From Netzarim to Torah-Observant

A personal essay on returning to the necessity of Oral Torah and what it means to me

Derekh HaTorah: The Path of Torah I Have Come to Walk

My journey toward observant Judaism has not been a straight road. It has been a process of inheritance, questioning, reconstruction, disappointment, rediscovery, and return. At each stage, I believed I was moving closer to Torah. Sometimes I was. At other times, I was carrying assumptions that I had not yet learned to recognize. Looking back, I do not feel the need to condemn the path that brought me here. Every stage gave me something important. Every stage also left me with questions that eventually demanded more honest answers.

I was raised in a mixed Netzarim and Reform environment. That is not a confession of guilt or an accusation against those traditions. It is simply the religious soil in which I grew. Reform Judaism gave me a love for Jewish identity, a strong sense of ethical purpose, and an appreciation for the rhythms of Jewish life as my family and community understood them. It taught me that being Jewish mattered and that Judaism had something meaningful to say about justice, compassion, responsibility, and the dignity of human beings.

It also formed within me an assumption that I did not fully recognize at the time. That assumption was that the individual ultimately stands above the religious system. A person may value tradition, participate in community, and draw inspiration from sacred texts, but the final authority remains personal judgment. The individual decides which obligations remain meaningful, which teachings should be reinterpreted, and which parts of Judaism no longer bind.

This can appear thoughtful and morally serious. It can even feel humble because it refuses to follow authority blindly. Yet it places the individual in the position of assembling a personal Judaism from the elements that resonate while setting aside those that do not. Judaism becomes something one curates rather than something to which one submits.

It was within a similar atmosphere that I encountered Netzarim Judaism. I learned it, practiced it, and eventually taught it. At the time, Netzarim felt like a return. It seemed to offer a way out of religious vagueness and back toward Torah, commandments, covenant, and obedience. It emphasized the written text, the plain meaning of Scripture, and the responsibility of the individual to take God’s commandments seriously.

That emphasis was deeply compelling to me. It seemed to answer a hunger that I had not always known how to express. I wanted a Judaism that was more than cultural memory, ethical sentiment, or inherited identity. I wanted a Judaism that asked something of me. I wanted the seriousness of covenant and the discipline of commandments.

Netzarim appeared to provide that seriousness while avoiding what many of us perceived as the accumulated burdens of rabbinic Judaism. It drew heavily from Karaite instincts: distrust of later religious layers, suspicion of inherited authority, preference for the written text, and a desire to return to what could be demonstrated directly from Scripture.

Looking back, I have sometimes described Netzarim Judaism as a Reform form of Karaite Judaism or a Karaite form of Reform Judaism. The precise wording matters less than the underlying tension. The Karaite instinct says that we should bind ourselves to Scripture. The Reform instinct says that the individual determines what is binding. When those two instincts are joined, the result may look strict because it uses the language of Torah and commandments, yet remain structurally modern because inherited authority is still subordinate to personal judgment.

For a long time, that synthesis seemed both faithful and courageous. It felt as though I were stripping away human additions and returning directly to the voice of God. It gave me clarity, structure, purpose, and a moral spine. It seemed to offer a Judaism that was commanded rather than merely suggested.

I still understand why it was attractive. In many ways, Netzarim was trying to solve a real problem. Modern Jewish life contains a painful gap between Jews who desire greater observance and the communities in which traditional observance is most fully practiced. Many Jews raised in Reform or otherwise liberal environments eventually begin to seek more Torah, more prayer, more ritual, and a greater sense of obligation. Yet they may discover that entering an established Orthodox community requires far more than adopting a few additional practices.

Traditional Jewish life is intensely communal. Full participation may require living within walking distance of a synagogue, residing inside an eruv, having access to kosher food, arranging employment around Shabbat and the festivals, and becoming part of a social world with its own expectations and cultural language. In many places, the cost of living in an established Orthodox neighborhood is beyond the reach of an average family. Relocation may be financially impossible or disruptive to employment, marriage, children, or care for extended family.

There are also social barriers. Some Orthodox communities can appear insular, suspicious of outsiders, or dismissive of Jews whose backgrounds do not fit expected patterns. A Jew who wants to become more observant may feel that the only available choice is to uproot an entire life and enter a community in which they will still be regarded as religiously inadequate.

For many people, this is not a realistic path.

Netzarim attempted to answer the needs of Jews who wanted the seriousness of Torah but could not or would not enter a conventional Orthodox environment. It spoke to people who felt Jewish but did not feel commanded, people who wanted a more disciplined spiritual life, and people who feared that religious institutions had confused human custom with divine law.

The mistake, as I now see it, was not in recognizing the problem. The mistake was in identifying the Oral Torah as the source of the problem.

The reasoning seemed understandable. If rabbinic law appeared difficult to follow in modern life, perhaps it had become distorted or unnecessarily burdensome. If greater observance seemed to require financial hardship, relocation, social conformity, or the disruption of family life, perhaps this could not be what God intended. If religious authorities had sometimes confused communal preferences with commandments, perhaps inherited authority itself was untrustworthy.

From that perspective, returning to the Written Torah alone seemed to provide an elegant solution. Keep what could be read directly. Set aside what could not be verified. Remove the later layers and rebuild Jewish life from the visible text.

I understand why that solution appealed to me. It seemed to preserve Torah while freeing people from institutional control. It offered a way to move from Judaism as identity to Judaism as covenant. It felt like an escape from vagueness without surrendering individual integrity.

Over time, however, cracks began to appear. They did not appear because I had become less committed to Torah. They appeared because I was becoming less willing to ignore the weaknesses in my own position.

The first difficulty was practical. The Written Torah is not a self-operating instruction manual. It contains commandments, but many commandments cannot be practiced without definitions, procedures, boundaries, and shared interpretations. Torah commands Israel to observe Shabbat, but the written text alone does not provide every detail required to determine the boundaries of prohibited labor. It commands the use of particular ritual objects without always describing their full construction or manner of use. It establishes courts, sacrifices, purity rules, civil obligations, criminal penalties, family laws, agricultural laws, and forms of worship that cannot be administered through private reading alone.

Sooner or later, commandments must be lived. Living them requires decisions. Decisions require interpretation. Interpretation creates precedents, principles, and processes. The moment a community begins answering practical questions, it is no longer practicing a purely written religion. It is developing an oral tradition, whether it admits it or not.

This became one of the most important realizations of my religious life. A person may reject the inherited Oral Torah, but that does not eliminate oral tradition. It merely replaces the inherited tradition of the Jewish people with a new tradition created by contemporary individuals and teachers.

Every supposedly Scripture-only community eventually develops accepted interpretations. It determines how commandments are practiced, which teachers are reliable, which translations are preferred, how disagreements are resolved, and what standards members are expected to follow. These decisions may not be formally called Oral Torah, but they serve the same practical function. The difference is that they lack the depth, continuity, collective memory, and legal development of the tradition they replaced.

The second difficulty was communal. Judaism is not a lone-wolf spiritual project. The Torah does not describe Israel as a collection of religious individuals who happen to read the same book. It describes a covenantal people.

Israel is commanded to establish courts, appoint judges, maintain communal standards, observe a shared calendar, gather for worship, care for the vulnerable, administer justice, and embody holiness publicly. Jewish life is built through families, communities, teachers, courts, and institutions. Even commandments performed by individuals exist within the life of the people.

When everyone becomes their own final authority, we do not receive a people living under Torah. We receive isolated religious consumers who share certain texts but remain governed by personal preference. Each person may claim fidelity to Scripture while reaching a different conclusion about what Scripture requires. Without a legitimate process for deciding disagreements, the community fragments.

The third difficulty was historical. The Judaism I practiced, even when I believed it rested upon Scripture alone, was already filled with inherited tradition. The Jewish calendar, the cycle of Torah readings, the form of the synagogue service, the preservation of Hebrew pronunciation, the copying of Torah scrolls, and the identification of the books belonging to the Tanakh all came through a living people.

The written text did not arrive in my hands independently of Israel. It was preserved, copied, taught, guarded, interpreted, and transmitted across generations. Even the declaration that certain books constitute the Jewish Bible is itself an act of inherited communal authority.

The Tanakh does not exist as a neatly packaged object detached from the people who received and preserved it. It functions as Scripture within Jewish life because generations of Jews transmitted it as Scripture. The text and the people cannot be separated as easily as modern readers sometimes imagine.

The fourth difficulty was spiritual. I began to recognize within myself an instinct that owed more to modern individualism than to Sinai. That instinct said, “If I cannot personally verify something from the written text, then I cannot be obligated by it.”

This sounded like intellectual integrity. Sometimes it was. Religious claims should be examined. Authority should not be used to prevent questions or conceal abuse. Human beings can mistake custom for law and preference for revelation.

Yet the instinct also concealed a resistance to being bound. I wanted Torah, but I wanted Torah under conditions I could personally approve. I wanted covenant without surrender, obligation without authority, and tradition without submission to the community that carried it.

Once that instinct becomes the foundation of religious life, Torah observance can quietly become Torah-themed autonomy. A person may still use the language of commandments, quote verses, and speak passionately about obedience to God. Yet the individual remains the highest court. The covenant binds only after receiving personal approval.

That is not the structure the Torah itself describes.

The turning point for me was the realization that Judaism cannot function without Oral Torah. At first, this may sound like a denominational slogan. Over time, however, it became an unavoidable description of Jewish reality.

Torah commands, but Torah also assumes teaching. It assumes that Israel receives not only a written document but a way of life. That way must be demonstrated, practiced, explained, and transmitted. People learn how to observe because they are taught how to observe. Instruction accompanies inscription.

The Torah also establishes legitimate authority. Israel is commanded to appoint judges and officers. Difficult cases are to be brought before qualified authorities. The people are commanded to follow the decisions of the established court and not turn aside from its judgment. The Torah does not imagine a nation in which each person privately reconstructs the law.

This does not answer every historical question about the development of rabbinic literature. It does not require the belief that every later rabbinic statement carries equal authority. It does not eliminate the need to distinguish between Torah law, authoritative legal rulings, later customs, philosophical speculation, and the policies of individual communities.

What it does eliminate is the illusion that Judaism can be reduced to the individual, a Bible, and personal sincerity.

Sincerity matters, but sincerity cannot create a functioning legal tradition. Private interpretation cannot sustain a covenantal people. Without Oral Torah, Judaism does not become purer. It becomes fragmented.

Accepting this required me to reconsider what I meant by traditional or Orthodox Judaism. I did not suddenly absorb every custom, cultural marker, or social expectation associated with contemporary Orthodox communities. Nor did I become convinced that every modern Orthodox institution speaks with the authority of the ancient Great Court.

My change was more foundational. I accepted that Judaism includes binding tradition, authoritative interpretation, and communal legal process. I accepted that the Torah describes a living covenantal civilization rather than merely a sacred text. I accepted that the Written and Oral Torah belong together.

This change affected everything. It changed how I read. It changed how I practiced. It changed what I taught. It changed what I believed I could responsibly claim as a rabbi.

The path that emerged from this change is what I have come to call Derekh HaTorah, the Way of the Torah.

Derekh HaTorah is not the name of a new denomination. It is not an attempt to create another organization, institutional structure, or religious brand. It is the name I use for the approach to Judaism that I have come to follow in my own life.

For me, Derekh HaTorah begins with the Written Torah and the authoritative Oral Torah, especially as the Oral Torah was systematically codified by the Rambam in the Mishneh Torah. The Rambam sought to gather the practical rulings of Jewish law into a comprehensive and ordered presentation. His work provides a framework through which I can approach Judaism as a coherent way of life rather than a collection of disconnected customs and opinions.

The Tanakh, the Sefer HaMitzvot, and the Mishneh Torah have therefore become central to my study. The Written Torah establishes the covenant, commandments, and foundational teachings of Judaism. The Oral Torah provides the authoritative rulings necessary to practice those commandments. The prophets and writings illuminate the moral, spiritual, and historical meaning of the covenant, but they do not overturn the commandments of Torah.

Later Jewish writings may contain profound wisdom. Commentaries, philosophical works, mystical texts, legal responsa, and collections of custom can all enrich Jewish life. Yet I do not treat every later work as having equal doctrinal authority. I believe it is necessary to distinguish what is binding from what is interpretive, what belongs to Torah law from what belongs to local custom, and what expresses the decisions of an authoritative court from what represents the opinion of an individual teacher.

This distinction is not a rejection of tradition. It is an effort to understand tradition accurately.

Derekh HaTorah asks me to take the commandments seriously without treating every cultural convention as though it had been spoken at Sinai. It asks me to respect inherited Jewish wisdom without surrendering the responsibility to examine its authority and context. It asks me to remain traditional while resisting the tendency to confuse Judaism with the politics or social expectations of a particular modern community.

When I describe myself as Torah-observant or as holding an orthodox faith with a small “o,” I mean that Judaism contains real teachings and enduring obligations. I believe the commandments matter. I believe that Jews are called to worship the God of Israel, study Torah, observe mitzvot, pursue justice, practice mercy, and sanctify ordinary life.

My orthodoxy, however, is fidelity to Torah rather than loyalty to a modern denominational institution. I do not believe that a political party, rabbinic association, synagogue network, or social community possesses the authority of Torah merely because it identifies as Orthodox.

This distinction has become essential to my rabbinic calling. I am traditional and observant in my personal life, but I do not believe that my responsibility is limited to Jews who live as I do. I serve Jews.

Some Jews are deeply observant. Others maintain only a few traditions. Some belong to Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Humanistic, independent, or unaffiliated communities. Some possess little formal Jewish education. Some identify strongly as Jews while practicing almost nothing. Others are questioning, wounded, estranged, or unsure whether Judaism has a place for them.

They remain Jews.

This conviction is at the heart of Derekh HaTorah. A Jew does not cease to be Jewish because they are less observant than I am, because they interpret Judaism differently, or because they presently practice no religion at all. Jewish law may evaluate particular actions, but those evaluations do not erase a person’s membership in the Jewish people.

Greater observance should produce greater humility. Torah knowledge should create responsibility rather than contempt. If I have been blessed with knowledge, discipline, or access to Jewish learning, that gives me a greater obligation to teach patiently and serve compassionately.

Religious observance can easily become a source of pride. A person may begin measuring righteousness according to visible practices: attendance, clothing, diet, language, ritual precision, or familiarity with communal customs. It is then tempting to look at less observant Jews as failures, outsiders, or problems to be corrected.

I believe that this is a misuse of Torah.

Torah should form our character. It should teach us honesty, discipline, compassion, justice, reverence, and self-control. If observance makes us arrogant, cruel, suspicious, or dismissive, then our practice has become spiritually distorted.

I want Jews to become more observant. I want them to study Torah, deepen their prayer, celebrate Shabbat and the festivals, give charity, build Jewish homes, and understand the covenant. I believe that mitzvot give structure, purpose, and holiness to life.

But encouragement must not become condemnation. Shame rarely produces lasting spiritual growth. Rejection rarely brings people closer to God. When Jews encounter religious communities that treat them with contempt, they often conclude that Torah has nothing for them.

I do not want to chase Jews away from Judaism in the name of defending Judaism.

This is what I mean when I describe Derekh HaTorah as open. Openness does not mean religious indifference. It does not mean that every interpretation is equally sound or that commandments are merely optional symbols. It does not require me to abandon conviction.

Openness describes how I relate to people.

It means that I can hold firm beliefs without treating those who disagree as enemies. I can teach Torah without using it to declare myself superior. I can encourage another Jew to grow without denying the legitimacy of their present Jewish identity.

An open approach also means resisting gatekeeping. Jewish communities sometimes expect people to prove that they are sufficiently observant, educated, socially acceptable, or ideologically aligned before they can fully belong. Yet a person should not have to become sufficiently Jewish before being welcomed into Jewish life.

Community should be the place where people learn, grow, question, and reconnect. The door must be open before growth can begin.

Questions should be welcomed rather than feared. Judaism has always preserved disagreement. Our sacred literature records competing opinions because disagreement can sharpen understanding. Brotherly disagreement does not require indifference, and conviction does not require hostility.

I may believe another interpretation is mistaken. I may argue that a particular practice is inconsistent with Torah. Yet I can still recognize the sincerity, dignity, and Jewishness of the person with whom I disagree.

This applies across denominational boundaries. I do not have to agree with every conclusion of Reform, Conservative, or other Jewish movements in order to help the Jews who belong to them. I can teach, pray, comfort, visit, celebrate, and mourn with people whose theology differs from mine.

My responsibility is not to protect Judaism from Jews. My responsibility is to help Jews encounter Torah.

Derekh HaTorah also shapes how I understand conversion. Judaism must take conversion seriously because joining the Jewish people means entering a covenant, a history, and a way of life. Conversion cannot be reduced to private spiritual preference.

Yet seriousness should not become hostility.

Jewish ethical monotheism has something profound to offer the world. Torah teaches the worship of one God, the dignity of human life, responsibility, justice, mercy, holiness, and care for the stranger. We should not be afraid to speak openly about these teachings or invite sincere people to learn about Judaism.

Conversion must never be coercive. It should not be pursued through manipulation, pressure, fear, or material promises. A convert must act voluntarily, understand the responsibilities being accepted, and sincerely desire to join the Jewish people.

At the same time, a prospective convert should not be treated as an intruder. The process should be educational, honest, supportive, and serious. It should not be intentionally humiliating, unnecessarily expensive, or prolonged merely to test how much discouragement a person can endure.

Preparation exists to help someone become Jewish and live successfully as a Jew. It should not become an endless search for reasons to exclude them.

Once a person has converted sincerely, they should be welcomed fully. They should not be treated as permanent outsiders or lesser Jews. Their Jewish identity should not be repeatedly questioned because of their ancestry or background. The Torah repeatedly commands care for the convert, making the treatment of converts a test of the moral seriousness of an observant community.

Derekh HaTorah therefore holds together convictions that are too often separated. It joins observance with openness, tradition with careful discernment, authority with humility, and commitment with compassion.

It allows me to affirm the necessity of Oral Torah without claiming that every later custom is binding. It permits me to respect rabbinic authority while recognizing that no modern institution automatically possesses the authority of the ancient Great Court. It gives me a way to remain traditional without becoming sectarian.

Most importantly, Derekh HaTorah reminds me that I am still walking. I have not reached the end of the path. I have not solved every legal, historical, or theological question. I remain responsible for study, correction, repentance, and growth.

The Hebrew word derekh means a road, but it also means a way of living. Torah is not merely a collection of propositions to defend. It is a way to walk.

Walking requires discipline because a traveler must continue moving even when the road is difficult. It requires humility because the traveler must admit when he has taken a wrong turn. It requires patience because not everyone is at the same point on the journey.

Some Jews may be far ahead of me in areas where I am still learning. Others may be beginning to ask questions I have wrestled with for years. Some stand at the edge of Jewish life, uncertain whether they will be welcomed if they step closer.

I want my response to be an extended hand rather than a closed gate.

Derekh HaTorah means that I will strive to observe the commandments in my own life without looking down upon those who observe differently. It means that I will teach Torah clearly but not weaponize it. It means that I will defend tradition while distinguishing tradition from every policy, political ideology, or cultural expectation that has developed around it.

It means recognizing that Jews may hold many political opinions and that no political movement possesses the authority of Torah. Judaism must not be reduced to partisan identity, and political conformity must never become the measure of Jewish authenticity.

Above all, Derekh HaTorah means remembering why Torah was given. It was not given so that a small group could congratulate itself for being more righteous than everyone else. It was given to form a covenantal people devoted to God, holiness, justice, mercy, responsibility, and truth.

I do not believe compassion weakens Torah. Compassion is one of the ways Torah becomes visible in the world. I do not believe that welcoming people requires abandoning standards. A welcoming community is better able to teach what those standards mean.

Openness and observance are not opposites. Observance without openness can become harsh, narrow, and self-righteous. Openness without commitment can become vague and directionless. The path I have come to walk requires both: fidelity to Torah and love for the Jewish people.

I understand that changes in foundational beliefs can be unsettling, especially for those who have learned from me or walked beside me in earlier stages of this journey. I do not dismiss the sincerity of those who came seeking Torah through Netzarim Judaism. The hunger that brought us there was not wrong.

We wanted a life that felt commanded rather than curated. We wanted to recover covenant, discipline, and obedience. We wanted to distinguish the voice of God from the preferences of institutions. Those were worthy desires.

I do not mock where I have been. I do not regret every lesson learned there. I believe most of us were doing the best we could with the understanding and tools available to us.

Yet humility requires admitting that sincerity does not guarantee correctness. I may be sincere and still be mistaken. I may be devoted and still misunderstand the structure of the covenant. I may desire Torah while carrying assumptions shaped more by modern individualism than by Jewish tradition.

My return to Oral Torah is therefore not a rejection of my former hunger. It is the deepening of that hunger. I no longer believe that fidelity to God requires beginning Judaism again from the written page. I believe fidelity requires joining the living chain through which Torah has been received, interpreted, practiced, and transmitted.

This does not mean accepting every claim without examination. It means recognizing that I am not the first Jew to read Torah and that I do not possess the authority to recreate the covenant according to my own preferences.

I remain the same Jew who began this journey: still hungry, still questioning, still devoted, and still trying to obey God. What has changed is my understanding of where Torah lives.

Torah lives in the written words given to Israel. It also lives in the teachings necessary to practice those words. It lives in the covenantal people who carried them, the courts that interpreted them, the teachers who transmitted them, and the daily lives of Jews who struggled to embody them.

This is what Derekh HaTorah has come to mean to me.

It is not my attempt to invent a new Judaism. It is my attempt to return more fully to the ancient covenant. It is an observant Jewish life grounded in the Written and Oral Torah, informed especially by the systematic teachings of the Rambam, and independent of modern denominational politics.

It is the conviction that Torah binds me while compassion governs how I relate to others. It is the recognition that all Jews remain part of the Jewish people. It is the responsibility to teach without condemning, invite without coercing, disagree without hatred, and welcome without surrendering principle.

It is the path by which I seek to serve God.

It is the path by which I seek to serve the Jewish people.

It is the path of Torah that I have come to walk.

A natural next revision would be to make the voice slightly more intimate and autobiographical by adding a few concrete moments from your rabbinic life that brought these realizations into focus.