A Philosophy of Jewish Education in Question Marks: A Possible Reading of Michael Rosenak's Last Speech

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A Philosophy of Jewish Education in Question Marks: A Possible

Reading of Michael Rosenak’s Last Speech
Article in Journal of Jewish Education · October 2014

DOI: 10.1080/15244113.2014.965016
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Question Marks: A Possible Reading of
Michael Rosenak’s Last Speech
Avinoam Rosenak
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Articles
A Philosophy of Jewish Education in Question

Marks: A Possible Reading of Michael Rosenak’s
Last Speech
AVINOAM ROSENAK
Writing this article presents me with an opportunity to look closely

at the last speech that my father and mentor, Professor Michael
(Mike) Rosenak z”l gave before his passing in 2013. I will write
about this speech from a perspective that is based on my intimate
familiarity with the questions that concerned him throughout his
life. I will offer a close description of this speech after articulating
several of the basic concepts which accompanied my father’s teach-
ing throughout his career. It seems to me that toward the end of his
life, a new motif appeared in my father’s educational philosophy
that stemmed from this process. I wish to show how this motif was
expressed very gently and subtly in the final speech.
For many years, my father and I carried on an existential, spiritual, aca-

demic, and intellectual conversation that enriched our lives and was deeply
meaningful for both of us. Our discussions were always instructive and chal-
lenging, sensitive and attentive. The basic concepts and insights which I
learned from my father had a profound influence upon me, and have stayed
with me throughout my own academic career (A. Rosenak, 2007a, 2007b).
I had the privilege of writing two articles together with him which are in part
an expression of our conversation (A. Rosenak & M. Rosenak, 2003). After
this experience, my father’s impact on my thinking, writing, and teaching
became much more explicit in my work (A. Rosenak, 2009a).
My father was a man of dialogue and a wonderful listener. Throughout
his career he learned and thought while paying careful attention to the
Avinoam Rosenak is on the faculty at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and is a research fellow
at the Van Leer Institute. E-mail: avinoam.rosenak@mail.huji.ac.il
346
A Philosophy of Jewish Education in Question Marks 347
people around him. But he was also deeply aware of his own feelings and
attentive to his own heart. A few years before he died, my parents left the
apartment they had lived in for over 30 years and moved into a very beautiful
sheltered living facility. This move, which came after many years of planning
and preparing, was not easy for him. The experience and his reflections
on it intensified certain elements of his thought that had never been dom-
inant before. It seems to me that toward the end of his life, a new motif
appeared in my father’s educational philosophy that stemmed from this pro-
cess. I wish to show how this motif was expressed very gently and subtly in
the final speech that he gave only three months before he died.1
In this article I will offer a close description of this speech after articulat-
ing several of the basic concepts which accompanied my father’s (henceforth
M. Rosenak) teaching throughout his career.2 But, I shall also enrich my anal-
ysis by presenting his idea against the backdrop of the conversations that we
shared during the last years of his life.
THE FOUNDATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF MICHAEL ROSENAK’S

EDUCATIONAL THOUGHT
Catholic and Protestant Judaism

I wish to begin with Ernst Simon’s (1983) distinction between “Catholic
Judaism” and “Protestant Judaism,” a distinction which is present in M.
Rosenak’s thought. The “Catholic approach,” according to Simon (1983),
claims that life should be “permeated with religion” and that religion encom-
passes everything in it (p. 9).3 According to this point of view, the world is a
framework for generating religious obligations, which shape our interaction
with it in light of what “ought” to be. The conceptualization of the “ought” is
both clear and distinct. This approach to religion has a normative vision and
clearly defined goals whose source is divine “revelation.” Here, the secular
has no place whatsoever. By way of contrast, “Protestant” religion evolved
during a period in which secularism defined the basic concepts with which
people—including people of faith—went about understanding the world.
For the “Protestant,” the foundational experience of human interaction with
the world is no longer dependent upon religious consciousness. Rather the
world can be seen through secular eyes and encountered directly as some-
thing that stands for itself (Simon, 1983, pp. 9, 22–23). The secular scientific
perception of physical reality becomes independent and freestanding. In this
1 This speech was delivered at Makhon Schocken in honor of his book, Covenant and Community
(M. Rosenak, 2013).

2 For more on his research and thought, see: Cohen (2005a, 2005b, 2007); and the articles of Harvey
(2005) and Oaks (2005).

3 In the sense of “Know Him in all your ways,” it applies to “eating, drinking, clothing, work, leisure,
society and the state, love and war” (Simon, 1983).

348 Journal of Jewish Education
“Protestant” worldview, the boundaries of religious experience are limited to

the confines of the Church while religious consciousness itself becomes only
one among many other aspects of modern life. In the context of a broadly
secular setting, religion is seen as a personal or private concern which exists
alongside many others.
M. Rosenak’s religious world was rooted in the logic of “Protestant reli-
gion.” All the same, despite his critique of its intolerance for the modern
secular world, the appeal of “Catholic religion” remained compelling for him.
It is interesting to note that a similar ambivalence may be found in Simon’s
presentation of this distinction despite his being a classical representative
and even embodiment of the “Protestant” perspective. Simon (1983) went so
far as to claim that the “authentic” voice of historical Judaism was indeed
“Catholic,” but that only the “Protestant” approach could be seen as relevant
in the context of the modern secular age (p. 24). This distinction between
“Catholic” and “Protestant” is worthy of special mention because it is a central
theme in M. Rosenak’s (2013) last book, “Covenant and Community.”
The depth of M. Rosenak’s “Protestantism” and its centrality to his
teaching is attested to by its educational impact upon his many hundreds
of students. This is felt in particular in the places where M. Rosenak was
successful in “translating” the world of Jewish tradition into a context of
meaning that could remain reasonable for Jews who were fully participant in
the discourse of Western, liberal, rationalism and yet determined to remain
faithfully rooted in Jewish sources. These were people who sought to com-
bine modern culture with a depth of classical knowledge, religious feeling,
and normative commitment.
Translation
M. Rosenak’s (2013) conceptualization of “translation” is the key to under-
standing how he sought the integration of faith and reason. In his view it
was necessary to “translate” Judaism in the modern world both because of
his sense of obligation to the truth and because of the pedagogic need
(pp. 86–90). There are times when “translation” is required in order to
present a Talmudic discussion or Biblical passage in a way that addresses
a logical or ethical difficulty that the interpreter himself also experiences.
Translation is a mode of interpretation which the interpreter, who wishes
to be faithful to the text, must turn to in order to explain or discover
its enduring normative meaning. However, there are other cases in which
“translation” is required only to build a bridge between the text and the
students who are (perhaps only temporarily) unable to accept the world of
the text whether for cognitive, psychological, ideological, or existential rea-
sons. M. Rosenak taught in these cases that the pedagogic translator must
be sensitive to the four stages of cognitive development outlined by Kieran
Egan (1986). This means that he must be sensitive to the difference between
teaching a kindergarten child (Egan’s “mythical” stage) an adolescent (the
“romantic” stage), and an adult (the “philosophical” stage). Finally, accord-

ing to Egan, the teacher must have the ironic capability of realizing that any
real educational situation is always more complex than any given model.4
The concept of “translation” is a central tool in M. Rosenak’s analytical
thought. Not only was it crucial to the way in which he made his teaching
relevant for his students it also served him as a critical tool for analyzing the
educational philosophy of the different movements in the modern Jewish
world (M. Rosenak, 1979). M. Rosenak developed the concept of “partial
translation” (M. Rosenak, 1995, pp. 141–144; Cohen, 1996; M. Rosenak, 2003,
pp. 151–162) as a reaction to the reductionism and overtranslation which he
saw in liberal Judaism. For him an educational “translation” that overempha-
sizes the relevance of the canonic text in contemporary terms alone is likely
to reduce its meaning and to conceal the vitality of the original. This situation
leaves the student (and in time the translator, too) with only the “translation”
to work with while the untranslatable “echo of the past” that the text itself
contains is lost.
All the same, “translation” is essential to the educational process. What
counts is the degree to which it is done. M. Rosenak carefully sought the
right balance between text and translation that would allow the “Protestant
Jew,” to be part of both classical-religious and the liberal-modern Jewish
worlds.
Language and Literature

M. Rosenak’s use of the distinction between “language” and “literature” pro-
vides us with an additional tool that can help us clarify the distinction
between more and less desirable degrees of translation. His use of these
terms draws on the writings of Michael Oakeshott (1962), and Richard Peters
(1981), which M. Rosenak (1995, pp. 19–25, 30; 2001, pp. 18–21) adapted
and incorporated into the discourse of Jewish educational philosophy. He
claimed that the Bible and Rabbinic literature serve as a “language,”5 while
the normative cultural practices of communities and the huge varieties
of textual interpretations that draw upon this “language” constitute the
“literature” (or “literatures”) of Judaism. Jewish culture (“literature”) was cre-
ated on the basis of canonic texts (“language”). The “language” provides the
concepts which are fundamental components of Jewish culture. These are
definitive of the paradigms inside which Jewish thought occurs. For example,
4 Rosenak’s use of Egan’s writings may be found, for example, in his books: Roads to the Palace:
Jewish Texts and Teachings, (M. Rosenak, 1995, pp. 74–84, 234) and Tree of Life, Tree of Knowledge:
Conversations with the Torah (Rosenak, M. 2001, p. 441), and in various articles.
5 Rosenak draws a three-way distinction between “language,” “holy literature,” and “literature.” He
sees it as more accurate to describe the Bible as “language” and Talmudic literature as “holy literature.”
However, this fine-tuning is not necessary for the purposes of our discussion. See M. Rosenak (2001,
p. 5) and A. Rosenak (2007b, pp. 49–51).
these concepts include such things as: holy and mundane (kodesh and Chol),
purity and impurity (Tum’a and Te’hara), Holyday and Sabbath (Mo’ed and
Shabbat), commandment and transgression (Miztva and Avera/Chet), reward
and punishment (Chet and Onesh), Creator and creation (Boreh and Beriah),
revelation and redemption (Hitgalut and Geulah), and mythical stories such
as the Creation of the world and the Garden of Eden.
But what is the meaning of these basic concepts? To what extent are
they part of life? It was for this purpose that the “literature” was created.
“Literature” is constructed from the concepts of “language,” but differs from
it. “Literature” allows “language” to be part of a concrete, relevant, and con-
temporary reality.6 Ideally, the role of “literature” is to provide the cultural
setting with a discourse in which the community shapes its life. “Literature”
is the mode of interaction that allows the members of the community to
make their shared “language” into their cultural and spiritual home. This is
the case, for example, when Jews debate specific Halakhic rulings. While
these discussions always take place in a particular time or place, they are
also always part of the ongoing process of clarifying the basic concepts of
“language” upon which the whole edifice of “literature” is built (M. Rosenak,
2001, pp. 4–6). “Literature” is therefore one of the cultural constructions built
from the building blocks of “language.”
This portrayal of the relationship between “language” and “literature”
provided those engaged in (“partial” and “full”) translation with tools for
explaining to themselves how what they were doing worked. It allowed the
members of various “communities of translation” to think reflectively about
the degree of their relationship to the original text. This text (whether Biblical
or Rabbinic) which is unbearable when left untranslated can still continue
to have meaning through translation for those who do not wish to become
totally detached from it.7
Translation (whether “partial” or “full”) creates “literature,” whose pur-
pose is to save “language” from irrelevance, and to prevent the student from
becoming totally alienated. Processes of “translation” of this sort are per-
formed primarily by those who belong to the “Protestant religion,” who are
called upon to incorporate within their world both canonic religious Judaism
and the values system of universal-liberal-Western-secular discourse. Anyone
who imagines that there is no need to translate his religious culture into
the terms of the contemporary world, and who believes that his religion
is an authentic image of the classical canon has simply misrepresented his
“literature” as the “language” of Judaism itself.
6 By this he also intended to include Peter Berger’s (1967) concept of “plausibility structures” (M.
Rosenak, 1995, p. 20 n. 2).

7 This model, even if it may be criticized analytically and philosophically, was extremely effective
from an educational–practical viewpoint.

Explicit Religion and Implicit Religion

Another distinction that joins and combines with the previous ones is that
drawn by M. Rosenak (1987) between “explicit religion” and “implicit reli-
gion” (pp. 267–286, & n. 10), “Explicit religion” is normative; its function is
to bring about socialization on the basis of clear communal norms. Such a
religion has cultural heroes and myths that are capable of uniting the com-
munity; it distinguishes between “insiders” and “outsiders;” between “us” (or
“who are we?”) and the “others” (or “who they are”). Its educational goals
are to crystallize a particular group identity (which is by definition distinct
from the concept of the universal) and the induction of the student into a
community that is well-defined in terms of its culture and consciousness,
both intellectually and normatively. The norms of religion are essential tools
for obtaining this goal, and the status of the individual is defined by his or
her membership as a loyal citizen in the communal system. This approach

is always in danger of being suspected of indoctrination. By way of con-
trast, “Implicit religion” seeks the personal growth of the individual in a
unique way. The importance of religious practice is not found in its exter-
nal expressions. It is the internal experience of the individual’s discovering
authenticity that counts. This religious perspective rejects explicit notions
of law and religious norms. “Implicit religion” is not collective and com-
munal. It is focused on the individual’s realization of inner spiritual goals
and it therefore transcends conventional boundaries of social identifica-
tion. The distinctions between the “internal” and the “external,”—between
“us” and “them”—are alien to implicit religion. In this sense the individ-
ual human-being serves God from within his or her inner solitude while at
the same time being part of a universal “community” that includes all of
humanity.
The “explicit” religious discourse is exemplary in the religious-halakhic-
communal thought of Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1975); whereas “implicit”
religion finds its clearest expression in the thought of Martin Buber. Buber
(1960) distinguishes between “Religion” and “Religiosity” and clearly aligns
himself with the latter “implicit” notion in which legalistic and halakhic
concepts are de-centralized.
At first sight (and this is a point that I recognize requires further expla-
nation but which unfortunately falls beyond the confines of our discussion
in this article) it appears that “explicit” religion does not require educational
“translation.” “Translation” is only needed by those who feel called upon
to adapt the canonic dictates of “explicit religion” in order to make them
relevant to individualistic “implicit” religious needs.8
8 Thisstatement, as noted, is too sharp and does not reflect the more subtle ways in which translation
takes place within the community of “explicit religion”; but a discussion of this issue is beyond the
framework of this article.
By this stage, it should be clear that the distinctions we have been dis-
cussing run in parallel to one another. One can easily see the relationship
between “explicit religion” and Simon’s notion of “Catholic” religion. This
parallel naturally extends to include the relationship between “implicit” reli-
giosity and Simon’s “Protestant” religion. However, by pointing out these
parallels I do not mean to suggest that the terms only overlap. M. Rosenak
adds an educational-philosophical perspective that was not part of Simon’s
analysis. Moreover, M. Rosenak noted that the concepts of “explicit reli-
gion” and “implicit religion” are not only descriptive of different religious
communities, but may also (and indeed need to) refer to the different devel-
opmental stages in religious education. For M. Rosenak “explicit” religious
experience is essential to early religious development. Its role is to provide
the educational foundation upon which a capacity for “implicit” religious
discourse can be built. All the same, in the course of achieving this goal, M.
Rosenak insists that a relationship to the insights and principles of “explicit
religion,” must be preserved. Thus these two experiences of “implicit”
and “explicit” religion become intertwined in his thought in a dialectical
manner.9
On the Philosophy of Education

The distinctions between “partial” and “full” translation,” “language” and “lit-
erature,” Catholicism” and “Protestantism,” “explicit” and “implicit” religion
are some of the tools of M. Rosneak’s philosophy of Jewish education. But
what was the nature of his philosophical activity? What is his philosophy
trying to achieve? How did M. Rosenak understand the purpose and the
meaning of his own research and work?
In order to answer these questions, we need to familiarize ourselves
briefly with some of the broad structures and principles of educational phi-
losophy. This will enable us to identify M. Rosenak’s specific philosophical
consciousness within the context of his field.
There is a certain type of educational philosophy which is referred to
as “philosophy in the service of education.” This type of philosophy makes
use of a broad range of philosophical tools to clarify and reflect philosoph-
ically on educational practice. For example, when talking about teaching
and learning we can distinguish between Socratic and Aristotelian methods.
Similarly, the philosophy of modern thinkers such as Wittgenstein, Locke,
Marx, Dewey, and others can all be seen to have implications for the ways
in which we go about the practices of education.
Another type of educational philosophy is what might be called “norma-
tive educational philosophy.” This approach underlines the norms that must
9 An echo of this dialectical idea is found in Simon (1963, pp. 213, 234–235).
dictate educational practice. This approach is openly ideological in that it is

prescriptive. It has a paideia; a normative vision that pushes the community
towards a definitive ethos.
Philosophy of Education can also be conducted analytically. The analytic
approach is seemingly not ideological but rather is ostensibly concerned with
a type of objective analysis whose function is to clarify the basic concepts that
underlie educational practice. For example, it interrogates the philosophical
meaning of “learning,” “teaching,” “education,” “success,” “human potential,”
and “understanding.”
Critical philosophy observes and articulates the basic hidden assump-
tions that govern educational practice in the field. It seeks to uncover the
underlying principles that go unnoticed in educational settings. Philosophy,
in this context, serves as a tool that helps reflective practitioners to clarify
their own assumptions, to act with self-awareness, and to maximize their

capacity to accomplish their own educational goals. The critical educational
philosopher assumes that each and every educational body has some paideia
or other; some educational vision or value system of its own, which either
consciously or not serves as the basis for its activity.
Finally, there is the deliberative approach championed by Joseph
Schwab whose philosophy is rooted in the pragmatism of John Dewey
(among others). This approach focuses on the daily activities of life which it
sees as an ongoing series of tasks and challenges which must be overcome
and resolved. This philosophy seems to lack any metaphysical conviction
about the “ideal” or the “good.” The educational process is understood as a
deliberative series of negotiations between four commonplaces (“the subject
matter,” “the teacher,” “the student,” and “the milieu”). The purpose of the
process is to design an educational experience for the student in which a bal-
ance is maintained between the various needs and requirements represented
by each of the commonplaces. The task of the educational philosopher is
to identify the complexity of the situation and the challenges that emanate
from it. His role is to clarify the implicit problems that are part of an educa-
tional event and to choose possible courses of action while maintaining the
appropriate balance between the goals of the educator and the abilities of
the student.
M. Rosenak’s long career of educational activity and writing comprises
almost all of these approaches to educational-philosophical involvement. M.
Rosenak often expressed his frustration with the low academic standing of
the philosophy of education. One of the ways of increasing the prestige of
the field was, in his view, to turn to the tools of philosophy in general in
order to channel these into educational discourse. Models drawn from Emil
Fackenheim, Michael Oakeshott, Alfred Allport, and William James were an
integral part of M. Rosenak’s philosophical discourse (just as his colleagues
drew upon the works of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Locke, Wittgenstein, and
others). This was done not only as a means of upgrading the prestige of the
discipline, but also for its own value. His belief in this method was based
on the assumption that philosophical tools could indeed be employed to
shed significant light upon our understanding of the educational process
and its desired outcomes. The rich variety of philosophical tools used by M.
Rosenak are also the tools of the critical philosopher. Through their use, the
philosopher can approach different educational systems and analyze them
while exposing their basic educational assumptions. Indeed, many of the
insights and distinctions with which M. Rosenak enriched the educational
discourse in Israel and elsewhere in the Jewish world hailed from his work
with the tools of critical philosophy. The Hebrew University’s Center for
Jewish Education in the Diaspora which M. Rosenak helped to design and
build, was, among other things, a home for educators from all over the
Jewish world who came to Jerusalem to engage in critical and reflective
thinking about their own educational work and the educational system as a
whole.
Returning to deliberative philosophy: M. Rosenak was mentored by
Seymour Fox, who brought the deliberative theory of Joseph Schwab to
the Center for Jewish Education in the Diaspora (named later The Melton
Center) and to the Jerusalem Fellows (which later became part of the Mandel
Institute for Educational leadership)—two educational projects which Fox,
Annette Hochstein, and M. Rosenak were partners in establishing.
However, there was also a normative dimension to M. Rosenak’s philo-
sophical world. The low academic status of normative philosophy was also
a result of its prescriptive nature. Since Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle were
normative philosophers, their work contained a highly prescriptive dimen-
sion that has no place in contemporary academic scholarship. M. Rosenak
as a normative philosopher saw the educational importance of prescriptive
thought. As a result he dedicated his energies to developing educational
programs such as the Jewish Values Project (Shekedi, 2005) which facilitated
value-based normative discourse between students of various and different
orientations without imposing the teacher’s value system upon the students.
This project gave voice to M. Rosenak’s pluralistic ethos and was well-suited
to the different institutions in which he worked. It also met the needs of
the IDF Educational Corps who implemented and developed it extensively
during the course of the 1970s and 1980s.
The fusion of M. Rosenak’s pluralistic approach with normative educa-
tional philosophy was unusual. Generally speaking a normative approach
dictates what is “right” and what is “wrong”—what is “just” and what is
“corrupt”—in clear terms and without hesitation. As his writing developed
over time, M. Rosenak dared to outline the characteristics of the paideia
that he thought was correct and did not hesitate to identify the role of the
educational philosopher in pointing out the desired goals of an educational
system. As a Jewish educational thinker he established his position from
“within” the community and began articulating his vision for the “educated
Jew” (M. Rosenak, 2005, 2007). This normative tendency integrated the forms
of educational philosophy described above. It provided tools for the analy-
sis of educational systems but also allowed the educational philosopher to
lay out a normative approach of his own. As a result, anyone who reads
M. Rosenak’s academic publications can also find between the lines a clear
portrayal of his normative educational vision. (See, for example, his article
“The Foci of Religious Extremism: Educational Aspects,” M. Rosenak, 1999.)
While on the face of it this article was primarily an academic comparative
analysis of National-Religious-Haredi (Hardal) and Haredi education (and
clarifies the nature of these systems, underlining the similarities and dif-
ferences between them),10 a close reading reveals a subtext. M. Rosenak’s
academic argument is also an inverted picture of educational perspectives
that are presented as the opposites of the “Hardal” and “Haredi” approaches
dealt with in the article. Here, M. Rosenak introduces his own perspective,
identifying himself with the tendencies of a “Protestant” or “implicit” religion
with “explicit” religious tendencies. M. Rosenak’s own cultural-educational
proposal is constantly present in the subtext of the article. The author allows
his own perspective to function as a contrasting or “control” group identity
that enriches the discussion as a whole. Thus, despite the seemingly objec-
tive critical discussion which M. Rosenak conducts in this article (as in his
other writings), there is also a clear normative and prescriptive tone that runs
like a thread through all his writing.
Ernest Becker and the Denial of Death

During the last two years of my father’s life, I spoke with him a great deal
about a new subject that began to concern me: death. My interest in death
brought us to study together Ernest Becker’s (1973) classic book The Denial
of Death. My father had owned a copy of this book for decades and had long
considered it of great value. I had the privilege of reading parts of this book
together with him, and through this I came to understand his enthusiasm
for the depth of Becker’s ideas. The timing of our intellectual excursion
into Becker’s Denial of Death coincided with my parents’ decision to leave
their own apartment and to move into sheltered living. Thus my growing
interest as a scholar in the subject of death converged with the changes that
my parents experienced during this move and thereafter with my father’s
aging and declining physical health. My father paid close attention to the
existential and cultural meaning of the changes that were happening to him.
He was very much aware of the changes taking place around him and of the
physical difficulties which he himself was experiencing. His awareness was
10 For example, the modern aspects of “Hardal” consciousness which, despite its Haredi inclinations,
are rooted in the modern experience.

deepened and reinforced by constant reflections and by the philosophical

insights which he reached during this time of his life.
This article is not the place to enter into a full discussion of Becker’s
work. I hope in the future to return to a fuller treatment of this topic. Here
I wish to present one aspect of it, which, I believe, will help us to clarify a
particular theme which M. Rosenak introduced in his final speech and which
in my view will help us see the innovation that appeared in his thought.
At the beginning of the The Denial of Death, Becker (1973) writes:
The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing
else. It is a mainstream of human activity—activity designed largely to
avoid the fatality of death, to overcome it by denying in some way that
it is the final destiny for man. (p. ix)
What does man need to understand about himself and his world in order
to confront life? To what extent is the discussion of death a mirror of human
existence? Though these questions are psychological ones, M. Rosenak was
well aware that they could not be separated from the concerns of education
and from its basic questions: Who am I? How can I understand myself? What
do I want to do and what are my obligations?
Becker’s (1973) book is not only about death. Its primary subject is
the significance of life and the capacity of human beings to comprehend its
complexity. It is difficult for man—as a reflective being trying to understand
him or herself—not to flee from the tremendous tension between life and
death which is the essence of the human experience of existence. My father
spoke to me about the uniqueness of this book in the following words:
Becker offers an anthropology with theological and psychological

aspects, which poses a challenge to religious education. It is possible
to interpret the world in which we live in two ways: The first is to say
that “all is vanity” and it is better to flee from this world. “It would have
been better for a man not to have been born, than to have been born.”
The second way is to say that there is a divine presence which promises
some sort of help from heaven in confronting a situation for which there
is no real solution. What is Becker’s answer? He does not accept the
first, but rather offers a variation on the second. He speaks of the signif-
icance of the world, but his words—regarding man and the world—are
built in such a complex and sophisticated way that we are only able to
understand the depth of man.s confrontation with life when we look at
death as an option.11
Humans tend to flee from the powerful existential tension in which

they find themselves: a tension that sets them apart from all other animals
11 From a recording of conversations concerning this book.

as reflective creatures. Humanity sublimates this tension in various ways,

and this sublimation is an integral part of culture. Becker (1973) argues that
human beings move between two opposite poles: the finite, bodily one, and
the infinite, spiritual one. Both of these are present in human life; they are
part of human consciousness or repressed consciousness. Our awareness
of the body and of the world around us make the limits of our existence
clear. Consciousness of the body teaches humanity the limits of its control
and power, making us aware of the vast regions of the world which are not
subject to our mastery.
Following on Freud, Becker (1973) compares the oral and the anal
stages of human development. In the oral stage, the infant receives his
first gratifications and his mother is constantly at his beck-and-call. In this
stage the child thinks he is all powerful, that everything revolves around
him, and that his mastery of his environment is magical (p. 36). When the
anal stage begins he enters into a more complex relationship with external
reality.
Freud thought that anality is of the greatest importance (Becker, 1973),
since it is from this stage and on that all other human capacities develop.
At this stage the child comes to know its own body and discovers that it is
not completely under its control. The child learns that there are parts of the
body which are smelly and dirty, and that they cannot be avoided. By playing
with the anus and feces the child learns critical lessons about the body, and
by way of extension, about the world. This is the child’s first step toward
becoming an existential philosopher. The anal stage clarifies to the child that
it is limited, physical, and final. As a result, he goes on to realize that he will
age. He is a mortal captive of a body from which he cannot escape. At the
same time, he comes to know that he can shape and design his own cultural
environment in which he can conceal and deny his own anality. Culture
allows him to transcend his natural situation, and to reach for the spiritual
and the infinite. All of human culture attempts to transcend the natural state:
the human being wears a tuxedo, a suit or dresses; he washes himself with
soap, and sprays deodorant, and dabs on perfume. All these allow us to
deny our embarrassing natural condition. We become alienated from our
constructed reality, and lose sight of ourselves. This complex network of
alienations is the substantive content of the repressed human personality.
While reading Becker with my father, we discussed the philosophy of
idealism which is characterized by this tendency toward denial and flight
from reality. In these discussions my father used the following images:
Even when a man sits at the greatest heights, at the top of the world,
he sits on his rear end. Someone once said that the entire English parlia-
ment with all of its oratory and good manners—is built upon a mountain
of excrement. . . . Once in the United States they built an educational
institution for the Catholic Church. . . . The architects thought that the
place was so holy and sublime that they forgot to install latrines. But
when they brought the plan to the Pope for his approval, he asked with
astonishment: Are the people who live in this house angels?
These images underline the importance of avoiding the arrogance that

may seize upon those who reach for the heavens and lose sight of the earth.
The tension between finity and infinity is built into our reality. It cannot be
escaped. This is a tension of which the author of Psalms was well aware
when he wrote, “What is man that you should remember him and the son of
man that you should visit him” and “You have made him a little lower than
the angels, and crowned him with honor and glory” (Psalms 8:4–5).
Humanity is caught in a contradiction between unresolved tensions.
The Unity of Opposites

The subject of the relationship between unresolvable conflicting forces was
a topic that my father and I discussed from many different angles dur-
ing the course of the last 20 years. These conversations revolved around
the principle of “the unity of opposites,”12 which I wrote about with ref-
erence to the philosophy of Rav Kook. The “unity of the opposites” is
different from both the “Catholic” and the “Protestant” notions of religion
mentioned above. This doctrine originates in the Kabbalah and has roots in
the teachings of Hasidism in general and in Habad in particular (Elior, 1993;
A. Rosenak, 2007a, pp. 45–46). There are certain branches within Western
romantic thought in which this idea can also be found (A. Rosenak, 2007a,
pp. 47–54). Similarly, there are parallels to be found in in the thought of
Charles Taylor (1999). As a principle, “the unity of opposites” is neither
dichotomist nor binary; it does not adhere to the structure of “either-or”
(e.g., either “Catholic” or “Protestant”; either “explicit religion” or “implicit
religion;” either “self-encapsulation” or “integration”). The entire typological
structure of thinking (which is so deeply rooted in the thought of Rabbi
J. B. Soloveitchik, who exerted a deep influence upon certain aspects of
M. Rosenak’s thought) is alien to it. The thinking of the “unity of opposites”
does not conform with the structure of thinking that dominates Western ratio-
nal thought. This is because it is based upon the principle of contradiction.
It accepts contradictions; recognizes the simultaneous coexistence of polar-
ities and understands their necessity. It does not seek a Hegelian synthesis,
12 I have written at length on this approach and its relation to Simon’s binary model in my book
(A. Rosenak, 2013) which was written in the course of intensive discussion with my father (A. Rosenak,
2007c, pp. 44–57).
which resolves the discords in the relief of a final “harmony.”13 The unity of
opposites—which is a religious concept rooted in an imminent approach to
holiness (A. Rosenak, 2007a, p. 140; Dan, 1997, pp. 15–16)—sees totality as
comprising a multifaceted set of conflicting realities. The world is filled with
contradictory forces that are incompatible with one another. All the same,
they are all required to reflect the complexity of the divine that is present
in everything (A. Rosenak, 2013, pp. 45–46). In the teaching of Rav Kook,
these oppositions are not only a description of parts of God (e.g., of “Right”
and “Left,” “Judgment” or Din, and “Kindness” or Chesed in the world of
Sefirot), but also descriptions of the historical phenomena and cultural ten-
dencies which occur in the world (A. Rosenak, 2013, pp. 40, 48, 63; Lobitz,
1998). For example, despite the stark contradictions and conflicts between
them, Orthodox halakhism, secular nationalism, and rational liberalism must
all have a place in the Jewish world (A. I. Kook, 1982, p. 71). This approach
is not the same as the “Protestant” one discussed above. It does not rely on
“translation” (partial or complete) and does not seek to achieve any kind
of “integration” (A. Rosenak, 2013, pp. 50–52). It is also distinct from neo-
Orthodoxy, which faced the challenge of modernity by creating a “dualist
model” (Liebman, 1982; Hartman, 1976, pp. 13–15). The unity of opposites
is paradoxical in its manner of incorporation but without the pitfalls of rel-
ativism. The uniqueness of Jewish particularism, Rav Kook argues, is that it
has a universal vision. It faces the demand to include everything that exists
(Bin-Nun, 1988; A. Rosenak, 2007a, pp. 58–88; A. Rosenak, 2013, pp. 97–99).
This approach presents us with a different ethos of the educated Jew.
It provides us with a new way of understanding the role of religion in the
modern world (A. Rosenak, 2013, pp. 50–55) and also allows us to think
differently about the legitimacy of the competing internal forces that fill the
inner experience of humanity. We all have both rational and mythic ten-
dencies. We are inextricably normative and antinormative. Observing the
movement back and forth between the poles of inner paradox unlocks the
experience of faith which Rav Kook’s thought expresses (Kook, 1914; Kook,
1920, p. 13; Kook, 1994, p. 402).
As we now turn to the speech itself, I would like to say in sum that
there are two components of M. Rosenak’s thought which are given par-
ticular expression here. First, and of primary importance is Ernest Becker’s
(1973) The Denial of Death. This book lays at the foundation of M. Rosenak’s
philosophy even before he began working on the philosophy of education.
Moreover, this theme is not new to M. Rosneak’s educational writing. It is,
for example, fully developed in his book Tree of Life, Tree of Knowledge
(M. Rosenak, 2001). Second, toward the end of his life, M. Rosenak paid
13 See A. Rosenak (2007a, p. 46) on the concept of “incorporation”/“integration.” See also Hartman
( 1976, pp. 15–20).

more attention to Rabbi Kook’s concept of the “unity of opposites.” But,

his understanding of Rav Kook was in many ways connected to the lessons
he learned from Becker in that this model provided him with a meaningful
way of engaging with the experience of life in all its multifaceted complex-
ity. In this lecture, the concept of the “unity of the opposites” is only in
the background of his words. However, it will serve us in our analysis and
allow us to understand more clearly how M. Rosenak’s educational thought
continued to evolve even in the last weeks of his life.
THE SPEECH
On 22nd Adar 5773 (March 4, 2013), an evening was held at the Schocken
Institute in Jerusalem in honor of Michael Rosenak’s last book, Covenant and

Community. On this occasion, M. Rosenak spoke publicly in an academic
setting after a lengthy period of abstentia caused by the medical difficulties
which had troubled him for a number of years. It was clear to me that he
understood the importance of the event and that this was an occasion that
would most likely not be repeated. Hence the talk that he gave was a kind
of farewell address that to a considerable extent concluded his educational
and academic activity. And indeed, sadly, only three months later he passed
away. His speech on that evening was somewhat fragmented and not pol-
ished. But he was very focused and compact. So much so that I would say
that he condensed into this short speech much more than those less familiar
with him and his thought might notice.
In this section I would like to reproduce the text of this speech verbatim.
After this, I would like to amplify in my own words what I believe he was
saying. I shall call attention to the way in which some of the phrases he uses
are in fact concise expressions of ideas that he developed more fully in the
past while others point toward a spirit of innovation that he expressed here:
Friends, teachers, lovers of Jewish education and dear ones,
On this occasion I am deeply moved because, like many of the people

sitting here, I received a socialization which says that, in practice, “the
thing” is lost. It has no future, or the future is shallow, or completely
“translated.” All kinds of things have been said about this enterprise, and
we do not notice that meanwhile new generations have learned “the
thing” and are happy to continue it.
As one who engages in the philosophy of Jewish education (I will not

say that I am a philosopher of Jewish education, because I do not know
if there is such a thing), I need to do two things: first, to engage in the
normative aspect of the tradition—to do what we refer to when we speak
of “norms.” Second, as Zvi Beckerman always says to me, “What is really
going on?” Examine this question and you will know the task (of Jewish
education).
As is known, I tend towards normative philosophy. Those who preceded

me pointed out the problems involved in a normative approach. It is too
easy to say, “See this and sanctify it”—and to think that this will influence
others, rather than to accept beliefs, opinions and truths, after or during
a discussion spread over the span of an entire lifetime. I wish to point
out a number of problems that exist in the project per se:
One can define Jewish education—and education in general—as an

attempt of adults to transmit and to sell their own worldview to the
younger generation. You can blame me by saying, “He engages in indoc-
trination.” But precisely because there is a danger of indoctrination which

we wish to avoid, the present task is so much more difficult.
But I want to take education and define it in another way, one which in
my opinion is quite reasonable: Jewish education is an attempt to deal
with problems, contradictions and polarities, to see the tensions which
exist in education and to engage them. To truly engage them.
What comes out of all this?
We need to learn many things. We cannot define before we think; and

when we engage in Jewish education, we learn that there are not only
contradictions, but that there is a need to attempt to arrive at some sort of
integration between these contradictions. This integration—as Jonathan
Cohen already said in the name of Fackenheim—allows us to strive for
perfection, without being certain that we shall ever arrive there; without
thinking that there is a shortcut to perfection.
The moment that we see education as opposed to all those things which
we believe, think and know, we begin to enter a very problematic world.
For example: What is more important—to know how to fix a car,

(because if you are unable to do so in today’s world, you run a risk,
because today’s world is cruel and dangerous), or to know one of
Shakespeare’s sonnets? But why do I speak about Shakespeare? One
could speak about understanding a sugya in the Talmud.
But the moment we do this [i.e., decide that it’s worthwhile to learn a
sugya in the Talmud], our path is only beginning. What if this sugya
“doesn’t speak to me”? What if it is boring? Do I need to tell everybody
that it is interesting in order to sustain the Jewish people?
“Spontaneity.” Everyone is in favor of spontaneity, but we also want

justice! And not all of us are geniuses like those Sages who called the
evening of celebration of Jewish freedom Seder night, i.e., “The night of
order.” Is order the opposite of freedom?
I need to decide whether I will learn how to integrate these two things,
and how I introduce “translation.” And, as has already been mentioned
here this evening, oftentimes this is already a translation.
I did in fact mention spontaneity as opposed to order, but I can offer

dozens of other examples in which I am in favor of this and that, and
in which we see ourselves as committed to both this and that—but we
need to learn language in order to even approach this goal.
I have a very sweet granddaughter who, after a year of discussion (and

many years of indoctrination on my part . . .) who, while we were study-
ing together something from Parashat Mishpatim—not one of the easiest
subjects—asked me about the verse “you shall not suffer a witch to live”
and “he shall surely die.” She wondered: what is this? And I told her that
the Sages interpret it in such-and-such a way, and that we understand it
in such-and-such a way. She then said: if we are meant to understand
it in this way and not as it is written, then why do we need the written
text? Things always come out too well!! . . .
Another translation on my part.
And thus I may continue.
When we say that everything is organization, uncovering and new inter-

pretations, we ask ourselves—where do all these things come together?
Is there some sort of dialectic between the different sides? When are we
able to say “But we think that this particular interpretation ought to guide
us.” Note: I did not say that we need to accept it, and that this and only
this interpretation is the correct one. But who determines “this”?
When I review everything that has been written about integration,

I always remember a concept that I learned 30 years ago, from an
English philosopher, who drew a distinction between implicit religion
and explicit religion. This distinction became a kind of motto for me, a
guiding principle. Within religion itself we find all of the contradictions.
And when I introduce [these ideas] into the philosophy of education, I

ask myself: What takes precedent over what?
We are accustomed to thinking that when there are many contradic-

tions and we don’t know how to act, philosophy can help us. The
great philosophers were men who had answers, while I merely ask
questions—so why not turn to them?
And here I utilize two thinkers from the 19th and 20th centuries, who
teach us that things are not so simple. If I go to philosophy and claim
that philosophy is the key to wisdom—I forget—and this I learned from
Hermann Cohen, the prominent German Jewish philosopher—that phi-
losophy and philosophers have some kind of operating system, and their
operating system is the intellect, the ratio; and that everything is found
in the intellect. And therefore I also need to judge the philosophers, as
Franz Rosentzweig did, and ask: To what did the philosopher not relate?
What did he not acknowledge in his own experience?
Integration needs to be at a higher level, at a place where there is room

for feeling, for intellect, for revelation, for industry—for everything which
engages us and helps us to understand things better, and always with the
knowledge that we don’t understand much [or that there are many things
which we do not understand].
This is a difficult task, and I remember a dear friend of mine who passed
away a number of years ago—Seymour Fox of blessed memory—from
whom I learned a great deal, who with his simple words and in his
unique style would say: “Don’t think that this is the [whole] story. The
story is never finished.”
Analysis
In my opinion, this speech is extremely compact and includes much more
than appears at first glance. In what follows, I will attempt to cast light on
this text and to make it speak against the background of all that I said above.
I will do this by offering a close reading of each section of the speech.
As on many previous occasions, here14 too M. Rosenak began by
expressing the feeling that the field of education in general and the phi-
losophy of education in particular is not valued by the academy. He felt
that it was considered shallow, not serious, and unattractive to the top
students. It doesn’t offer a future. There are also those who consider the
entire academic educational process as an educational failure because of
the use of “translation”—which the “Orthodox” see as a lack of authen-
ticity or a lack of religious seriousness. He was very much aware of the
inherent structural problems of “translation” as an educational theory which
14 “On this occasion I am deeply moved because, like many of the people sitting here, I received a
socialization which says that, in practice, ‘the thing’ is lost. It has no future, or the future is shallow, or
completely ‘translated.’ All kinds of things have been said about this enterprise, and we do not notice
that meanwhile new generations have learned ‘the thing’ and are happy to continue it.”
he himself developed. He was conscious of the dangers of reductionism—

of excessive or “full” translation—which posed a real threat to the future
of “Protestant” or “implicit” Jewish religious education. At the same time he
expresses here astonishment and joy at the fact that Jewish education goes
on. He rejoices in its vitality, and attractiveness for scholars and teachers.
M. Rosenak points to two possible tasks that he faces:15 the first, to
engage in the normative aspect of the tradition, to explain “to what do
we refer when we speak about norms.” The second is to ask: “What is
really going on here?,” the claim being that, seemingly, only after we know
the answer to this question will we “know what the function of education
is.” He describes here an oscillation between two poles, two definitions of
the educational task. M. Rosenak understands the necessity of recognizing
reality, but he also has reservations about the idea that one ought to base
everything upon it. For him, education must also have an educational vision
which is normative, intellectual, and cultural. At the same time, it is impossi-
ble to engage in vision alone without knowing the practical situation in the
field. But turning the “field” into everything is superficial. Excessive sensitiv-
ity to the milieu bears signs of pragmatism. The option which M. Rosenak
preferred is the normative path.
In this context M. Rosenak also defines education—as he has done in the
past—as “the attempt of adults to transmit and to sell their own worldview
to the younger generation”;16 that is, as normative, functional, and cultural
socialization. Despite his identification with it, M. Rosenak is sensitive to the
complexities and to the critiques leveled against normative philosophy. He
is aware of the fear of indoctrination (which he wrote about), and of the
numerous distinctions which were drawn between indoctrination and edu-
cation. He is also completely aware of the opposite problem—i.e., that on
account of an excessive fear of indoctrination it will no longer be possible to
educate. He shares his concern that the normative approach might allow the
educator to become a self-appointed authority saying “Thus you shall see
and sanctify.” The belief that the educator has the power to influence oth-
ers presents a temptation (especially to the young) that must be overcome.
15 “As one who engages in the philosophy of Jewish education (I will not say that I am a philosopher
of Jewish education, because I do not know if there is such a thing), I need to do two things: first, to
engage in the normative aspect of the tradition—to do what we refer to when we speak of ‘norms.’
Second, as Zvi Beckerman always says to me, ‘What is really going on?’ Examine this question and you
will know the task (of Jewish education).”
16 “As is known, I tend towards normative philosophy. Those who preceded me pointed out the
problems involved in a normative approach. It is too easy to say, ‘See this and sanctify it’—and to
think that this will influence others, rather than to accept beliefs, opinions and truths, after or during
a discussion spread over the span of an entire lifetime. I wish to point out a number of problems that
exist in the project per se: One can define Jewish education—and education in general—as an attempt
of adults to transmit and to sell their own worldview to the younger generation. You can blame me by
saying, ‘He engages in indoctrination.’ But precisely because there is a danger of indoctrination which
we wish to avoid, the present task is so much more difficult.”
Together with this, M. Rosenak knows the insights of the mature and expe-
rienced educator who is aware that normative discourse is complex and
intricate; that the acceptance of beliefs, opinions, and truths is only possible
in the context of a conversation “that lasts an entire lifetime.”
Up to this point, M. Rosenak has defined education as a process of
socialization, similar to that which we have seen in what he says above.
But he now takes a further step and defines education as “an attempt to
deal with problems, contradictions and polarities; to see the tensions which
exist in education and to engage them. To truly engage them.”17 Here M.
Rosenak raises the demand not to flee from the contradictions and conflicts
which are part of human experience. These must be recognized as essential
factors, as considerations that must be faced. It would seem that the key
theme of this speech is to point out these contradictions and the importance
of confronting them. In this particular speech, M. Rosenak does not rely on

the themes that most characterize his work. He does not recreate for us the
complex system which integrates “explicit” and “implicit” religion, nor does
he seek the proper balance between “language” and “literature,” as in many
of his articles. He does not present any positive theory or propose solutions
to problems. Rather, in this setting he chose to underline the challenges,
the difficulties, and the necessity of engaging with all the contradictions and
paradoxes that inhabit our world from without and the human soul from
within.
From M. Rosenak’s words—as opposed to his writing in the past—it
becomes clear that he no longer feels comfortable addressing the prob-
lems of Jewish educational philosophy from a standpoint of normative,
cultural socialization.18 The goals of bringing the student into a normative or
“explicit” community and to an intimate “implicit” experience of identifica-
tion with it are no longer adequate to his purposes. The educational task that
he addresses here is more perplexing—and perhaps this is the main point: in
this speech he asks more questions and offers fewer answers. Education and
the educator need to acknowledge the contradictions found in the world
of the student without blurring them or trying to resolve them. Education
cannot be sustained if it is based upon utopias and ideologies—whether
communal or individual—which have no basis in practical reality and which
do not include all the components of the human soul.
17 “But I want to take education and define it in another way, one which in my opinion is quite
likely: Jewish education is an attempt to deal with problems, contradictions and polarities, to see the
tensions which exist in education and to engage them. To truly engage them.”
18 “What comes out of all this? We need to learn many things. We cannot define before we think; and
when we engage in Jewish education, we learn that there are not only contradictions, but that there is a
need to attempt to arrive at some sort of integration between these contradictions. This integration—as
Jonathan Cohen already said in the name of Fackenheim—allows us to strive for perfection, without
being certain that we shall ever arrive there; without thinking that there is a shortcut to perfection.”
This insight requires us to look at the world and the people in it in much
greater detail.19 Thus, education must be based upon an intimate familiarity
with all the opposites and contradictions. This does not mean that we can no
longer aspire to the integration and resolution of conflicts and contradictions.
Mapping all of these onto a matrix of interconnecting contradictions while
making no effort to amalgamate them is not enough for the educator. There
is a longing for integration that matters because it allows for a paideia of
wholeness and completeness to emerge. But the path that M. Rosenak maps
here is one in which the full consciousness of the conflicts remains. There
are no ideal visions that do not address the complexity of reality which
must always include the “unimportant” and “un-noble” things. These do not
disappear and “they are not going away.”
The educator must decide: What must we teach? What must we learn?20
In this lecture M. Rosenak makes it clear that theoretical knowledge is not

enough. We must learn practical things such as “how to fix the car” in order
to deal with a “cruel and dangerous” world. This is of course only an exam-
ple. But what he means is that we must acquire the capabilities that equip
us with the skills we need in order to deal with the practical and immediate
challenges of life. At the same time, M. Rosenak warns us, we mustn’t con-
centrate all of our energies on practicalities and pragmatism alone; we need
to strive for the elevated and the refined, which he points out through his
reference to the “Shakespearian sonnet.” But immediately after mentioning
it, he is taken aback by his own automatic use of a Western or universal
example and so he asks the rhetorical question: Why not choose a more
particularist and no less refined example: “a sugya from the Talmud”?
But as he approaches his definition of the desired goal, new ques-
tions emerge.21 To what extent must a person defend his own culture at the
expense of the authenticity of his own feelings? Can one really construct a
culture without paying close attention to the authentic feelings that students
have when they encounter the subject matter? What will we do if we dis-
cover that the subject matter that has been studied “does not speak to us”?
“That the sugya is boring?”
M. Rosenak seeks to rescue Jewish education from its own anxieties.22
Jewish education cannot succeed if its sole purpose is to turn the student
19 “The moment that we see education as opposed to all those things which we believe, think, and
know, we begin to enter a very problematic world.”

20 “For example: What is more important—to know how to fix a car (because if you are unable to
do so in today’s world, you run a risk, because today’s world is cruel and dangerous), or to know one of
Shakespeare’s sonnets? But why do I speak about Shakespeare? One could speak about understanding a
sugya in the Talmud.”
21 “But the moment we do this [i.e., decide that it’s worthwhile to learn a sugya in the Talmud], our
path is only beginning. What if this sugya ‘doesn’t speak to me’? What if it is boring? Do I need to tell
everybody that it is interesting in order to sustain the Jewish people?”
22 “‘Spontaneity.’ Everyone is in favor of spontaneity, but we also want justice! And not all of us are
geniuses like those Sages who called the evening of celebration of Jewish freedom Seder night, i.e., ‘The
night of order.’ Is order the opposite of freedom?”
into a recruit in “God’s Army,” who must be protected from the outside
world (and from himself) at all costs. Educators must not expect students
to sacrifice the complexities of their own being on the altar of a culture.
Belonging cannot come at the expense of a person’s ability to express his or
her own true feelings.
But how does one socialize the student into a normative framework of
“collective” identity while at the same time being sensitive to the individual,
to his or her private world and antinominal feelings?23 Not everybody knows
how to celebrate “freedom” as “order” or “Seder”—but this educational move
of the Sages is precisely the example we follow—it is a model that involves
a “unity of opposites.”
We need to decide whether or not we can learn to include these two
contradictory poles in our celebration of Seder and, if so, we need to figure
out how to translate their coexistence for others.24 There is a need to cre-
ate a language and an educational infrastructure that actually enables us to
incorporate contradictions for real and to feel a genuine commitment to the
enduring purpose of all the components. M. Rosenak asked himself: Is the
path of “translation” (that I have always championed) really the way to do
this?
Translation runs the risk of becoming automatic and in this it is
problematic.25 To illustrate this point, M. Rosenak tells a story about study-
ing with his granddaughter and describes her astonishment at the law which
in her eyes (and in his) seemed unethical. He describes the various expla-
nations and answers that he tried to offer her but also her discomfort with
his translations. “If we are meant to understand it in this way and not as it
is written, then why do we need the written text?” This question exempli-
fies clearly the problem with “Protestant” translation: “Translations like this
always come out too well!!”
It is interesting to observe that the “translation” discussed here is a clas-
sic example of a translation that responds to a real question which is not
designed simply to meet pedagogic requirements. In other words: this trans-
lation was not simply for his grand-daughter’s ears. It is one that M. Rosenak
23 “I need to decide whether I will learn how to integrate these two things, and how I intro-
duce ‘translation.’ And, as has already been mentioned here this evening, oftentimes this is already a
translation.”
24 “I did in fact mention spontaneity as opposed to order, but I can offer dozens of other examples
in which I am in favor of this and that, and in which we see ourselves as committed to both this and
that—but we need to learn language in order to even approach this goal.”
25 “I have a very sweet granddaughter who, after a year of discussion (and many years of indoctri-
nation on my part . . .) who, while we were studying together something from Parashat Mishpatim—not
one of the easiest subjects—asked me about the verse ‘you shall not suffer a witch to live’ and ‘he shall
surely die.’ She wondered: what is this? And I told her that the Sages interpret it in such-and-such a way,
and that we understand it in such-and-such a way. She then said: ‘if we are meant to understand it in this
way and not as it is written, then why do we need the written text? Things always come out too well!!’
Another translation on my part.
needed for himself. He internalized her reaction: he felt that the “literature”
detached itself from “language” and that the translation was therefore too
“perfect.” This translation offers no way of retaining the original contradic-
tion between the biblical text and the modern experience. The troubling
question repeats itself: Is it indeed possible to integrate the canonic text and
the existential world of modern religious people?
M. Rosenak sought a “true dialectic between the poles.”26 He deliberated
over the question as to how a dialectic may oscillate between opposite poles
without losing sight of either one and without dissolving them into one
another. How is it possible to maintain a relationship with the canon without
this disintegrating into mere lip service? His words imply sharp criticism of
the entire project of translation.
From here M. Rosenak turns to the question of authority and its limita-
tions in light of the multifaceted nature of reality. He wonders: when, and

under what circumstances, we are able to say that a particular interpretation
“ought to guide us”? M. Rosenak likewise emphasized that one ought also to
note: “I do not say that this is the interpretation that one must accept” or that
“it and it alone is the truth.” This distinction conceals a host of fundamental
questions about educational thought: At what moment does interpretation of
culture inform normative activity? How does one create an exegesis that has
authoritative power? Who determines what is “suitable guidance”? What is
the nature of authority which also has openness, creativity, listening, faith-
fulness and flexibility? How does an authoritative text (or person) adopt an
educational perspective that embraces all the components of life and culture
(including all the unpleasant ones) and still remain attractive and meaningful
for the student who must accept them?
Education—even of the normative kind —is not possible using clear-
cut monolithic sentences. One needs to engage in a normative “literary”
discourse that inspires without dictating definitive “truths.” How does one
create a system which is on the one hand normative, and on the other hand
acknowledges the fact that there are parallel truths “which are all OK” with-
out falling into relativism? How does one create loyal students who remain
faithful to themselves but who are simultaneously capable of recognizing the
integrity of others who interpret things differently?
The question of authority raises other, secondary educational questions:
Does the community need a person who “determines” and “decides”? How
is such a figure created? Is the presence of such a person desirable? How is it
possible to create a normative community without him? What is the religious
26 And thus I may continue. When we say that everything is organization, uncovering and new
interpretations, we ask ourselves—where do all these things come together? Is there some sort of dialectic
between the different sides? When are we able to say “But we think that this particular interpretation ought
to guide us.” Note: I did not say that we need to accept it, and that this and only this interpretation is the
correct one. But who determines “this”?
and spiritual price of the existence of a posek [halakhic authority]? And what
is the price of his absence?
M. Rosenak also mentions the distinction between “explicit religion”
and “implicit religion.”27 He is aware that he is relying upon philosophical
terms that he has learned from others (this is an example of “philosophy
in the service of education”), and in this context he seems to condense
his own contribution as scholar or philosopher of education to one sin-
gle question: “In religious education, which should come first, the explicit
or the implicit?” At the same time, he understands that the line between
explicit and implicit religion is not one that distinguishes between different
religions alone. Rather, within the same tradition this distinction captures
different moments of religious experience each of which must be cultivated
and developed in religious education.
The educational arena is filled with conflicts and contradictions. How

can one deal with these? The temptation, M. Rosenak explains, is to follow
those “philosophies and philosophers” who promise to “provide answers.”28
If we have questions and they have the answers, why shouldn’t we make
use of them? For M. Rosenak, turning to experts is the easy option. For the
rationalist it is tempting simply to turn to the philosophers whose knowledge
is all-encompassing and rely upon them for answers.
M. Rosenak followed Franz Rosenzweig, whose philosophy supplied
him with the point of departure for many of his insights and distinctions.29
“From Rosenzweig we learned that we also need to judge the philosophers.
We need to ask: What did the philosopher not understand? What did he
not acknowledge in his own experience?” We need to strive for integra-
tion that comes from a higher place. Rosenzweig repeatedly pointed out
the limitations of the philosophical system; its partiality and its inability to
grasp the full range of nuances in reality. His mention of Rosenzweig in
27 When I review everything that has been written about integration, I always remember a concept
that I learned thirty years ago, from an English philosopher, who drew a distinction between implicit
religion and explicit religion. This distinction became a kind of motto for me, a guiding principle. Within
religion itself we find all of the contradictions. And when I introduce [these ideas] into the philosophy of
education, I ask myself: What takes precedent over what?”
28 “We are accustomed to thinking that when there are many contradictions and we don’t know how
to act, philosophy can help us. The great philosophers were men who had answers, while I merely ask
questions—so why not turn to them?”
29 “And here I utilize two thinkers from the 19th and 20th centuries, who teach us that things are
not so simple. If I go to philosophy and claim that philosophy is the key to wisdom—I forget—and
this I learned from Hermann Cohen, the prominent German Jewish philosopher—that philosophy and
philosophers have some kind of operating system, and their operating system is the intellect, the ratio;
and that everything is found in the intellect. And therefore I also need to judge the philosophers, as Franz
Rosenzweig did, and ask: To what did the philosopher not relate? What did he not acknowledge in his
own experience? Integration needs to be at a higher level, at a place where there is room for feeling, for
intellect, for revelation, for industry—for everything which engages us and helps us to understand things
better, and always with the knowledge that we don’t understand much [or that there are many things
which we do not understand].”
this lecture recalls his discussion of Rosenzweig’s letter “Divine and Human”
(Glatzer, 1998, p. 242) which he frequently quoted and taught. In this let-
ter Rosenzweig taught us that a Huppa isn’t a marriage. He showed us the
difference between the contract or Ketubah and the complex network of
relationships, shared experiences and memories that comprise married life.
Life as a couple is always far more conflictual, emotional, subtle, and para-
doxical than legalized representations of it that serve an institutional function
in ritual. What is true of married life is also true of “revelation” (which is the
primary subject of the letter) and, according to M. Rosenak, of education too.
M. Rosenak reminds us that the intellect is not alone: “there is a place
where there is room for feeling, for intellect, for revelation, for industry.” Man
needs the refinement of Shakespearean literature, the sophistication of the
Talmudic-sugya, the emotional depth of human feeling. But he also needs to
know how to function in everyday life, how to operate with the computer
(which to an older person is a stubborn object that presents an endless
succession of seemingly insurmountable obstacles). At a certain stage of
life he even needs to relearn the basic and essential skills of personal and
social life, after these have been forgotten. Not everything is academic, not
everything is philosophical, not everything is dealt with in the “ivory tower.”
These are insights that those who enjoy complete control over their body
and their time take for granted.
After hearing my father’s lecture, I said to him that this was a new chap-
ter in his educational philosophy. I referred to it jokingly as “the educational
philosophy of sheltered living”—this title amused him. But the joke, amus-
ing as it was, was also serious because it stemmed from a very real insight
into the condition of an aging person. M. Rosenak emphasized the authentic
vitality that emerges from life: we need to pay attention to the truth about
what really happens to us in life, that helps us to understand more than we
already know. We have to learn how to deal with age, with illness, with lim-
itations, and with forgetting. We need to be attentive to what truly concerns
us; to be honest with ourselves and to remain relevant both to ourselves and
to those who listen to us. It is important to transcend the limitations of what
“ought” to be and to engage with what really is. We must be involved with
what is true to the conditions of our lives.
Toward the end of this speech, M. Rosenak draws on Ernest Becker to
highlight just how difficult it is to actually face up to the conditions of our
own reality. An educated man cannot shelter himself from life in the way
that the idea and culture of “sheltered living facilities,” seems to offer. This
is a false reality, an illusion of eternal life. As a person comes closer to his
own death, mortal anxiety is intensified sevenfold. And the “noise” of the
“sheltered living” culture which takes the form of and endless succession
of swimming classes, dancing, Tai Chi, pottery, oil painting, social activities,
celebrations, sports competitions and other such distractions, do not leave
him to contemplate his true end, which literally lies in waiting at the door.
To ignore this is inauthentic being. The oversight is too jarring, too difficult.
Its suppression—which might have seemed possible in the past when it was
still possible to run from conference to conference, from plane to plane or
from one lecture hall to the next—is no longer reasonable from an existential
or educational point of view. In this sense, this lecture is an invitation not to
suppress the educational meaning of a chapter in our lives which, as younger
people, we do not yet know. The greatest threat to our ability to face reality
is in a culture that gives us instant answers to all our problems. This is why
M. Rosenak insists that, “We always need to have the feeling that we do
not know enough.” We must acknowledge what is real not because we do
not have proper respect for the “ideal” and for “wholeness,” but because we
understand that life will always teach us more than any system of ideals can
capture.
M. Rosenak concluded with a mention of his mentor, colleague, and

friend, Seymour Fox.30 Fox’s words, with which he chose to conclude this
final speech, reminded me of my father’s uncanny ability to interpret dreams.
He always interpreted dreams in the most straightforward and honest way.
He did this by listening with great intensity, by applying his humane wisdom,
and by knowing that the story being told is never the whole story—there
is always something more. The story never truly ends in the place where
it’s telling stops. “Don’t think that this is the [whole] story. The story is
never finished,” said Fox to M. Rosenak. And thus told M. Rosenak to his
audience.
This speech is not one that gives us systematic answers. It leaves us with
questions and puzzles. Puzzles rooted in the insight that there is always more
to life than the eye can see. Systems and theories are only ever echoes of a
complex reality, full of conflicts and contradictions. What we know is only
what is revealed to us through a crack of light that allows us a glimpse into
concealed worlds where contradictory assumptions coexist and proliferate
in a place that never becomes fully visible to the human eye. And over
everything there hovers the obligation of normative education, that seeks to
integrate and pay attention to everything without leaving anyone behind.
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A Philosophy of Jewish Education in Question

Writing this article presents me with an opportunity to look closely

For many years, my father and I carried on an existential, spiritual, aca-

THE FOUNDATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF MICHAEL ROSENAK’S

Catholic and Protestant Judaism

(M. Rosenak, 2013).

(2005) and Oaks (2005).

society and the state, love and war” (Simon, 1983).

“Protestant” worldview, the boundaries of religious experience are limited to

“romantic” stage), and an adult (the “philosophical” stage). Finally, accord-

Language and Literature

Rosenak, 1995, p. 20 n. 2).

from an educational–practical viewpoint.

Explicit Religion and Implicit Religion

her membership as a loyal citizen in the communal system. This approach

On the Philosophy of Education

dictate educational practice. This approach is openly ideological in that it is

their own assumptions, to act with self-awareness, and to maximize their

Ernest Becker and the Denial of Death

are rooted in the modern experience.

deepened and reinforced by constant reflections and by the philosophical

Becker offers an anthropology with theological and psychological

Humans tend to flee from the powerful existential tension in which

11 From a recording of conversations concerning this book.

as reflective creatures. Humanity sublimates this tension in various ways,

These images underline the importance of avoiding the arrogance that

The Unity of Opposites

( 1976, pp. 15–20).

more attention to Rabbi Kook’s concept of the “unity of opposites.” But,

Institute in Jerusalem in honor of Michael Rosenak’s last book, Covenant and

Friends, teachers, lovers of Jewish education and dear ones,

On this occasion I am deeply moved because, like many of the people

As one who engages in the philosophy of Jewish education (I will not

As is known, I tend towards normative philosophy. Those who preceded

One can define Jewish education—and education in general—as an

trination.” But precisely because there is a danger of indoctrination which

What comes out of all this?

We need to learn many things. We cannot define before we think; and

For example: What is more important—to know how to fix a car,

“Spontaneity.” Everyone is in favor of spontaneity, but we also want

I did in fact mention spontaneity as opposed to order, but I can offer

I have a very sweet granddaughter who, after a year of discussion (and

Another translation on my part.

And thus I may continue.

When we say that everything is organization, uncovering and new inter-

When I review everything that has been written about integration,

And when I introduce [these ideas] into the philosophy of education, I

We are accustomed to thinking that when there are many contradic-