When it comes to how long one should date before marriage (and perhaps, engagement), the quantity of time together is important, but the quality of time together may even be more important.  Therefore, rather than discussing prescriptions for the length of time of dating, the tradition offers wisdom about the quality of that time together 

The key Jewish concept to dating comes from the Talmud (Kiddushin 41a), when it advises that there should be consent before marriage.  We must therefore ask: to what and to whom are we consenting?   

The What:  We are consenting to marriage itself.  For Judaism, marriage is the foundational building block of family and society.  Marriage perpetuates the family and humanity.  In this way, marriage is the fulfillment of the first commandment: “Be fruitful and multiply” (Gen. 1:28).

But marriage is so much more than that, isn’t it?  Marriage is companionship and partnership.  Our spouse is our loving friend – re’im ahuvim – with whom we share the most intimate parts of our life – our secrets, our flaws, our humor, our dreams, our sufferings, and the genuine gift of our personal truth.  Life undoubtedly deals both the heights of joy and ecstasy as well as the pits of pain and loss.  The Torah teaches, “It is not good for man to be alone” (Gen. 2:18), because the Torah understands that when we share these experiences and moments with a loving friend – someone who reflects you back to yourself – we are both able to grow more and cope better with anything we might encounter. 

Our spouse is supposed to be an ezer k’negdo, a help that faces us and make us better and whole.

The Whom: The qualities you should look for are those of someone with whom you can consent to this partnership – someone who is a loving friend.  A loving friend is someone whose personality and traits compliment yours.  That is to say, he or she should affirm the best things about you and also help you to remember and strive to be the best version of yourself that you are. 

Such a person must be 1) someone you trust; 2) someone who you respect and respects you; 3) someone you feel safe with; and 4) someone who values your spirit, spirituality, and your Judaism.

Judaism’s approach to marriage is one of fidelity, trust, and friendship.  And for Judaism, love in marriage is something that grows and grows.  In dating and marriage, we accept that we are incomplete, our souls are meant to cling to the soul of another in order to learn together, to confront life together, and to share in the holy task of making ourselves and the world a little better than how we found it.

Dating is a delicate and mysterious dance, wherein we must take enough time to be true to what it is we are seeing in ourselves and the other, and not waiting so long so that we don’t begin the most holy endeavor of the human experience.

Thank you for this question and for acknowledging how Jewish ideology and practice continue to be relevant in today’s world, especially in Israel. Of course, however, this is really the subject for a voluminous book rather than what can be justly covered in this format. Rachel Biale’s Women and Jewish Law, Judith Hauptman’s Rereading the Rabbis, and Rachel Adler’s Engendering Judaism are each important books in their own right that appropriately deal with this topic. This is merely an attempt to begin the discussion.

Deuteronomy (25:5-10) explicitly details the law concerning the yibbum, known as the levirate marriage.  It essentially details that if a married man dies, leaving his wife childless, his brother has a choice to either marry the widow and bear her a son with the name of the deceased or to reject her.  If the surviving brother rejects her, a halitzah or “tearing” ceremony takes place, wherein the widow tears the shoe from his foot, spits in the brother’s face, and declares: “This is done to the man who does not build his brother’s house!”  The brother is then to be called bet halutz ha-na’al, “Family of the Un-Shoed One.”

In this law, we see that the Torah sensitively encourages a childless man’s name to be carried on with the two closest people to him.  Today, there are many traditions in Judaism that also encourage ways for the name of a deceased family member to live on through others.  However, we also see in this law a patriarchal family system that assumes the married woman will remain a member of her husband’s family after his death.  Without the yibbum or levirate marriage, the childless widow in this society can neither be a virgin in her own father’s house nor a mother in her husband’s family, which were the two primary roles for women in that society.  Therefore, given their circumstances, this arrangement benefitted women. 

Levirate marriage, however, may not have actually been appealing to men at the time. For example, the story of Judah and Tamar (Gen. 38) and Ruth and Boaz, portray the women disguising themselves in order to entice the men into the relationship.  After all, why would he enter into it? If he bears a son with his brother’s widow, the brother’s property that would have been passed on equally between him and any other surviving brothers as part of family property will now solely go to this son.  And yet the alternative of the halitzah, shoe-stripping (a symbol of public emasculation) and spitting rite is certainly intended to encourage him to marry her because of its cruel public humiliation.

Later, the Rabbis of the Mishnah and Talmud alleviate some of the problems for the surviving brother, called the levir.  They ruled that the newborn son would be the proper child of the levir and that the levir (not the son) would become the owner of the deceased brother’s property (Mishnah, Yevamot 4:7).  This provides a financial advantage for levirate marriage and gives the levir the same authority over his family as in any other marriage.  Nevertheless, even in a polygamous society, refusal to marry must have still been very compelling, making halitzah a still necessary procedure.  Many Rabbis in the Mishnah’s discussion (Yevamot 12:3) also attempt to make halitzah less humiliating do by not requiring the spitting to make it valid.

Then, in the 10^th century, Rabbeinu Gershom (960-1028) banned polygamy amongst Ashkenazim, making levirate marriage a more significant choice, which led to a general preference of halitzah over the levirate marriage.  Maimonides (1135-1204) also designates a section of his code of law to this issue: The Laws of Yibbum and Chalitzah.  There he necessitates that the widow must first agree to the levirate marriage (2:16) and he formalizes and specifies the procedure as to where it should take place, who should be present, when the declarations are made (beforehand), and what kind of shoe is permissible (4:1-6).  By doing so, he brings more respect and dignity to all who participate. 

For over a century, progressive Jews have understood yibbum and chalitzah as a symbol of women’s subjugation within a patriarchy more than as a rite to honor a deceased’s name and property.   And in 20^th western societies women are financially independent and are no longer solely identified by their ability to bear children.  Therefore, in 1950, Israel’s Chief Rabbi Herzog, supported by Sephardi Chief Rabbi Uziel, abolished the practice both because Ashkenazim already had stopped doing it and because it would be difficult for two family traditions (Sephardi and Ashkenazi) to coexist.  Mizrachi and many Sephardi Jews criticized the prohibition, and halitzah is still customarily practiced. 

The Reform Movement in Germany abolished levirate marriage and halitzah in the 19^th century because a) it was already hardly practiced for the past several hundred years, especially in Ashkenazi communities, and b) it was understood to impose indignity and cruelty upon women. Most – if not all – Conservative rabbis do not practice it.  Although no official response by the movement has been given, the Rabbinical Assembly proceedings clearly regard it as a ceremony of “indignity and injustice” and as Rabbi Isaac Klein stated: “The ceremony has become repugnant and meaningless to the modern mind.”

Some ethical concerns about the use of surrogate mothers include: 1) the dehumanization of a woman.  That is to say, a surrogate functions as an incubator and some go so far as to liken it to slavery of women.  2) The social effects of surrogacy accentuate the gap between rich and poor, as the cost is prohibitive to the poor. 3) The fact that only the rich – or mostly the rich – will be able to reproduce through surrogacy because of its cost, it seems to implicitly the idea that the rich have more of a right to reproduce than the poor. 4) This socioeconomic gap that surrogacy implicitly underscores has negative effects upon all of society, including gaps between class and race, wherein a “womb/pregnancy market” is created, wherein white women’s genetic material and surrogacy will command higher fees. And 5) Surrogacy is dangerously close to adultery where the boundaries of the relationship between husband and wife is blurred both figuratively and literally (genetic material of ovum surrogates is not the mother’s).

In 1997, Rabbi Elie Spitz of the Committee of Jewish Laws and Standards (CJLS) convincingly responded to each of these concerns, maintaining through research studies that there is no evidence that degradation of women has been a real problem in surrogacy: that surrogates are generally not poor and that they are free choosing volunteers.   He further argues that paying surrogates is acceptable, as taking away payment would unnecessarily remove an important incentive to surrogates that makes it easier for infertile to have the child they so desperately seek.

Couples seeking surrogacy should consider the following guidelines (as derived from the CJLS):
1) Consider the religious and personal concerns involved, receive thorough counseling, and seriously investigate alternatives including adoption.

2) The surrogate herself should be protected from pressure to continue the pregnancy when she judges an abortion to be required to avoid serious threat to her health, and conversely protected from the pressure to abort.

3) The greatest concern must be given to the well-being and rights of the child to be born, and to avoid exploitation of any parties involved.

4) Payment of the surrogate’s expenses is appropriate.  There is a debate as to whether there should be payment beyond that: some say she deserves payment beyond expenses to account for intangible risks and burdens, while others say payment beyond incurred expenses is akin to baby-selling.

5) There is a debate as to whether the surrogate mother has a right to challenge custody.  Some say she has the right to claim custody of the child and withdraw from the agreement at anytime, whereas others say that the right to custody claim ends after birth.  All parties defer to civil law on this matter.

6) The Jewish status of the child follows that of the birthing mother.  If the surrogate-birthing mother is not Jewish, the child will require a halakhic (Jewish legal) conversion to be recognized as Jewish.

First, thank you for what you are doing as a parent. You have committed to a strong Jewish education for your child and you are modeling it yourself. Both of those parenting choices in and of themselves are sure to guarantee that your son will maintain a positive Jewish identity throughout his life.

The destruction of Jerusalem and Second Temple is the single most important event in Jewish history (aside from the Exodus and giving of the Torah, if we want to call those “historical” events).  The Roman destruction of Jerusalem greatly contributed to the dispersion and of the Jewish people around the world, the decentralization of the Jewish ritual and halakhic (legal) traditions, and to a general spiritual disposition of longing and alienation.  Pre-70CE Jerusalem and the Temple, which embodied the blend of a pure concept of priestly ritual and Rabbinic teaching) have come to represent an idyllic Jewish environment only to be matched by the messianic era, which has yet to come.

In truth, Rabbinic Judaism, which developed, flourished, and created the non-biblical Judaism that we practice today, was actually sparked from the embers of the Temple ruins.  That is to say the destruction had some unanticipated positive consequences, many of which include common practices of Temple and ancient Jerusalem remembrance, such as: 1) central prayers, e.g., the Amidah and Birkat Ha-Mazon; 2) declaring, L’Shanah Haba’ah b’Yerushalayim – “Next year in Jerusalem” at the end of both the Yom Kippur service and the Passover seder; 3) facing toward Jerusalem during prayer; and 4) minor fasts and the holiday of Tisha B’Av itself (literally, The 9^th of Av), the saddest day of the Jewish year, during which we fast and read the Scroll of Lamentations.

To argue that the establishment of the State of the Israel in 1948 supersedes or disqualifies the remembrance of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple would in some way put into question the entirety of the Jewish religion as post Second Temple spiritual tradition, which it is.   

Given that there is no way to go back to a pre-70CE Judaism (nor would most of choose to do so), we can ask instead: How does the establishment of the State of Israel have an impact upon our narrative since the destruction of the Temple? What is our spiritual disposition today?  Should we eliminate or amend some of rituals of remembrance and longing for the ideal of Jerusalem that we once possessed?  What is the theological dimension of the establishment of the State of Israel how is that reflected in our practices? 

Conservative Judaism holds two simultaneous positions on such questions and they primarily have practical import on Tisha B’Av and minor fast days – no one is suggesting eliminating blessings for the rebuilding of Jerusalem or cutting our L’Shanah Haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.  One is that the establishment of the State of Israel is cause for celebration and, therefore, keeping the full account of mourning rites on Tisha B’Av and other minor fasts would slight the significance of the Jewish nation that exists.  Adherents would suggest ending the fast early and eliminating other acts of self-denial, but not the reading of Lamentations. The second position maintains that all of the traditional mourning observances should be upheld.  That is, although the State of Israel is a homeland for Jews, it has yet to become truly secure, to know lasting peace, or to fulfill the messianic promise of which the longing and mourning over Jerusalem and Temple are inherently connected.

Judaism encourages sex within marriage and that includes sex for the sake of pleasure and intimacy. Jewish law, however, prohibits viewing pornography, even for the sake of facilitating sexual arousal with a spouse.

Choosing Judaism is a beautiful and profound spiritual path. The essence of this choice and path is one of transformation. It is the transformation of your personal identity privately, meaning your internal spiritual beliefs and attitudes, as well as how you express those beliefs and attitudes among your immediate household. Judaism also affects your public identity, such as regarding the holidays you celebrate with friends and family, the educational decisions you make for your children, and how you observe your Sabbath. When you choose to take this wondrous and enriching Jewish path, it is expected that you and your life will change, and you – most of all – will be aware of it.

The Mishnah states: “When [the month of] Av enters, gladness must be diminished” (Ta’anit 4:6). It is upon this basis that the somber prohibitions between the 17^th of Tammuz to the 9^th of Av increase for the first Nine Days of Av. The Shulchan Arukh, compiled by Joseph Karo (1488-1575, Spain, Turkey, and Israel), is the generally accepted authority as to how this diminishment of gladness is to be observed. Among the stringencies are eating meat and drinking wine (except on Shabbat), as well as cutting hair, bathing, and wearing freshly laundered clothes (Orach Chayim 551; to see this source online visit http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Shulchan_Aruch/Orach_Chaim/551).

This is a good question and a very sensitive one. It is sensitive by virtue of the fact that since the Torah’s command in Leviticus (18:22) forbidding homosexual relations as an “abomination,” there has been little to no opposition to it in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam until the past few decades. That is to say, we are still carrying the cultural, historical, and sociological mindsets from the past, which can be very difficult to overcome. 

Thank you for raising this important and often overlooked issue.

 A quick contextualization: the phrase kol yisrael arayvim zeh la-zeh means, “all of the people Israel are responsible for one another.”  It originates from the Talmud (Shevuot 39a) where it is discussing the potential chain reaction of sin that occurs from one to the other (see also Sanhedrin 27b).  The two moral implications of the phrase are that 1) Jews must stop Jews when they are on the verge of sinning and 2) that Jews must care for the basic well-being and needs (food, housing, clothes) of other Jews.  It is noteworthy, that many Jews – certainly including Conservative Jews – have expanded this moral dictum beyond the Jewish community to all of humanity (the version in Sanhedrin although referring to family, does not specify “Israel” and simply says “everyone”).

 Pointing out the original Talmudic source, however, is important because it differs from the later rabbinic versions to conclude with zeh ba-zeh instead of zeh la-zeh.  This doesn’t really change the general gist of the statement, but alters the translation to say, “all of the people of Israel are in it [i.e., “mixed up”] with each other.”  

 Being “mixed up with each other” can be understood in two ways. Rabbi and philosopher, Joseph Soloveitchik (1903-1993) claimed that Jews are bound by two covenants: a covenant of fate and a covenant of destiny.  The covenant of fate is involuntary and it inescapably unites Jews through shared history and shared suffering, which are linked to shared responsibility toward other Jews.  In contrast, the covenant of destiny is voluntary and it represents the individual commitment of each Jew (and ultimately the Jews as a whole) to aspire toward and maintain Jewish values and dreams. 

 Soloveitchik’s covenant of fate holds that Jews are inextricably bound together and responsible for each other, even our actions.  This is true.  Jews are linked by their past, as a nation that was brought from slavery to freedom; that experienced a destruction of a Temple and national center; that blossomed with creativity through Rabbinic literature and sagely wisdom; that endured excommunications, pogroms and a Holocaust; and that witnessed the birth a Jewish State and a strong and healthy American Jewish community.  All Jews are united by this past whether Conservative, Orthodox, Reform, atheist, secular Israeli, Haredi, Zionist, black, white, or brown, just as all Jews are united by our collective actions toward building a Jewish future.

 Today we sense the current tide of Jewish history primarily through the media. Most of us surely find ourselves rooting for Israel to succeed on news and cheering for Jewish celebrities, athletes, scientists, economists, and politicians.  We are also unified by our disdain and embarrassment of the likes of Bernie Madoff and Jack Abramoff.  Perhaps, with television and the Internet, we Jews are more inspired and burdened by each other around the world than ever before.

 Soloveitchik’s second covenant, the covenant of destiny, however, leaves room for diversity and pluralism among Jews.  Accordingly, we share mutual responsibility for the Jewish people and to represent Jewish ideals, yet we are simultaneously each individually responsible for doing it in our own way.  

 Elliot Dorff, a contemporary rabbi and philosopher, expands upon the idea of pluralism within Judaism, calling it an ethical theory of relativity.  Dorff says three things: a) historically, we know that each community develops organically and, although united with other Jewish communities, aspects of ideology and practice will vary; b) we cannot ever know what is absolutely true in a different time and place from our own because we can only see things from our own vantage point, i.e., relativity.  Therefore, given the simple fact that we aren’t “in their shoes”, we must be humble when judging others and in considering to what degree we take responsibility; and c) Judaism espouses a God that loves plurality and different ways of doing things.  According to the Rabbinic sages, Dorff reminds us, God only reveals part of the truth, as the rest is for us to determine on our own through study and experience (Num. Rabbah 19:6).  And, as Joseph Albo said, “If I knew Him [God], I would be He.”  In other words, a plurality of approaches to living life – balanced by certain rules and limitations – demonstrates God’s divine grandeur, while helping us to confront ourselves as imperfect human beings rather than egotistical demigods. 

 Thus, we cannot entirely take responsibility for every Jew and every Jewish community – that is God’s job not ours.  Or, at the very least, we should humbly caution ourselves before doing so.  It seems to me that this relates to why on Yom Kippur we must ask God for forgiveness both as a whole people and each one of us as individuals.

 As a concluding point, I would add that Jews are bound and responsible for each other through our learning and education.  We have Torah, Rabbinic literature, the prayer book, Jewish traditions, and Hebrew language, each of which transcend time and place.  Each has been the platform for a common moral and spiritual expression to millions of Jews and for thousands of years; the spiritual energy that our texts, traditions, and language have inspired has been transmitted from teacher to student and parent to child for generations until this moment.  Consequently, it is truly the collective wisdom and consciousness from our ancestors until today that continues to be the source from which our responsibility is born.  In this way, I suggest, kol yisrael arayvim zeh ba-zeh.

The delivery and acceptance of the get (divorce document) is the critical act that actualizes the divorce.  The document essentially restores each of the legal rights to the couple as unmarried individuals wherein they are free to marry anyone else without fear of adultery and that they are no longer obligated to the conditions of the Jewish marriage contract (ketubah).

In the Bible, it was the husband who had full right of initiating and dissolving the marriage.  After a widely accepted decree by Rabbenu Gershom ben Yehuda (960-1028, Germany) that ensured more equality between the sexes, the wife’s consent to the get became necessary. In fact, it is more often the case, and potentially more problematic, that the husband refuses to give the wife a get, relegating her to the status of an agunah (literally, “a chained woman”).

This case is particularly distressing, however, because the marital discontent has continued for at least five years without resolution.  Moreover, it is impossible to measure the psychological and emotional toll this has taken on the children.

In the Diaspora (outside of the land of Israel), where Jewish law and status has little to no sway over civil law and status, the issue of Jewish divorce is of less consequence.  That is to say, when a couple or individual pursues a get, it is usually after a civil divorce has been obtained, the couple has already separated, and the question of custody over the children has been addressed.   To refuse a get after a civil divorce has been granted and custody has been established, would be to violate the Torah’s injunction not to put a stumbling block before the blind (Lev. 19:14), since it would not necessarily deter the husband from dating, marrying, and having children with someone else.  Indeed, given that it is after five years and if the husband has not begun to engage the process of civil divorce, one must ask: why not?

In order to prevent this kind of case from happening in the first place, the Conservative Movement offers the Lieberman Clause (created by Rabbi Saul Lieberman) as a halakhically-binding addendum to the ketubah.  In essence, it stipulates that if the marriage is dissolved under civil law, a Beit Din may dissolve the marriage under Jewish law with the consent of either spouse.

If the couple does not have the Lieberman Clause in their ketubah, there are several traditional reasons given as to when a husband may sue his wife for a divorce, including adultery and insanity.  Identifying such reasons for divorce may help her to choose to consent to the get or for a Beit Din (Rabbinical Court) to counsel (and, in some cases, coerce) her to consent.

Finally, once the civil divorce has occurred, as a last resort in Jewish law involving Rabbenu Gershom’s decree – “a woman may not be divorced against her will” – a man may remarry due to something called heter meah Rabbanim (literally “a permit from one hundred rabbis”). Originally, if a man went from town to town to plead his case, and he acquired the signatures of one hundred rabbis who agreed to permit him to remarry despite his wife’s refusal to consent to the get, the local Beit Din would accept it.  Today, with easier modes of communication and travel, the Beit Din itself can secure the one hundred required signatures.  Of course, however, the first wife in this case continues to remain married by Jewish law and may not herself remarry until she consents to the get.

As a concluding thought, a couple should do everything possible to safeguard the sanctity of marriage and the welfare of the children.  There are, however, cases where divorce is the best solution for a family.  Judaism under the spirit of Jewish law recognizes the preciousness of life, as well as the pitfalls of any legal system.  Therefore, it wisely provides for mechanisms to prevent problems before they happen and exit strategies for when they do unfortunately happen. 

Yom Ha-Atzmaut (literally, “The Day of Independence”) commemorates the founding of the State of Israel on May 14, 1948. Its Hebrew calendar date is the 5th of Iyar, the day after Yom Ha-Zikaron (Day of Remembrance of those killed defending the State of Israel).

Thank you for this critical question. As we live in the “information age,” a time when many forms of property are in non-material, digital forms and expansively shared around the world, moral and legal values are questioned to their limits.

Thank you for such a mindful and sensitive question.

According to the Conservative Movement, swordfish is considered kosher.  This follows from the biblical injunction that fish (unspecified types) with fins and scales are considered kosher (Lev. 11:9; Deut. 14:9).  Later, the sages of the Mishnah declare that any species of fish with fins and scales is kosher (Chullin 3:7). 

Then, the Talmud follows the Mishnah by specifying particular fish that may have been questionable, including swordfish (B. Talmud, Chullin 66b).  Some Orthodox authorities do not necessarily agree that the fish in the Talmud is indeed the swordfish that we know and to which we are referring now.  Others debate whether or not the swordfish actually does qualify as having scales, since swordfish lose their scales at a certain point in their development and maturation.  And still others may say that, even if it is deemed that they have scales, it is impossible to remove them according to kosher standards.  In all, cases the Conservative Movement argues both through Halakhah (Jewish law) and science that a swordfish qualifies as both a fish with scales and it is kosher.

The second part of your question, however, (i.e., would it be proper to serve to friends who keep kosher?) is a question of the value of friendship and pluralism.  In this regard, it is important to be open, honest, humble, and respectful.  That is, you may want to open your invitation with your personal position on Kashrut and whether you hold that swordfish is kosher.  Your friend may wish to know understand why and you should do your best to explain.  At this point, you must also be willing to listen to your friend in an open manner – with tolerance and appreciation of their position, even if it differs from your own.  Or, on the other hand, you may wish to pose it as a question, for example: do you eat swordfish; does it comply with your standards of Kashrut?

Jewish law, Halakhah, is a wonderful gift through which we are given the opportunity to raise our own inherent divinity.  It offers us a way of living a holy life in relationship with God and the world around us.  It should never, however, be used as a “weapon” or a leverage of spiritual supremacy.  It should bring Jews closer together in friendship rather than as an obstacle to friendship.  Sometimes Jews understand the law differently, yet we should never mistake the letter of the law for the spirit of the law.  At times, this demands tolerance and love, while maintaining our own integrity.  Therefore, since the point of sharing a meal together is actually sharing a meal together, if you find that serving swordfish would counter the values of a friendly host – even if it is in full accord with your own observance – it is probably best to serve salmon (or something else with which everyone will be comfortable).

Yes. The exceptions primarily involve only postponements, such as if a child is ill and a physician postpones it (Yoreh De’ah 262:2).

The next point I must emphasize is that because sex is so meaningful, we should treat it as such.  Just like anything we do with regard to important relationships, indeed sacred friendships (a married couple is described as re’im ahuvim or “loving friends”), we should consistently adhere to the values of honesty, responsibility, modesty, respect, and acknowledging the divine spark that exists within yourself and your mate.  The expectation is therefore – at the very least – that sex is consensual and between loving, caring partners. 

Lastly, your question raises some technical issues and the Conservative Movement usually offers a plurality of technical approaches.  The first of which is regarding a menstruating woman.  Basically, sex is off limits for a menstruating woman.  This comes from an ancient idea that menstruation is itself a profound experience of which should not be directly disturbed.  Conservative scholars disagree about exactly how long the menstruation period may last and the terms of the separation, all ranging around a week of abstinence per month. 

[See the Rabbinical Assembly’s website for more detail of the 3 concurrent positions: http://www.rabbinicalassembly.org/teshuvot/docs/20052010/mikveh_introduction.pdf]

The second part of your technical question is about birth control.  Let me answer this in 3 parts: a) Buy Matters of Life and Death by Elliot Dorff (JPS, 1998) and read chapter 5, and chapter 6 can’t hurt; b) Jews need to have babies and there is no question that having children and a family is one of the most poignant and enriching human and Jewish experiences; and c) Conservative Judaism recognizes that not all sex is for procreation alone because intimacy between spouses is good for its own sake. Also, it is impractical and possibly detrimental for some families to have too many children.  For a variety of halakhic reasons (Jewish law), a female diaphragm is considered as the preferable form of birth control (see Dorff’s book).

As for the act of suicide, although the Torah certainly prohibits murder (Ex. 20:13), it does not explicitly forbid suicide – the murder of oneself.  There are even cases in the Hebrew Bible recounting suicide, such as with Samson (Judges 16:30) and King Saul (I Sam. 31-4-5). 

The Rabbis of the Talmud strongly prohibit suicide and speak of it as me’aved atzmo l’da’at – “one who destroys him or herself knowingly.”  The Rabbinic view emphasizes that life is the great good and considered a gift.  To paraphrase the Mishnah, the conditions of life and death were not of our will; it is not according to our will that we were born and it is not according to our will that we will die (Avot 4:29).  Committing suicide is a direct denial of the precious gift of life.  Moreover, unlike any other trespass against Jewish law, suicide denies us the opportunity to repent for our misdeed.

Over time, however, rabbis and scholars began to limit the scope of what should be considered suicide.  First, suicide is permissible for the sake of Kiddush Hashem (martyrdom), as the Talmud states: “Human life takes precedence over all of the commandments of the Torah except for idolatry, sexual immorality, and murder” (Sanhedrin 74a).  In other words, when confronted with one of three above and death, one should choose death.  Also, in the 12^th century, Maimonides limits the definition of suicide further by restricting it to four conditions: performance with full mental capacity; premeditation; an advanced notice to others; and witnesses (M.T. Hilkhot Aveilim 1:11).

Finally, the key concept to understanding the prohibition of suicide is the issue of doing it “knowingly” or with “full mental capacity.” According to psychologists and religious scholars, one who decides to commit suicide cannot be understood as “in their right mind,” and is, at least temporarily, insane.  Therefore, we generally find suicide as an act done without full mental capacity (sh’lo k’da’at), perhaps even considered as a result of an illness of the mind. 

Thus, considering the historical development of the issue of suicide throughout the Jewish tradition and current views of suicide in psychology and medicine, the Conservative Movement treats suicide as it would any other death, including full burial and mourning rites. Moreover, suicide does not necessitate a doomed afterlife. 

This is a terrific question for which there is no clear answer.  As a Conservative rabbi, I understand Halakhah to exist and derive from historical contexts, beginning with the Bible, through the Rabbinic periods, all the way to today. Therefore, because Israel is a place which has absorbed historical influences, these perspectives have evolved and continue to evolve. Let me explain.

During the time of the Bible, it would never have occurred for Judaism to exist outside of the Land of Israel.  Jewish observance hinged on the Temple and a connection to agriculture.  Ethnicities, religion, and geography were inherently interconnected.  Therefore, we can understand why the Bible describes the land itself as holy (Zech. 2:6) and a metaphor for beauty and wonder – “flowing with milk and honey” (Ex 3:8).  Indeed, there are some commandments that one can only fulfill in the land itself.

This sort of view is reflected in early Rabbinic literature, such as in the Mishnah where it claims that Israel is holier than all other lands because of the agricultural sacrifices it supplies (Keilim 1:6).  We also see this in Midrashic literature, where Israel is described as the only one worthy of the Jewish people and Torah (Lev. Rabbah 13:2) and that living in the land alone actually atones for sins (Sifrei, Deut. 333). Some of the Rabbinic, positive attitude toward the Land of Israel is also a backhanded critique of peoples outside of the Israel, such as when it equates living outside of Israel to being an idol-worshipper (Tosefta, Avodah Zarah 4:5).

After the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE and the dispersion of Jews around the world, the center of Jewish scholarship moved to Babylonia.  Here we see a shift in Rabbinic attitudes toward living in the Land of Israel.  In fact, the Talmud offers Rabbinic statements claiming, “He who resides in Babylonia, it is as if he resided in the Land of Israel” (Ketubot 111a). 

Such a shift in attitude is not only a function of historical influences, but of the inherent resilience and ingenuity of Rabbinic Judaism.  That is to say, after the destruction of the Second Temple, Judaism became portable.  In the centuries following this calamity, we see the development of Jewish literature: Jewish law (Mishnah), Jewish legends and parables (Midrash), and the prayer book.  We also see the development of systems and structures of Jewish life that enables one to take Judaism anywhere, such as the calendar (which includes dates specific to those outside of Israel), as well as the local synagogue and school (Beit Midrash).  In other words, holiness can be taken with us wherever we go.

For thousands of years, Jews did not have the kind of opportunity to live in the Land of Israel that we have today since the establishment of the State of Israel.  However, we know from their writings that they yearned for returning to the land and for the ideals of justice and freedom that the Land represents.  Therefore, with this newfound opportunity that the State of Israel presents, the question of the obligation of living in the Land of Israel seems shift to a different kind of question – not one of Halakhah.  Instead, I would ask: Where can I live out Jewish values and observances best, while taking into consideration the commitments I have to myself, to my family, to my community, to the Jewish people, and to God? The answer could be different for different people.