While these concerns were largely political and intended for the Russian regime, Fuenn also delved into more theological reflection; he claimed that “the majority of Christian beliefs and positions were in no way opposed to Jewish beliefs and those that were, could be traced back to what was espoused in the New Testament.”101 This sounds close to Soloveitchik, although Soloveitchik would likely argue that divergences between rabbinic law and Christian doctrine are likely the result of an error in our understanding of one or the other, or both. While it is not clear that Soloveitchik had seen Levenson’s, Fuenn’s, or Zweifel’s responses to McCaul (although he certainly could have), his approach is different, perhaps toward similar ends. Soloveitchik, who was not a maskil or reformer, would agree with McCaul on one point and disagree on another. He would agree that the Talmud is an authoritative text and that Jews are bound to it (here he would disagree with Levenson and Fuenn). That is, he would reject the reformist diminution of the Talmud to deflect McCaul’s claim that it stands in the way of an enlightened Jewish polity. But he would disagree with McCaul that the Talmud is an impediment to good citizenry. Soloveitchik’s commentary is devoted precisely to show the symmetry and not the dissonance between the Talmud and the Gospel. From one perspective, Soloveitchik presents his case as a staunch traditionalist; and from another perspective, as someone open to the truth of Christian claims, albeit from a traditionalist perspective. In this sense, and when contrasted with the likes of Levenson, Fuenn, and Zweifel, he seemed to be a distinctive, even dissonant, voice among the Jews, even as his goals may have been idiosyncratically close to the maskilic position.
Stanislaus Hoga, the Jewish apostate and collaborator with McCaul, is closest to Soloveitchik.102 This seems odd because Hoga was a convert to Christianity, albeit one who later seemed to return to the Jewish fold (although that is far from certain) and then defended Judaism against McCaul’s missionizing. Hoga was born as Yehezkel ben Aryeh Leib in Kuzmir, Poland, in 1791. His father, a maggid named Aryeh Leib, was a disciple of the celebrated Hasidic master R. Jacob Isaac Hurwitz (1745–1815), known as the Seer of Lublin. Like Soloveitchik, Hoga was raised in an ultra-traditional world of extreme piety and Talmud study. His prodigious talents resulted in attracting the attention of Polish prince Adam Czartoryski, who took the adolescent (who was already married) with him to Palawy, not far from Casimir, to study modern languages. Through a series of bizarre events, including abandoning his wife and family and running off with a local woman named Yitta, with whom he eventually had another family, Hoga converted to Christianity (with Yitta and his two daughters) and took the name Stanislaus Hoga (in his home region, he was referred to as Ḥaskel Hameshumad—Ezekiel the apostate).103 He likely met McCaul during one of McCaul’s residences in Warsaw and, according to David Ruderman, Hoga likely followed McCaul back to England and became involved with the London Society and McCaul, translating McCaul’s Old Paths into Hebrew as Netivot shalom, which became popular in Eastern Europe.104 The remaining details of Hoga’s bizarre, colorful, and tragic life are fascinating but not relevant except for the fact that he returned to Judaism later in life—although that, too, is a matter of debate—and published two works relevant to our topic. The first is The Controversy of Zion: A Meditation on Judaism and Christianity, in 1845; the second is Zir Ne’eman: The Faithful Missionary, published in 1847.105
The Controversy of Zion is a scathing critique of missionaries who attack Jewish law and practice as antithetical to Christianity (this may be driven partly by McCaul’s Old Paths, which Hoga knew better than anyone). Ruderman suggests that the message of this later work is clear: “It is possible for a Jew to believe in Jesus without abrogating his observance of Jewish law”; thus, undermining what both religions share, by criticizing the very ritual acts that “remind Jews of their belief in one God,” is a grave error. “Christ is the crown and perfection of the law. But a Jew can only believe in him through his observance of the mitzvot, his natural covenant with God.”106 Hoga’s attack is not only against Christians but also Jewish converts who functioned as missionaries, such as Moses Margoliouth (1820–1881) whose The Fundamental Principles of Modern Judaism Investigated (1843) promoted McCaul’s anti-Talmudic agenda.107 Hoga argued that being a believing and practicing Jew was the only way for the Jew to be a good Christian. Jews need to know that. And Christians need to know that. Whether this is a repudiation of his conversion remains unclear, but it certainly changes the pattern of missionizing of the London Society.
Hoga’s final work, Zir Ne’eman, goes much further than The Controversy of Zion and declares war on McCaul’s entire body of work, including The Old Paths, which Hoga translated into Hebrew; it is this work that convinces Lask Abrahams and others that Hoga was a real baal teshuvah, that he repudiated his conversion to Christianity and returned to the traditional Jewish fold (even as a convert, Hoga was critical of Jewish Reform).108 Ruderman is less convinced. While it is true that Hoga seemed to be embraced by at least some Jews in London, indicated by the fact that he published regularly during those years in the Jewish Chronicle, which is odd if he were still considered an apostate, there is no real indication or tangible evidence that Hoga ever turned his back fully on Christianity.109
If Ruderman is correct, Hoga would represent one who embodies what Ruderman calls a “mingled identity,” both Jew and Christian, or, perhaps, neither Jew nor Christian. This Hebrew Christian identity fits nicely with an oblique remark that Holga makes in The Controversy of Zion: “It is vain to think of the conversion of the Jews to Christianity before Christians themselves are converted to Judaism.”110 We can see how close Hoga comes to Soloveitchik, albeit from the opposite end of the conversion divide. My reading of Soloveitchik is that Jews need not convert to Christianity because all that is true in Christianity is part of Judaism. And Christians need not try to convert Jews for the same reason.
As I mentioned above, this may be one of Soloveitchik’s goals of his commentary Qol Qore. Both religions, for Soloveitchik, express the same core value of divine unity expressed in different forms. Exhibiting this shared goal need not require diminishing the status of the Talmud (Levenson, Fuenn, et al.) or claiming the superiority of Judaism (medieval polemical literature). Many reformers in Soloveitchik’s time, such as I. M. Jost, David Friedlander, and Lazarus Bendavid, argued that rabbinic Judaism (the Talmud) had corrupted the true form of Israelite Mosaism.111 While this may have bothered him, to the extent that he was familiar with these writings, Soloveitchik seems more focused on the diminution of the Talmud as a tool of missionizing. For Soloveitchik, conversion becomes unnecessary; for Hoga, it becomes irrelevant. Hoga believed that a Jew could believe in Jesus and still live by the law. This was the essential message in his Controversy of Zion. If I am right about Hoga—and I agree with Ruderman that his choices seem more complicated than simply renouncing his conversion—he would not have to refute his conversion to return to Judaism. And Soloveitchik would not have to convert to Christianity to acknowledge its truth; he can do so solidly within his Jewish milieu—not as a reformer but as a Volozhin-trained Talmudist.