Rav David Lau, the chief rabbi of Israel, resembles his famous father, dresses like him, and now even holds the same high position. But the challenges he faces are vastly different, and in some ways more daunting than those of Rav Yisrael Meir.

R

av David Lau, the chief rabbi of Israel, resembles his famous father, dresses like him, and now even holds the same high position. But the challenges he faces are vastly different, and in some ways more daunting than those of Rav Yisrael Meir. In an age when the chief rabbinate must fight for its legitimacy from both corners of the religious spectrum, Rav David says he’s up for the task and energized by

The mission

Rabbi David Lau even handles bedlam with decorum.

When I enter the office of Israel’s Ashkenazic chief rabbi, I find it in a bit of turmoil — meetings running late, a tense conference in a side room, raised voices from within causing everyone in the waiting room to squirm. Soon enough Rav Lau comes out to apologize and reschedule our appointment. His hat is off and his frock blows behind him as he walks, but that’s the only indication that he’s rushed; in both composure and expression, he might as well be going to hand out certificates to children at a siddur party.

“Come to my house Friday,” he suggests. “It’s my free day, and we’ll speak then. Maybe there’ll even be kugel.”

I arrive punctually Friday morning, and the Rav enters his home a moment after I do. He takes off that immaculate frock (the custom cut and velvet lapels popularized by his father have given the garment its name, the “Frock Harav Lau”) and now in shirt-sleeves, forfeits none of his dignity. Though his resemblance to Rav Yisrael Meir Lau is remarkable, Rav David has something his father does not. The senior Rav Lau often notes that he was “never a child,” interned in a concentration camp at the age when most children are learning to ride a bicycle. His son, though, is all youthfulness: tall, vibrant, optimistic. His eyes sparkle as he unfolds his vision for his rabbanus, for his office, for his country.

Though, as he’s learning the ropes, this new role is more difficult than any childhood fairytale. He opens our discussion with further apology for the scheduling conflict. “Some days end up completely devoted to that type of thing, to bringing the system into the present, to making this office what it ought to be, what it needs to be.”

Lest I understand this as a concession that the Rabbanut is broken, that the charges hurled during the dirty election season last summer are true, he clarifies.

“There were problems, there are problems. But that doesn’t mean the Rabbanut isn’t working, it just means that we have to work harder than ever to untie every knot, to make the process as pleasant and simple as possible. And we’re doing it.”

To the secularists who say the Rabbanut lacks heart, to the chareidim who say it lacks backbone, Rav Lau answers, “Give us a chance and we’ll blow new life into this body; we’ll give it back its heart, its spine, its soul.”

His youth — at 48, he’s the second-youngest chief rabbi in the country’s history (Rav Herzog was a few months younger when he assumed the position) — is more than an asset. It represents the most important tool in his arsenal: promise.

The screenshot on the Rav’s phone shows an image of his son. Nothing unusual about that; it’s the pose and setting that speak volumes. Taken during the daily Minchah minyan in the office of the chief rabbi, the adorable child is seated in a large executive chair, under the Israeli flag, spinning around in front of the polished desk while his father stands nearby with his eyes shut tight, deep in prayer.

It’s an image reminiscent of the Kennedy presidency, when pictures of young children playing dress-up in the Oval Office captured the country’s attention with a promise that freshness and youth would fill the austere, staid halls.

The comparison is not inapt.

The Rav comes into the position at a challenging time, the office of the chief rabbinate sullied by scandal, its role attacked from all sides. To chilonim, it’s a web of red tape led by heartless officials who lack a genuine connection to the people. To many in the yeshivah world, it’s just another government division, a religious bureaucracy, and not genuine rabbanus.

He knows. He’s heard it all. And he’s confident that he can restore the prestige to a once-glorious office.

Rabbanit Tzippi Lau takes a break from setting the Shabbos table and joins us in the den.

“You need to understand that what drives my husband isn’t the glory of the Rabbanut alone,” she says, speaking with fervor, “but his personality. He is a proud person. My husband would have this attitude with any job he undertook. He likes to do things right. It helps that he has the energy of a young man.”

Though, as the Rabbanit is quick to point out, this isn’t an ideal job for someone with young children.

“The little ones don’t see their father anymore,” she admits. “He’s in Yerushalayim all day running what is, in effect, a major government subdivision.” Technically part of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the office of the chief rabbinate is responsible for marriage and divorce, conversion, kashrus, supervision of holy sites and burial, mikvaos, and the entire beis din system. “Then, when he gets away from the office, he’s crisscrossing the country, visiting farmers, inspecting factories, and attending events. That’s why I have no choice; once a week, I bring the children to his office. I gave up on his being home for homework or bedtime, but at least they should see that he exists.”

The Rav blushes slightly at her candor, and shares an admission of his own. “With the older children, we had very clear rules. If they came into the room in the middle of the night, we always sent them back to their own beds. Now, when my four-year-old shows up at two a.m., I pull him in. It’s his only time with his father.”

In the months leading up to last summer’s election, there were many rabbinic groups opposed to the modus operandi of the Rabbanut, insisting that they could do the job better, with more heart and compassion. The rabbanim are deeply enmeshed in Israeli society, and, like any service-provider, they are judged on how good the service actually is. A favored allegation was that conversion standards and narrow rules governing marriage and divorce (two hot-button topics) make it difficult for the clientele — brides, grooms, and potential converts.

Rav Lau shrugs. “I hear that, but what about compassion for Klal Yisrael? What about service to our nation? Isn’t the purity of our lineage worthy of protection, too? Sure, you can smile at every potential convert and say ‘Welcome aboard,’ like the organizations that oppose us would want us to do; you can stamp every marriage and divorce document without a background check, but then you’re being cruel, not nice.

“And maybe,” the Rav says, leaning forward, “opponents of the Rabbanut are not the solution but the problem.”

He describes a meeting with an editor of a leading Israeli periodical. “My grandchildren don’t care about the beit haknesset,” the journalist complained, “they feel no connection.”

“If your grandchildren have no interest in stepping in, it’s your fault, not ours,” the Rav replied. “The rabbanim are great, there are siddurim and places to sit — even candymen. But you have to make the first step to get them in the door. If your grandfather did that for you, shouldn’t you do that for them?

“Now,” he says, reaching his conclusion, “who created the sense that rabbanim are enemies, that the shuls are poorly run? It was those very organizations who ostensibly care about the ‘soul’ of Judaism. The hate campaign they wage isn’t very compassionate, is it?”

In line with this vision, and the editor’s grievance, Rabbi Lau has launched an initiative that would see every single Jew in the country visit a shul once a year. “It’s not about observance, it’s about being aware of what a shul is, how it runs. To see and feel the inside so that they don’t feel like strangers to Yiddishkeit.”

The rabbanim have enthusiastically endorsed the plan, opening synagogue doors wide for tours and private visits.

“We will try to get them in, but it’s up to the parents and the educational system not to drive them away.”

In the words of prominent Israeli journalist Yaakov Friedman: “Rav Lau is making change, and he’s doing it without screaming gevald.”

His trial run has been a success: He started out as rabbi of Shoham, a little town on the way to Ben Gurion airport, before being appointed as the first rav of Modiin back when the town was established in 2003. Late each Thursday night, he still gives a parshah shiur to the locals. The attendees are proud that their maggid shiur has risen to become the country’s chief rabbi, but the atmosphere at the weekly gathering is less of awe than of warmth and camaraderie. The shiur is typical of the rabbi’s approach. While many of the town’s residents are observant or traditional, Modiin was never meant to be a chareidi town. Realistic about the challenge of bringing Torah to the people, young Rabbi Lau, in his mid-30s at the time, established a shiur.

“But,” he smiles brightly, “you know how you have NBA and NFL in America? Here it’s basketball; for people who have some empty space in their lives, it becomes life. Rather than compete, we made our Thursday night shiur for 11 p.m., which is after the game ends.”

On the Thursday night of my visit, the shiur dealt with the halachos of DNA and their use in identifying bodies. He concluded the weekly get-together with a vort on the parshah, quoting the Alter of Kelm.

He stopped and looked around. “Nu, who was the Alter of Kelm?”

Several of the men called out, “Rabbi Simcha Zissel Ziv.”

Like a proud teacher, he beamed at them. “Very good.” He does this, I learn, with each gadol he quotes, eager to introduce his students not just to text, but to spirit.

They have enjoyed his rise, even though he has much less time for them than he once did. They have a private online discussion group, this chevreh, on which they post articles about their man. They appreciate that he has remained in Modiin, that he hasn’t used the town as a stepping stone and then forgotten it once it outlived its use.

A white-haired local with the air of a retired professor tells me about the night the Rav was elected chief rabbi. “There were people coming to the house all night. He didn’t sleep at all. But at six a.m. he was at the daily shiur, same as every day. It was as if he was making it clear that it hadn’t changed, and he still keeps that shiur, until today.”

Rabbi David Lau is undeniably polished; his answers are eloquent, his sentences well-formulated, but as the conversation progresses, it is delightful to watch him relax and speak with casual ease. He laughs heartily when I use a great Hebrew term, one that has no English counterpart: ben-shel, “son of.” Just as his youth is a gift, but also a challenge, his last name presents its own test, namely whether he will be viewed as a force in his own right when his father held the very same seat with great distinction, and who is still an active member of the Rabbinate as chief rabbi of Tel Aviv.

Rabbanit Tzippi is happy to weigh in with a story she heard from one of her husband’s elementary school classmates. The menahel was administering a test to the fifth-graders, and stopped at the desk of ten-year-old Dudi Lau. “You need a test? I’m sure that a grandson of Rav Frankel and a son of Rav Lau knows the material perfectly!”

The child stood up and reached for his schoolbag and jacket. He walked to the door and turned around. “If you want a grandson or a son, find someone else; my name is Dudi Lau.”

The Rav enjoys the story. “Of course my identity as his son earns me a certain trust and respect. I owe my father everything. But everybody wants to feel independent, and it’s a tightrope we walk.”

He laughs. “I’ll tell you a story. We had a complicated sh’eilah at the Rabbanut about kitchen procedures in hotels under our hechsher. I consulted and researched it and reached a certain position; my father disagreed with it. Now, I have no problem with the fact that we argued in learning; the Gemara talks about the power of Torah, ‘that even a father and son who are “enemies” in the gates of Torah, love each other at the end,’ but my father was worried about stepping on my toes. As an active municipal rav, he is a member of the Rabbanut committee and he felt that he shouldn’t attend the meeting if he disagreed with my position. He couldn’t agree, in principle, but also didn’t want to make me look bad. I urged him to come just the same, and he finally agreed that he would attend, but he wouldn’t speak.”

At the meeting, when the various rabbanim were asked to weigh in, the elder Rav Lau sat quietly. His son looked at him. “I have a sense that the Tel Aviv rav has something to contribute to this discussion,” he said, effectively inducing his father to share his views.

“That’s the way it has to be, that’s the beauty of a rabbanus where people communicate; I didn’t feel like I had to accept his psak, but I wanted it to be heard.”

This leads the Rav to reflect upon his relationship with his Sephardic counterpart, the Rishon L’Tzion Rav Yitzhak Yosef, a son of Rav Ovadiah Yosef. The two men work just down the hall from each other. Both are seen as chareidi office holders, which means they have to work extra hard to reach the people. Each is constantly viewed against the backdrop of a famous father.

“We have much in common, but still, all relationships take work.”

After the horrific massacre at a Har Nof shul, the Rishon L’Tzion called for increased police presence at every single shul and school, urging heightened security at holy places. Rav Lau disagreed, feeling it imprudent to worry the people that way, to create a sense of shuls and yeshivos as being dangerous places.

The media announced a rift between the two chief rabbis, analyzing their respective positions as reflective of a larger disagreement.

“One of our first joint takanos was a shared commitment to learn once a week; we get together, we connect through learning, and then we shmooze. We maintain that, and we are able to laugh about reported ‘disagreements.’ ”

Tradition in Israel sees the two chief rabbis divide up their major roles: one serves as nasi beis din hagadol, chief of the country’s supreme rabbinic court, and the other as rosh ma’arachat hakashrut, chief of the kashrus division. They switch halfway through the ten-year term. Generally, the Ashkenazic rav starts off at the helm of the beis din while his Sephardic colleague leads the kashrus division.

After the election in the summer of 2013, Chacham Ovadiah asked a favor of young Rav Lau. “My son is coming from a career as Rosh Yeshivah, while you are coming directly from the world of rabbanut. Would you assume responsibility for the kashrus department first, and allow him to go second?”

Rav Lau immediately accepted, earning a shower of praise and blessings from Chacham Ovadiah. “But it meant that shemittah, the immediate challenge of our new rabbanus, was my issue.”

Shemittah in Israel is well more than just a halachic sugya; it’s politics, ideology, and law all mixed together. “I made it my mission, my first real project. I pored over the solutions of the previous rabbanim, and found many loopholes that had been used over the years; the existing heter mechirah needed work. Interestingly, the very first rav harashi, Rav Kook, developed a heter mechirah that hadn’t been used by the subsequent rabbanim. I reworked it and found that it addresses many of the concerns. From the moment I was elected, Rav Chaim Kanievsky made it clear that shemittah k’halachah should be the priority. He’s given me as much time as I need and, b’siyata d’Shmaya, we’ve succeeded; we have a higher number of shomrei sheviis farmers than ever before — and the Rabbanut urges and encourages complete shemiras sheviis — but for those who opt for the heter mechirah, we have a proper and halachically sound process now.”

On Erev Rosh Hashanah, the chief rabbi received a phone call. “V'tzivisi es birchasi,” Rav Chaim said, quoting the words of the pasuk assuring blessing to those who protect shemittah, “alecha, on you.”

Rav Chaim has found other ways to show his appreciation to the young chief rabbi, a welcome visitor at his humble apartment on Rechov Rashbam. “I was giving a shiur on tefillah, and we came across an Abudraham that says that all the pesukim in the tefillah of Yehi Chevod were said by Dovid Hamelech. We had a question: The pasuk of ‘Rabbos machashavos b’lev ish’ is in Mishlei, written by Shlomo Hamelech. I asked around, but no one had an answer. So the next time I was by Rav Chaim, I asked him. He looked off into space, as if reading, and began to move his finger through the air as he spoke. He read the words of a midrash that tells how when Dovid Hamelech wanted to build the Beis Hamikdash, he was informed from Heaven that he wouldn’t be the one to complete it. He reacted by saying, ‘Rabbos machshavos b’lev ish, va’atzas Hashem hee sakum.’ As soon as I left, I hurried into the nearby Lederman shul and found the source, just as Rav Chaim said.”

As a ten-year-old, David Lau was determined to be his own person, not just his father’s son. Decades later, how is his identity different from that of his father?

Prominent Los Angeles businessman Zvika Ryzman is a close friend and mechutan of the family; both Rabbis Lau have visited his home and have been honored with delivering the advanced weekly shiur at the Ryzman home.

“Both men share the same skills, eloquence, clarity, a real ahavas Yisrael — but the son is a product of a different generation. There is no longer the automatic respect for rabbanim that there once was and he is aware that he has to earn it. He works hard.”

A veteran political activist close to the family tells me that the son has a firmness that the father never needed. “The battle against the Rabbanut, especially in matters of conversion, means that the younger Rabbi Lau has had to develop a much thicker skin than his father. He’s been forced to stand tough and he’s done it. Hu hiftia otanu, he surprised us all.”

Despite the diplomatic gifts he certainly inherited from his father, the younger Rav Lau has faced his share of controversy. Just weeks after his election, he was giving a talk to talmidim at the prestigious Bnei Brak yeshivah, Beis Mattisyahu, his own alma mater. The Rav spoke about the impression it makes on a secular public when yeshivah bochurim stand by a sidewalk kiosk or in a public venue watching a basketball game on television. The point was that when yeshivah bochurim are engaged in learning, the demands that they serve in the army fade away, but when chilonim see yeshivah bochurim engaged in idle pursuit, the questions return.

“And besides, what do you care about a game between Kushim who get paid in Israel and Kushim who get paid in Greece. Who cares about the result?” In using the word “Kushim” for black people, the Rav appeared racist, and the indignant accusations and complaints from politicians and pundits were quick in coming. It was headline news the next day.

The new chief rabbi reacted with finesse. He apologized and told everyone to relax. He explained that people aren’t always careful in their choice of words, especially when they’re trying to make a point, and he assured the public that it wouldn’t happen again.

In the face of his understated regret, the story fell away.

In the time since, he has learned to tailor his message to the audience. During last summer’s Operation Protective Edge, he spent long days in the car going from shivah house to shivah house, offering words of comfort to bereaved parents of fallen soldiers.

He is determined to accept as many invitations as he can to visit schools, communities, and organizations. He and his family have gone to spend Shabbos in various lesser-known moshavim. In the weeks prior to our conversation, the Laus had been to Tel Mond, Herzliya, and Yad Binyamin.

“Though my hosts coordinate the davening and speaking schedule, I always ask if I can visit the secular neighborhoods as well to try to establish a connection. We do question-and-answer sessions, impromptu discussions, whatever they want. It worked in Modiin and I believe it can work anywhere.”

Yes, he considers himself rabbi to everyone, but there is a line in the sand, one that he refuses to cross, a position that recently earned him the respect of American gedolei Torah. On a visit to New York, he was slated to speak at Chovevei Torah, the Riverdale institution that calls itself “Orthodox” but, in ideology, is anything but.

It was an innocent mistake; the office staff had taken the school’s claim at face value.

Days before the scheduled appearance, the Rav was called into a closed-door meeting with the Novominsker Rebbe and several askanim. They explained the situation; the rav harashi understood and immediately canceled the speech.

The decision could not have come at a worse time, PR-wise. The Jewish Equality Resource Coalition and similar groups turned to a sympathetic media with a great new story: the growing estrangement many American Jews feel toward Israel. “Given the direction in which American Jews, particularly young American Jews, are headed with respect to their commitment and concern about Israel, anything that would further complicate it like the chief rabbinate’s disdainful approach to anyone who isn’t Orthodox by their definition would further alienate the American Jewish community. I don’t think Israel can afford that,” the group’s spokesman warned.

The refusal was quickly spun as further evidence that the chief rabbinate was locked in a time warp, out of touch with a changing world. But Rabbi Lau held firm.

“I told them that they were always welcome to come visit, our door is open to all Jews, but I could not honor an institution like that by appearing there.”

On his way to the airport for the return flight, Rav Lau made a phone call.

He wanted to personally thank the askan who’d called the meeting earlier in the week. “He saved me from a pitfall and I’m grateful.”

Rabbi Dovid Eliezrie, a Chabad shaliach to Yorba Linda, California recently welcomed Rav Lau to his region. “He’s the real thing. He’s got the ability to connect with people on their level.”

Rabbi Eliezrie describes accompanying the visiting chief rabbi. “The day started off with Shacharis at Rabbi Chaim Baruch Rubin’s shul [Etz Chaim] in Los Angeles, a typical chareidi/heimish shul, where he felt and acted at home. Then we continued on to a high-level meeting for a secular pro-Israel lobbying group, where he won the people over, even though he told them that as important as their investment in Israel is, there is a more important cause — their children’s chinuch. Next we went to the Lubavitcher yeshivah, where he delivered a lomdishe shiur after which he spent time visiting a local shaliach who suffers from ALS, lifting his spirits. A serious and complicated meeting with all California shluchim followed, a discussion which touched on several halachic and hashkafic issues, and the Rav carried the conversation with aplomb. Next, we went to do a question-and-answer session at University of Southern California, where the audience was composed of Jewish student leaders from campuses across the country.”

Among the well-formulated and direct questions posed, a student wondered why it was that there were so many “angry Jewish women,” and what might be done to give women more of a role in Jewish life.

Rav Lau offered his liberal, progressive audience an example. “If Moshe Rabbeinu were to come back today and need to borrow a pair of tefillin, I would be comfortable giving him mine because I know that they are exactly the same as every other pair going back to Har Sinai; our rules are what gives Judaism its power. I don’t know what the world will look like in 100 years, but I’m certain that Jewish women will still be lighting Shabbos candles. Our rules aren’t a means to an end but the end itself.”

The students applauded the answer, and the message.

“I joined him in a meeting with leaders of the Federation; for him, it was like walking into the lion’s den,” says Rabbi Eliezri. “These people, some of the strongest and most committed friends of Israel, want validation for their brand of Judaism, they want to feel like Jews. They know that the Chief Rabbinate doesn’t see things the way they do. They were on the attack, but he succeeded in connecting with them. I can’t say that they all agreed with his viewpoint, but they all left the room respecting him.

“It’s one thing to talk halachah in Yerushalayim,” says Rabbi Eliezrie, “but it’s quite another to win these people over on their turf.”

Aside from his father, the Rav has had several other influences. He is a proud talmid of elite yeshivos, Ponevezh and Beis Mattisyahu among them, and still maintains a connection with his roshei yeshivah. And here’s something you don’t know about the chief rabbi: On the Yamim Noraim, he serves as baal tefillah for Mussaf. “I use the nusach of Ponevezh and Beis Mattes, here in Modiin. The first few years, it might have been strange for the locals. It’s different than the traditional nusach they were used to, but I couldn’t let it go. Now, they daven along.”

His maternal grandfather, Rav Yitzchak Yedidya Frankel, rav of Tel Aviv, remains his role model. As Rav Lau walks me out of his apartment, the attractive neighborhood (well-kept roads, late-model cars, basketball nets in most driveways) is showing signs of the approaching Shabbos; not like in a chareidi neighborhood, perhaps, but the mood is there. Pedestrians carry bulging shopping bags, of the eco-friendly variety, and they stop to nod at their respected neighbor. “Shabbat Shalom, Harav.”

“If you engage Jews on any level, even just to say ‘hello,’ then you have the connection necessary to go further.” The Rav looks toward the Erev Shabbos sky. “My grandfather started as rav in the Florentine district in South Tel Aviv, a poor neighborhood where the housing was cheaply built. In the early years, there were often fires and many of the locals would come to his house and ask him to store their prized possessions — valuables, heirlooms, photos — and keep them safe.

“They had this innate trust that he would take care of them. This way, he was able to influence them spiritually as well. If you genuinely like people, if you care for their wellbeing, then they’ll accept your direction in other areas as well.”

He stops, pensive, and addresses what might be the biggest challenge of his rabbanus; using generations-old techniques of positivity, warmth, and graciousness in an era of mudslinging and skepticism. “None of them, not my father, not my grandfather, had to contend with this level of cynicism. But they taught that it’s possible to earn respect through your own actions and it’s the call of the hour, for me and every single rav in Klal Yisrael.”

My soft-spoken host speaks with resolve. “I accept that people can change — we can try to be more accessible, more pleasant, more understanding. But the Torah doesn’t change. If I have a mantra, it’s Ani maamin b’emunah sheleimah shezos haTorah lo tehei muchlefes.

“People change; the Torah never changes. It’s not happening.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 554)