“Intoxicated Though Not by Wine”: Answering the Conscription Call

One of the surprising events in the Book of Bereishis, and perhaps in the entire Torah, is Noach’s intoxication. On one hand, the Torah extols his righteousness: “Noach was a righteous man, complete in his generation; Noach walked with God” (Bereishis 6:9). It was not by chance that Noach was spared from the floodwaters, nor that he was chosen to represent humanity in the covenant of the rainbow, as Hashem proclaimed: “This is the sign of the covenant I have established between Me and all flesh upon the earth” (Bereishis 9:17).

On the other hand, the Torah does not shield us from his great disgrace: “Noach, the man of the earth, began and planted a vineyard. He drank of the wine, became drunk, and uncovered himself inside his tent” (Bereishis 9:20–21). The simple question arises: how could this righteous man reach such debasement, bringing upon himself and his family such shame and ignominy?

It seems the answer lies in Noach’s character: he was indeed righteous and complete, but he was passive by nature. His righteousness was reactive, lacking initiative or creativity. As Rashi comments, citing Chazal, Noach’s “walk with God” did not reach the level of Avraham, about whom it is said, “Walk before Me” (Bereishis 17:1). Unlike Moshe, who saved his generation (and Avraham, who prayed on its behalf), Noach saved only himself (Devarim Rabbah 11:3).

Noach’s passive nature served him well until he exited the ark, at which point he was required to restart humanity and reestablish the cycle of life—a task that exceeded his capabilities. Noach chose to flee from this weighty challenge, to escape the profound responsibility he faced. He planted a vineyard, intoxicated himself with its wine, and left the task to those who would come after him—to Avraham Avinu who was the first to call out in the name of Hashem and thereby “was rewarded for all [previous generations]” (Avos 5:2).

A fateful choice now lies before the Haredi Jewish community, a choice between Noach and Avraham. Like Noach after the flood, we are called upon to take responsibility for our reality, to renew its face. Woe unto us if we fall into a state of intoxication—intoxication, though not by wine (Yeshayahu 51:21).

Our Response to the Conscription Call

The new call for Charedi service in the IDF seems different from what we have known in the past. It is more powerful, painful, and profound and is sounded by unusual Israeli consensus. Its religious formulation was recently (and famously) articulated by Rabbi Tamir Granot, whose son fell in battle one year ago, but the demand itself is felt keenly across all layers of Israeli society. In recent weeks, it has even been accompanied by a considerable amount of pain, frustration, and, unfortunately, anger.

The new call for Charedi service in the IDF seems different from what we have known in the past. It is more powerful, painful, and profound and is sounded by unusual Israeli consensus

I felt this firsthand when I was confronted by a religious-Zionist individual, perhaps in his early seventies, who unleashed his fury against Charedi society, claiming that anyone who does not serve in the army literally removes himself from the Jewish collective and has no share in the national entity! I was deeply shaken. Paraphrasing the words of the Rambam in his Laws of Repentance (Chapter 7, Halacha 6), “Yesterday we were beloved, close, and friendly; today we are distant, despised, and loathsome.”

The fury might be counterproductive, but it is hard to ignore. Unfortunately, in the face of a simple and self-evident call—“Shall your brothers go out to war while you remain here?”—made by individuals and communities who have made immeasurable sacrifices over the past year, our response is mostly characterized by empty slogans.

“The tribe of Levi is exempt from military service,” one respondent emphasized, as if every Charedi individual belongs to the tribe of Levi and is thus entitled to demand civil rights without fulfilling corresponding duties. Another response used disparaging terms for Rabbi Granot, explaining that “Where there is a desecration of Hashem’s name, even a rabbi is accorded no honor.” Others pointed out the flaws of religious Zionism: “First finish dealing with the [problems of the] army and the secular, then come to us.”

More serious responses emphasized the isolationist character of Charedi society: isolation is our lifeblood, and we thus continue to cling to it at all costs—while ignoring tens of thousands of Charedim already integrated into Israeli society and the question of size: as a majority, we won’t be able to isolate from our own selves!

The question isn’t whether we’re able to serve in the IDF or not; the deeper question is whether we want to

All these responses miss the mark. The question isn’t whether we’re able to serve in the IDF or not; the deeper question is whether we want to. If we would only raise our hand and declare, “We want to serve but just need to find the right formula,” everything would look different. But we haven’t. And for good reason.

Identity and Sincerity

The truth is that we do not want to enlist because we’re afraid of change—a fear that is entirely understandable. Many changes have taken place in Charedi Judaism in recent years: women’s employment, men’s employment, academic studies, yeshiva high schools, state-Charedi education, the Internet, Charedi gentrification, cultural-Israeli assimilation, and more. These have grown from within, bottom-up, as part of a natural and inevitable development of the community. But military service is different.

Once we serve in the army, we become a deep part of Israel—not only on the political and institutional levels (“to salvage what we can from their hands,” as the usual justification goes), but in our very identity

The other areas concern the individual: his livelihood, his welfare, his education, and the tools he acquires. While the educational aspect could have a broad communal impact, it does not change the fundamental character of Charedi identity and life. In contrast, military service implies a revolution. Once we serve in the army, we become a deep part of Israel—not only on the political and institutional levels (“to salvage what we can from their hands,” as the usual justification goes), but in our very identity.

Entering the workforce affects an individual’s occupation but not his essential identity, while army service touches our core identity: no longer a separatist communal identity, but a national one; no longer a Charedi, insular identity, but a Jewish-Israeli one. Military service declares a deep partnership with the state, far beyond the incidental relationship of an average taxpayer—hence the profound opposition to military service.

The problem, however, is that we are unwilling to speak in these terms, in the language of sincerity. We cannot declare that we are not part of the state, for reality denies it: we are a significant portion of Israel’s government, including ministers and cabinet members; we make up nearly 15% of the population (and a far large proportion of those receiving welfare payments); and many of us feel Israeli and are proud of it. On the other hand, we struggle to grant official recognition to Israeli identity, which could harm the fragile walls of isolation and threaten the communal (and exilic) identity of Charedi Judaism. Lacking sincerity, we are overly occupied with unconvincing justifications for our refusal to enlist.

The additional problem is that we continue to hope that “everything will be all right.” In the midst of the storm, Minister Yitzchak Goldknopf threatened to deny support for Israel’s budget without a law exempting Charedim from military service, adding his famous words: “There’s a large bowl, from which everyone takes what he needs.” “They need us,” a senior Haredi political figure said, “and will pay for it handsomely.” This is an illusion. It is a storm that will not simply blow over. In the altered reality after October 7, the option of “shev ve’al taaseh adif” (it is preferable to do nothing) is no longer tenable.

Drunk on Torah

Like Noach after the flood, our post-October 7th reality calls us to face a profound demand for taking responsibility—responsibility for an entirely new situation in which the army requires 20,000 more soldiers (two new armies) and its reservists (and their families) are buckling under the weighty load. Certainly, we need to ensure the continued flourishing of the Torah world, yet we must also ensure its connection with the new reality of Israel. Indeed, the two are interconnected: preservation of the Charedi achievements over the past decades depends on our ability to adapt to today’s new circumstances. Steps must be cautious, in line with the prudence of a conservative society. But we must act. We cannot simply stand by and hope to ride the wave.

preservation of the Charedi achievements over the past decades depends on our ability to adapt to today’s new circumstances

And like Noach after the flood, the other option is escape—not into the intoxication of intoxication, but into “Torah intoxication.”

Rabbi Shmuel Rozovsky, of blessed memory, would say that we must get “drunk on Torah,” as in “He has brought me to the house of wine”—the very entry into the Torah study hall ought to intoxicate us, as though there is nothing else in our lives. This type of drunkenness is praiseworthy, however, only within the boundaries of the Torah study hall. When the intoxication extends beyond the study hall and prevents us from assuming the responsibility so sorely needed at this time, then we risk falling into a national detachment that will be hard to heal.

Blaming the Torah for our refusal to take part in military service is wrong. On the one hand, the past months have familiarized us with many Torah scholars who combine army service with their commitment to Torah study and practice; among the latest is Rabbi Avi Goldberg, HYD, a wonderful rabbinic figure who fell in Lebanon. On the other hand, Charedi society includes countless non-Torah scholars who ought to be in the army by all accounts. We should be wary of getting “drunk on power”—the considerable political power wielded by the Charedi political apparatus. We should also be wary of being drunk on Torah.

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Ultimately, we are faced with a historic opportunity. The military is ready for far-reaching concessions, including a new supervisory mechanism within a Charedi brigade—a completely new reality for the Charedi soldier. We have an opportunity to enter the military on our terms, for yeshiva graduates to join the IDF and bring Torah values into national frameworks yearning for them.

Yes, Charedi conscription is a complex issue. Alongside the inherent complexity, one cannot ignore the legitimate fear of the Supreme Court; in Israel, political agreements are not necessarily the final word. However, we must begin with the desire. If we start our response to the call for service with the words “Yes, we want to serve” and mean it sincerely, we will already reduce much of the harm. From there, the path to action is short.

As fateful times continue, may Hashem assist us in navigating this great endeavor.

Picture: Interior Minister Mosher Arbel attends a beret awarding ceremony for the Charedi “Netzach Yehuda” battalion.