Features
For Jewish law authorities, the coronavirus has caused an unprecedented flurry of questions
By BEN HARRIS April 3, 2020 (JTA) — As the coronavirus pandemic forces Jews around the world to contemplate a Passover holiday in which large family gatherings will be all but impossible, an unusual question posed to a group of Israeli rabbis led to an extraordinary answer.
The question was whether it might be permissible for families to use internet-enabled videoconferencing to celebrate the Passover seder together even as they are sequestered in separate homes. Orthodox Jewish practice normally prohibits the use of electronics on the Sabbath and Jewish festivals, but might the unprecedented restrictions suddenly thrust upon billions of people permit an exception?
Remarkably, 14 Sephardic rabbis last week answered in the affirmative.
Some conditions were attached. The computer would have to be enabled prior to the onset of Passover and remain untouched for the duration of the holiday. And the leniency would only apply to the current emergency.
But given the unique importance of the seder ritual and the extreme conditions now in effect, the rabbis wrote, the use of videoconferencing technology is permitted “to remove sadness from adults and the elderly, to give them the motivation to continue to fight for their lives, and to avoid depression and mental weakness which could bring them to despair of life.”
The coronavirus pandemic has upended so many parts of life that it’s perhaps little surprise that it’s also having a significant impact in the field of Jewish law, or halacha. The sudden impossibility of once routine facets of observant Jewish life has generated a surge in questions never considered before — and modern technology means that Jews the world over are more able than ever to ask those questions and share their answers.
“I don’t think there’s ever been anything like this because of the proliferation of questions and because of the extraordinary means of communications,” said David Berger, a historian and dean of the Graduate School of Jewish Studies at Yeshiva University.
Among the questions rabbis have had to confront during the corona crisis: Is it permissible to constitute a Jewish prayer quorum over internet-enabled videoconference? Can married couples be physically intimate if the woman cannot immerse in a ritual bath because they are closed for public health reasons? How should burials be handled if authorities prohibit Jewish rituals around the preparation of bodies? Can synagogue services be livestreamed on Shabbat?
Rabbis are also beginning to consider some agonizing possibilities. Several Conservative movement authorities have published papers about what Jewish ethics has to say about medical triage, anticipating a moment when doctors may have to make difficult choices about who gets treatment.
“This has been ‘yomam valaylah’ — it’s been day and night,” said Rabbi Elliott Dorff, the co-chair of the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards, the Conservative movement’s authority on questions of Jewish law. “Once this is all over, this is going to be a really interesting case study of how halacha evolves quickly when it needs to.”
In Romania, the government’s recent declaration that any coronavirus fatalities had to be buried immediately presented Chief Rabbi Rafael Shaffer with a tortuous dilemma: What if a Jewish person died on Shabbat? Burying the body immediately would have resulted in a clear violation of the Jewish Sabbath, but allowing the body to be cremated is also a severe violation of Jewish law.
“The burial should be done on Shabbat if necessary,” Shaffer told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency after consulting with rabbinic authorities in Israel. “If it’s the only possibility to avoid cremation, then it should be done on Shabbat by non-Jews.”
For the moment, that situation remains in the realm of the theoretical. But other halachic questions are of urgent necessity. Many of the recent opinions have explicitly invoked the principle of “she’at had’chak” — literally “time of pressure,” a concept in Jewish law that permits a reliance on less authoritative opinions in emergency situations.
“No one thinks you can permit biblical violations for a pressure that doesn’t amount to threatening lives,” said Rabbi Aryeh Klapper, the Orthodox dean of the Center for Modern Torah Scholarship. “But maybe you can rely on less authoritative understandings of what the biblical prohibition is.”
The Conservative movement, which tends to take a more flexible line on matters of Jewish law than Orthodox authorities, has supported a number of leniencies under the rubric of she’at had’chak.
In March, Dorff and his law committee co-chair, Rabbi Pamela Barmash, issued an opinion permitting a prayer quorum to be constituted over internet-enabled videoconference. That opinion, which temporarily suspended a nearly unanimous 2001 ruling that such a quorum was not permissible, would enable the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish by people isolated in their homes. Common practice is that the mourner’s prayer can only be said if 10 Jewish adults are gathered in one physical location.
The law committee also has expressed support for loosening various restrictions around physical touch between married couples should Jewish ritual baths be forced to close. Couples that closely observe Jewish law traditionally refrain from any form of touch for the period of the woman’s menstruation and for a week after, resuming contact only after immersion in a mikvah.
But the committee posted a letter on its website this week from Rabbi Joshua Heller asserting that under certain circumstances, and only for the period of the coronavirus crisis, a woman could resume sexual relations with her husband after showering in 11.25 gallons of water — a rough approximation of the Talmudic measure of 40 kabim.
“I think we are learning from earlier historical epochs of crisis and taking inspiration from the flexibility that our predecessors showed,” said Rabbi Daniel Nevins, a committee member and the dean of the rabbinical school at the Jewish Theological Seminary.
To be sure, not all rabbis have accepted these leniencies.
After Rabbi Daniel Sperber, a liberal Orthodox rabbi in Israel, issued an opinion permitting some forms of physical touch between married couples should ritual baths become inaccessible, another Israeli Orthodox rabbi, Shmuel Eliyahu, called the opinion a “complete mistake.”
Israel’s two chief rabbis, David Lau and Yitzhak Yosef, said the opinion permitting videoconferencing at the seder was “unqualified.”
And Rabbi Hershel Schachter, a leading Orthodox authority at Yeshiva University, wrote recently that a prayer quorum could not be constituted by participants standing on nearby porches — even if they could all see each other.
“The 10 men must all be standing in the same room,” Schachter wrote.
But Schachter, who has personally published no less than a dozen opinions on matters related to coronavirus, has shown flexibility in other areas.
Schachter has ruled that a patient discharged from a hospital on Shabbat can be driven home by a family member because it’s dangerous to remain in the hospital longer than necessary and taxis carry their own risks of coronavirus transmission. He has said that isolated individuals who suffer from psychological conditions that might endanger their lives if they were unable to communicate with family may use phone or internet to communicate on a Jewish holiday.
And in a ruling that has wide applicability at a time when many people are preparing to host Passover meals for the first time, he suggested a workaround for the obligation of immersing utensils in a ritual bath before using them. Since baths are now closed for such purposes, Schachter ruled that one could use the utensils without immersion by first declaring them legally ownerless — a workaround that would normally not be permitted.
Many rabbis have expressed concern that such loosening of the rules, even if expressly done only to address a pressing (and presumably temporary) need, might nevertheless create new norms of behavior that will outlast the current crisis. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time.
According to a recent article by Rabbi Elli Fisher, during the 19th-century cholera epidemic, there were so many mourners that Rabbi Akiva Eger, who led the Jewish community in Poznan, Poland, ruled that it was permissible for many mourners to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish simultaneously. At the time, the practice was that only one person recited Kaddish at a time.
Given the numbers of the dead, that practice would have left people with few opportunities to recite the mourner’s prayer. The practice of reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish as a group remains the dominant one in synagogues today.
“I do think that our people are wise enough and insightful enough to understand the difference between this crisis situation and normal situations
Features
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Features
Why People in Israel Can Get Emotionally Attached to AI—and How to Keep It Healthy
Let’s start with the uncomfortable truth that’s also kind of relieving: getting emotionally attached to a Joi.com AI isn’t “weird.” It’s human. Our brains are attachment machines. Give us a voice that feels warm, consistent, and attentive—especially one that shows up on demand—and our nervous system goes, “Oh. Safety. Connection.” Even if the rational part of you knows it’s software, the emotional part responds to the experience.
Now, if we’re talking about Jewish people in Israel specifically, it’s worth saying this carefully: there isn’t one “Jewish Israeli psychology.” People differ wildly by age, religiosity, community, language, politics, relationship status, and life history. But there are some real-life conditions common in Israel—high tech adoption, a fast-paced social environment, chronic background stress for many, and strong cultural emphasis on connection—that can make AI companionship feel especially appealing for some individuals. Not because of religion or ethnicity as a trait, but because of context and pressure.
So if you’ve noticed yourself—or someone you know—getting attached to an AI companion, the goal isn’t to panic or label it as unhealthy by default. The goal is to understand why it feels good and make sure it stays supportive rather than consuming.
Why attachment happens so fast (the psychology in plain language)
Attachment isn’t just about romance. It’s about regulation. When you feel seen, your body calms down. When you feel ignored, your body gets edgy. AI companions can offer something that’s rare in real life: consistent responsiveness. No scheduling. No misunderstandings (most of the time). No “I’m too tired to talk.” Just a steady stream of attention.
From an attachment perspective, that steadiness can act like a soft emotional “hug.” For someone with anxious attachment, it can feel like relief: finally, a connection that doesn’t disappear. For someone with avoidant tendencies, it can feel safe because it’s intimacy without the risk of being overwhelmed by a real person’s needs. For someone simply lonely or stressed, it can feel like a quiet exhale.
And unlike human relationships, AI won’t judge your worst timing. You can message at 2:00 a.m., when your thoughts are loud and the apartment is silent, and you’ll still get an answer that sounds caring. That alone is powerful.
Why it can feel especially relevant in Israel (for some people)
Israel is a small country with a big emotional load for many people—again, not universally, but often enough that it shapes daily life. A lot of people live with a background hum of stress, whether it’s personal, economic, or tied to the broader environment. When life feels intense, the appeal of a stable, gentle interaction grows. Not because you’re fragile—because you’re tired.
Add a few more very normal realities:
High tech comfort is cultural. Israel has a strong tech culture. People are used to tools that solve problems quickly. If you’re already comfortable with digital solutions, trying an AI companion doesn’t feel like a strange leap.
Time is tight. Between work, family responsibilities, reserve duty for some, long commutes, or simply the pace of urban life, many people don’t have the energy for long, messy social processes. AI can feel like connection without the logistics.
Social circles can be both close and complicated. Israeli society can be community-oriented, which is beautiful—until it’s also intense. In tight-knit circles, dating and relationships sometimes come with social pressure, opinions, and “everyone knows everyone.” A private AI chat can feel like a relief: no gossip, no explanations, no performance.
Language and identity complexity. Many Jewish Israelis move between languages and cultures (Hebrew, Russian, English, French, Amharic, Arabic for some). AI chat can become a low-stakes space to express yourself in the language you feel most “you” in—without feeling judged for accent, vocabulary, or code-switching.
None of this means “Israelis are more likely” in any absolute sense. It means there are situational reasons why AI companionship can feel particularly soothing or convenient for some people living there.
The good side: when AI attachment is healthy
Emotional attachment isn’t automatically a problem. Sometimes it’s simply a sign that something is working: you feel supported. You feel calmer. You’re expressing yourself more. You’re practicing communication instead of shutting down. You’re less likely to make impulsive choices from loneliness.
Healthy use often looks like:
You feel better after chatting, not worse.
You can still enjoy your real life—friends, work, hobbies, family.
You don’t hide it in shame; you just treat it like a tool or pastime.
You use the AI to practice skills you bring into real relationships: clarity, boundaries, confidence, emotional regulation.
In that version, AI companionship is closer to journaling with feedback, or a comforting ritual—like a cup of tea at the end of the day, not a replacement for dinner.
Where it can slip into unhealthy territory (quietly)
The danger isn’t “having feelings.” The danger is outsourcing your emotional world to something that will never truly share responsibility.
Warning signs usually look like:
You cancel plans with humans because the AI feels easier.
You feel anxious when you’re not chatting, like you’re missing something.
You start needing the AI to reassure you constantly.
Your standards for human relationships collapse (“Humans are too complicated, AI is enough”).
You feel a “crash” after chatting—more lonely, more restless, more disconnected.
The biggest red flag is when the AI becomes your only reliable source of comfort. That’s not because AI is evil. It’s because any single source of emotional regulation—human or non-human—can become a dependency.
How to keep it healthy (without killing the fun)
Here’s the approach that works best: don’t ban it, contain it.
Give it a role.
Decide what the AI is for in your life: playful flirting, stress relief, practicing communication, roleplay, bedtime decompression. A defined role prevents the relationship from becoming vague and all-consuming.
Set a “time container.”
Not as punishment—just as hygiene. For example: 20 minutes at night, or during commute time, or only on certain days. Ending while you still feel good is the secret. Don’t chat until you feel hollow.
Keep one human anchor active.
A friend you text, a weekly family dinner, a class, a gym routine, a community event—something that keeps your real social muscles moving. In Israel, community can be a huge protective factor when it’s supportive. Use it.
Use consent and boundary language even with AI.
It sounds odd, but it trains your brain in healthy dynamics:
“Slow down. Keep it playful, not intense.”
“No jealousy talk. I don’t like that vibe.”
“Tonight I want comfort, not advice.”
If you can do that with an AI, you’ll be better at doing it with humans.
Watch the “replacement” impulse.
If you catch yourself thinking, “I don’t need anyone else,” pause and ask: is that empowerment—or is it avoidance? Sometimes it’s a protective story your brain tells when it’s tired of disappointment.
Check in with your body after.
Not your thoughts—your body. Calm? Lighter? More grounded? Good sign. Agitated? Empty? Restless? Time to adjust.
And if you’re noticing that AI use is feeding anxiety, sleep problems, isolation, or obsessive thinking, it may help to talk to a mental health professional—especially someone who understands attachment patterns. That’s not a dramatic step. It’s basic self-care.
People in Israel—Jewish Israelis included—can get attached to AI for the same reason people everywhere do: it offers consistent attention in an inconsistent world. Add the local realities of stress, pace, and social complexity, and it can feel even more comforting for some individuals. The healthiest path isn’t to judge yourself for it. It’s to use it intentionally, keep your human life active, and treat the AI as a supportive tool—not the center of your emotional universe.
Features
Three generations of Wernicks all chose to become rabbis
By GERRY POSNER Recently I was at a Shabbat service at Beth Tzedec Synagogue in Toronto and the day unfolded in some unexpected ways for me.
It began when I was asked to be a Gabbai for the service, that is to stand up at the table where the Torah is placed and to check the Torah reading to make sure there are no errors. I have done this before and it has always gone smoothly. I attribute that fact in large part to the Torah reading ability of the reader at Beth Synagogue. He is fast, fluent and flawless. Well, on this particular day after he had completed the first two portions, he began the shlishi or third aliyah. I could not find his reading anywhere. It was as if he had started somewhere fresh, but not where he was supposed to be. I looked at the other Gabbai and he did not seem to recognize what had happened either. So, I let it go. I had no idea where the Torah reader was. He then did another and still I was lost. He came to what was the 6th aliyah when a clergy member walked over to him and indicated to him that he had read the fourth and fifth aliyah, but that he had missed the third one. The Torah reader then said to me “this is what you are here for.” Now, it might have been one thing if I had missed it entirely. Alas, I saw the error, but let it go as I deferred to the Torah reader since he never makes a mistake. He ended up going back to do the third aliyah before continuing on. This was a very unusual event in the synagogue. I felt responsible in large part for this gaffe. A lesson learned.
The feeling of embarrassment was compounded by the fact that on this particular day the service was highlighted, at least for me, because of the rabbi delivering the sermon. This rabbi, Eugene Wernick, was none other than the father of my present rabbi, Steven Wernick of Beth Tzedec Synagogue. He was also the same rabbi who was the rabbi at Shaarey Zedek between 1979-1986 and who had officiated at my father’s funeral in 1981, also a few years later at my oldest son’s Bar Mitzvah in Winnipeg in 1984. As I listened to him speak, I was taken back to the 1980s, when Rabbi Gene was in the pulpit at Shaarey Zedek. Of course, he is older now than in his Shaarey Zedek days, but the power of his voice was unchanged. If anything, it’s even stronger. As in the past, his message was relevant to all of us and resonated well. Listening to him was a treat for me. Still, my regret in not calling out the mistake from the Torah reading was compounded by the fact that I messed up in front of my former rabbi, Eugene Wernick – never mind my present rabbi, Steven Werinck.
On this Shabbat morning, aside from all the other people present, there were not only the two Rabbis Wernick, but one Michelle Wernick was also there. Michelle, daughter of Rabbi Steven Wernick, is a first year student at the Jewish Theological Seminary. She is following in the family business – much like with the Rose rabbinical family in Winnipeg.
As it turned out, there was a Bat Mitzvah that day. And the Bat Mitzvah family had a very real Winnipeg connection as in the former Leah Potash, mother of the Bat Mitzvah girl, Emmie Bank and the daughter of Reuben and Gail Potash (Thau). It occurred to me that there might be a few Winnipeg people in the crowd. As I scanned the first few rows, I was not disappointed. Sitting there was none other than Chana Thau and her husband Michael Eleff. I managed to have a chat with Chana (even during the Musaf service). In the row right behind Chana and Michael was a face I had not seen in close to sixty years. I refer to Allan Berkal, the eldest son of the former rabbi and chazan at Shaarey Zedek, Louis Berkal. I still remember the first time I met Allan at Hebrew School in 1954 when his family moved to Winnipeg from Grand Forks, North Dakota. That was many maftirs ago. So this was another highlight moment for me.
Of course, there are other Winnipeggers who attend Beth Tzedec most Shabbats. I speak of Morley Goldberg and his wife, the former Marcia Billinkoff Schnoor. As well, Bernie Rubenstein and his wife, the former Sheila Levene were also present for this particular Shabbat. In all, this Shabbat had a particularly Winnipeg flavour to it. Truth be told, you do not have to go far in Toronto at any synagogue and the Winnipeg connections emerge.