Responsibility Must Work Both Ways

Chareidi enlistment requires courage from the Chareidi community — and trustworthiness from the IDF

Two recent stories highlight both the promise and the risks in expanding Chareidi military service.

The first is genuinely encouraging. Chareidi recruits arriving at the Tel Hashomer induction center spoke openly about their desire to serve while remaining committed to their religious identity. One young man described working hard for the chance to enlist; another insisted he would keep his black kippah and peyos because “that is who I am.” A father proudly brought his firstborn to join a combat unit in the Chashmonaim Brigade. Family members articulated a principle many of us have long supported: full‑time learners should be protected, but those not learning full‑time should serve.

These recruits are not leaving the Torah world. They want to serve as members of it—and to return from their service knowing that they still have an honored place within it

Moti Leitner, chairman of HaTzibbur HaCharedi, accompanied the recruits and told them something they rarely hear from Chareidi political leadership: that they deserve pride, not embarrassment. His message—that their community values them—matters almost as much as the creation of suitable military frameworks. Chareidi soldiers need to know not only that they can remain religious while serving, but that they will be welcomed home with honor.

“The days when the political leadership was ashamed of you are over,” Leitner told them. “We are proud of you, and we deeply appreciate you.”

That message matters almost as much as the creation of suitable military frameworks. Chareidi recruits need more than assurances that they can remain religious while serving. They need to know what will happen when they come home. Will they be treated as young men who abandoned the community, or as Chareidim who accepted a difficult responsibility on behalf of Klal Yisrael?

We will not be ashamed of you. When your service ends, you will still have a home among us

At the same time, a troubling story emerged from Givati’s Rotem Battalion. Sixteen religious soldiers were reportedly punished after refusing to participate in an operational activity inside an armored vehicle with a female paramedic. Five Hesder students received ten-day prison sentences, while eleven other soldiers received shorter terms of confinement.

It is important to state the facts accurately. Rotem is not a Chareidi battalion, and the soldiers involved were Hesder students rather than Chareidi recruits. Nevertheless, what happens to religious soldiers elsewhere in the IDF will inevitably influence whether Chareidi families believe the army’s promises.

The published accounts present sharply conflicting versions of the incident. The soldiers say agreed‑upon religious arrangements were violated; the IDF says the mission was urgent, the brigade rabbi approved it, and the refusal caused the mission’s cancellation.

The facts remain disputed, and without the full investigation, I am not prepared to declare that the commanders were pursuing an anti-religious agenda. Nor can I simply assume that every decision described as an operational necessity was unavoidable. 

In combat, circumstances arise that cannot be managed according to ideal peacetime arrangements. Saving lives and carrying out an urgent mission may require soldiers to work alongside people they would not ordinarily encounter in their preferred religious framework. A female paramedic needed for an operation is not an ideological provocation. 

But religious soldiers are entitled to expect that commitments made to them will be honored whenever circumstances allow. If arrangements can be brushed aside casually—or if soldiers come to believe commanders view those arrangements with contempt—confidence will erode far beyond a single platoon.

Chareidi recruitment depends upon trust.

Parents are not only worried about kosher food or time to daven. They fear that military service may slowly detach their sons from the religious identity and community in which they were raised. Some fears are exaggerated, but not all are imaginary. The IDF cannot simply ask families to ignore everything they have heard. It must earn trust through clear rules, careful selection of commanders, meaningful rabbinic oversight, and transparent handling of violations. A Chareidi framework must remain genuinely Chareidi, not a recruitment device whose standards fade after enlistment.

This does not mean that soldiers can dictate operational decisions or refuse orders whenever they are uncomfortable. No army can function that way. It means that commanders must distinguish between genuine operational necessity and avoidable disregard for religious commitments— and investigate disputes honestly rather than burying them under slogans.

The Chareidi community has corresponding responsibilities. It cannot treat every difficult incident as proof that no Chareidi man can ever serve. If every exception becomes a reason to reject every framework, no accommodation will ever suffice. Absolute guarantees are impossible in military service, just as they are in hospitals, emergency services, or many other areas of adult life.

The real question is whether the army is making a sincere and sustained effort to protect religious observance—not whether it can guarantee that a soldier will never confront a religiously complicated situation.

Nor can the Chareidi leadership continue condemning the army wholesale while refusing to help design better frameworks. If it truly fears for the religious lives of Chareidi soldiers, it should help build appropriate units, enforce standards, provide rabbinic guidance, and intervene when commitments are violated. Total rejection preserves ideological purity but helps no one—not those already serving and not those who believe they should.

This is why the scene at Tel Hashomer was so significant. The recruits were taking a risk in more than the ordinary military sense. They were defying intense communal pressure and entering an institution they had often been taught to fear. They were trusting the army not to force them to choose between service and religious commitment, while hoping their own community would not reject them for the decision they had made.

Leitner’s embrace of the recruits therefore represented more than a political photo opportunity. It was a promise: You are not alone. We are proud of you. When your service ends, you will still have a home among us.

HaTzibbur HaCharedi can play a crucial role by creating a respected place within Chareidi society for those who serve—both before enlistment, when encouragement is needed, and afterward, when these young men return to build families and futures within the community.

For decades, potential recruits have heard warnings about everything they might lose: religious standards, social standing, marriage prospects, even family relationships. If Chareidi enlistment is ever to grow, they must hear a different message from within the community: responsible service in an appropriate framework does not make them less Chareidi.

The IDF must deliver the corresponding message through its conduct. Religious protections cannot be recruitment‑stage promises forgotten afterward. Operational conflicts will arise, and religious soldiers will sometimes face situations they would not have chosen. But those exceptions must remain exceptions, handled with sensitivity and honesty.

Opponents of all Chareidi enlistment will use every disputed incident to argue that the army cannot be trusted. The IDF should not strengthen their case by appearing indifferent to legitimate concerns. Advocates of greater participation must also be honest: we cannot minimize real failures or dismiss every complaint as propaganda. If we want families to trust Chareidi frameworks, we must insist that promised protections are real.

There will be no solution if only one side is expected to change. The Chareidi community must acknowledge that men not learning full‑time have a responsibility to contribute to national defense. The IDF must recognize that successful integration requires preserving—not erasing—the identity of those it seeks to enlist.

There will be no solution if only one side is expected to change. Responsibility cannot be demanded from the Chareidi community alone. It must work both ways

The young men at Tel Hashomer demonstrate that Chareidi service is possible. The controversy in Rotem demonstrates how easily confidence can be damaged when religious soldiers believe their commitments have not been respected. Both deserve serious attention.

Together, they point toward the only workable path: service joined with religious protection, obligation joined with accommodation, and courage answered by trustworthiness. Responsibility cannot be demanded from the Chareidi community alone. It must work both ways.

 

The One Question of Elul - A Shiur from Rav Michel Twerski שליט"א

This essay was adapted from a longer chapter in a forthcoming sefer on the Yamim Tovim, presenting the Torah of HaRav Michel Twerski שליט״א and prepared with his blessing and encouragement.

Elul is often described as a time for introspection, improvement, and teshuvah. We ask ourselves familiar questions: What have I done wrong? What do I need to fix? Where have I fallen short? These are important questions, certainly. But perhaps they are not yet the deepest question of Elul.

To understand Elul, we need to return to its beginning.

Rosh Chodesh Elul was the day Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai for the third time. The first forty days had ended in catastrophe, when Moshe came down carrying the first Luchos and found Klal Yisrael worshipping the Egel. Those Luchos were shattered. The second forty days were days of pleading, as Moshe begged Hashem to forgive Klal Yisrael. But those days are described as days of anger, yemei ka’as. Only the third forty-day period — from Rosh Chodesh Elul until Yom Kippur — became yemei ratzon, days of Divine favor.

That itself demands explanation. During the middle forty days Moshe was also davening. He was also pleading for forgiveness. So what changed? Why were those days still days of anger, while the final forty became days of favor?

There is another question. Before the final ascent, Klal Yisrael sounded the shofar, warning the people not to repeat the tragic mistake of the Egel. That is one source for our custom of blowing shofar during Elul. But why only then? If the shofar was meant to warn Klal Yisrael not to fall again, why was it not sounded before the second forty days?

Regret Is Not Yet Teshuvah

The answer may lie in the difference between regret and true teshuvah.

A person can regret a sin for many reasons. He may regret the punishment. He may regret the embarrassment. He may regret the consequences. He may even regret that the pleasure was not as satisfying as he imagined it would be. That is a very human form of regret. It is real, but it is still centered on the self.

Someone eats the forbidden cheeseburger and later says, “It was not worth it.” That is something. But what exactly was not worth it? The price? The guilt? The indigestion? The disappointment? If so, then the regret still revolves around the person’s own experience.

There is a deeper level. A person may realize that, while doing the wrong thing, he felt cheapened. He did not like himself. He sensed that he had lowered himself. That too is more serious. But even that can still remain self-focused: “I did not feel good about myself.”

The deepest teshuvah begins when a Jew recognizes that the problem with sin is not merely that it brings punishment, or disappointment, or even personal degradation. The real tragedy of sin is that it separates a person from Hashem — and in separating from Hashem, a Jew separates from his own essence.

A Ben Melech is not merely a private citizen who happens to live in the palace. His entire identity is bound up with the king. If he abuses his royal status, his failure is not only that he committed a crime. His failure is that he betrayed who he is. He acted as though he could use his closeness to the king as license to live apart from the king.

The Illusion of Having Both Worlds

That was, in some profound way, the failure of Klal Yisrael at the Egel. After Matan Torah, they had reached an exalted spiritual level. Chazal teach that they had been lifted beyond ordinary mortality, beyond ordinary vulnerability. They had seen with absolute clarity that Hashem is God and that there is none other. Precisely because of that closeness, they imagined that they could not truly lose it. They could stand at Sinai and still make room for something else. They could remain attached to Hashem and yet indulge a separate desire.

It is the illusion described by Eliyahu HaNavi: “How long will you limp between two opinions?” How long will you try to belong completely to Hashem and also to something else?

We are not as far from that as we would like to think. Each of us knows moments of spiritual clarity. We know what it means to be moved by a tefillah, a niggun, a page of Gemara, a Shabbos table, a moment of truth. And then, sometimes only moments later, we return to our habits, our cravings, our irritations, our jealousies, our distractions — and yes, sometimes even to perfectly kosher puff pastry — that somehow becomes part of our personal struggle with self-indulgence.

The issue is not pastry. The issue is whether we imagine that we can have both worlds: to be fully attached to Hashem and at the same time reserve some little corner of life that is ours alone.

The middle forty days after the Egel were days of anger because Klal Yisrael had not yet reached the root of the matter. They were sorry. Of course they were sorry. They had lost the crowns of Sinai. They had lost their exalted state. They understood that the Egel had not been worth it. But that was not yet enough.

Only after forty days of reflection did they come to understand the deeper truth: that no Jew can take even one step away from HaKadosh Baruch Hu without betraying his own essence. A Jew is real, whole, and alive only to the extent that he is attached to Hashem.

At that point, the shofar could be sounded. Before then, the warning would not have been understood. Once Klal Yisrael grasped the truth, the shofar could call out: Do not drift again. Do not imagine again that closeness to Hashem gives permission to live at a distance from Him.

An insight is not yet a transformation. Elul is the time for truth to enter the heart, the habits, and the daily schedule

This is also why the final forty days were necessary. An insight is not yet a transformation. A person can understand something in a flash, but it takes time for that understanding to enter the heart, the limbs, the habits, the imagination, the daily schedule. The forty days of Elul are not merely a time to know the truth. They are a time to become the kind of person for whom that truth is real.

This helps us understand the famous phrase of Chazal that “in the place where Ba’alei Teshuvah stand, even complete Tzaddikim cannot stand.” The Chiddushei HaRim, as quoted by the Sfas Emes and the Baal HaTanya explained it with the image of a rope. When a rope is torn and then tied again, the knot may be stronger than the original strand. The Ba’al Teshuvah has known distance. He has tasted the emptiness of separation. When he returns, his bond can possess a force and intensity that did not exist before.

That is the opportunity of Elul.

One of the well-known hints to Elul is the verse, Ani l’dodi v’dodi li — “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” The order matters. First, ani l’dodi — I give myself to Hashem. Only then, v’dodi li — my Beloved is mine. If there is some reservation, some hesitation, some private corner of “I belong to myself over here,” then the relationship remains incomplete.

The Question That Changes Everything

So perhaps the question of Elul is not simply, “What should I do better this year?”

That question is important, but it can still begin with me: my improvement, my fulfillment, my goals, my sense of accomplishment. A person can even become a spiritual “do-gooder” while still building an agenda around himself.

The deeper question is: What does the Ribono Shel Olam want of me?

The deeper question of Elul is not only, ‘What should I do better?’ but, ‘What does the Ribono Shel Olam want of me?

That question changes everything. It may affect how I daven, how I learn, how I speak to my spouse, how I treat my children, how I conduct business, how I use my time, how I respond when no one is watching. It may lead me to conclusions I would not have reached had I begun only with my own preferences.

Elul asks us to say: Ribono Shel Olam, I am Yours. My agenda, my program, my ambitions, my plans — all of them must become secondary to Your will.

If we can ask that question honestly, and live with it through these forty days, then Elul can do what it is meant to do. It can return us not merely to better behavior, but to ourselves. It can bring us back to the place where life has meaning because it is attached to its Source.

That is the sound of the shofar. It is the call to stop pretending that distance is harmless. It is the call to return to who we really are.

Published in the Jewish Press August 26, 2026

An Elul Message from Dolly Parton, of blessed memory

I heard the sad news yesterday of the loss of one of my favorite songwriters...a genuinely good person who brought joy to so many.  Famous to some only for her physical appearance, she wrote some absolutley beautiful and touching ballads that touched the hearts of many, and was known for her kindness, generosity and deep faith.

This is my favorite Dolly song ... it contains a powerful and much needed Elul message (I bolded a few particular lines). 

 

Hello God

Hello God, are you out there?
Can you hear me, are you listening anymore?
Hello God, if we're still on speaking terms
Can you help me like before?
I have questioned your existence
My resistance leaves me cold
Can you help me go the distance?
Hello God, hello, hello?

This old world has gone to pieces
Can we fix it, is there time?
Hate and violence just increases
We're so selfish, cruel and blind
We fight and kill each other
In your name, defending you
Do you love some more than others?
We're so lost and confused

Hello God, are you out there?
Can you hear us, are you listening anymore?
Hello God, if we're still on speaking terms
Can you help us like before?
Oh, the free will you have given
We have made a mockery of
This is no way to be living
We're in great need of your love

 

Hello God, can you grant us
Love enough to make amends?
Hello God, is there still a chance
That we could start again?
Hello God, we've learned our lesson
Dear God, don't let us go
More than ever
Hello God, hello, hello

Hello God, we really need you
We can't make it without you
Hello God, we beseech you
In the name of all that's true
Hello God, please forgive us
For we know not what we do
Hello God, give us one more chance to prove ourselves to you
Hello, God, hello, God

A Fork in the Road

Channel 13 reports that elements associated with the Peleg Yerushalmi have been exploring the possibility of yet another Chareidi political party formed with several leading figures unsatisfied with the “mainstream” parties — one that would take an even more uncompromising position against military service. The name it has taken is “Code Black” (Tzeva Shachor) from the network  they developed to alert supporters when military police attempt to arrest Chareidi draft evaders. Demonstrators are then dispatched to obstruct the arrest.

At almost the same moment, a very different Chareidi political movement has begun taking shape around Moti Leitner, deputy mayor of Beit Shemesh. Leitner argues that genuine full-time Torah learners must be protected, but that the great majority of Chareidi men should serve in the military or perform meaningful national service. He speaks openly about teaching mathematics and English, preparing young people to earn a dignified living, representing working Chareidim, and helping Chareidi olim find their place in Israeli society.

These are not merely two competing political organizations. They represent two very different possible futures for the Chareidi community.

I know which one I hope will succeed.

I say this as someone who is completely committed to Torah and who has spent most of his adult life teaching it. I am primarily a product of Chareidi Yeshivos and virtually all of my family identifies as Chareidi. I served for approximately twenty years as a congregational rabbi in the United States before returning with my wife to live in Israel nearly eight years ago. The Torah world that formed me was shaped by Gedolim such as Rav Moshe Feinstein, Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky, Rav Joseph Breuer, and Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach ob”m. 

That world believed passionately in Torah learning. But it did not teach us that working honestly to support one’s family made a person a second-class Jew. It did not teach that being a good neighbor, respecting other Jews, or accepting responsibility for the society around us represented a surrender to secular values. It understood that Torah Im Derech Eretz could produce Jews who were fully and unapologetically committed to Torah while participating responsibly in the world around them.

Yet in much of today’s Chareidi political culture, the definition of loyalty has become steadily narrower. Working, serving, pursuing professional training, or seeking broader educational opportunities can place a person at the edge of the community. The message is often that there is only one ideal path, and that everyone else is, at best, an accommodation.

That is not sustainable for the Chareidi community, and it is not fair to the many sincere Torah Jews whose lives do not fit that mold.

For years, the national debate over Chareidi military service has been presented as a choice between defending Torah and surrendering to those who hate it. That is a false and destructive choice.

The question “Shall your brothers go to war while you sit here?” was asked by Moshe Rabbeinu—not by Yair Lapid, the Supreme Court, or an anti-religious demonstrator. It is a Torah question, and it deserves a Torah answer.

Certainly, there are young men sincerely immersed in full-time Torah learning whose continued learning should be protected. The IDF must also create dependable frameworks in which Chareidi soldiers can serve without being required to compromise their religious standards. Collective punishments and rhetoric portraying an entire community as parasitic will predictably produce greater resistance rather than cooperation.

But that cannot justify a blanket communal exemption. A young man who is not genuinely learning is not being exempted because of his Torah learning. He is being exempted because he is Chareidi. After years of war, repeated reserve duty, bereaved families, and a genuine military manpower shortage, that position is both morally indefensible and politically doomed.

This is why Leitner’s willingness to say that those who are not suited for full-time yeshiva learning should accept responsibility is so important. He is not saying it as an outsider seeking to destroy the Chareidi world. He is saying it as someone formed by that world who wants it to survive and flourish.

The same is true of education and employment. We cannot lament Chareidi poverty while denying young people the basic tools they need to earn a living. We cannot tell a father that he must support his family and then stigmatize him for seeking the education or professional training that would allow him to do so. We cannot say that every child is precious while offering too few alternatives to those who do not succeed in the standard yeshiva framework.

Most important, people should not have to leave the Chareidi community in order to be heard within it.

Working Chareidim pay taxes, raise families, establish businesses, learn Torah, support communal institutions, and contribute to Israeli society. Chareidi soldiers and national-service volunteers do not cease to be Chareidi when they put on a uniform or enter a hospital, ambulance, police station, or public agency. Parents who want their children to learn English and mathematics are not necessarily seeking to take them away from Torah. They may simply want their children to enter adulthood with genuine choices.

These are not merely two competing political organizations. They represent two very different possible futures for the Chareidi community

These people are not a problem to be managed. They are part of the Chareidi public and deserve political representation of their own.

That is what makes the movement around Leitner significant. It is not calling upon Chareidim to become secular or to dissolve themselves into broader Israeli culture. It is saying that a person should be able to declare, without embarrassment or apology: I am Chareidi. I work. I serve. I support my family. I care about my country. And I still belong in my community.

No politician deserves automatic support, and no new party should be excused from presenting serious policies, responsible candidates, and financial transparency. Leitner and those around him will have to prove that they can translate their attractive principles into workable proposals.

A person should be able to declare, without embarrassment or apology: I am Chareidi. I work. I serve. I support my family. I care about my country. And I still belong in my community.

But political change begins by making it possible to say things that the existing establishment refuses to say. In his Jerusalem Post interview, Leitner said clearly that a successful Chareidi society and a successful Israel are not competing goals. To a great extent, each depends upon the other.

That should not be a revolutionary statement. Unfortunately, in the present Chareidi political environment, it is.

I recently became acquainted with this movement and was invited to contribute to its efforts. I accepted because I have waited many years to hear a serious political voice emerge from within the Chareidi community and say these things openly.

If there is political room for those who want to respond to Israel’s present crisis with still greater separation and an even more uncompromising rejection of service, there must also be room for Chareidim who seek a different future—one built upon Torah, responsibility, dignified work, education, service, and mutual respect.

The Chareidi community stands at a fork in the road. One path leads toward deeper isolation, growing poverty, greater resentment, and an increasingly bitter confrontation with the rest of Israeli society.

The other allows us to remain fully loyal to Torah while taking responsibility for our families, our community, and the country in which HaKadosh Baruch Hu has given us the privilege to live.

That is the path Moti Leitner is trying to open. It is a path worth taking.

Published in the Times of Israel, Israel National News, Queens Jewish Link, and Jewish Press

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When Did “Lately” Begin?

An Elul question about the boundaries of our grief

A recent family message about the death of another young person during Bein Hazmanim began with words that were entirely natural: “Terrible. It seems that the middas hadin has really been strong against us at this time. There have been so many tragedies lately.”

I shared the sorrow. There is something especially heartbreaking and frightening when a young person dies, particularly someone we know or to whom we feel some connection. Hashem yerachem. May the family somehow be given the strength to endure its terrible loss.

But one word stopped me: “lately.”

In the past few weeks, news sites serving chareidi and yeshiva communities have reported a horrifying series of deaths during bein hazmanim. The headlines have spoken of a “black and horrifying twenty-four hours,” of “tragedy following tragedy,” and of families suddenly losing their children. A VINnews op-ed by Yehuda Dov asked, “How Many Will We Cry For This Bein Hazmanim?” These are fair and necessary questions. The calls for greater attention to water safety, hiking, vehicles and basic precautions are long overdue.

Yet there is another question that Elul demands we ask: Whom does the “we” include?

I am not, chas v’shalom, suggesting that any tragedy is a punishment for anything. None of us has access to the Ribbono Shel Olam’s accounting, and people who confidently assign reasons for suffering generally reveal more about themselves than about the ways of Hashem. The cheshbon hanefesh I am proposing is not about why suffering occurred. It is about how we have responded to the suffering already before us.

For a very large part of Klal Yisrael, “lately” began on October 7, 2023.

Official Israeli figures now record nearly 2,000 civilians and members of the security forces killed since the war began. More than 25,000 wounded Israelis have entered the Defense Ministry’s rehabilitation system, many of them with psychological injuries. The IDF recorded twenty-two suspected suicides in 2025 alone. And National Insurance figures published this summer show that almost half of the reservists who have served since October 7 accumulated at least 150 days of reserve duty; one in five served more than 300 days.

Those are not merely statistics. Behind those numbers are young widows, bereaved parents, and children who learned to stop asking when Abba was coming home. You find wives who carried households alone for months, ruined small businesses, and soldiers who returned physically intact but still fight the war every night when they try to sleep.  Too many have not made it — just this week I read of William Shakin ע"ה, a YU student who went to fight in Israel as a lone soldier, who succumbed to PTSD.  They are so many religious soldiers—yirei Shamayim, graduates and students of yeshivot, fathers who put down a Gemara and picked up a rifle because Jewish lives were in danger.

Much of the chareidi world has been insulated from this reality. Not entirely, of course. Some Chareidi Jews have davened, donated, cooked, visited the wounded and performed extraordinary acts of chesed. ZAKA volunteers entered scenes most of us cannot bear to imagine. There are chareidi soldiers who have served with courage. Many families have opened their hearts and homes. Any honest account must say this clearly.

But an honest account must also say that life in much of Yerushalayim, Beit Shemesh and Bnei Brak has continued far more normally than life in communities where fathers, sons and husbands repeatedly disappeared into reserve duty. Much of the time, walking around those streets and then visiting homes and families in most of the rest of Israel can feel like moving between two different countries.

What has been most visible from outside the chareidi community has not been shared national mourning or shared sacrifice, but demands: demonstrations against the draft, protests over arrests, battles to preserve government benefits, and increasingly extravagant language about a government “war on Torah.”

That language is not imaginary. Yated Ne’eman has declared “war” after the arrest of yeshiva students and described enforcement as persecution for the “crime of Torah study.” Earlier, Hamodia described a Supreme Court draft ruling as “declaring war on the Torah world.” Matzav has repeatedly presented draft arrests as a crisis facing the Torah world, including a rally whose message was, “If One Bochur Is Arrested, We’ll All Go to Prison.” When the government attempts to levy economic sanctions against those who refuse to serve, the measures are often portrayed as evil attacks targeting the Olam HaTorah for the “crime of learning Torah.”

To be fair, the newspapers and websites associated with chareidi and broader yeshiva communities are not monolithic and do not all say the same thing. At times, they publish forceful calls for chareidi self-examination, and some reports present both the chareidi protest and the authorities’ explanation.

There is also real anti-chareidi hostility in Israeli society, and it would be dishonest to pretend that drafting yeshiva students is as simple as sending out induction notices. As I have written elsewhere, the IDF has failed religious soldiers in the past, and no expansion of chareidi service can be morally serious without enforceable protections for tefillah, kashrus, Shabbos, tznius and a genuinely Torah-observant environment. The hesitation and mistrust are understandable; some previous efforts have not worked well.

But those problems could be addressed if there were a collaborative spirit between the army and chareidi leaders, with both sides sincerely committed to building frameworks that would satisfy the country’s security needs while protecting the religious lives of the young men who serve. To be honest, however, there has not been much genuine institutional willingness within the chareidi world to make such a partnership work. Whatever cooperation has existed has generally been limited and begrudging, while the dominant leadership position has remained opposed to compulsory service even for many young men who are not seriously learning.

But acknowledging those truths does not make every demand for shared responsibility an attack on Torah. It does not turn every enforcement measure into a gezeiras shmad. And it does not answer the pain of a reservist who has served 200 or 300 days and then watches political leaders demand continued communal exemption even for men who are not seriously learning.

The Sanzer Rebbe recently made much the same point: Most ordinary Israelis do not hate Torah, and it is a serious mistake to tell ourselves that they do. Much of the resentment in Israel comes from people who feel that they and their children are being asked to carry an unbearable burden while another community demands public support, broad exemption and the right to block roads when either is threatened. It has been deepened by the demonstrations, incendiary language and other very negative images coming from parts of the chareidi community. Worse still is the suspicion that their grief has not fully entered our emotional world—that we care, certainly, but from a safe distance, before returning to ordinary life.

This is also part of the problem with the way “Olam HaTorah” is sometimes used. For too many people, the “we” seems to include only their own version of the Olam HaTorah—not the hesder student who returned from Gaza to the beis medrash, the talmid chacham serving in reserves, or the young man killed with a sefer in his pack. Their Torah, too, is Torah, and they are no less a part of the Olam HaTorah.

Living between these worlds, I watch this unfold with a heavy heart. From Lakewood, Monsey or Brooklyn, the story can appear terribly simple. A headline says that a bochur was arrested “for learning Torah.” An appeal describes “harsh sanctions on the chareidi community.” A clip shows police confronting demonstrators. The response is immediate: money is raised, outrage is shared, and the Israeli government is cast as the ancient enemy in a familiar story.

Consider a recent Jewish newspaper report promoting a major Keren Olam HaTorah gathering. It described an “unprecedented funding crisis,” 120,000 affected lomdim, and institutions that are “the beating heart of the world of Torah.” It movingly described the hardships confronting yeshivos and families. But it said nothing about why the legal basis for that funding had collapsed, the army’s manpower needs, or the families carrying hundreds of days of reserve duty.

This was not an isolated omission. Much of the Keren Olam HaTorah campaign’s messaging to American audiences has presented a distorted and radically incomplete account of what is happening in Israel. Government support for yeshivos is treated as a natural entitlement whose withdrawal can only be understood as persecution, while the court rulings, the army’s manpower crisis and the extraordinary burden on reservists and their families largely disappear from the story. The individual facts being presented may be true, but the resulting picture is far from the whole truth—and it is precisely the picture many in the American chareidi and broader yeshiva communities receive.

But distance edits out the other half of the picture. Before forwarding the next message about the persecution of the Torah world, speak to an Israeli woman whose husband has spent hundreds of days in uniform. Speak to a religious-Zionist rosh yeshiva who has buried talmidim. Speak to parents whose son survived Gaza but did not return as the same person. Then ask whether the disagreement is really between Torah and its enemies—or whether it is a painful dispute within Klal Yisrael about what Torah now asks of us.

Elul is not a season for one community to put another on trial. The non-chareidi world also needs a cheshbon hanefesh: Have legitimate anger and fear turned into contempt? Have people spoken about chareidim as parasites rather than Jews? Have politicians exploited the draft crisis to humiliate an entire community? Have we adequately respected the spiritual fears of parents who do not trust the army with their sons? Torah learning is not a hobby, and a Jewish state has an obligation to preserve serious, exceptional scholarship and to build service frameworks in which a religious young man can emerge more committed, not less.

But the chareidi world—and the broader yeshiva community, particularly in America—must ask their own questions. Have we allowed the protection of genuine lomdei Torah to become a claim of exemption for an entire social group? Have our newspapers taught readers to interpret every loss of privilege as hatred of Torah? Have we shown the same public anguish for soldiers killed protecting us that we show, properly, when a young person from our own community dies during bein hazmanim? Have we listened carefully enough to the wives, parents and children carrying a burden from which most of us have been spared?

The policy solution will require patience: protection for a limited number of outstanding full-time scholars, meaningful national or military service for many others, strong and enforceable religious safeguards, and a transition that does not destroy families or institutions overnight. Reasonable people will disagree about the details. But no political formula can repair the country unless each community first recognizes the other’s pain.

Perhaps that is the beginning of our avodah this Elul. Our work this Elul is not to calculate why Hashem sent one tragedy or another. It is to enlarge the boundaries of the word “we.” We do not need to abandon our principles to ask whether defending them has made us deaf to another Jew’s cries. It is easy to sing “Acheinu kol beis Yisrael”; Elul demands that we actually mean it

There have indeed been many tragedies lately. The harder question is whether all of them have felt like ours.

Shlomo Carlebach: Too Complicated for Easy Answers

The release of a new documentary about Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, The Darkest Light, has once again opened a discussion that many in the Jewish world thought had quieted down years ago.

Rabbi Harry Maryles recently addressed the subject in a thoughtful post, “The Sad Legacy of Shlomo Carlebach”. Harry goes considerably further than merely acknowledging Carlebach's influence on Jewish music: he compares his lasting musical impact on Jewish music to that of Beethoven and the Beatles on all music. But in light of the serious allegations made by women who say that Carlebach sexually abused or mistreated them, Harry questions the continued veneration of the man.

I understand his position. But as I thought about it, I realized that my own feelings about Shlomo Carlebach are considerably more complicated.

In fact, the most accurate thing one can probably say about his legacy is simply this: it is complicated. Period.

Carlebach and the Orthodox World

It is worth remembering that Carlebach's standing within the Orthodox world was controversial long before any of the allegations of sexual misconduct became widely known.

I remember very well that during the 1970s and 1980s, in much of the yeshiva world, Carlebach was looked upon with great suspicion. Some of his earliest tunes had already become part of the accepted Jewish musical repertoire, but his later music — and certainly his lifestyle and public appearances — were frowned upon in many circles.

In fact, my Rebbe at the time, Rav Nachman Bulman זצ"ל, who was himself very musically gifted, was quite uncomfortable with much of Carlebach's music. Rebbetzin Shaindel Bulman ע"ה had an intense dislike of the man and would not allow his niggunim to be sung in her home. Much later, after the negative stories about Carlebach became more widely known, I understood that she must have had information about him that the rest of us did not.

There is also a fascinating responsum of Rav Moshe Feinstein from 1959, Igrot Moshe, Even HaEzer I:96, discussed here in Tradition, about an unnamed Jewish singer who had begun performing before mixed audiences of young men and women. The singer is widely understood to have been Carlebach.

Rav Moshe was asked whether the man's music could still be used at Jewish weddings and other occasions.

Interestingly, Rav Moshe's answer was more nuanced than I had remembered. He clearly ruled that music composed while the singer was still considered fully observant did not somehow become prohibited because of his later conduct. But he went further, offering substantial reasons for permitting even the later melodies. A melody itself has no inherent sanctity (would a Chassidic posek agree??😊), and the behavior described to Rav Moshe did not make the composer an apostate or someone who had rejected Torah.

None of this, of course, addresses the much more serious conduct alleged many years later. Rav Moshe was writing in 1959 about mixed performances. But it demonstrates something important: the argument over how Orthodox Jews should relate to Shlomo Carlebach is hardly new.

The range of Orthodox reactions to Carlebach continues even today among the rabbanim who have had the greatest influence on me. My current Rebbe of many years, Rav Michel Twerski שליט"א of Milwaukee (who is also an extraordinary composer of beautiful niggunim - I guess I am attracted to musical Rabbis) knew Shlomo from their years together in Lakewood and has retained a deep love for his music. When I visit Milwaukee, Rav Michel will very often ask me to sing what I consider to be Carlebach's magnum opus, his majestic Mimkomcha (not to be confused with his other Mimkomcha which is sung in every week in many shuls, and used for V'Shomru as well.) I love singing it, and it invariably brings an extraordinary response from the shul.

What I Saw in Portland

But there is another side to him that I experienced firsthand.

I arrived as a rabbi in Portland, Oregon, only a few months after Shlomo died in October 1994. On his first yahrzeit, we decided to hold an evening in his memory. We sang some of his music, spoke about him and repeated some of his stories.

Carlebach was, among his many other gifts, an extraordinary storyteller. He had a repertoire of deeply moving stories, and no one could tell them quite the way he did. He could bring out the emotion and spiritual message of a story and somehow make you feel that it was speaking directly to you.

What I remember most about that evening, however, was the people who came.

They seemed to come out of the woodwork from all over Oregon — including people who would never otherwise have darkened the doorstep of our Orthodox synagogue.

They came because of Shlomo.

Over my years in the rabbinate, I came to understand that this was not unusual. Carlebach had an extraordinary ability to reach Jews whom the rest of us were simply not reaching. People who were uncomfortable around rabbis, synagogues and organized Judaism would listen to Shlomo. He could ignite a Jewish spark in someone who seemed completely disconnected.

They connected in his concerts around the world, in his House of Love and Prayer, in Moshav Me’or Modiim, in subways and virtually anywhere - they were attracted by his unconditional love and off the charts charisma.  He radiated a Judaism that was alive and joyous and deeply spiritual with unconditional acceptance of one and all, and it was contagious.

There is no way of counting how many people ultimately became seriously committed Jews because Shlomo first lit that spark. But I would be astonished if the number were not in the hundreds, and probably far more. Some ultimately became fully observant Jews. Many more greatly enhanced their connection with Hashem and Judaism through him. For countless people, their journey began because Shlomo Carlebach touched something in them that nobody else had managed to reach.

That, too, is part of his legacy.

It Wasn't Only the Music

And there is something else often lost when the discussion is reduced to whether we should continue singing Carlebach tunes.

For many people, Shlomo's legacy is not primarily his music at all. It is his Torah.

His Torah emphasized spirituality, joy, human dignity and, perhaps above all, an almost limitless ahavat Yisrael. He could take a verse, a Chassidic teaching or a story and use it to make someone who felt spiritually worthless believe that he or she mattered.

His Torah continues to be studied and published. Rabbi Shlomo Katz, for example, has edited many volumes of The Torah Commentary of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, based upon hundreds of hours of recorded teachings. Those who knew only the singer may not realize how substantial this part of his legacy is.

There was also an extraordinary generosity about him. I have heard numerous stories of Shlomo giving away whatever money he had to someone who needed it.

Rabbi Ya'akov Haber שליט"א, now in Ramat Beit Shemesh, once told me of an unforgettable example from his years in Buffalo, New York. His organization was stuck when a scheduled performer canceled a day before the concert.  Reb Shlomo agreed to come to Buffalo and perform, asking only that they give him whatever money came in at the gate after expenses. At the end of the concert, as the story was told to me, someone approached Shlomo in terrible financial distress. Shlomo turned around and gave him every dollar he had just received from the concert, not even keeping enough to pay his own expenses.

And from the many stories I have heard about him, that was hardly unusual. He would literally give the shirt off his back to help another person, including non-Jews and certainly his beloved "sweetest brothers and sisters".

This is why I don't think the attachment many people still have to Carlebach can simply be dismissed as a “cult of personality.” People were profoundly changed by him — through his music, through his Torah, through his stories and sometimes through an act of personal kindness they never forgot.

But Where Do the Boundaries Go?

There is, however, an uncomfortable connection between this very strength and what apparently went terribly wrong.

Part of Carlebach's approach was that since he was reaching Jews who were very far from traditional observance, he apparently believed that he could not approach them in the same way that a conventional Orthodox rabbi would.

Rabbi Chaim Dalfin, in writing about Carlebach's complex religious personality, describes Carlebach's belief that many of the people he was trying to reach were simply not ready for certain halachic restrictions. His hope was that eventually they would come closer to full Jewish observance.

One of his best-known departures from ordinary Orthodox practice was physical contact. Shlomo hugged everybody — men and women alike. To him, presumably, it was part of communicating unconditional love and acceptance to people who might otherwise run from anything that looked like conventional Orthodox Judaism.

The motive may have been noble. But this may also demonstrate precisely why Jewish law places boundaries where it does. Once we convince ourselves that a boundary must be crossed because of the good we can accomplish, the next boundary becomes easier to cross. Chazal understood very well the danger of the slippery slope, particularly in this area. And the allegations against Carlebach describe behavior far beyond an innocent hug.

That is sobering.

The Women Cannot Be Left Out of the Story

I cannot write honestly about this subject without saying something else.

I personally know at least two women who had very negative interactions with Shlomo Carlebach of a sexual nature. Whatever one wants to call those encounters, these women were hurt, and some carry those wounds to this day. That matters to me.

Nothing about the Jews Carlebach inspired, the Torah he taught, the melodies he composed, the money he gave away or the kindness he showed other people can erase the pain of someone whom he hurt.

The allegations are not merely an abstract historical controversy. The new documentary includes women telling their own stories, and Carlebach's daughter Neshama has now publicly said that their voices need to be heard. Her recent essay, “The film about my father is premiering today. I won’t be there,”, is itself a moving attempt to wrestle with the radically different sides of the father she loved.

The allegations were first widely reported by Lilith in 1998, and the magazine has now revisited both that reporting and the new documentary.

We should not minimize those accounts in order to protect someone whose music we love.

What About Teshuvah?

There is one more piece of the story that deserves mention, although it must be handled carefully.

I have heard stories over the years from people who knew Carlebach that he regretted at least some aspects of his earlier behavior and changed in some ways during his later years. These accounts are difficult to document, and I don't want to claim more for them than I can establish.

But there is one particularly striking story that has been recorded. Rabbi Chaim Dalfin's book The Real Shlomo recounts a remarkable encounter reported to have occurred on the very day Carlebach died.

According to the account, a religious Jew named Yossel encountered Carlebach and refused to shake his hand because of Carlebach's conduct. He challenged Shlomo directly: You have made so many Baalei Teshuvah. Why haven't you made one more — yourself?

Carlebach reportedly became very serious, acknowledged the criticism and asked what he needed to do. When told that he needed to regret his behavior and accept upon himself to stop doing what he should not be doing, he publicly accepted upon himself to do teshuvah, and went through a Yom Kippur like confessional and prayer.

A few hours later, Carlebach boarded a plane at LaGuardia bound for Toronto. While the plane was still taxiing for takeoff, he suffered the heart attack that took his life.

It is a remarkable story, if accurately reported. But it cannot be used as a magic eraser. Teshuvah for sins against another person requires addressing the person who was harmed and seeking forgiveness. We have no basis to say that happened with the women who say Carlebach hurt them.

Still, the story belongs in the record. If we are insisting upon a complicated picture rather than a one-dimensional one, we should not selectively leave out the parts that complicate it in either direction.

So What Do We Do With Shlomo?

I don't have a satisfying answer. Some people are pleased that The Darkest Light has brought the allegations back into public discussion, believing that women who felt silenced for decades deserve to have their stories heard. Others feel that a painful wound had finally begun to scab over and question what is accomplished by ripping the scab off yet again, more than thirty years after Carlebach's death. I can understand both reactions.

For me, the question is intensely personal. From my earliest memory, Shlomo Carlebach's music was central to me. My mother ע"ה told me that the first tune I sang, even when I was still in my crib, was Carlebach's Esa Einai. In fact, that melody became so precious to me that many years later it was the tune to which I walked to my chuppah. Carlebach would interpret the words עֶזְרִי מֵעִם ה׳ — “my help comes from God” — as an allusion to the עֵזֶר כְּנֶגְדּוֹ, the helpmate whom God sends a person. I could think of no more meaningful melody with which to approach my own marriage.

The handful of personal interactions I later had with Shlomo were inspiring, and I saw with my own eyes, particularly during my years in Portland, the extraordinary ability he had to touch Jewish souls that few others could reach. His music has accompanied me virtually my entire life; his Torah and stories have moved me; and people whom I respect deeply continue to find great spiritual meaning in what he created. At the same time, I personally know women who were hurt by him and who continue to live with that pain. I cannot honestly allow everything that was beautiful about Shlomo to make those women disappear, any more than I can pretend that what happened to them somehow erases the enormous amount of good that he brought into the Jewish world.

Moreover, it is common knowledge - and I see it within my own family - that his Torah and niggunim continue to inspire new generations of seriously committed Jews to greater heights of prayer and Avodas Hashem, eclipsing anything he accomplished during his lifetime.  The many "Carlebach minyanim" are only a small part of that.  There are so many beautiful young serious Torah Jews who owe a great deal of their inspiration to the sweetness and deep meaning he taught.

In Conclusion (not really)

Perhaps that is why I resist any simple verdict on Shlomo Carlebach. Human beings do not always fit comfortably into the categories in which we would like to place them. The same person can bring extraordinary music, Torah, ahavat Yisrael and generosity into the world, can ignite Jewish souls whom almost no one else knows how to reach, and can at the same time cause real and lasting hurt. Acknowledging one side of that story does not require us to deny the other.  

I have often thought that I would give a great deal to be a fly on the wall to see how he is judged in the Heavenly tribunal (along with some other controversial great people like Rav Meir Kahane הי"ד).  It is only there that they can properly sort out the complicated narrative of his life.

That leaves me without a neat conclusion, and perhaps that is as it should be. I am not prepared to forget the women who were hurt, nor am I prepared to pretend that the music, Torah, kindness and Jewish lives transformed by Shlomo Carlebach never happened. Both are part of the record. Both are part of his legacy. Living honestly with that tension may be uncomfortable, but it strikes me as far more truthful than reducing a very complicated human being to either a saint or a villain.

What We Choose to Cry For

VIN recently published an article entitled “How Many Will We Cry for This Bein Hazmanim?”, calling attention to the preventable deaths and injuries that occur from those who behave recklessly when having fun during Bein Hazmanim.

I submitted the comment below, but VIN chose not to publish it, so I am posting it here.

---UPDATE--- 
After a two day delay (usually comments are published within hours at most, and usually much less) VIN did publish the comment. I wrote to thank them.

Nevertheless, I am leaving this posting here, as I think it makes an important point.
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I cannot know why it was rejected. Perhaps it was simply an editorial decision. But I cannot help suspecting that the editors were concerned about the criticism they might receive for publishing a comment that some readers would label “anti-Chareidi,” or irrelevant to the specific subject of the article.

If so, that reluctance is itself part of the problem.

A community cannot honestly examine itself if even a relatively restrained request to recognize the suffering and sacrifice of other Jews is considered too threatening to publish. נושא בעול עם חבירו cannot end at the borders of one’s own community. 

But there is an even more striking contrast here: during the very same Bein Hazmanim when some young men are swimming, hiking, riding ATVs—and, tragically, sometimes losing their lives through insufficient caution—other young men, including serious bnei Torah, have no Bein Hazmanim at all. They are willingly exposing themselves to far greater danger, not for recreation, but to defend Klal Yisrael. That contrast cries out to be acknowledged by any fair-minded person. The article’s complete failure even to mention it is itself revealing.

Here is the comment I submitted but was rejected:

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