It appears at times that what is meant by modernism— a vague, almost vacuous term if not contextualized properly— is that period in human history characterized by the alienation of Man. Rapid industrial development and various technological innovations have provided society with those tools that are necessary for it to take seriously the Kantian exhortation that we ought to emerge from our state of self-incurred immaturity. Yet these modern developments are simultaneously instruments of destruction, subjugation, and indeed, alienation. I am not concerned, in this essay, with the Marxian concept of alienation as the estrangement of the laborer from the fruits of his labor, but rather, alienation understood in a more existential sense; as displacement, spiritual impoverishment, and cultural and religious fragmentation. What, then, should we make of this sense of loss? Is our only hope to return assiduously to religious systems of meaning, refusing the cynical realism of modernity? Or do the world-historical catastrophes set in motion by modernity— the Shoah, in particular— allow us to rethink such concepts as God, history, and man? More concretely, what is the role of religious institutions, such as the Yeshiva, in the modern world? Are they merely the vestiges of premodernity, attempting to resuscitate a religious world-view experiencing its death throes, or can they help us navigate the modern world? My Quarrel with Hersh Rayner is concerned with precisely this tension. The complexity of this tension or antagonism defies a simple resolution and it is for this reason that I will argue that the representation of the Yeshiva in My Quarrel is marked by a certain ambivalence; it does not straightforwardly identify the Yeshiva with ideal piety, nor is it a paean dedicated to the glorification of the supposedly redemptive qualities of modernity. I will argue that while there exists a fundamental incongruence between Chaim and Hersh’s positions, it is this incongruence, this antagonism, that is the very condition of possibility for their debate to unfold. If we understand Chaim’s position not as a rejection of Jewish theology, but rather one that has immense religious significance, it can be argued that both characters are, in the final analysis, grappling with the same problems and questions, despite offering different solutions.

There is an urgent, perhaps even dangerous, question that can be posed upon finishing My Quarrel: is it possible to take seriously the antagonism that is constitutive of Jewish study and identity if this antagonism calls into question the study of Torah, or some other fundamental tenet of Jewish theology itself? Even in the fiercest of disagreements what is always presupposed is that one begins from the Torah. It is from this starting point that interpretive differences may abound. What is to be done when this ground is demolished? Given the radicality of this proposition, one may, like Hersh, reject it a priori. However, this rejection would imply that Chaim’s position— his concerns and questions— have a purely secular import and are unintelligible when applied to religious discourse. This is far from the case. If Chaim retorts that the first question Hersh addresses to him is unintelligible— “Your question, Hersh Rasseyner, is no question at all. I do what I have to do”— it is not because he rejects Jewish spirituality in toto but recognizes that spirituality, in a modern context, must be re-imagined ( not re-jected) (Grade 24). Indeed, Chaim is entirely critical of the developments of modernity which he sees as initiating a crisis within Judaism. Addressing Hersh’s accusations, he solemnly proclaims that “You don’t understand that I myself say ‘No’ to the world as it is. And yet I force myself to say ‘Yes’ because I believe in my street” (Grade 25). The “as it is” is of crucial importance and is indicative of Chaim’s firm belief that a world-view that espouses a sort of radical asceticism is seldom helpful in navigating the treacherous terrain of modernity. If the alienation of the subject is constitutive of modernity, then what good can possibly come from a withdrawal from the world? Should not the duty of the Rebbe be to foster meaningful relationships with the “the porters with their backs broken from carrying their loads; the artisans sweating at their workbenches” (Grade 25)?

There is thus a dialectical tension between Chaim’s ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ — declarations both of affirmation and negation— that allow him to navigate not only the modern world, but Jewishness itself. Notice how Hersh refuses even the possibility of affirmation, collapsing this dialectic— in a manner befitting his misanthropic disposition, he defines Jewishness negatively, “I have heard that your pamphlet, your excuse for a book, is called Yes. But I tell you, ‘No!’” (Grade 24). In a sense, then, Chaim is even more of a “traditional” Jew than Hersh because he does not disavow this contradiction! Although Hersh believes that Chaim has a phantasmic conception of Judaism, one must take seriously Chaim’s rejoinder that it is Hersh who has “dreamed up a world and then renounced it” (Grade 31). I would go even further than Chaim—Hersh has dreamed up an insular conception of Judaism itself. Traditionalism, as is argued by Joseph Katz, can be understood as a modern phenomenon. By expressing a desire to return to an idyllic, supposedly authentic past, those who espouse the most stringent forms of orthodoxy, paradoxically, introduce new content into religious tradition. Indeed, calling upon God to justify His ways, far from being blasphemous, is well-documented in Jewish history. Was it not Job who challenged his Lord by crying out in agony, “If only I knew how to find God, how to enter his court, I would state my case before Him and set out my arguments in full; then I should learn what answer he would give and find out what he had to say” (Job 23:3-5)? Did not Judaism begin with an agreement, a contract between Man and God? There were different methods of teaching even in rabbinic Judaism. Did not Hillel respond to the gentile with a gentle playfulness when he had been rebuked harshly by Shammai beforehand?

As such, this tension persists between their positions, even though Hersh is unable to, or unwilling to acknowledge it. While refusing to acknowledge the religious significance of Chaim’s position, Hersh does not reject the importance of disputations in the history of Judaism— “For you, who are on the outside, Hasidism and Musar are just two opposing points of view… But actually, they both strengthened Judaism and their dispute is long forgotten” (Grade 29). The irony here is, of course, palpable. Hersh’s denigration of Chaim’s position is aimed precisely at the idea that Chaim trivializes Judaism. Concerning the dispute between Hasidism and Musar he says, “If the rabbis once fought over Hasidism and Musar it was because they were afraid the new path would draw Jews away from strict observance” (Grade 29). But is Chaim not proposing precisely a “new path”? It is only by preemptively designating Chaim an “outsider” that Hersh is able to evade his well-founded and provocative questions. He considers him to be an individual who “ran away from being Jewish” disguising his “flight with high-sounding phrases” (Grade 43).

Chaim, cognizant of the antagonism that has allowed for the development of his own spirituality, is conciliatory rather than dismissive: “As I sat here listening to you, I sometimes thought I was listening to myself” (Grade 47). Hersh, unbeknownst to himself, reveals that, conceptually, his “Jewish history” depends on a form of retroactive causation; he canonizes certain disputes in the history of Judaism while refusing to acknowledge the religious significance of his disagreement with Chaim. For Hersh, these were necessary disputes, while Chaim’s grievances are merely contingent. He can only come to this conclusion retroactively— he does not realize that this “return to the past” is itself an act of interpretation and reordering, and it is only through this temporal reconstruction that he is able to legitimize his own conception of Judaism. It would be unfair, then, to say that Chaim is the sole character in this story concerned with reimagining Judaism. His reimagining disrupts this linear temporality and embraces fully the uncertain and speculative. One can imagine that if Hersh were miraculously transported to a future where Chaim’s position was taken more seriously by Jewish intelligentsia, he would say of their disagreement the very same thing he now says of the dispute between Musar and Hasidism: “for those who observe and practice Jewishness they are one and the same” (Grade 29).

An investigation into the category of Jewishness must necessarily examine the role of study in producing subjects. Study should not be understood— and this is particularly true of religious study— as the acquisition of information but rather as a process of subjectivation. But the subject is always haunted by the possibility of its demolition or disappearance. This forces those tasked with teaching to confront an unsettling question: what is to be done when this process is disrupted by a historical trauma? If the destruction of the Temple rendered obsolete certain forms of worship, but not Judaism as a whole, then must we take seriously the argument that the Shoah also calls for a “re-imagining” of Judaism and the Yeshiva? We must keep in mind that this re-imagination is not a wholesale negation of the past, nor is it a simple acquiescence to modernity. These are questions that are equally difficult both for the traditionalist and the secularist. Even the steadfast Hersh appears to falter when faced with them, bypassing the issue by a perfunctory maneuver: “The almighty helps. What difference does it make how you speak? The main thing is what you speak” (Grade 28). Having first flattened the dialectical relationship between the ‘Yes’ and the ‘No’, Hersh now privileges content over form. But his dismissal of the form of education as that which is merely tangential to the process of subjectivation also reveals the incertitude that plagues him.

Although Hersh appears to have ready-made answers to all of Chaim’s queries, a certain anxiety belies his fiery passion. He yearns for the security and sense of wholeness that was once offered by the Yeshiva— “Each of us filed and polished his own soul… Then came the Germans” (Grade 36). Evidently, even Hersh acknowledges that a shift— what Levinas calls a “ruin of representation” — cosmic in its scope, has befallen Judaism and Jewish study. Herein lies the essence of trauma— the subject is forced to reckon with something that is utterly unfamiliar to it but is nonetheless transfixed by it and thus irreversibly changed. Hersh, in the face of the suspension of the symbolic order can only cry out “we want a more onerous code, more commandments, more laws, more prohibitions” — the only way to overcome the threat of the suspension is precisely through this excess. (Grade 44). Any change to the structure of the Yeshiva would be seen as a compromise bordering on heresy. Hersh fears that this change would result in a form of study in which “anything goes”, thereby undermining the rigor that is supposed to be constitutive of study. Chaim, however, does not want to trivialize study, nor does he conceive of Jewishness as a superfluous category after the trauma of the Shoah. He tells Hersh that “we, too, are after wholeness, not a middle-of-the-road compromise” (Grade 48).

However, this “wholeness” is divided into two disparate parts: “Jewish tradition and secular culture” (Grade 48). It is only by embracing this schism, by “taking on a double responsibility” that a concrete solution might be arrived at. Moreover, Chaim argues that there are structural changes within the Jewish world itself that necessitate a rethinking of study. The fantasy of a self-sufficient Yeshiva no longer exists as the secular encroaches on the religious and every aspect of life is subject to the logic of capital— “So I won’t waste time telling you about the powerful and wealthy Jewish leaders who made the community of Israel into their footstool” (Grade 48). Chaim tells Hersh, “Reb Hesh, let us embrace—” (Grade 53). The dash at the end of the sentence, far from being an editorial mistake or authorial idiosyncrasy , signifies a certain incompleteness, gestures at a new beginning, and is inherently interruptive. It concretizes the speculative import of Chaim’s arguments. This ending is not cathartic, the reader does not witness the interlocutors put aside their differences in order to affirm some Absolute Truth. And yet, the possibility of reconciliation remains amidst the strife.

Works Cited

Grade, Chaim, and Herbert H. Paper. “My Quarrel with Hersh Rasseyner”. 1982.