Making Sense of “God”: What God-talk Means and Does

Making Sense of “God”: What God-talk Means and Does (Wipf & Stock, 2023), by Norman Solomon

Reviewed by Rabbi Reuven Chaim Klein (Rachack Review)

This book serves as a delightful specimen of healthy skepticism in the often-murky waters of theological discourse. Although the author is an accomplished academic scholar, this particular work is written for a popular audience. With its engaging style, thoughtful insights, and provocative questions, it has the potential to spark lively conversations and inspire readers to rethink their own beliefs and biases about the Divine.

Solomon's aim is not to indoctrinate or convert, but rather to provoke thought and stimulate discussion. His book presents a dynamic dialogue where ideas collide and intersect, rather than adhere to a rigid doctrinal framework. In other words, this book does not take one specific approach, but rather presents everything as in dialogue with each other. This encourages the reader to approach the subject of the God/god and other facets of the Divine with an open mind and a critical eye.

In doing so, the author aims to frame conversations about God/god within the contemporary intellectual milieu (dominated by scientism, atheism, and secularism) and shows how intellectually-rigorous versions of those conversations might look. The author is armed with a buoyant skepticism that injects a breath of fresh air into the discourse, while also unravelling the complexities implicit in discussions of the Divine.

Throughout this work, Solomon delves into the multifaceted nature of the concept of "God/god," probing whether, when referencing or invoking God in conversation, people are alluding to: a metaphysical or theological reality, the prime mover behind nature, nature itself, a moral or legal imperative, an expression of social identity, a deeply personal experience (perhaps facilitated by psychedelics), or something entirely distinct from all these interpretations. The author observes that a wide spectrum of beliefs about the Divine can be found even within a single society or culture, highlighting how diverse interpretations of God can and must coexist.

Another recurring theme in this book is Solomon’s caution against the temptation to superimpose contemporary understanding and language onto ancient texts. He emphasizes the importance of appreciating these texts within their original historical and cultural contexts, recognizing that their intended meanings are intricately tied to the specific times and places in which they were written.

Although many theological works adopt a singular approach or perspective on “the truth,” Solomon embraces the diversity of thought. Therefore, rather than presenting a monolithic argument, he presents to the reader a multitude of perspectives, allowing for a more nuanced understanding of the topic at hand. As a result, the book’s exploration of “God talk” extends far beyond the confines of any single religious tradition. In fact, by drawing on examples from the so-called Abrahamic Religions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam), as well as Hinduism, Buddhism, and a myriad of lesser-known faiths (both historic and current), the author offers the reader a panoramic view of the diverse ways in which humanity has grappled with the concept of the Divine throughout history.

Additionally, the author provides readable (yet comprehensive) summaries of the fundamental lines of inquiry tackled by a range of disciplines, including history, anthropology, psychology, philosophy, linguistics, jurisprudence, and other various branches of science. Through this interdisciplinary lens, Solomon invites readers to explore the multifaceted nature of human beliefs related to the Divine and what shapes those views.

While Solomon's approach is decidedly skeptical and cautious, it is also imbued with a sense of curiosity and wonder. He invites readers to join him on a journey of discovery, challenging long-held assumptions and interrogating strongly-held beliefs. Yet, for all his skepticism, Solomon never loses sight of the profound significance that the concept of God holds for countless individuals around the world.

Because this book focuses on digesting these sophisticated discussions and bringing them down to a popular audience, it is light on citing exact sources but instead opts to present things in broader strokes (that said, there is an average of one footnote per page). The author’s tendency to rely more on broad strokes than meticulous citations may leave some scholars craving more academic rigor. For that, they would likely have to consult with Solomon’s more serious academic works.

Additionally, some readers may find some of Solomon's humor a tad irreverent, although a cynic like myself can actually appreciate his tone. That said, these minor quibbles pale in comparison to the book's overall strengths.

One of the book's greatest strengths lies in its accessibility. Solomon eschews the dense and impenetrable language often associated with academic discourse, opting instead for a style that is engaging and approachable. This makes the book eminently readable for a wide audience, from the casual reader with a passing interest in theology to the seasoned scholar looking for fresh insights.

Moreover, while many scholarly works on theology tend to adopt a solemn and reverential tone, Solomon's approach is refreshingly different. With a touch of wit and a pinch of humor, he navigates through the dense underbrush of theological debates, offering readers a lighter reading on a weighty topic.

The book's original format is as innovative as its content. While the majority of the text takes the predictable form of discursive essays, the author injects creativity and originality into his presentation by interspersing those chapters with chapters written in a totally different style. Those chapters are crafted as dialogues between two Divine beings (wryly named William and James), with the younger god being more interested in overseeing the creation/development of the world and of humanity, while the older one pessimistically expresses his expectation that that experiment will ultimately fail. This literary device adds a playful dimension to the discussion, inviting readers to consider complex ideas through the lens of imaginative storytelling.

Other chapters are presented as the minutes of a seemingly-fictitious academic society called the Crumpet Club, where a cast of seasoned scholars gather to discuss profound questions over tea and crumpets. Per the rules of the club, these academicians would converse about deep questions in intellectually-charged but jargon-free conversations, all the while partaking in tea and crumpets. The author presents himself as a member of that club who was privy to those conversations between experts. Besides breathing some fresh air into the serious discussion, this literary device is used as a way of illustrating to the reader how rituals and their meanings can change over time, as the book’s records of the Crumpet Club span several decades and the scholars in the conversation change over the course of the time-period documented.

Solomon makes it clear that the ultimate goal of the book is not to provide definitive answers, but rather to guide readers through the complexities of theological discourse. To do so, the author takes a common-sense approach to these matters. In some ways, this methodology infuses the text with authenticity and is a delightful departure from conventional theological treatises.

The author’s profile as a British nonagenarian, whose long and varied career has seen him serve as an Orthodox Jewish rabbi in the pulpit and as a professor (of Jewish Studies and of Jewish-Christian relations) adds another layer of charm to the book. Yet, as a reviewer who shares Solomon's Orthodox Jewish background, there is a sense of disappointment that he does not delve deeper into this aspect to explain how the discussions in his book shape his own beliefs and practices. Likewise, he does not proffer a view of how the book is or is not compatible with Orthodox Judaism(s).

But then again, the author makes clear that the “bottom line'” is not the point of the book; rather he admits that the final destination is beyond his understanding. He only seeks to help people avoid deception by those who claim they have already arrived at the understanding of the One Immutable Truth by showing that nothing is quite that simple. Through its creative presentation and thoughtful insights, this book serves as a model of intellectual curiosity and a reminder that the search for understanding is an ongoing and ever-evolving process.

Collected Essays: Volume III (Haym Soloveitchik)

Collected Essays: Volume III (The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2020), by Haym Soloveitchik

Reviewed by Rabbi Reuven Chaim Klein (Rachack Review)

As can be expected from Soloveitchik's previous work, the meticulous analysis and scholarly depth found in this anthology offer invaluable perspectives on medieval Jewish civilization, historical inquiry, and halachic discourse. As the reviewer delved into its pages, he found himself immersed in a thoughtful exploration of these complex topics, guided by Soloveitchik's expertise and clarity of thought. This collection is not only informative but also thought-provoking, marking it as an impressive resource for anyone interested in Jewish intellectual history.

The first part of this book is dedicated to analyzing the pietist phenomenon known as Chassidei Ashkenaz (associated with Rabbi Shmuel HaChassid, Rabbi Yehuda HaChassid, and Rabbi Elazar Rokeach, who were active in Germany in the 12^th and 13^th centuries). In that part of the book, Soloveitchik delves into the intricate world of Chassidei Ashkenaz, looking at the pietist ideologies and practices of this elitist movement with a critical eye. In doing so, Soloveitchik masterfully dissects the core tenets of their worldview, highlighting the concept of retzon habore (“the will of the Creator”), which fuels its adherent’s profound yearning to fulfill the Creator's “complete” will. This is accomplished by following rigorous adherence to strictures above and beyond those codified by mainline halacha. Within the realm of halacha, this ideology gives way towards an inclination towards stringencies, coupled with an (over)emphasis on the purity of thought (exemplified by their stringent prohibition on gazing at women).

Moreover, Soloveitchik intricately explores the possible evolution of Chassidei Ashkenaz thought, considering whether or not there may be nuances between its various developmental stages or differences between the ideas espoused by its above-mentioned intellectual heroes.

Soloveitchik astutely examines how the movement's ideas continued to reverberate throughout the broader Ashkenazic world even after the collapse of the movement proper. This is particularly seen in the case of self-mortification and other forms of penance as rites of repentance. Additionally, Soloveitchik delves into the intriguing interplay between Chassidei Ashkenaz and the Tosafist movement, unraveling the complexities of the dynamic relationship between them.

In the context of his work on Chassidei Ashkenaz, one of Soloveitchik’s more well-known contributions to scholarship lies in his groundbreaking insight regarding the seminal work commonly known as Sefer Chassidim. Soloveitchik’s astute observation notes that the first 153 paragraphs of that book are actually sourced in pietistic writings/teachings from outside the particular pietist community of the Chassidei Ashkenaz. Soloveitchik shows how the content of those paragraph actually diverges from the core ideals of the Chassidei Ashkenaz movement (while sometimes retaining their verbiage), at times even citing passages verbatim from Maimonides. Soloveitchik's spirited exchanges with scholars who questioned his assumptions about Chassidei Ashkenaz offer a fascinating glimpse into the scholarly dialogue surrounding this controversial movement, as much of the materials printed in this first section of the book detail the opinions of those who disputed Soloveitchik’s assumptions about Chassidei Ashkenaz and how Soloveitchik replied to their arguments.

In the second part of this book, Soloveitchik embarks on a scholarly exploration of the Jewish community in Provence (in modern-day Southern France), particularly focusing on its revered rabbinic figure, the Raavad — Rabbi Avraham of Posquières. In this section, Soloveitchik shows how even though contemporary Talmudic scholars see the Raavad as primarily a critic of Maimonides’ and Alfasi’s halachic magna opera, in earlier times the Raavad’s legacy was shaped by his commentaries to the Talmud. Thus, Soloveitchik brings to the fore the multifaceted legacy of the Raavad, shifting the spotlight from his role as a critic of Maimonides (which only occurred as a sideshow to the Raavad’s main work, as he only encountered Maimonides’ writings at the end of his fruitful life) to his role as an independent and creative Talmudic commentator and Halachic decisor. Much of the Raavad’s work and originality was overshadowed by the later work of Nachmanides and his students, but Soloveitchik urges the reader to see the Raavad's groundbreaking output for what it truly is. In doing so, Soloveitchik also shows how the Raavad’s commentary differs from the monumental contributions of Rashi.

This section of the book also contains a series of essays penned in response to criticism about how Soloveitchik framed Raavad’s relationship with Geonic rulings and how the Latin legal terminology used in Provence may have influence the Provencal sages’ way of looking at sureties in Halachic discourse.

In the context of discussing Provencal Jewry, the figure of the Meiri emerges as a compelling subject of inquiry, and in a chapter dedicated to that figure, Soloveitchik offers a critical description of Meiri’s Talmudic methodology and his contribution to Talmudic study. Through Soloveitchik's sharp lens, we gain a deeper appreciation as to how Meiri's voluminous Talmudic commentary has been received throughout the ages and what led to it gaining more prominence in the last century than it has ever held.

In discussing Talmudic commentaries, a recurring theme emerges from this book: Soloveitchik's profound reverence and awe for Rashi as a commentator who transformed the Talmud into an open book in a way that was unparalleled in the medieval world. While acknowledging the contributions of other commentators, such as the School of Mainz (printed in the ubiquitous Vilna Shas under the name “Rabbeinu Gershom”) and the Raavad, Soloveitchik sees Rashi's contribution in shaping the way Talmud is studied as entirely unmatched.

Another theme that runs like Ariadne's thread throughout this collection of Soloveitchik’s writings is the question of how and when historical data can be culled from halachic literature. Unlike some scholars who view halachah as predominantly shaped by the ideological leanings or even personal interests of its decisors, Soloveitchik presents a compelling argument that halachah — like any legal system — operates according to its own rules and considerations. Soloveitchik therefore cautions against the tendency to "historicize" rulings by attributing them solely to extra-halachic motives, emphasizing the necessity of identifying a "smoking gun" in the form of unsound halachic reasoning that points to the notion that the decisor is motivated by something other than purely halachic thought before making such accusations. This evidentiary criterion, which Soloveitchik terms the "angle of deflection," serves as a guiding principle in much of his historical analyses, even when it is not explicitly articulated.

Many of the essays in this collection have already been published and critiqued by other scholars decades ago. Within these pages, Soloveitchik gracefully responds to some of those critiques, skillfully defending and clarifying his positions. Often, he accomplishes this task with elegant simplicity, by simply reproducing his original words verbatim while offering a slight addition or modifications where necessary. He is also not afraid to concede to his interlocutors, when he sees their arguments as compelling. This dialogue with scholarly discourse not only enriches the reader's understanding, but also underscores Soloveitchik's commitment to rigorous intellectual engagement and his own legacy in the study of Jewish History.

As one of the preeminent Jewish historians of the medieval period, Soloveitchik's scholarship is marked by a rare blend of academic rigor and profound reverence for tradition. Hailing from one of the most illustrious rabbinic dynasties and identifying himself with the Lithuanian Yeshiva tradition, Soloveitchik navigates between these worlds, crafting erudite works in eloquent English as befits his towering stature as a scholar. This reviewer in particular has eagerly consumed Soloveitchik's previous volumes and essays, and for him, the anticipation of future scholarship from the pen of this esteemed octogenarian scholar is met with great excitement. Soloveitchik's contributions continue to illuminate the corridors of Jewish intellectual history, leaving an indelible mark on generations of scholars and readers alike.

Philosophy and Rabbinic Culture: Jewish interpretation and Controversy in Medieval Languedoc

Philosophy and Rabbinic Culture:Jewish interpretation and Controversy in Medieval Languedoc (Routledge, 2009), by Gregg Stern

Reviewed by Rabbi Reuven Chaim Klein (Rachack Review)

This scholarly work of history documents the rise and fall of a relatively-unknown Jewish community in the Medieval period — the Jews of Languedoc (in modern-day Southern France). That community, often associated and conflated with Provence (which was located to its immediate east), was already home to Jews for some time when the Muslim Almohads intensely persecuted Andalusian Jews from the Iberian Peninsula, and drove many of those Spanish Jews northwards to Languedoc around 1150s.

One of the important Spanish Jewish families who immigrated northward was the Ibn Tibbon family, led by Yehuda Ibn Tibbon (1120–1190). The Ibn Tibbon family introduced the long-standing Languedocian Jewish tradition of translation, as it was Yehuda and his son Shmuel Ibn Tibbon who rendered many Jewish works originally written in Judeo-Arabic into Hebrew, thus opening them up to a wider audience. These works include Rabbi Saadia Gaon's Emunot Ve'Deot, Bachya ibn Pakuda's Chovot HaLevavot, Yehuda HaLevi's Kuzari, Ibn Janach's works on Hebrew grammar and lexicon, and of course the works of Maimonides (especially his Guide for the Perplexed and commentary to the Mishnah). That tradition of translating the great sources into Hebrew also extended to works of science and philosophy of the Greco-Arabic stream, and led to a wide degree of acculturation in those fields on the part of the Jews in Languedoc.

Besides for the Ibn Tibbon family, other towering Torah scholars of Languedoc, Occitan, and Provence include such important figures as Zerachya HaLevi, Manoach of Narbonne, Avraham of Posquières, Eshtori HaParchi, Yaakov Anatoli, Avraham min HaHar (of Montpellier), Asher of Lunel, Moshe of Narbonne, Meir Meili, Kalonymus ben Kalonymus, Yedayah HaPenini, Levi ben Chaim, Ibn Kaspi, the Kimchi family, Gersonides, Dovid HaKochavi (Estelle), Nissim of Marseilles, and more.

Although Languedoc (and especially Montpellier) was an important flashpoint in the first Maimonidean controversy, by the second half of the 13^th century Languedoc had become a stronghold of Maimonideanism, with that philosophically-infused brand of Judaism dominating the community. One of the important characters discussed in this book is Rabbi Menachem ben Shlomo Meiri, who followed precisely that trend. Meiri lived in the Languedocian city of Perpignan, and penned one of the most comprehensive and in-depth commentaries of the Talmud to date. His steadfast devotion to Maimondeanism and proud follower of the Languedocian Halachic traditions make him an especially noteworthy figure in the history of the community. Besides his voluminous Talmudic commentary, Meiri also wrote Kiryat Sefer which defended various local Languedocian customs from claims by Spanish Jews that those traditions were Halachically illegitimate. In this book, the author attempts to piece together Meiri’s world view, especially how he viewed Christianity and other world religions from his so-called “moderate” Maimonidean perspective.

Several chapters of this book are devoted to telling the story of the controversy sparked by a rabbinic scholar named Abba Mari who attempted to curtail the study of philosophy in Jewish Languedoc. He worried that following the philosophical approach to Judaism could steer Jews away from tradition and led them to heresy. He was especially concerned with how Jewish philosophers were re-interpreting Biblical narratives as allegorical allusions to philosophical ideas, an approach which he felt could potentially upend the entirety of Jewish belief and practice.

Although Abba Mari himself personally subscribed to the Maimoinidean approach, he wanted to tone down the importance of philosophy and reserve its study to elite Jewish scholars who were already mature in their studies. He felt that the more overly-philosophical approach should not be openly preached in the synagogues and at family events, but should be an esoteric wisdom studied by only a few. In doing so, he appealed to rabbinic authorities outside of Languedoc to intervene. In particular, he turned to Rashba (Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Adret), a Catalonian scholar based in Barcelona who was widely recognized as the leader Jewish scholar of the time, to ban the study of philosophy for those younger than 25–30 years old.

This book details Abba Mari’s largely unsuccessful efforts and the blowback to his enlisting Rashba — who was actually Kabbalist, and thus suspect in the eyes of Maimonidean rationalists — for his cause. Other important characters in this tale include the Rosh (Rabbi Asher ben Yechiel), who was the exiled leading Ashkenazi authority that had spent some time in Languedoc before settling in the Castilian city of Toledo. Abba Mari compiled many letters and documents related to his crusade against the normalization of philosophy among Languedocian Jewry, many of which were published in the word Minchat Ken’aot.

The tragic end of the Languedocian community occurred in July 1306, when the French king Philip the Fair (1268–1314) expelled the Jews from his territories, thus sending the Jews of Narbonne, Beziers, Montpellier, Lunel and other Occitanian towns elsewhere. Jews were later readmitted and expelled again multiple times, but the Languedocian community was never the same and their unique brand of Judaism eventually fizzled out.

In conclusion, this book serves as a comprehensive exploration of the Languedocian Jewish community, unveiling its rich history through the lens of its key figures. The author's meticulous attention to detail is evident in the extensive endnotes provided after each chapter, ensuring transparency and scholarly rigor. Furthermore, the inclusion of maps enhances the reader's understanding of the geographical and cultural landscape in which this community thrived. Overall, this work not only sheds light on a lesser-known aspect of Jewish history but also invites readers to delve deeper into the complexities and legacy of the Languedocian Jewish community.

Zimzum: God and the Origin of the World

 

Zimzum: God and the Origin of the World (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2023), by Christoph Schulte

Reviewed by Rabbi Reuven Chaim Klein (Rachack Review)

This scholarly work is an intellectual history of the reception of the concept of tzimtzum in various circles. The concept of Tzimtzum refers to the Kabbalistic notion of Divine “contraction” or “withdrawal.” In Lurianic Kabbalah, it is fundamental for understanding how the infinite Divine essence interacts with the finite world. According to this concept, before creation, God — often referred to in Kabbalistic literature as the Ein Sof (“infinite”) — filled all of existence, such that in order for creation of the finite world to occur, God needed to make space for creation by “withdrawing” or “contracting” His infinite presence. This withdrawal created a void or space, which resulted in a “place” for the finite world to come into existence outside of God Himself. Various emanations typified by the partzufim and the sefirot percolate from this highly spiritual “place” down to the material world which we occupy. The first and most supernal of these emanations is known in Kabbalah as Adam Kadmon, and it is from that realm that everything in creation emanates.

The first chapter discusses the emergence of the concept of tzimtzum in the teachings of Rabbi Yitzchak Luria (1534–1572), known as Arizal. That chapter shows how even in the first generation after the Arizal, the correct interpretation of Lurianic Kabbalah became subject to dispute, as the Arizal’s prime disciples Rabbi Chaim Vital (1543–1620) and Rabbi Yisrael Sarug (d. 1610) disagreed over whether their master’s teaching was meant to be taken literally, or was merely a metaphoric way of relating a concept that actually lies beyond human comprehension. This difference of opinion continued into later generations and the debate engaged such important figures as Rabbi Menachem Azariah da Fano (1548-1620) Rabbi Avraham Cohen de Herrera (1570-1635), Rabbi Yishaya Horowitz (1558-1630), Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Delmedigo of Candia (1591-1655), Rabbi Yosef Ergas (1685-1730), and Rabbi Immanual Chai Ricci (1688-1743).

The way Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto (1707–1746) — known as the Ramchal — explains the idea of tzimtzum follows the traditional Kabbalistic view of identifying the Ein Sof with God Himself. Accordingly, he explains that because at the level of Ein Sof, God is infinite and unlimited, He therefore has no particular “goal” or “purpose,” because such objectives would, by definition, necessarily limit Him. Yet, because in His eternal benevolence, He wanted to create the world, He sought to "reign in" His infiniteness through tzimtzum, which allowed Him to create the world and achieve His goal of being ever-beneficent to something outside of Himself. This means that although He himself is limitless, He consciously chose to put constraints on Himself in order to create the finite world as we know it. When discussing Luzzatto, the author does not explore the idea found elsewhere in Ramchal’s writings that God’s tzimtzum was integral for man’s freewill.

An entire chapter of this book is devoted to how the concept of tzitzum was received in early Hassidic thought. In that chapter, the author focuses on how one of the foremost students of the Baal Shem Tov (1698–1760), Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezeritch (1704-1772) — known as the Maggid of Mezritch — took the concept of tzimtzum as instructive in how man can accomplish imitatio dei by likewise “retreating” from worldly pleasures and focusing as much as humanly possible on immaterial, spiritual matters. Although this ascetic approach did not become a cornerstone for all Hassidic sects, it certainly influenced many later Hassidic Tzaddikim. Other Hassidic thinkers that this book treats are Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812) and Rabbi Nachman of Bratslov (1772-1810), who also used the concept of tzimtzum in their respective Hassidic theosophies.

In the century after the Arizal’s passing, a Christian scholar named Knorr von Rosenroth (1636-1689) translated some important texts of Kabbalah into Latin, and his popular work brought the ideas of tzimtzum to a wider audience. From there, knowledge of tzimtzum spread to many Christian Hebraists and so-called Cabalists. As the author documents, there were varied reactions to these ideas in Christian circles. Some scholars took the ideas of Kabbalah, and particularly of tzimtzum, as universal ideas taught by Judaism and used that to look upon Judaism and the Jewish people more favorable as purveyors of these universal truths. Others offered Christological reinterpretations of the doctrine of tzimtzum, conflating Adam Kadmon (which does not actually refer to a person) as referring to none other than Christ himself.

Some Christian interpreters associated the Kabbalistic concept of tzimtzum with the heresy of pantheism, that is, the belief that God is equal to nature. In doing so, they painted all Jews in a bad light as though Kabbalists were followers of Spinoza, using that as fodder for the furtherance of anti-Semitism. One figure particularly associated with this approach is Johann Georg Wachter (1673–1757), who translated some Kabbalistic texts into German. It is actually his visual depiction of tzimtzum that appears on this book’s cover. Another figure who wrote something similar was the German philosopher Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi (1743–1819), who accused his fellow philosopher Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–1781) of holding views in line with Kabbalah and Spinozism, seeing the two as interchangeable. Of course, the traditional Jewish approach to Kabbalistic cosmology sees God as encompassing the entirety of creation but also surpassing it, rather than equaling it (see responsa Chacham Tzvi §18).

Interestingly, the author shows how the famous German philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling (1775-1854) incorporated elements of the idea of tzimtzum into his Trinitarian way of explaining the contraction of the Divine (although the author admits that Schelling never actually used the word tzimtzum and seems to not have had any direct engagement with Kabbalah texts written in Hebrew).

Christians were not the only ones to reappropriate the Lurianic concept of tzimtzum for their own ideological purposes. In the writings of Sabbatian theologists like Abraham Miguel Cardozo (1627-1706) and Nechemia Chiyya Chayun (1650-1730), the concept of tzimtzum is presented in a different way. In contrast to the standard reading of Kabbalah that equates the Ein Sof with God, these Sabbatians used the concept of tzimtzum to support their contention that the Ein Sof is somehow something from which the God of Israel is born in a quasi-mythological way through tzimtzum, but is not equal to Him. This is important for Sabbatian antinomianism, as these Sabbatians recognize that the God of Israel gave the Torah which contains certain commandments and strictures, but they argue that the will of the ultimate Ein Sof might not always line up with that of the God of Israel, which according to their theology justifies their abrogating the Torah’s laws.

Other chapters in the book explore how tzimtzum is depicted in secular art and literature in more recent times. If I properly understood the author’s intent, he sees an example of a sort of secular deistic reading of tzimtzum in private letters written by the late scholar of Kabbalah Dr. Gershom Scholem (1897–1982). It seems that Scholem understood God’s apparent absence from This World as a reflection of His purposeful minimizing His presence through tzimtzum and retreating to allow nature to run its course.

Other recent appearances of tzimtzum that the author does not discuss include Hareidi pop culture, like Naftali Kempeh’s recent song Ohr Ein Sof, whose lyrics are drawn from Rabbi Chaim Vital’s account of tzimtzum. Similarly, Avinoam Fraenkel’s 2015 work Nefesh HaTzimtzum is a digest on Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner’s Nefesh HaChaim and how it differs from Hassidic conceptions of tzimtzum. The author acknowledges Fraenkel’s work in his introduction, but does not actually engage with it.

In conclusion, Zimzum: God and the Origin of the World offers an insightful exploration into the intricate realm of tzimtzum, providing invaluable snippets of historical context that enrich the understanding of its diverse integrations across various contexts. Because this book is a translation from the author's earlier German study, it occasionally suffers from awkward verbiage and slightly inaccurate translations. However, these pitfalls should not detract from the reader's overall experience, as the depth of knowledge and the scholarly analysis presented within its pages offer a commendable resource for those delving into the nuanced complexities of tzimtzum and how it has been presented over the ages.