In 1909, Charles W. Eliot, recently retired after forty years as president of Harvard, gave a lecture called “The Religion of the Future.” He believed that modern science, Biblical criticism, democracy, medicine and education had changed human understanding so profoundly that religion would have to change with it.
Religion, Eliot wrote, was “not a fixed, but a fluent thing.” The nineteenth century’s extraordinary growth of knowledge and “passion for truth-seeking” had already transformed religious belief, and he expected the process to continue.
A few months later, on Simchat Torah, Washington Rabbi Abram Simon responded. He did not simply defend tradition against modernity. His argument was much more interesting: Eliot was identifying genuine problems, but Judaism already had answers to many of them.
Simon warned that people are often attracted to ideas because they appear new:
“People are as a rule ready to embrace the apparently new because of its alleged novelty.”
The irony, he argued, was that Jews themselves frequently did not know how much of this supposedly new religion was already contained in Judaism:
“Even among many of us there exists an astounding ignorance as to the real content of Judaism as based on the law.”
His conclusion was sweeping:
“No religious theory has as yet surpassed the law given us by Moses. Though ancient, it is still modern; though old, it is still new.”
And specifically about Eliot:
“The teachings of Judaism need not be abandoned for other creeds whether already proclaimed or still unannounced. They have anticipated the religious platform of the so-called religion of the future.”
Look at Eliot’s actual complaints, and Simon’s point becomes much clearer.
Eliot’s first principle was:
“The religion of the future will not be based on authority, either spiritual or temporal.”
Modern people, he said, would demand reasons rather than simply submit to authority.
Judaism certainly has authority, but it does not reduce religious life to passive obedience. Rabbinic Judaism is built around argument: What does the law mean? Which principle applies? What happens when values conflict? The Talmud preserves rejected opinions alongside accepted ones. Jewish law develops through precedent, analogy, interpretation and dispute. Authority exists, but reasoning is part of the system rather than its enemy.
Eliot was right to reject a model in which religion means “because the priest said so.” But Judaism’s alternative is not the abolition of authority. It is authority disciplined by argument, precedent and interpretation.
Eliot also objected to religion becoming tribal:
“There will be...no more tribal, racial, or tutelary gods.”
Here again Judaism gives a more complicated answer than Eliot seems to recognize. Judaism is unapologetically particularistic: Jews have a covenant, particular commandments, a particular history and a particular people. But the Jewish God is not merely the God of Jews. The Torah begins not with Abraham but with Adam. All human beings descend from the same human being; all are created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God.
Judaism therefore does not solve tribalism by erasing particular identities. It combines particular obligation with universal human value. A Jew can have special obligations to family, community and people without concluding that outsiders have no moral claims.
That is arguably more realistic than Eliot’s expectation that moral progress would dissolve particular loyalties altogether.
Eliot’s next principle sounds almost entirely Jewish:
“The religious person will not think of his own welfare or security, but of service to others, and of contributions to the common good.”
He adds:
“Repentance wipes out nothing in the past, and is only the first step towards reformation.”
That is close to the Jewish understanding of teshuvah. Saying that one is sorry is not enough. One must stop the wrongdoing, acknowledge it, repair the damage where possible and behave differently when the same opportunity arises again. Yom Kippur itself does not atone for wrongs committed against another person until the offender has sought reconciliation.
Eliot presents this as the future of religion. Simon’s point is essentially that Judaism had long ago made it part of religious law.
The same is true of Eliot’s emphasis on attacking the causes of suffering. When the believer encounters evil, Eliot says,
“his impulse will be to search out its origin, source, or cause, that he may attack it at its starting-point.”
He praises sanitation, medicine, housing and education because they prevent suffering instead of merely consoling its victims.
Judaism hardly objects. Pikuach nefesh makes saving life an overriding obligation. Jewish law requires preventative measures against foreseeable danger. A dangerous roof requires a parapet. One may not leave hazards where others can be injured. Charity is not simply emotional compassion; Maimonides famously ranks helping someone become self-supporting above merely giving him relief after he becomes dependent.
In other words, Judaism does not say only, “comfort the suffering.” It also asks, what obligation could have prevented the suffering in the first place?
Eliot similarly wanted religion to become practical rather than sacramental or magical. Its great command was:
“Be serviceable.”
He envisioned believers of different creeds cooperating in hospitals, charities and social institutions because service to human beings mattered more than theological uniformity.
Again, Judaism turns general benevolence into concrete duties. Feed the hungry. Visit the sick. Return lost property. Pay workers on time. Do not exploit the vulnerable. Give charity. Bury the dead. Protect life. Administer courts fairly.
And hospitals in Israel already have Muslims and Jews working together.
That may be the most important difference between Eliot’s formulation and the Jewish one. Eliot offers a principle: be serviceable. Judaism asks what being serviceable requires on Tuesday afternoon.
Its detailed law is not necessarily the obstacle to moral religion that Eliot imagined. It can be the mechanism that converts moral aspiration into behavior.
Eliot also placed enormous emphasis on truth. His future religion would cultivate
“the love of truth and the passion for seeking it,”
and he believed truth would progressively make people free.
Judaism again agrees. Emet—truth—is a central religious value. But Judaism also recognizes something Eliot’s formulation tends to obscure: truth is one value among others, and moral life frequently consists of negotiating collisions among values. Peace can matter alongside truth. Human dignity can limit certain rules. Saving life overrides almost the entire Torah.
That produces a moral system considerably more complicated than “follow truth wherever it leads.” Judaism asks not merely whether something is true, but what one is obligated to do with that truth in a particular relationship and circumstance.
This may be the larger point Simon saw in Eliot’s “new” religion.
Eliot identified legitimate weaknesses in certain forms of traditional religion: blind authority, excessive concern with the afterlife, indifference to preventable suffering, magical thinking and narrow tribalism. His mistake was assuming that overcoming those problems required leaving traditional religion behind.
Judaism not only anticipated these issues, it already went beyond them to something arguably better.
Not no authority, but authority subjected to argument.
Not no particularism, but particular obligations inside a universal moral framework.
Not repentance as absolution, but repentance as behavioral change and restitution.
Not merely compassion for suffering, but duties to prevent foreseeable harm.
Not simply goodwill, but commandments that tell people what goodwill requires.
Not morality discovered anew by every generation, but an accumulated legal and ethical tradition that can itself be argued with, interpreted and developed.
That makes Simon’s response much more than a boast that Judaism is ancient and therefore superior. His point is that Eliot had confused age with obsolescence.
“Though ancient, it is still modern; though old, it is still new.”
Eliot thought he was describing the religion that would emerge once modern people discarded the religious past.
Simon’s rejoinder was that, before discarding it, they might want to find out what was actually in it.
Elder of Ziyon

























