At the office where I used to work, one entrepreneurial colleague cooks a cholent, a stew of beans, barley, potatoes and more, Thursday night to share with his colleagues on Friday.[1] He omits one traditional ingredient, however, failing to add meat so the dish remains pareve. It’s still a cholent, but maybe not as much as the fleishig one my family eats Shabbos afternoon, which raises the deep question of how much you can leave out of the pot and still call it cholent. This is a version of the Sorites Paradox, in which we cannot say how many or which specific grains of wheat form a heap. If we take away one grain at a time, at what point does the pile lose its status as a heap? Vague definitions invite confusion at the margins. I leave the resolution of this and related dilemmas to philosophers and gourmands, but a similar question nagged at me as I read Jewish Theology in Our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations & Future of Jewish Belief.

The collection is edited by Elliot Cosgrove, who serves as rabbi of the Park Avenue Synagogue which has long been one of the most prestigious Conservative pulpits in America. Cosgrove asked leading figures from the different Jewish denominations to present their visions of Judaism in brief, accessible language. Cosgrove’s work in bringing theology to the public is laudable. The Jewish community needs more conversation on this subject because if we stop talking about God we risk losing sight of Him.[2] The diversity of views and styles in this collection of essays makes for a fascinating read but raises two fundamental questions: what is theology and how can it be Jewish? The answers provided in the book, both explicitly and implicitly, left this reader feeling a little empty.

In the book’s preface, Carole Balin, Reform professor at Hebrew Union College, defines theology as “the process of piecing together a personally meaningful understanding of God.” William Plevan, a Conservative scholar of Buber, puts it more personally: “Theology is about the relationship between God and God’s creatures.” But is this enough? Doesn’t theology—or at least Jewish theology—require that the pieces in question be drawn from tradition and that the resulting mosaic not be entirely idiosyncratic?

What, then, is Jewish theology? Is it how Jews, either communities or individuals, understand that relationship? Every Jew wants to think that his beliefs and understandings are inherently Jewish but that isn’t so. After all, we have a long history of syncretizing our religion with others, adopting entirely a different faith or rejecting God altogether. “For My people have committed two evils,” accuses Jeremiah (2:13) in the name of God, “they have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewn themselves cisterns—broken cisterns that can hold no water.” If Jewish theology is defined by the beliefs of individuals then it is a meaningless term because it encompasses every broken cistern that any Jew carves in his thoughts.

If Jewish theology is not whatever Jews are thinking about religion, then what is it? To a traditionalist like me, the definition is fairly easy. Jewish theology is based on Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles as accepted in subsequent history and, for anything not covered by them, the canonical texts of the rabbinic literature and their broadly defined commentary.[3] Remove a belief from that heap and you have unacceptable, heretical beliefs. But are they Jewish even in a cultural sense?[4] Can one truly suggest that Martin Buber’s heretical teachings consist of an entirely non-Jewish theology because they do not adhere to the Thirteen Principles?

We return now to our Sorites Paradox. Take away a grain and it is still a heap, just less so than before. Take away belief in a messianic redemption and, perhaps, it is still Jewish theology in a cultural sense just less Jewish than prior. But even vague definitions have their limits. At what point does a theology stop being even heretically Jewish? How much can be removed before the heap travels so far from its Jewish origin that it turns into a few grains in close proximity?

Marc Shapiro, an Orthodox academic, suggests in his essay that “an authentic Jewish theology can[not] entirely remove God from the world and deny the existence of a revelation to humanity.” If we accept these liberal limitations for even a heretical Jewish theology, and add that it has to emerge from and grapple with Jewish sources,[5] then some of the essays in this book still fail even this basic test.

Bradley Shavit Artson, dean of the Conservative rabbinical school at the American Jewish University, proposes a Spinozan definition of God that he believes is demanded by evolution, relativity and quantum theory. His view, at least as presented in this essay, neither emerges from nor grapples with Jewish sources, based on not even a single verse or rabbinic precedent. Benjamin Sax, on the other hand, a “self-defined secular Jew,” definitely grapples with Jewish sources. His essay is among the book’s richest in rabbinic treasures. But his agnosticism certainly does not emerge from those sources, nor does it pass the basic theological requirement of belief in God. These are not even small heaps.

Shapiro’s definition is not the only one. In one of the most systematic and impressive contributions to the volume, Reform rabbi Evan Moffic proposes four requirements of authentic Judaism: God, identification with the global Jewish community, emerging from Jewish sources and accepting a multivocal pluralism. Perhaps a little too cleverly, he includes Reform Judaism while excluding Jews for Jesus, who identify with the Baptist church, and intolerant Charedim, who fail the pluralism criterion. Even according to this Reform thinker, Artston’s and Sax’s essays fail the test of Jewish theology.

The cynical reader is surely, by now, tired of this pietistic labeling. Why do we need to define a cultural Jewish theology? We know Judaism when we see it. A little common sense, after all, goes a long way. This exercise is not, however, merely a means of writing out of the Jewish community anything that makes me uncomfortable. It is a convenient way of expressing what is missing from nearly all of these essays by up-and-coming theologians. The contributors to this volume are skilled writers and trained thinkers. They are passionate about their Judaism and express their views with an almost missionary zeal. Yet despite their erudition and eloquence, they generally, with isolated exceptions, omit two crucial Jewish concepts from their essays.

The first is that of tradition and continuity. There is always room for new approaches and ideas. No study hall, the Talmud says, is bereft of a new idea (Chagigah 3a). Yet we must still follow the general paths of our teachers throughout the ages, accepting the accumulated wisdom of the generations and innovating within them.[6] Yes, the challenges of modernity are formidable but they do not render tradition useless, a value so ineffectual we need not even keep it in our toolbox. What dwarf would choose to jump off a giant’s shoulders? The task of Jewish theologians is to clarify and formulate the Jewish traditions in today’s language and perspective, to give voice to the implicit and often elusive theology of the ages. It is not to invent a new theology. A theology missing the fundamental concepts accepted and taught by our teachers is lacking Tevye the milkman’s sole definition of Judaism—tradition.

Consider the contribution of Shai Held, a Conservative rabbi and educator. Held begins traditionally by noting the debt of gratitude people owe God for creating them, although failing to locate the obligation for this gratitude which others attribute to Natural Law.[7] R. Sa’adia Ga’on and R. Bachya Ibn Pakuda see obedience as the proper display of gratitude to one’s Creator.[8] Held moves in a different direction, asserting that imitation of God flows directly from one’s gratitude. This required imitatio Dei is in addition to observing the law, a prophetic mandate that complements the Mosaic commandments. “Let me be clear,” Held dramatically declares, “Halakhah is not enough.” Deviating from every halakhic code with which I am familiar, Held states that clothing the naked, visiting the sick, burying the dead and comforting the bereaved are beyond legally required behavior.[9] Distinguishing between law and theology, he says that “Judaism means piety and social action, love of God and love of neighbor.” No prophet, the Talmud states, may innovate a teaching (Megillah 2b-3a). The prophet inspires and rebukes, adding poetry to the prose of law. The rabbinic tradition teaches that social action is part and parcel of piety. Jews may require inspiration and encouragement but Jewish law already requires love of both God and neighbor. In his laudable zeal to promote a theology of social action, Held simply ignores what past Jewish scholars have written about it.
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The second missing element is the basis of all theological inquiry, what the Bible tells us is the first step toward enlightenment: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Psalms 111:10). Fear of God, awe and reverence of the Creator and Sustainer of the universe, is the cornerstone of human relations with God. Fear of punishment, of loss of His sustenance or love, is the first step toward acquiring a healthy relationship with God, one fully aware of the dependencies in the relationship.[10] Of all the twenty-four contributors to this volume, only Daniel Nevins, dean of the Conservative rabbinical school of the Jewish Theological Seminary, mentions reverence of God as an element of Jewish theology. He writes that “a person must be reverent in order to subjugate the individual will and follow a path set by God.” The declaration is accurate but woefully understated.

“If there is no fear of God, there is no wisdom,” says the Mishnah (Avos 3:17), echoing biblical precedents (Psalms 11:10, Proverbs 1:7). Theology without awe is a reckless study of the meaning of life without adequate concern for its implications. You must tremble over the results of your investigations. They have to tug at your very being because your findings affect your understanding of your existential purpose. Theologians throughout the ages have approached their subject with a fearful hesitation, cognizant of the profound implications of their work.

Theology is about your relationship with God. That relationship must start with an acknowledgment of who is in charge, who is the master and who the servant, who is the provider and who the beneficiary. That is the beginning of the religious bond, the foundation on which to build a mutual love. Without that powerful awe, the questions of theology are all academic. You can easily accept or reject a premise based on your intellectual predilection. A reverential servant may agonize over principles of faith but will not reject them. He will not dismiss Divine revelation nor relegate God to nature. This fear is sorely missing from the volume, both in content and in spirit.

Despite these reservations, I see in this volume potential for great change in non-Orthodox Jewish theology. The many sensitive and creative writers are seeking increased connection to Jewish texts. They show a willingness to rethink their relationships to the past and to find inspiration in history. The growing centrality of traditional texts to young Jewish theologians may lead to a reinvigoration of past approaches, to a bridge that establishes continuity with past traditions, to uncovering an old recipe for a rich, meaty cholent.

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[1] Cholent is a traditional Shabbos dish because it cooks slowly overnight, allowing for a hot lunch despite the prohibition of cooking on Shabbos. Nearly a thousand years ago, R. Zerachiah HaLevi of Provence wrote that, according to some, the Sages enacted an obligation to eat cholent joyously on Shabbos (Sefer HaMaor on Rif, Shabbos 16b).
[2] See Rema’s gloss to Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 1:1 and Malbim’s Artzos HaChaim, Eretz Yehudah 1:2 for the Maimonidean background.
[3] See Maimonides, Commentary to the Mishnah, Sanhedrin 10:1. On the significance of acceptance and consensus in these areas, see Responsa Chasam Sofer, Yoreh Deah 356; R. J. David Bleich, With Perfect Faith (Ktav: 1983), p. 4; and my “Crossroads: Where Theology Meets Halacha” in Modern Judaism 24:3 (October 2004).
[4] I will use the term “heretically Jewish” because it is a convenient, if imprecise, phrase. Maimonides defines the term Israelite in the Mishnah’s statement (Sanhedrin 10:1) “All Israelites have a place in the world to come” as someone who accepts the thirteen fundamental principles of faith. A heretically Jewish belief is an oxymoron because if it is heretical, it is by definition not Jewish. This is in contrast to a Jewish heretic, who is subject to the biological definition of Jewish ancestry. I use the term “heretically Jewish” here in a sociological sense to demonstrate the distance these theologians have traveled from authentic Judaism.
[5] In a communication dated August 3, 2010, Prof. Shapiro agreed with this additional requirement.
[6] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchiks decried deviation (shinuy) while applauding innovation (chiddush). See And From There You Shall Seek (Ktav: 2008), p. 108 and R. Soloveitchik’s 1975 lecture to RIETS Rabbinic Alumni.
[7] See R. Chaim Shmuelevitz, Sichos Mussar (Beha’alosecha 5732) and the sources in the following note.
[8] Emunos VeDei’os 3:1; Chovos HaLevavos, Shaar Avodas Hashem, introduction.
[9] See e.g. Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Matenos Aniyim 7:1, Hilkhos Avel 14:1; Shulchan Arukh, Yoreh Deah 151:12, 247:1, 335:1, 343:1; Kitzur Shulchan Arukh 34:1, 193:1, 198:8, 207:1. See also this post: link
[10] I include here three types of fear – yiras ha’onesh, yiras haromemus and yirah me’ahavah, fear of punishment, fear of awe and fear out of love. On these, see Orechos Tzadikim, ch. 28, ch. 5 (end).