Steven Gotlib
Review of Elliot Cosgrove, For Such a Time as This: On Being Jewish Today (Harvest, 2024)
“In the face of a world turned upside down, I am steadied by the texts of our tradition that provide solace and guidance. Ancient as our sacred texts may be, with every passing day they speak with an urgency to me, to the community I serve, and to the ever-evolving landscape of our post-October 7th world.” (100)
– Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove
Rabbi Dr. Elliot Cosgrove is the Senior Rabbi of Park Avenue Synagogue in New York City, one of the Conservative Movement’s “flagship” synagogues. His recent book, For Such a Time as This, presents a poignant and passionate adaptation of his sermons into a plea for unity and spiritual growth among American Jews and Zionists in the aftermath of October 7th, 2023.
One may reasonably ask what business an Orthodox rabbi like me has reviewing such a book in an Orthodox publication. If For Such a Time as This reflects only a Conservative rabbi preaching to his Conservative congregation, there does not seem to be much for someone like me to say. There is much, though, for an Orthodox audience to appreciate in Rabbi Cosgrove’s thoughtful diagnoses and prescriptions regarding the challenges of our current moment in time.[1]
Cosgrove’s Critique of Contemporary Judaism
The book begins with a discussion of hyphenation. “To live a hyphenated life,” Cosgrove writes, “…means that life is a balancing act between the competing commitments within each of us.” Modern Orthodox readers ought to be quite familiar with such a feeling. “Our attachments to one another, to our Judaism, and to Israel require delicate balancing acts, a lifetime of negotiations taking place within our hearts, homes, and global community. The foods we eat, the observances we keep, the people we marry, the loyalties we hold—every decision is shaped by the push and pull originating in this hyphen” (3).[2]
Cosgrove, though, was not describing Modern Orthodoxy, but the Conservative Judaism with which he and many of his readers (myself included) were raised:
Traditional as our home was, it did not follow the letter of the law. Our Shabbat observance, our dietary observances, the schools and summer camps my brothers and I attended, the girls we dated—pretty much every aspect of life involved a negotiation between our Jewish and secular selves, an expression of our Jewish-American hyphenated identity. Sometimes the balance tipped one way, sometimes the other, and sometimes a third way might emerge that sought to reconcile our Jewish and secular lives. But no matter the outcome, it was understood that every decision would be processed by way of the razor-thin hyphen embedded within each of us. (5-6)
Unfortunately, the American Jewish community has largely “lost our ability to articulate the hyphen within” (10). American Jews have thus largely lost their ability to pass that hyphen (and the positive value of traditionalism which is associated with it) through the generations. It is, after all, in Cosgrove’s words,
not what we say, but what we ourselves do, that communicates the biggest message. Our children pick up on our behavior… They also “see” the Jewish choices we make: whether we are engaged with the Jewish community, Israel, and our tradition, whether we aspire to live engaged Jewish lives. There are no guarantees of success in the transmission of Jewish identity from one generation to the next, but the role parents play is vital. (11-12)
Then came October 7th, and the comfort American Jews felt in our liberal communities was suddenly and brutally upended. For many, it felt as if the world had lost its moral compass, and feelings of incredulity and loneliness were palpable. Yet the Jewish community “also experienced… a tribal awakening.” He writes:
Our feelings of vulnerability are intermixed with solidarity, our disillusionment with moral clarity. There is a sharpening of our sense of kinship, the feeling that indeed, we are a people who dwell apart. It is a time of profound pain and disorientation, but it also carries with it a sense of discovery and a quickening to this existential moment. Even in our dark hour, we are searching and often finding a deep, abiding connection to our community, our culture, and our faith. Fear and courage. Helplessness and a sense of duty to our people. Untethered and yet more connected than ever. (102)
This proved to be a rude awakening for many who had allowed their Zionism to replace broader Jewish commitments. Cosgrove argues that the two ought to be seen as complementary to one another with support for the State of Israel being “an extension of, but not interchangeable with, their Jewish identity” (28). This, he writes, is a much-needed course correction:
Israel missions, Israel education, Israel advocacy… became a kind of secular religion for American Jews, sometimes supplanting Judaism itself. It is easier, after all, to write a check than it is to keep our children home on Friday night to light Shabbat candles. Uninspired by the prayerbook, unfamiliar with the Talmud, American Jews became adept at new Jewish topics of conversations—how our elected leaders vote on legislation regarding Israel’s security or the terms by which the United States should or shouldn’t enter into a deal with Iran. The dividing lines between us no longer fell along the various levels at which we observed the Sabbath or dietary laws, or our beliefs as to whether the Torah is of divine origin. Our views on Israel took the place of these. A new Israel-based religion emerged. (39)
In some cases, Cosgrove adds, support for Israel “became more than a religion—it became an orthodoxy.” Despite it making “perfect sense that the imperfect policies of Israel (or any state) might be worthy of objection—by Israelis, Jewish supporters, or anyone,” American Jews have largely opted to “forgo their right to critique Israel because any such criticism will become fodder for Israel’s real enemies” (39-40).[3] This all places Liberal American Jews in a bind where they inevitably come to “feel that the Israel they love does not love them back, or even care that we exist” (41). Indeed, liberal Jews have now come to realize that there’s “a limit to the self-flagellating exercise of supporting a state that neither recognizes you nor represents your values” and that “the loyalties of yesteryear no longer suffice” in inspiring loyalty today (41-42).[4] Furthermore, the state of Palestinian treatment under Israeli occupation pushes more away every day. Cosgrove captures that reality extremely bluntly:
Whatever justifications (theological, security-related, or otherwise) have been and continue to be marshalled in support of Israel’s ongoing presence there, in the eyes of a liberal-leaning American Jewry, the West Bank settlements and the illiberal policies they represent pose a threat to Israel’s founding promise—its commitment to democracy. For American Jewry, it cuts close to the bone to see its most prized liberal value in peril. As the thinking of progressive American Jewry goes, if the project of Israel is to provide a homeland and security to a historically vulnerable Jewish minority, then how can the state not respond to the needs of the vulnerable minority in its midst? Leaving aside the role of historical revisionism and progressive identity politics, the unresolved status of the Palestinians—lacking as they are in freedom of movement and access, self-determination, and other accouterments of sovereignty—forms a wedge issue between an increasing liberal-leaning American Jewry and an increasingly right-leaning Israeli Jewry. The mainstreaming of Jewish fundamentalism in Israeli society and government further compounds the problem. The fact that the same government fails to recognize American Jewry and also fails to recognize the Palestinian right to self-determination increases American Jews’ sense of estrangement. (42-43)[5]
American assimilation and Israeli radicalization thus force each side into becoming “unsure how invested it really is in the other’s well-being” (44). This makes it all the more important to “find common ground and points of dialogue” across these growing divides (45). For Cosgrove, such common ground begins with understanding that the ultimate moral compass “continues to point to the grief that resulted from the attacks themselves, which left an indelible scar on the soul and psyche of the Jewish people” and recognizing the unalienable “right of Israel to defend itself in the face of an enemy that would see it destroyed” (100).
Attacking those who disagree is not an option. For Cosgrove, it is unacceptable to attack the humanity or Jewish identity of those who have left Zionism behind by calling them “an enemy of the people,” “self-hating,” or “un-Jews.” Such tactics are “beyond the pale of civil discourse, a real-life example of Sinat Hinam. We should expect more from ourselves, and certainly from our leaders” (155).
Cosgrove’s ability to push as far as he does stems from his commitment to the idea that “Judaism is not Zionism, and Zionism is not Judaism, and the flag on the pulpit and the prayer for Israel are complicated.”[6] He acknowledges the “long history of non-Zionist Jews, not self-hating Jews or messianists for whom the establishment of the State of Israel can happen only once the Messiah has arrived. Proud Jews: labor Zionists, cultural Zionists, even religious Zionists, Zionists who had attachments to the land but not to establishing a state” (178). He also acknowledges that the increasing institutional overlap between Jewish and Zionist identity – such that commitment to Zionism has become “a litmus test of loyalty to the Jewish community and cause” – is “a disservice” tp both Judaism and Zionism(180).
At the same time, he is clear that while strands of non-Zionist thought are “embedded in the Jewish ‘soul,’” it is “a profound misreading of Jewish history… to call Judaism anything other than a land-centered faith.” Judaism and Zionism may not be one and the same, but supporting Israel is still “fundamental to what it means to be a Jew today” (181). This leads Cosgrove to send a strong message to young Jews who oppose supporting Israel at this moment in history:
Israel is now in crisis. Are you going to exit—walk away and stand on the sidelines? Or are you going to use your voice—leverage your moral compass and the piercing clarity of your conscience to effect change, fight for your values, and help not only Israel but all the nations of the world realize a vision of national identity that does not oppress others? In Israel’s case, given the ideals you champion, given the age you are, why on earth would you cede the discussion of what Zionism is and what it should be to those who are our people’s true enemies or to your own Jewish kin who would corrupt Zionism, making it into something it is not and never should be? Encounter, T’ruah, Zionness, Seeds of Peace, Roots, Israel Policy Forum—there is no shortage of organizations fighting the good fight, and I know they would welcome your engagement. (184-185)
Not only do young liberal Jews have a place within the Zionist conversation, but addressing them directly, Cosgrove writes that the “conversation depends on you. We might not always agree, but make no mistake, now more than ever we need you, the larger Jewish community needs you, and Israel needs you” (185). The question is how to inspire liberal American Jews, young and old, Zionist and critical of Zionism, to embrace the sort of robust, hyphenated Jewish identity that Cosgrove’s brand of Conservative Judaism asks of them.
Before October 7th, Cosgrove notes that Judaism was largely seen by liberal American Jews as
a series of episodic behavioral choices we opted into if we chose to do so, depending on the pull of our theological commitments, the communities into which we self-selected, or the degree to which we felt a sense of obligation through the pull of generational nostalgia. For non-Orthodox Jews, being Jewish was a lifestyle choice, an identity we asserted—or didn’t. (106).
The “shock and violent brutality” of October 7th, however, “was intended as and understood to be an attack not just on Israel but on global Jewry” and “activated a world of ‘us versus them,’ triggering a long-dormant sense of global Jewish peoplehood” (106-107). In the post-October 7th world, Cosgrove argues that Jewish identity became “shaped by a fight on the battlefield in Israel and Gaza, against those who would deny our kin the sovereign right of self-defense and self-determination.” No longer welcome among those with whom they previously surrounded themselves, many American Jews found themselves seeking the company of “people who confirm their spoken and unspoken commitments”:
In a world that struggles to name evil for what it is, we are thirsting for a moral axis to the universe, where wrong can be named as such. We are seeking communities of positive Jewish expression. Shabbat dinners, synagogue attendance, philanthropy, adult learning, trips to Israel, public advocacy, rallies and marches—Jews are “doing Jewish” with other Jews in unprecedented numbers, over a sustained time. As one “old timer” in my community remarked to me in a crowded synagogue service, “Where did all these Jews come from?” (109-110)
Cosgrove stresses that this energy must be put toward proactive Jewish experiences, not only in response to antisemitism and anti-Zionism. American Jews must, in his words, devote significant time and effort to “reminding one another, our children, and most of all ourselves of who we are. Jews must take agency—and joy—in their Judaism” regardless of where the inspiration to do so comes from (115). In this plea, he pulls no punches:
Uncomfortable as it is to discuss, the impoverished condition of the religion of many diaspora Jews sits in plain view. We are more at home with debating the Iran deal and the grades of uranium that can be weaponized than we are with opening a prayerbook. We make every effort to understand the opportunity and challenge of critical race theory, but we are flat-footed when asked what it means to stand in a covenantal relationship with God. We are willing to drive for hours to stand on the sidelines at our children’s club sports, but we find ourselves unable (or unwilling) to sit next to them in synagogue on a Friday night or a Shabbat morning. We will try any fad diet other than the one prescribed by our Torah. We would rather label another a “self-hating Jew” or a “settler-colonialist” than acknowledge that our children or grandchildren have no ostensible connection to Judaism, never mind the State of Israel. (129-130)
While acknowledging that non-religious forms of Judaism exist, Cosgrove notes that “they are entirely insufficient to transmit the riches of Judaism from one generation to the next.” Going further, he even says that much of the time “secular commitments of Jews serve as compensatory guilt offerings, hiding paper-thin religious identities. In all cases, they presuppose a commitment to Judaism that, for much of diaspora Jewry, is not as vital as we would care to admit” (130).
Removing Judaism’s religious foundations, Cosgrove fears, “will prove to be our undoing, a giant sinkhole into which the hard-earned superstructure supporting diaspora Jewry will collapse.” He warns that “only by way of mitzvot [sic] the positive acts of Jewish identification, the language and behaviors of the Jewish religion, can Judaism survive.” Even for those who do not believe in God, he suggests that “a life of mitzvot remains the most assured means to inspire individual and collective Jewish identity and continuity—a connection to the Jewish people by way of religious expression” (131). The performance of a mitzvah “is a proud transformation of a universal self into a Jewish self, making manifest one’s particular identity through decisions about what to eat, how to structure one’s time, and how to present oneself to the world” (132-133). Mitzvot are “the means by which one expresses pride in one’s Jewishness—where one has come from and the hope that those who come after will feel and do the same. There is no greater act of Jewish self-assertion, empowerment, and hope than the performance of a mitzvah. To do a mitzvah is to take agency for one’s spiritual life” (133).
Cosgrove’s practical solution to get more liberal Jews performing mitzvot relies on encouraging a “preliminary vocabulary for a program to restore the religion of Judaism to the Jewish people, an effort that could be shared by Israel and the diaspora, across denominations and political divides” (135-136).
This is difficult given that for “the vast majority of American Jews, the language of mitzvot is a closed book.” Nonetheless, Cosgrove writes that the “task of our time is to update and recast the efforts of our predecessors in a manner consistent with the best practices and platforms by which educational content is accessed today.” This task will hopefully be complemented by acknowledging that “Rabbis and Jewish educators (and the institutions that train them) must inspire contemporary Jewry to adopt mitzvot as the historic and ever-evolving toolbox for exploring the existential questions within all our hearts.” It should also be complemented by the creation of judgment-free curricula that aim to close the “gap between American Jewry’s vaunted secular educational achievements and its anemic Jewish literacy” while “affirming the varied paths by which individuals today seek entry into the tradition.” Of course, Cosgrove emphasizes that “only communal reinforcement will make it all stick” and suggests that things like “one-on-one mentorship, interconnected havurot (small communities), online engagement, and intensive, retreat-based education can together provide the ecosystem to nurture and sustain the desired outcomes in Jewish practice” (134-135).
Of course, Cosgrove acknowledges that it is “an undertaking of no small significance to reverse current trends and empower American Jews to reclaim their religious heritage, in all its manifold varieties” and yet finds himself “hard-pressed to think of a project more urgent, necessary, or exciting” in this moment (136). There obviously will not be a single moment of changing course, but over time more Jews can be empowered to “reach out our hand to our children, with the hope that they extend theirs in return. To practice our faith, spend more time showing and less time telling. Step by step, hand in hand, mitzvah to mitzvah, generation to generation” (137).
Ultimately, Cosgrove implores his audience to deepen their commitment to both Zionism and the Judaism in which it is rooted so that the next generation of Jewish leaders can “be resilient, self-confident, and adroit defenders of the real, not the imagined, Jewish State” (189) while understanding that “American Zionism is not a substitute for American Judaism” (190-191). “To be good Zionists,” Cosgrove writes, “we must be better Jews. A robust American Jewish identity can weather policy differences with this or that Israeli government and withstand the indignity of being a punching bag for a campus culture run amok—something a paper-thin Jewish identity cannot do” (191). As Cosgrove notes,
The future of American Zionism is contingent on the future of American Judaism—not the other way around. American Jewry must redouble its investment in Jewish life and living. As invested as we are in Israel, for the sake of our Jewish and Zionist future we must prioritize efforts to cultivate rich Jewish identities: synagogues, schools, and Jewish summer camps filled with Jews living intentionally and joyfully, capable of producing the next generation of American Judaism and training of the next generation of rabbis, cantors, Jewish educators, and professionals. (193)
Having painted the picture of an inclusive Zionism and having demonstrated the need for liberal Jews to embrace substantive Jewish practice, we can now bring Cosgrove’s collective vision together in a clear way. American Zionism, for Cosgrove, “begins with love for the Jewish people and teaches our children and grandchildren the story of our exile, the pitfalls of powerlessness, the dreams of every wave and every stage of our national longings, and our right to the land” (188). To be a committed Zionist means having a commitment to our people and to its full history, including our people’s historical commitment to living lives of Torah and mitzvot.
The Promise of Post-Denominationalism
On the surface, Cosgrove’s call for greater mitzvah observance sounds rather Orthodox. Indeed, the original version of one of the book’s most directly critical chapters of liberal Jews’ lack of commitment to mitzvot was a 2019 Yom Kippur sermon proudly praising Chabad for their ability to understand that “performance of a mitzvah, a distinctly Jewish act—tefillin, Shabbat candles, making challah, or otherwise… is the key, the secret sauce by which the assimilated American-Jew would find his or her way back into yiddishkeit.”[7] At the same time, in that version of the sermon, Cosgrove outlines clearly that he does not, and never will, maintain an Orthodox perspective underlying mitzvah performance:
I am not a Chabadnik for all sorts of reasons. To name but a few: I have a more expansive definition of mitzvah than they do. I have a more inclusive and egalitarian definition of the Jewish people than they do. And I have a far more progressive notion of how Jewish law develops than they do. But I am your rabbi, so let’s put it out there: Can this year be the year you take on mitzvot in your life? I don’t need them all, I am an incrementalist. I believe that one mitzvah leads to another. Just don’t tell me that ritual is not your thing or that you can’t make the time. Our lives are filled with rituals: timebound, dietary, and seasonal. We go to Soul Cycle, we go to yoga, we eat GG crackers for God’s sake! We carve out time for marathons, we shlep to the new workout in SoHo, and we freeze on the sidelines of our children’s club sports in God knows where. We can prioritize just fine—when we deem something to be a priority! American Jews are full of mitzvot, just not the Jewish ones. I want you to take on the Jewish ones! I want you to take agency for your spiritual life. Mitzvot are not the sole domain of the Orthodox—they belong to all of us! Let’s give the Jewish world something to talk about—a Conservative synagogue proudly and passionately pursuing mitzvot. The great twentieth-century Jewish thinker Franz Rosenzweig, when asked whether he put on tefillin, replied “Not yet.” Let this year be the year. Here in this room, right now, take the time to reflect, reflect with your family: how can you move from “not my thing,” to “not yet,” to “why not, let’s see what happens.”
Furthermore, as expounded upon in a 2023 article in the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Sources Journal, Cosgrove reiterates that most Jews view mitzvot as “volitional lifestyle choices, not commanded deeds existing within the totality of a halakhic system” and contends that “the difference between Reform, Conservative, and Modern Orthodox Jews is a difference of degree and not of kind. Everyone is picking and choosing mitzvot.”
A direct precursor to Cosgrove’s approach within the Conservative Movement can be found in the writings of Rabbi Dr. Neil Gillman, who controversially argued for the movement to drop its own identification as halakhic.[8] What separates Conservative Judaism from the Reform and Reconstructionist movements, in Gillman’s view? Like Cosgrove, he argues that the difference is one of degree rather than of kind. In his words,
We read and we teach the same theologians. Buber and Rosenzweig, Heschel and Kaplan, their students and the postmoderns are our common legacy. Theologically, the reality is that you can’t be more or less liberal. Once you deny a literalist understanding of revelation, you are willy-nilly in the liberal camp.
What distinguishes us then? First, we differ in how much of traditional Jewish ritual practice we want to retain, how much we are prepared to abandon or to change, and how we go about changing. In all of these areas, we are more “conservative.” That is more of an emotional stance than a theological one, and it is thoroughly legitimate on its own terms. Feelings are important. Second, we differ in our institutional loyalties. Our loyalty to the institutions of our respective movements, primarily to JTS or to HUC-JIR, is genuine and powerful. Finally, we differ strikingly in our liturgy. No one who has davened in a Reform or in a Conservative synagogue could possibly confuse the two. I have frequently suggested that were you to blindfold me and lead me into five Reform and five Conservative synagogues, I would identify the movement in less than a minute. Whatever my personal theology, I prefer to worship from a traditionalist prayer book. None of this is going to change.[9]
Cosgrove and Gillman’s observations—that non-Orthodox Jews fall onto the same spectrum with one another—are consistent with the findings of now-retired JTS Professor Jack Wertheimer that, especially for young Jews, “hybridity is common and picking and choosing among the offerings of different synagogues is not only possible, but seen by many as desirable.” Indeed, “the very notion of adherence to one denomination is treated by many as an unacceptable imposition, a constraint upon their individuality and eagerness to experiment.”[10]
Professor Roberta Rosenthal Kwall of DePaul University significantly expanded this observation in arguing that a majority of affiliated Jews in the United States today “fall somewhere along a spectrum ranging from still fairly traditional (although not Orthodox) to purely cultural.”[11] Rather than identify with any particular denomination, such Jews find that the “language of Jewish ‘law’ suggests hard and fast rules and consequences for disobedience that are foreign to most non-Orthodox Jews.” By contrast, speaking of “Jewish ‘tradition’ connotes positive associations and the desire for transmission.”[12]
Cosgrove’s aim, perhaps, can be articulated as an attempt to move Jews who are willing to listen to his message along the spectrum toward greater acceptance of tradition without making them Orthodox and without requiring belief in Halakhah as a binding legal system. This mission follows in the footsteps of Gillman and the subject of Cosgrove’s doctoral dissertation, Rabbi Louis Jacobs, who believed that “a degree of eclecticism is required in which the good, seen to some extent in a personal way, is adopted from all the movements in Jewish life…”[13]
Orthodox readers ought to note that Orthodoxy is not immune from coming to see Jewish practices as optional. Cosgrove can so confidently assert, as he does above, that “the difference between Reform, Conservative, and Modern Orthodox Jews is a difference of degree and not of kind” because that is what he sees from the Orthodox Jews with whom he regularly interacts on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Social Orthodoxy, in which “maintaining the continuity of the Jewish people” is considered more important than theology,[14] remains a strong force to be reckoned with in much of the Modern Orthodox community. It is strong enough that even non-Orthodox Jews recognize it and see within it a kindred spirit.[15]
The unprecedented post-denominational reality we face today also comes with unprecedented opportunities for unity and cooperation. Indeed, Rabbi Avi Weiss predicted this state of affairs a decade ago with uncanny accuracy
In short, I predict a reconfiguration of affiliated Jewry into three new camps.
On the right side of the religious spectrum, the various Haredi communities—Hasidim, Mitnagdim, Sefardim, as well as the more extreme wing of Chabad—will recognize that they have more in common than not. The “neo-Haredi” Roshei Yeshiva from RIETS (Yeshiva University) will find more common ground with this faction. United, their power will increase.
…
On the other end of the spectrum, we will witness an amalgamation of the liberal communities. The Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, and Renewal denominations will overcome their differences and unite…
…
A third camp, in the middle of the spectrum, will be made up of a growing community of halakhically-committed Jews. From this camp—one with which I identify—there will emerge an inclusionary Orthodoxy that empowers women to be more involved in Jewish ritual and spiritual leadership; that invites religious questioning and promotes dialogue across the Jewish spectrum; welcomes people regardless of sexual orientation or level of religious observance; and looks outward, driven by a sense of responsibility to all people.[16]
Weiss identified the third camp as being made up of organizations like the International Rabbinic Fellowship, Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, and JOFA alongside “the more conservative wing of Hadar and the more progressive graduates of Chabad, Yeshiva University, and Yeshivat Har Etzion…”[17]
As the Jewish world continues to realign, then, we Modern Orthodox Jews must ask ourselves where in the new landscape we wish to end up. Are we content to be an island unto ourselves, out of touch with the majority of the Jewish world? Or, on the other hand, are we able to find comfort positioning ourselves alongside Cosgrove and others as the traditionalists in an otherwise liberal milieu?
Regardless of where we personally may choose to place ourselves, Rabbi Cosgrove’s work can assure us that the liberal Jewish world has leaders doing everything in their power to shift the tide in the right direction.
[1] The bulk of this review was written before the 2025 Israel–Iran War. Cosgrove’s message, however, is perhaps even more relevant now.
[2] All in-text citations refer to the book under review.
[3] This is despite the fact that liberal Judaism “is a religious identity that is not recognized by Israel” (40).
[4] Note that the terms “liberal Judaism” and “liberal Jews” are used throughout this essay to refer to non-Orthodox Jews writ large. Per my teacher and mentor, Rabbi Dr. Jacob J. Schacter, the term is meant to be a positive affirmation of Jewish identity outside of Orthodoxy, as opposed to the negative formulation “non-Orthodox” which defines them purely in relationship to Orthodoxy. It is also a term I have seen used by numerous colleagues outside of the Orthodox world. Being a “liberal Jew” in this context does not necessarily correlate to any particular political positions. As “liberal Judaism” is not the name of an official movement or grouping in North America the way that it is in the UK, the term is not capitalized. The phrase “Liberal Zionism,” connoting a particular political ideology, is capitalized.
[5] Similar critiques have been raised by Professor Shaul Magid and summarized by me elsewhere.
[6] Cosgrove himself holds the classic Liberal Zionist position that “the only path forward is a two-state solution. Not today and not tomorrow, but in a future that we can speak of openly and proudly, toward which we seed and fund ideas and initiatives, supporting all those leaders in Israel and America who are working toward such a vision and opposing those who don’t.” This belief in two states for two peoples “may be on the wane, in decline, or even dead. But that doesn’t mean it is not a noble and necessary idea to pursue” (171).
[7] This understanding of Chabad is quite common, but it ignores the theological and even theosophical underpinnings of their approach. As Rabbi Dr. Yosef Bronstein has pointed out, “The enterprise of going into the world at large and enabling other Jews to perform mitzvot is directly related to the Rebbe’s unique perspective regarding the significance of Sinai. The emergence of the Divine Essence at Sinai began the process of uniting the upper and lower realms that can be completed only through our mitzvot. In this sense, the mitzva campaigns represent a final surge toward the finish line of creating a Dira BaTahtonim and ushering in the Messianic Era.” Yosef Bronstein, Engaging the Essence: The Torah Philosophy of the Lubavitcher Rebbe (Maggid Books, 2024), 119.
[8] Rabbi Neil Gillman, Doing Jewish Theology: God, Torah & Israel in Modern Judaism (Jewish Lights, 2008), 189-190. In his words,
Our critics would charge, how can you be a halakhic movement if you permit a kohen to marry a divorcée, or permit women to serve as witnesses in judicial proceedings, or permit the use of electricity and driving to synagogue on Shabbat, or make significant changes in the core halakhic portions of the liturgy, ot even contemplate ordaining gays and lesbians and sanctioning commitment rituals? To these charges, we reply, “Ah, but we mean something else by the term ‘halakhah.’ We view halakhah as evolving in response to changing historical conditions.”
… It is a totally idiosyncratic use of the term, unrecognizable by Jews who take halakhah seriously in their personal lives. It is in effect a subjective, emotional outburst, a covert way of saying, “It’s great to be a Conservative Jew,” or “I’m proud to be a Conservative Jew,” which is totally legitimate, as long as we realize that this is what we are doing. We are simply describing how we feel about ourselves.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks zt”l, in One People? Tradition, Modernity, and Jewish Unity (Littman Library, 1993), 2-3, also reflected on the subject of redefining Jewish terms:
It is neither necessary nor appropriate to wax nostalgic about the premodern Jewish past, with its partially enclosed culture, autonomous community governance, its ghettos and Gemeinschaft. None the less, and without yearning for temps perdu, we recognize to our disquiet that questions that have become unanswerable now were unaskable then. Who and what is a Jew? What is Torah? What is galut (exile), and what is the Jewish hope that lies beyond exile? The substantive daily content, metaphysical significance, and historical context of a Jewish life were bedrock data… There may have been fierce argument over the details of Jewish life but not over the framing fundamentals. Within this context the language of Judaism was coherent, consistent, and designated a palpable objective reality.
The language has survived but its context has not. The key words remain—terms such as torah, mitzvah (commandment), galut (exile), ge’ulah (redemption), am yisrael (the people of Israel), eretz yisrael (the land of Israel). But the meanings attached to them differ systematically from group to group within the Jewish world. What is a mitzvah? Is it an act performed in response to the divine command? Or from loyalty to historical tradition? Or as an act of group participation? Or as a blend of ethnicity and nostalgia? Or as a freely chosen act of autonomous Jewish self-expression? What is galut? Is it a geographical term meaning ‘outside Israel’? Or a cultural term meaning ‘a sense of not-at-homeness’? Or a religious term meaning ‘a time not yet redeemed’? Is America galut? Is Israel?
[9] Gillman, 203-204. Gillman also acknowledges that “recent developments in American Reform and Orthodoxy suggest that both of those movements are slowly gravitating back to the center. The pace is understandably glacial, but the direction is clear.” Like Cosgrove, Gillman would situate at least some segments of Orthodoxy along the liberal Jewish continuum.
[10] Jack Wertheimer, The New American Judaism: How Jews Practice Their Religion Today (Princeton University Press, 2018), 160.
[11] Roberta Rosenthal Kwall, Remix Judaism: Preserving Tradition in a Diverse World (Rowman & Littlefield, 2020), 3.
[12] Ibid., 7.
[13] Louis Jacobs, Beyond Reasonable Doubt (Littman Library, 2004), 242. I have addressed the thought of Jacobs at length in several other Lehrhaus articles.
[14] Jay P. Lefkowitz, “The Rise of Social Orthodoxy: A Personal Account,” Commentary, April 2014.
[15] This is, of course, not to imply that the rabbis of that community endorse such a view.
[16] Avraham “Avi” Weiss, Journey to Open Orthodoxy (Urim Publications, 2019), 80-81. Interestingly, Weiss was advocating as early as 1989 that “an alliance between the Modern/Centrist Orthodox and the Conservative Traditionalist” is no longer impossible since “what unites us is far greater than what divides us.” The proposed “Movement of Halakhic Judaism” and its accompanying rabbinical school, however, never came to fruition (see Zev Eleff, Modern Orthodox Judaism: A Documentary History [JPS, 2016], 386-387).
[17] Ibid., 82.
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