By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel
CHULA VISTA, California — These days we constantly hear a phrase that did not exist just a few weeks ago – “social distancing.” Defined, social distancing pertains to actions individuals and communities must undertake in order to prevent the spread of a highly contagious disease. By having less interaction individuals have with one another, this withdrawal from society will help slow down the rushing force of a dangerous pandemic. As a result, all sporting events have come to a grinding halt; social gatherings have been postponed. Creating physical space between ourselves and our friends or associates protects everybody involved.
The affects of the coronavirus can be seen everywhere. We have seen a cessation to all public-school and college activities. Malls, theaters, houses of worship, theaters, parades—even mass transit have been temporarily closed or be used only for essential travel. Interestingly, the social interaction has gone to the Internet; Web-based learning and video conferencing has become the new normalcy—at least for the time being. Another phrase that is similar to “social distancing” is “self-quarantine.”
As I began thinking about social distancing, I wondered: What does Jewish tradition have to say about the new phenomena of “social distancing”? Surprisingly, our religious traditions have a lot to say about this matter.
The most obvious example pertains to those individuals who were stricken with leprosy. Leprosy has afflicted humans for thousands of years. The Scriptures tells us that a leper, “shall remain unclean as long as the disease is on him. Being unclean, he shall dwell apart; his dwelling shall be outside the camp” (Leviticus 13:46).[1] In an age when the ancients knew nothing about how leprosy was spread, separating the afflicted from the rest of society was the only way the ancients felt they could “contain” the plague. Such behavior is not restricted to how human beings respond to a mysterious disease. Many species of animals also avoid fellow creatures if they perceive there is something sickly about them, which they may discern through the power of scent.
Yet, bear in mind the leper was not completely abandoned. The local priests healed the body as well as the soul of their patients; their task was to help provide healing and support for the leper and ultimately reintegrate him back to his family and society. The priests were the people who worked at “Ground Zero” with the lepers. They refused to abandon them.
The second place where social distancing is also discussed is in the Talmud concerning the night of the Exodus, when the angel of death struck Egypt’s firstborn.
- The Sages taught: If there is plague in the city, gather your feet, i.e., limit the time you spend out of the house, as it is stated in the verse: “And none of you shall go out of the opening of his house until the morning.” And it says in another verse: “Come, my people, enter into your chambers, and shut your doors behind you; hide yourself for a little moment, until the anger has passed by” (Isa. 26:20). And it says: “Outside the sword will bereave, and in the chambers terror” (Deuteronomy 32:25).[2]
During the medieval era, some of the scholars pointed to a scriptural verse from Jeremiah, “Whoever remains in this city shall die by the sword or famine or pestilence. But whoever leaves and surrenders to the Chaldeans who are besieging you shall live and escape with his life” (Jeremiah 21:9). In other words: remaining in a place of danger is foolish. A prudent person must always seek to avoid danger and not rely upon miracles per se.
From this passage, it is clear Jeremiah endorsed a kind of social distancing when it came to the threat of an oncoming plague. But as simple as this might seem for us in the 21st century, the medievalists lived with a different set of values.
The Christian Response: Although this ought to have been a matter of common sense, religious people are often lacking in that department. This attitude could be seen in much of the history of pandemics that decimated Europe during the medieval era—even to the nineteenth century. During the Black Death, Christian authorities considered the plague a punishment from God and felt there was little humankind could to do to prevent it. Some abandoned their faith and embraced a life of pleasure, while others formed flagellant movements (named for the whip) that would go from town to town whipping people until they repented. These pious-minded folks wanted to cool God’s anger and stave off further punishment, or at least to prepare themselves for the return of Christ, by renouncing worldly goods and punishing their bodies.[3] Even in the mid-1800s, in the height of the London cholera epidemic, pious Victorians believed God punished their country as a result of neglecting the laws of nature.
The Muslim Response: The accomplished medical historian Michael W. Dols (1942-1989) observed that in Islamic tradition, Muslims generally regarded the plague as God’s gift—not his scourge. Since it derived from God and God’s will, taking flight from a plague was considered wrong. For many Muslim thinkers, the plague was believed to be a “heaven-sent miasma,” it had nothing to do with “bad air” or contagions. In one of the works he cites the medieval Sunni scholar Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani (1372-1449) argued that evil jinn or demons, were responsible for the plague. The jinn merely acted as God’s agents.[4]
Needless to say, every religious tradition has a plethora of dissenting views. Among other Muslim thinkers, especially Ibn Sina (Avicenna – 980-1037), followed the view of Hippocrates and Galen who believed the poor quality of air contributed much toward the spread of contagion. Hippocrates in particular, stressed that there is nothing “sacred” (ἱερῆς = hierēs) about a disease; all diseases originate with a natural cause; the fact that men believe disease has a “divine” origin, is due to the inexperience of the physician who fails to understand the etiology of the disease.
The Jewish Response: Jewish tradition always stresses the importance of doing what is possible from an earthly perspective. Relying on supernatural miracles is foolish, “we do not rely upon miracles,” the Talmud says. Medieval rabbis such as R. Solomon Luria and Moshe Isserles stressed repeatedly: one must never linger in a town that is stricken by a plague. In the story of Lot’s escape, the angel stressed to Lot that they were not to look back, lest they be consumed by the destruction of Sodom (Gen. 19:26), Yet, Lot’s wife refused to keep social distance from her Sodomite neighbors—as a result she perished.
But there is much more I would like to add.
Former Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, R. Immanuel Jacobowitz (1821-1999), in his classic study, Jewish Medical Ethics, pointed out that in 1885, the Montreal community was stricken with smallpox, and the Christian clergy refused to distribute it to their patrons lest they be guilty of thwarting God’s punishment to a sinful people.
From a Judaic perspective, relying on faith alone is foolish—especially at a time of a pandemic. Human beings must always do whatever they can to avoid a plague—and not acquiesce to it.[5]
One of my rabbinical ancestors, Rabbi Israel Salanter, was famous for his teachings of musar (ethical instructions on how to live a just life). During the cholera epidemic of 1848, the Lithuanian community of Vilnius took its toll of victims. Despite the prohibition against doing work on the Shabbat (Sabbath), he urged Jews to do whatever relief work necessary to ward off the effects of the cholera epidemic and not rely upon Gentiles to do it for them. Saving lives proved more significant than the observance of ritual law. During Yom Kippur, Rabbi Salanter instructed his community to avoid fasting; they had to eat in order maintain their health, again for emergency health reasons. He is purported to have gone up the synagogue pulpit on that holy day, recited the Kiddush prayer, drank and ate – as a public example for others to do the same.[6]
Just how serious was this pandemic in R. Salanter’s time?
A cholera pandemic lasted several years in Russia and its neighboring countries between 1846-1860 (though some say as early as 1837-1863). In Russia alone, over a million lives were lost. Outbreaks occurred in the US as well from Irish immigrant ships from England. Cholera claimed over 200,000 lives in Mexico.[7] Throughout the Middle East and in India and China, millions of people succumbed to the great cholera pandemic of the 19th century.[8] According to the historian Joseph Patrick Byrne, “Cholera was a great example of the diffusion of an illness along international trade routes, especially those connected with British imperial activity.”
One of the practical questions discussed in the Talmud concerns the visitation of the sick. One rabbinic discussion reads, “Whoever visits the sick removes one sixtieth of his illness, while one who ignores a sick person hastens his death.”[9] The discussion continues; we read how Rabbi Helbo fell sick and no one visited him. Rabbi Kahana rebuked the sages: Did it not once happen, he reminded them, that one of Rabbi Akiba’s disciples fell sick and the sages did not visit him? But Rabbi Akiba himself made a personal visitation to him; he arranged to have the floor swept and washed, the sick man recovered. My master, [the sick man] said to Rabbi Akiba, you have revived me. Rabbi Akiba went out and taught, He who does not visit the sick is like a shedder of blood.”
For all the physicians, nurses, first responders, and caregivers, those of us who are helping family members or patients in our community who are suffering from the coronavirus, must take practical steps to be helpful in a responsible and effective way. Doing nothing is not an option. My last Talmudic story accentuates this last point through a wonderful Talmudic parable.
- “Rabbi Joshua ben Levi met Elijah standing at the entrance of Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai’s tomb.… He then said to him, ‘When will the Messiah come?’ ‘Go and ask him’ was the reply. ‘Where is he sitting?’—’At the entrance of the city.’ And how shall I recognize him? — ‘He is sitting among the poor lepers, untying and rebandaging their wounds, while thinking, ‘Should I be needed, I must not delay.”[10]
One might wonder: Why wasn’t the Messiah worried about ritual impurity and social distancing? One exposition found in the commentaries suggests that the Messiah is among those afflicted with leprosy (cf. Isa. 53:4); while this is a plausible exposition, I prefer the image of the Messiah ministering to the lepers. The answer to the question is even more remarkable when considering how the ancients marginalized the lepers. In the days of the Temple, lepers lived outside the cities in special huts, where they all congregated for support. People feared any kind of physical contact with them for fear of contagion, or because of the possibility they might become ritually contaminated. Yet, the Messiah of our story seems as though he could care less about ritual impurity; to him, caring for the lepers is a supreme ethical demand that transcends ritual laws.
Our evolutionary history teaches us that we would never have survived as a species had we not learned how to come to the mutual aid of our fellow beings, the brilliant Russian naturalist and philosopher Peter Kropotkin wrote in his 1902 classic, Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution. He took issue with Darwin’s notion of natural selection. The only way human and animal life evolved was not through competition, but through providing mutual aid to one another. In reality, natural selection favored societies that learned to help one another.
As terrible as the coronavirus is as any dreaded pandemic of the past, we can stave off the angel of death—if we will come to our brother and sister’s aid.
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[1] The biblical attitude toward the leper was by no means unique. Other Semitic and Oriental peoples excluded the leper from their society. Among the Persians, the Zoroastrians forbade the leper to enter a city; he was to have no social intercourse with his fellow citizens. If he happened to be a foreigner, the authorities expelled him from their country. Among the medieval Christians, a priest would hold up his crucifix and demand that the lepers dress up in a black garment and performed for him a service for the dead. When the leper was taken to the sequestered house, the priest would throw dirt on the leper’s feet, and warned him he was never to appear without his black garment and be barefooted. Nor could he approach a well or field of wheat; if he owned property, he could not sell it to anyone; nor could he inherit. For all practical purposes, the leper was like a “walking dead man.”[1]
[2] Steinsaltz Talmud on Tractate Bava Kama 61b.
[3] Joseph Patrick Byrne (ed.), (2008) Encyclopedia of Pestilence, Pandemics, and Plagues: Vol. 1, A-M (London: Greenwood Press), 2008), p. 67.
[4] Michael W. Dols, The Black Death in the Middle East (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977), p. 9.
[5] However, there is one notable exception in the Tanakh to this rule. In Chapter 24 of 2 Samuel, God gives David three types of punishment to consider for his sin of conducting a census of the people. Choice #1: a famine that would last seven years; Choice #2: three months fleeing his enemies; Choice #3: Pestilence. In the end, David preferred the pestilence rather than the wrath of man who knows no pity. In the end: 70,000 people died
[6] Immanuel Etkes, Rabbi Israel Salanter and the Musar Movement (Jewish Publication Society, 1993), pp. 170-172
[7] Joseph Patrick Byrne (ed.), (2008). Encyclopedia of Pestilence, Pandemics, and Plagues: op. cit., p. 101
[8] Amanda J. Thomas, The Lambeth Cholera Outbreak of 1848–1849: The Setting, Causes, Course and Aftermath of an Epidemic in London (London: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2010), pp. 101.
[9] BT Nedarim 39b.
[10] BT Sanhedrin 98a.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California. He may be contacted via michael.samuel@sdjewishworld.com