For God’s Sake, Get Vaccinated

Should we get vaccinated for the coronavirus? Yes. Absolutely yes. Without a question: Yes. Jewish law gives the highest priority to safety and health and requires everyone to take advantage of this potentially life-saving shot. I wish that this short answer would be enough, and I could stop writing right here. 

Unfortunately, there is a great deal of vaccine hesitancy in the Orthodox community. This surfaced first in Lakewood, New Jersey, in 2008. A school was concerned that a substantial number of their students were not properly vaccinated, and received a rabbinic ruling that they could exclude students who were not vaccinated. This was then followed up with a public letter from a group of prominent rabbis and doctors urging the community to vaccinate their children. Since then, vaccine hesitation in the Orthodox community has led to several outbreaks of mumps and measles, with multiple hospitalizations and fatalities. Despite all of this, anti-vaccination views persist in parts of the Orthodox community; in May 2019, there was an anti-vaccination rally in Monsey, which was attended by hundreds of people. Today, the opponents of childhood vaccinations are now leading the campaign against the coronavirus vaccination, and they have been far more successful undermining confidence in this new vaccine.

The roots of vaccination hesitancy in the Orthodox community come from a skepticism about science in general, and medicine in particular. There is a longstanding opposition to all secular studies, including science; unfamiliarity with science ultimately leads to contempt and suspicion. But there is a second element, which is rooted in a comment to this week’s Torah reading by Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman (Ramban), a 13th century Spanish rabbi and commentator.  The Ramban writes that “When the Jewish People are in a state of spiritual perfection...they will have no need of doctors, nor will they have to follow medical procedures even as precautionary measures, `For I, God, am your healer.' ” The Ramban argues that hidden miracles are constantly possible; and if a person truly perfects themselves, they can live in a world of Divine healing, without doctors, medications and health insurance. The Ramban’s misgivings about medicine are misgivings about a natural world which is imperfect, accident prone and random; in his view, these flaws are due to our disconnection from God.

Even so, the Ramban recognizes that to rely on prayer is impractical, and at the end of his remarks counsels that one should not rely on miracles, and see a doctor when needed. (The Ramban was a doctor himself.) However, other rabbis take the Ramban’s view a step further, and say that one can refuse medical interventions and pray instead. Rav Nachman of Breslov, a 19th century Hasidic Master, writes that the only reason why a person would need to chase after medical therapies is because they lack faith, “and God forbid (that they search for therapies), but rather they should place their full trust in prayer and supplications.” The Avnei Nezer, who passed away in 1910, writes that one can refuse to consult with doctors or accept their advice because the opinions of doctors are unreliable, and one would be better off with prayer.

The roots of Orthodox anti-vaccination rhetoric begin right here, with a misplaced understanding of faith. In order to properly respond, one must first grapple with a fundamental question: Why shouldn’t we rely on prayer alone? Well, to start with, ignoring medical advice is impractical. There are religious groups, like Christian Scientists, who have relied exclusively on faith healing and refused medical attention. Sadly, Christian Science cemeteries are filled with children whose lives could have been saved with a simple prescription for penicillin. (Due to dwindling membership, the Christian Science Church reversed itself in 2010, and began to allow adherents to seek medical attention.) Any attempt by humans to live as angels will fail. For this reason, the Torah commands us to fence off roofs to prevent accidents, “so that you do not bring bloodguilt upon your house if anyone should fall from it” (Deuteronomy 22:8). This Torah passage declares: One must not ignore the realities of nature, ever. Even if our souls can soar, our bodies can’t fly.

Maimonides harshly criticizes those who think that prayer can be a substitute for medicine. He writes about those who want to heal with prayer alone that “according to their mistaken and idiotic imagining, if a hungry man assuages his hunger with bread and thus overcomes the “sickness of hunger,” shall we say of him that he has thereby forsaken his trust and belief in God?” Hunger is natural, and so is disease, and both demand a practical response. A man of God must not be a naive fool.

The simple reason to embrace modern medicine, and vaccinations in particular, is because they are effective. But I want to offer a different argument, that these vaccinations are profoundly spiritual as well. Rav Soloveitchik writes that God left creation incomplete so that humanity can fix the world, and thereby become God’s partner in creation. An incomplete world will have disease; it is our God given responsibility to cure those diseases. Medicine is holy work, an act that completes God’s creation. For this reason, Jews have always had a passion for medicine. Many medieval rabbis were also medical professionals, and they saw this as part of their religious calling. Joseph Shatzmiller in Jews, Medicine, and Medieval Society, tells of regions in Medieval Europe where less than 1 percent of the population was Jewish, yet Jews were over 50% of the doctors. There's a long Jewish history to the proud phrase “my son, the doctor,” and in part, this is because of the Jewish yearning to make the world a better place. We don't only connect to God through prayer; we can also connect to God through healing and compassion. The scientists, doctors, and nurses that cure disease are making the world a better place, and doing God’s work.

There is an old joke about a man who prays to God to save him from an incoming flood. Because of his deep faith that God alone will save him, he first ignores a canoe, then a motorboat, and finally a helicopter that offer to save him. After he drowns, the man goes up to heaven. He confronts God, and asks why God didn’t come to his rescue. God responds: “Of course I tried to save you. I sent you a canoe, a motorboat and a helicopter. You just didn’t take them.”

This past December God sent us a vaccine. I have been inspired by the pictures and videos of rabbis around the world saying prayers and blessings right before getting their shot, thanking God for goodness of their fellow man. And those prayers recognize God’s part in this man-made miracle. In the last year, an army of researchers, doctors, and nurses have worked tirelessly to vaccinate the world and save lives. They are doing God's work. So for God's sake, please get vaccinated.

When Sleeping in Synagogue Makes Sense

It is a letter that redefined the Orthodox Jewish community. While the exact details are unclear, it appears it was written somewhere between 1705 and 1712. The author lived in a city where there was a congregation of Spanish and Portuguese Jews. The scholarly consensus is that this is a reference to London, in a community that was rapidly growing a half a century after the resettlement of the Jews in England. 

The letter contained a halakhic question for Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ashkenazi, the author of the Chacham Tzvi. The author of the letter relates that the members of the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue were bound by a vow of excommunication not to pray at any other minyan within five parasangs (roughly 12 miles) of their synagogue. However, the community had not objected to the building of an Ashkenazi synagogue, and from time to time individual members of the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue would join the Ashkenazi synagogue.

The writer of the letter complained that members of the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue who were lax in their religious observance were allowed to lead the services and read the Torah. This upset the letter writer and many of the more observant members, and an entire group was planning to join the Ashkenazi synagogue. The question they posed to Rabbi Ashkenazi was: What about the vow of excommunication? Are they halakhically permitted to leave the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue?

Rabbi Ashkenazi gave a sharp reply, which appears in his Chacham Tzvi, responsa 38. He argued that allowing the non-observant to lead services at the synagogue was a Chilul Hashem, and therefore the letter writer and his group should leave the synagogue and ignore the vow of excommunication.

This ruling would prove to be both influential and controversial. Multiple rabbinic responsa would debate the merits of the Chacham Tzvi’s claim regarding non-observant synagogue leaders. But beyond the specific halakhic issue, this 300-year-old question forces us to consider what the purpose of a synagogue is.

Our Torah reading discusses the construction of the Mishkan, the first Jewish Sanctuary. This Sanctuary becomes the blueprint for the Temple and eventually all synagogues. Why did the Jews need a Sanctuary? Nachmanides explains that the Sanctuary was a home for the Divine Presence, a continuation of the experience on Mount Sinai. But Maimonides talks about the Temple being a place of human worship, and he adds a second element: The Temple is a place where people would gather on the pilgrimage festivals. This second purpose highlights another aspect of the Temple and Jerusalem (which Maimonides sees as an extension of the Temple); they are also the national center, places that bond the Jewish people together.

Maimonides notes that Jerusalem was not in the territory of any tribe, and it was meant to belong to the nation as a whole. The pilgrimage holidays, when the far-flung population gathered together, was meant to “lead to love of individuals and groups one for the other.” Aside from the holidays there are other commandments, netah revai, maaser beheimah, and maaser sheni, which end up requiring people to visit Jerusalem and make elaborate meals, meals at which they will certainly invite guests and celebrate together. The Temple and Jerusalem play a critical role in bonding the Jewish people.

With the transition from the Temple to the synagogue, the social element became more pronounced. Prayer was to be done in a community of no less than ten, and the new institution was called by all a Beit Knesset, “a house of gathering,” where communities meet together. The synagogue is both a house of God and a home for Jews.

In the 19th century, these two missions started to pull apart. In many countries, the synagogue became an ideological battleground, where different philosophies fought for dominance. Communities divided during the battle over reform, and then divided again when Orthodox communities debated how open they should be. Adam Ferziger, in his Exclusion and Hierarchy: Orthodoxy, Nonobservance and the Emergence of Modern Jewish Identity, explains that the Chacham Tzvi’s responsa became a model for a more exclusionary definition of Orthodoxy. Since the 19th century, Orthodox synagogues have had to confront a choice between supporting the aspirations of the devoted and embracing the wayward and unaffiliated.

Along the way, many synagogues, especially in smaller communities, emphasized the social role of the synagogue. They embraced anyone who would come through the door; and this allowed them to engage with people who otherwise would never come. The writer and publisher, Harry Golden, asked his atheist father why he attended synagogue religiously if he didn’t believe in God. His father responded: “Everyone goes to synagogue for a different reason. Garfinkle goes to talk to God. I go to talk to Garfinkle.”

These small-town synagogues were open to anyone, whether they came to speak to God or to Garfinkle. What is interesting is that even those who came to “speak to Garfinkle” were transformed, because the social connection can inspire a spiritual awakening as well. Chabad has been a leader in recognizing this reality, and through friendship and devotion, they have inspired many people to reconnect with their spiritual heritage.

In January 1998, a devastating ice storm hit Montreal; most homes were without heat and electricity. My previous synagogue, which had an emergency generator, was turned into a shelter overnight. The staff and members of our synagogue oversaw this operation, which housed 180 people in the building, and served a thousand hot meals a day. When I was asked about this remarkable transformation in interviews, I quoted an old Rabbinic joke: “There was a rabbi whose synagogue was being converted into a shelter after floods devastated his community. The local shelter coordinator, trying to assess how many people to send to the synagogue/shelter, asked the rabbi: ‘How many people can sleep in your synagogue?’ The rabbi responded, ‘Well, during my sermon on Yom Kippur, our synagogue sleeps 1,000.’"

I particularly like this joke, not just because it pokes fun at sermons, but because it highlights a powerful truth. A synagogue must be a place that offers shelter to any Jew who needs it, because a thousand sermons cannot equal the inspiration of one helping hand. This is holiness in action - and we should never forget that when providing someone a communal home, we inspire them as well.