Spirituality or intellectualism? An age-old High Holiday debate
Jewish history has always carried a dichotomy between seeking inspiration and pursuing Torah learning
Photo by Alexi Rosenfeld/Getty Images
Every year, the High Holidays draw Jews into synagogue pews — out of nostalgia, in honor of loved ones or in search of connection. This year, rabbis across denominations will be stepping onto the bimah with a heavier weight on their shoulders: the question of how to meet their communities’ spiritual needs in a fractured, anxious moment.
But that tension is not new. Jewish history has always carried a dichotomy between seeking spirituality and pursuing Torah learning. In the 18th century, the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism, emphasized prayer, song and the immediacy of God’s presence. He gathered average, mostly uneducated Jews and taught that even a heartfelt sigh could rise to heaven.
At the same time, the renowned Lithuanian Jewish Talmudist known as the Vilna Gaon, represented the counterpoint: rigorous study, intellectual precision and the discipline of Torah learning as the highest service. His students built great academies where mastery of texts, not emotional fervor, was the goal; where the Torah itself, studied deeply and taught clearly, can steady a fractured people without detouring into the passions of the moment.
That split — between the heart’s longing for spiritual inspiration and the mind’s hunger for Torah truth — remains alive in today’s synagogues. The challenge of the High Holidays is how to honor both.
At Beth Am in Pennsylvania, Reform Rabbi Robert Leib has seen how different motivations bring people through the doors. “Many of my fellow Beth Amniks attend High Holy Day services out of a sense of nostalgia and out of respect for deceased loved ones,” he admitted. Spirituality is part of it, but not the whole picture.
“The socialization aspect trumps the spirituality card,” he said, adding that in the lingering Covid era, he doesn’t want to downplay how valuable that togetherness can be.
This year his congregation is trying something new: a sold-out dinner before the Rosh Hashanah evening service. That night will also mark two milestones — the 50th anniversary of the synagogue’s sanctuary, and the 41st and final High Holiday season for their longtime cantor.
But behind the celebratory tone lies a harder truth. “My single greatest challenge this yontef,” Leib said, using the Yiddish word for holiday, “is how best to address the two elephants in the room: the Israel-Gaza war abroad and an increasingly polarized, fragmented populace at home.” His struggle mirrors the Hasidic instinct to bring warmth and connection to a community unsettled by fear.
Rabbi Binyomin Davis, who leads an Orthodox congregation, Aish Chaim, in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, frames his approach differently. For him, the key is keeping the message inspiring, yet grounded in Torah.
“I always try to blend in an inspiring message, some Torah learning, and piece it together about how it relates to each one of us,” Davis explained.
But Davis draws a line at politics: “The Torah is so rich — I want to stick to its deep spiritual messages and leave politics to others.”
This echoes the Vilna Gaon’s legacy — the conviction that Torah itself, studied deeply and taught clearly, can steady a fractured people without detouring into the passions of the moment.
Taken together, these voices illustrate how the old dichotomy still shapes the present. Rabbi Leib feels the pressure of addressing a world in turmoil while sustaining communal bonds — an echo of the Hasidic impulse toward warmth and immediate comfort. Rabbi Davis insists that depth of Torah itself can be the anchor — an echo of the Vilna Gaon’s conviction that learning is the truest form of service.
For generations, rabbis have had to decide: Do we lean into spirituality or into Torah learning? Do we speak to the headlines of the day, or do we lift people into something eternal? Each choice leaves some grateful and others restless. The High Holidays amplify that tension because the stakes feel so high.
What emerges, though, is that the dichotomy need not divide. The Baal Shem Tov and the Vilna Gaon shaped divergent paths, but Jewish life today requires weaving them together. The same synagogue may hold congregants who come only for Kol Nidre’s haunting melody and others who pore over every page of the machzor, or prayerbook. Communities thrive not when rabbis choose one over the other, but when they find ways to honor both.
The rabbis of 2025 inherit this centuries-old divide, though they may not resolve it. Still, in their pulpits, as in generations past, they remind us that in a fractured world, simply showing up — for each other, for tradition, for faith — is itself a kind of healing.
