Introduction

The american Jewish landscape at the dawn of the twenty-first century features three primary Jewish movements—Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform—a basic structure so entrenched in the

American Jewish consciousness that one observer humorously suggested “most people seem to assume that God spoke to Moses at Sinai and decreed that there would be Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Jews.”1 While it should come as no surprise that this arrangement was not revealed at Sinai, the way in which it came to be has thus far eluded the grasp of observers and scholars alike.

Of the three movements, Conservative Judaism is the newest and most challenging to define. While the Jew on the street today may perceive the movement to be at least a century old, the beginning of the twentieth cen-tury saw American Jewry loosely divided into two camps—Orthodox and Reform—and the term Conservative was vague and undefined. Over the first half of the twentieth century, however, Conservative Judaism took its place as the third movement in American Jewish life, and the goal of my work is to explain how this process occurred. By focusing my historical lens on the role of rabbis trained at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, I will demonstrate that members of a previously neglected group—Solomon Schechter’s disciples—were in fact the ones who created Conservative Juda-ism over the first half of the twentieth century.

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I am by no means the first person to search for Conservative Judaism’s origins. Those who have come before me have put forth two primary argu-ments—neither of which, I will argue, can adequately account for Conser-vative Judaism’s emergence. First, the “historical school” argument suggests that Conservative Judaism is defined by a distinct ideology that has always separated it from both Reform and Orthodox Judaism. Many who advocate this approach suggest that the roots of this distinct Conservative ideology lie in nineteenth-century Germany, as Jews were welcomed into the broader German society. With the offer to integrate into this society came the expec-tation that Jews would make their religion less peculiar to the outside world, transforming it to be more compatible with German life. Some Jews reject-ed this idea, while others turned to Reform Judaism to accomplish this.

Supporters of this theory maintain that another group accepted the premise that Judaism should adapt to its surroundings, but, rejecting how Reform had thrown off the cloak of Jewish law, members of this group searched for other ways to integrate Judaism into German life. Historical Judaism developed out of this impulse and provided a solution for its ad-herents to reconcile tradition with modernity. Using the tools of Wissen-schaft des Judentums—the scientific, scholarly study of Judaism—Zacharias Frankel argued that Jewish law had always changed to adapt to the vari-ous historical influences and circumstances it faced. The implication for his contemporaries was clear—they could continue this by making alterations to Jewish law that would make Judaism more compatible with modern Ger-man life. In other words, they could satisfy the expectations of the broader German society without sacrificing their commitment to Jewish law.

Those who support the historical school theory generally argue that when historical Judaism came to America, it was institutionalized at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America (JTS), which would in time be-come the training seminary for the Conservative rabbinate.2 The Jewish Theological Seminary was originally founded in 1886 when a group of tra-ditionalists rejected the more progressive Hebrew Union College. In its early years the Seminary was plagued by low enrollment and financial dif-ficulty, but in 1902 Solomon Schechter was hired to lead the fledgling insti-tution, which quickly grew and came to be informally known as Schechter’s Seminary. There is no question that aspects of historical Judaism deeply influenced the leaders of JTS, as Schechter himself was committed to its ideas and so, too, were the faculty and students. Yet those affiliated with Schechter’s Seminary were not the only American Jews to support histori-cal Judaism—leaders of the Orthodox Union (OU), which was closely af-

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filiated with the pre-Schechter seminary but broke away after Schechter’s arrival, also initially professed their support for the idea.

While many of those connected with Schechter’s Seminary supported the concept of historical Judaism in theory, not everybody could agree on just how to implement it in practice. Who, for example, would have the authority to adapt Jewish law to modern circumstances, and what crite-ria would they use for such changes? Schechter understood that historical Judaism “has never, to my knowledge, offered to the world a theological platform of its own,” and he offered the concept of “Catholic Israel,” or the united people Israel, as a means by which the idea of historical Judaism could be implemented. He maintained that only a unified Jewry had the authority to adapt Jewish law to its modern surroundings and that no in-dividual group or sect had the authority to do so. Because a third move-ment in Judaism would therefore have had no power to adapt Jewish law to its surroundings on its own, Schechter eschewed the creation of a distinct third movement and instead strove for a unified community that could af-fect the change he desired.

Not everybody, however, believed Catholic Israel was the best way to implement the ideas of historical Judaism, yet Catholic Israel nevertheless became the emerging movement’s guiding principle during its formative years. While some of Schechter’s students believed they as a group should have the power to adapt Jewish law to contemporary situations on their own, I will demonstrate throughout this work that, in an attempt to imple-ment Schechter’s vision, his disciples remained committed to the notion that only Catholic Israel possessed such authority. This idea was not only deeply embedded in the outlook of the Seminary but also in the move-ment’s congregational and rabbinic organizations—the United Synagogue of America and the Rabbinical Assembly (RA). As a result, these organiza-tions continually opposed the creation of a third movement in Judaism, and while there were various attempts to jettison Catholic Israel and redefine the movement as one where its rabbis could make changes to Jewish law on its own, this did not occur until the 1950s—after the rise to power of a new generation of rabbis.

Thus any suggestions that historical Judaism represented the boundaries of a distinct Conservative movement during its formative years suffer from “deceptive retrospect,”3 ignoring the goals and actions of the movement’s founders. While the Conservative movement may have been committed to historical Judaism, it tied this concept to Catholic Israel, which opposed the creation of a movement that would distinguish itself from both Reform and

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Orthodoxy. Thus, although theories predicated upon the historical school can help us to understand various aspects of Conservative Judaism, the ar-gument on its own cannot fully explain the movement’s emergence.

Just as the historical school theory falls short, so too does the second main explanation, which focuses primarily on the laity and individual con-gregations. Rather than maintaining Conservative Judaism always had a distinct unifying ideology, supporters of this approach argue that the move-ment began as a series of disconnected synagogues appearing in the United States before the mid-twentieth century. These synagogues were not predi-cated upon ideological principles, so the argument goes, but rather were the result of the pressures faced by the Americanizing children of immigrants, for whom Orthodoxy’s traditionalism reminded them too much of their parents’ world and Reform seemed too radical a break from traditional Jew-ish practices. These circumstances, argue proponents of this theory, led to the creation of Conservative synagogues that tried to forge a centrist path between Orthodoxy and Reform.4

The flaw in this approach, however, is that by zooming in on the local level we ignore the emerging movement’s national consciousness—an error historians of other religions have cautioned against. J. Gordon Melton notes that looking at religious movements at the local level “presents a picture of numerous, small, barely stable centers, many struggling to keep a minimum critical mass in membership and attendance, and others coming and going.” By expanding our gaze outward, however, Melton maintains that a picture emerges whereby those smaller centers may be “in fellowship with other lo-cal centers around the country.”5

By expanding our gaze outward in the case of the Conservative move-ment, we come to realize that the rabbis were beginning to lead a national movement well before congregational lay leaders. Even the foremost ad-vocate of this lay/congregation theory concedes that before mid-centu-ry rabbis were “the only group that visualized Conservatism in national terms.”6 If rabbis were the first to view Conservative Judaism as its own movement, why then has there been no monograph that comprehensively examines their role in its emergence? It is this lacuna that I seek to fill. By focusing the historical lens on the role of rabbis, I will show how Solomon Schechter’s rabbinical students at the Jewish Theological Seminary—his disciples—created Conservative Judaism to spread their teacher’s ideals and carry out his legacy.

The process by which Schechter and his disciples created Conservative Judaism follows a similar pattern to how other charismatic leaders and their

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followers created their own religious movements. I realize that by compar-ing the Conservative movement to other new religious movements, I am offering a significant departure from previous work in the field. Moreover, to suggest that Conservative Judaism is a “new” religious movement will be reason for many to give pause, especially because the Conservative move-ment sees itself as the true expression of Judaism as it has been passed down through the ages. I also recognize that using the same framework to analyze Conservative Judaism used by scholars to study Mormonism, Christian Sci-ence, and the Hare Krishna may initially offend the sensibilities of those who have long viewed the case of Conservative Judaism as a singular Jewish experience. Yet, as I will demonstrate in the following pages, integrating the study of Conservative Judaism into the growing field of new religious move-ments explains its emergence in a way that previous approaches cannot.

Because scholars of American Judaism have not generally viewed Schech-ter as a charismatic religious leader, I find it necessary to clarify just how he can be viewed in this context. Schechter’s authority was rooted in his cha-risma, the classic definition of which is from Max Weber, for whom it ap-plies “to a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are such as are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual con-cerned is treated as a leader.”7 While Weber’s charisma was applied origi-nally to a gift of divine origin, it has also been used by scholars to apply to earthly qualities as well—“exceptional qualities,” as Weber terms them, that are regarded as “exemplary.” While Schechter conforms to Weber’s defini-tion, I will show that he also fits the overlapping attributes Lorne Dawson argues characterize charismatic leadership. Dawson maintains charismatic leaders possess a “visionary” leadership style. They are admired for their communication skills, their ability to “frame problems and solutions in simple and appealing terms.” Moreover, he asserts that “charismatic leaders tend to be energetic people who exude self-confidence and determination” and “display a consistent faith in the fulfilment of their mission,” developing a “charismatic bond” with their followers.8

As I will demonstrate, Schechter fits this paradigm of a charismatic re-ligious leader. He came to the Seminary as one of the world’s best-known Jewish scholars, captivating those in his presence and creating an aura around him that rarely disappointed. Schechter had a simple, albeit idealis-tic, vision for American Judaism that he passed down to his disciples, which

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became the essence of the emerging Conservative movement—he wanted a community committed to traditional Judaism, yet one adapted to America through the incorporation of English, decorum, and modern education. He also wanted his disciples to work together to achieve this and unite the American Jewish community in the image of Catholic Israel.

The process by which Schechter’s authority passed to his disciples and was institutionalized is in many respects the process through which Conser-vative Judaism emerged. According to Weber, “it is recognition on the part of those subject to authority which is decisive for the validity of charisma,”9 and after suggesting that we view Schechter as a charismatic religious lead-er, I will then analyze the process by which Schechter’s authority was passed to his followers—Veralltäglichung, as Weber calls it, or the “routinization” of charisma, as scholars generally translate it.10 Weber argues that if char-ismatic authority is to be more than a “purely transitory phenomenon . . . it is necessary for the character of charismatic authority to become radically changed.” This becomes “conspicuously evident with the disappearance of the personal charismatic leader and with the problem of succession.”11 Once Schechter passed from the scene, it was necessary to routinize his charisma so that the emerging movement could succeed.

In the case of Conservative Judaism, the process of routinization follows a modified version of Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge’s “sub-culture-evolution” model for the creation of new religious movements. Ac-cording to this model, the process of formation is the product of “at least a few intimately interacting individuals,” and it “begins when people with similar needs and desires meet and begin communicating about their mutu-al problems,” ultimately leading to a movement that cannot be attributed to a single individual. Although this model does not necessarily rely upon the seminal role of a charismatic leader, it can nevertheless apply “even when a single individual dominates a group  .  .  . to the extent that the followers also participate in pushing the group” toward a movement.12 In the case of Conservative Judaism, Schechter clearly dominated the group while he was alive, but he also actively encouraged his disciples to work together to shape the emerging movement on their own.

While Schechter created the vision for which the movement would strive, his disciples adopted it as their own, and authority successfully passed from Schechter to his disciples. Two primary factors were respon-sible for this routinization of charisma—first, the maintenance of deep per-sonal and social bonds and, second, the embrace and institutionalization of diversity. With regard to the first, personal relationships among the dis-

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ciples themselves, and a charismatic bond with Schechter, played a criti-cal role in holding the group together despite its fundamental diversity.13 Schechter’s students grew up together, often entering the Seminary in their late teens and graduating in their early twenties. Though there were clearly arguments that emerged—particularly over job placement—they lived and socialized together as students, in the process developing deep friendships and bonds that would last a lifetime. They also developed close relation-ships with Schechter, who was deeply engaged in their lives and whom they viewed as a father, a teacher, and a friend. They shared a deep desire to see Schechter’s vision actualized, and all these shared experiences and common mission initially produced a vague group consciousness. This group identity would only strengthen throughout their lives and careers and, as we will see, would be instrumental in holding the group together and preventing their movement from splintering.

The second major factor that allowed Schechter’s authority to successful-ly transition to his disciples was the embrace and institutionalization of di-versity. Schechter’s disciples agreed on the broad vision of their teacher, but they differed markedly in other areas. With regard to background, some of Schechter’s students were American-born; many others hailed from Eastern Europe. Some could dazzle audiences with English sermons but felt their traditional Jewish educations to be lacking, while others spoke broken Eng-lish but were comfortable with their traditional backgrounds. The disciples also differed on how they interpreted the implications of Schechter’s vision and how exactly they could be “essentially loyal” to traditional Judaism.14 Some had no problem eating a dairy meal at a restaurant, whereas many other disciples took exception. Mixed seating and organ music during Sab-bath worship were appropriate in the eyes of some, though others abhorred such innovations.

Just as diverse as their practices was the way in which they self-identified. Some of Schechter’s disciples identified as conservative, and others identi-fied as orthodox, and their beliefs and practices spanned much of the spec-trum of American Judaism. While we can broadly define Schechter’s disci-ples as either conservative or orthodox, the terms that they used to describe themselves varied widely. For example, many self-identified conservatives also used the labels progressive or liberal, loosely referring to themselves as the left wing of the emerging movement. Those who identified as ortho-dox also used the terms modern orthodox or traditional, often referring to themselves as the right wing of the emerging movement. Still others called themselves centrist.

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None of these terms or wings had a precise definition, instead meaning different things to different people at different times, and thus the politics of the positions became as important as the positions themselves. Disciples formed coalitions to broadly affect change, and this fluid terminology high-lights the diversity and elasticity of the emerging Conservative movement over the first half of the twentieth century.

Clearly Schechter’s disciples were diverse in their practices and their identities, yet the social bonds about which we have spoken, and the vague group consciousness that those bonds created, played a critical role in overcoming this diversity and keeping the group unified. This group con-sciousness was further strengthened and institutionalized in the United Synagogue of America, which today serves as the congregational arm of the Conservative movement. Upon its founding in 1913, however, and for its first decade, at the very least, it was an organization led by Schechter’s rabbinical disciples with the purpose of implementing their teacher’s vi-sion. By transferring his authority to the diverse executive council of the United Synagogue, rather than to a single heir, Schechter effectively institu-tionalized Catholic Israel and ensured that it would be a central tenet of the emerging movement.15 All could hold a leadership position, irrespective of background or viewpoint, provided they both ascribed to Schechter’s vi-sion and were committed to implementing it as a group. The strength of the United Synagogue lay in the fact that, despite such diversity, Schechter’s disciples believed that they could more effectively carry out Schechter’s vision—however differently they interpreted it—through the organization they viewed as his legitimate heir.

Because the United Synagogue sought—in the image of Catholic Isra-el—to unite those with different opinions, it, understandably, overlooked its members’ differences and instead emphasized their similarities. Member rabbis were free to be guided by their own beliefs and practices on issues such as mixed seating and the organ, but they remained united by Schech-ter’s vision of a traditional Judaism with English sermons, modern educa-tional methods, and decorum. As a result, the United Synagogue was forced to shy away from decisions that might cause discord, initially refusing to create a prayer book, authoritative law committee, or even a guide to ko-sher restaurants, for fear of alienating fellow disciples. Thus, as I will dem-onstrate, it was the institutionalization of diversity, made possible largely because of the social bonds and a vague group consciousness, that allowed the emerging movement to successfully outlive Schechter and move into its postcharismatic phase.16

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While internal diversity characterized the disciples and their United Syn-agogue, so too did the quest for Catholic Israel and unity within the broader American Jewish community. This meant reaching out to Reform rabbis and congregations in an attempt to bring them closer to traditional Judaism, and many of the disciples served in Reform congregations, with varying degrees of success. Their experiences demonstrate that the boundary between the Reform movement and the emerging Conservative movement was much more porous than many historians have previously recognized.

Even more complicated than the relationship between the disciples and the Reform movement was the relationship between the disciples and Or-thodoxy. Throughout the period of our study, Orthodoxy was not mono-lithic, and it can broadly be divided into two categories: fervent Orthodoxy and modern Orthodoxy. Fervent Orthodoxy was institutionalized in the Agudath ha-Rabbanim, the Union of Orthodox Rabbis of the United States and Canada, which was founded in 1902, just as Schechter was taking the reigns of leadership at the Seminary. Rabbis in this organization hoped to combat the “constant desecration of the Torah all around them,”17 yet they also largely eschewed Schechter’s insistence on English, decorum, and mod-ern education. Schechter’s disciples reached out to fervent Orthodox rabbis and their congregations, though they had limited success in affiliating them.

The second broad category of Orthodoxy was modern Orthodoxy, and the relationship of the disciples to modern Orthodoxy is much more com-plex. Schechter’s vision of a traditional service infused with English, deco-rum, and modern education was very much compatible with modern Or-thodoxy—in fact, Schechter’s Orthodox disciples in the United Synagogue generally identified as modern Orthodox.

But modern Orthodoxy was institutionally divided, and the United Synagogue was not the only organization for modern Orthodox rabbis and congregations. Instead, they were also represented in the Union of Ortho-dox Jewish Congregations of America, now known as the Orthodox Union (OU). The OU had been closely aligned with the Seminary before Schech-ter’s arrival, and its leaders had a somewhat adversarial relationship with Schechter. Although, in the name of Catholic Israel, the disciples hoped to affiliate modern Orthodox rabbis and congregations affiliated with the OU, they had a difficult time doing so. As we will see, without an allegiance to Schechter, OU rabbis generally chose not to join the United Synagogue.

Despite the institutional divide within modern Orthodoxy, the reality was that there was a tremendous amount of overlap between the United Syna-gogue and the OU. The United Synagogue was a coalition of Conservative

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and modern Orthodox rabbis, and many OU leaders maintained that their organization differed from the United Synagogue because it expressly re-pudiated non-Orthodox practices. Yet while this may have been the case in theory, it was not always the case in practice. For example, though the OU viewed mixed seating to be outside the scope of Orthodoxy, it nevertheless accepted vast numbers of rabbis who served in mixed-seating congregations. By one 1951 estimate, half the graduates of the OU’s primary training semi-nary served in mixed seating congregations.18 The result was that the distinc-tion between United Synagogue and Orthodox Union rabbis and congrega-tions was not always clear.19

Reinforcing the similarities in content and mission between the two groups was the reality that they inherently found themselves competing for the same constituency. Seminary graduates Herman Abramowitz, Charles Kauvar, and Elias Solomon were initially leaders in both organizations,20 having studied at the pre- and post-Schechter Seminaries, and were torn by their allegiance to leaders of both. Not only did both organizations compete for the same rabbis, but they also competed for the same laity in the same neighborhoods. This should come as no surprise—sociologist Fredrik Barth argues that groups with such similarities are often “in at least partial com-petition within the same niche.”21 The OU and United Synagogue competed for the same niche in the early decades of the twentieth century, as, argu-ably, the Conservative and Reform movements do today.

Because there was so much similarity between the OU and the United Synagogue, it was virtually impossible to distinguish a member of one group from the other based solely on their particular beliefs. The elements held in common by Schechter’s disciples were so broad that they were not unique to them alone—all but the most radical Reform and the most fervent Or-thodox rabbis could find some common ground. Moreover, the practices of OU rabbis were virtually indistinguishable from Schechter’s modern Ortho-dox disciples. As a result, no unique practices or beliefs could distinguish a United Synagogue rabbi from most other American rabbis.

All of this meant that the primary distinguishing factor of the emerg-ing Conservative movement was whether or not a rabbi chose to identify with the United Synagogue. Thus the organization was an ethnoreligious group, defined by its elastic boundaries and not by its unique attributes.22 Boundaries in similar groups, Barth argues, are based almost entirely on “the characteristic of self-ascription and ascription by others.” “It makes no difference how dissimilar members may be in their overt behavior,” he maintains. Instead, Barth argues that “if they say they are A, in contrast to

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another cognate category B, they are willing to be treated and let their own behavior be interpreted and judged as A’s and not as B’s; in other words, they declare their allegiance to the shared culture of A’s.” According to this mod-el, “radical differences are played down and denied.”23 Analyzing the United Synagogue in this context demonstrates that it was defined not by its unique attributes but rather by elastic boundaries that would stretch wide enough to encompass virtually anyone who wished to join. Though these boundar-ies were wide enough to encompass most American rabbis, the rabbis, gen-erally speaking, who chose to self-identify with the United Synagogue were Schechter’s disciples. Only these rabbis were united by deep social bonds and committed to perpetuating Schechter’s message as a group. Thus, while the emerging Conservative movement may have been creating institutional structures of its own, it was not yet a distinct third movement in American Judaism because it lacked boundaries that distinguished it from Orthodoxy or Reform.

Though Schechter’s disciples sought unity in the image of Catholic Israel, they were nevertheless resoundingly rejected by the rest of the American Jewish world—particularly by rabbis in the OU and the Agu-dath ha-Rabbanim. These rabbis cast aside the United Synagogue as an organization hostile to Orthodoxy precisely because it sought unity and welcomed anyone who wished to join—even if they did not follow Ortho-dox practices. They diligently tried to articulate the boundaries between “Conservative” and “Orthodox” practices, defining in particular mixed seating as antithetical to Orthodoxy. Such definitions of deviant behav-ior, observed one sociologist, “makes people more alert to the interests they share in common by supplying a focus for group feeling,” which could have helped OU leaders to strengthen what was at the time a rather weak organization.24 This practice of defining deviant behavior has long char-acterized boundary maintenance among Orthodox Jewish groups.25 Nev-ertheless, because the United Synagogue did not repudiate these deviant, “non-Orthodox” practices, both the OU and Agudath ha-Rabbanim felt justified in spurning the United Synagogue. Thus, as I will demonstrate, in their quest for unity, Schechter’s disciples were ironically forced by the right into a movement of their own.

Committed to remaining together as a group and rejected by those whom they hoped to attract, Schechter’s disciples found themselves on the brink of irrelevance, in need of a raison d’être. As lay leaders grew in power on the national stage, the United Synagogue became more of a congregational body, and the disciples brought their debates to the RA. There the Orthodox

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and Conservative disciples debated their different conceptions of the move-ment, and they discovered that their needs and goals conflicted with one another’s. The modern Orthodox disciples continued to hope they could be part of the multifaceted “Orthodox world,” which I will argue was inclusive of the United Synagogue, the OU, and the Agudath ha-Rabbanim. Though they recognized they were being rejected, they had not given up hope that they could one day gain the acceptance of those in the OU and the approba-tion of those in the Agudath ha-Rabbanim.26 As a result, they continued to oppose any decisions by the United Synagogue that might give these other Orthodox rabbis more reasons to reject them.

The Conservatives, for their part, had little interest in pleasing OU or Agudath ha-Rabbanim rabbis, and instead hoped to define a platform for the United Synagogue that distinguished it from these other Orthodox rab-binical associations. But their essential paradox was that they refused to alienate the modern Orthodox disciples within their coalition—with whom they shared social bonds and a common mission—who staunchly opposed any platform that might alienate the United Synagogue further from the rest of the Orthodox world. How could the Conservatives define a platform that distinguished the United Synagogue from Orthodoxy, when many United Synagogue rabbis identified as Orthodox themselves?

United by their social bonds and committed to working within organiza-tions that had institutionalized diversity, the Conservative and Orthodox disciples remained united and attempted to define their emerging move-ment. But, rather than articulating boundaries and deviant behavior as the OU and Agudath ha-Rabbanim were doing, they tried to articulate positive attributes shared by members of the group—a more formidable challenge. Their struggles in this task were not unique—as Chana Kronfeld notes, at-tempts to define the boundaries of the literary modernist movement yield a similar tension. Modernists were much like Schechterians, because “there simply is no set of distinctive features that can apply to all the sub-group-ings of modernism (from futurism to surrealism) and separate them from all non-modernist groupings (classicism, baroque, romanticism, and so forth).” Yet, “despite the overwhelming evidence that modernism defies reduction to simple common denominators, one study after another, after asserting the complexity and heterogeneity of the various manifestations of modern-ism, proceeds to attempt the impossibly positivist task of providing a defini-tion of modernism.”27

This futile search for common denominators echoes Schechter’s dis-ciples’ quest to articulate the factors they held in common and is best

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observed through a 1927 debate that was sparked by Louis Finkelstein’s paper “The Things That Unite Us.” As the title suggests, Finkelstein tried to articulate the elements he and his fellow rabbis held in common. One of those factors, he claimed, was an adherence to historical Judaism, yet a respondent pointed out that, while they may have agreed on the con-cept, they did not agree on how it could be implemented. Another dis-ciple maintained that the elements Finkelstein claimed they all shared did not distinguish them from other groups, while the elements that did distinguish them from other groups were elements upon which the dis-ciples themselves could not all agree. However, he argued that the only common factor among them that also distinguished them from the others was their shared commitment to the Seminary—which had been shaped by Schechter—and their common identity as a result of their affiliation with it. Though they desperately wanted to move past the common denomina-tor of discipleship, Schechter’s disciples could never quite transform their self-ascribed group into a third movement in American Judaism that had unique attributes and clear boundaries.

As Schechter’s disciples reached the ends of their careers, they paused to reflect upon the movement that they had built. Nearly universally, the disciples evaluated the movement based upon how well it had adhered to Schechter’s vision. Some believed it failed because it had veered too far away from their teacher’s traditionalism, while others believed that it had largely succeeded, even though Catholic Israel proved futile. Others argued that the movement would soon be a success, as Catholic Israel remained a cher-ished hope they believed was on the verge of realization.

Yet others believed the movement was a failure, precisely because of Schechter and Catholic Israel. One group of disciples maintained that the drive for unity had prevented the Conservative movement from adapting traditional Judaism to its environment in any meaningful way. These rabbis had an ambivalent relationship with the Conservative movement and ulti-mately became the nucleus of the Reconstructionist movement. But the re-jection of Catholic Israel was not unique to the Reconstructionists, as it also came to define the attitude of the next generation of rabbis. These rabbis did not study with Schechter, nor did they have deep social bonds with him or the same commitment to his vision. Without this shared past, for them a movement predicated upon discipleship to Schechter became untenable.

This new generation insisted on defining the boundaries of a distinct third movement of American Judaism, and they began this process by pro-ducing a prayer book that unified the emerging movement as no previous

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book had. Shortly thereafter, this new generation of JTS rabbis fundamen-tally redefined the movement that had been created by their predecessors by jettisoning the commitment to Catholic Israel. They created the Com-mittee on Jewish Law and Standards (CJLS) in 1948, which boldly declared that it would no longer seek the approbation of the other Orthodox rab-binical associations. In 1950 that committee declared it acceptable to drive to synagogue on the Sabbath and/or use electricity on the Sabbath—both of which violated traditional Orthodox law. This represented a shift to the idea that the RA itself could change Jewish law without the permission of Catholic Israel. No longer would the emerging Conservative movement be defined by Catholic Israel and a quest for inclusivity; it would now stand on its own. This fundamentally redefined the Conservative movement, aban-doning its founders’ intentions, as it increasingly became a third, distinct movement in Judaism.

Yet while the next generation of rabbis was redefining the movement, some of them fell victim to deceptive retrospect and assumed that the movement had always intended to have unique boundaries that marked it off as distinct. As a result, they began to write the history of their move-ment not as it actually occurred but rather as if Catholic Israel had been merely a temporary stumbling block instead of the essence of the move-ment. This marginalized Schechter, and these rabbis now turned to Ger-many and found in Zacharias Frankel a new inspiration for their movement. This marginalization of Schechter created the myth that the movement had always been represented by a unique ideology, and this was largely respon-sible for the historical school theory about which we have spoken. As I will demonstrate in the following pages, this version of the movement’s history was simply not the reality.

In the decades since the 1950s the Conservative movement has continued to refine its boundaries, and it has been increasingly comfortable identify-ing as the third movement in American Judaism, distinct from the others. Yet creating clear boundaries has not always been a smooth process and has frequently been hampered by the diversity and inclusivity that is now inherent in the movement. This is a direct legacy of Catholic Israel and, as we will see, of the overwhelming desire of Schechter’s disciples to create a movement based upon their teacher’s vision for American Judaism.

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