Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach touched so many lives with his music and his apparent utter devotion to God and the Jewish People. He helped return souls to Judaism at a time when religion seemed on the decline. But there was another side to Rabbi Carlebach that forces us to ask the uncomfortable question: can we separate the man from the legacy, the art from the artist?

A few weeks ago, my synagogue held its annual Carlebach Shabbos. Some 1,500 people showed up to sing, dance and celebrate the legacy of Rabbi Carlebach. The room was filled with people from all walks of Jewish life – from the far-right to the far-left, observant and non-observant, all singing the same music, all united in a way they have rarely, if ever, been before. I found myself singing along with everyone else, my feet tapping to the melody, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was impossible not to be swept up. 

And yet I felt a little dirty, because there is another side to the legend of Rabbi Carlebach, a much darker side. Allegations and accusations that he fondled women who came to him for guidance, that he masturbated on a women, and that he covered it all up by telling these women that they were holy and special, have been widely disseminated. I’ve even heard some of them first hand.

As I sat there, a battle was raging in my head: how could I listen – even participate – in the celebration of Rabbi Carlebach’s art when I knew what he did to those women?

At that moment, I started thinking about the recent resurgence of rape allegations against Bill Cosby. I loved Cosby, loved his show, his comedy, his smile. I loved what he represented – just like I loved Rabbi Carlebach. Of all the people who had to be sexual abusers, it had to be Carlebach and Cosby. 

They got away with what they did for so long because of how loved and cherished they were for their work. But can their work stand alone? Is it possible to separate the art from the artist? 

It’s an ongoing question for me. 

On the one hand, I see the beauty Rabbi Carlebach brought into the world, and I don’t want the world to suffer the loss of that because of his sins. Perhaps the beauty and holiness he facilitated were there already, waiting only to be discovered and brought to light – maybe he was only a conduit. Perhaps the world might have been able to access that magic through someone else, someone less flawed. And maybe for that reason we should allow what he revealed to stand alone. Maybe there’s a message, some truth, a little good that can be salvaged. And might the message not be valid regardless of its source? Can we not hang on to the love and acceptance exhorted by Rabbi Carlebach while distancing ourselves from the man himself and his actions, or keep the moral values Cosby preached while damning the damage he caused to 17 (and counting) women? 

On the other hand, what if we do more harm than good by perpetuating the tools of these people’s abuses? Perhaps we are contributing to the pain felt by both men’s victims, who for so long were denied justice, by touting the instruments of their abuse as something worthy of praise and enjoyment. Maybe we render those men that much more acceptable by refusing to give up what they created.

There are countless answers to these questions. But frankly, I haven’t found mine yet. It’s something I struggle with every time I hear one of Rabbi Carlebach’s songs or see Cosby’s face. I find myself moved and repulsed at the same time. I don’t know what the balance should be. I don’t even know if there is one to be had. n 

Asher Lovy lives in New York and blogs at hareiani.com.