Judging YU on Its Own Terms
In “A Call for Greater Conversations,” Ava Eden laments that Great Conversations failed to spark “joint intellectual engagement” or serve as an open forum for students. She attributes this in part to the “scripted” nature of the series, citing an anonymous student’s sense that the planners were “advertising the dynamic nature of a conversation while maintaining the reliability of a script.” Her deeper charge is that true greatness can’t develop when it’s overshadowed by “a refusal to be vulnerable and a commitment to self-aggrandizement.”
I was also underwhelmed by the series, and on most counts Eden is right: Self-promotion isn’t self-improvement, and the Douglas Murray conversation was an echo chamber. Furthermore, while I don't think they were trying to fool anyone by vetting student questions, if the event is scripted, it shouldn’t be framed as dialogue. Lastly, I share her sentiment that YU needs more open forums for intellectual engagement.
However, her narrower claim, that the series failed as an open forum, faults it for something it never intended or pretended to be. With a title like “Great Conversations with [Anyone],” let alone with the university’s president, no one should expect a town hall. Judging the series as a failed open forum mistakes disappointment for deception.
Rabbi Berman opened the fourth Great Conversation by saying that the series exists to bring on campus “individuals who shape history not only through policy and power, but through principle and purpose,” a theme echoed since the first Conversation. Jonathan Haidt was selected as a guest because he “combines erudition, clarity and human insight with purpose,” according to Rabbi Berman, implying that the series was meant for students to learn from their example. It wasn’t about hosting an open forum.
Correcting a misconception about a speaker series might seem trivial, but this is part of a larger pattern at YU: criticizing the institution for failing to satisfy expectations it never claimed to meet. As YU contains both a yeshiva and a university, both halves of the institution fall victim to this problem.
The frequent complaint that “YU isn’t a real yeshiva” illustrates this trap. For students returning from more structured yeshivas in Israel that promote a single, cohesive derech, the transition to YU’s open environment can be jarring.
But this shock ignores history. Historically, European yeshivot followed two models: smaller institutions centered around a unified derech, like Slabodka and Kelm, and larger batei midrash like Volozhin and Mir that fostered independence and intellectual diversity.
In fact, the standard YU trajectory of developing a foundation in Israel before arriving on campus mirrors the “yeshivish” path. In that world, students establish their derech in a smaller setting before seeking the independence and variety of chaburas found in a massive beis medrash like Lakewood.
Not only would imposing a uniform derech at YU be impractical for such a diverse student body, it would also undermine this educational ideal. When asked about his ability to synthesize diverse derachim, Rabbi Ahron Lopiansky explained that being rooted in a firm foundational derech provides the framework to evaluate and integrate other sources of truth. If our yeshivas in Israel succeed in building that scaffolding, YU’s diversity becomes a source of enrichment.
Ultimately, while Yeshiva University may not be a Slabodka, it is most definitely a Volozhin.
On the university side, a misinterpretation of Torah Umadda has left the institution vulnerable to criticism from either end. In his editorial “Don’t Give Up on Torah Umadda,” Sruli Friedman censures YU for insufficient investment in the liberal arts, while Shneur Hecht, in his response “Give Up on Torah Umadda,” contends that the university should abandon the concept entirely.
Both critiques assume that Torah Umadda is synonymous with the liberal arts. The mission statement of the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Jewish Studies defines Torah Umadda as “the pursuit of the study of Torah along with secular disciplines,” adding that “its highest form is a level of integration in which each pursuit enriches the other.” This definition embraces all “secular disciplines,” not just the humanities.
In his article, Friedman laments that most students “attend the Sy Syms School of Business, and even within YC, the largest major is by far computer science.” However, since a significant portion of Torah deals with monetary law, applying these concepts to the modern world is enriched by a rigorous study of business. Computer science demands a level of analytical precision that elevates any intellectual endeavor. Knowing that a sevara is false is one thing; “debugging” it to find precisely where it logically breaks down is another.
Because the connotation of Torah Umadda has narrowed to only include humanities, President Berman has emphasized the broader lens of hakol lichvodo, that everything can be a vehicle to serve Hashem.
Some see the decline of the humanities at YU as a tragic intellectual loss; others as a necessary adaptation to modern professional realities; others would say good riddance. Regardless, Torah Umadda in the full sense of hakol lichvodo is offered at YU; whether students put in the effort required to derive meaning is a separate question.
Yeshiva University invites critique, and constructive criticism is essential to its growth. Eden asks what makes a conversation great. Part of the answer lies in reflecting reality: Criticism becomes meaningless when we refuse to judge the institution that exists and insist on arguing with the one we imagined. By judging YU on its own terms, we can productively critique its flaws — and cultivate the hakaras hatov necessary to take advantage of its successes.
Photo Caption: Glueck beis medrash
Photo Credit: Yeshiva University
