Deuteronomy and the Buddhas of Bamiyan
Shalom E. Holtz’s research focuses on ancient Near Eastern law, especially from Mesopotamia, and its connections to biblical and post-biblical Jewish law. Professor Holtz serves as editor of the Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society and has published numerous articles on biblical and Assyriological subjects. Since 2006, his academic home has been Yeshiva University, where he is Professor of Bible, Coordinator of the Hebrew Language Program, and Director of the Ph.D. Program at the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Jewish Studies.
The Buddhas of Bamiyan were two giant Buddha statues, each well over 100 feet tall, that survived nearly 1500 years until they were obliterated by the Taliban in 2001. The explicit motive of the destruction was extreme Islamic iconoclasm. Almost as soon as the explosions were broadcast worldwide, I raised the obvious connections to Deuteronomy 12:
You are to demolish, yes, demolish, all the [sacred] places where the nations that you are dispossessing served their gods, on the high hills and on the mountains and beneath every luxuriant tree; you are to wreck their altars, you are to smash their standing-pillars, their Asherot you are to burn with fire, and the carved-images of their gods, you are to cut-to-shreds—so that you cause their name to perish from that place!
To put it very starkly, are the Taliban doing what Deuteronomy instructs Israel to do? In the same vein, we might consider other striking parallels between actions performed by the Taliban and those advocated by Deuteronomy, such as stoning as a form of punishment for idolatry but also for child recalcitrance and for various sexual infidelities. Added to that, we have the modern-day wholesale efforts, not exclusive to the Taliban, to eliminate ethnicities, raising chilling parallels to laws of the herem and the erasure of Amalek. All of these examples—and I guess we could multiply them—expose the tension between my revulsion for what the Taliban has done and my reverence for the Torah, both of which I hope I share with others.
I will outline three avenues along which I have proceeded when confronting what I call the problem of “Deuteronomy and the Bamiyan Buddhas.” The first of these approaches I call “Torah SheBe’al Peh to the rescue,” the second I describe as “context to the rescue,” and the third I label “revulsion to the rescue.” I have deliberately adopted the somewhat tongue-in-cheek term “to the rescue” for each, because it reflects my sense that the moral problems we or our students raise are often better than the solutions we can give. Our answers may be perceived as apologizing for—rather than acknowledging—the difficulties, with all the negative consequences that accompany apologetics.
The first approach, “Torah SheBe’al Peh to the rescue,” invokes Rabbinic tradition to correct the obvious difficulties. Here, I believe that I am following in the footsteps of Rabbi Yehuda Amital, z”l, who insisted that we cannot read the Written Torah without the overlay of the Oral Tradition that has accompanied it. Thus, we remind ourselves, for example, that the Sages—in effect, if not necessarily in intention—ended many of the destructive mandates of Deuteronomy by introducing uncertainty about ethnic identities. Similarly, the Oral Tradition contains numerous procedural steps that prevent summary executions by stoning. In the end, we are Rabbinic Jews, so the long history of halakha can serve us as we come to grips with an otherwise harsh text.
Similarly, context can come to the rescue. The modern recovery of knowledge about cultures contemporary with Tanakh allows us to understand the text the way that Benei Yisrael might have, given the world in which they lived. Here, we might work along the lines of Moshe Greenberg’s famous study of the “postulates of biblical criminal law.” For instance, Greenberg’s student, Barry L. Eichler, considers the law of the recalcitrant son, ben sorer u’moreh, in the context of ancient family structures. When we do so, we see that, in neighboring cultures (reflected also in some of the Tanakh’s narratives), fathers have virtually unlimited power over their children. In this context the Torah’s law of the recalcitrant child places limits on the father’s power—by legislating a procedure, so the father cannot simply eliminate a problem child, by requiring the mother’s participation and by involving the community in the adjudicatory process.
Both of these approaches can, at times, even lead to the same kinds of conclusions. Greenberg himself saw the Torah’s approach to the death penalty as the first step toward what would be its ultimate, effective elimination by the Sages through legislation that made it impossible to ever convict someone. A similar impulse restricted the applicability of the law of the recalcitrant son and led to the Rabbinic declaration that such a case never happened and never will (Sanhedrin 71a).
Both of these approaches operate by creating distance between us and the Tanakh. That was then, but now—whether as a result of the changes in society or the Rabbinic legislative hand—these laws are no longer relevant.
By contrast, the third approach, “revulsion to the rescue,” suggests that the text’s very purpose is to provoke our moral revulsion. Rather than create distance, it has us identify with the text by positing that the text’s purpose is, in fact, to edify us through negative examples. Aaron Koller has adopted this approach to Ezekiel 16, arguing that the famously promiscuous Jerusalem is really the victim of an abusive God. The prophecy asks us “to take the side of Jerusalem against the monstrous deity” and teaches us that “Jerusalem is obligated to be loyal to God, no matter how degrading that relationship becomes.” I would extend this to the entire book of Judges, which pretty much indicts all that is going on—from the nation’s behavior through the actions of its saviors—in the absence of a king and when “every man does what he considers to be right” (Judges 17:6).
The very fact that I’ve suggested three approaches means that there’s no magic bullet. While revulsion is a solution in some places, I’m not sure if revulsion can solve the moral problems of Deuteronomy. The other approaches can just as easily raise problems as they solve them, certainly true for the Oral Law approach. Context can help, but we must be honest to the sources and avoid reading ancient sources through biblical lenses.
I will conclude, then, by affirming that it is entirely valid—religiously and academically—to view Tanakh through the lens of our own sensibilities. Academically, it’s quite simple—Tanakh is a repository of ancient ideas that, to one extent or another, continue to inspire, but not in every aspect. Religiously, while we are asked to submit to the Divine will and commands, I don’t believe that this means denying that we find certain aspects morally difficult. Acknowledging the difficulty is far healthier. Certainly, those of us who not only study for ourselves but also teach Tanakh must encourage students’ moral questions. The risks are there, but it is far riskier for spiritual health to quash inquiry by insisting that there is nothing morally problematic in Tanakh.
Shalom E. Holtz’s research focuses on ancient Near Eastern law, especially from Mesopotamia, and its connections to biblical and post-biblical Jewish law. Professor Holtz serves as editor of the Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society and has published numerous articles on biblical and Assyriological subjects. Since 2006, his academic home has been Yeshiva University, where he is Professor of Bible, Coordinator of the Hebrew Language Program, and Director of the Ph.D. Program at the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Jewish Studies.
From The Editor: Fall 2025
The year was 1982. I was studying in Jerusalem for the year and my roommate invited me to join him on one of his visits to an elderly recent immigrant from the Soviet Union now living in an absorption center. When we arrived, I was introduced to the elderly gentleman, who told me that his name was Mr. Morehdin (although I suspected that the name was not his original one). While he had a difficult life in the Soviet Union, having spent time in Siberia, he chose to share with us that day how he survived a Nazi concentration camp. One day a Nazi guard summoned him, having heard that he was Talmud scholar. The guard had been told that there were disparaging statements in the Talmud about gentiles, and even laws discriminating between gentiles and Jews in civil matters.
Troubling Texts or Troubling Troubles with Texts?
In the instruction of Biblical or Rabbinic texts, it is quite common for teachers to experience apparent conflicts between the values arising from the texts and the prevailing values of their students. Teachers may feel torn between their loyalty to Jewish tradition that they are expected to impart and their personal and/or cultural identification with the students entrusted to their care. It is my contention and experience that the sharper or more painful the apparent conflict between the values of a text and the values of students, the greater the educational potential. However, teachers need to carefully consider how their own value-orientational ambivalence is playing a role in the educational dissonance—are we really dealing with “troubling texts,” or are we dealing with troubling troubles with texts?
Rebranding God
I’ve been teaching for forty years, mostly to day school graduates. And I’ve noticed something surprising: very few of them have had real educational experiences exploring who God is—or what kind of relationship we’re meant to have with Him. They’re taught about Judaism, Torah, Halakha—but not God.
I won’t explore why that’s the case here, but I do want to talk about the consequences.
We live in a world shaped by beliefs. Beliefs build our reality. They can uplift and energize us—or drain and depress us.
Tanakh’s Challenging Issues: Traditional and Modern Torah Perspectives in Dialogue
Many people view traditional religious and modern critical orientations to Tanakh study as mutually exclusive… Yet, presenting these two approaches as oppositional, with only one holding a claim to the “real” truth, forces students to choose between the curiosity of their minds and the yearnings of their souls, rather than cultivating and nourishing both aspects of their personhood as fully committed Jews living in the modern world. In its best form, Jewish education should involve teaching critical academic and traditional religious perspectives alongside one another, so that students can see the value of both approaches in uncovering the Tanakh’s multivalent meaningfulness and come to embrace the texts of their heritage “with all their hearts, minds, and souls.”
Engaging the Gemara Gap
In my mid to late teens, I became very attached to the study of Gemara. That passion continued for me until, as a twenty-something, I began teaching it to high school students. I soon came to the realization that I did not understand the Gemara in a way that allowed me to successfully transmit its meaning to others. My cultural and religious connection to Gemara had been strong, but not because its contents were fully clear to me. In fact, coming to this realization, I stopped teaching Gemara for a while.Years later, I fell in love with Gemara again. Now, I love learning difficult segments in the Gemara. These are not necessarily morally or ethically disturbing texts. For me, difficult texts are those where meaning-making is not simple; where, as a learner, I will ask: ”What is this Gemara trying to say and why is it here at all?”
A Conversation Across Contexts: A Case for Intertextual Jewish Education
Some Jewish texts are difficult to teach because they demand so much from us and, even more challengingly, our students. They present moral tensions, portray uncomfortable ideas, or raise questions about our faith that sit uneasily with younger thinkers trying to reconcile earlier voices with contemporary values when they feel most comfortable in a space of clear definition. Avoiding these texts can feel easier, but doing so undermines an opportunity for meaningful engagement. When we engage them honestly—balancing yirat shamayim and intellectual integrity—we offer them opportunities for deep learning, not just of content, but of character. I teach both English and Limudei Kodesh at a Modern Orthodox high school.
The King David Hotel Bombing: Eyewitness Accounts as Educational Tools
On 22 July 1946, a massive explosion ripped through the King David Hotel in Jerusalem, leaving 91 people dead, dozens injured, and significant damage to the building itself. Although all three paramilitary organizations operating in the Yishuv had known about this event beforehand, the Irgun was solely involved in planning and executing the attack. This bombing is a critical moment in the history of modern Israel, exemplifying the desperate lengths to which Jews in Palestine were willing to go to confront the British through increasingly military means. At the time, the bombing of the King David Hotel was condemned by many, including the international press and even prominent figures such as Chaim Weizmann.
Love, Gender, and Leviticus
For the final unit assessment of our 12th grade Jewish Studies elective called “Love, Gender, and Relationships,” students had to address the prohibition of same-sex intimacy found in Leviticus 18:22. They could either explore the inclusion of this text in the Yom Kippur Minha Torah reading or respond to a (fictional) friend’s request for advice regarding Jewish practice and same-sex relations. Gabby—a dedicated student who had never missed a deadline—requested an extension because she cried every time she sat down to write.
The Ephemeral Nature of Difficult Texts
This article is neither a record of success nor of unmitigated failure. It is a reflective description and evaluation of my experience, which I see as part of my own professional growth and which I share in the hope that it will be of help to other teachers. I should add the caveat that this reflection is happening much too soon for reliability. My standard line to students is that I judge my teaching by the condition of their souls ten years afterward (and I love it when they call to let me do that).Nearly three decades ago, I taught the book of Jeremiah in a Modern Orthodox high school. I identified ways that the text might challenge my students and planned my teaching around them.
Three Hashkafot, One Torah: Teaching Challenging Jewish Texts about Women
It is impossible to learn and teach Torah without encountering texts that relate to women in challenging ways. Contemporary conceptions of women’s roles and rights chafe against stories and laws in the Tanakh and Talmud, the historical development of halakha, normative prayer practices, and underlying assumptions in philosophical works. In this brief article, I do not attempt to soothe these tensions—that is far too great a task! Rather, I seek to offer the reader three conceptual frameworks—hashkafot, if you will—through which we tend to approach this tension in Orthodox day schools. Each hashkafa is described in the full-throated voice of a proponent of that lens. Then, I discuss some potential tradeoffs of using each conceptual framework in a Judaic studies classroom.
Using Context and Subtext to Unpack the Text
Teachers of Torah texts in the day school setting are bound to encounter a text that contains content that is difficult to teach. It can be especially difficult when the text seems to be working from a framework of values or interests that are distant from the current moment. Or, it may just be too heavy a lift to explain to students what a particular text or story was trying to accomplish when the students only notice a bothersome turn of phrase. With attention paid to context and subtext, a text that initially seems troubling may show depth that makes teaching it not only possible, but essential. An example of this can be found on Kiddushin 49a-b. The Gemara begins a discussion about how to make sure a man has fulfilled a condition he set regarding his own character traits in order to accomplish the transaction of kiddushin.
Shelo Asani… Navigating Prayer Practices in a Modern Orthodox School
Oakland Hebrew Day School is a Modern Orthodox school that draws from a wide range of religiously diverse families. With our enrollment coming from (and relying on) a diversity of affiliations, our commitment to maintaining our Modern Orthodox identity sometimes creates complications, particularly in the realm of our tefillah practices. Many parents don’t have personal prayer practices, and for parents who do, some use liturgy or have traditions from different denominations. Like many schools, we have a siddur ceremony in the 1st grade in which students receive their own siddurim. As an Orthodox school, we distribute Orthodox siddurim (we have been using the Koren Youth Siddur).
Utilizing Communities of Inquiry to Navigate Challenging Tanakh Texts
When addressing morally complex Tanakh texts, middle school educators face the dual challenge of maintaining textual integrity while fostering meaningful student engagement. To meet this challenge, we have introduced “Communities of Inquiry” (CoI), a pedagogical approach rooted in the Philosophy for Children (P4C) movement. These collaborative learning environments allow students and teachers to explore ideas, questions, and ethical dilemmas that arise from complex Tanakh passages. In this framework, students engage in “doing philosophy”—not as an academic discipline, but as a way of thinking that deepens their connection to Tanakh and to the broader human experience.This approach emphasizes philosophy as an active, practice-based discipline.
Struggling with Form and Feeling
Over a delectable meal during Hanukkah in 2012, Professor Gerald Bubis told me about a sermon he had heard at Valley Beth Shalom in Los Angeles. In it, Rabbi Harold Shulweis passionately insisted that kashrut practices must be rooted in ethical consciousness. “The Jewish theology of kashrut is not pots and pantheism,” Shulweis poetically preached from the bimah in 2009. Jerry spoke to me not only as a budding Jewish educator, but also as a future family member, encouraging me to balance halakhic rigor with spiritual depth. He railed against mechanical or performative acts, in all arenas. This was one of our earliest and most memorable conversations. Thirteen years later, while teaching a capstone course in modern Jewish thought to high school seniors at Rochelle Zell Jewish High School, I found myself reflecting on that encounter.
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