~ Ask the Rabbi ~

Thank you for your very important question. There are several approaches to understanding that verse. But even before I quote them, it's significant to look ahead at the very next verse – which states, "And God created man in His image." In actuality, a single God created man, without outside help. It is thus clear that whoever God was addressing in the previous verse did not assist Him in man's creation. As the Talmud puts it, "Wherever the heretics misinterpreted, their refutation can be found right next to it" (Sanhedrin 38b).

Being that only a single God created man, whom was He addressing when He said "Let us make man?" And what purpose did addressing him (or them) serve? The commentators offer three approaches.

(1) God was talking to the angels and taking counsel from them, asking for their input. Why did an infinite God require anyone else's advice? The commentator Rashi explains based on the Midrash that it was an act of humility. Since man in some ways resembles the angels, they might feel jealous that such a lofty creature resides upon Earth. God thus took their opinion into account and conferred with them beforehand. As Rashi continues, this teaches an important lesson in humility – that the superior should always seek the advice of his underlings before making a decision which impacts upon them (Midrash Genesis Rabbah 8:7, Rashi, Targum Yonatan).

(2) God was addressing the earth – instructing it to bring forth man's body. "Let us" implies that both God and the earth would create man – the earth would produce man's body (in a process obviously controlled by God), and God would directly breathe in man's soul (Nachmanides).

(3) God was addressing all of creation, asking each part to contribute its various strengths and qualities to man's creation – for man is the pinnacle of God's creation and contains the elements of everything within him (Vilna Gaon).

There is a beautiful ethical lesson contained in this. When God dictated the Torah to Moses, there were two ways He could have stated the verse: "Let Me make man" or "Let us make man." The first version would have made it clearer there is a single God, while the second conveyed a lesson in humility – as we stated above that the superior should take the opinions of his servants seriously. God opted to do the second. And as we'll see, this wasn't just a matter of caring more about ethics than theology.

In fact, ethical behavior is a far greater guarantee that a person will be a believing soul than theology. If the Torah trains us to be moral human beings, we will be much more conditioned and willing to accept God and His Torah – even if there are always various nitpicky verses which are difficult to interpret. If, however, we are not ethical human beings, we will always look for a way out no matter how carefully the Torah attempts to spell out Jewish philosophy for us. Thus, in "Let us make man," God opted to focus on ethics. If we are good human beings, there is hope we will live up to the Torah and its ideals (Sifsei Chaim. Mo'adim I pp. 185-6)

I'm glad you're asking a rabbi about whether he is replaceable! That's like asking an employee about the prospect of being replaced with automation.

I assume your question isn't about replacing the rabbi's role as mentor, given that AI lacks human experiences, emotions, and the ability to empathize. Much of what a rabbi does involves connecting with individuals on a personal and emotional level, understanding their unique circumstances within the greater context, and providing guidance accordingly. AI cannot replicate the depth of human connection required for spiritual counseling and support.

Rather, your question seems to be about asking halachic questions to a chatbot instead of a rabbi.

The truth is that, unlike a typical employee being replaced by an AI, many rabbis would welcome a possible alternative. After all, they would love nothing more than to spend their time learning more Torah. As for their livelihood, they know that G‑d can provide everyone with their livelihood regardless of AI. Unfortunately, however, a chatbot does not a rabbi make.

Here's why:

Are Chatbots and AI even accurate?

If one is simply seeking information about what a specific halachic text has to say, an AI can be a valuable tool for information gathering and Torah study. It can provide access to a wide range of sources and help compile comprehensive summaries of various opinions and texts.

Yet, despite AI's significant advancements in various fields, it still has a very long way to go to provide reliable and accurate information, especially in the realm of halachah.

Torah texts often require nuanced interpretation, taking into account historical and contextual factors. AI systems typically operate on data-driven algorithms and lack the ability to grasp the intricacies of religious teachings. A human rabbi (hopefully!) possesses years of training, study and understanding of the text, allowing him to provide guidance within the framework of halachah.

A second issue is that the programming of AI introduces a significant challenge. The values and halachic rulings programmed into AI systems inherently reflect a bias, influenced by the beliefs and interpretations of those who develop the algorithms. This bias may lead to the exclusion or prioritization of certain opinions, potentially distorting the halachic landscape presented by AI. The acceptance or rejection of controversial topics can greatly impact the AI's conclusions, steering it in specific directions that may not align with halachah.

But let us assume, for argument's sake, that an AI has somehow overcome all of these challenges and has also advanced significantly to the point where it can gather and present unbiased information.

Knowing accurate information and data is merely one component of determining what the correct halachah is.

Shimush and the Practicing Rabbi

Countless letters and talks from the Rebbeemphasize (and admonish!) that if a question arises in halachah, it is not enough to just ask someone who was ordained and has the title "rabbi"; the rabbi needs to be a practicing rabbi who has shimush, the experience that comes from apprenticing with a veteran rabbi.1

The sages of the Talmud2 discuss "one who read and learned but did not serve Torah scholars (shimush)":

Rabbi Elazar says: This person is an ignoramus.
Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥmani said: This person is a boor.
Rabbi Yannai says: This person is comparable to a Samaritan (i.e., follows the Written Torah but not the traditions of the sages).

Clearly, shimush is critical.

Shimush involves actively engaging with experienced and knowledgeable authorities, observing their methodologies, and gaining hands-on experience in halachic decision-making. This apprenticeship-like approach is crucial to developing practical skills, judgment, and insights into halachic practice, which can't be gained by reading text and gathering information.3

On the same note, Mesorah (tradition) plays a crucial role in halachic decision-making. AI lacks the ability to access anecdotal material or personal experiences passed down through generations of scholars. Mesorah encompasses not only the oral teachings received from one's teacher, but also the observation of how the teacher applied halachic rulings in practical cases.4

An intriguing statement often quoted in halachah is that "the opinion of the lay people is the opposite of the Torah's opinion."5

The Rebbe explains that this refers to people who have indeed learned and are perhaps very knowledgeable in halachah. However, even such individuals miss a vital component of the halachic decision-making process if they lack practical experience.6

It is not for naught that the Talmud states, "Shimush is even greater than learning."7

In other words, an AI may have learned a lot and appear more "knowledgeable" in many ways, but it may still be considered "an ignoramus" for our purposes.

Although we may not technically have the original semichah (see What Is a Rabbi? - A Brief History of Rabbinic Ordination (Semichah)), for one to be considered a rabbi, he still needs to be ordained and have shimush.8

Divine Help

In addition to the reasons outlined above, when a rabbi approaches the halachic decision process with proper preparation (i.e., shimush) and the appropriate humility and fear of heaven, then he receives siyata dishmaya, help from Heaven, ensuring that he will rule correctly in that specific situation. This is because the rabbi is following what the Torah9itself enjoins us to do.10

A story often relayed by the Rebbe illustrates this point:

Rabbi Yechezkel Landau, the famed author of Noda B'Yehuda, served as the rabbi of Prague from 1754 to 1793. Once a group of scholars who wished to contest his rabbinic qualifications presented him with a series of questions in Torah law. These fictitious "cases" were carefully constructed to be as complex and as misleading as possible, so as to ensnare the rabbi in their logical traps and embarrass him with an incorrect ruling.

Rabbi Yechezkel succeeded in resolving all the questions correctly—all, that is, but one. Immediately, his detractors pounced on him, showing how his verdict contradicted a certain principle of Torah law.

Said Rabbi Yechezkel: "I am certain that this case is not actually relevant, and that you have invented it in order to embarrass me!"

"How do I know?" the rabbi continued. "Because I know that G‑d's Torah is true. You see, whenever a human being is called upon to decide a matter of Torah law, we are faced with a paradox: how can the human mind possibly determine G‑d's will? The laws of Torah are the wisdom and will of G‑d and the most basic laws of reality, preceding and superceding even the laws of nature. How is it that the finite and error-prone intellect is authorized to decide such Divine absolutes?

"But the Torah itself instructs that 'the Torah is not in heaven' but has been given to man to study and comprehend, and that whenever a question or issue of Torah law is raised, it is the human being, employing his finite knowledge and judgment, who must render a ruling. In other words, when a person puts aside all considerations of self and totally surrenders his mind to serve the Torah, G‑d guarantees that the result will be utterly consistent with His will.

"However," concluded Rabbi Yechezkel, "this 'guarantee' only applies to actual events, when a rabbi is called upon to determine what it is that G‑d desires to be done under a given set of circumstances, but not if his personal honor is the only issue at hand. Had you presented me with a relevant question, I know that I would not have erred, since I approached the matter with no interest or motive other than to serve the will of G‑d. But since your case was merely a hypothetical question designed to mislead me, my mind was just like every other mind, great and small alike—imperfect and manipulatable."

"Well," I like to answer, "For starters, it depends what you think the point is."

One thing that I think is often missing from general conversation about Jewish hot-button issues, including but not limited to questions surrounding women's attire specifically and "roles" more generally, is a careful attention to the multifaceted sources that have shaped our laws through the centuries. Our halachic heritage is built through an intricate mix of text and real-world practice, and neither should be minimized.

The issue of hair covering is no different –in fact, is a prime example.

On one hand, there are those who view hair covering entirely as a matter of communal custom or even of personal practice: "What a woman wears on her head is no one's business but her own!" Certainly, that is true, at the very least in a practical sense. On the other hand, a friend of mine recently referred to "the halachot of sheitels," apparently in the sense of specific guidelines about what sort of sheitel is or is not permitted. If there could be such a thing as a set of halachic guidelines about what a woman must wear on her head, then is it really only her business or is it "halacha's business"? If it is halacha's business, does that mean other people might have a responsibility to educate women who don't seem to be following halacha?

As is so often the case in matters of Jewish tradition – though we might often forget this truth about our tradition – both extremes could be right, or at least could claim basis in the sources, as could many other nuanced perspectives.

As I like to put it when asked about sheitels (and it is not only the unaffiliated, or non-Jewish, who ask), hair covering is a particularly tricky subject to pin down for several reasons, the first being that the Torah source is derived backwards. There is no pasuk that says a married woman must cover her hair; rather, the requirement is inferred from the fact that one of the acts prescribed for the sotah ritual is that the kohen must uncover[1] her hair.[2]

How does the uncovering of the sotah's hair lead to a conclusion that it must be required for married women to cover their hair? Rashi on the Gemara offers two explanations, with different implications as far as our ability to draw conclusions about the "point" of hair covering.

In his first explanation, Rashi suggests that the sotah's hair is uncovered specifically as a midah keneged midah punishment: presumably, she beautified herself for her paramour, including uncovering her hair, so she is punished by being shamed in the same way. According to this explanation, one might well suggest that the purpose of hair covering has something to do with modesty – i.e. not making oneself alluring through exposure/styling of hair – and assess potential covers within the question of how modest they are.

The second explanation, and the one Rashi himself prefers, is that the need to uncover the sotah's hair indicates that it had until that moment been covered. In this approach, the pasuk is understood to imply the fact that married women (such as a sotah) must cover their hair - but it tells us nothing about the reason. One might, if we understand the Gemara this way, completely ignore any questions of relative modesty and simply make sure there is some object on a woman's head.[3]

This second perspective seems to fit nicely with those authorities – as I understand it, those most widely accepted by Ashkenazi communities – who wrote that the only requirement was for a woman to cover her natural hair. (See Shiltei Giborim on Rif Shabbos 29a – cited by the Rema in his Darchei Moshe commentary, Orach Chaim 303.)

Those who find this unsatisfying might then speculate as to the reason, and perhaps that is how we get to those perspectives which suggest hair covering is for the woman herself, to be aware and know she has something on her head, as an extra barrier between herself and the men around her now that she is married and has let her modesty guard down, so to speak, in her relationship with her husband. (This is a perspective I hear often, in various permutations, but I am unaware of any source for it earlier than the past century.) Whatever we might speculate about the reason, however, if we have no fundamental reason attached to the requirement in our fundamental halachic sources, then we can assume that halachically any cover will do. Even a wig – maybe even a beautiful one, and maybe even a glamorous or alluring style. Those questions as to style would then be best left to an individual woman's sensitivities as to how she wishes to present herself to the world in general; indeed, her choice alone, perhaps with guidance from her chosen mentors.

However, other scholars have focused on Rashi's first explanation, and extrapolated a reason from it that might well have implications not just for the question of wearing a sheitel but for questions of its cut and style. If the sotah is punished for having used her hair to look beautiful for a man she should not have been trying to attract, we might then conclude that the requirement to cover is actually a requirement that a married woman not use hair to make herself beautiful in front of other men.

If this is the "point" of the practice, it may indeed be defeated by wearing a wig. For instance, Rabbi Avraham ben Tzvi Hirsch Teomim takes just this approach and argues that a wig, being hair, is exactly as sensually suggestive as the hair attached to a woman's head.[4] In his view, wigs fundamentally do not satisfy the Torah requirement and it is therefore forbidden on a Torah level for a married woman to go in public with nothing but a wig on her head.

One might also take a similar approach and suggest that wigs are valid head coverings according to Torah law, but only if they are not unduly attractive. Defining such parameters would of course be enormously difficult, and definitions even of the Torah law could end up being somewhat subjective, but in theory this approach would represent a viable interpretation of halacha.

So far, we have focused only on the question of whether a wig – or certain kinds of wigs – would satisfy the Torah requirement for married women to cover their heads. There is, however, another level to the mitzvah, and therefore another level of complication.

The Gemara in Ketuvot further tells us that there is a dat Yehudit element to the mitzvah that demands more than the Torah obligation. According to many scholars, "dat Yehudit" refers to the norms of actual practice of Jewish women specifically in the context of modesty. (See, for instance, Rambam Hilchot Ishut 24:12) This part of the requirement is also difficult to define, and an attempt to do so –including an attempt to determine whether dat Yehudit can change, and to what extent and through what mechanism – would be way beyond the scope of this article. We should, however, remember if the norm in a certain community has been that married women do not go in public with an uncovered wig, or perhaps only wear those of particular styles that are not considered "immodest," then it would gain a level of prohibition in that community even if the Torah fundamentally allows all wigs.

There is one further avenue of halachic analysis that agrees wigs would fundamentally satisfy both Torah law and the requirements of dat Yehudit, but objects to them because of other halachic concerns. The most commonly discussed secondary halachic issue is the concern of marit ayin, that people who see a woman in a wig will think she is not covering her hair. (See the responsa of Be'er Sheva, siman 18.) Many argue this concern doesn't apply to wigs, but others believe it does – thereby classifying uncovered wigs as a violation at least of Rabbinic law.

In this realm as well, the style or quality of the wig – how "natural" it looks – might well play a role in determining the actual halacha: If one is of the position that a wig satisfies the Torah requirement of covering, but violates marit ayin, then one might also say a wig which is obviously a wig is perfectly fine but that one which is so beautiful as to be mistaken for real hair is forbidden – not because it is too beautiful or immodest, but because it looks like she is violating the requirement to have some object on her head. How do we define "obviously"? This, too, offers a lot of room for subjectivity not just in the realm of "spirit of the law," but in applying the "letter of the law" as well.

(On the side that argues wigs do not violate marit ayin, I highly recommend reading the teshuva of Rav Moshe Feinstein in which he compares women wearing wigs to men shaving with a razor that satisfies technical halacha but might lead people to think he used a forbidden razor. He applies the same considerations to his halachic analyses regarding both genders, and suggests that a man who would shave with such a razor, but doesn't want his wife to wear a wig, is a hypocrite. See Igros Moshe Even HaEzer volume II siman 12.)

So, what do we do with all these explanations and interpretations and opinions?

The first time I ever taught the halachot of hair covering, I was a first-year high school teacher overwhelmed with preparation and assigned my students to research various topics before I had had the chance to review the sources carefully myself. This led to an awkward moment when one of the students assigned to the topic of hair covering asked me "So which opinion do you follow, Mrs. Rudolph?" and I couldn't remember, at that moment, which posek it was. Over a decade later, I have the confidence to give the real answer: I cover the way I do because my mother does and because that is the norm among those whose Jewish philosophy and practice most aligns with mine. I would wear a sheitelif I found them comfortable, and I do wear scarves that allow just a little hair to show, not because I find one particular interpretation of the sources most compelling, but because my community has adopted the halachic rulings of some poskim over others. This is where text and practice intertwine, and rather than being embarrassed, I am proud to be a part of a mesorah with such depth and breadth, with such intricate thought and analysis, with room for so many different practices – though not all – to be considered "halachic."

It would be tragic, as well as inaccurate, for us to relegate this entire area of halacha to the realm of "personal choice" or "custom" and forget that there are real d'Oraita and d'Rabbanan laws at play. On the other hand, it would also be tragic – and inaccurate – for us to forget the richness of our halachic heritage, to crawl into the box of our personal community and psak, and forget that there are other valid halachic approaches. And what would be the most tragic of all would be to not only forget that this area of halacha does indeed leave room for a wide variety of practices, but to vilify those who follow a different psak without taking the time to study and ask and learn what might be behind what they do.

Teaching others one's own perspective is great; arguing the merits of one approach versus another is fun and an integral part of our tradition of Torah study. But shaming those who disagree is never okay.

Sephardic tradition, strongly influenced by prominent rabbis like Rav Ovadia Yosef, generally favors scarves, hats, or snoods over wigs (sheitels) for married women, viewing them as more modest. While wigs are common in Ashkenazi communities, many Sephardic authorities consider them unsuitable because they resemble natural hair, contradicting the purpose of covering.

Thank you for raising your interesting issue. The very brief answer is that after a person dies, his soul rises to Heaven for judgment before the Divine Tribunal. However, Jewish tradition does not spell out precisely what occurs to the soul at the time of death and what he experiences before and during his ascent to Heaven. Even so, a fairly clear image emerges from many passing statements of the Sages on the matter. (And not surprisingly, these fairly closely resemble the testimony given by the many people who have reported having Near Death Experiences (NDEs).)

Immediately upon a person's death, Kabbalistic sources state that soul is granted a glimpse of God's Divine Presence. The soul feels a deep sense of serenity, of being at peace with itself – as if it is preparing to return home. Jewish literature records cases of great rabbis, immediately prior to their deaths, announcing the souls which had come to accompany them to the next world (e.g. Talmud Brachot 28b). Likewise, many pious people, Jews and non-Jews, have died mentioning the names of their parents or other close relatives who had come to greet them. No doubt, the moment of death is very frightening for a soul. The presence of familiar faces greatly helps smooth the transition and calm the person down.

At that point, one would expect that the soul would then rise straight to Heaven for judgment. But interestingly, that does not appear to occur immediately. There is a clear assumption in Jewish literature that the deceased's soul is present for quite some time after its death – certainly until the burial and quite possibly until its body fully decomposes. The Talmud states that the deceased's soul is aware of everything spoken in the presence of its body, and it records a debate if this is true until the burial or until the body decays (Shabbat 152b). It likewise states (152a) that the soul mourns over its own body during the entire week of mourning (shiva), and that for the entire first year after death the soul goes back and forth, alternating between Heaven and its buried remains. Finally, at the conclusion of the year of mourning, the worthy find total peace in Heaven (152b).

Many of the laws of caring for the body and making the funeral preparations are predicated on the assumption that the deceased's soul is present – and cares deeply how its body is treated and how he is eulogized. For example, people may not perform any mitzvah (unrelated to the burial) in the presence of the body – because the deceased would be pained seeing others doing a mitzvah it can no longer do. They may also not speak of unrelated matters. In addition and needless to say, any sort of willful neglect of the body or damage done to it – such as through an autopsy or cremation (both of which are strictly forbidden by Jewish law), causes horrific agony to the soul.

Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan explains what transpires as follows. After its death the soul requires time to become oriented. It is unaccustomed to living without a body in a wholly spiritual state. It is aware of its surroundings not through physical sight – no doubt receiving much more input than it did during its lifetime, and it requires time to adjust to this. It looks to the world for its grounding, and is naturally drawn to the object most familiar to it of all – its body. Thus, the soul is assumed to remain in the proximity of its body throughout the funeral procession, and funerals are observed with this in mind.

Likewise, the soul is terribly pained viewing its body decay. The Talmud states that a worm in a corpse is as painful to the deceased as a needle entering the body of a living person (Brachot 18b). This actually serves as a partial atonement for the deceased's sins, and is known as the punishment of "chibut ha'kever", literally, "the knock of the grave."

Rabbi Kaplan continues that no doubt the degree to which the deceased is drawn after its body depends greatly on how physical the person was during his lifetime. If a person's body, its comforts and its pleasures were very significant to him, his soul will not pull itself away from its body until it fully decays or even beyond. If, however, a person was more spiritual during his lifetime, his body and its fate will matter much less to him. The Talmud likewise states that the death of the righteous is comparable to "drawing a hair from milk" (see Mo'ed Katan 28a and Brachot 8a), whereas a painful death is as tearing out "thorny branches from sheep's wool."

Rabbi Yisroel Reisman (leading contemporary rabbi, Brooklyn, New York) made a related observation based on a passage in the Talmud (Brachot 18b). The Talmud relates the story of a girl who passed on young and whose body was buried wrapped in a certain material which prevented it from decaying. As a result, she was not able to ascend to Heaven at all. Her body was intact and she could not fully take her leave of it.

Rabbi Reisman likewise pointed out that the ancient Egyptian practice of mummification may well have been due to their obsession with witchcraft (as the magicians (chartumim) who were so significant in Pharaoh's court). By not allowing bodies to decay, they realized that more departed souls would "hang around" in the physical world, not being able to ascend to Heaven. And their presence would give the magicians the abilities they sought to tamper with the natural order.

I think the real question is whether the "Chosen People" idea is indeed a legitimate cause of anti-Semitism – or whether it is merely another excuse.

If Jewish "choseness" is in fact the cause of anti-Semitism, then hatred against the Jews should disappear when Jews drop the claim that they are chosen.

Late in the 19th century, the Jews living in Germany and Austria collectively rejected their "choseness" and were assimilated by their host nation. In fact, they believed that the non-Jews among whom they lived were the true chosen people. "Berlin is our Jerusalem!" they loudly proclaimed. Gentile society was their social environment of choice, and Germany their beloved motherland.

Did anti-Semitism disappear? We all know the tragic answer to that question. The Jews in Germany and Austria experienced the most vicious outpouring of anti-Semitic hatred in history. Precisely when Jews rejected their claim to "chosenness," they suffered the most virulent forms of anti-Semitism.

Another test of the Chosen People theory is to see how humanity responds to other peoples who claim to be "chosen." If the claim that Jews are chosen gives rise to anti-Semitism, then all groups who make similar claims of having been "chosen" should also become targets of persecution and hatred.

Christianity and Islam represent two other major religious groups that claim to have been chosen. Christian theology accepts that God gave the Bible to the Jews and made the Jews His special messengers. However, it is the Christian belief that once the Jews rejected Jesus, the Christians became God's new chosen people.

Muslims likewise believe that the Jewish Bible is the word of God. However, Muslim theology claims that when Mohammad appeared on the scene, God made the Muslims His chosen people. But why hasn't this historically generated hatred against them?

Indeed, nearly every nation on earth has at one time or another claimed to be chosen. Americans claimed Manifest Destiny – that their actions were divinely willed – in their spread westward, dispossessing the native inhabitants. The Chinese chose to name their country China because the word means "center of the universe." The name Japan means "source of the sun." For Native Americans, the same word means both "human being" and "Indian" – implying that every non-Indian belongs to some subspecies.

These nations are not hated for having claimed superiority. A claim that one is chosen does not in and of itself cause hatred. If it did, then so many other nations would be the targets of the intense, universal hatred that is in fact unique to the Jews.