Mysticism – Lesson 7

Table of Contents

• The definition of mysticism and whether it is open to criticism
• The status of mysticism in Jewish law, Kabbalah, and the laws of evidence
• “It is not in heaven,” prophecy, a heavenly voice, and dreams
• Torah, da’at Torah, and faith in the sages as a thesis opposed to the spirit of Jewish law
• Decentralization, personal responsibility, and the Ort Ramla experience
• The authority of the Sanhedrin, “do not deviate,” and the rebellious elder
• The topic of “this one benefits while that one does not lose” and the conceptual analytic approach
• Faith in the sages as giving credit for serious consideration, not as blind authority

Summary

General Overview

The text defines mysticism as claims that are not accessible to the public for critical examination, and therefore cannot receive full halakhic / of Jewish law status—not because there is suspicion about their truth, but because they are not public and rely on trust in a person. Jewish law, by force of the principle that “it is not in heaven” and that “the Torah was not given to ministering angels,” is supposed to be clarified through considerations accessible to everyone, whereas prophecy, a heavenly voice, dreams, and Kabbalah operate in a medium that is not open to public criticism. At the same time, a broader thesis is advanced: that the halakhic tradition is more rationalist and autonomous than the common educational conception of da’at Torah and faith in the sages, and that faith in the sages is legitimate mainly as giving credit that obligates one to consider an argument seriously, not as accepting blind authority. Throughout, the discussion weaves in questions about the authority of the Sanhedrin, the social obligation to obey a legislative institution, and the desirable role of halakhic uniformity as against decentralization and personal responsibility. In the end, the topic of “this one benefits while that one does not lose” is brought as a tool for clarifying the precise place of faith in the sages.

The Definition of Mysticism and Whether It Is Open to Criticism

Mysticism is defined as claims that are not accessible to the broader public, and therefore cannot be subjected to critical examination, unlike empirical claims that anyone can observe, and unlike philosophy, where anyone can use reason and decide whether he accepts the claim. Mysticism relies on spiritual intuitions or esoteric sources of information in a way that leaves the public only the option of believing the speaker or not believing him, and the information is not directly accessible except through trust in a person. The text states that what makes a statement mystical is not a feature of the content itself, but of the listener’s relation to the content, so that a statement is mystical when the listener himself is unable to check it and form a position about it.

The Status of Mysticism in Jewish Law, Kabbalah, and the Laws of Evidence

The text compares reliance on trust in a person to the laws of evidence in Jewish law, and argues that evidence relating to the person himself is weaker than evidence relating to the matter itself. Therefore, a halakhic basis that relies on Kabbalah has lower status and is overridden by revealed halakhot. The text sharpens the point that this lower status is not determined because of concern that Kabbalistic claims may be incorrect, but because they are not public and cannot be subjected to public criticism, in line with the idea that “the Torah was not given to ministering angels.” The text adds that the Kabbalists themselves give a Kabbalistic determination full halakhic status because, from their perspective, it is just as open to examination as the revealed dimension, so the gap between the revealed and the hidden depends on accessibility, not on the nature of the contents.

“It Is Not in Heaven,” Prophecy, a Heavenly Voice, and Dreams

The text presents “it is not in heaven” as a determination that we do not pay attention to a heavenly voice, not because there is concern that it is not true, but because it delivers a message from above that does not pass through human cognition and criticism, and that is not the way of Jewish law. The text connects this to the principle that “a prophet is not permitted from now on to introduce anything new” and to the statement that “forty-eight prophets and seven prophetesses” did not innovate any Jewish law, and explains that a true prophet is authorized and reliable, yet prophecy still has no standing in Jewish law, because prophecy is mysticism in the sense of public inaccessibility. The text brings the statement that “the words of dreams neither raise nor lower,” and argues that even when it appears clearly that a dream is a true dream, it still has no halakhic status, because it is a subjective medium. This is compared to principles such as self-imposed prohibition (“shavya anafshei chatikha de-isura”) and a litigant’s admission, which have force only with respect to the subject who experienced the matter.

Torah, Da’at Torah, and Faith in the Sages as a Thesis Opposed to the Spirit of Jewish Law

The text argues that the common educational conception of Torah as something received on the strength of “the Holy One, blessed be He, said so,” or on the strength of “faith in the sages” and da’at Torah, is not only baseless but actually contradicts sources and the spirit of Jewish law. The text presents the essence of Torah as rationalist, accessible, and critical conduct, in which every person is supposed to be able to examine a halakhic claim and form a position, and presents this as a direct continuation of “it is not in heaven” after the foundational premises have been given from above. The text states that media such as heavenly voices, prophecies, and hocus-pocus do not receive full halakhic status, not out of contempt or out of a claim that they are false, but because they are not open to criticism.

Decentralization, Personal Responsibility, and the Ort Ramla Experience

The text describes a gathering at the Ort Ramla school in which religious figures from different traditions spoke about tolerance, and there it presents a position opposite to that of other speakers, who called for listening to religious sages in order to moderate the young. The text argues that precisely the formation of an independent position by each individual is a healthier mechanism, one that brings balance through a distribution of opinions, whereas centralization around a single leader may lead to extremism depending on the identity of the one directing things. The text describes angry reactions from fellow panelists, and brings an anecdote about a sheikh from Lod, correspondence during the time of the riots, a proclamation signed by “Representatives of the Arab public in Lod,” and disappointment at the radicalization that was revealed in his positions despite his having been perceived as a moderate person. It ends that aside by saying that the principled conclusion remains that following trust in a person is not the way of Jewish law.

The Authority of the Sanhedrin, “Do Not Deviate,” and the Rebellious Elder

The text distinguishes between the authority of a spiritual leader and the Sanhedrin as a supreme legislative institution needed for social order, and presents obedience to the Sanhedrin as an organizational need, similar to obedience to a civil legislative institution. The text argues that the Sanhedrin does not rule on the basis of divine inspiration, but on the basis of considerations accessible to criticism, and adds that according to the plain sense of the Talmud / Talmudic text at the beginning of Horayot, a person is not even required in practice to obey them if he has reached a legal ruling and thinks they are mistaken, although he is forbidden to issue a ruling against their words. The text opposes the utopia of absolute halakhic uniformity with the return of the Sanhedrin and describes it as an apocalypse, proposing that the Sanhedrin should intervene only where a uniform norm is required in order to prevent social disintegration, whereas the basic value is autonomy and non-uniformity.

The Topic of “This One Benefits While That One Does Not Lose” and the Conceptual Analytic Move

The text brings the words of Rav Chisda to Rami bar Chama about “excellent matters,” and presents the question of “one who lives in another person’s courtyard without his knowledge” as depending on an inquiry into whether the obligation of payment stems from the benefit or from the loss, such that the practical difference appears in the case of “this one benefits while that one does not lose.” The text points to the unusual nature of the topic in that the Talmud / Talmudic text itself formulates the discussion in a structure that resembles the conceptual inquiries of the later authorities (Acharonim), and explains that this is what makes the discussion “excellent.” The text incorporates a parallel to Maimonides’ words in his commentary on the Mishnah, tractate Keritot, chapter 3, mishnah 4, with a “wonderful point” about the prohibition of meat and milk, and expresses amazement at the analysis as testimony to a historical change, in which moves that are common today were rare and exciting in earlier periods.

Faith in the Sages as Giving Credit for Serious Consideration, Not as Blind Authority

The text analyzes the continuation of the discussion, in which Rami bar Chama says, “It is a mishnah,” and asks, “Go serve me,” before he states the proof, and interprets this as setting a demand for trust that will ensure that the listener will not dismiss a strange argument out of hand, but will think about it again. The text presents Rava’s response, “How unhealthy and insensitive is a man whose master helps him,” as the response of someone who did not give credit and therefore laughs and dismisses, in contrast to Rav Chisda, who stays silent and is willing to make the effort to understand the move. The text adds the words of the Magen Avraham about the permission to say something in the name of a great person, “so that they will accept it from him,” and interprets this to mean that the goal is not to cause people to stumble into blind acceptance, but to get listeners to consider the reasons seriously and not belittle them. On that basis it concludes that faith in the sages means not laughing and not dismissing, but giving respect and deep consideration, and then forming an independent position. The text brings an example from Beit Hillel, who stated the words of Beit Shammai first in Eruvin, and concludes with the words of Rabbi Shimon Shkop in the introduction to Sha’arei Yosher, where he asks the reader to give him enough credit to make the effort to understand, but does not expect his words to be accepted without criticism. It emphasizes that there is no contradiction between respect for sages and critical autonomy in Jewish law.

Where are we holding? So I defined the concept of mysticism through its broader extension, and basically I argued that we’re talking about claims—mystical claims are claims that aren’t accessible to the general public. Or in other words, you can’t subject them to critical scrutiny. The simplest example of claims that can be subjected to critical scrutiny is empirical claims. Anyone can simply observe and see. But that’s not my whole point here. As far as I’m concerned, philosophy too—even though it isn’t an empirical field—is not mysticism. It isn’t mysticism because anyone can use their own reasoning and decide whether they accept the claim or don’t accept it. In that sense it’s accessible to everyone. Mysticism, by contrast, involves some kind of spiritual intuitions, observations, whatever you want to call them, communication with aliens for all I care, it doesn’t matter what exactly—where someone claims, on some level, that he has some capacity to reach information or insights that the public simply doesn’t have access to. So what we have is only the option either to accept it from him, to believe him, or not. Meaning, in that sense the information itself isn’t directly accessible to us. We have to go through trust in the person.

I compared this, yes, to the laws of evidence in Jewish law, migo as against other forms of evidence. And I argued that evidence rooted in the person himself, even in the laws of evidence, is weaker. And in general in Jewish law, when you rely on trust in a person, that has a weaker status. And therefore laws whose basis is tradition received through Kabbalah have a lower halakhic status. They are overridden by revealed laws, right? By the laws in the accepted mode. And again, I claim—not because I suspect they aren’t true. I do have such a suspicion, but that’s not the point. Even those who say they have a lower status, most of them do not think there’s a concern that they’re untrue. That’s not the issue. Once again, I’m not saying they are true or they aren’t true. I’m just saying that’s not what it depends on. Rather, it depends on the fact that it isn’t public. Something that isn’t public, right—“the Torah was not given to the ministering angels.” Torah needs to be conveyed to the general public, for its examination, for its criticism. Every person is supposed to be able to examine the halakhic claim and form a position about it. With kabbalistic statements that can’t happen. Someone who isn’t immersed in this world of spiritual intuitions of one sort or another can’t examine those statements. You can accept them or not accept them, but it’s that kind of thing. It’s basically an expansion of “it is not in heaven.”

“It is not in heaven” basically says—a heavenly voice comes out, right? And says: the Jewish law follows so-and-so. Am I worried it might not be true? The Holy One, blessed be He, says it. How could I be worried it isn’t true? Again, of course I’m speaking within the framework of that aggadah; I’m not claiming that it literally happened and that the Holy One, blessed be He, literally spoke there. I’m saying: what is that aggadah describing, what is it really saying? It’s saying that we do not heed a heavenly voice not because we suspect maybe it isn’t true, but because it gives us something from above that we’re supposed to receive without being convinced. It doesn’t pass through our cognition. And that is not the way of Jewish law. “It is not in heaven” means that Jewish law is something given over to all of us to form a position on critically. If you say something, let’s examine it—do we agree with you? Do we not agree with you? That is halakhic discussion. You want us to believe you because you’re a great person, or because you have spiritual intuition? Wonderful. It may well be that you really do—not because I suspect you or anything. But that has no halakhic standing.

And so my claim is that this is also the reason mysticism has no halakhic standing. And I said that this is why the kabbalists themselves do give it full halakhic standing. And in my view they’re right to do so; it’s not a contradiction. It’s not a contradiction because from their point of view these are accessible ideas. They can examine the claim and form a position about it, decide whether they accept it or not. Someone who is at home in that world, someone who has some kind of spiritual intuition or has studied it, whatever it may be—you can get there in all sorts of ways—for him it’s basically like the revealed dimension. And therefore my claim is that hidden versus revealed, or mysticism versus non-mysticism, is not a property of the contents under discussion, but of my relation to those contents. Or in other words: when I say that a certain statement is mystical, that is actually a statement about me, not about the statement—that I have no access to it, I don’t know how to examine it, so from my point of view it’s mysticism.

Sorry, Rabbi, isn’t this also what the Sages ruled when they said that a sage is greater than a prophet? Meaning, a sage… I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, absolutely, that can be connected here too. The claim that no prophet is permitted from this point on to introduce anything new—I think that’s even more closely related. The principle that no prophet is permitted from this point on to introduce anything new is always brought as a principle parallel to “it is not in heaven.” That forty-eight prophets and seven prophetesses arose for Israel and did not innovate even the tiniest stroke of a letter. They cannot touch Jewish law. Why not? They speak with the Holy One, blessed be He, Himself. Who is more authorized than they are to address Jewish law? The answer is that they are fully authorized; I have no suspicion. These are prophets who have already been tested. We’re not talking about a prophet who hasn’t yet been tested and whom we suspect, but a prophet who has been tested. I know he speaks with the Holy One, blessed be He. Any non-halakhic message I’m supposed to accept from him. But in Jewish law he has no standing. Because that is mysticism. Prophecy is mysticism. No matter what its content is.

Even if that prophecy tells me that this table is two meters long, that too is mysticism in principle. It doesn’t have to talk about the world of Atzilut. Because my claim is that mysticism doesn’t derive from the content under discussion, that it talks about mystical concepts. Indirectly, yes, but that’s not the definition. Rather, the definition is that we’re dealing with things that are inaccessible to the public—they’re not… I cannot evaluate them critically and form a position about them. In that sense, as far as I’m concerned, they are mysticism, and therefore they have no halakhic standing. The prophet himself may perhaps be able to act on that basis, I don’t know, because he himself sees it and can examine it. But I, when I receive a prophecy from him, am only believing him. I have no ability to examine the things themselves. The tests we perform for a prophet are tests about the person, not about the matter itself. And therefore once I have established that this person is a prophet, then I know he is a prophet and I have no concern—he is a true prophet. Fine. But even a true prophet has no power to touch Jewish law, because Jewish law distances itself from mysticism. It does not recognize mysticism. Mysticism has no halakhic standing—at least not full standing. I assume it has some standing perhaps, but not full standing.

So here, in all these examples, we see that this is not… that this is not a statement that stems from suspicion that maybe mysticism is inaccurate, untrue, or something like that, but from the category itself. I brought the example of “dream statements neither raise nor lower,” which is also the simple meaning of the Talmudic text, but in Maimonides it is written even more sharply: even where it is clear to me that the dream is a true dream. I have all sorts of indications, I tested it, I put it through tests, and I concluded that this dream probably comes from a reliable source. And still, dream statements neither raise nor lower. Why? Not because I suspect this dream may be false—that’s how people usually explain it. I want to argue no, not because of that. But because it came in a dream. Something that is a dream has no halakhic standing; it is a subjective matter.

I mentioned self-imposed prohibition, a litigant’s own admission, various halakhic principles based on subjective considerations, and therefore they really do have some status—but only for the subject who experienced it. Because for him it is accessible; for him it is not mystical. But for other people, the fact that you know various things—I may believe you, but what I know is only by virtue of believing you, not because I have access to examine the things themselves. That has no halakhic standing. Material like that has no halakhic standing. Not because I suspect it, but because of this category. Mysticism has no halakhic standing—that is, not full halakhic standing.

Now, this claim may sound very far-reaching, because the common conception of Torah is not only unlike this—it’s the opposite. We’re always educated to think that Torah means accepting something because the Holy One, blessed be He, said it, or accepting something because the Sanhedrin or the Torah scholar or the leading sage of the generation said it, or because of trust in the sages. Meaning, the foundation of Torah is trust in the sages. I’m supposed to accept things because a wise person said them and he knows what he’s talking about. What I’m claiming here is not only that this has no source and is an invention of the later generations—all this “Torah authority” and “trust in the sages,” and many have already discussed that. I want to claim not just that it has no source—there are opposite sources. It is against the spirit of Torah. Not just that it doesn’t fit, that they invented it because Torah has no sources for it. It is not merely a new invention; it contradicts what the Torah actually—Torah in the broad sense, the halakhic tradition—tells us. I claim it really contradicts it.

The essence of Torah is exactly the opposite. The essence of Torah is something rationalistic, accessible, open to criticism, passing on a broad front, something everyone can examine—exactly the opposite of these theses of “trust in the sages” and “Torah authority” and things of that sort. And in that sense there is a thesis here that, first, gives what I think is a very interesting and different explanation for the halakhic status of mysticism and Kabbalah, but in a certain sense it also gives some meaning to what Torah is, and that too is not the conventional meaning, or is almost the opposite of the conventional meaning. True, Torah was given from above—the basic infrastructure—but from here on, right, the foundational assumptions were given to us, but from here on “it is not in heaven.” The Torah was not given to the ministering angels. From here on, what we decide and form a position about, that is what has halakhic standing. Anyone who comes and does hocus-pocus for me, brings me heavenly voices and prophecies and all the rest—and again, not in the dismissive sense that it isn’t true, but because these are media that have no halakhic standing. Jewish law does not recognize these things—well, not that it doesn’t recognize them, but it does not grant full standing to things that are mystical, esoteric, not open to criticism.

This reminds me—maybe I mentioned this—that I once spoke at the ORT school, ORT Ramla. There was some conference there organized, I think, by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, maybe the Interior Ministry, I don’t remember—something like that. They organized a gathering of various religious figures. Yes, there were Muslims, Christians, Druze, and rabbis, all sorts of religious figures who came to speak with the students there. ORT Ramla is an Arab school, an Arab comprehensive environmental school, not selective or anything, a regular comprehensive school. Most of the Arab youth from Lod and Ramla study there. So they came to speak to them a bit about tolerance, things of that kind—but not only that, also to present religious positions before the students, where the subtext was how do we live together, how do we prevent extremism, how do we strive for tolerance, and things of that sort.

And people got up and spoke, and when it was my turn to speak there, it was really—it was an experience, the whole thing was a fascinating experience. I always remember it when I… I think I’ve already told this. It was a fascinating experience. First of all because it was a very impressive school, very impressive. There’s a principal there, an extraordinary personality, very impressive. The students—and this is a completely comprehensive school, not selective at all—the students behaved exemplary. I was really amazed, with interest, and during the breaks they came over to ask questions, and we were there half a day. It really was a fascinating experience.

In any case, at some point when I spoke, I said to them that the spirit of what the other speakers there had said was: “Listen to the religious scholars, and they will guide you what to do. You’re teenagers, impulsive people, you can end up doing extreme things. If you listen to the religious leaders, to the religious scholars, that will moderate you, it will balance your youthful temperament.” They set you up perfectly. You hear? They set you up perfectly. Yes, exactly. And I said there that I think exactly the opposite. Meaning, in my opinion—and again, I’m not speaking here on behalf of the Muslims, I don’t understand Islam or Christianity or anything—I’m speaking practically, and about my Jewish conception, which, to put it mildly, is also not agreed upon among the Jewish rabbis. But that was the position I wanted to present there, and I told them that in my opinion, on the contrary: if you don’t listen to anybody, but rather form your own position yourselves, in my view that is a healthier mechanism. Healthier. Healthier, even though yes, there is youthful temperament and people can go to extremes. But on the other hand, if one person directs the whole group, then all kinds of very extreme acts can happen. It depends who that person is.

But if I give each person their own check, each one will basically form his own position, then the invisible hand, or the law of large numbers if you like, will bring some sort of balance. This one will balance that one and that one will balance this one, and the distribution of opinions will ultimately bring something that won’t reach excessive extremism. There will be this over here and that over there, but in the end it will somehow moderate and center itself. And so I believe specifically in decentralization, not centralism, in this case as a mechanism for moderation. So there too I was basically saying something similar to what we learned here: that in fact you are not supposed to accept a position from someone just because he said it, because he’s wise, or because he’s a Torah scholar, because he knows the religious principles, or whatever, in one field or another. On the contrary—you need to form a position yourself, the responsibility is on you, and I think in the end this will also bring better results on average.

The reactions there were very interesting because I got reactions like the ones I get from Jewish rabbis. Meaning, my colleagues there on the panel were angry at me. Meaning, there is an obligation to listen to the religious scholars, and you don’t trust us? What kind of… Really, I got the impression that they were moderate people. It wasn’t… I really think they had a moderate agenda, it’s not that they were playing games. And still, I got attacks similar to those I know from within the religious Jewish world. So it was very interesting to see that analogy.

By the way, just as an anecdote: the sheikh who invited me to this conference is someone from here in Lod, the sheikh of one of the mosques here in Lod, a local activist, one of the central sheikhs here—not that wild man who makes headlines from time to time, Yusuf something, I’ve already forgotten his name—that guy is a savage, there’s no one to talk to. But this sheikh is a moderate person, you can talk to him, his Hebrew is good too by the way, and he really is someone you can have a conversation with. Why am I saying this? Because during the riots that happened here a few months ago, after a day or two when I saw that this thing wasn’t calming down, I sent this sheikh a WhatsApp message, and I said to him: tell me, maybe we can talk about how to stop this escalation a bit? Because this business can go very far. Is there something to discuss? Is it possible, maybe, to meet and talk a little? I got no answer. That was at the beginning of the week, I think. On Thursday, when it was already really the tail end of the riots, he answered me. I sent him another WhatsApp message, he replied, and we started corresponding.

I sent him another WhatsApp because some leaflet had been published here—just an anecdote, it’s not related to the class, but I happened to remember it, and there’s something to learn from it too. I sent him a WhatsApp because some proclamation had been published by “Representatives of the Arab public in Lod”—that’s what was signed on the leaflet, no names, just a kind of heading. And the leaflet was very extreme. Like, the Jewish Zionists want to throw us out, expel us, the settlers are taking over here—the religious core group here are called “settlers” in popular speech. By “popular speech” I mean the Arabs and the leftists. This leaflet made people here really furious. “You see? There’s no one to talk to, they’re all extremists, and these are the representatives of the Arab public in Lod.” I said to them: listen, I lived in Bnei Brak for quite a few years, and I know that when something is signed there “Institutions of such-and-such” it’s basically just some bored person with a stamp and a stencil writing on it “representatives of whatever” or “the council of the spiritual committee for whatever,” anything at all. Someone signs that way and he can present himself as the representative of the Holy One, blessed be He, on earth. It’s just some bored Jew or Arab. What does “representatives of the Arab public in Lod” even mean? It’s anonymous, no one is signed on it—what conclusions are you drawing from that at all?

So to test my thesis, I sent him another WhatsApp—that was Thursday. I sent him another WhatsApp and said: tell me, who are these “representatives of the Arab public”? Does the public really stand behind these positions? He says to me, absolutely yes—what, you don’t agree with what’s written here? I was stunned. Really, these were very extreme things. There was no one to talk to. We started arguing there on WhatsApp, and Al-Aqsa this and hear Al-Aqsa that, and he was really talking like the worst street thugs here. It was quite amazing, and he was very convinced of himself. At some point he told me he’d answer me after prayer, and from then on I haven’t heard from him. That’s just an anecdote, because my impression of him at that conference was that he really was a very moderate person, and suddenly I discovered statements there that I had not expected at all from such a person. And it gave me some very gloomy thoughts, because I don’t think he was playing games. He probably really and sincerely sees things that way. Genuinely. I don’t think he’s trying to incite, I don’t think he’s trying—I think. That’s my impression. He really and sincerely sees things that way, which to me is delusional and completely detached. This isn’t even a question of a disagreement—you can see it this way, you can see it another way, there are always two sides. No, it’s just delusional. It has no connection whatsoever to reality. But that’s how he sees it, and we’re talking about one of the moderate figures, I think, among the local leadership here. Anyway, that was just by the by regarding the people I met there.

Back to our subject—I’ll close the parentheses. What I want to say is that this really is a thesis that seems a bit contrary to what we would expect from a religious tradition. A religious tradition is always portrayed as following the religious leadership, trusting what they say. And what I’m saying here is not only that this is not it—it’s the opposite. Meaning, if something is based on trust in a person, it has no halakhic standing. It’s not that even if you trust a person, still hedge it, maybe it’s not certain, you should still be autonomous even though you’re religious. No—not in spite of the fact that I’m religious, but because of it. Because I’m religious, I’m forbidden to accept that. Jewish law itself does not grant standing to such things.

Rabbi? Rabbi? How does the Rabbi explain the rebellious elder who is liable to death because he does not obey the court? That’s the Sanhedrin. I said, the Sanhedrin is something else. Why, what’s the difference? That’s basically the legal authority, the legal leadership. The legal leadership is the Sanhedrin; there is no other legal leadership. Two things. First, there has to be order. There is a supreme legislative institution, and when it determines something—just like a parliament—when the legislative institution determines something, it binds the public. That’s elementary. That’s one. Two, when the Sanhedrin determines something, it determines it not on the basis of divine inspiration. It determines it on the basis of considerations accessible to everyone. I can criticize them. And by the way, if I disagree with them, according to the simple meaning of the Talmudic text at the beginning of Horayot, I also don’t have to obey them. I’m forbidden to issue rulings against their words, but I personally do not have to obey them. That is the “mistaken in the commandment to obey the words of the sages” in the Talmudic text at the beginning of Horayot. So I don’t think it’s related to our issue.

In any case, I’ve also discussed more than once that there are people who dream that when the Sanhedrin returns, Jewish law will finally become uniform, disputes will cease, they’ll determine for us what is right and what is not right. Elijah will resolve questions and problems, as they say—yes? All our doubts will evaporate. For me that is an apocalypse. My hair stands on end at the thought of that utopia. Meaning, it is a frightening utopia from my point of view. And I want to believe and hope that this is not what will happen. What will happen if the Sanhedrin returns, if it ever does, is that the Sanhedrin will set some framework at those points where it is important to set a framework. It does not need to close all disputes. If I think in a certain way, I am supposed to conduct myself in the way I think proper. If you think differently, you are supposed to conduct yourself the way you think. There are places where society cannot function if everyone does something different or thinks something different. In order to function, society has to establish what the norm is in certain matters. There the Sanhedrin will intervene and establish something binding. But it won’t intervene in every place, even if it has a position, even if it thinks I’m wrong. If my error is not harmful and I’m using my own halakhic judgment—yes, in their opinion I’m wrong, but that is what I think—there is no reason in the world for them to determine and obligate me to act otherwise. And I hope and assume that won’t happen.

What about “according to the teaching that they instruct you”? Same question—that’s what I’m answering now. You’re allowed to argue with the Sanhedrin, aren’t you? Meaning, if that’s what you mean—that’s the obligation to listen to the Sanhedrin. Rabbi, you’re allowed to argue with the Sanhedrin, aren’t you? And what if the Sanhedrin is mistaken? Yes, like in the Talmudic text. But the question is what happens after they decide. After they decide, seemingly there is “do not deviate,” “according to the teaching that they instruct you,” whatever, yes, and there’s an obligation to obey them. So how does that fit with my whole thesis? So I say: it fits, and in two ways. First, the claim is that this is a legislative institution. It is not a rabbi or a spiritual leader of this or that kind. Every society has a legislative institution. What about the obligation to obey parliament or congress in any state? Does that contradict autonomy? No. That’s just part of the order needed for social conduct. So that’s not called following like a herd after a leader out of blind faith. I don’t even need to trust them. I’m obligated to obey because those are the rules of social order. The legislative institution needs to determine how society functions.

Beyond that, I say that the Sanhedrin itself should not use this authority beyond the area where it is needed. In issues where a uniform norm really does need to be established, because otherwise it will be hard to function—there the Sanhedrin will establish a uniform norm and obligate us all. But in places where there is no problem with each person doing what he thinks, then even if in the eyes of the Sanhedrin some of us may be mistaken, I want to believe that it will still let us be mistaken. Because there is a value to autonomy, and a person is supposed to conduct himself according to what he thinks. The Sanhedrin will not interfere in our lives except where there is no choice.

For example, suppose the Sanhedrin sees that different groups can no longer marry each other because the customs have become so different, or this one doesn’t rely on that one, or whatever it may be, and some social problem has developed. People can no longer function together. They don’t visit one another because they don’t eat at one another’s homes, and they don’t marry one another, or something like that. In places like that, it may be that the Sanhedrin will intervene and establish a norm that binds us all. It won’t allow further differences of opinion in those fields, because it sees a social problem that requires enforcing a uniform norm. But it’s not that there is some supreme value that we all function the same way. On the contrary. The basic value is that each person should function according to what he thinks. Only in places where there is no alternative will they establish some binding uniform norm.

Therefore even if a Sanhedrin ever returns and there is “do not deviate,” and of course from the Torah there will be “do not deviate,” still they should not use it beyond what they have to, and not close all disputes and stop all differing modes of conduct and unify everything into—what, one uniform prayer rite of Rabbi Goren, what was euphemistically called the Sephardic rite? There is no reason there should be uniformity. No, there is no value in that. On the contrary, the basic value is not uniformity but autonomy—that everyone who thinks in a certain way should conduct himself according to what he thinks. And the foundation of this whole story is precisely that Jewish law is supposed to be formed autonomously by a person who develops a position, based on considerations accessible to him, and not to accept something just because someone else said it. That is mysticism, not Jewish law.

Wait, Rabbi, I want to understand. Let’s say the Sanhedrin enacted not to eat poultry with milk, okay? Let’s say they made such a decree. So every Jew who thinks the decree is wrong doesn’t have to listen? Meaning, he’s a fully observant Jew in the strictest sense even if he doesn’t keep their words? That was Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, yes—they ate meat and milk. Right, for example in the place of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili they ate meat and milk, poultry with milk. But beyond that, I say: once the Sanhedrin established it, it depends who I am. If I’m someone qualified to issue rulings, a Torah scholar—not just some random person who understands nothing. Someone who understands nothing doesn’t need to form a position or anything; he needs to study Torah and reach a point where he can form a position. I’m talking about someone who can form a position. Someone who can form a position and reached the conclusion that he disagrees with the Sanhedrin—then he should not do what they said. He may not issue a ruling against their position, but he does not need to obey them. On the contrary: if he obeyed them and it turns out he was mistaken, he brings an offering. He brings an offering. He cannot rely on “I relied on them.” That’s the Talmudic text at the beginning of Horayot: “one who errs in the commandment to obey the words of the sages.” Someone who obeyed them even though he knew they were mistaken—that is “one who errs in the commandment to obey the words of the sages.” Again, there are different opinions here, different interpretations, but that is the straightforward meaning of the Talmudic text.

How does that fit with “even if he tells you that right is left and left is right”? Fine—much ink has already been spilled over that. So that’s why I say that the thesis I’m presenting here, beyond the definition of mysticism and the status of mysticism, also says something about what Torah and Jewish law are in general, even apart from this. Mysticism—the opposite, in contrast to mysticism—so what is it then? And here there is a claim that requires digestion. Yes, it goes somewhat against what is commonly thought. And again, I think this is indeed an unusual position in the landscape of Torah positions, but it isn’t something that comes merely out of my love of autonomy alone—which of course exists, I won’t deny it—but rather I claim this is what emerges from the sources. This is what I’ve shown in quite a few places. My claim is that this is our halakhic tradition. Not just that this is where I happen to lean and that’s also legitimate. I claim that someone who acts otherwise is not legitimate. Not just that my position is legitimate—someone who acts otherwise is mistaken. Mistaken, and educating in a direction that does not fit the tradition we received. That’s a somewhat far-reaching statement.

Now because it is somewhat far-reaching, I want to devote a little more time to qualifying it, or explaining where trust in the sages or trust in scholars nevertheless comes in. And for that I want to learn a passage in Bava Kamma that I think we once dealt with here too: the topic of “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” In a moment you’ll understand the connection. Is this “we compel against the trait of Sodom”? What? There are those who connect it to compelling against the trait of Sodom, yes, but that’s not this house.

So the Talmudic text in Bava Kamma—I want to learn that passage. It’s an interesting passage. I also wrote a column about it not long ago, and in a moment you’ll see what I want to draw from it. “Rav Hisda said to Rami bar Hama: Were you not with us in the evening at the boundary, for we raised fine matters?” It was Sabbath, and Rav Hisda says to Rami bar Hama: you weren’t in the study hall on Sabbath, you missed out. There was a fascinating discussion—“fine matters,” yes, there was a great discussion, fascinating, instructive. So Rami bar Hama asks him: what were those fine matters? What was the discussion? Tell me, make up for my loss. He says to him: someone who lives in another’s courtyard without his knowledge—must he pay him rent, or need he not? That was the question that came up in the study hall. The question was this: someone enters another person’s courtyard, or another person’s house, and lives there without asking the owner’s permission. Does he have to pay for that or not?

The Talmudic text asks: what are the circumstances? What case are we talking about? If we say a courtyard not designated for rent, and a man not accustomed to renting—that is, this one does not benefit and that one does not lose. Right? There are two possibilities regarding the status of this courtyard or this house. The question is whether it is up for rent or not up for rent—“standing for rent” means available for rent, or not available for rent. Why does that matter? Because if I entered a courtyard and it is available for rent, then I basically caused him a loss—he couldn’t rent it out, he lost money. And regarding the person who entered to live in the courtyard, there are also two states: is he a person who would rent, or one who would not rent? Meaning: does he have some other place to live, or does he need housing and he found it in this courtyard? Why does that matter? Because the question is whether he benefited. If he has another place to live and just entered here, he gained no benefit—he could have lived somewhere else, he has another option.

So let me go back to the Talmudic text. What exactly is the case? The question is whether he must pay the owner of the courtyard. What case is it? If it is a courtyard not available for rent—meaning the owner lost nothing—and a man not in need of renting, meaning he does not need housing because he already has housing, then this is a case of neither benefit nor loss. So basically I did not benefit because I have alternative housing, and he lost nothing because the courtyard is not for rent; in any case it would have stood here empty. So of course there would be no need to pay. So what’s the question? Therefore obviously it’s not talking about such a situation. Rather, a courtyard available for rent and a man who does need to rent. The courtyard is available for rent and I need housing. The Talmudic text says that also is not a question. This one benefits and that one loses. So there obviously he has to pay. I benefited and he lost. So of course he has to pay. So what case is it? The Talmudic text says: no, it is necessary for a case of a courtyard not available for rent, and a man who does need to rent. We’re talking about a situation where the courtyard is not available for rent—meaning he does not lose—and I, the person, do benefit. Right? What then? The question was: what is the law in such a case? Can he say to him: what have I caused you to lose? After all, you lost nothing. I benefited, but you didn’t lose. What did I make you lose? Therefore I need not pay you. Or perhaps he can say: but you benefited. True, I didn’t lose, but you benefited. Okay? That is basically the opening of the passage.

Now first of all, this passage—in terms of this aspect of it—we discussed it, yes, Shmuel, you were there, at the National Library there was a panel in a series they called “Meetings in the Bavli.” Meaning on the Talmud, a series of meetings on the Talmud. It was a meeting with Meir Buzaglo—one of the thinkers of the traditionalist movement, a philosophy lecturer at Hebrew University in Jerusalem—and Tomer Persico. And maybe some journalist moderated it, I’ve forgotten—Cross-Israel, Kobi Midan. Kobi Midan moderated it. And in the preparations we did before the meeting, I suggested that we learn this passage—the passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” There I basically argued the claims I’m about to tell you now.

First interesting point: why is this such a “fine matter”? What… He said to him, listen, you missed out, there was an amazing discussion. What’s so amazing about this discussion? It seems to me that the structure of the passage begins in a typical way but continues in a less typical way. What do I mean? The passage begins with a halakhic question: someone who lives in another’s courtyard without his knowledge—must he pay rent or need he not? Right? There are many passages like that. A certain case: must he pay or not? That’s the discussion. But afterward, when the Talmudic text starts analyzing it, it phrases it in the form of an analytic conceptual inquiry of the later authorities. Because what is the Talmudic text really saying? Translating it, right? How would Rabbi Chaim write it? Rabbi Chaim of Brisk. He would say: basically the question is whether the factor generating the obligation to pay is the benefit or the loss. One may investigate whether the factor generating the obligation of payment is benefit or loss.

And then how would Rabbi Chaim continue? He would say like this: in a place where one benefits and the other loses, obviously payment is required. That doesn’t depend on the inquiry, because there is both loss and benefit, so certainly he has to pay. In a place where there is no benefit and no loss, obviously he doesn’t have to pay. That too doesn’t depend on the inquiry, because there is neither loss nor benefit. So where will this inquiry make a practical difference? In the case where one benefits and the other does not lose. Or where one loses and the other does not benefit—that does not appear in the Talmudic text itself; that is a dispute between the Rif and Tosafot, what the law is in the fourth case. But I’m concentrating at the moment on the Talmudic text. In the Talmudic text we’re talking about “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” Why? Because that is precisely the test case, the litmus paper, that creates the practical difference for our inquiry. If the payment is payment for the benefit, then where one benefits and the other does not lose, he pays. Why should I care that the other person did not lose? In the end I benefited. But if the obligation to pay depends on loss, then he did not lose—why should I care that I benefited? Then I do not have to pay. So that is exactly the practical difference.

So the translation… the Talmudic text opens with a halakhic question that is not phrased through the conceptual analytic categories, the yeshiva-style analysis. A halakhic question—that is what every Talmudic passage does. But immediately afterward comes an analysis that is essentially a conceptual analytic analysis, something that could be done in any yeshiva in our day. That’s how this is done in every passage. But it’s really relatively rare in the Talmud. In most places in the Talmud—there are others, but in most places—you don’t have that conceptualization. They ask a halakhic question, discuss it, bring proofs from here, proofs from there, expositions, baraitot, mishnayot, disputes, practical differences—but not the conceptualization. The conceptualization is usually done by the later authorities, or by us, yes, in yeshiva or when we learn it—we make the effort to produce some conceptual framework, what lies behind the various positions in the passage. In the passage itself it isn’t mentioned. Here it is very unusual. In the passage itself they are doing the conceptualization, really conducting an inquiry: is the benefit the obligating factor or is the loss the obligating factor? And the practical difference is “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” A real move of the later authorities.

And it seems to me that this is what underlies that statement of Rav Hisda, when he says to Rami bar Hama: you missed out, there was an amazing discussion. Why? Because… suddenly there was a Rabbi Chaim-style move. Rabbi Chaim arrived there in the yeshiva in Babylonia and they said, wow, this is fascinating. You don’t see a move like this every day here—you missed out. That’s what he tells him.

When I read this part of the passage I remembered that Maimonides, in his Commentary to the Mishnah on tractate Keritot, chapter 3, mishnah 4, has a wonderful example. Look here. One second. “And in these words of ours there is a marvelous point to which we shall draw attention, because it is a key to other matters, besides the precision of analysis it contains.” What does that mean? First of all, this is a very fundamental point. Why is the point “marvelous”? It is very foundational, but it also contains sophisticated analysis—precision of thought. So it is a marvelous point. “And it is as follows: it is known that meat cooked in milk is forbidden for benefit.” Right, meat and milk—“you shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk” is written three times: one for the prohibition of eating, one for the prohibition of cooking, and one for the prohibition of deriving benefit. “And chelev, by way of example”—I’m getting mixed up here, the first is chelev and the second is milk. Chelev is a certain kind of fat in an animal that is forbidden to eat, okay, in domesticated animals. “And chelev, for example, is permitted for benefit, forbidden in eating but permitted in benefit. And if one cooked chelev in milk, why should the prohibition of meat in milk not take effect upon the prohibition of chelev? And the same law applies to a carcass insofar as it is an additional prohibition, as they said here regarding the fat of sacrificial animals, where we obligate one for misappropriation because the prohibition of benefit was added to it.”

I’ll explain just a bit. There is a rule in Jewish law that one prohibition does not take effect on top of another prohibition. Meaning, if I eat pork on Yom Kippur—like in the old comedy sketch: drove without a license on the sidewalk against traffic and crashed into a kiosk. Okay, so someone eats pork on Yom Kippur. What happens in such a case? A prohibition does not take effect on another prohibition. This piece is already prohibited as pork, and therefore basically I transgressed the prohibition of pork; not the prohibition of Yom Kippur. There are three exceptions to this rule that one prohibition does not take effect on another: inclusive, additive, and simultaneous. Meaning, if the first prohibition and the second prohibition take effect at the same moment, then they both do take effect. Only if there is an earlier and later one does the later not take effect over the earlier. That’s simultaneous. Inclusive is when the second prohibition applies to more things than the first prohibition. Additive is when the second prohibition is broader in scope, not in the items to which it applies, than the first prohibition.

For example, what happens in our case? The prohibition of chelev is a certain kind of animal fat forbidden for eating and permitted for benefit. The prohibition of meat cooked in milk is forbidden both for eating and for benefit. Okay? Now I take the chelev, which is meat substance, and cook it with milk. So the Talmudic text says that there is only the prohibition of chelev here, because one prohibition does not take effect on another. And if you ate it or cooked it, you did not transgress the prohibition of meat cooked in milk but only the prohibition of chelev. Maimonides asks: why? It should be additive. The prohibition of meat cooked in milk is a prohibition of eating and benefit. It is broader than the prohibition of chelev, because chelev is only prohibited for eating; there is no prohibition of benefit here. The second prohibition is broader, and if the second prohibition is broader, then it should indeed take effect on the earlier prohibition. So if I ate chelev cooked in milk, I should have violated both the prohibition of chelev and the prohibition of meat cooked in milk, because the prohibition of meat cooked in milk is broader and should take effect on the prohibition of chelev. That is Maimonides’ question.

And the answer to this—I’ll continue reading—“And the answer to this is that meat cooked in milk is prohibited for benefit only because Scripture prohibited its eating, according to the rule we have explained: everything prohibited for eating is prohibited for benefit unless Scripture specifies otherwise.” What does that mean? This is a Talmudic text in Pesahim, a dispute between Rabbi Abbahu and Hizkiyah. Rabbi Abbahu argues—and that is the halakhic ruling—that everything prohibited for eating is also prohibited for benefit, unless Scripture itself permits benefit from it. For example, with respect to “flesh torn in the field you shall not eat; you shall cast it to the dogs.” What does “you shall cast it to the dogs” mean? That the Torah itself takes pains to permit benefit from it. You may not eat a torn carcass, but there is no prohibition of benefit. Why is there none? Because the Torah itself permitted benefit from it. From here Rabbi Abbahu says we see that were it not for the Torah permitting benefit from it, we would prohibit it for benefit merely by virtue of its being prohibited for eating. And therefore the Torah has to permit it explicitly for benefit; it is not enough merely not to prohibit it. If it had said nothing, I would also have prohibited benefit from it. Why? Because everything prohibited for eating is also prohibited for benefit, unless Scripture specifies that it is permitted for benefit. Okay? Because eating is one example of benefit. Right, that’s how Maimonides explains it. Again, I’m not going into that here, but that is Maimonides’ approach.

Maimonides says that in the prohibition of meat cooked in milk there is no verse prohibiting eating and a separate verse prohibiting benefit. Rather, both are one thing—the prohibition of meat cooked in milk. What does that mean? He says that in the prohibition of meat cooked in milk there is no verse prohibiting eating and another verse prohibiting benefit. Now in truth there is, because after all “you shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk” is written multiple times. He explains that in the Book of Commandments. I’m not getting into the details right now. I just want you to see why this is such a “marvelous point”—that’s what matters to me here. He argues that the prohibition of benefit in meat cooked in milk branches out from the prohibition of eating; it has no separate verse prohibiting benefit. And since we said that one prohibition does not take effect on another, “therefore the prohibition of meat cooked in milk does not take effect on the prohibition of a carcass, and so it will not be forbidden for benefit but will be permitted for benefit, and one who eats it is lashed for the carcass, and the prohibition of meat cooked in milk falls away entirely because it did not take effect. This has already been explained in its place. Understand this matter, for it is a place of error, and judge all similar cases by it.”

“A place of error” means this is a subtle issue and it is very easy to get it wrong. That’s what Maimonides is saying. What does he mean? He says the prohibition of benefit branches out from the prohibition of eating; it has no separate verse. So what? Basically, at base, it is only a prohibition of eating. Once the thing is prohibited for eating, from that there also branches out a prohibition of benefit. Now I cooked the chelev with milk and now I come to eat it. Since the prohibition of meat cooked in milk is only a prohibition of eating, it does not take effect on the prohibition of chelev, which is also only a prohibition of eating, because one prohibition does not take effect on another. Once the prohibition of eating on account of meat cooked in milk does not take effect, then the prohibition of benefit also is not awakened, because the prohibition of benefit only branches out from the prohibition of eating. You see? A classic Rabbi Chaim-style move, right? That is, a conceptual analytic move that really is very rare among the medieval authorities. But that’s what Maimonides is doing, and that’s why he calls it a marvelous point. It’s some kind of conceptual move that’s very unusual, and Maimonides is extremely excited that he came up with this conceptual idea: that this is not a prohibition of eating and a prohibition of benefit, but a prohibition of benefit branching out from a prohibition of eating. At base this is only a prohibition of eating—there is a prohibition of eating from which a prohibition of benefit branches, and there is a prohibition of eating from which no prohibition of benefit branches. The prohibition of chelev is of the second type: a prohibition of eating from which no prohibition of benefit branches. The prohibition of meat cooked in milk is a prohibition of eating, but one from which a prohibition of benefit does branch.

So what follows? At base both are just prohibitions of eating. Only once the eating prohibition takes effect does the benefit prohibition branch from it. But in order to know whether the eating prohibition takes effect, I examine whether the second eating prohibition—that of meat cooked in milk—takes effect on the first eating prohibition—the prohibition of eating chelev. And no: this is an eating prohibition and that is an eating prohibition; it is not broader than the earlier one. Both are eating prohibitions. So it does not take effect, the prohibition of meat cooked in milk. And once it doesn’t take effect, the prohibition of benefit also won’t branch out from it, because at base it is an eating prohibition. Only if it takes effect will the prohibition of benefit branch from it. But once it doesn’t take effect—because when I check whether it takes effect or not, I see it only as an eating prohibition—then it doesn’t take effect, because it is an eating prohibition and chelev too is an eating prohibition, so it is not broader than the prohibition of chelev. Therefore it doesn’t take effect. And once it doesn’t take effect, the prohibition of benefit also won’t branch out from it.

Okay, so all that was really just in parentheses. What do I want to show here? Maimonides is wildly enthusiastic about this. It’s a marvelous point. There are very, very few such expressions in Maimonides. And what is he so excited about? You can find a move like this on every page in books of the later authorities. Every yeshiva lecture says at least one idea like this, if not better. So why is Maimonides so excited? He’s excited because in his day this really was not common. These conceptual analytical moves that we are so used to today—in the period of the medieval authorities this was something that simply did not exist. They weren’t familiar with such a thing. If they had seen such a thing they would have jumped off the roof with excitement. Like the move in our Talmudic passage, that’s why I mentioned it—like the move of “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” Once they saw some conceptual move—wow, “fine matters”! You missed not being in the study hall. If someone in Volozhin—well, not in Volozhin, in any yeshiva here in the land today—he’d hear three such moves a day. It’s quite amazing, that change between the generations. We aren’t used to making those distinctions; it’s more of an academic matter, or to look at how generations change, how things develop. So it’s really amazing to see how much things they were so amazed by are, for us, the sort of thing a boy in a junior yeshiva would say. Surely not Maimonides, the leading sage of the generation, or Rami bar Hama or Rav Hisda.

I think I’ve said more than once, even in this framework, that I think the analytical abilities of the later authorities cannot be compared to those of the medieval authorities, amoraim, tannaim, and so on. It isn’t even the same league. Clearly the later authorities eat all of them for breakfast. By “later authorities” I include us too. Any ordinary conceptual learner in yeshivot today eats them for breakfast in terms of analytical ability. Because the material Rabbi Akiva had to master is a joke compared to the material Rabbi Akiva Eiger had to master. What did Rabbi Akiva need to know? Basically just the mishnayot—master the mishnayot. Not a trivial matter, but let’s say it’s a task that many people today could handle relatively easily: mastering the material of the Mishnah. But to hold all the material that Rabbi Ovadia held—Rabbi Akiva doesn’t even begin to approach that direction. No chance. It’s simply not the same scope. And that’s just in terms of scope, and then mastering all that material at a conceptual level with questions and answers—there is no trace of that in anything we see from Rabbi Akiva. All this talk about decline of the generations and all those things becomes completely detached from reality when you look at it from the standpoint of analytical abilities.

And on the other hand, that does not mean that someone with greater analytical ability thereby lands closer to the truth. Sometimes a healthy intuition gets you much closer to the truth than a brilliant complex analytical move—on the contrary. As someone once said—who was it? I never remember—that there are absurdities so great that only intellectuals can say them. It’s attributed either to Oscar Wilde or George Orwell. One of the two, I think, I no longer remember. In any case, it just won’t stick in my head. I never remember who said it, even though I’ve quoted it quite a lot.

The move that Rav Hisda or Maimonides marvel at is bread and butter for the later authorities. For them it’s some kind of meteor-like flash of insight—we’ve never encountered such a thing! What a loss that you weren’t in the study hall. Amazing. Okay, that’s just a side lesson.

Now let’s return for a moment to the Talmudic text and see how this develops. Fine. Rav Hisda says to Rami bar Hama: you missed out. Rami bar Hama asks him what I missed, and he shows him this discussion of “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” He says to him: but it’s an explicit Mishnah! He says: what are you all pilpul-ing about there, Rabbi Ovadia, with all your pilpul and your complicated learning—there is an explicit Mishnah, why do you need all your complicated analytical and conceptual structures? And Rav Hisda is astonished. What—what Mishnah? As if Rav Hisda says: we discussed it in the study hall, and Rami bar Hama says: you’re all wasting your breath, there is an explicit Mishnah, why discuss it? So Rav Hisda says to him: what? Which Mishnah? What are you talking about? None of us thought of that. He says to him—Rami bar Hama says—come serve me, and then I’ll tell you. Fine. He took the cloth and wrapped him, meaning he served him, put on his garment for him. He said to him: “if it benefited, it pays what it benefited.” Meaning, the animal—the animal discussed there in the Mishnah, an animal eating produce in the public domain—okay? If it eats produce in the public domain it is exempt, because damages caused by tooth and foot are exempt in the public domain, and eating is a form of “tooth” damage. But the Mishnah says that if it benefited, then it pays the amount of the benefit it derived. Okay, that’s what the Mishnah says.

What exactly does he want from us? Why is this Mishnah relevant to our issue? He wants to prove that one pays for benefit, that one pays for benefit. Right, he wants to bring a proof that one pays for benefit, that “if you benefited, you pay what you benefited.” I can’t hear—there’s some kind of echo, I can’t hear him—that where the other did not lose, you benefited, so you pay. Yes, fine, but there the animal caused damage, didn’t it? So the proof is that we see there is payment for benefit. Rava says: how senseless and unperceptive is the man whom his Master helps. What a disconnected fellow, talking nonsense, and somehow he’s got some inexplicable divine assistance, such that Rav Hisda accepted the nonsense from him, from Rami bar Hama. Why? Even though it is not comparable to the Mishnah, he accepted it from him. Rami bar Hama says, what do you mean? It’s an explicit Mishnah. Rav Hisda asks him, what Mishnah is that? He says, the Mishnah of “if it benefited, it pays what it benefited.” And then Rav Hisda is silent. Why are you silent, Rav Hisda? He’s talking nonsense. That case is “this one benefits and that one loses,” while our case is “this one benefits and that one does not lose.” After all, that example is one benefits and the other loses—he ate my produce, so I lose. And where one benefits and the other loses there was no question; of course he must pay. So how can you bring proof from that Mishnah to a case of one benefits and the other does not lose? Total nonsense.

And as for Rami bar Hama, the Talmudic text asks, what did he really think? “Ordinary produce in the public domain the owner effectively relinquishes.” Right, produce in the public domain is treated as ownerless. And therefore this is not a case of loss but only of benefit. Of course the question immediately arises: if he relinquished ownership of them, then why should one have to pay him? He’s no longer the owner. What kind of thing is that? So now he’s adding nonsense on top of nonsense. You said one absurd thing and now you justify it with a second absurd thing. So look: the medieval commentators explain here—in my own wording, but I think this is what they mean—that the produce in the public domain is not actually ownerless; it still belongs to you. But in terms of the laws of damages, because you placed it in the public domain, it is considered as though you relinquished it. Your contributory fault in causing my animal to eat the produce turns you into someone who, as it were, relinquished the produce—so it’s as if this is one benefits and the other does not lose. Okay? And if one still has to pay the amount of benefit, then Rami bar Hama says: there’s your proof that in a case of one benefits and the other does not lose, one must pay. That’s what the Talmudic text says.

Now this is very complicated, right? And it’s also this kind of later-authorities-style conceptual learning. What are they saying here? It isn’t actually ownerless, but regarding the laws of damages it is as though ownerless. Again, two separate legal dimensions of Rabbi Chaim. It is considered ownerless regarding the laws of damages, but not ownerless regarding property law—it still belongs to you. And therefore one has to pay you for the produce. Regarding the laws of damages, however, it is now treated as ownerless. Again, someone will say—he’ll say, if the animal slipped on it, Rabbi, and the animal slipped on it and damage was caused by the produce, would he also say it was relinquished? That’s not “foot”; it’s not “foot” damage. Tooth and foot—no, I mean a person, a person walking there who was injured by these vegetables, by this produce. Exactly. Then the owner of the produce has to pay him because it is a pit. We are speaking about payment for damage to the produce, or if the produce caused damage, or if the produce was damaged. Because it’s a pit, okay.

So that is the Talmudic move. Now I ask: why did he ask him to serve him before telling him the answer, before telling him from which Mishnah he had his proof? I want to claim that what he wanted was for Rav Hisda to place trust in him before he told him the answer. Why? Because if Rav Hisda didn’t serve him and thereby express trust in him, then when he heard the answer he would belittle it and throw it out instantly, because it would sound foolish to him. So Rav Hisda served him, and then he gave him the answer—and as we said, it’s a sophisticated answer that on the face of it sounds like complete nonsense. And Rav Hisda is silent. Why is Rav Hisda silent? Rava mocks him: how can you accept the nonsense that Rami bar Hama says? Why is Rav Hisda really silent? Because Rav Hisda, who respected Rami bar Hama, who served him, therefore took what Rami bar Hama said seriously. He accepted what Rami bar Hama said, even though on the face of it, probably to Rav Hisda too it looked like nonsense. But he kept thinking and thinking and apparently arrived at an explanation for why it is nevertheless correct.

But Rava, who was standing there to the side, had not served Rami bar Hama. So how does Rava react? He laughs at him, says: you’re talking nonsense. Here the Talmudic text shows us why it was so important to Rami bar Hama that Rav Hisda serve him. Because if Rav Hisda had not served him, Rav Hisda’s reaction to what he said would have been like Rava’s reaction. Rava had not served him, and that’s exactly how he reacted, because on the face of it what Rami bar Hama said was nonsense, looked like nonsense. And therefore he asked him to serve him. It seems abstract that serving someone for a few minutes changes his whole opinion and outlook. It’s a sign, an indication, I think. If you serve me, that’s a sign that you value me, you want to hear what I say, it matters to you. If you… they know each other well enough already as Torah scholars, so that this now is what’s going to make the change? All those years in yeshiva they argued and learned and saw each other’s wisdom and depth, but the act of service is what’s going to make the difference? First of all, maybe yes—just as the Holy One, blessed be He, tested Abraham. Didn’t He know he was God-fearing? Sometimes you want to see the thing expressed in action in order to verify that it really is so. That’s one. Two, we’re dealing here with aggadah; I don’t know exactly what of this literally happened and what did not. The Talmudic text is coming to teach us this point, not necessarily to tell us a historical anecdote about Rami bar Hama and Rav Hisda.

But it could be that Rami bar Hama too wanted to teach Rav Hisda and the surrounding people precisely this. Because even if it really happened, look: Rami bar Hama knew in advance what was going to happen, and he was right at every stage. He saw how Rava would react, having not served him, and how Rav Hisda would react, having served him. And all the students standing around learned a major lesson from this whole move. Therefore the fact that he asked Rav Hisda to serve him itself became a lesson to all the students, not only to Rav Hisda. Look what’s happening here: whoever values me—remained silent. Whoever does not value me—laughed at me. And what became clear in the end? That I was probably right, and the one who laughed at me was simply superficial. He wasn’t willing to think again about what I said because he didn’t value me enough. And therefore he dismissed my words out of hand, because what I said involved conceptual complexity—a kind of ownerlessness that is ownerlessness only for the laws of damages but not for the laws of property.

And in that, by the way—yes, there are different layers here, literary and conceptual intertwined with each other—Rami bar Hama is paying Rav Hisda back for what Rav Hisda said to him. Rav Hisda said to him: listen, you missed out; there was an amazing conceptual move in the study hall. And how does Rami bar Hama answer him? With a conceptual move no less amazing. He says to him: don’t worry, you’re not going to teach me too much conceptual learning. I’m a conceptual learner too. So let me show you. Rava was indeed in the study hall yesterday. He participated in your discussion. Let’s see how I make a fool of him. I tell you it’s an explicit Mishnah. Rava dies laughing. And then Rami bar Hama shows him that if you were among the conceptualists, then come—I’ll give you a lesson in conceptual learning. Here, I’ll show you conceptual learning, and I’ll make a fool of you for the laughing you did earlier. “God has made laughter for me; whoever hears will laugh over me.”

But there is here, I think, a beautiful combination of a meta-halakhic lesson with a conceptual discussion—a truly Talmudic conceptual legal discussion, but woven together with a wonderful lesson in the very movement of the passage itself. And what lesson emerges from here? This is the punchline I’ve been aiming toward all along. I want to explain where there is significance to my trust in Torah scholars, in contrast to what I’ve said until now. There is some significance, and some importance. But a certain significance, limited, in a very precise way. What do I mean?

So this is the famous Magen Avraham, which is often mentioned. I don’t remember if I mentioned it here, but if not, I’ll say it briefly. The Magen Avraham who brings the Talmudic text saying that a person may state things in the name of a great person “so that they will accept it from him.” I think I may have said this in these classes, I no longer remember. “So that they will accept it from him.” Okay? What does that mean? On the face of it this is outrageous. I can tell you things in the name of one of the greatest halakhic authorities, things that are just my own personal opinion. You’ll desecrate the Sabbath relying on it because after all a great halakhic authority said it, while in fact I merely told you a personal opinion of mine, and maybe I’m just an ignoramus. How can Jewish law permit such a thing? To cause people to err by means of a lie. To cause people to err in Jewish law by means of a lie. How can it be that Jewish law permits such a thing? It’s in the Talmudic text, and the Magen Avraham brings it as halakhah in section 156.

It seems to me that the only possible explanation is that the Talmudic text, and the Magen Avraham following it, assume the opposite assumption: that I am not supposed to accept things from a great person, even if he is the greatest halakhic authority. The fact that he said it still doesn’t mean I should accept it. Because if I really were supposed to accept it, then it would be forbidden to lie to me and tell me a great person said it. That would be causing me to err in Jewish law. Rather, clearly the assumption is that I do not accept things merely because they are said in the name of a great person. So you’ll ask: then why say it? If I’m not going to accept it in any case, what does he gain by saying it in the name of a great person? The answer is: because he is someone who presents reasons and arguments for his position, and he feels that his interlocutors are not listening to him, not taking him seriously, belittling him, not thinking twice about the arguments he’s bringing. So what does he say? Rabbi Moshe Feinstein said this. Ah—well, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein is certainly not someone we dismiss. We still will not accept things because Rabbi Moshe Feinstein said them. That fits what I’ve been saying all along: we do not accept things because we believe someone. There is no such thing. This is “it is not in heaven.” Rabbi Eliezer—we don’t accept something just because he is a great man. Not even Rabbi Moshe Feinstein.

But if Rabbi Moshe Feinstein said it, then I’ll think again. Maybe after all I’ll find logic in it. Then I will indeed seriously consider the reasons and arguments I’m hearing. That is what the person wants to gain by hanging his words on a great tree. He does not want to trick me into accepting his position. He wants to receive a kind of treatment that will cause me to reconsider his position. And for that he may use the name of a great person even though that great person never said it. Because he has not caused anyone to err in Jewish law. Rather, he has only caused me to think again before I form my own position. That’s perfectly fine; that can never hurt. But the basic assumption is that I do not accept things merely because a great person said them.

What does that mean? The same thing with Rav Hisda and Rami bar Hama. He says: I want you to express trust, to show that you have trust in the sages, that you believe in me. But not in order that you accept what I say blindly. Not that. Rather, so that you will reconsider what I say. When I tell you that the Mishnah is “if it benefited, it pays what it benefited,” you won’t say to me, “you’re talking nonsense,” as Rava said to me. Instead you’ll think again and understand that “ordinary produce in the public domain is effectively relinquished.” If you think a second time, you’ll understand that there is a rationale behind my surprising position. And then perhaps you too will accept it. Or perhaps not, and then you’ll disagree with me. But you won’t think I’m talking nonsense, you won’t dismiss my words out of hand. Rather, you will consider them again. You will be willing to reconsider even though what I say sounds strange to you. That’s the point.

And I want to say that where trust in the sages has a place in the religious context—and generally, not only in the religious context—where is that place? If a person is wise, one should assume that he does not speak nonsense. One should reconsider his arguments. That does not mean that I will accept what he said. The fact that he is wise is very nice, but wise people can also make mistakes. But it does mean that I will not dismiss his words out of hand. Trust in the sages means not to laugh at them. Not to say they are talking nonsense and throw their words away immediately. Rather, to reconsider what they say, to treat what they say seriously, and then form a position myself. Not to accept what they say, but to seriously consider what they say.

Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, where the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because they stated the words of Beit Shammai before their own—the Talmudic text in Eruvin. So what does that show? First of all, they seriously considered Beit Shammai’s position, and only afterward formed a position and decided whether they agreed with Beit Shammai or not. One reaches a more correct halakhic position when one seriously considers positions that at first glance may sound surprising. If you do not do that, you may miss things. There are subtle things, as Maimonides says, arising from precision of analysis, in which one can err. And therefore here one needs trust in the person saying it. But the trust is not so that we accept what he says blindly—not that. That has no halakhic standing. It is forbidden to accept things just because someone said them. But you should invest a bit more thought to see whether what he said has logic and perhaps you too will adopt that position. Don’t dismiss it; don’t belittle it and reject it out of hand. That is the meaning of trust in the sages.

Just to finish this point: Rabbi Shimon Shkop, in the introduction to Shaarei Yosher, brings this Talmudic passage of “this one benefits and that one does not lose,” and he addresses the reader and says: listen, dear reader, if you don’t give me credit, don’t open the book. And he says: a lot of things in this book will sound strange to you. I have a good friend in Bnei Brak, a great Torah scholar, who calls this book not Shaarei Yosher but “Shaarei Oker”—not “Gates of Uprightness” but “Gates of Crookedness”—because in his eyes everything there is twisted. It always irritates me. It really is Shaarei Yosher. These are very complex moves, some of them very subtle. But if you give Rabbi Shimon Shkop credit and think carefully about what he says, you discover there extraordinary pearls. A large part of our books on Talmudic logic are based on statements by Rabbi Shimon Shkop. In almost every such book you’ll find that the fundamental basis is already in Rabbi Shimon Shkop. But for that, one has to give him credit.

And he himself writes in the introduction—that’s what’s beautiful about this whole thing—that he himself understands that what he says will sound strange. A large part of what he says will sound strange to someone reading at first glance. And therefore he says: if you don’t give me credit, don’t read the book. But he himself adds: even if you do give me credit, I do not expect you to accept what I say, only to consider seriously what I say. Just as I myself, he adds, seriously considered the words of later authorities, and I dare to disagree with them—with great later authorities. So what? Does he expect the reader to treat him better than he himself treats the great later authorities? Of course not. He expects the same treatment. Give me the respect, seriously consider my position, but in the end form your own position. Therefore there is no contradiction. Trust in the sages means giving respect and seriously considering what they say. But it does not mean accepting what they say because I believe him, because he is righteous, because he is a Torah scholar. Not that. That is contrary to the halakhic tradition—not just something that doesn’t emerge from the halakhic tradition.

But the credit I give is ultimately because I’m doing it for my own sake. In some future column that I’ll still speak about, on the principle of charity, I’ll discuss these things a bit from a somewhat different angle. Good, I’ll stop here. Any comments or questions? Yes, go ahead.

What about “even if he tells you that right is left and left is right”? What about that? That means you need to listen even if you think otherwise. Isn’t that what was asked earlier? I didn’t understand—didn’t I answer that? That’s what was asked earlier. It’s the Sanhedrin, “do not deviate from all that they instruct you.” But with the Sanhedrin I explained why that isn’t a contradiction. First, you can disagree with them if you are qualified to issue rulings; and second, they themselves are not supposed to intervene beyond what they… Even the Sanhedrin, I think, is not supposed to determine something that obligates us in areas where there is no need. Even if we are mistaken—not because we are not mistaken. In areas where it is needed for proper social functioning, yes—not in order to function halakhically correctly. More? Sabbath peace. Sabbath peace. Sabbath peace. Sabbath peace.