Religion and Modernity: Religious Revival Movement in Israel

Journal of Contemporary Ethnography2015, Vol. 44(2) 223 –248

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Article

Religion and Modernity: Religious Revival Movement in Israel

Asaf Sharabi1

AbstractThis article discusses the concept of zikui harabim (granting merit to the many) and attempts to show how it motivates and animates the religious renewal movements in Judaism (the teshuvah movements). I argue that zikui harabim is produced by “cycles of teshuva” in which the “repentant” person engages in facilitating the “return” of others to religious practice, even before he or she has undertaken the rigorous observance of religious commandments. I suggest that calculating rationality, often considered one of the hallmarks of modernity, is manifest in the teshuvah movement, as many teshuvah clients and entrepreneurs regard commandments, implicitly and explicitly, as a kind of currency they can amass for their own benefit. By so doing, I demonstrate how zikui harabim embeds a modern-capitalist logic, thereby showing how modernity manifests itself in religious revivalism.

Keywordsmodernity and religion, teshuvah movement, religion in Israel, anthropology of religion, religious revival movement

Introduction

Since the 1970s sociological and anthropological research has drawn attention to the questions of religious revival in the modern era, and explicates the ways in which modernity both produces and shapes religion, and also introduces

1Peres Academic Center, Rehovot, Israel

Corresponding Author:Asaf Sharabi, Peres Academic Center, Rehovot 7638501, Israel. Email: [email protected]

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224 Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 44(2)

ferment into it. A number of scholars have pointed out the different ways in which modernity manifests itself in religious revivalism, for example, the ele-ment of choice (Berger 2009), totalitarian-Jacobean basis (Eisenstadt 1999), the use of modern technology (de Witte 2003; Hirschkind 2006; Roy 2004), and modern rationality (Deeb 2006; Sharabi 2013; Tong 2007).

In this article, I focus on the religious revival movement in Israel (the teshuvah movement) and maintain that it is modern not only because of the manner in which it reacts to secularization, its use of modern technology, or because of the Jacobin elements of its political program, but also because of the way in which it embeds a Western modern-capitalist logic in a key concept at the heart of its cosmology, the notion of zikui harabim (granting merit to the many). The concept of zikui harabim can be described briefly as follows: any action that causes another person to strengthen his or her faith and observance is called zikui harabim, while the divine reward (“merit”—zekhut) for the observance of a particular commandment is believed to be granted, according to faith, not only to the person who per-formed the commandment but also to the person who facilitated it. As I will try to show, zikui harabim motivates and animates the teshuvah process and, to a great extent, is responsible for the religious ferment and efferves-cence of the Israeli teshuvah movement.

The current discussion is based on fieldwork conducted from 2006 to 2009 that included participant observation, in-depth interviews, and content analysis of texts, mainly in the town of Ashkelon (113,000 residents in 2010), which is located in Israel’s geographic and social periphery. While once con-sidered a “development town,” it is now considered to be the outer limit of Israel’s “center.”

Religion in the Modern Era

Early sociologists assumed that religious traditions were in decline, and the “secularization thesis” therefore became a dominant paradigm for many decades (Hadden 1987; Gorski 2000). However, in the last quarter of the twentieth cen-tury, in light of evidence of an efflorescence of religion around the world, schol-ars began to question the premises of this thesis and developed new perspectives on the study of religion in the modern and postmodern eras (Sherkat and Ellison 1999). Notable among these approaches are Fundamentalism (Marty and Appleby, 1991, 1994; Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003), the economic approach to the study of religions (Stark 2009; Stark and Finke 2000), the notion of multiple modernities (Eisenstadt 2000a, 2000b; Wittrock 2000), and a schol-arly engagement with spirituality and New Age religions (Fuller 2001; Heelas and Woodhead 2005; Roof 2003; Wuthnow 1998).



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One primary perspective on the study of religion in the modern era is the thesis of Fundamentalism (Marty and Appleby 1991, 1994). Fundamentalism is considered, for the most part, as a defense of a religious tradition that is perceived to be eroding or under attack from the processes of modernization and secularization (Almond, Sivan, and Appleby 1995). According to the researchers, religious fundamentalism comes as a response to a modern threat. In face of this threat, religiosity is recreating itself by returning to the sources through modern means (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003). Fundamentalism is usually defined as an attempt by religious communities to withdraw from the sphere of influence of state values. The researchers pointed out that fundamentalism is interested in “strong religion” (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003) which is not committed to the mainstream or to religious authorities who compromise endlessly with the secular world, because the enemies of religion are perceived as powerful and influential. Harding (2000), who studied fundamentalism in North America, proposes a different pattern of relationships between fundamentalism and modernity. She maintains that not only has fundamentalism always been part of moder-nity in North American society but it has helped create that modernity by representing everything not considered to be modern.

In the Jewish context, both haredi (ultra-Orthodox)1 society and segments of religious Zionism2 have been studied as part of the course of fundamental-ism (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003; Aran 1991). Heilman and Friedman (1991) described haredim in the post–World War II era as being in competi-tion with the modern world and maintaining a belligerent ideology. According to Friedman (1987) and Soloveitchik (1994), in their battle against modernity and secularism, the haredim sought to formulate the religious principles that govern their lives on the basis of authoritative texts. Thus, they moved from a mimetic religious lifestyle to a life based on principles ingrained in Halacha (Jewish law). Like many fundamentalist societies, the haredi community is portrayed as closed, withdrawn, and defensive while at the same time capable of utilizing modern channels (such as technology and social measures) to combat secularism and modernity.

In comparison with the fundamentalist attitude towards modernity and secularism adopted by some European Jews (Ashkenazi Jews), not only were the rabbis of Muslim-majority countries (Mizrahim, or Sephardic Jews) more moderate, they sometimes regarded modernity in a positive light. As a result, many researchers point to the differences between the lenient Sephardi reli-gion and its more extreme Ashkenazi counterpart (Deshen 2005; Zohar 2008). Katz (1983) maintained that the ideological calm in Muslim-majority countries led to religious moderation, in contrast to the ideological activism (liberalism, secularism, socialism etc.) in Europe which led to agitation on




the part of the traditionalists. Zohar (2008) and Deshen (2005) claimed that the difference between various reactions to modernism originated at the cul-tural level, for example, in the differences between the defined role of the Ashkenazi rabbi and that of the Sephardic sage. These differences engen-dered different responses to contemporary events.

One way or another, most researchers agree that when Jews immigrated to Israel from the Islamic countries, a small segment of them adopted a haredi lifestyle. Leon (2009) recently described it as “soft ultra-Orthodoxy,” not necessarily dependent on the strict line between those regarded as belonging to the haredi community and those outside of it. Soft ultra-Orthodoxy accepts the presence, albeit temporary, of those who do not observe the command-ments but are on the path to teshuvah. The teshuvah movement is a main source of Mizrahi ultra-Orthodoxy. The fluid borders between haredi-Sep-hardi society and secular society have enabled the haredi-Sephardi teshuvah movement to flourish and gain popularity among the second and third gen-erations of immigrants from Islamic countries.

The paradigm of multiple modernities, by way of contrast, opposes the notion of religious fundamentalism as a reaction to secular life and moder-nity-induced crises. It regards fundamentalist movements as a combination of modern and anti-modern, and as such, it presents us with one of many variations of intrinsically modern societies (Eisenstadt 2000a, 2000b; Wittrock 2000). This approach maintains that modern societies cannot be defined unidimensionally, because modernity is contradictory and multifac-eted, and contains intrinsic dilemmas (Wittrock 2000). Although the dilem-mas of modern societies may be identical, they are dealt with differently. As a result, claims Eisenstadt (1999), although modernity is widespread, it has not given rise to one civilization or prototype, but rather to several, each with common characteristics, which, although they tend to develop a similar ideo-logical and ethical dynamic, nevertheless differ from one another.

Until now, few studies have focused on Israel from the aspect of multiple modernities. Leon (2009) maintains that some of the immigrants from Muslim majority countries regarded ultra-Orthodoxy as a suitable model, because of their transition from one modernity (in the Diaspora) to another (the State of Israel). Fischer (2007) claims that radical religious Zionism should not be regarded only through the prism of fundamentalism, meaning a rejection of modern Western culture. He argues that radical religious Zionism can be understood when we take into account the feasibility of several moder-nities, all influenced by a range of historical and sociological forces.

In recent years, a number of scholars have pointed out the different ways in which modernity manifests itself in religious revivalism. Berger (2009), for example, argues that Evangelical Protestantism is a modern phenomenon,



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because, among other things, it valorizes the element of choice in becoming “born again” in order to become Christian. Eisenstadt (1999) argues that fun-damentalist movements are very similar to other modern Jacobin movements in their belief in the supremacy of politics, their emphasis on political action as a way to realize a moral vision in this world, and in their desire to formulate a new collective identity. A number of researchers have indicated how moder-nity produces an ultrareligious counterreaction (Almond, Sivan, and Appleby 1995; Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003; Marty and Appleby 1991, 1994). Others view religious revival as a phenomenon inherent to modernity. Modernity has introduced the processes of individuation, personal autonomy, and uncertainty into social life and thus created a demand for religion (Hervieu-Leger 2000). In this context, Martin (1990, 2002) proposes a distinction between fundamentalists who react against modernity and the Pentecostal-Charismatic movement that honors the modern distinction between church and state and finds ways of living within modernity. And finally, another group of scholars has addressed the use that religious revival movements make of technology (de Witte 2003; Hirschkind 2006; Roy 2004).

Modernity is also present in religious revivalism in the way individuals and religious movements respond to what is considered to be one of the hall-marks of modernity—the rationalization of social life (e.g., Weber 1958; Lash 1999). Rationalization is a process whereby ideas based on science and practical calculation become dominant in a society (Weber 1968). As Swidler (1973, 36) puts it, rationalization is a “process of systematization of ideas.” In recent years the rationalization of religion has become evident around the world. Thus, for example, Tong (2007) found that young educated Chinese who had acquired a higher education often moved from one religion to another, particularly from Taoism to Protestant Christianity. In Singaporean culture and society, even traditional religions tended toward processes of rationalization in response to changes. Thus, for example, Sinha (1999) found that Hinduism underwent a process of reformation and theologization in order to attract educated youngsters from the middle and upper Indian classes.

Another example of this trend is shown by Deeb (2006) with regard to rationalization in the revival of the Shi’ite religion. Her ethnographic work in the southern neighborhoods of Beirut points to the creation of an alterna-tive modernity, which she calls “enchanted modernity,” by people who regard themselves, on the one hand, as modern and cosmopolitan while, on the other hand, they see themselves as religiously devout. She claims that in contrast to Max Weber (and those who subscribe to Weber’s theory of disen-chantment resulting from modernization), not only do religion and moder-nity not compete with one another, they cannot, in fact, be separated. For Deeb, modern rationalization does not necessarily lead to secularity. Rather,




it can and does lead to enhanced and strengthened personal awareness of the Islamic way of life.

In the current analysis, I present rationalization of religion as a calculating rationality, by showing how capitalist thinking infiltrates religious cosmol-ogy. As an economic system, capitalism “involve[s] the production and exchange of commodities with the aim of accumulating a surplus value, that is, profit, with some part of this profit being re-invested in order to maintain the conditions of future accumulation” (Abercrombie, Hill, and Turner 1986, 87). As Weber (1958, 17) puts it, “Capitalism is identical with the pursuit of profit, and forever renewed profit, by means of continuous, rational, capital-istic enterprise.” But beyond this technical definition, capitalism is character-ized by a cultural mind-set in that “exchange relationships, of buying and selling, have permeated most of the society” (Bell 1976, 14).3

As I will try to show, this calculating rationality is manifest in the teshuvah movement, as many proselytizers and teshuvah clients regard mitzvoth (com-mandments), implicitly and explicitly, as a type of currency they can amass for their own benefit. Furthermore, zikui harabim can operate through the principle of “money makes money.” The expression zikui harabim originates in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), 5:18:

One who causes the community to be meritorious, no sin will come by his hand. . . . Moses was meritorious and caused the community to be meritorious, so the community’s merit is attributed to him.

Zikui harabim has been variously interpreted over the generations.4 Both as an elaborated world view and as a concrete guideline for the active dissemi-nation of the Torah, the principle of zikui harabim has been a central tenet of certain activist Jewish groups, such as the mid-nineteenth century Musar movement, and the Habad (Lubavitch) movement in the post–World War II era. Zikui harabim was “understood broadly as the conduct of activities that enable the masses to attain religious merit or virtue” (Leon 2008, 153). Nevertheless, the scope of zikui harabim has been limited in terms of the number of activists and penitents who practice it, as the teshuvah movement has been in existence for only forty years. Furthermore, zikui harabim has changed from somewhat of a dead letter to a vital, core principle in the teshu-vah movement. The penitent feels obligated to persuade others to follow in his footsteps, and zikui harabim serves as a platform to that end. Today zikui harabim differs from its earlier uses in terms of the world view it embodies, as in some cases it carries with it a sense of rational-capitalist logic. The change occurred with the rise of the teshuvah movement in the 90s, espe-cially the Sephardi-teshuvah movement.



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Teshuvah Movement

The teshuvah movement in Israel began at the end of the 1960s (Aviad 1983). The 1990s saw a new wave of religious revival, which attracted large masses of people. Most of them defined themselves as traditional before they “did teshuvah” and they belonged to the second or third generation of Israelis originating from Muslim-majority countries (Ilan 2000). According to an extensive survey, which included a sample of 7,500 respondents over the age of 20, and was conducted in 2009, 21 percent of the sample testified to being more religious than before, while 5.4 percent of the sample (representing some 200,000 Jews in absolute numbers) defined themselves as hozrim bite-shuvah (those returning to religion, whom I shall henceforth also refer to as “penitents”) (Israel Central Bureau of Statistics 2010).

At the level of the individual, it is difficult to identify an exact parallel of the phenomenon of the teshuvah movement in the non-Jewish world, since “conversion,” “re-affiliation,” and being “born again”—terms used to describe similar phenomena elsewhere—do not accurately reflect the Jewish case. It appears that of these three terms “born again” best befits our discus-sion, since “conversion” serves to describe the passage from one religion to another, and “re-affiliation” denotes the movement from one group to another within the same religion (Stark 2009).5

In the 1970s and 1980s, the ultimate goal of the teshuvah process was the adoption of a haredi (Ultra-Orthodox) lifestyle and incorporation within haredi communities. The penitent was required to abandon his or her previ-ous secular environment, including prior employment (Sheleg 2000). Beginning in the 1990s we see a different kind of teshuvah process. Penitents often remained in their communities of origin, sometimes without enrolling in an intensive course of study in yeshivot, while continuing to participate in the workforce and pursue a secular academic education (Sharabi 2010). This process was, inter alia, a product of the response of the haredi communities, which tended to separate and segregate the newcomers (Caplan 2007, 129–36), as well as of the growing numbers of penitents, which allowed them to develop non-geographically based communities of their own.

One social implication of this process is the transformation of the teshu-vah movement from a transitional to a permanent arena. Ethnographic studies by Goodman (2002), Leon (2009), and El-Or (2006) address this transforma-tion. Goodman has described the teshuvah process as a space of identity; Leon has described the transition from a “teshuvah culture” to “teshuvah as culture,” and the development of “soft” Ultra-Orthodoxy, in which teshuvah plays a role in the construction of a quasi-haredi life; and El-Or, through her broad ethnographic work, has described the way in which the teshuvah




industry organizes a gendered social life-world in the urban periphery. I argue that the lack of integration of penitents within Ultra-Orthodox society in the past twenty years and the creation of a new social space has allowed penitents to develop a culture of teshuvah that is activated by the penitents themselves in a manner in which the concept of zikui harabim becomes central.

Field and Methods

My work is focusing on Sephardic-haredi teshuvah, the largest and most dominant of Israel’s contemporary teshuvah streams, because the concept of zikui harabim is most prominent in their discourse and cosmology. Specifically, my discussion is based on research findings from fieldwork I conducted in the town of Ashkelon. Most of the penitents were teenagers and young people aged fifteen to thirty, both males and females.

The fieldwork focused on what I call the “teshuvah portals”; in other words, on the teshuvah activity to which people who had become interested in religion or were seeking to “return to religion” were exposed. Penitents usually spent months or even years attending classes, hearing lectures, and participating in other activities until they moved on to the next station in their life journey. Almost all the proselytizers were aged between twenty-five and forty and regarded themselves as penitents. The teshuvah portals in Ashkelon primarily consisted of the extensive activity of Rabbi Haim Alush. During my fieldwork, I attended many sermons by Rabbi Alush in synagogues throughout the town, and I also followed other local neighborhood teshuvah activists, whom I refer to in the article as “teshuvah entrepreneurs” (more on this concept below). Apart from attending Torah classes in synagogues and private homes, I also took part in celebrations (hilulot) and street activities.

As part of my fieldwork, I conducted open ethnographic interviews. These are linguistic events similar to (but not identical with, see: Spradley 1979) friendly conversations between interviewer and interviewee, directed by the former in such a way as to obtain the desired information. During my visits to various study centers, I came in contact with many participants and I was able to conduct brief friendly conversations with several of them. These con-versations served a dual purpose. Sometimes they opened a window into a particular cultural and social aspect that could be clarified through in-depth interviews, while at other times they served as a research tool for supplemen-tary research, the result of insights gained during in-depth interviews.

One dilemma I had faced before entering the field of research was the extent to which I must reveal that I myself am not religiously observant. As a formerly religious person, I am fully conversant with basic religious customs and modes of behavior, so I could pass as religious or traditional but I refrained from doing so on the grounds that it would be wrong ethically and



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from the point of view of research. However, in Ashkelon the meetings took place in synagogues and study houses where it was incumbent upon me to wear a kippa (skullcap). I also felt the need to wear a kippa at meetings in private homes where Torah classes were conducted. Consequently some interviewees never saw me without a kippa. Since I feared misrepresentation I sometimes demonstratively removed it when I was not in a meeting. Some of the informants wanted to know to what extent I was strengthened by the things I heard. I believe it was important for some of them that I be strength-ened while conducting my research so that, from their point of view at least, my interest in them should not have been to no purpose.

Apart from Rabbi Alush, all the names in this article are fictitious. When I asked the rabbi’s assistant to arrange a meeting I made it clear that I would not reveal the rabbi’s real name, on the grounds that it would then be easier for him to cooperate with me. However, the assistant hastened to assure me that, on the contrary, he was very keen for the rabbi’s full name and place of activity to appear in writing, explaining that it was a kind of zikui harabim. I later received the same assurance from the rabbi himself.

This work is also based on semi-structured in-depth interviews. The advantage of this research tool lies in its flexibility. On the one hand, it obliges the researcher to be very well acquainted with the professional litera-ture and to prepare all questions in advance, while on the other hand, it is sufficiently sensitive to the interviewee and his realm of meaning to facilitate raising new questions in accordance with the existing interviewer–inter-viewee dialogue (Berg 1998). In the course of my fieldwork, I conducted twenty-six in-depth interviews with penitents or those who had become more religious in recent years. The age range of interviewees is between twenty and thirty-five, almost equally divided between men and women. Some of the interviewees were approached directly, while others were reached by the “snowball approach” (Goodman 1961).

I began each interview with a general question—“tell me about your-self”—which always elicited a lengthy answer, sometimes as long as one hour. The interviewees would tell me the story of their personal teshuvah, with me interjecting questions wherever necessary. I would then ask more specific questions relating to the experiential and organizational aspects that followed their decision to become penitents or take a deeper interest in the Jewish religion. Every interview was taped and transcribed in its entirety.

From Teshuvah Client to Teshuvah Entrepreneur

In Ashkelon, the concept of zikui harabim was articulated, first and foremost, in the dynamic activity of Rabbi Haim Alush, who was in his midthirties when I carried out my fieldwork. Rabbi Alush grew up in a religious family




but as a youth he had not been particular about his religious observance and had not devoted a great deal of thought to matters of faith, having been more attracted to “secular” life. At the age of sixteen he became involved in Ashkelon’s nightlife scene, working as a promoter of parties at discotheques and pubs. When he was twenty-four, following a difficult experience, he embarked on a gradual process of teshuvah. A few years later, before he began to observe a stringent religious lifestyle, he began to deliver sermons to young people on topics concerning Jewish theology. These meetings, which began as very small gatherings, gradually became extremely popular and drew huge crowds. At the time I entered the field, Rabbi Alush was already delivering sermons to some 150 young people every Friday night and to 50 people on Monday nights. Within a few years, he transformed himself from the subject of a teshuvah process to an exponent of teshuvah. As I will explain later, I prefer to call it: teshuvah entrepreneur.

Rabbi Alush is not merely a preacher or a Torah instructor, nor is he per-ceived as such by those who attend his lessons. At the end of every lesson I attended, many participants approached him for a personal blessing, and some kissed his hand. The rabbi recalled from memory the names of all those who approached him and recited their personal stories. He offered advice, bestowed blessings, slapped people on the back, and patted the cheek of a young man, a gesture that was part caress and part affectionate slap. Rabbi Alush is essentially regarded as a tzaddik (a righteous man), utterly devoted to zikui harabim (granting merit to the many), who would go to any lengths for the “truth of the Torah” and fearlessly says what he believes to be true.

One of Rabbi Alush’s hard core disciples is Avihai, whom I first met late at night at a barbecue in an Ashkelon park. Across from Avihai sat a group of twenty-five junior high-school students, who listened to him while waiting for the meat to be cooked. When he finished speaking, he invited the students to dance and sing spiritual songs. Some of them danced while others approached him to talk. Since they addressed him as “Rabbi Avihai,” I was extremely surprised to discover that he had only embarked on his path of teshuvah four and a half years earlier, at the age of twenty and had, in fact, grown up in a secular, rather than a traditional, family. Avihai told me that his teshuvah process began when he and his friends were approached by Yaniv, a man in his early twenties, who attempted to persuade them to “draw close to religion.” Yaniv himself had begun his teshuvah process a year or two earlier. Avihai described this meaningful encounter as follows:

We were always impressed by this guy [Yaniv] because he seemed to be a righteous man. Why righteous? [Although] he looked exactly like us, there was just something special about him. He would draw us close. He would bring us



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pretzels and drinks, he would sit with us and talk. Not Torah talk, none of that. One day he asked me, “Avihai, would you like to perform a mitzvah . . . some sort of act of charity?” We went to the home of a poor family. . . . That was the first opening into this process of coming full circle that we call teshuvah, to see what it means to help.

Avihai describes the teshuvah process as “circular,” a fitting description for the many teshuvah exponents who have completed the process of closing the circle and made the transition from penitents to teshuvah entrepreneurs. A few months later, Yaniv introduced Avihai to Rabbi Alush, who had already begun his career as a proselytizer. Together with Yaniv, Avihai joined a group of some ten young people who met regularly and comprised the founding circle of Rabbi Alush’s penitents. Avihai described a long process lasting some two and a half years, before he undertook to become “stronger” (lehithazek) in religious observance. Meanwhile he continued to frequent his old haunts and continued partying. “I took upon myself to observe the Sabbath,” he told me, “but not the other things.” About two years before my arrival in the field, Avihai began to engage in zikui harabim, well before he himself began to conduct a rigorous life of religious observance. He describes his first steps as a teshuvahh entrepreneur as follows:

The rabbi [Alush] admonished me for about twenty minutes, saying, “Your destiny is to grant merit to the many—to disseminate Torah.” I said, “Rabbi, at school I was too embarrassed to get up on stage, certainly not to talk to people.” He said, “You’ll work on it, and you will see that it’s the truth.” He gave me the first push, the first platform. I started to give lessons in front of the rabbi, before he preached to large classes of 150 people on Friday nights.

Over time Avihai developed his own approach to youth work. He told me that some eight months before we met he had gathered together the youths I had seen at the barbecue:

Truly, all the guys you see here used to hang out, desecrating the Sabbath, knowing nothing about the Torah, nothing. One day I asked them questions and they got excited. I took them on as a project. Today, thank God, we have been able to teach all these students. They observe the Sabbath, respect their parents, and behave ethically, on the true path of Torah.

Avihai gives them a Torah lesson every day; on Friday nights he teaches extensively on the weekly Torah portion—coinciding with Rabbi Alush’s les-sons. He also gives occasional classes in private homes throughout Ashkelon. It is clear that when he speaks of the youths he took under his wing, he sees




himself reflected in them. Like them, he once lived a secular life; like them, he too, embarked on a process of teshuvah. As such, it appears that he has brought his “cycle of teshuvah,” as he describes it, to a close. Avihai under-went a process lasting four to five years, at the end of which he assumed the role of teshuvah entrepreneur vis-à-vis the other boys. Avihai too, was drawn to religion by other penitents—by Yaniv, who invited him to participate in charitable volunteer work, and especially by Rabbi Alush, who accompanied him all the way.

This circular process of teshuvah resembles the process in Pentecostal-charismatic Christianity, where recent converts commonly become evange-lists (Robbins 2004). It is notable that Rabbi Alush, Avihai, Yaniv, and others active in the teshuvah field began to proselytize by practicing zikui harabim even before they had completed their teshuvah process, at least in the practi-cal sense of the word. In other words, before they were fully observant of commandments. While this might appear odd, two important points should be remembered. First, in the context of Christian “rebirth,” one experiences a definite moment of “before” and “after,” a rupture in one’s life trajectory (Robbins 2007), accompanied by what Robbins (2003) calls “rituals of rup-ture.” In contrast, in Jewish teshuvah, at least in Israel in the early twenty-first century, no such singular moment is expected. Return to the faith is characterized by a gradual and slow strengthening of faith and observance (Leon 2009; Sharabi 2010), so that the practice sometimes evolves into an ideal of never-ending “strengthening.” Thus, the penitent does not wait for the moment in which his or her identity as a “born again” person is complete and whole, and may feel sufficiently confident to facilitate the return of oth-ers before “completing” his or her own process of teshuvah. Second, zikui harabim is perceived as a commandment in its own right. Therefore, it stands to reason that, if one observes only some of the commandments during the prolonged process of teshuvah, the one most likely to be undertaken will be zikui harabim.

Whereas Rabbi Alush commands Ashkelon in its entirety, Avihai is involved in more local activities. There are also other teshuvah entrepreneurs, inspired by Rabbi Alush, who function at the neighborhood level. I call them “teshuvah entrepreneurs” because I feel that this term best encapsulates the mind-set underlying their work. It is not organized in any way or by any one person or one organization, but evolves from a spirit of free entrepreneurship. Sometimes it is impelled by personal interest, but at other times it comes in response to a request by residents. For example, Avihai may organize Torah classes for young people in the synagogue, but he also gives classes in private homes if so asked by residents who either know him personally or have heard of him. At one class I attended, Efrat, a twenty-two-year-old woman, invited



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several of her friends to her parents’ garden one evening and asked Avihai to give a Torah discourse. The event was intended for zikui harabim. When it ended, she asked Avihai to bless all those present, particularly those who undertook to strengthen their observance.

Teshuvah entrepreneurs such as Rabbi Alush, Avihai, and Yaniv are highly esteemed in the cultural sphere that Leon (2009) calls “teshuvah as culture.” However, unlike the most noted North African rabbis who live in Israel, their prestige as teshuvah entrepreneurs does not stem from ancestral merit (zechut avot)—descent from a dynasty of rabbis and Torah scholars (Bilu 2010; Weingrod 1990)—but rather from their activities as people who practice zikui harabim (Leon 2009). In other words, this is a transition from a tradi-tional to a charismatic source of authority. One need not be born righteous—one can become righteous by initiating and persevering with zikui harabim. Note that there is no need for cultural ascetism or religious fervor; righteous-ness is acquired first and foremost from the strength of personal initiatives in the field of zikui harabim. This in itself can serve as the source of tension and conflict between local teshuvah entrepreneurs and rabbis and religious orga-nizations outside of the teshuvah movement. It can also engender tension and conflict inside the teshuvah movement, between local teshuvah entrepreneurs and more established organizations and institutions. The tension may arise from questions of authority, power, and religious dominance (Leon 2009). An interesting example of this can be found in Nissim Leon’s research on the lay preacher (Leon 2014).

Until now we have focused on teshuvah entrepreneurs such as Rabbi Alush and Avihai, who are involved in regular teshuvah initiatives. As we will see in the next section, the concept of zikui harabim also paves the way for random teshuvah initiatives by anyone who wants to undertake them.

The Concept of Zikui Harabim

The main promoter of zikui harabim in the last thirty years was Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, who was one of the most important and influential rabbis in Israel (died in 2013).6 Rabbi Ovadia believed zikui harabim should be the main goal of a Ben Torah (yeshivah student). Thus the focus of Torah study should not be learning per se, but the expanded influence of religious life in an era of mod-ernization and secularization (Leon 2008). Rabbi Ovadia Yosef himself exem-plified zikui harabim as a rabbi who maintains constant contact with others.

Because this mode of action fits well into the teshuvah world, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef is a role model for many local rabbis. This is one reason why zikui harabim has become a characteristic feature of the haredi-Sephardi tes-huvah movement in recent years. Avihai explains zikui harabim as follows:




zikui harabim means to take a group of adolescents who don’t know their right hand from their left when it comes to Judaism, and to gently explain to them what the Torah is, who God is, and actually to provide them with some sort of Jewish way of life. And the moment a person teaches and works with these students and dedicatedly teaches them day after day, that’s called zikui harabim.

Zikui harabim has become so ingrained in haredi-Sephardi discourse that in some cases, the title mezake harabim (granter of merit to the many) replaces the title mahzir biteshuvah (proselytizer, lit. one who returns another to the faith). Leon (2008) has demonstrated how the idea of zikui harabim defines a rabbinic identity which offers an alternative to the traditional rabbinic role, which relies on the tradition of “merit of the forefather,” and to the rabbinic model that relies on formal scholarly training. However, the main difference between the teshuvah movement’s interpretation of zikui harabim and earlier interpretations is that in my opinion the concept conforms to a capitalist mind-set (see below).

The idea of zikui harabim undergirds the thought and conduct of many penitents, even if they do not actively or systematically engage in proselytiz-ing like Rabbi Alush and Avihai. As part of their socialization to the status of penitent they internalize the significance of the concept. The penitent need not fully escort young people on their teshuvah path in order to “grant merit to others.” It is sufficient to instigate another’s performance of a mitzvah or to help prevent a transgression. Michal, a twenty-five-year-old penitent, explains:

Zikui harabim means to cause others to do teshuvah, and to earn for them the merit of (observing) commandments. There are all those folks, the Lubavitchers, let’s say, who stand on the street and tell people to don tefillin (prayer phylacteries). That’s called zikui harabim. They approach a secular person, and say, “Come, take a two-minute break, put on tefillin and get a feel for the mitzvah of donning tefillin,” and so they earn merit for him. At that very moment, they earn him the merit of performing the mitzvah (commandment) of tefillin.

It would seem, therefore, that to grant merit for the many, one need not actively proselytize like Rabbi Alush and Avihai. Merely performing the sim-ple activity of saying a blessing out loud before eating can earn merit on account of the person who responds “Amen.” Sagi, a twenty-eight-year-old penitent who also engages in proselytizing, explained why he wears the fringes of his tzitzit (knotted ritual fringes worn by observant Jews) hanging out of his trousers:

Sephardic Jews are not supposed to walk around with their tzitzit hanging out. But since I am doing zikui harabim, so to speak, they [people who see me



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inadvertently] will say, “Here’s a guy who wears jeans and a shirt and leather cowboy boots and also wears his tzitzit on the outside, as well as a large white kippa [skullcap].” So that gives [the message] like, “If he’s walking around that way, maybe I could also do it.” It’s a kind of stimulus to some extent.

For Sagi, the four-fringed garment is a prop for a staged performance that is meant to awaken people to religious observance. Therefore, although it is not customary among Sephardic Jews like himself, he makes sure to wear his tzitzit hanging out, and thus to grant merit to the many.

Although some teshuvah entrepreneurs do not operate on a regular basis, they do not limit themselves to casual soliciting, handing out CDs, or making benedictions out loud. Hila is a twenty-four-year-old penitent. She and her husband organize lectures in her home approximately once a month. They invite dozens of people, sometimes by mailing flyers to everyone in the neighborhood. The lecture, conducted by a rabbi or rabbanit, is on topics such as relationships and child-rearing. This is how Hila describes zikui harabim and its role in her life:

Zikui harabim is a belief that applies to every Jew, who is required to share his love for the Creator of the Universe, and his reverence for God, and everything connected to Him, and to help others connect as well. Now, this does not necessarily translate to: “Come, see what religion is, be an observant Jew, do teshuvah!” Not like that. It’s rather a sense that “I am capable, and I’ve gained something in particular, so I would like it if everyone could gain exactly what I have.” In other words, if I’ve been able to learn about couple-hood and this has helped me tremendously in my own relationship, then it’s important for me to share that with others. . . . Because then others will gain exactly as I have.

Hila is very proud of her teshuvah endeavors. “Last time there were nearly sixty people,” she told me. “It was very, very large, and lots of people were really impressed. The lecture was amazing. It was wonderful, absolutely fan-tastic. That’s my small role in zikui harabim.” It seems that the act of zikui harabim by Hila and others legitimizes the transition of the penitent to the world of merit. There is great value in practicing zikui harabim before an audience. The penitent thus creates an audience which accredits the legiti-macy of his teshuvah.

Thus, zikui harabim is the central foundation of the penitent’s experience and the pillar upon which the teshuvah discourse rests. As we have seen, zikui harabim can be performed through random solicitation to lay tefillin or wear tzitzit, by organizing lectures every few weeks, or by comprehensive, regular teshuvah entrepreneurship. In other words, for some people zikui harabim is an essential part of their day-to-day activities (Rabbi Alush and




Avihai), whereas others engage in it sporadically, once in a while, sometimes in a demonstrative and ceremonial fashion. Either way, the cardinal differ-ence between the current interpretation of zikui harabim and that which pre-vailed in the past is how it incorporates the concept of modern-capitalistic economic logic, as can be seen in the next section.

Zikui Harabim and Economic Logic

Zikui harabim functions not only for the benefit of the one who performs the mitzvah and thus earns merit but also for the person who caused the other to earn merit. Thus, for example, if I cause another to fulfill a commandment, then both he and I reap God’s reward for its observance, even if he was the only one to do so. The partnership between giver and receiver therefore ben-efits both parties to the interaction, as Avihai explains in his discussion of his youth work:

Zikui harabim is actually also beneficial to the person who causes the other to earn merit. Because such a person in fact speaks about God’s Torah and explains to the youth the entire way of Judaism. And it is beneficial to the youth also. As we said, to what can this be likened? To a rich man who has no-one to give money to, he has so much and everyone is rich. Until one day a poor person comes along. It’s the same thing. The one who earns grants merit to the many, he is doing a favor for those who listen to him, to those who indeed follow this life path. They, for their part, earn merit for him, by giving him the opportunity to speak to them, in other words, to receive the reward that he deserves for this (deed).

To explain zikui harabim, Avihai employs a metaphor relating to money. He points out that just as a poor person needs a rich person from whom to obtain money, the rich man needs the poor person so that he can contribute.7 There is a mutuality of doing good. Similarly, in Avihai’s opinion, a person who is rich in mitzvoth (a religious person) needs someone who is lacking in mitz-voth to observe a commandment, because by so doing he brings merit to the former. In other words, the merit of the mitzvah is credited to the religious person as well. Thus, both parties need each other.

The notion of zikui harabim is often formulated along the lines of the capi-talist logic that “money makes money.” “If my friend brought me back to religion,” explains Yael, a twenty-three-year-old penitent, “he has [earned] merit on account of my return to religion. And all the girls that I have brought back to religion, I have gained merit for their sakes. He began the chain [reac-tion], as it were.” For example, “If I convince a young woman to wear longer skirts, that also accrues to his merit, because he brought me [to religion], and



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I brought her [to religion].” According to this logic, the good deed that accrues to one who earns merit for others is not merely zikui harabim, in the standard sense of disseminating Torah, but also a concrete commandment performed by a person on the path of teshuvah. This chain of merit-earning described by Yael—a friend caused me to earn merit, and I caused others to earn merit, who will in turn cause yet others to earn merit—is the basic oper-ating principle of Sephardic-Haredi teshuvah, and may serve to motivate individuals to “strengthen” or return others to the faith.

One example of this logic can be seen in the case of Rabbi Amnon Yitzhak, considered one of the most influential teshuvah-proselytizer in Israel today (Sharabi, forthcoming; Sharabi and Guzmen-Carmeli 2013). Rabbi Yitzhak holds rallies for hundreds of participants throughout Israel, at a rate of one or two rallies every week. For a number of years, the Rabbi was involved in marketing a membership program called Hai Kiflaim (Double Life). The pro-gram was advertised at his many rallies and in publications such as the Shofar newsletter which is put out by his organization, Shofar. One such ad appeared under the heading “To live twice as much.” It begins: “If you were promised you could earn twice as much, would you pass up the opportunity? And if you were offered the gift of living not once but twice? This is what Shofar can promise you.” The newsletter invites new members to join “the most exclu-sive club in the world, and indeed, much more—to be part of the Shofar fam-ily, the largest organization for the dissemination of Judaism and for bringing Jews back to the faith, in Israel and throughout the world.” Membership costs eighteen dollars. What is the double promise? The newsletter explains: “Why [do we offer] twice hai (hai literally means ‘life’ or ‘alive’, and in gematria, the numerological system that assigns a number to every letter, it is equiva-lent to 18)? Because members are doubly rewarded—once in this world and once in the world to come.” Under the caption “The World to Come as Reward” is a description of Shofar’s activities, inviting members to attend weekend seminars and receive educational materials such as video and audio recordings and CDs. The same caption leads in to the following text (empha-sis mine):

Thanks to the sophisticated organization at Shofar, a large portion of the funds is earmarked for disseminating Judaism. Surplus funds are directly utilized for distributing tapes and CDs. Thus, zikui harabim is carried out continuously in an unparalleled manner.

This is the essential idea behind Shofar’s Double Hai program: the donated funds are returned to you, the donor, in the form of educational materials about Judaism, which you are invited distribute further, independently or with the help of Shofar’s volunteers in Israel and throughout the world.




In sum: with the Double Hai program, your money works better, even the smallest amount, to save Jews and bring them back to our Father in Heaven.

The Double Hai program ideally integrates two rewards—in this world and in the world to come.

Those who don’t join—lose twice.

With numbers like that it’s no wonder that the Double Hai program enjoys tremendous popularity and claims thousands of members.

Rabbi Amnon Yitzhak offers his followers the opportunity to be full partners in zikui harabim, at the cost of eighteen dollars. Any commandments that “cash in” in wake of the members’ efforts to disseminate Judaism will accrue to their own accounts. Thus, by disseminating Judaism effectively, members can leverage the profits (accounted in terms of mitzvoth) of their eighteen-dollar investment. Or as the newsletter puts it: “your money works better.”

Another example of how an economic calculation is applied to observance of commandments may be seen in the print-outs distributed at Rabbi Amnon Yitzhak’s conventions, entitled “Table for Calculating the Rewards of Torah Study.” This table, a textual representation of verbal teachings presented by Rabbi Yitzhak, was also circulated in a video entitled “Torah and Reverence.” In these texts, Rabbi Yitzhak emphasizes the importance of Torah study and explains how the commandment to study is equal in magnitude to the sum of all the other commandments. For instance, the table shows that Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan (the Chofetz Chaim)8 believed that a single hour of Torah study is equivalent to thirty million mitzvoth. The table presents additional figures and equivalences, such as “He who studies with a companion on the Sabbath” performs a deed equal to the performance of sixty billion mitzvoth. The explanatory remarks on the next pages read as follows (emphasis original): “In brief, look how much reward (one earns) for one hour of Torah. One per-son said to me, if this is so, let me study for one hour and I shall be hand-somely endowed with mitzvoth, and I said to him, “True, but bitul torah (idleness in place of studying Torah) adds up to the same account, while by practicing virtues a person can earn a fortune of mitzvoth, a fortune.”

The page’s title, “A Simple Calculation,” reveals that at least one prevail-ing mode of thought characterizing the world of Rabbi Amnon Yitzhak and his community is that of mathematical, goal-oriented, economic thinking. The table of equivalences renders any ethical or moral explanations about the religious importance of commandments redundant, as it represents the numerical value of an hour of Torah study in concrete terms—concrete for anyone versed in a culture in which money is accounted for in this meticulous



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manner. It also displays how an investment in Torah study, itemized pre-cisely—“study through pain and hardship” or study “at a time when others are not at study (sleeping)”—yields a larger reward.

These two examples lead us to Weber’s account of rationality in the mod-ern age. Ann Swidler, expanding on Weber (1968), distinguishes between “rationality” and “rationalization.” The latter is a process through which ideas based on science and practical calculation become dominant in a soci-ety. As Swidler puts it, rationalization is a “process of systematization of ideas” (1973, 36). In “Rationality” Weber categorized all human actions into four basic types: traditional, affectual, value-rational and instrumentally rational. In this context, we can see how calculating rationality (Weber 1968) begins to permeate religious experience. One can argue that zikui harabim sometimes operates as a value-rational action and sometimes as an instru-mentally rational action. In the second way of action, we can see how reli-gious life is converted, even if sporadically, into a currency that can be measured, calculated, and translated to quantitative expressions.

The benefits of performing zikui harabim, therefore, are abundant. It is no wonder, then, that one must hedge against the moral risks of prioritizing one’s personal benefit over the benefit of another. Rabbi Yaakov Yisrael Lugasi, a prolific rabbinic authority, who has written numerous books and pamphlets for penitents, has addressed this issue. His book, “Whoever Is for the Lord”—Vital Information for Lecturers and Preachers and for All Those Who Draw the Distant Closer and Strengthen Those Who Are Close, is geared, as its title indicates, to teshuvah preachers. Rabbi Lugasi outlines all the dos and don’ts of this enterprise, interspersing his guidelines with tales of famous rabbis who are teshuvah preachers. Rabbi Lugasi identifies a problem with the idea of zikui harabim, explaining that people sometimes forget that the ultimate objective is to grant merit to others, focusing instead on the personal gains of undertaking zikui harabim (emphasis in original):

When your thoughts are focused on granting merit for the many, for the sake of fulfilling the zikui harabim commandment per se, this deed cannot be seen as untainted by extraneous intentions. For this indicates that you, the lecturer, love yourself, and wish to reward yourself with an abundance of commandments and with life in the world to come. . . . The consummation of your ambition should be that your fellow earns the world to come, and that your thoughts not be focused on your own personal gains. And this should be heeded: that a mitkarev (one who draws closer to Judaism) can discern whether a preacher truly desires his good with his whole heart, whether he seeks the true happiness of the mitkarev, and truly desires his good in achieving the two worlds, or whether the preacher is trying to bolster himself with his faith, strengthen his own conscience for his own personal needs, and earn for himself a life in the world to come (pp. 36–17).




Because of the great advantages that can accrue from fulfilling the command-ment of zikui harabim, Rabbi Lugasi alerts his readers to the danger that, instead of reflecting a genuine intention to benefit the penitent in the world to come, proselytizing activity might be motivated by the preacher’s desire to promote his own chances for rewards and an honorable standing in the world to come. The commandment of zikui harabim, which in its “purest” form is intended to save the sinful from the fires of damnation, may become an instrument for individual gain for the teshuvah preacher. The danger is that the mitzvah of zikui harabim will become a goal in itself. A similar process has occurred with money. Because in a modern-capitalist era there is “pursuit of profit, and forever renewed profit, by means of continuous, rational, capi-talistic enterprise” (Weber 1958, 17); and because there is a “general ten-dency to calculability and quantitative control, leading social interactions to become dictated more by the money people have or represent,” money has become an end in itself (Deflem 2003, 73). While the teshuvah world has not perhaps gone so far, Rabbi Lugasi’s words allow us to discern his concern, even if currently this danger only attends those who are “full-time” practitio-ners of zikui harabim, and not those who engage it in their free time (like Hila), or as part of their daily routine (like Sagi).

Conclusion

Ethnographic studies of the teshuvah movement, especially the Sephardic haredi teshuvah movement, have described how new cultural expanses and identities have crystallized (El-Or 2006; Goodman 2002; Leon 2009; Sharabi 2010). In this literature, the teshuvah movement is depicted as fertile ground for the introduction of religious innovation, particularly religious ritual, by teshuvah entrepreneurs like those described in this article. Before this new expansion of identity by the teshuvah movement, the status of many rabbini-cal figures who held no formal positions among Sephardic Jews had been determined on ancestral merits (Bilu 2010; Weingrod 1990), that is, by their connection to a well-known family of rabbis and Torah scholars. But the concept of zikui harabim provides an alternate rabbinic identity. Moreover, not only do many teshuvah entrepreneurs define themselves as penitents, they make no attempt to conceal it but rather turn their past lives into a useful resource for zikui harabim (Sharabi 2010).

In this article, I have attempted to portray zikui harabim as an activity that is not limited to rabbi-preacher initiatives by “full-time” rabbis. As presented in the article, the field of Sephardic-haredi teshuvah develops via what we can call “teshuvah cycles,” in which the penitent engages in facilitating the “return” of others to religious practice, even before he or she has become



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religiously observant. This practice of encouraging others to observe com-mandments, whether focused on minor practices (such as reciting a blessing out loud) or achieved passively (by exposing the four-fringed tzizit garment), or even oriented to the masses (through popular preaching), is designated as zikui harabim. The underlying rationale is that any commandment observed by others, as a result of one’s own instigation, is credited to one’s own merit. Therefore, teshuvah entrepreneurs are not only “professional” teshuvah rab-bis like Rabbi Alush and Avihai but rather everyone who practices zikui hara-bim, be it intensively or occasionally.

This article also proposes that the discourse and practice of zikui harabim are guided by capitalist logic not just in the manner in which teshuvah entre-preneurs operate but mainly in the way in which this concept is perceived and formulated. Some teshuvah entrepreneurs and clients of the teshuvah move-ment regard mitzvoth as a kind of currency that can be amassed for their personal benefit. They even comport themselves according to the notion that “money makes money.” Thus, the idea of zikui harabim can be presented in a new context: it is transformed from a traditional concept integrated within the religious discourse of the teshuvah movement to a widespread religious prac-tice integrated into a contemporary capitalist discourse.

These findings have several theoretical ramifications: first, the teshuvah movement in Israel has until now been studied in the institutional context of the teshuvah organizations and in the personal-psychological context of peni-tence itself. I propose to relate to an idea or a concept (zikui harabim) as, in large measure, the catalyst for religious ferment. Second, the anthropological and sociological literature points to a variety of modern facets that find expression in movements of religious revival (Berger 2009; Deeb 2006; de Witte 2003; Eisenstadt 1999, 2000b; Hirschkind 2006; Roy 2004; Sharabi 2013). In this article, I have postulated that the teshuvah movement in Israel is also modern in that Western-capitalistic-contemporary logic has seeped into its cosmology by way of the concept of zikui harabim.

Third, these findings can lead us to rethink the nature of religious funda-mentalism. Fundamentalism is generally defined as a striving for religious seclusion in the face of the ideological values of the modern state, while it embraces the modern technology but condemns the modern values (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003; Marty and Appleby 1991, 1994). The concept of zikui harabim, as conducted—and sometimes even explicitly formulated—in terms of free market logic, presents a somewhat different story. The rhetoric of counting mitzvoth in terms of counting money or assets forces us to con-sider whether this is truly a condemnation of all modern values or whether capitalist thinking has trickled into religious-fundamentalist philosophy. If this is the case, then multiple modernities (Eisenstadt 2000a, 2000b; Wittrock




2000) seems to be a paradigm more suited to understanding this reality, because it regards modern religious movements as a combination of moder-nity and antimodernity.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publi-cation of this article.

Notes

1. The term haredi, glossed as ultra-orthodox, was originally applied to groups with a European background. In recent decades Israel has witnessed the growth of Sephardic ultra-Orthodoxy, which has different characteristics (see Caplan 2008; Deshen 2005; Leon 2009; Zohar 2008).

2. Religious Zionism is a social-religious stream within Israeli society that seeks to integrate religious faith and practice with the Zionist vision. For example, Religious Zionists enlist in the army and participate in the workforce at the same rate as secular Israelis.

3. It is worth noting that I do not argue that means to end logic, maximizing utility, and rational thought are not to be found in non-capitalistic societies, rather that the particular calculation rationality that I witnessed in the teshuvah movement arises in the context of capitalistic society.

4. Another possible basis for the idea of zikui harabim can be found in the notion of “mitzva goreret mitzva” (one good act attracts another). Also in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), 4:2.

5. For another definition of conversion see Hervieu-Leger (1999, in Meintel 2007). For more on the distinction between the Christian born-again experience and Jewish teshuvah, see Seeman (2009). A parallel phenomenon to teshuvah can be the Daawa principle that occupies a prominent place in contemporary religious Muslim revival movements (Hirschkind 2001).

6. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef served as Sephardi chief rabbi of Israel between 1973 and 1983, and was the spiritual leader of the Shas political party. His main halakhic and societal goal was to unify the Sephardic groups around one halakhic corpus, and combating institutionalized Ashkenazi discrimination against Sephardi Jews in ultra-Orthodox society (Leon 2008; Zohar 2004).

7. Compare with Zborowski and Herzog (1952), who state that the beggar knows the rich man needs him in order to fulfill the mitzvah of giving charity. Charity is generally given to the poor, while zikui harabim is directed at everyone. Furthermore, in the case of zikui harabim both parties receive their reward in the



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form of a mitzvah. For more on mitzvoth and reciprocity, see Sered (1992).8. One of the most influential Eastern European rabbis of the nineteenth century.

He is known as the Chofetz Chaim, after his first book which deals with the Biblical laws of gossip and slander.

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Author Biography

Asaf Sharabi is a senior lecturer of Anthropology at Peres Academic Center. His research focuses upon the intersections of religion and modernity in the Jewish con-text and in the Hinduism context.



Religion and Modernity: Religious Revival Movement in Israel

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