Someone close to me was explaining why he thought I was so dismissive, particularly of religious views that I did not agree with. In his opinion, this reflected the distinction between the rigorous Lithuanian academic yeshiva training, and, on the other hand, the Chassidic tendency to enjoy a more mystical, more laid-back, even casual, life of joy.

As in all such theories, generalizations are risky — but there may well be an element of truth here.

In Eastern Europe, there were two powerful schools of thought and religious influence. The mainstream traditional world was typified by the brilliant and encyclopedic Vilna Gaon. Intense academic study of Torah was regarded as the most important and determining factor in Jewish religious life. In contrast, the Chassidic (pious) movement initiated by the Ba’al Shem Tov, focused much more on religious feeling and welcoming everybody regardless of their degree of learning. One was in a way an elite academic, meritocratic movement. The other was more popular and dynastic.

There was some criticism of the mainstream rabbinic world that came to be known as the Yeshivish branch of Judaism. It was thought by some to be too academic and not sufficiently spiritual. To counterbalance that, a movement known as the Mussar movement, spearheaded by Rabbi Israel Salanter, developed in Eastern Europe. Mussar spread to Kelm, Slobodka, and Novardok, each interpreting Salanter’s teachings in its own way and implementing a distinctive program of Mussar education and supervision.

Later, in Mir yeshiva in Lithuania, where my father studied (and I did too when it transferred to Jerusalem after the Second World War) Mussar played a very important part and was included in the curriculum. The Mashgiach, the spiritual adviser, of the old Mir, Rav Yerucham Levovitz, was a powerful, charismatic man, and according to my father, he was the most important religious influence in his life.

The secular side was also an influence on my father intellectually. In his day, secondary education in England was not free, and so after primary school, the only option left was for him to go to a full-time yeshiva in the East End of London. But there he only got a religious education.

One of his favorite pastimes was to participate in the weekly debates at Hyde Park Corner in London, where young minds could get up on a soap-box platform and argue their case on any political, social, or religious issue they cared about. It was a hive of unrestrained debate where only wit and intellect would survive, and one had to cultivate the art of repartee, of putting somebody down with the perfect insult, to win the debate. That was a skill my father picked up and used throughout his life — with devastating and sometimes cruel effect both as a rabbi and as a teacher.

My father was a Litvak (even if his parents had come from Chassidic stock) and he was dismissive of much in Chassidic ideology. Years later, towards the end of his life, my father would become an admirer of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who represented the very best of the Chassidic world. It was too late for me, even if I married into two different Chassidic dynasties.

My point was that this side of my father was just as much a reflection of his religious Lithuanian side as were his acerbic wit and capacity for demolishing opinions. He did not suffer fools gladly. And it was a side of his character that I think I adopted, but of course without either his expertise or brilliant personality.

Both have contributed to my anti-establishment and maverick personality. I recoil when people like to come up with oversimplified theories that invariably miss something in understanding the total picture. I was grateful to the person I mentioned earlier for even trying to understand what made me who I became.

But in general, whether it’s religion or politics, there are no simple answers. Life is too complicated and multifaceted to be reduced to a single theory, or for there to be only one explanation for anything.

The author is a writer and rabbi in New York.