-War Committee told the campus paper she could not stand by and “watch the university hire a war crimes apologist.” Rula Rashid, a finance major who led the campus chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine, said protest was the point of a university.

The lecture Halbertal had come to give argued that soldiers fighting irregular forces in populated areas should accept added danger to themselves to reduce the killing of civilians on the other side. He has put the claim plainly in print: precautions must include the expectation that “soldiers assume some risk to their own lives.” It is a position that has made him unpopular with parts of the Israeli defense establishment for twenty years.

Two nights earlier he had spoken at Beth El Synagogue in St. Louis Park under the auspices of the university’s Center for Jewish Studies. A member of the audience there pressed him on the occupation, and said that a talk about how soldiers should shoot avoided the question of why they were there. Halbertal answered that he hoped the occupation would end and that its end will still leave Israel needing a strong army, because the conflict is not reducible to the occupation. He introduced the point by warning that he was about to say “something not pleasant to liberal ears.”

Both rooms took him for a representative of something. In the synagogue he was the moral face of the Israeli army. In the law school he was its alibi. He has spent a career arguing that institutions are neither.

He was born in Montevideo in 1958. His father had come from Łańcut, a town in Galicia, and survived the war by getting east into the Soviet Union. His mother was an Israeli who had traveled to Uruguay to teach Hebrew. They married there. Two sons were born, Dov (b. 1956) and Moshe, and the family moved to Jerusalem when Moshe was a boy.

The house held three languages and three worlds. Hebrew pointed toward Israel and toward the study of texts. Yiddish pointed back toward a Poland that no longer existed. Spanish belonged to the street where he had learned to talk. Jerusalem then supplied the politics.

He was raised modern Orthodox and educated in the texts as commands before he ever met them as objects of study. That order of acquaintance shows in everything he has written. He knows what it feels like to be inside a legal tradition and to owe it obedience. Years later, asked what separates the modern Orthodox from the haredi position, he gave an answer that reads like a summary of his research program: that tradition “doesn’t monopolize all of value, all of truth.”

His brother went the other way. Dov Halbertal became a haredi rabbi and an attorney, ran the office of the Chief Rabbi of Israel, and turned into one of the sharpest internal critics of his own community, arguing for the separation of religion and state and against the subsidy of full-time yeshiva study. The two brothers make an unusual pair in Israeli public argument. They agree that the Jewish people has a survival problem. They disagree about nearly everything that follows.

He took his B.A. in Jewish thought and philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1984, cum laude, and his doctorate there in 1989. His committee joined two kinds of authority. Menachem Elon (1923-2013) was a Supreme Court justice and the great modern systematizer of Jewish law as a legal system. Avishai Margalit (b. 1939) was an analytic philosopher of language and politics who would become Halbertal’s collaborator. The dissertation was titled “Values as Interpretive Criteria in Jewish Law.”

The title contains the career. A judge does not first extract a neutral meaning from a text and then decide whether morality should soften it. Moral commitments do their work earlier, inside the reading. They determine which analogy looks apt, which contradiction demands resolution, which possible sense of a verse never comes up for consideration at all.

He published the argument as Interpretive Revolutions in the Making, a study of cases where the rabbis of the midrash halakhah did not clarify biblical law so much as replace it while continuing to call the result an interpretation. The standard illustration is the reading of an eye for an eye as monetary compensation. Halbertal’s question is not whether the rabbis departed from the literal sense. They did. His question is how a legal culture performs surgery on its own foundation and leaves no scar.

His answer is that a revolution succeeds when it stops looking like one. The next generation receives the new law as though it had always been latent in the verse. The deepest changes in a tradition are the ones best disguised as continuity. This account rejects the pious story, in which interpreters add nothing, and the debunking story, in which interpretation is a polite name for judicial legislation. What he describes is disciplined invention under real constraint.

From 1988 to 1991 he held a fellowship in the Harvard Society of Fellows, one of the few appointments in American academic life that pays a young scholar to do nothing but think. He stayed on in 1991 and 1992 as a fellow in Harvard’s Program in Ethics and the Professions and taught in the Social Studies program. Then Jerusalem again, as a lecturer, senior lecturer in 1996, full professor in 1999. He joined the Shalom Hartman Institute as a fellow in 1992 and has been there since. In 2002 New York University Law School made him Gruss Professor, and he began the two-continent life he still leads, with an office in Vanderbilt Hall and a teaching load in Jerusalem. He has taught at Harvard Law School, Penn, Yale, and Reichman University, and in the Mandel leadership programs. He was elected to the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities in 2010 and to the American Philosophical Society in 2021. In the spring of 2026 he returned to Harvard as a visiting professor in Jewish studies and in Talmudic civil law, teaching confession, self-incrimination, and repentance.

The books came steadily, in two languages, and they divide by subject while repeating one problem.

People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority asks what a community does when it organizes itself around a sacred text. Owning a canon settles very little. Someone still has to decide what belongs in it, what kind of force each part carries, who may expound it, and how later writing stands to earlier revelation. Halbertal separates the normative canon, which tells members what to do, from the formative canon, which supplies the stories and vocabulary through which they know who they are. The Hebrew Bible sits at the formative center of Judaism while daily practice runs through Mishnah, Talmud, codes, and responsa. Canonization does not end interpretive conflict. It raises the stakes, because once a text becomes sacred, whoever controls its meaning acquires authority without having to claim authorship.

Between Torah and Wisdom took up Menachem ha-Meiri (1249-1315) and the Maimonidean jurists of Provence, men who tried to hold philosophical culture and rabbinic law together without letting either dissolve the other. The Meiri became important to later Jewish argument about non-Jews because he built categories that removed contemporary Christians and Muslims from the ancient rabbinic law of idolaters. Halbertal shows how a judgment about what a society is, morally and institutionally, changes the law that applies to it while the old rule sits untouched on the page. The book won the Goldstein-Goren prize for the best book in Jewish thought published between 1997 and 2000.

Idolatry, written with Margalit and published by Harvard in 1992, asks why idol worship became the thing monotheism defined itself against. They pull apart several senses of the offense. It can be an error about what exists. It can be a forbidden practice performed by someone whose theology is sophisticated. It can be betrayal, which is why the prophets describe it with the language of adultery. It can be a corrupted relation between an image and what the image stands for. The tradition permitted some representations and forbade others, so the target is a kind of relation rather than depiction as such.

The book then turns the analysis on politics. People hand finite things, a nation, a leader, a movement, a piece of ground, the kind of devotion that only an absolute could bear. A political program becomes idolatrous when it demands what belongs to God while remaining a human artifact. Halbertal is careful here. The claim is not that ideologies are secretly religions. The claim concerns misdirected allegiance: an error about what any finite object may legitimately ask of a person. Twenty years of his political writing follow from that page.

Maimonides: Life and Thought is the book that made his name outside Jewish studies, and it won the National Jewish Book Award for scholarship in 2013. Earlier scholarship tended to split Moses Maimonides (1138-1204) into two men, the philosopher of the Guide of the Perplexed and the jurist of the Mishneh Torah, and then to rank them. Halbertal refuses the split. Both projects serve one ambition.

Maimonides did not simply reconcile Aristotle with the rabbis. He tried to rebuild the religious imagination. Anthropomorphic talk about God was, to him, no harmless concession to simple people. It aimed worship at a magnified man. Negative theology, the discipline of restricting what may be said of God, was therefore practical rather than technical, a repair to the object of prayer.

The legal work carried the same intention by other means. The Mishneh Torah took the argumentative ocean of the Talmud and reorganized it into a comprehensive code, in clear Hebrew, with the debates stripped out and the ruling stated. Halbertal reads this as an audacious intervention in the culture of learning. The Talmud preserved law through argument. Maimonides proposed to preserve it through architecture. The code opened the law to readers who could never master the sources, and it freed the strongest minds from a lifetime of dialectic so they could turn to metaphysics and science.

It also threatened the men whose standing rested on knowing where everything was. Talmudic mastery is a form of capital. A code that supplies the answer devalues the guide. The ferocity of the resistance to the Mishneh Torah becomes intelligible on those terms, and Halbertal grants that the resistance won. Jewish law remained a culture of commentary and dispute. Maimonides failed to convert the tradition and succeeded in installing inside it a permanent rival voice.

Concealment and Revelation studies the philosophers, kabbalists, and astrologers who each claimed to hold the secrets of the Torah. They disagreed about the content and converged on the problem. A secret never expressed cannot be transmitted; a secret written clearly stops being one. The teacher must show enough to prove there is something to know and withhold enough to keep the boundary. Halbertal sorts the reasons for concealment. The truth may be dangerous to the unready. It may resist statement. It may require a discipline of life before it can be grasped. And it may confer standing, since a man who claims hidden knowledge cannot be checked. Open teaching can be tested against a text anyone may consult. A secret tradition can always say that the evidence lies elsewhere. Invention then arrives dressed as antiquity.

Nahmanides: Law and Mysticism, expanded from his Hebrew By Way of Truth and translated with Daniel Tabak, presents Moses Nahmanides (1194-1270) as the architect of a full alternative to the Maimonidean project. Where Maimonides pursues purification and knowledge of a transcendent God, Nahmanides fills the world with presence, miracle, sacred geography, and commandments whose performance reaches into the structure of things. Halbertal declines to split him into a cautious Talmudist and a hidden mystic. The two are one enterprise: kabbalah explains why the commandments carry weight, and halakhah gives the mystical claims a body. Nahmanides also had to solve the problem of founding a secret tradition in public, and he solved it by burying the teaching in commentary and allusion, which taught later generations a method as well as a doctrine.

The Birth of Doubt follows the rabbinic category of safek, recognized uncertainty, as it grows from scattered biblical situations into a systematic field. The rabbis worked in a world where prophecy, ordeal, and oracular disclosure had receded, and judges had to decide without them. Presumptions and appeals to the majority let the law act without pretending to know. Different domains handle doubt differently because they fear different errors: what serves for a question of possession will not serve for the validity of a marriage. Every presumption assigns the cost of a possible mistake, and every burden of proof names the error a system would rather commit.

On Sacrifice begins with a distinction between sacrificing to and sacrificing for. Ancient religion offers to a power. Modern moral and political speech gives for a country, a family, a cause. He connects the two through the vulnerability of the gift. An offering can be refused, and refusal humiliates. He reads Cain and Abel as violence that begins in a rejected offering and travels sideways into the brother whose gift was accepted. Sacrifice looks like the opposite of self-interest and can contain an enormous claim: the giver who has paid may conclude that others now owe him. In national life the claim becomes political currency, because the dead leave no instructions and factions speak in their name. Halbertal is not writing against sacrifice. Societies cannot run without people who accept costs for strangers. He is writing against the conversion of sacrifice into title.

The Beginning of Politics, written with the political theorist Stephen Holmes (b. 1948), reads the Book of Samuel as a study of power by an author who understood courts, armies, and public opinion. Kingship arrives without becoming divine. Saul’s authority stays fragile, and fragility turns ordinary conduct into suspected treason. David is the better politician: he attracts love, manages appearances, and repeatedly benefits from killings he did not visibly order. The text leaves his innocence undecided, and the ambiguity is part of his power. Halbertal and Holmes attend to optics throughout, to mourning performed in public and marriages contracted for alliance, because a ruler’s household belongs to the state.

The collaborations are worth noticing as method. Margalit brought analytic philosophy and the critique of ideology; Holmes brought constitutional theory and the history of the state. In each case Halbertal supplies the primary sources and refuses to let them serve as illustrations of somebody else’s theory. The texts generate the concepts, and the concepts then travel.

His politics began in a fight inside religious Zionism. After 1967 the movement associated with Abraham Isaac Kook (1865-1935) and, more consequentially, with the students of his son Zvi Yehuda Kook (1891-1982) read Israeli control of the West Bank as a stage in redemption. Gush Emunim formed in 1974 and made settlement a religious commandment rather than a security policy. Within a decade, to wear a knitted kippah was to be assumed a hawk.

The counter-movement came out of the Lebanon war. After Sabra and Shatila, a spontaneous Jerusalem demonstration drew religious Jews who had never joined the older, professorial group Oz veShalom, and organizers concluded that a new body could reach people who found the existing one elitist. Netivot Shalom held its founding meeting in 1982 in a hall filled to capacity, addressed by Yehuda Amital (1924-2010) and Aharon Lichtenstein (1933-2015), the heads of Yeshivat Har Etzion. Halbertal was among the founders and later served as chairman.

The movement’s problem was legitimacy rather than argument. A secular peace camp could appeal to liberalism, international law, or prudence. Religious opponents of settlement had to show that Gush Emunim held no monopoly on Torah. So Netivot Shalom fought what its own members called a war of verses. It cited Ovadia Yosef‘s ruling that saving life permits returning territory. It read Abraham dividing the land with Lot as a precedent for compromise. It pressed Nahmanides against Rashi on the opening verse of Genesis, to argue that possession of the land is conditional on conduct. Halbertal supplied one of the movement’s recurring formulations, that Israelis were commanded to see the Jewish eyes of the Palestinians, the descendants of slaves recognizing strangers. He also liked to quote the rabbinic observation that a sin repeated twice comes to feel permitted.

Gerald Cromer (1944-2008), the Bar-Ilan criminologist who studied the movement, reached a hard verdict. Netivot Shalom never achieved cultural resonance. It reached its own members and a secular audience that already agreed, and it left the hegemony of the settlement camp intact. Its leaders blamed the deafness of their opponents, which Cromer noted is what a losing movement usually says.

Halbertal’s own argument was never that Jewish law compels withdrawal. Assessments of risk are contested, and halakhah does not draw borders. His claim was narrower and harder to dislodge: land is a value that cannot silence every other value, and any account that removes territory from moral calculation by declaring it holy has produced the thing he and Margalit had written a book about.

In Jerusalem he married Tova Hartman (b. 1957), a psychologist and scholar of gender and education, and the daughter of David Hartman (1931-2013), the American-born rabbi and philosopher who founded the institute where Halbertal has spent thirty years as a fellow. They had three daughters, Naomi, Rachel, and Shira. The marriage later ended.

In 2002 a group of residents of the German Colony, Tova Hartman among the organizers, founded Kehillat Shira Hadasha on Emek Refaim Street. It was the first congregation to put into practice the halakhic arguments of Mendel Shapiro and Daniel Sperber permitting women to read Torah before mixed congregations. The partition stayed. The bimah moved to the center. Women led the parts of the service that are not technically prayer and were called to most of the aliyot. The prayers requiring a quorum waited for ten women as well as ten men. Some accounts place Halbertal among the founding circle. Rabbis across modern Orthodoxy attacked the model, and it spread anyway, to Israel, North America, Europe, and Australia.

What happened on Emek Refaim is the thing his dissertation describes. Minority opinions were retrieved, a value was allowed to operate inside the reading, and a practice changed while its practitioners insisted, credibly to themselves and incredibly to their critics, that they had changed nothing.

The military work began around 2000. Asa Kasher (b. 1940) had drafted a code for the Israel Defense Forces in the 1990s, and the army found it unwieldy. A committee was appointed under the chief education officer to rewrite it. Halbertal has written that he was asked to join a group of philosophers, lawyers, and generals. The others included Avi Sagi, Daniel Statman, Avshalom Adam, Saul Smilansky, and Noam Zohar. The revised document, The Spirit of the IDF, went to the General Staff, and it is the version printed for recruits. Calling Halbertal a co-author of the army’s code, as reference works routinely do, compresses a committee into a byline and obscures a dispute.

The dispute broke open in 2005, when Kasher and Amos Yadlin, then head of the National Defense College and later of military intelligence, published a doctrine for what they called the new warfare. Their priority ranking placed a state’s own soldiers above enemy noncombatants who are not under that state’s effective control. For Gaza the implication was direct. Muhammad Ali Khalidi, among others, wrote that this reversed centuries of thinking about the rules of war.

Halbertal argued against them, and the argument survives as his most original contribution outside Jewish studies. He distinguishes two risks a soldier carries. Associational risk comes from the soldier’s role as the defender of his own political community, and it explains why his obligations to his own citizens run deeper. Agency risk comes from the fact that his operations may kill innocent people, and it does not track nationality, because the right to life of the civilians in the building does not depend on which flag they live under. From this he concludes that soldiers may be required to accept some calculated additional danger to verify a target or reduce foreseeable harm, and that a doctrine of total force protection produces a permissive culture of fire, because every hesitation can be described as a risk to the men.

He sets limits on his own claim. He does not ask soldiers to die for enemy civilians. He says no formula fixes the acceptable increment, which depends on the target, the alternatives, the intelligence, and the likely reduction in harm. He has also argued that requiring more care pushes armies to develop better weapons, better intelligence, and better training, so that the total risk falls.

The position isolates him twice over. Against Israel’s harshest critics he insists that an army may strike military targets even when the enemy fights from among civilians, and that an organization which fights out of uniform and from populated ground bears responsibility for the consequences of that choice. Against the defense establishment he insists that the enemy’s misconduct does not cancel the standing of the people who live there.

In November 2009 he published “The Goldstone Illusion” in The New Republic, a long reading of the United Nations fact-finding report on the Gaza war led by Richard Goldstone (b. 1938). He conceded at the outset that he had read the document, which distinguished him from most of the people praising and attacking it. His central complaint was that the report obscured the deliberate strategy of erasing, in his words, “the front and the uniform,” and then treated the resulting confusion as though it were Israel’s invention. He also faulted the commission for adding assessments of Israel’s war aims and long sections on the West Bank to a mandate about Gaza, and said the report might have done real good by gathering and testing testimony from Gaza and acknowledging that such testimony is partial. His colleague at the Hebrew University, David Shulman, replied that some of the report’s gaps followed from Israel’s refusal to cooperate with it.

The essay was widely cited by people who had no interest in the rest of his views. That is a recurring cost of his position. He has never made peace with the slogan about the most moral army in the world; at a 2016 panel in New York he said he finds it “empty as a moral political gesture” and that it closes the listener’s ear. The remark did not save him from the reporter for The Electronic Intifada, who described the evening’s wine and pita chips and concluded that he and Kasher were selling the same product in different packaging.

That criticism deserves a fair statement, because it is not frivolous and Halbertal’s own work supplies its premises. An ethics code can function as institutional legitimation. It gives an army a vocabulary of restraint that survives the destruction of neighborhoods, and it converts contested strategic choices into questions of individual conduct at the tactical edge. The Institute for Palestine Studies and the Israeli group Breaking the Silence have both argued that field orders in Gaza tracked the Kasher priority rather than the one Halbertal defends. If a rule is treated as proof of virtue rather than as a standard conduct can fail, it has stopped being a rule. Halbertal has said as much about religious institutions for thirty years. Whether he has said it loudly enough about the one he helped write for is a question his critics are entitled to press.

The domestic version of his politics has drawn a different objection. He argues that Israel can be a Jewish state and a liberal democracy, that the argument worth having concerns what kind of Jewish state, and that cultural neutrality is not required of a democracy. He and Margalit had defended a right to culture, not to culture in general but to one’s own, and they held that a state may reasonably decline neutrality toward a majority culture only on the assumption that the majority can look after itself. Halbertal applies this to Hebrew, the calendar, the school curriculum, the Law of Return, and public symbols, and compares Israel to Denmark or the Czech Republic. He sets two tests. Does the national character of the state damage the political, economic, or cultural rights of minorities? Does the state recognize the right of another national group living under it to self-determination? He supports civil marriage. He warns the ultra-Orthodox against using the coercive machinery of the state to adjudicate who is a Jew.

Omri Boehm (b. 1979), an Israeli philosopher at the New School, published the sharpest reply in Boston Review in 2014. Boehm grants that cultural neutrality is not necessary for liberal democracy and argues that ethnic neutrality is. Membership in the Jewish people runs through descent, which is why a Jew can be Danish and a Muslim cannot be Jewish. The comparison with European states therefore fails at the point where it has to hold. He presses the education system hardest: French and German public schools are French and German, and Jewish parents in Paris pay for Jewish schooling privately, as Christian parents pay for Christian schooling. An Israeli public system that is Jewish is not analogous, because a non-Jewish family cannot enroll in it. His conclusion is compressed into one line: giving up one’s Judaism in a Jewish state means giving up one’s equality as a citizen.

Boehm also notes, in passing, that Moshe Halbertal’s brother had published a column expressing alarm that a member of Knesset saw nothing wrong with marrying a gentile, and that the Knesset does in fact legislate to prevent intermarriage. He is careful to say that Moshe Halbertal rejects Dov Halbertal’s politics and bears no responsibility for his brother’s opinions. The example does its work anyway. It asks whether the majority’s right to its own culture, once institutionalized, can be kept from hardening into a right to ethnic separation.

Halbertal’s answer, in substance, is that no political community escapes interpretation, and that claims to read a program off the land, the majority, or halakhah conceal the interpretive choices that produced the program. Critics on his right make the mirror complaint: that his Judaism is whatever liberalism will license, and that the boundaries are always drawn from outside.

In January 2023 the new Israeli government presented a plan to change the selection of judges, curtail review of legislation, and abolish the reasonableness standard. Protests ran weekly for most of the year. Halbertal became a visible opponent, and his argument had two parts.

The first was about Judaism. A movement that identifies its own compound of nationalism, territory, and rabbinic authority with the tradition converts a plural inheritance into property. His scholarship is a long demonstration that Jewish tradition never existed as one settled political doctrine. It contains schools that lost, arguments left open, and revolutions that presented themselves as continuity. A government claiming exclusive title suppresses the plurality that kept the tradition alive.

The second was institutional. Israel has no single entrenched constitution and few structural checks on a governing coalition that controls the legislature. In such a system courts carry more of the load, and removing that load leaves very little.

He put the general theory in print in February 2026, in a symposium essay in the California Law Review responding to David Strauss. He distinguishes two conceptions of judicial review. The narrow one descends from the Carolene Products footnote and from John Hart Ely (1938-2003): courts intervene where the political process misfires, above all where discrete and insular minorities cannot protect themselves. Halbertal’s objection is that this turns constitutional protection into a competition for the status of victim, which powerful groups are well placed to win.

The broader conception asks a different question first. It asks whether the state has entered a domain that politics has no business governing at all. Belief, expression, intimate life, communal practice, and conscience mark boundaries that a majority may not cross, whatever its size and however fairly it was assembled. Alongside this, he argues that judicial review protects equal citizenship inside the domains where the state does belong, because majority rule draws its authority from the equal standing of those it rules. A majority that legislates against a minority’s standing attacks the ground of its own claim to obedience. He notes his debt to Ronald Dworkin (1931-2013) and marks where he departs.

He does not defend courts as wise. He defends a limit on another power, and he grants that the limiting institution can insulate itself and rule badly.

Then October 7, 2023.

On Friday, February 16, 2024, three philosophers appeared together on a Zoom screen for the fourth session of the Weatherhead Center‘s series on the war. Michael Sandel (b. 1953) moderated. Halbertal joined from one square. Sari Nusseibeh (b. 1949), the former president of Al-Quds University and once the Palestinian Authority‘s representative in Jerusalem, joined from another. Sandel described the two as old friends from Jerusalem. The audience heard that they had seen a good deal of each other during the Oslo years, and Nusseibeh recalled an evening at Halbertal’s home.

Both men opened by describing a personal crisis. Halbertal spoke of the fragility Israelis felt after the attack, and of watching people he had taken for partners move toward denying that his country should exist. He said that in bad moments he returns to a conviction he cannot abandon, that there is no solution other than two states, and that Jewish self-determination will be justified only if Palestinians have their own. Nusseibeh said he had believed there was enough sanity on both sides to keep negotiating, and that four months had thrown him out of that frame of mind.

Halbertal mentioned a student of his who had been murdered along with the student’s son. Nusseibeh referred, without detail, to something terrible involving cousins on his mother’s side, and said that raising it made him think in ways he could not defend.

Nusseibeh condemned the attack of October 7 as senseless brutality. He endorsed two states as the most practical of the available proposals, said the effort had failed, and said it should be tried again. Both men opposed the occupation. Halbertal, whose father had come out of Galicia and whose family had reached Jerusalem by way of Montevideo, said the occupation rests on force, that it is wrong, and that he hoped it could be ended peacefully.

Then Sandel asked whether Israel’s war in Gaza was a just war, and the friendship stopped covering the distance.

Halbertal answered that October 7 was not an act of resistance to occupation, and that Hamas had worked since the 1990s against any negotiated settlement. He said Israel is obliged to protect its citizens from a repetition, and that “the only justification of war, if there is any, is defense.” He then made the separation he has made for twenty years, between the justice of going to war and justice in its conduct, and said the second question is a different question.

Sandel pressed him for his answer to the second one. Halbertal said the campaign was an attempt to harm Hamas rather than an intentional and indiscriminate attack on civilians, which he called the worst thing a country can do. He said the cost to the people of Gaza was enormous and painful, that the question is how to end the war in a way that relieves civilians while the legitimate aims are met, and how life is to be rebuilt afterward. He said Israel’s conduct will be judged in part by what it does after the fighting stops.

Nusseibeh said he was suspicious of the whole vocabulary. Palestinians see the occupation as inseparable from Israel in the same way Israelis see the deaths in Gaza as inseparable from Hamas. One side’s self-defense cannot be justified at the expense of the other’s. He said the language leads people away from what has to be done, and that what is needed is to sit together and face each other.

The session ended there, with the disagreement stated and unresolved, which is the honest outcome and not a consoling one.

Halbertal has been criticized from every direction available. Historians question whether categories built by philosophical analysis fit texts produced across centuries by different communities with different interests. Social historians note that in his reconstructions the ideas usually arrive first and the institutional pressures arrive afterward, which may reverse the order of events. Critics of liberal Zionism argue that his two tests are necessary and insufficient, and that formal equality does nothing about the distribution of land, immigration rights, and security. Critics on the religious right argue that he has let liberalism set the perimeter and then found a Judaism that fits inside it. Critics of military ethics argue that an ethics starting from what the rifleman may do accepts the political arrangement that put him on the street.

None of these objections has produced a Halbertal school, and he has not tried to found one. What he has is a method, repeated across subjects with unusual consistency. He rebuilds an institution in its strongest form, names the human good it protects, and then shows what goes wrong when that good is made absolute. Canon preserves memory and creates a fight over who may speak for it. Secrecy protects difficult knowledge and shelters invented authority from testing. Sacrifice expresses love and mints a claim on other people. National identity makes solidarity possible and can turn into exclusion. Force protection discharges a state’s duty to its own and can push every danger onto foreigners. Democracy empowers citizens and can coerce them.

The pattern rules out apologetics, which drops the danger, and denunciation, which drops the good. It also explains why he is a poor recruit for anybody’s campaign. He can be quoted against the Goldstone report and against the doctrine that ranks Israeli soldiers above Palestinian civilians. He can be quoted for the legitimacy of a Jewish nation-state and for the Palestinian right to one. He was shouted down in Minneapolis by people who called him a war criminal and criticized in Jerusalem by people who think he asks soldiers to die for the enemy.

In the spring of 2026 he was in Cambridge, teaching self-incrimination and repentance, which are questions about what a man is required to say against his own interest and what happens to him afterward. He has been circling a single problem since the dissertation. Revelation reaches people through interpreters. Justice reaches them through courts. Security reaches them through armies. A tradition reaches them through a canon and the men who control it. None of these intermediaries can be removed, and each of them, given the chance, will claim to be the thing it stands for.

Notes

NYU Law faculty CV (birth in Montevideo 1958; B.A. cum laude 1984; PhD 1989; Harvard Society of Fellows 1988-1991; Harvard Ethics and the Professions 1991-92; Social Studies lecturer 1991-92; Hebrew University lecturer 1992-95, senior lecturer 1996-99, full professor 1999; Hartman fellow from 1992) and the mirrored PDF
NYU overview and publications (Gruss chair appointed 2002; visiting posts at Harvard, Penn, Yale; Bruno Award; Goldstein-Goren; Israel Academy 2010)
Wikipedia (father a Holocaust survivor from Łańcut; mother an Israeli who came to Uruguay to teach Hebrew; married to Tova Hartman, three daughters Naomi, Rachel, Shira; American Philosophical Society 2021; the “doesn’t monopolize all of value, all of truth” line and the state-funding-of-religion position, both sourced to an Australian Jewish News interview)
Harvard Law School and Harvard Program in Jewish and Israeli Law, spring 2026 visiting chairs
Hebrew University academia.edu page, for the recent article list including “Mishnah and Halakhah,” “Two Concepts of God” (Liberties, 2023), the Temple Mount essay, and “Medieval Judaism and the Roots of the Welfare State” (Sapir)

Brother

Dov Halbertal (b. June 8, 1956, Uruguay), sibling link
Daniel Gordis on Dov Halbertal as a haredi rabbi, attorney, former head of the Chief Rabbi’s office, and internal dissenter on separation of religion and state and on subsidies

Marriage, Hartman Institute, Shira Hadasha

Tova Hartman (b. 1957), daughter of David Hartman, married to Halbertal, founder of Shira Hadasha
Shira Hadasha, founded 2002, 12 Emek Refaim, German Colony; first congregation to implement the Shapiro and Sperber opinions
Mechanics of the partnership minyan (partition moved, bimah in the center, ten women and ten men, which aliyot)
Tova Hartman interview on founding it and on her father

Netivot Shalom

Gerald Cromer (1944-2008), “The War of the Torah,” Jewish Political Studies Review 13:3-4 (Fall 2001). This is the source for the 1982 founding meeting, the packed hall, Amital and Lichtenstein addressing it, the Sabra and Shatila demonstration as the trigger, the Ovadia Yosef ruling, the Abraham and Lot precedent, the Rashi-versus-Nahmanides fight over Genesis 1:1, the “war of verses,” and the judgment that the movement failed to achieve cultural resonance
Cromer’s note 28 attributes “to see the Jewish eyes of the Palestinians” to an interview with Halbertal, “one of the founders and a past chairman of Netivot Shalom,” and points to Ha’aretz, April 4, 1995, p. B4, for the experience that convinced him of territorial compromise. That Ha’aretz piece would be the single best unpublished-in-English item for you to chase; it apparently contains a formative episode I could not reconstruct.
Cromer’s note 51 attributes the rabbinic line about a sin repeated becoming permitted (Yoma 86b) to Halbertal.
Background on Oz veShalom and Netivot Shalom

The IDF code and the risk dispute

Forward, “In Wartime, Who Comes First — Soldiers or Civilians? for the 1994 Kasher version, the rewrite committee, the 2000 adoption of The Spirit of the IDF, and the changed Purity of Arms language
Halbertal’s own account of being asked in 2000 to join philosophers, lawyers, and generals: opening section of “The Goldstone Illusion
Kasher and Yadlin’s 2005 priority ranking and Muhammad Ali Khalidi’s response
The National‘s summary of the Halbertal position against Kasher-Yadlin, with the “soldiers assume some risk to their own lives” formulation
Institute for Palestine Studies on the code as legitimation, and on Breaking the Silence and PCATI evidence about field orders
Electronic Intifada account of the 2016 JCC panel, including the “empty as a moral political gesture” remark and the description of the room

Goldstone

Halbertal, “The Goldstone Illusion,” The New Republic, November 6, 2009 (note the date discrepancy: TNR‘s web page says November 6, the print issue is dated November 18, and Grokipedia says November 5) Peter Berkowitz quoting the “front and the uniform” phrase
David Shulman’s reply, “Israel Without Illusions: What the Goldstone Report Got Right,” discussed at [https://www.jeremiahhaber.com/2009/11/](https://www.jeremiahhaber.com/2009/11/)

Minneapolis, November 3, 2015

Star Tribune news story (Mondale Hall, roughly 100 attendees, 30-plus minute delay, three nonstudent arrests, Rula Rashid, Dale Carpenter’s “well-known, widely respected expert” description) Oren Gross’s op-ed, with Carpenter’s description of protesters standing one by one and the woman returning screaming, and the 40-45 minute figure Times of Israel (Dewey Lecture, Meredith Aby-Keirstead’s “war crimes apologist” line, the content of the talk) Middle East Forum piece containing the Beth El Synagogue exchange two nights earlier and the “not pleasant to liberal ears” quotation Tablet, for “baby killer” Haaretz coverage

Boehm and liberal Zionism

Omri Boehm, “Zionism and the Right to Culture,” Boston Review, October 30, 2014, including the education argument, the two Halbertal criteria, the Dov Halbertal column, and the note that Moshe Halbertal supports civil marriage
Halbertal’s underlying Haaretz essay is linked from Boehm’s piece; the Halbertal-Margalit “Liberalism and the Right to Culture,” Social Research 61 (1994), 491-510, is in the NYU CV.
The 2013 NYU panel with Dorit Beinisch and Stanley Fischer, source of the “threat to the lives of their children” line and the “coercive machinery of the state to adjudicate Jewish identity” phrasing

Judicial review

Halbertal, “Two Concepts of Judicial Review and Two Senses of ‘Political,’” 113 California Law Review 2251 (2026), responding to David Strauss, citing Ely’s Democracy and Distrust and Carolene Products footnote four, and noting the departure from Dworkin
Background on the 2023 overhaul and its components

February 16, 2024 dialogue

Weatherhead Center event page
Christy DeSmith’s Harvard Gazette write-up, which is my source for every element of that scene: the “sense of fragility,” the delegitimization remark, the two-state statement, Nusseibeh’s four months, Sandel calling them old friends from Jerusalem, the Oslo-era acquaintance and the evening at Halbertal’s home, the murdered student and his son, Nusseibeh’s cousins, Sandel’s just-war question, “the only justification of war, if there is any, is defense,” the ad bellum / in bello separation, the “so big, so painful” acknowledgment, the judgment-by-aftermath point, and Nusseibeh’s closing rebuttal.

Robert Cover

Robert Cover (1943-1986) taught at Yale Law School and died of a heart attack at forty-two, in the summer of 1986, while translating a Renaissance Hebrew text on the law of jurisdiction. Two years later Moshe Halbertal arrived in Cambridge as a junior fellow, a year before submitting a Jerusalem dissertation on how moral values operate inside the reading of Jewish law. They missed each other by a season and a highway. Nobody has put them in the same room since.

In the 1983 Harvard Law Review foreword Cover called “Nomos and Narrative,” he proposed that people live inside a normative universe, a nomos, and that law is what a community makes when it binds its texts to its stories. The stories do the work. A rule without a narrative is an instruction; a rule inside a narrative is a world. Communities generate law constantly and abundantly. Cover called this jurisgenesis, and he insisted that the state has no monopoly on it. A congregation, a movement, an order of monks, a group of squatters on a hillside: each produces law, in the full sense, whenever its members treat their reading of their texts as binding and act accordingly.

He then divided the generative work into two patterns. The paideic mode is world-creating. It runs on shared texts, common education, and interpersonal obligation, and it produces meaning faster than any institution can absorb. The imperial mode is world-maintaining. It runs on institutions, hierarchy, and enforcement, and its job is stability rather than fertility. Every durable nomos needs both, and the two are permanently in tension, because the paideic mode keeps making more law than the imperial mode can hold.

He divided the communities too. Insular ones want to be left alone to live by their own law. Redemptive ones want to remake the world according to it. And he made the observation that gives the essay its bite: courts, faced with the surplus, do not create law so much as destroy it. Confronted with several communities each holding a serious and internally coherent reading, a judge picks one and kills the others. Cover called this jurispathic. He did not think it was avoidable. He thought it should be admitted.

Three years later, in “Violence and the Word,” he supplied the sentence everyone remembers. Legal interpretation, he wrote, “takes place in a field of pain and death.” A judge reads a text and somebody is taken away. Between the reading and the taking sits a division of labor, and the division is what makes it possible. The man who writes the words does not carry the prisoner. The man who carries the prisoner did not write the words and may not have read them. Each can perform his part without confronting the act as one act. Cover thought a theory of interpretation that ignores this is a story interpreters tell themselves.

Halbertal has spent forty years on both halves of that and has never, so far as I can find, been read through it.

Start with the dissertation. “Values as Interpretive Criteria in Jewish Law” and the book that grew from it, Interpretive Revolutions in the Making, are a study of jurisgenesis conducted from inside the workshop. Halbertal takes cases where the rabbis of the midrash halakhah produced law that a straightforward reading of the biblical verse does not support, and asks how a legal culture performs that operation while continuing to describe itself as a transmitter. His answer is that values enter the reading rather than arriving after it. They select which analogy looks apt, which contradiction demands resolution, and which possible sense never comes up.

This is the thing Cover asserted and did not explain. Cover was confident that paideic communities generate law and that the generation is real law rather than aspiration or protest. He was less interested in the internal craft by which the new is presented as the old. Halbertal supplies it, and supplies the finding that a revolution succeeds when it stops looking like one. Cover's picture has communities producing rival meanings that then collide in the open. Halbertal's has the winning meaning erasing the record of its own arrival, so that the next generation inherits a change as an inheritance. The paideic mode covers its tracks. That is a correction to Cover from a man who never cited him, working on the texts Cover was reading in his last year.

People of the Book extends it. A canon is the imperial mode's principal tool: the device by which a community stabilizes its normative world and decides who may speak for it. Halbertal separates the normative canon, which commands conduct, from the formative canon, which supplies the stories, the memory, and the vocabulary of self-description. Set that beside Cover's pairing and the fit is close without being exact. Cover's nomos and narrative are two aspects of one thing. Halbertal's two canons are two functions that may sit in different books, and in Judaism they do: the Bible forms and the Talmud and the codes command. Where a tradition's formative center and its normative center come apart, the fight over who controls the meaning of the formative text becomes fiercer rather than milder, because a sacred book confers authority on its expositor without requiring him to claim authorship. Cover would have recognized that as jurisgenesis running through an institution that was built to slow it down.

Gush Emunim is a redemptive nomos of the purest kind Cover described. After 1967 a strand of religious Zionism reading Abraham Isaac Kook through his son took Israeli control of the West Bank as a stage in redemption, and settlement as a commanded act rather than a policy preference. The movement did not petition. It built. A caravan on a hilltop is a legal claim, executed, and its adherents understood it in exactly those terms. Cover has a name for the difference between that and a demonstration: a movement of law rather than a movement of protest, one that redeems the world by performing the law rather than by asking the state to change it. In an unfinished chapter published after his death, “Bringing the Messiah Through the Law,” he took up the Jewish version of this ambition as a case study. He did not live to see it acquire an army.

Halbertal helped found the rival community. Netivot Shalom held its first meeting in a packed Jerusalem hall in 1982, addressed by Yehuda Amital and Aharon Lichtenstein, and Halbertal later chaired it. Read through Cover, what the movement attempted is legible in one line. It tried to run a competing jurisgenesis inside the same paideic community, using the same corpus, the same schools, and the same weekly cycle of Torah reading, against a rival that had already established possession.

The tactics follow. Members called their campaign a war of verses. They cited Ovadia Yosef's ruling that danger to life permits returning territory. They read Abraham dividing the land with Lot as a precedent for compromise. They pressed Nahmanides against Rashi on the opening verse of Genesis to argue that possession is conditional on conduct. They published a weekly pamphlet for four hundred synagogues. Halbertal supplied a recurring formulation, that Israelis are commanded to see “the Jewish eyes of the Palestinians.” None of this is protest. It is an attempt to make law by making meaning, which is what Cover says communities do.

It failed. Gerald Cromer, studying the movement, concluded that it never achieved cultural resonance, reached mainly people who already agreed, and left the settlement camp's hold on religious Zionism intact. Cover's framework explains the failure better than the movement's own leaders did, and the explanation is unflattering to Cover. Jurisgenesis is not a fair contest. Two readings of the same corpus do not meet as equals when one of them has already been naturalized, so that its adherents no longer experience it as a reading. The dominant meaning stops looking like an interpretation and starts looking like the text. Halbertal had described that process in the rabbinic sources before he lived through it in his own community, on the losing side.

The counterexample sits three kilometers away, on Emek Refaim in the German Colony, where in 2002 a group including Tova Hartman founded Kehillat Shira Hadasha. It implemented the halakhic opinions of Mendel Shapiro and Daniel Sperber, kept the partition, moved the bimah to the center, called women to most of the aliyot, and waited for ten women as well as ten men before beginning the parts of the service that require a quorum. Rabbis across modern Orthodoxy attacked it. The model spread to four continents. Some accounts place Halbertal in the founding circle.

Both movements are paideic in Cover's sense, both retrieve minority opinions, both refuse to leave the tradition. One won and one lost, and the difference is not the quality of the argument. Shira Hadasha needed a room, a Torah scroll, and twenty willing people. Netivot Shalom needed the army to come off a hilltop. A nomos that asks nothing of sovereignty can propagate on its own merits. A nomos that requires the state to act must capture the state or die, and at that point it stops competing with a rival reading and starts competing with a coalition. Cover, writing about Mennonites and Amish and abolitionists in a country where he could take the state's stability for granted, never had to draw that line. Israel draws it.

Around 2000 the Israel Defense Forces convened a committee to rewrite the ethics code Asa Kasher had drafted in the previous decade. Halbertal has written that he was asked to join a group of philosophers, lawyers, and generals. The document that came out, The Spirit of the IDF, went to the General Staff and is the version printed for recruits and carried in the pocket. Men in a room in Tel Aviv wrote sentences about the use of force. Nineteen-year-olds carry those sentences into Khan Younis and read them, or do not, before deciding whether the figure at the end of the street is a combatant.

This is Cover's field of pain and death with the labor divided about as far as it can be divided. The philosopher writes the clause. The education officer teaches it. The battalion commander compresses it into a rule of engagement. The rifleman applies the rule under fire, at night, tired, in a language of orders that has traveled three translations from the sentence. Cover's insight is that each man in that chain can do his part without experiencing the sequence as a single act, and that the arrangement is what permits the violence to proceed. The philosopher's contribution to the killing is real and structurally invisible to him.

Halbertal's central technical move reads, in this light, as an attempt to break the arrangement. He distinguishes associational risk, which a soldier bears because his role is to protect his own political community, from agency risk, which he bears because his own operations may kill innocent people. The second obligation does not track nationality, since the right to life of the family in the building does not depend on which flag they live under. From this he concludes that soldiers may be required to accept some calculated additional danger to verify a target or to reduce foreseeable harm, and that a doctrine of total force protection produces a permissive culture of fire, because any hesitation can be described as endangering the men. He put it in print that precautions must include the expectation that “soldiers assume some risk to their own lives.”

What that distinction does is refuse the division of labor at the point where it does the most damage. It tells the man holding the weapon that the cost of his interpretation is partly his to carry, in his own body, rather than exportable to the people downrange. Nothing in Cover requires that conclusion. Cover diagnosed the structure and did not prescribe. Halbertal, working the same structure from the inside of a military rather than a judiciary, produced the prescription that follows from the diagnosis.

He lost. In 2005 Kasher and Amos Yadlin published a priority ranking that placed a state's own soldiers above enemy noncombatants outside that state's effective control. Muhammad Ali Khalidi wrote that this reversed centuries of thinking about the rules of war. Israeli organizations including Breaking the Silence and the Public Committee Against Torture, and researchers at the Institute for Palestine Studies, have argued that field practice in Gaza followed the Kasher ranking rather than the one Halbertal defends. The words Halbertal helped write are in the pocket. The words he argued against are, by several accounts, in the orders.

Cover's framework makes the standard criticism of Halbertal sharper than its authors made it. The charge from the Palestinian side, and from the Israeli left, is that a military ethics code launders. Put in Cover's terms, the charge is that the code operates in the imperial mode while advertising itself as paideic: it stabilizes and legitimates an existing normative order while presenting itself as the fertile moral creativity of a community examining its conscience. A code that is treated as evidence of virtue has stopped functioning as a standard that conduct can fail. Halbertal has said exactly this about religious institutions for thirty years. Whether he has said it with the same force about the one he helped write for is the question his critics are entitled to press, and the honest answer is that he has said it more quietly, and later, and in rooms where the audience was already sympathetic.

The Minneapolis lecture of November 3, 2015 becomes legible on the same terms. Two dozen protesters shouted him down in Mondale Hall for forty minutes, and one of the things shouted was “baby killer.” They were treating him as an official of the Israeli nomos, the man whose interpretation authorizes the violence, which is a Cover reading of him and not a foolish one. He had come to argue that the violence should be constrained at the cost of the men who commit it. Two nights earlier, at a synagogue in St. Louis Park, an audience member had told him that a talk about how soldiers shoot evades why they are there, and Halbertal had answered by warning that he was about to say something “not pleasant to liberal ears”: that the conflict does not reduce to occupation and that the end of occupation will still leave Israel needing an army. Two rooms, two assumptions about which nomos he speaks for, and in both rooms the assumption was wrong in the same way.

On February 16, 2024, on a Zoom call moderated by Michael Sandel, Halbertal and Sari Nusseibeh, friends since the Oslo years, tried to conduct an argument across two normative universes. Halbertal named the murder of a student and the student's son. Nusseibeh referred, without detail, to cousins on his mother's side. Both condemned the attack of October 7. Both said they wanted two states. Both opposed the occupation. Then Sandel asked whether the war was just, and Halbertal made his standing separation between the justice of entering a war and justice in its conduct, and said that “the only justification of war, if there is any, is defense.”

Nusseibeh's reply is the strongest Cover-shaped objection in the record, and he did not need Cover to make it. He said that Palestinians see the occupation as inseparable from Israel in the same way Israelis see the deaths in Gaza as inseparable from Hamas, that one side's self-defense cannot be justified at the expense of the other's, and that the vocabulary leads people away from what has to be done. What he was declining was the assumption that a shared moral language sits above the two nomoi and can adjudicate between them. In Cover's account there is no such language. There are normative universes, and where they meet, someone with power picks one.

Cover distrusted judges because they kill rival law. His sympathies ran to the communities whose readings get killed. When the Israeli government proposed in January 2023 to change judicial selection, curtail review, and abolish the reasonableness standard, Halbertal became a public opponent, and his argument was that Israel's courts carry more load than most because the country has no entrenched constitution and few structural checks on a coalition that controls the legislature. In a February 2026 symposium essay in the California Law Review, responding to David Strauss, he set out the general theory. He rejects the narrow conception of judicial review descending from the Carolene Products footnote and John Hart Ely, on the ground that it turns constitutional protection into a competition for the status of victim, which powerful groups win. He proposes instead that courts ask whether the state has entered a domain politics has no business governing at all: belief, expression, intimate life, communal practice, conscience. And he argues that review protects equal citizenship inside the domains where the state does belong, because a majority that legislates against a minority's standing attacks the ground of its own claim to be obeyed.

Read through Cover, Halbertal is defending the jurispathic institution and asking it to do more killing, not less. He wants the court to destroy a rival reading of the Jewish nomos, one held by a large, sincere, textually literate community that has produced the Jewish Underground, Baruch Goldstein (1956-1994) at the Cave of the Patriarchs, and Yigal Amir (b. 1970). His grounds are that a nomos which makes land unconditional has removed a political object from moral judgment, which is the definition of idolatry he and Avishai Margalit published in 1992.

Cover’s framework tells you that the settlers are making law, that their reading is serious, that the court which strikes it down is destroying meaning, and that the destruction should be admitted rather than dressed as neutrality. It does not tell you that the court is wrong to do it. Cover distrusted the jurispathic function; he never claimed a state could operate without it. What Halbertal adds is a criterion, drawn from thirty years inside the tradition in question, for which rival readings a state may kill: those that make a finite thing absolute, and therefore immune from the moral judgment every other thing is subject to.

Cover's violence is domestic. The sheriff, the prison, the gallows, the marshal at the schoolhouse door. It is violence a polity applies to people it claims as its own, under a law they are presumed to owe obedience to, with an institution standing behind the man who applies it. That is not what an army does. War is violence between normative universes, applied to people who owe you nothing and to whom you owe no obedience, and the moral problem there is not the one Cover analyzed. His frame illuminates the writing of the code and the chain that carries it to the rifleman. It has nothing to say about what a state may do to a civilian population that is not its own. Halbertal's twenty years of work on necessity, distinction, proportionality, and the distribution of risk sit in a region Cover never entered and might not have wanted to.

Cover's redemptive communities are abolitionists and civil rights workers, and his warmth toward them shows on every page. He was arrested in Georgia as a young man. He backed divestment from South Africa. His frame was built to explain communities whose law was better than the state's. Israel offers the same structure with the moral sign reversed: a paideic community of formidable learning and total sincerity, generating law abundantly, producing settlements, and producing assassins. The framework holds. The affection it was built with does not survive the transfer, and anyone who keeps the affection while changing the example has stopped doing analysis.

A man makes meaning out of texts, and the meaning is real law, and it goes out into the world and is executed by other men. Cover said those two facts belong in one theory and died before he could put them there. Halbertal wrote the first half in Jerusalem in the 1980s, on the midrash halakhah, and spent the next thirty years living the second half: on a committee that wrote sentences for a pocket, in a movement that lost a war of verses, in a lecture hall in Minneapolis where he was shouted at for a violence he had asked his own country to accept more danger to reduce.

In the spring of 2026 he taught at Harvard on confession, self-incrimination, and repentance, which are the questions of what a man is required to say against his own interest and what happens to him after he says it.

Notes

Cover, primary

The Supreme Court, 1982 Term — Foreword: Nomos and Narrative,” 97 Harv. L. Rev. 4 (1983). Full text at Yale. Source of nomos, jurisgenesis, paideic and imperial modes, insular and redemptive communities, jurispathic courts, and the bridge from the world we have to an alternative future.
Violence and the Word,” 95 Yale L.J. 1601 (1986). Full text: Yale Law School Legal Scholarship Repository. The opening paragraph, on interpretation in a field of pain and death, and the argument about role differentiation, are at 1601 and 1607 respectively.
Bringing the Messiah Through the Law: A Case Study,” published posthumously in Nomos XXX: Religion, Morality, and the Law. Discussed in Samuel J. Levine, “Law and Redemption,” 34 Yale J.L. & Human. 253 (2023)
Obligation: A Jewish Jurisprudence of the Social Order,” 5 J.L. & Religion 65 (1987), for the mitzvah-versus-right contrast. I did not use it in the essay; it is the obvious next installment if you want one.
Biography, dates, cause and place of death, the Hebrew jurisdiction text he was translating

Cover, secondary

Robert Post, “Who’s Afraid of Jurispathic Courts? Violence and Public Reason in Nomos and Narrative,” 17 Yale J.L. & Human. (2005), which argues that all nomoi are jurispathic because paideic communities are exclusionary. This is the best available counter to my Netivot Shalom section and you may want to cite it.
Judith Resnik, “Living Their Legal Commitments: Paideic Communities, Courts, and Robert Cover,” 17 Yale J.L. & Human. 17 (2005).
Steven Fraade, “Nomos and Narrative Before Nomos and Narrative. Fraade is the Yale Judaic scholar on Cover’s rabbinic sources and would be the referee for whether my dissertation-corrects-Cover claim holds.
Julen Etxabe, “The Legal Universe After Robert Cover,” 4 Law & Humanities 115 (2010), for the paideic/imperial and insular/redemptive taxonomy.
Cambridge, “Politics and constitutional jurisgenesis,” for Cover’s distinction between a movement of law and a movement of protest, which is the hinge of my Gush Emunim paragraph
Samuel B. Hainbach, “Nomos and Narrative in New York,” 57 Colum. J.L. & Soc. Probs. 685 (2024), applying Cover to Hasidic yeshivas and New York education law. Closest existing analogue to what I did here, and worth a sentence if you want to show the method has precedent
Cover’s essays are collected in Minow, Ryan, and Sarat, eds., Narrative, Violence, and the Law (Michigan, 1995). A Hebrew translation of “Nomos and Narrative” together with “Bringing the Messiah” was published by Shalem Press in 2012, translated by Aviad Steier, with an introduction by Yossef A. David.

Andrew Abbott

Andrew Abbott (b. 1948) published The System of Professions in 1988 and gave the field one word to work with: jurisdiction, the link between a profession and its work. Professions do not rise or fall on their own. They exist in a system, they compete for tasks, and when one gains a task another loses it. The competition is settled in three arenas, which do not agree with each other. There is the legal arena, where the state licenses. There is the public arena, where reputations are made. And there is the workplace, where the actual division of labor sorts out day by day, often in defiance of what the other two arenas have decided.

Abbott adds that the weapon in these fights is abstract knowledge. A profession holds a territory by owning the system of ideas that classifies the problem, reasons about it, and prescribes a response. Diagnosis, inference, treatment. Whoever controls the abstraction can redefine a neighbor’s problem as a case of his own kind and take the work.

The dispute between Asa Kasher and Moshe Halbertal over Israeli military ethics has been discussed for twenty years as a moral argument. It is also a jurisdictional contest between two claimants over one task, with an army as the client, and it can be scored.

Consider the claimants’ equipment.

Kasher holds the Laura Schwarz-Kipp Chair of Professional Ethics and Philosophy of Practice at Tel Aviv University. The chair names a jurisdiction. Professional ethics is the abstraction that permits one profession to write the rules of every other, and Kasher had built a career on exercising it across Israeli institutions. He took his doctorate in philosophy at the Hebrew University in 1971, worked in philosophy of language, published Military Ethics in 1996, which won a national prize for military literature, prepared the first IDF code of ethics in 1994, and served as academic adviser and professor at the IDF College of National Defense. He received the Israel Prize in 2000. By Abbott’s criteria he had everything: the abstraction, the credential, the publication record inside the client’s own institutions, and a physical position within the client organization.

Halbertal had none of it. His standing was in Jewish thought and medieval philosophy, later in law. He had written on rabbinic interpretation, canon, idolatry, and the Meiri. He held no chair in ethics, had no prior work on armed conflict, and had no post inside the military education system. He arrived on the task in 2000 because a committee was convened and he was invited onto it.

The convening of that committee is the first jurisdictional event. Abbott’s account of client-initiated shifts covers it. A client that finds an existing professional product unsatisfactory can reassign the work, and the reassignment is a demotion of the incumbent whatever anyone says at the time. The chief education officer found the 1994 code unwieldy for training purposes and appointed a group to rewrite it. Halbertal has written that the request came to him as an invitation to join philosophers, lawyers, and generals. The rewrite, The Spirit of the IDF, went to the General Staff and became the version printed for recruits.

On the face of it the committee won and Kasher lost. The document in the soldier’s pocket was theirs. Abbott’s framework predicts that a client-granted jurisdiction of this kind is unstable, because nothing licenses it. The committee had no monopoly, no statute, and no continuing institutional position. It disbanded. The army retained the text and the authority to interpret it.

Kasher’s response in 2005 is the more interesting move, and it is a textbook expansion by abstraction. He did not petition for the return of the code. With Amos Yadlin, then commanding the IDF College of National Defense, he published “Military Ethics of Fighting Terror: An Israeli Perspective” in the Journal of Military Ethics, and a companion piece, “Assassination and Preventive Killing,” in the SAIS Review. The argument opens by declaring the existing categories inadequate. The war paradigm does not fit a fight against terror and neither does the law enforcement paradigm, so a third model is required, and the authors supply eleven principles for it, presented as universal and independent of any position on the political conflict.

Abbott would identify each element. Redefining the problem so that established categories fail is how a profession takes territory from a neighbor: the ground is not contested, it is reclassified. Claiming universality converts a local commission into a contribution to a general body of knowledge, which is what academic legitimation is for. And the co-authorship performs the crucial operation. Yadlin was a serving major general who headed the institution where the doctrine was developed, and who later ran military intelligence. A paper by an outside philosopher is an opinion. A paper by an outside philosopher and the commander of the client’s own war college, describing work done by a team they headed inside that college, is a doctrine with a home.

Halbertal’s countermove operated in a different arena and had a different structure. He argued that the priority ranking in that doctrine, which places a state’s own soldiers above enemy noncombatants outside the state’s effective control, inverts the standing of civilians, and he offered a distinction of his own: associational risk, which a soldier bears because his role is to defend his own political community, and agency risk, which he bears because his own operations may kill people who have done nothing. The first tracks citizenship. The second does not. From this follows the claim that soldiers can be required to accept some calculated additional danger, and that a doctrine of maximum force protection produces a permissive culture of fire.

That is a rival system of diagnosis and inference, which is what a jurisdictional claim requires. Where it went is the point.

The public arena filled up. In May 2009 Avishai Margalit and Michael Walzer (b. 1935) published “Israel: Civilians and Combatants” in The New York Review of Books, attacking the Kasher-Yadlin priority as an erosion of the combatant-noncombatant distinction. Kasher and Yadlin replied in the June 11 issue. Shlomo Avineri wrote in to say that both sides were obscuring the question and that no army owes enemy civilians what it owes its own population. Margalit and Walzer answered him in August. In November Halbertal published “The Goldstone Illusion” in The New Republic. Critiques and responses accumulated in the Journal of Military Ethics and Philosophia for years afterward. In November 2015 he was shouted down for forty minutes in a law school lecture hall in Minneapolis by people who had read none of it.

Abbott’s warning about the public arena is that claims there are made in simplified form to audiences that cannot evaluate them, and that they bind nobody. The dispute produced an impressive citation record and no settlement.

Meanwhile the workplace settled the jurisdiction on a third profession that had not been party to the argument.

The IDF’s International Law Department sat inside the Military Advocate General’s corps. Daniel Reisner (b. 1963) headed it from 1995 to 2004, the exact window of the code rewrite and the Kasher-Yadlin doctrine, advising the General Staff, the Ministry of Defense, and the Prime Minister’s Office on counterterrorism operations. By the 2010s the arrangement had hardened into something that comparative scholarship treats as anomalous. A study published by the Stockton Center for International Law identifies Israel as the exception to the rule that military legal advisers are purely advisory: IDF legal advisers hold de facto veto power, and the Military Advocate General, appointed by the Minister of Defense, sits on the General Staff and operates independently of the Chief of Staff on legal questions.

The practice is visible in the paperwork. Journalists given access to the unit have described target cards carrying intelligence and operational data, which the lawyers must mark before a strike proceeds. They call the mark a tick. The final call belongs to the commander, and the lawyer’s mark is a condition of reaching him.

Run Abbott’s scoring. The lawyers hold full jurisdiction: a monopoly over the task of certifying which buildings may be struck, exercised inside the client organization, at a defined point in the workflow, backed by state appointment and by an independent reporting line. The philosophers hold advisory jurisdiction at best, which in Abbott’s typology is the weakest of the settlements, amounting to a right to be consulted and no right to decide. Kasher’s structural position was stronger than Halbertal’s throughout, and the difference between their positions is small next to the difference between either of them and a colonel with a veto.

Two further pieces of evidence confirm the reading, and both come from the winner of the public argument.

Reports from Israeli human rights organizations and researchers at the Institute for Palestine Studies have argued that field practice in Gaza tracked the Kasher priority rather than the committee’s language. Take that as true. It does not establish that Kasher held the jurisdiction. Practice can converge with a doctrine because commanders find the doctrine congenial, without the doctrine’s author controlling anything. Abbott calls the informal absorption of one profession’s knowledge by people outside it workplace assimilation, and notes that it dissolves the boundaries the formal arenas draw. An officer who reasons in Kasher’s categories without Kasher in the room has taken the knowledge and left the jurisdiction behind.

The second piece is Kasher’s own complaint. In more recent years he has written in Haaretz that the code he produced has been largely forgotten and not enforced, and that incidents he regards as scandals happened because nobody consulted it. In January 2024 he told the same paper that reported uses of the Hannibal Directive on October 7 required immediate investigation and that nothing in the code permits killing an Israeli citizen, in uniform or not. Those are the statements of a man discovering the limits of advisory jurisdiction. The client accepted the product, filed it, and did not grant the producer any continuing authority over its use.

Abbott also explains the asymmetry in what the two men risked.

Inside academic philosophy, applied and professional ethics sits low. Status within a profession attaches to the purest work, the work furthest from clients and from the unsorted mess of human cases. Kasher had built his chair and his prize on the impure territory, which meant the army jurisdiction was his professional base and had to be defended when challenged. Halbertal’s base was elsewhere. His standing rests on the Maimonides book, the Nahmanides book, the work on canon and doubt, and the chairs at the Hebrew University and NYU Law. The military ethics is a sideline. He can be denounced for it in Minneapolis and honored for it in a synagogue in St. Louis Park without either outcome touching what he is paid for. That difference in exposure predicts the difference in how hard each man fought, and it predicts which of them kept the argument going in journals for two decades.

There is a further Abbott consequence that neither man seems to have priced. The committee that produced The Spirit of the IDF had no successor body, no standing, and no continuing relation to the client. Abbott’s professions survive by holding positions, not by producing documents. A profession that delivers a text and disperses has performed a service and vacated a jurisdiction. The lawyers, by contrast, occupied a slot in an approval chain, which meant they were consulted on every case whether or not anyone found their reasoning persuasive.

Three limits on the frame, since the frame has been run to its end and should be tested.

Abbott has no truth condition. His system tells you who ends up with the task and why. It says nothing about whether Halbertal’s distinction between agency risk and associational risk is correct, and the distinction is correct or incorrect independent of committee outcomes. A frame that predicts which philosopher won cannot be quoted on which philosopher was right, and the temptation to let the first stand in for the second is the standing hazard of this kind of analysis.

Second, Abbott’s professions serve clients who want their problems solved. An army wants its problems solved and also wants to be seen as an army that solves problems in an acceptable way. The second want deforms the demand, because it can be satisfied by a document nobody enforces. Abbott’s doctors and lawyers face clients who eventually notice whether the treatment worked. A client purchasing legitimacy has no such feedback, and a profession serving that client can be paid indefinitely for a product that does nothing. The complaint Kasher now makes about his own code describes that condition from the inside.

Third, and this is where the frame stops being adequate to the case, Abbott’s client and Abbott’s object are the same person. The patient hires the doctor and receives the treatment. Here they come apart. The client is the army. The people the treatment is applied to are in Khan Younis, and they have no standing in the system at all: they cannot select the professional, cannot evaluate the work, and cannot withdraw. Every question that makes this dispute a moral question rather than an occupational one lives in that gap, and the frame is silent on the whole of it.

What the frame does deliver is a correction to the way the episode is usually narrated. It is normally told as two philosophers disagreeing about the value of Palestinian lives, with the winner’s doctrine descending into the conduct of the army. The jurisdictional account says something duller and better supported. Two philosophers competed for a task neither one ended up holding. The task went to a corps of military lawyers with an approval veto and a direct line to the Minister of Defense, who work in a different abstraction, international humanitarian law, which asks whether a strike is lawful rather than whether a soldier should accept added danger to make it unnecessary. That is a different question, and the answer to it can be yes on every target card in a campaign.

Notes

Andrew Abbott, The System of Professions: An Essay on the Division of Expert Labor (University of Chicago Press, 1988). Table of contents, showing the structure I used, at University of Chicago Press. Diagnosis, treatment, inference, and academic knowledge are chapter 2. Audiences, settlements, and internal structure are chapter 3. Internal stratification, client differentiation, and workplace divisions of labor are chapter 5. The book won the American Sociological Association’s Sorokin Award in 1991. Abbott’s faculty page at Chicago, for the rest of the corpus
On workplace assimilation, and for Abbott’s line that the two formal arenas contradict the informal one (Abbott 1988, p. 66), see Lars E. F. Johannessen, “Workplace assimilation and professional jurisdiction,” Social Science and Medicine 201 (2018): 51-58
On jurisdiction as “the link between a profession and its work,” and on systems disturbances driving jurisdictional change, see the summary

Kasher’s credentials and position

Author biography attached to the 2005 article, giving the Schwarz-Kipp chair in professional ethics and philosophy of practice, the 1971 Hebrew University doctorate, the role as academic adviser and professor at the IDF College of National Defense, Military Ethics (1996) and its national prize, and the 1994 first IDF code

The 2000 rewrite

Forward, “In Wartime, Who Comes First — Soldiers or Civilians?, on the 1994 version being found cumbersome, the rewrite committee, the 2000 adoption, and the changed Purity of Arms language
Halbertal’s own account of the invitation, in the opening section of “The Goldstone Illusion

The 2005 doctrine

Kasher and Yadlin, “Military Ethics of Fighting Terror: An Israeli Perspective,” Journal of Military Ethics 4:1 (April 2005), 3-32, DOI 10.1080/15027570510014642. Abstract with the third-paradigm claim
Kasher and Yadlin, “Military Ethics of Fighting Terror: Response,” same issue, 60-70, replying to Fotion, Haydar, and Perry.
Kasher and Yadlin, “Assassination and Preventive Killing,” SAIS Review 25:1 (Winter-Spring 2005), 41-57.
Kasher and Yadlin, “Military ethics of fighting terror: Principles,” Philosophia 34:1 (2006), 75-84, which states that the doctrine was developed by a team the two of them headed at the IDF College of National Defense
The priority ranking and Muhammad Ali Khalidi’s objection
Institute for Palestine Studies on the code, the doctrine, and the evidence about field orders, with the full citation apparatus

The public arena

Margalit and Walzer, “Israel: Civilians and Combatants,” New York Review of Books 56:8, May 14, 2009
The exchange, including the reference to the Kasher and Yadlin letter answered in the June 11 issue and Avineri’s objection
Halbertal, “The Goldstone Illusion,” The New Republic, November 2009 (link above).

The lawyers

Daniel Reisner’s tenure as head of the International Law Department, 1995 to 2004: Wikipedia and Lawfare and International Institute for Counter-Terrorism
On Israel as the exception where legal advisers hold de facto veto power, with the MAG appointed by the Minister of Defense, sitting on the General Staff, and independent of the Chief of Staff on legal matters, see the Stockton Center for International Law’s International Law Studies
The target card and the tick, from a reporter given access to the unit: Washington Examiner and the same piece via JINSA

Kasher’s later complaints

Haaretz, January 17, 2024, Kasher on the Hannibal Directive and October 7
His later Haaretz column on the code having been forgotten, and the Gur Kehati and Ze’ev Erlich incident, is discussed and attacked here.

Posted in Philosophy | Comments Off on Philosopher Moshe Halbertal

The Lot

Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard finds it in the budget, which is where he finds most things.

Security, forty two thousand dollars, up from nine in 2024. He asks Josh Adelman who the men in the lot on Friday nights work for and Adelman says a company, and the company turns out to be an LLC registered in Nevada in 2025 with a resident agent and no website and no state guard license, and the invoices are paid on time and in full and the shul’s share of them is about a third of what the men actually cost.

The rest comes out of the pocket of Michael Danziger, who set the whole thing up eighteen months ago as a favor and asked that nobody be told, because he did not want the credit.

Danziger is thirty seven. YULA, UCLA, four years at a big firm, then his own practice on Olympic with nine people in it. He does the books for the day school, for two of the kosher markets, for about sixty families in this neighborhood, and for the Barn. He does Chava Perlmutter’s return every March for nothing and has since her husband died. He drives people to LAX. He is the man you call at eleven at night, and half the room would tell you he is the finest young man in the congregation, and the other half would say it about his brother.

The eighteen months line up with the year the neighborhood changed.

There was the window at the Persian shul in February of 2025 and the windows at the day school in April. There was the man with the knife on Pico in June who got nine feet from a stroller before two people put him down. There was the attempt on the door of a shtiebel on Robertson at four in the morning in August that failed because whoever did it did not know how to build the thing he was trying to build. There was the boy followed home from mincha in October and there was the deli.

The LAPD response time on the Friday night in June was twenty three minutes. The off duty officer program the shuls ran together went broke in March because six congregations could not agree on a formula. The federal nonprofit security grant the Barn applied for in 2024 came through in 2026 for eighty six thousand dollars against a hardening estimate of four hundred and ten, with a match requirement and a reimbursement schedule that runs eleven months behind the spending.

Into that gap came two large men in a black Suburban who arrive at 5:40 on Friday and leave when the last Jew leaves, and who are polite, and who are very good at it.

Grossbard reads the Times in March and recognizes one of them from a photograph in a story about a federal case, and he sits with the paper for a while, and then he starts pulling on it.

What he assembles over five weeks is not proof of anything and would not survive nine minutes with a lawyer.

Danziger runs a game. It has run since 2019 in three or four private houses on the Westside and up in the hills. The buy in is high and the players include people whose names appear in trade papers, and the house takes a cut, and the cut is large, and the game has been continuous long enough to be a business with a P and L, which for a CPA is the only kind of thing worth running.

A game that size cannot exist without an arrangement. Somebody makes sure the money moves and the debts get collected and nobody robs the house, and the men who do that in this city, for games at this level, come out of a network that federal prosecutors have been building cases against since 2023. Two men connected to it have been found dead in the past four years, one in a car in Panorama City and one in a trunk near the flower market, and neither of them was an innocent party, and both of them had done things that would turn your stomach.

Grossbard writes that sentence down on a legal pad and then writes under it: irrelevant.

Then he writes: a man who has killed four people who deserved it has demonstrated a capacity. Capacity does not check the merits. The capacity is what stands outside my shul at 5:40 on Friday.

They meet in Danziger’s office on Olympic at seven in the morning.

“You know why I’m here.”

“I’ve known for about two weeks. You’ve been asking people questions and half of them called me.” Danziger pours him a coffee he does not drink. “Ask it.”

“The game.”

“I run a game. Nine years. It’s illegal in California and it’s a misdemeanor for me and nothing for the players, and I want to be clear with you that I know exactly what it is. I’m not a kid who fell into something.” He sits back. “Adults. Nobody’s coerced. Nobody’s marked. The house doesn’t play. I’ve barred four people in nine years for gambling money they didn’t have, one of them a member of your shul, and I did that at a cost to me.”

“And the men.”

“Are the men.”

“Say the rest.”

“You want me to say it out loud so you can be shocked.” Danziger looks at him. “Rabbi, with all the respect I have for you, and it’s a lot, you’ve been telling this city for twenty years that every arrangement in it has a price and everybody’s running one. You don’t get to be surprised at seven in the morning.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m here about the invoice.”

“There’s no invoice.”

“That’s what frightens me,” Grossbard says. “You’ve been carrying two thirds of it for a year and a half out of your own pocket and nobody’s asked this shul for anything. Nobody asks for eighteen months. Then somebody asks, and by then it isn’t a favor anymore, it’s a relationship with a history, and the ask is the product. The security was never the product. The security is the sample.”

Danziger does not answer that right away, which tells Grossbard the man is honest.

“What do you think they’d want,” he says.

“I know exactly what they want, because they already got it,” Grossbard says. “In October of 2023 you called me and asked if I’d write a letter for a sentencing. Man named Ohayon. You told me he sat in the back of the shul on the yamim noraim for four years and had a sick mother and you were right about both. I wrote it. I write six of those a year, I’ve written them for thirty years, and I put my name and the shul’s name on it and mailed it to a federal judge in the Central District, and I never once thought about it again until three weeks ago.”

Danziger has gone very still.

“I didn’t know,” he says.

“I believe you. That’s the design. You’re the part of the arrangement that doesn’t know.”

Grossbard puts his hands on his knees.

“Here’s what I’ve come to say and then I’ll get out of your office. You have until Rosh Hashanah. You wind the game down, you unwind the arrangement, and you come tell me you’ve done it, and I’ll help you with whatever it costs, including a lawyer, and I’ll never say one word about it to any human being for the rest of my life. Or you keep the game, and your membership ends under article nine, and the shul’s books go to another firm, and I make one phone call to the day school and one to the markets.”

“You’d take my practice.”

“I’d take about forty percent of it.”

“Over a card game.”

“Over what’s attached to the card game.”

“You know what I’ve done for this community.”

“Better than anyone in the room, and I’m doing it anyway,” Grossbard says. “You want the honest version? If it were the game alone I’d shrug and eat herring. It isn’t the game.”

He goes to the board in July and tells them a version of it that is true and incomplete, and the board takes six weeks and two closed sessions to approve a security budget of two hundred and ninety thousand dollars against a reserve that cannot carry it for more than two years. Licensed men from a company with a license and a bond and a state file number, four of them, badged, insured, with a supervisor who has done this for institutions in New York and knows what he is looking at.

They cost eleven times what the old arrangement cost the shul.

They are not as good. That has to be said. The two men in the Suburban were better at this than the men who replaced them, and everybody who walks in on a Friday night knows it, and Grossbard hears about it from three people in the first month and says thank you for telling me and changes nothing.

Marla Feig, eighty three, moves two hundred thousand dollars from a fund her father set up in 1979 to cover the second year, and tells him to stop looking at her like that.

Danziger comes to the office on the fourth of September.

He does not say what he has done or how much it cost him and Grossbard does not ask. He asks for one thing, which is that his brother’s aufruf go forward in November as planned, and Grossbard says of course, and does it, and gives a drasha that is warm and funny and says nothing at all.

The letter is the last thing.

Grossbard writes to the court in the Central District in September and withdraws the character letter he submitted in October of 2023 on behalf of a man named Ohayon. It runs four sentences. It states that the writer submitted a letter, that the writer had at the time no knowledge of matters he has since become aware of, that the letter should be given no weight, and that the writer takes responsibility for having written it.

He copies nobody. He does not tell the board and he does not tell Dina until afterward, which is the only part of the whole year she is angry about.

There is no response of any kind. Not from the court, not from a lawyer, not from anyone. Nothing happens and nothing has happened since, and he does not know whether that means the letter never reached a desk or whether it reached one and the men who would care about it decided he was not worth the trouble, and there is no way to find out, and he has stopped trying.

On Friday nights he goes out at 5:40 and stands on the street with the guards.

He shakes the hands of four men in windbreakers who cost this congregation two hundred and ninety thousand dollars a year and who are worse at the job than the two who came before them, and he asks them about their kids, and he stays out there until the last Jew goes.

He has done it every week for a year and a half.

Posted in R. Shlomo Grossbard | Comments Off on The Lot

Hearts

The third one is Yehuda Farber and Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard buries him on a Tuesday in May, which is his day off, and he does not think about that until afterward.

Four hundred people at the chapel on Venice. The word heart gets used six times from the podium. His brother in law says it. The rosh yeshiva who flew in says it. Grossbard says it once, at 11:20 in the morning, in the phrase a heart that gave out too young, and it is the only sentence he has said in public in nine years that he would take back if he could.

Yudi Farber was thirty one. He went to a yeshiva in Baltimore for two years and did not finish and came home and nobody ever said out loud why. He sold merchant services, then he did something with solar rebates, then he had a medical billing operation that received a letter from a state agency in 2024 that his father in law handled. He married Bracha at twenty two and they have three kids and the apartment on Sherbourne is in her father’s name.

He was funny. That is the thing that goes in first and stays longest. He ran the kiddush club. He did an impression of a certain rosh kollel that was the best thing at any table he sat at. Everybody in that building liked him and none of them respected him, and he knew that, at close range, every Shabbos for nine years.

He has two unmarried sisters, nineteen and twenty two. His older brother learns in Lakewood and has six children of his own coming up.

That is the whole story and Grossbard could write it in the car.

He has a number and he has had it since March.

It comes from Zalman Fried, who has been on the chevra kadisha since 1994 and who is at the table for most of the men in this city who die young, and who has never in thirty two years told Grossbard one thing about any body he has washed.

The number for calendar year 2026 stands at twenty as of the beginning of May. Twenty men between twenty three and forty one in the Orthodox community of Los Angeles. Three at the Barn. The certificates say cardiac in some cases and say nothing in others because the family declined the autopsy, and there is no line item anywhere for what actually happened, which is that a young man used cocaine that had fentanyl in it, alone or with one other man who was also using and could not help him.

Grossbard can describe the type without notes.

He is not the top of the shiur. He is not a doctor or a lawyer or a CPA. He went through eighteen years of a system that sorts boys by one measure and he came out on the wrong end of the sort and got married anyway at twenty two because that is what the system does next. His father in law bought the apartment. He works in something that is a little sideways, and the sideways part is not because he is a criminal but because the clean lanes require a credential he does not have and the sideways lanes require a personality, and personality is the one asset he owns.

He carries a status wound that opened at seventeen and has never once closed, and he sits in a room every single week with the men who beat him, and he makes the room laugh, and he goes home.

Grossbard has been watching this type since 1996 and he has never had a good answer for it and he does not have one now.

He writes a hesped for Yudi Farber on the Monday night that says it. Six paragraphs. It says the word. It says that a man died of a poisoned drug and that we are going to say so out loud in this room right now because there are forty young men sitting in front of us and some of them use and one of them is next.

He reads it twice at the kitchen table and puts it in a drawer.

He does not give it, and the reason is that the last twenty minutes of a man’s life above ground belong to his widow and his mother and his three children, and a rabbi who takes that podium and uses those minutes for a campaign has stolen something from six people to buy something for the room. He has watched other men do it and he has despised them for it.

Reb Simcha Farber comes to see him on Thursday morning anyway.

“I want to ask you something and then I want to explain it, and I want you to let me explain it, because I know what you think of me already.”

“Ask.”

“Don’t say it. Not from the bimah, not at the sheloshim, not in an interview, not ever. Not with his name near it.”

“I already decided that.”

Farber sits down.

“You think it’s my honor,” he says. “It’s not my honor. My honor went in the ground on Tuesday. I have a daughter who is twenty two and has been out five times in two years and a daughter who is nineteen who has not started. I have a son in Lakewood with six children. I have a nephew going into shidduchim in the fall. The word gets attached to this family and it is attached to eleven young people for twenty years, and there is no undoing it, and everybody in this room knows exactly how that works because everybody in this room does it to somebody else’s family every single week.”

“I know how it works.”

“Then you know I’m not being vain. I’m doing arithmetic.”

“You’re doing correct arithmetic,” Grossbard says. “That’s what makes it a catastrophe. Every family in this city runs the same correct arithmetic and the sum of twenty correct decisions is that no one has ever heard the word and the twenty first kid dies in a bathroom with nobody in the house who knows what to do.”

“So what do you want from me.”

“Nothing. I want nothing from you. You’ve buried your son and you get to protect your daughters and I will not touch your name.”

The rabbinic meeting is in June and there are nine men in the room and it takes ninety minutes to die.

Everyone agrees there is a problem. Two of them have buried one. One of them has buried two. A man from the Valley says the word out loud and the room gets very quiet and then moves past it. Somebody proposes a program on mental health for teenage boys, which is the proposal that always gets made, because a program for teenagers implicates no family currently sitting in any shul.

Grossbard says he wants a number published.

“Whose number,” somebody says.

“Ours. A count. No names, no shuls, no families, no ages, nothing that identifies one house. A number and a year.”

“Where would the number come from.”

“The men who wash them.”

Nobody wants to answer that, and the meeting ends with a working group.

He goes to see Zalman Fried on a Thursday afternoon in the coat room, which is where they have their conversations now.

“I want your number.”

Zalman does not say anything.

“No names. Not one, not to me, not to anybody. I don’t want to know who. I want how many and I want to say it out loud in front of six hundred people, and I want to say it every month until it stops going up.”

“It’s not a thing you say,” Zalman says.

“I know it isn’t. I’m asking you to change that one time.”

Zalman stands there with his hand on the table.

“Thirty two years,” he says. “I have never told my wife what I do on a Thursday. I have never told one person one name.”

“I’m not asking for a name.”

“You’re asking for the number and the number is made out of the names.”

“Yes.”

Zalman looks at the mop sink for a long moment.

“Twenty,” he says. “Through the end of April. If you say twenty I won’t correct you.”

He says it on the second Shabbos in July, on Devarim, in the twelve minutes before Tisha B’Av, and it takes him ninety seconds and he says no man’s name.

“Twenty men in this community are dead this year. Between twenty three and forty one years old. Married, most of them. Children, most of them. I am not going to tell you which shuls and I am not going to tell you which families and no one in this room is going to guess out loud, and if I hear you guessing at the kiddush I will come find you.

“They did not die of their hearts. They used cocaine that had fentanyl in it, which is now in most of it, and it kills a man in about four minutes, and none of them meant to die and none of them thought they were taking that risk because eight years ago they weren’t.

“Here is what I want from this room and it’s three things.

“Naloxone. It’s called Narcan. You buy it at the pharmacy on Pico with no prescription for about forty five dollars, it comes in a nasal spray, a child could use it correctly, and it reverses this in two minutes. There will be a box of it in the lobby by Sunday, paid for out of the discretionary fund, and you take it, and you don’t sign anything, and I don’t want to know who took it. Put it in the house. Put it in the car.

“Second. If you find somebody, call 911 and say the word overdose. California law protects you and protects him from prosecution for what’s in the room. Nobody in this community is going to jail for calling. The waiting is what kills them.

“Third, and this is the one that costs you something. If your son or your brother or your son in law is using, you have got two things to protect and you can only have one. You can protect his name or you can protect him. I have sat with three families this year who chose the name and I will sit with the next one too and I will love them anyway, and I’m telling you now, in advance, at a time when nobody in this room is in the middle of it, which is the only hour a man can hear it.

“That’s all of it. Go home and eat something before the fast.”

The response runs about how he expects.

A rabbi in the Valley says publicly that a bimah on Shabbos is not the place. Two families leave the Barn and one comes back. The Journal calls twice and he does not call back either time, because a quote in the Journal turns the number into his number and the whole value of it is that it belongs to nobody. A man tells him at the kiddush that he has made the community look like Skid Row and Grossbard says twenty and the man walks away.

Marla Feig, eighty two, takes two boxes.

Reb Simcha Farber sends a note in September, four lines, that says thank you for keeping your word, and does not say anything about the rest of it, and Grossbard puts it in the drawer with the hesped he did not give.

The box in the lobby empties eleven times between July and December and is refilled eleven times and Grossbard never learns one name.

In October a woman on Doheny finds her brother in law on the bathroom floor at 1:40 in the morning and gives him a dose of the thing she took out of a box in a lobby in August, and calls 911 and says the word, and he is alive and he is in a program in Arizona and nobody outside four people knows any of it. Grossbard hears about it in March from a nurse, secondhand, with no names in it, which is how he wants it.

The number keeps going.

Twenty three in June. Twenty six in July. He says it every Rosh Chodesh in ninety seconds and sits down.

The phone rings in the kitchen on a Sunday night at 9:15 and Grossbard looks at it and picks it up.

“Rabbi. It’s Zalman.”

“Twenty nine,” Grossbard says.

“Twenty nine,” Zalman says.

Posted in R. Shlomo Grossbard | Comments Off on Hearts

The Mikvah Year

The book comes to Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard in a padded envelope with no note in it, which is its own kind of note.

The Mikvah Year, by Nadia Reff. Self published in November. Three hundred and eighty pages. It has sold something under a thousand copies and every woman in a certain category in this city has read it.

He reads it in one night at the kitchen table and finishes at 2:40 in the morning.

It is a novel. It says so on the copyright page. A woman comes out of a bad life in Phoenix at thirty one and decides to become a Jew, and it takes her six years, and she does not make it.

Three of the men in it he knows.

He knows the first by a phrase. The rabbi in the book tells her that a convert has no family and that the family she has is the obstacle, and that until she can go a full year without calling her mother she is not ready. Grossbard has heard a living man say that sentence at a conference in Sherman Oaks in 2016 and has heard him say it as though it were Torah.

He knows the second by the arrangement. The rabbi in the book puts her in an apartment. He pays part of the rent out of a discretionary fund and tells her it is a scholarship and tells her not to mention it to the office. She stops working. She helps him with his correspondence. She is in the country on a tourist visa that lapses in month nine.

He knows the third by the car. Everything in that chapter happens in a car after ten at night, driving, because a car with two people in it moving through Los Angeles is not a room and does not have a door and cannot be walked out of.

He does not recognize the fourth one, and lies in bed at four in the morning working on it, and that is the worst part of the night, because it means there are four.

None of this is news to him. He wants that on the record with himself before he does anything.

He has known since 1998. He knew before he had a pulpit. Every rabbi in Los Angeles who has been here longer than a decade and has been paying any attention at all knows a version of it, and the men who run conversions know the most detailed version, and the reason is that they talk to each other.

Here is what a beit din for conversion has in front of it. A woman, usually alone, usually not from here, frequently from a bad home or a bad marriage or a bad decade, who wants something she cannot get anywhere else and can only get from the men in that room. There is no appeal. There is no deadline. There is no published standard. A dayan can tell her she is not ready and give no reason, for a year, for three years, and no one on earth can make him say why. She cannot go across town, because the men across town take his calls. Her family thinks she has lost her mind and she has stopped calling them anyway, because somebody told her to.

That is the most concentrated unaccountable power a man can hold in Jewish communal life and it is held over the most isolated person in the building.

Grossbard has said this out loud to exactly two people in twenty seven years and both of them were women he was warning.

He starts making calls on Monday.

The first is to a dayan he has known for twenty years and respects, and the conversation lasts nine minutes.

“Is there a complainant.”

“There’s a novel.”

“Shlomo.”

“There are four women in this book and at least three of them exist.”

“Is there a complainant.”

“No.”

“Then there is nothing in front of me. There is no case. There is no file. There is no procedure that begins with a rabbi calling me about a paperback.” The old man’s voice is not unkind. “Bring me a woman who will sit in a room and say it and I will convene. I have never refused to convene.”

“You know none of them will sit in that room.”

“I know.”

“You know why.”

“Yes,” the dayan says. “I have known why for a long time. Bring me a woman.”

The second call is to a colleague his own age, a serious man who runs a serious shul, and this one takes an hour and Grossbard drives to his house to do it.

The colleague agrees with every word. He names one of the same men without being prompted. He tells a story from 2013 that Grossbard has never heard and will never repeat.

“So sign something.”

“No.”

“Yoni.”

“I have four children in day school and a mortgage on a house the shul holds title to, and the president of my board davens with that man’s brother in law.” He does not look away when he says it. “I’m telling you what I am. I’m not going to dress it up for you.”

“That’s the most honest thing anybody’s said to me this month.”

“It doesn’t help you.”

“No.”

The third call is to the umbrella body, which responds within eleven days by proposing a working group on best practices in conversion oversight, and the proposed working group has seven members, and one of them is the man from the car.

At the end of two weeks he has learned the shape of the thing and it is the shape he knew it would be. Nobody is protecting anybody out of loyalty. There is no conspiracy in that room. It is simpler and worse. Half the men who could act have something of their own, and the half who have nothing have children in schools that the first half fund, and every one of them believes, correctly, that a public fight would cost him more than it would cost the men he was fighting.

Marla Feig, who is eighty two, says the sentence to him at the January board meeting.

“They won’t move for you, Shlomo.”

“Some of them agree with me.”

“All of them agree with you.” She has her purse in her lap. “You’ve stood on a bimah for twenty years telling this city that every man in it is running a play and nobody is clean and everybody has a rate card. You made it impossible to be shocked. Now you need shock.”

He sits with that for a second.

“Yes,” he says.

“You built the room you’re standing in.”

“I know what I built.”

Adina Reiss comes to the office on a Thursday afternoon in February and closes the door, which she has never done.

She converted four years ago. She is in the Wednesday class and the Thursday class and she asks the hardest question in the room once a month, and Grossbard sent her, in 2021, to a beit din he had used for fifteen years.

She tells him what happened in the eight months before her mikvah. She tells it in order and she does not cry and she stops twice.

It is not the worst version. It is the ordinary version. A hand, a suggestion, a comment about her clothes, a comment about her body, an offer of private study at night, a delay of six months after she said no, and a second man in the same building who told her the first man was difficult and that he could speed things along.

She finished. She has never told anyone. She has sat forty feet from Grossbard every Wednesday for four years.

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

“Because you sent me there,” she says. “And because you’d have done something, and if you did something I don’t get to be Jewish.”

Grossbard puts both hands on the desk and does not say anything for a while, which is not a thing he does.

“What do you want,” he says. “Whatever it is, that’s what happens. You say the word and I go to the dayan tomorrow morning and we convene and I sit next to you the whole time. You say a different word and I never mention this again as long as I live.”

“I want to finish the mesechta,” Adina says. “That’s what I want. I’ve wanted it for two years and I’m not giving it up for those men.”

“Then that’s the answer and I’ll never raise it again.”

“You’ll want to.”

“I’ll want to every day.”

Here is what he does, because it is what is left.

He stops sending anybody anywhere. Every candidate the Barn sponsors goes to one beit din whose three members he has known for thirty years and can vouch for with his own name, and when that beit din is slow, which it is, the candidates wait, and when they ask him why they cannot use the faster one in the Valley he tells them the truth in his office with the door open.

He puts a woman in the process. Every candidate meets first with Shira Belfer, who drives in from Hancock Park twice a month for no money, and no candidate ever sits alone in a room with any man in this building including Grossbard, and the door stays open, and the appointments are on a calendar the office keeps.

And at the first meeting he says a thing out loud, in words, to each woman, which is the part that nobody else in this city will do.

He gets frozen out inside a year. Two conversions he sponsors get questioned in Israel on the grounds that the sponsoring rabbi has become unreliable, and one woman has to redo eleven months of work, and she is the one who pays for what he did, which is how it goes and which he does not tell her.

He keeps a notebook in the desk drawer with names in it and it will never be published and it is not for publication. About nine times a year somebody calls him, a rabbi in Denver, a woman in Toronto, a mother in Encino whose daughter has started studying with somebody, and asks him what he knows about a particular man, and he tells them, on the phone, on the record, with his name attached, and he has been told twice by a lawyer that this is unwise.

In April a woman named Kaila Devine comes in for a first meeting. Thirty four, from Reno, works in veterinary imaging, and she has been at this for seven months with a man in the Valley and has come to Grossbard because somebody told her to.

Shira Belfer sits in. The door is open.

“Before anything else,” Grossbard says. “Some rules, and they’re mine, and you can go somewhere else if you don’t want them. You never meet a rabbi alone. Not in an office with the door shut, not in his home, not in a car, not after dark, not at a hotel, not ever, and that includes me and this door stays open. Nobody in this process tells you to stop calling your mother. Nobody in this process gets you an apartment. Nobody in this process employs you. Nobody touches you. Nobody comments on your body or your clothing except Shira, who will tell you what to wear because that’s her job.”

Kaila Devine writes none of it down.

“And here’s my cell phone. It’s on at night. If anything happens that you have to think about afterward, you call me that night, not the next week, and I will believe you, and I’ll say that part again so you have it. I will believe you.”

She sits there for a moment.

“Why are you telling me this.”

“Because a woman I know went through it and sat in my class for four years without telling me,” Grossbard says. “I’d like those four years back. I can’t have them.”

She takes the number and puts it in her phone.

After she goes, Shira Belfer stays to write up the file, and Grossbard walks out to the lot and stands there a while, and then he goes back in, because the Thursday class starts at nine and Adina Reiss is eleven pages from the end of the mesechta.

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The Chesed Fund

Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard finds out at a kiddush in October, from one sentence, said by a woman who does not know she is saying anything.

Chava Perlmutter, seventy nine, widow of a pharmacist, tells him she asked Shmulie for eight thousand dollars out of her deposit in August for her granddaughter’s wedding, and it took six weeks, and Shmulie was so apologetic about it, and she wants Grossbard to know that she is not complaining, because that man is a saint.

Grossbard says something warm and moves on to the next person and finishes the kiddush and shakes ninety hands.

He knows. He has known for about four seconds and he will spend the next nine days confirming it.

Shmuel Berkovits, sixty seven, has run the Chesed Fund out of the back room of a print shop on Robertson since 1993. He does not draw a salary. He buried his wife in 2018 and did not miss a Sunday. He has lent to something over four hundred families in this neighborhood. Tuition gaps, medical bills, a first month and a deposit for a woman leaving a marriage, funeral costs, a man’s payroll on a Thursday when a client paid late. No interest, because that is the whole point of the thing, and no paperwork worth the name, and no bank in California would have written one of those loans.

He also takes deposits. That is how it works. A man with money sitting idle gives Shmulie forty thousand dollars because Shmulie will do more good with it than a savings account will, and the man understands he can have it back when he needs it. There is no agreement. There is no statement. There is no auditor and no examiner and no insurance and no capital requirement, and in California the state regulators treat the whole category as religious charity and stay a hundred yards away from it.

Grossbard has known every structural feature of this for thirty years. He has never once said them out loud from the bimah, because the day he does, half the good in this neighborhood stops moving.

Six weeks to get eight thousand dollars out of a fund that has never taken longer than a day.

He goes to see Berkovits on a Tuesday night.

The back room has a card table, two folding chairs, a four-drawer file cabinet, and a shoebox. The book is index cards. Green for loans out, white for deposits in, and a spiral ledger that Berkovits keeps in a hand Grossbard cannot read.

“Shmulie.”

“Rabbi.”

“How much is the hole.”

Berkovits sits down. He does not ask what hole. That is the first thing.

They go through it for two hours and forty minutes. Deposits standing at about four million one. Loans outstanding that are collectible, maybe one million six, and Grossbard makes him mark every card he has doubts about and the doubtful pile is bigger than the good one. Six hundred thousand in the account. And then the rest of it, which since 2017 has gone into a friend’s real estate deals at nine and eleven and fourteen percent, because a man who lends at zero and takes deposits at zero has to find the spread somewhere, and the deals were fine for six years and stopped being fine in 2023.

The hole is a little under one point nine million dollars.

“When did it start.”

“I don’t know.”

“Shmulie.”

“I’m telling you the truth. There’s no day. Nobody woke me up one morning.” He puts both hands flat on the card table. “Somebody needed forty for a wedding and it was sitting there. Then the Fein girl needed a deposit and Yudel Rosen’s payroll was three weeks out and the money was doing nothing in an account. Then Ari showed me his numbers and it was eleven percent and I thought, I could lend twice as much.”

“And in August, to pay Chava Perlmutter, you used somebody else’s deposit.”

“I used the Kleins’ deposit.”

“You know what that is.”

“I know what that is.”

Berkovits looks at the file cabinet.

“Do you know what I’ve done out of this room,” he says. “Thirty two years. Four hundred and six families. I put nine kids through YULA that nobody knows about. I paid for two funerals. There’s a woman living in Sherman Oaks with her children right now because I had eleven thousand dollars in a drawer on a Sunday night in 2011 and no bank on earth would have given it to her.”

Grossbard lets him say all of it.

“Am I a thief,” Berkovits says.

“You will be on Monday if you take another deposit.”

They sit with that.

“So don’t take another one,” Grossbard says. “Starting tonight. Not one dollar, not from anybody, not if a man begs you. Every card comes to me. And you don’t speak to anyone about this until I tell you to, including your son.”

Grossbard drives home and sits in the driveway for a while.

The arithmetic is not complicated and he runs it four or five times looking for a door.

If the depositors find out, they come at once, because that is what depositors do, and the fund pays out six hundred thousand to whoever gets there first and the rest of them get nothing. If it goes to the United States Attorney, a receiver gets appointed at four hundred dollars an hour billed against an estate consisting of a house in Beverlywood with a mortgage on it, a Toyota, and a room full of index cards. If it goes to a beth din, the beth din can compel testimony from observant Jews and can rule on liability and cannot subpoena a bank, cannot conduct a forensic accounting, and cannot make one point nine million dollars appear.

There is one door and it costs one point nine million dollars.

Adina Reiss comes to the office on Thursday, because he has told her, because she is the only person he tells things to before he has decided them.

“You go to the U.S. Attorney,” she says.

“And then what.”

“Then it isn’t your call anymore. That’s the entire point of the U.S. Attorney.”

“Here’s what happens. Receiver gets appointed. Bills the estate into the ground. Chava Perlmutter gets nineteen cents on the dollar in 2032 if she lives. Shmulie goes in at sixty seven and comes out at seventy four or doesn’t come out. And four hundred families in this neighborhood never see another gemach as long as they live, from him or from anybody, because nobody in Los Angeles is going to run one after that.”

“And your way.”

“My way, every depositor gets a hundred cents on the dollar inside sixty days, the fund closes, and one man walks.”

“That’s the part I can’t do.”

“I know,” Grossbard says. “That makes you the better person and me the one handling it.”

She sits there.

“People are going to say you did it for mesirah. That you wouldn’t inform.”

“Then let’s be clear with each other so at least one other person in this city knows. I would call the FBI on Shmuel Berkovits tomorrow morning and eat lunch afterward. I’ve got no problem with it and I hold by the poskim who say report and I’ve said so from the bimah twice. I’m not doing it because of the arithmetic. Not because of a teshuvah. And I’d like that on the record, because half this neighborhood is about to hand me credit I did not earn.”

He gets three noes.

The first is a man who says he would need to see something in writing, which is a no. The second is a man who says he will do four hundred thousand if others come in, which is a no. The third calls his lawyer before he calls Grossbard back and the lawyer uses the phrase aiding a concealment, which is a no with a bill attached.

The fourth is Farhad Hakim, fifty eight, who goes by Fred, who builds and holds industrial property from Vernon out to Rialto, and who has never been a member of the Barn and never will be, and whose family davens at a Persian shul in Beverly Hills where his father has a seat with a plaque on it.

Grossbard has met him three times in nine years.

They sit in Hakim’s office on Olympic with the door closed.

“How much.”

“One point nine.”

“For Berkovits.”

“For the depositors.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” Grossbard says. “One of those two I care about.”

Hakim takes a while.

“There’s a dinner on the twelfth at the Montage,” he says. “Ilan Yaghoubi is raising a fund. Second one. I want you at the table.”

“To say what.”

“Nothing. Eat the fish. It’s kosher, I checked with your office.”

Grossbard sits back.

“You want a photograph.”

“I want a photograph.”

“Say the rest of it. I’d rather we both hear it.”

“You want me to say it out loud,” Hakim says. “Fine. Every Persian man in that room knows who you are. You’re the rabbi who took the pop star’s money and wouldn’t let her in the class. Half of them can’t stand you and all of them believe you. You sit at that table for two hours and eat a piece of fish and say nothing to anybody about any fund, and forty men in that room decide Ilan is a serious person. That’s what I’m buying. I’m paying one million nine hundred thousand dollars for it. It’s more than it’s worth.”

“Is Yaghoubi clean.”

“As far as I know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer anyone has ever had about anybody,” Hakim says. “You’ve been giving that answer for thirty years. Every man you ever shook hands with at a kiddush in front of somebody else got that answer.”

Grossbard has nothing for that.

“Why are you doing it,” he says. “You could tell me to go to hell and I’d have no complaint.”

Hakim opens a drawer and closes it again without taking anything out.

“In 1996 my mother needed eight thousand dollars and my father was too proud and I was twenty eight and had nothing. Somebody sent her to a man in the back of a print shop on Robertson. He gave her the money in an envelope in about nine minutes and he never told one person. Not one, in thirty years. I found out in 2019 because she told me on her deathbed.”

He shrugs.

“So,” he says. “You want the check or not.”

Grossbard asks for the money to come as an unrestricted gift to the Chesed Fund with no conditions of any kind stated anywhere in writing, and Hakim says of course, and both of them understand what that document is for, and Grossbard asks for it anyway.

It takes fifty one days.

Every depositor gets a hundred cents on the dollar. The letter that goes out says the fund is closing after thirty two years because its founder is retiring and no successor structure is in place, which is true in every particular and is a lie.

Chava Perlmutter gets a cashier’s check for a hundred and eighty one thousand two hundred dollars, which is everything she has, and she comes to the print shop to collect it in person, and she takes Shmuel Berkovits’s hand in both of hers and tells him he is a saint and that this neighborhood will never see another one.

Grossbard is standing four feet away. He watches Berkovits take it.

The Journal runs three hundred words in February under community services. Beloved Free Loan Fund Closes After Three Decades. There is a photograph of the print shop and a quote from Berkovits about how the community’s needs have changed. Nobody calls Grossbard and Grossbard does not call anybody.

By spring there is no gemach on the Westside that will lend above thirty thousand dollars, and a woman leaving a marriage in April cannot get first and last on an apartment in Palms in under three weeks, and she goes to a shul on Pico that sends her to a shul in the Valley that sends her to a lender at fourteen percent.

Two men at the Barn tell Grossbard to his face that he should have found a way to keep it open. One of them says it at a kiddush with people listening. Grossbard says he tried, which is the second lie, and takes a piece of herring.

He goes to the Montage on the twelfth.

The fish is sea bass and it is kosher and it is very good. He is at table four with Hakim on his left and a dermatologist on his right and Ilan Yaghoubi two seats down, forty one years old, well spoken, three questions in and Grossbard has learned nothing about him at all. Grossbard says nothing about any fund to any person. He talks for most of an hour to an eighty year old woman across the table about her husband’s family in Hamadan and she is the best conversation he has had in a month.

A photographer works the room between the salad and the entree.

The picture runs the following Thursday on page eleven of the community paper, under the fold, five men at a round table with the water glasses in front of them.

Second from left, the caption says. Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard of the Barn.

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The Thursday Class

The first email comes to the office from an assistant in New York and Devorah at the front desk deletes it as a scam.

The second comes nine days later from a manager, with a phone number, and Devorah walks it back to Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard’s office and stands there while he reads it.

Roxane is sixty four. One name for forty one years, nine number ones, three reinventions, a Vatican denunciation in 1989, and a hip replacement she has never confirmed. Her husband is Teodor Wick, forty one, a Danish director with two films nobody saw and one everybody did. Neither of them is Jewish. She has been photographed in a red string twice, in 2004 and 2011, and has said in an interview that she got taken by a place on Robertson that charged her forty thousand dollars for what turned out to be a subscription.

She heard about the Thursday class from Dahlia Ravitch, who sat in the last row of the Barn one Shabbos in March and has told four people about it since.

The Thursday class meets at nine at night in the room behind the coat racks. Nine men and two women. Six years running. Two of those years went to Tomer Devorah and they are now in the third gate of Nefesh HaChaim and moving at about a page a month. Barry Teitelbaum is in it. Adina Reiss is in it and has been for four years and asks the hardest question of any night about once a month. Nobody has ever recorded it. Nobody has ever written about it. It has a reputation anyway, which is how these things go.

Grossbard does not teach the material the way it gets taught in Los Angeles. He opens most years by saying that ninety percent of what is sold under the name in this city is decoration, that the light bulbs and the water bottles and the strings are a business, and that the actual literature is a technical vocabulary for the interior of a person, written by men who were terrified of it, and that anybody looking for a mood should go somewhere else and be happier.

The manager’s email offers to fly him anywhere. It offers a private class at the house in Bel Air, weekly, at a number the manager describes as not an issue.

Grossbard calls the number himself on a Tuesday, which tells you something.

He gets Roxane. She is direct and funny and better read than he expects and she does not do the thing where a famous person is charming at you. She asks four questions about Nefesh HaChaim, two of which are good.

“So can I come.”

“No.”

There is a pause on the line.

“Can I ask why.”

“You can, and I’d rather do it in a room than on a phone. Come to the parsha class. Wednesdays, seven thirty, ninety people, your husband too. Anybody can come to that one. And then when you’ve come a few times we’ll sit down and I’ll tell you the real answer, and if you decide I’m a bigot you’ll be in good company.”

She comes the following Wednesday.

The board finds out in six days.

Josh Adelman calls it the single largest institutional opportunity in the history of the shul. A member of the finance committee uses the word footprint. Two people separately float the idea of a documentary. The kiruv outfit in Jerusalem sends Grossbard a warm letter for the first time in three years suggesting a joint program.

Marla Feig, eighty one, says one sentence at the November meeting.

“He’s not going to do it, and none of you have been paying attention for twenty years.”

The refusal gets out in January and it gets out wrong.

A gossip site runs it as the rabbi who threw out a pop star. The rabbi in Teaneck writes that Grossbard has finally found a boundary and that it took a woman with a Vatican denunciation to locate it. A columnist in New York writes eight hundred words about Jewish exclusivity and quotes a professor at a divinity school who has never met anybody involved. Adina Reiss gets asked about it at work by two people who do not know she is in the class.

Grossbard says nothing publicly for five weeks.

In February Roxane’s foundation gives six hundred thousand dollars to the building fund.

He takes it. He thanks her by name from the bimah on a Shabbos morning in front of six hundred people and states the amount out loud, which the development chair has begged him not to do, and says that the money will replace the roof over the west wall and the HVAC and that anyone who wants to see the invoices can come to the office.

At the kiddush a man asks him how he can take her money and keep her out of the class.

“Because they’re two different transactions and I’m the only man in this building who knows the difference,” Grossbard says, and takes a piece of herring.

They sit down in March in his office. Just the two of them. Wick waits in the car and reads.

“All right,” she says. “The real answer.”

“There’s a traditional answer first and I’ll give it to you fast because it isn’t mine. You’re supposed to be forty, married, and full of shas and poskim before anybody lets you near this. I don’t hold by that. I’ve got a woman in there who’s thirty six and knows more than three of the men.”

“So it’s that I’m not Jewish.”

“That’s part of it and it isn’t the part that decides it.” He turns his chair. “Here’s what decides it. That class is eleven people who have been keeping this practice their whole adult lives and arguing with each other for six years. The material is a commentary. It doesn’t stand up by itself. It’s a set of notes on what happens inside a person who davens three times a day for thirty years and it means almost nothing to somebody who doesn’t. That’s the first thing.

“The second thing is that if you walk through that door on a Thursday night, my class stops existing that night and never comes back. Not because you’d do anything. Because nine men who’ve been fighting about a page a month for six years will spend the hour being interesting. Barry Teitelbaum will make a joke he’s been saving since 1991. Everybody will listen to themselves talk. I’ll do it too, and I’ll be the worst one, and I’ll know I’m doing it and I won’t be able to stop.”

Roxane sits back.

“I’ve been doing that to rooms since I was twenty two,” she says.

“I know you have.”

“Nobody’s ever told me. Forty years. People change and I watch them change and I’ve never once had a person say the sentence out loud.”

“Now you have.”

She looks out the window for a while. There is a parking structure out the window.

“So what do I get.”

“You get ten minutes right now for free and then you’re going to be annoyed with me, because the ten minutes is most of it.”

He takes Nefesh HaChaim off the shelf and does not open it.

“Before anything, there was only Him, and there was no room for a world. Not no space. No room. So He contracted. He withdrew from a point inside Himself, and the withdrawal made a vacancy, and everything that exists got made inside the vacancy. That’s tzimtzum. Every serious thing I know about people is in it.

“You cannot make room for another person by adding. There is no amount of adding that does it. A father who wants his son to become somebody has to get smaller in the house, and most men can’t, so they fill it and call the filling love and then wonder why the boy comes out flat. A man who marries and keeps all of himself ends up with a wife who works for him. A teacher who is brilliant every single week produces students who can quote him.

“And the withdrawal has to be real. That’s the part nobody wants. It isn’t a way of appearing modest. You have to take yourself out of a place you were occupying and not go back in for it, and it feels like dying, because a piece of you does die in there, and that is the price of another person existing.

“Then the second half, which is the reason the book is honest. The vacancy He made is a place where He isn’t. That’s where everything goes wrong. Every broken thing in the world is in the room He left. He knew that when He did it. He did it anyway.”

Roxane does not say anything for a long moment.

“Okay,” she says.

“That’s the class.”

“That’s the class.”

“There’s four hundred more pages and they’re all footnotes to that.”

She comes to the parsha class on Wednesdays for a year and two months. Ninety people in the room and by the fourth week nobody turns around. She sits on the left side, sixth row, next to a retired pharmacist named Yaffa who does not know who she is and who has become her friend. Wick comes about half the time and takes notes on paper.

She asks maybe nine questions in fourteen months. Two of them are the best question asked that night.

In May she stops him in the parking lot after class.

“Can I ask you something.”

“Yes.”

“The tzimtzum. The getting smaller.” She has her keys in her hand. “Do you do it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Grossbard stands there in the lot with the light over the door buzzing.

“I don’t know what’s under there,” he says.

She nods and gets in the car and drives out onto Pico, and he stands there a while longer before he goes back in to lock up.

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The Bird Streets

Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard goes to the party in the dead orthodontist’s suit with a liter of water in a canvas bag on the passenger seat.

Gideon Sonnenfeld’s novel has been optioned. A producer named Alec Ravitch holds the rights and a director attached for nine weeks and a house off Doheny with a view of the whole basin from Century City to the towers downtown, and he is throwing a dinner for forty on a Thursday in June, and Sonnenfeld has asked Grossbard to come, and Grossbard said yes before Sonnenfeld finished the sentence.

Two valets work the street with clipboards. The one who takes the car is a young man named Arturo who says good evening rabbi, because the yarmulke is right there, black suede, and Grossbard says good evening and asks how many cars he has done tonight, and Arturo says thirty one, and it is nine minutes past seven.

Inside, the glass wall stands open and the pool runs to the edge, and past it the city has started to come on.

He takes the bottle out of the bag and carries it. He does not set it down all night.

A woman in her fifties in a black jumpsuit reaches him in the first four minutes. She runs marketing at a streamer and she has decided in advance that he is about to be uncomfortable.

“I hope you’re not offended by any of this.”

“By what.”

She waves at the room.

“It’s a beautiful house,” Grossbard says. “Whose is the Diebenkorn.”

She has to go find out. She comes back nine minutes later with the answer, which is that it belongs to Ravitch’s second wife and hangs here under an arrangement, and they talk about that for twenty minutes and she does not apologize again.

He eats nothing. He drinks his own water.

A young actress named Simone, twenty six, up for the part of the gabbai’s daughter, comes at him with real questions and a notebook open on her phone. He answers all of them. When she asks what the gabbai’s daughter would have worn to a wedding in 1994 he tells her he has no idea and gives her the number of a woman at the Barn who does. He does not flirt and he does not teach, and afterward she tells two people he is the least strange religious man she has ever met.

At 7:50 Alec Ravitch finds him by the kitchen island and apologizes about the food.

“I should have gotten a kosher caterer. Gideon told me not to bother and I listened to him and I’ve been sick about it for a week.”

“He was right.”

“You’re not eating anything.”

“I’m not eating anything.”

“Is there something we can do.”

“There is,” Grossbard says. “You can stop talking about it inside ten seconds and never raise it again, and I’ll have the best night of my month.”

Ravitch laughs and stops. He tells his wife later it was the smoothest thing anybody did to him all year.

Somebody’s cousin asks whether it’s a fast day.

“No. I just don’t eat here.”

“Is that a religious thing?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” the cousin says, and that is the end of it.

He reads the room the way he reads a kiddush, because it is the same room. Twenty minutes in he could draw it. The director between projects with three people around him, two of whom are there because the third one is. The executive of about thirty four who has survived a regime change by nine days and whose laugh comes half a beat early all night. The first wife who still gets invited and has been seated at the far end on purpose and knows it. The lawyer everyone uses, who talks to no one for more than ninety seconds and touches every person in the house. And Sonnenfeld, the reason for the evening, backed into the corner by the pool and unable to get out.

Nothing here that isn’t at a bar mitzvah on Pico. Better lighting. Same arithmetic.

At dinner they put him between the marketing woman and a man named Sol Bregman, seventy eight, three Emmys in the eighties, buried his wife in 2019, who decides over the soup that he is going to get somewhere with the rabbi.

“I don’t believe any of it.”

“Neither do half my members.”

“I mean I’ve read it. The whole thing, a decent translation, cover to cover, two years ago. It’s a mess. A jealous character who drowns everybody and can’t take criticism.”

“That’s a fair reading of about a third of it.”

“So how do you do it.”

“The arguments are bad,” Grossbard says. “I want that on the table first so we don’t lose an hour. I’ve read the arguments for God, the good ones and most of the bad ones, and they don’t work. Aquinas doesn’t work. The fine tuning thing doesn’t work. If you came at me with the arguments I’d take your side and I’d run it better than you’re running it.”

Bregman puts down his fork.

“Then what.”

“I don’t believe in Him on Tuesdays.”

The table laughs, six people, and the marketing woman writes it down.

Bregman does not laugh. He waits.

“You want the other answer.”

“I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Four minutes.”

“What?”

“Four minutes of certainty in fifty nine years. Total. Cumulative. Ninety seconds of it at my father’s kevurah and the rest spread out over some mornings.” He turns the bottle a quarter turn on the tablecloth. “I built the entire thing on those four minutes and I’d do it again tomorrow. That’s the answer. It doesn’t sell and I don’t sell it. From the bimah I give them a better answer that I believe less.”

Bregman looks at him a long moment.

“That’s the first honest thing anyone has said to me in this house.”

“Wait till you hear the second one.”

They talk until the plates go and the party has moved outside without them.

Around ten he ends up at the pool with Ravitch’s wife, Dahlia, forty seven, who has kept the house between them all night and has now run out of house.

Ocean Parkway. Beis Yaakov through eleventh grade. Her father has not taken her calls since 2006 and her mother calls on Thursdays from a phone in the basement.

She tells him this in about ninety seconds, flat, the way you say a thing you have said before.

“So,” she says. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead what.”

“You people always have the speech.”

“I don’t have a speech. I have one question if you want it and you can say no.”

“What’s the question.”

“Does your mother know about the Diebenkorn.”

Dahlia Ravitch laughs until she has to put a hand on the coping.

They talk twenty five minutes and she does most of it. He asks about her father twice and lets it go both times. He does not mention a shul. He does not mention Shabbos. He does not give her a card, and at the end she says, so you’re not going to try, and he says no, and she says why not, and he says because you’d say yes to be polite and then you’d have to avoid me for a year, and I’d rather keep the twenty five minutes.

The car comes at 11:50. A hundred and four total, Arturo says. He is nineteen and takes two classes at Santa Monica College.

Grossbard drives home on Sunset with the windows down.

He gets in at 12:35, hangs the jacket on the chair, and stands at the counter eating corn flakes with a banana cut into them, the first thing he has eaten since two in the afternoon.

Dina comes in in her robe.

“How was it.”

“I had a great time.”

“You always do,” she says, and takes a flake out of the bowl and eats it and goes back to bed.

Dahlia Ravitch comes to the Barn on a Shabbos in March. She sits in the last row of the women’s section with her coat on and leaves eight minutes before the end.

He does not see her. Nobody does.

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The List

The first complaint reaches Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard by phone on a Sunday in February from a man who runs a kashrus agency and who wants him to know that the Malik boy has gone too far.

Ezra Malik is nineteen. He has an agent, a manager, a lawyer his father made him get, and four million people who watch him do other people. He did the kashrus man in October, four minutes, the walk, the clipboard, the way he says the word standards, and it ran everywhere, and eleven mashgichim in three states have been doing the walk at each other ever since.

“He grew up in your shul,” the man says.

“He did.”

“So you can talk to him.”

“I can talk to anybody.”

“Rabbi.”

“I hear you,” Grossbard says, which is what he says.

The second complaint comes from a day school head. The third from a matchmaker in Hancock Park with a following. The fourth from a philanthropist in Beverly Hills who has given the Barn nothing and whose foundation gives eleven million a year to things Grossbard cares about. The fifth arrives on the letterhead of a rabbinical council with nine signatures, one of them from a man who ate at Grossbard’s table in 2019.

By April there have been thirty one. Two lawyers have sent letters. A donor has moved a gift to a different shul and told two people why. Somebody has called Ezra’s agent and mentioned a boycott and the agent has told Ezra, and Ezra, who is nineteen, has started asking his father whether this can hurt his sister.

Grossbard sees the whole thing at once, and what he sees is 2011.

There were forty people writing about this world in 2005. Blogs, most of them anonymous, some of them very good, one or two of them the only honest account anybody had of how the institutions ran. By 2011 there were none. Not one of them was sued. Nobody won a judgment. Nobody got an injunction. They got phone calls. They got a call placed to an employer. They got a father in law taken to lunch. They got a daughter’s shidduch that fell apart in the third week with no reason offered by anyone. Every one of them stopped, and every one of them told you he had gotten busy.

Josh Adelman wants a statement.

“Say we don’t control him,” Adelman says. “Say the Barn has no editorial relationship with a private individual. Say we support open expression.”

“No.”

“Why no.”

“Because it’s a lie, and because it’s the lie they want,” Grossbard says. “The minute I say we support open expression, every one of these people gets to ask me why I support open expression about them and not about the eleven things I killed last year. And I killed eleven things last year, Josh. I pulled a youth minyan skit in November. I told the sisterhood newsletter to take out a paragraph about a divorce. I told Barry Teitelbaum to sit down twice. There is no open forum here. There has never been an open forum here or anywhere else. There’s a set of lines and we enforce them all week long and we don’t write them down, and not writing them down is what lets every macher in Los Angeles come to me one at a time and ask me to move one.”

Marla Feig, who is eighty now and comes to every board meeting, says, “So write them down.”

“Yes,” Grossbard says.

He goes home and takes a book off the shelf that he has never admitted owning.

He bought The Purpose Driven Church in 1998 at a Barnes and Noble in Woodland Hills because he was thirty one years old and had ninety families and no idea what he was doing. Rick Warren (b. 1954) is a Baptist pastor in Orange County who wrote it in 1995 and who wrote The Purpose Driven Life in 2002 and sold enough of them to fund a small country. Grossbard’s copy is annotated in three colors. The thing he took from it in 1998, and has used every year since without attribution, is that a crowd is not a congregation and a congregation is not a membership, and that people behave differently the moment you ask them to sign something.

He calls Ezra in on a Tuesday.

“You’re going to hate the first half of this.”

“Okay.”

“One rule. You don’t do members of this shul. Anybody who holds a membership at the Barn is off the table for as long as they hold it. Everybody else in the Jewish world is a free country and I will never call you about any of them again as long as I live.”

Ezra sits back.

“You’re leashing me.”

“I’m arming you.”

“You’re telling me who I can’t do.”

“I’m telling you who you can,” Grossbard says. “Right now you can’t do anybody, because you’re nineteen and there are four hundred people in this city who can hurt your father’s business and your sister’s shidduch and none of them have to put their name on anything. Starting Friday, a man who wants you to leave him alone has to join a shul, in writing, with a check, at two thousand dollars a year, and I publish the list of members every year in the annual report like every shul in America. He has to buy it and everybody gets to see him buy it.”

Ezra thinks about it for a while. He is nineteen and he thinks about it for a long time, which is one of the reasons he is good.

“They’ll all join.”

“Most of them.”

“That’s a protection racket.”

“That’s a membership organization,” Grossbard says. “The difference is that I’m telling you what it is. Nobody told the forty guys in 2009 what it was. They just got quiet one at a time and thought it was happening only to them.”

The rush starts the second week of May.

The kashrus man joins and tells the office his wife has cousins in the neighborhood. The matchmaker joins and asks whether there is a level above the two thousand and is told there is not. The day school head joins and asks for a receipt for the tuition committee, which the office cannot provide, and joins anyway. The editor of the Journal joins, and writes an editorial three weeks later about the vitality of institutional affiliation in Los Angeles, and does not mention it.

The director of the kiruv outfit in Jerusalem that put Grossbard’s face on a cracked graphic in 2024 joins as an out of town affiliate, a category Grossbard invents on a Thursday afternoon and prices at two thousand dollars.

The philanthropist joins. His assistant calls to ask whether the membership can be in the name of the foundation and is told it cannot.

Membership runs from three hundred and ninety units in April to six hundred and eleven by October. Four hundred and forty two thousand dollars in new dues. Attendance does not move. The same eleven hundred people come on Yom Kippur. Adelman starts calling the difference the phantom shul and stops when it is pointed out that the phantom shul paid for the roof and the air conditioning.

Every Friday at noon Grossbard emails Ezra Malik the updated membership list. No message in the body. Just the list.

Ezra’s editor prints it out and tapes it to the wall.

In September a man named Nathan Sperber, sixty two, who joined in the second week of the rush and who has never been inside the building, is discovered to have been running Sperber Capital for nine years on money from later investors paid out to earlier ones. Eleven families at the Barn have money with him. Two of them have all of it.

Ezra calls at 7:40 in the morning.

“He’s on the list.”

“He’s on the list.”

“I have forty minutes on him. I have him at the Hilton in 2022 telling a room of retirees that he doesn’t take fees from Jews.”

“He’s on the list, Ezra.”

“You’re going to let a two thousand dollar membership cover a man who took the Fishbein’s retirement.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Grossbard calls Sperber in on Thursday. Sperber comes with a lawyer and Grossbard says the lawyer can sit in the hallway or the meeting doesn’t happen, and the lawyer sits in the hallway.

“Your membership is terminated as of this morning. The office will refund you nine hundred and sixteen dollars, which is the prorated balance, and there’s a check on the desk.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Article nine. The rabbi may terminate a membership for conduct injurious to the congregation, and the determination is his alone and is not appealable.” Grossbard slides the check across. “I wrote article nine in November. I wrote it for a Thursday like this one.”

“You built the whole thing to sell protection and now you’re pulling mine.”

“Yes.”

Sperber stares at him.

“At least say something about it,” he says. “At least tell me it’s about the Fishbeins.”

“It’s about the Fishbeins,” Grossbard says. “And it’s also that I want every other man on that list to spend tonight rereading article nine. Take the check.”

Ezra runs the forty minutes on the second of October. It does four million in a day. The Hilton footage is in it. A reporter at a business paper in New York watches it, makes three calls, and files in November, and the receiver is appointed in March, and the Fishbeins get back about a third, which is a third more than they had.

Nobody thanks Grossbard, because most of the room has decided he is the man who protects the mockery, and the rest have decided he is the man who allows it.

He says the true thing once, in December, to a room of forty at the annual meeting, and it goes past them like weather.

“I want this in the minutes. I am the censor here. I made myself the censor in May. Before May there were four hundred people in this city who could quietly ruin a nineteen year old and not one of them had to sign anything. Now there is one man who decides, and it’s me, and you can see me, and you know my address, and you have my email, and article nine has my name on it. That is an improvement. It is not freedom. There is no such thing available and there never was. The only question in front of a community is who does the deciding and whether you can find him.”

The minutes record that the rabbi discussed membership policy.

The rabbi in Teaneck writes eleven hundred words in January on the corruption of a pulpit that sells indulgences and names it a shanda four times. He does not join. He says so in the piece. He says a man of conviction pays for his convictions.

Ezra does him in February. Six minutes. The cadence, the pause before the word shanda, the way he holds a paperback with two fingers. It is the best thing Ezra has ever made and it is not cruel, which is what makes it unsurvivable.

The Friday list goes out at noon on March 14.

Ezra reads it in his car outside the studio on Fairfax, the way he reads it every week, scrolling with his thumb down the new names at the bottom, and he stops.

He calls his editor.

“Take him off the wall.”

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Tuesday

Rabbi Shlomo Grossbard made the Tuesday rule in 2011, out loud, at the kitchen table, in front of one witness.

No shul. No phone. No hospital unless somebody is dying, and dying counts, and sick does not. No learning. No God.

Dina said at the time that a man who has to declare a day off does not have one. He told her it was in section two. It is not in section two.

He wakes at 6:40 without the alarm, which he has done every day for thirty one years, and lies there while she gets up and dresses and makes coffee. She teaches fourth grade and leaves at 7:10. He hears the car go.

The house at 7:15 is very quiet.

The imaging place on Roxbury takes him at 8:15. Stress echo, ordered in April by a doctor who does not go to shul anywhere, rescheduled twice by Grossbard, and he has told no one about it, including his wife, including the office, and he has scheduled it on a Tuesday for that reason.

The intake woman asks him to spell Grossbard. She asks his occupation and he says clergy and she types six letters.

The tech is a young man named Devin with a beard trimmed to the millimeter, and he puts the leads on and explains the treadmill and Grossbard says, “So this is the part where we find out whether the community gets what it wants,” and Devin says, “Sir, if you feel chest pressure or dizziness you tell me right away.”

It dies. There is nothing in the room to catch it.

He walks eleven minutes at increasing grade with wires on his chest while a stranger watches a monitor and says nothing to him at all. Somebody will call in about a week.

At 9:50 he is in the parking structure with his shirt buttoned wrong and eleven hours in front of him.

He drives. That is what he does with the first part of it. He goes down Olympic to Bundy and up to Sunset and out toward the ocean and back, and the city on a Tuesday morning belongs to gardeners and pool men and delivery drivers and women in workout clothes walking dogs the size of cats. The light before eleven is the good light. Nobody in any of these cars knows a rabbi.

He goes to the 11:10 at the theater on Pico, some picture about a submarine, and there are nine people in the room, and he sleeps from about the twenty minute mark to the seventy minute mark and wakes up during a scene where two men are yelling at each other in the dark and never learns what the argument is about. He stays to the end anyway. He would like to say he stayed out of respect for the craft.

At the Glattmart on Pico at 1:40 a woman by the melons looks at him twice and says, “Are you the rabbi from the video?”

“No,” Grossbard says.

She apologizes. She says he looks exactly like him.

“I get that,” he says.

He stands in the parking lot afterward for a while with the bag in his hand. Thirty years and that is the first time.

He eats at the counter of the place on Beverly at two in the afternoon. Tuna, rye, coleslaw, pickle. He tries something on the waitress about the price of the coleslaw and she says the coleslaw comes with it, which is the correct answer and the end of the exchange.

At 2:40 he drives to Detroit Street.

The shtiebel is still there. It is a converted duplex with a ramp somebody built badly in the nineties and a sign in Hebrew and English and a security camera that has never worked. His father walked in that door at nine at night for thirty nine years, four nights out of five, and Sunday mornings at seven, and came home at eleven and sat in the yellow chair.

There is a minyan there on weekdays. It has let out. Four old men stand on the sidewalk in the sun the way old men do, at the exact distance from the door where a conversation can go another twenty minutes, and one of them is telling the others something with both hands.

Grossbard parks across the street and turns off the engine.

He knows two of those men. Neither of them would know him. They are eighty five years old and they have no phones and they do not read the Journal and they have never heard of any of it.

He watches them for eleven minutes. Then he starts the car and goes.

He does not go in and there is no reason he can give.

At four he turns the phone on in the driveway. Sixty one emails. A vendor about the fire inspection. Three about the bar mitzvah calendar. Josh Adelman about a term sheet Grossbard has no opinion about. A man in Toronto who has written to him every Tuesday since 2019 about the Documentary Hypothesis and who does not know it is his day off.

Nothing has happened. Nobody has died. Nobody needs him and the machine is running without him and it will run without him tomorrow too.

He turns the phone off and sits in the driveway.

Dina gets home at 4:30 on Tuesdays and turns around at five to take her sister to the eye doctor in Encino, and the house at 5:20 is very quiet again.

He goes to the shelf and takes down his father’s Mishnayos with the cracked spine.

He sits in the good chair by the window with the light going and opens to where he left off in his mother’s room in April, and he starts, out loud, in the singsong.

Eleven minutes.

It dies at eleven minutes. He hears his own voice in a room with nobody in it and the sound goes flat and he loses the thread of the argument twice and then a third time, and he sits there with his thumb on the page.

In his mother’s room he did eighteen minutes without effort and could have done ninety. One old woman with a candy in her cheek and a crossword in her lap, and the whole thing held.

He closes the book. He does not make a note of this. He does not compose the sentence about it, and the not composing takes work.

At 7:50 he drives to a shul on Pico he has never been inside, a Persian congregation with a daf yomi at eight in a side room with a water cooler and eleven chairs.

Six men. The maggid shiur is a jeweler named Nasser who has been giving it for four years.

Grossbard sits in the back and says nothing.

Nasser is not very good. He is prepared, which is more than most, and he is warm, and he mangles a Rashi at the twelve minute mark in a way that turns the whole sugya around backward, and none of the six men notices, and they go on for another thirty five minutes on a foundation that is upside down.

Grossbard sits on his hands.

It is the hardest work he does all day and there is no one in the room who knows he is doing it.

At the end Nasser says the kaddish and a man of about eighty next to Grossbard takes a tin of mints out of his jacket, opens it, and holds it out without looking over.

Grossbard takes one.

“Thank you,” he says.

The man nods and puts the tin away.

He is home at 9:35. Dina is at the table with the crossword folded in eighths.

“How was your Tuesday.”

“Fine.”

She looks up. He hangs the jacket on the chair and goes to get a glass of water and that is the whole report.

The imaging place calls Thursday afternoon. Everything is normal for a man his age. They want him back in a year.

He never mentions it to anybody, which is the hardest thing he does that week

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