exacerbated differences between Wise and his opponents. Freed from the restraints of censorship as in Europe, they publicly insulted each other in vitriolic terms that would be unacceptable today. Einhorn, for example, memorably referred to Wise’s lowly position in Europe and questionable ordination as rabbi with the statement that he, “would not set with that Bohemian ex-schochet [ritual slaughterer] ‘Rev. Dr.’ under one roof.” He called Wise “the Barnum of the Jewish pulpit” who “arrogates to himself the role of dictator,” and declared Wise’s Minhag America “an abortion.” Wise responded in The Israelite, calling Einhorn and his friends a pack of “unprincipled nobodies.”9
One of those friends was the revered scholar Marcus Jastrow, who after earning a rabbinical degree and doctorate of philosophy, had been jailed in Poland for speaking out on human rights. In 1866, Congregation Rodeph Shalom of Philadelphia brought Jastrow to America with a generous life contract and salary of $4000 a year, thus assuring his status as a “celebrity” rabbi. In contrast to his east coast colleagues Einhorn and Adler, Jastrow was a more temperate reformer who immediately enabled his congregation “to feel the pulse of the times in Judaism in America,” and was later instrumental in establishing Conservative Judaism. His opposition to Wise stemmed from theological differences and the fact that he viewed the Cincinnati rabbi as a radical reformer without principle or learning. He opposed Wise’s idea of a Union of American Hebrew Congregations and the seminary that it would support.10
Jastrow apparently called Wise a liar in a published pamphlet, whereupon Browne recalled having gone to Philadelphia “with the sole purpose of cowhiding Dr. Jastrow.” Fortunately the hot-headed acolyte reconsidered, but not without having called attention to himself as a quick-triggered spokesperson for Wise.11
Montgomery, 1868
With this already dubious reputation, Browne entered his career as a rabbi. Steering him clear of the volatile east coast communities, Wise sent him to a pulpit safely within the protective confines of his own “western” influence. In 1869, when the turbulence of Reconstruction gave Southern Jews more pressing issues to contend with than disputes over differing views of Judaism, Wise sent his protégé to the “Cradle of the Confederacy,” Montgomery, Alabama.
Congregation Kahl Montgomery (now Temple Beth Or) although incorporated in 1852, had actually been in existence for twenty years and its membership—mostly German, Alsatian, and Polish in origin—had increased far beyond its original thirty founders. In 1862, the congregation acquired a synagogue building, largely through a bequest from New Orleans philanthropist Judah Touro.12
The congregation had been served by numerous readers, whose duty it was to lead the services and sometimes to teach the children. They had to know Hebrew, but were neither ordained rabbis nor necessarily scholars. Only one actual rabbi, James K. Gutheim, served in Montgomery before Browne. A staunch Confederate, distinguished scholar and advocate of moderate Reform, Gutheim left New Orleans rather than sign a pledge of allegiance to the United States when the city fell to Federal forces. He survived the war by settling his family with his wife’s parents in Mobile and earned a minuscule income by serving the congregations both of Montgomery, Alabama, and Columbus, Georgia, to which he commuted on a part-time basis. At war’s end he returned to New Orleans, having led the formerly traditionalist Kahl Montgomery well into Reform.13
Browne might have anticipated encountering special problems in this Deep South community still anguished by defeat in what local residents referred to as the “War of the Northern Aggression.” When he arrived, the Alabama capital, original capital of the Confederacy, was still under military rule and far from having healed its war wounds. Montgomery’s Jews, although largely residents of long standing ostensibly comfortable in their gentile environment, under the stress of war had become ever more sensitive to their neighbors’ view of them. Although economic disaster engendered by the war affected Jews and Christians alike, it aroused some envy of those Jews who noticeably prospered, one example of which was a Jewish shoe manufacturer appointed to supervise production of shoes for the Confederate army. This stirred previously dormant antisemitism, and among Jews dredged memories of enduring persecution in Europe which intensified their resolve to be acknowledged as fervent defenders of the Lost Cause. It was not unusual to see framed Confederate money and army discharge papers mounted on the walls of their homes.14
The post-bellum situation called for utmost discretion in public discourse, especially in regard to patriotism and social justice. Browne refrained from overt reference to these subjects in his first lecture in Montgomery, which he gave on Sunday morning, August 1, 1869. Because in those days lectures were a major source of entertainment and it was understood that some Christians would attend, he chose “Ethics of the Talmud,” an apparently nonpolitical subject to which he had given much thought over a long period of time and for which he held passionate convictions. As a devotee of the Talmud since childhood, he strongly disagreed with Einhorn and the radical reformers who decried it. Considering his congregants’ sensitivity to Christian scrutiny however, some of his ideas may nevertheless have caused them discomfort.
In his preamble Browne stated that Talmudic ethics could be understood only “in close alliance with modern sciences,” which clearly indicated that he viewed sacred texts from a scientific perspective. The latter, a relatively new and disputed form of study known as Biblical criticism, was being developed primarily by Christian scholars in Europe, some of whom were reputedly anti-Semitic. Browne contended that few people of either faith understood Talmudic ethics because “only a few gentlemen of the old European Hebrew school” were sufficiently trained to comprehend the text, and they had been taught to regard it as “a study claiming the implicit faith of the student, a work which should not pass the speculative processes of the mind . . .beyond the test of mental synthesis or analysis.” Christian scholars, in turn, while devoting “much of their time to the investigation... according to the means at their command” had even less possibility of understanding it because they were “confined to mere translations, frequently very defective, generally very unsystematically arranged, and nothing more than trifling fragments.”15
Browne followed with a brief definition of the Talmud, including the fact that it was written over a period of six centuries, “and perhaps much longer... .” Furthermore, he noted, current knowledge depended upon men who collected and compiled the traditions long after their authors had died.
In the body of his lecture Browne examined four divisions of Talmudic ethics: reverence toward father and mother, charity and benevolence, preservation and restoration of peace, and study and instruction above all. He illustrated its ethical superiority by contrasting such examples as Sophocles’ reprimand of his son for disrespecting his mother Xantippe, and the story of Cleobis and Biton according to Herodotus and Plutarch, with the Talmudic account of Rabbi Tarphon having placed his hands under his mother’s feet to protect her from stepping on barren ground.
Browne then cited Talmudic sections on charity and peace, referring to Bar Kaprah’s “glimpse into heaven” to demonstrate that angels harbored no hatred despite their differences. Underscoring ecumenism, he quoted the Talmudic passage, “All that are toiling for the restoration and preservation of peace, without religious distinction, shall inherit of the Lord peace and happiness here and hereafter,” adding the similar passage from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.”16
Regarding the Talmudic injunction to study and teach, he reminded listeners that the Jewish tradition of public education dated from the time of Ezra, and described the zeal with which ancient rabbis pursued their own studies. To illustrate the excess of that zeal (and demonstrate his attitude toward the traditionalists) he noted that the rabbis of the Talmud, “like the ultra-orthodox of our days, carried everything to the extreme.” Scholars were so revered, he said, that they were exempted from such ordinary concerns as providing for their own sustenance. He cited as an example the story of Rabbi Simon Bar Yochai secluding himself in a cave for thirteen years, sustained by fruit from a tree that miraculously grew in the depths
