Gate Six: Religion and Science, or Apologetics for Advanced

From the book A Presence and an Absence by Rabbi Michael Avraham. Translated from Hebrew using gpt-5.4 (reasoning_effort=high, batch API).

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Introduction

In this section we will discuss the contradictions that arise between science and religious tradition. These two represent here the two poles that have accompanied us throughout the book: science and religion/myth. This section has two aims. First, to examine those contradictions themselves. In addition, these cases will serve as a model for applying the methods presented in the two previous sections, methods that are themselves the outcome of the discussions in the earlier sections of this book and of the first volume.

These aims determine the kind of treatment that will be offered here. We cannot, and do not wish to, exhaust the discussion of the various points and all the contexts that will arise along the way. We will try to offer enough variety to make clear the significance of the tools developed above, and to present the different possible responses that follow from them for dealing with these points of contradiction.

This is the place to return to an important point that was also discussed earlier. Contradictions of this kind, and likewise the need to resolve them, arise only when there are good reasons to hold on to each of the two planes of explanation under discussion. When one of them is not persuasive in its own right, there is obviously no point in using the techniques presented above. But in such a situation, the problem does not really lie in the contradiction between the planes. It lies in the fact that one of them is simply unconvincing. This section is intended for those who stand before several planes of explanation, each of which appears plausible and persuasive in itself. The aim is to offer options that preserve the possibility of accepting both planes of explanation together.

The structure of the section is as follows. In the first chapter we will offer a brief historical description of the apparently contradictory tensions between science and religion and the responses to them, chiefly in the Jewish context. The main part of that chapter will be devoted to a return to the synthetic alternative of correspondence between parallel planes of explanation, an alternative presented in the previous section. In the historical contexts, the contradictions discussed were mainly those between the natural sciences and religion, and so the examples there will come mostly from those fields. In the second and third chapters we will present several additional problems from the humanities and, in fact, from the realm of interpretation. These problems are more central to contemporary thought. The second chapter will deal with biblical criticism, and the third with criticism of halakha (Jewish law) and the study of the Talmud.

Chapter One: The Nature of the Contradiction and Its Principal Solutions: The Natural Sciences

Introduction: A Brief Historical Survey

In this chapter I would like to discuss the general character of the contradictions between religion and science, and the various kinds of solutions proposed for them, if any.

The struggle between scientific claims and the assertions of tradition is very old, and it seems to begin with the ideological battle between Greece and Israel, as discussed in the third section of the first volume. Throughout the Middle Ages, religion generally had the upper hand, and in many respects it suppressed scientific thought. This was due mainly to religion’s social and cultural power, but also to the weakness of science at that time.

The conflict reaches a certain peak in the Renaissance, when science awakens, and this is accompanied by a fierce confrontation with the Church. Usually the issues concern the natural sciences, and the collision with religion centers on claims about creation, the centrality of the earth in the universe, the nature and status of the heavenly bodies, and the like. In this period there were cases in which men of science were burned at the stake as heretics.

But the power of science increased, and in the end the Church retreated from most of its dogmas that dealt with claims about reality. In many cases, a creative interpretation of religious sources solved problems that had arisen during the conflict.

In the Jewish world, living through a prolonged exile, the struggle was quieter and more minor, although there was also a certain Jewish response to the echoes of that turbulent age. Quite a few halakhic sages of the Renaissance dealt with science and even wrote books on these subjects. In the Jewish context, the conflict arose much later. In practice, it broke out mainly in the era of the Enlightenment. Its first prominent herald was Benedict Spinoza, who lived in the seventeenth century and was excommunicated because of his pantheistic doctrine; after him this line was continued, in various forms, by figures of the Jewish Enlightenment.

In the Middle Ages, scholastic literature was written by members of the three great religions. This literature tried to anchor tradition in the science and philosophy of the time, usually in the Aristotelian system. But as far as I know, that literature was not usually written as a response to criticism. Rather, it expressed an inner need felt by the sages and thinkers of the three traditional religions.

Beginning with Spinoza and his age, however, the struggle was conducted in additional domains, beyond the natural sciences. Under the influence of Protestant Christianity and Spinoza, criticism arose regarding some of the claims of tradition in the biblical and historical sphere. This was criticism of ideas, expressed also through historical criticism and textual criticism. Spinoza is considered the initiator of what is now called biblical criticism in its modern sense.

It should be noted that already at the dawn of modernism, the historical roots of myth were seen as important and relevant to the substantive discussion. Almost every denial of traditional ideas was accompanied by a changed attitude toward history and religious myth, usually toward the Bible. This fact expresses the phenomenon we discussed at the end of the third section: all of us have an intuition regarding the great importance of the factual reliability of myth, even when the discussion concerns the essential or value-laden plane.

Later, the scholarly study of the biblical text began, and in the Jewish context it was followed by the study of the Talmudic text. These too raised criticisms and undermined traditional positions, regarding them as dogmatic. Such scholars read the sources critically and try to point to more complex processes of composition and canonization. In this age, precisely from modernist opposition, the concept of myth acquired its current meaning. From that period onward, it also came to carry the negative connotation that accompanies it to this day.

The debate over the historical reliability of the Bible is still conducted in full force today. It is highly charged emotionally, on both sides, and is therefore also infected with a great deal of tendentiousness, again on both sides.

There are, of course, people who do not feel this struggle at all, because each side tends to present its own position as obviously and necessarily true, while the opposing view is presented as a tendentious conception distorted by ideological commitments. This is true both on the religious side and on the secular, academic side. Both sides present an unbalanced picture, and by the very nature of what are called the humanities, as discussed in chapter 6 of the second section, the facts are not susceptible to such simple interpretation as both sides would like to suggest.¹

The Situation Today: On Religious Postmodernism

As noted, the solutions to the dilemma are a mirror image, a kind of reflection, of the age in question. In pagan Greece, a strange combination was created between the two worldviews, the mythical and the scientific. The forces of nature and the gods act in cooperation and harmony. Of course, the nature of scientific explanations then was also different. We saw, for example, Aristotle’s teleological explanations, which by their very nature allow an easier connection to a mythological worldview.

We noted that in the Middle Ages the solutions were, in essence, the acceptance of religious claims and the rejection of critical, scientific claims. Religious scholasticism, Christian, Muslim, and Jewish alike, ranged between excuses that buttressed religious claims and attempts to derive proofs for those claims from general scientific and philosophical knowledge. Here theology was born in its modern, systematic sense.

We also noted that at the beginning of the modern era, religion’s dominance receded and science began to enjoy a higher status. It became harder and harder to ignore science and its conclusions, including its critical ones. Religion too began to engage in apologetics.

Today science enjoys a status so self-evident that, unlike the situation in the Middle Ages and at the beginning of modernity, it is not required at all to defend its positions. In these debates, apologetics belongs only to religious believers. As a result, questions concerning contradictions between science and religion do not usually trouble the general public, since scientific conclusions are not, in its eyes, in doubt. Engagement with these dilemmas is the province of thin layers within the general population: those involved in the relevant scientific contexts, and those engaged in this conflict itself, religious and secular alike.

In previous sections we described the postmodern response, which gives up the classical concept of truth and thereby pulls the rug out from under the very existence of the conflict. According to this approach, neither position is justified in any objective sense. This approach was called above the postmodern rehabilitation of myth.

For the religious apologist, it is very convenient to adopt such a position, as, for example, in the discussion of Rabbi Shagar’s “dance of differences,” cited at the beginning of the third and fourth sections. Usually, however, he does so only with regard to the scientific side of the dilemma. Its religious side remains as authoritative and reliable as before. This is usually the defensive Orthodox-Haredi position, and as is known, the best defense is an attack.

A certain group goes further and defines itself as religious postmodernism, meaning religious people who adopt the same postmodern attitude toward religion as well, and perhaps especially toward religion. Unlike secularists, they are unwilling to give up religious discourse, for various reasons, but they define it as one kind of discourse, a narrative. On their view, religion does not claim anything about reality, and therefore it does not contradict anything. These same people sometimes do not relate to science in a similar way, and in that sense this is a new phenomenon: a “religious” apologetics that in fact gives up specifically the religious side of the dilemma.

Among the forerunners of this trend was Wittgenstein, who understood religion, as he did many other domains, as a language-game. On its face this is pure analyticity, but in the first volume we saw that it can certainly be understood as masking a synthetic position. Wittgenstein is unwilling to speak about metaphysical concepts except as a language-game, but that does not necessarily mean rejecting their actual existence. His Tractatus ends with the words: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”

His analytic successors, however, led his line of thought in manifestly analytic directions. In the Jewish religious context, which is our main concern here, these are circles centered in academia, especially in the humanities.²

We will now look at the analytic roots of this phenomenon.

It is no accident that these people engage in the academic study of Judaism rather than in traditional yeshiva learning, because, as we have already seen, academic research tends more toward analyticity. Research also does not usually address the positions themselves, but classifies them from the outside. In that sense it is analytic, unlike traditional study, which is more synthetic.³

Beyond that, there is a fairly clear correlation, though one that has become somewhat milder in recent years, between these theological positions and a left-wing political orientation. This is the ideological basis of the relatively new trend in Israeli public life of the religious political left. In the first volume we discussed at length the explanation for the correlation between a left-wing position and postmodern analyticity. A clear expression of this consequence is found in the religious pluralism that develops in the thought of these people.⁴ In the first volume we discussed the connection between a pluralistic approach and left-wing positions.

Another interesting phenomenon is that these essentially irreligious people cling to halakha in a way that is very hard to understand. Halakha becomes for them the principal, perhaps the only, religious expression in their world. This is a religion without metaphysics and without beliefs of any kind. Religion is understood by them as a collection of commandments lacking any source, and whoever observes them is considered a participant in the religious narrative. There is, to be sure, no claim about the existence of a commanding God as a metaphysical entity. Yet there is indeed an attachment, and it is no surprise that it is usually not too “fanatical,” to His laws.⁵

This phenomenon too should not surprise us, because it also characterizes analytic postmodernism more generally. Attachment to a system of law is a clear characteristic of a society in which agreed and clear standards are absent. In a skeptical and nihilistic world, in which there is no consensus, we are forced to cling to the legal system, even though it is itself not free of those same skeptical criticisms. This is the only anchor that permits social life in a postmodern world. The absurdity of this does not trouble the holders of these views in the least, as discussed in note 24 of the first volume and the discussion surrounding it. As we saw in the sixth section of the first volume, pragmatism as a basis for values is one of the foundation stones of analyticity. In general, postmodernity does not place logic at the top of its concerns.

About all these and the like, John Searle says the following:⁶

When ordinary people pray, they do so because they believe that there is a God in heaven who listens. But the question whether or not there is a God in heaven who listens to their prayers is itself not part of the language-game. The reason people play the language-game of religion is their belief that there is something outside the language-game that gives the game its point.⁶ To go on praying without believing that there is some real God outside the language-game, and that this God listens to prayers, one would have to be a very puffed-up kind of religious intellectual. More accurately: such “religious” talk characterizes a person who is not religious at all.

In the postmodern world, the meaning of concepts undergoes a metamorphosis. For example, the very concept of truth undergoes a real change in comparison with its classical meaning. The same kinds of changes affect religious concepts as well, including the concept of God, in the religious postmodern world. Just as the semantic change does not cover over skepticism in the general philosophical sphere, the new concept of truth is not similar to the old one, and therefore one should not be deceived by the use of the same word, so too the parallel semantic change in the religious sphere, with concepts such as God, faith, and the like, does not conceal the fact that these are not religious people at all. They use religious discourse, but they are not religious at all, at least not in the accepted sense.

These directions express a fashionable conception of God, and of religious discourse in general, in postmodern terms, narrative, as a bizarre psychological discourse and not as claims about reality. All this, of course, hides one of two things: either an intellectual vacuum, and not only an ontological one, or evasive belief covered with the now-so-fashionable postmodern veil.

Thus, the evasions that speak of a religious narrative instead of belief and metaphysical claims about reality cannot express a genuinely religious position. The solution of abandoning trust in religion is not open to one who is truly a “religious” person. On the other hand, the solution of abandoning trust in science is not open to those who hold a synthetic position, at least not to those who believe in a synthetic account of science.

The Synthetic Predicament and Its Remedy: Rehabilitation Through the Method of Parallel Planes

We have seen that according to the synthetic position, the improved status of science has a genuine basis. It is not merely a matter of fashion or a play of forces, as the analytic postmodernist would explain. The latter does indeed grant religion and myth a certain rehabilitation, but it is a false rehabilitation. It is built on skeptical destruction, not on trust. The synthetic position, by contrast, holds that modern science really does appear more persuasive and reliable, and therefore it deserves, by right, a higher status. Such a position, as we have seen, undermines the very possibility of postmodern rehabilitation.

To be sure, as we tried to show throughout the discussion, modern science too is based on many assumptions, both general methodological ones and specific ones. This fact must be taken into account when examining questions of this kind. We should not be misled by trust in science, justified though that trust is in itself. This is all the more true with respect to what are called the humanities and social sciences. Their status as scientific disciplines derives mainly from their attachment to the empirical natural sciences. These facts can lead to a solution of the dilemma through the negation of science, that is, an analytic attitude toward it.

But if religious faith usually expresses trust in the human ability to reach truths, that is, if it amounts to a synthetic position, as we saw in the first volume, then it cannot use sweeping analyticity as a weapon for solving its conflict with science.

It follows that those who hold the synthetic position are in an inherent strait. On the one hand, their religious faith contains claims about reality. Those claims receive binary truth-values, true or false. On the other hand, science too is, in principle, given the same status. Its claims too are claims about reality, and not merely an improved description of the known facts, and therefore they too lay claim to the crown of truth. This is a frontal contradiction, and it cannot be resolved by undermining one horn of the dilemma.

But, as stated, our main concern in this section is to point to a different direction of response, instead of undermining one of these two horns. Our central claim is that in many cases there is no need at all to decide which explanation we are giving up. In the previous section we saw that it is possible, and sometimes even necessary, to live with several planes of explanation in parallel, and we proposed several modes and mechanisms that make this possible. Thus, although we cannot give up religious faith in its classical meaning, and indeed it is necessarily required to ground a rationalist and rational position, as we saw in this book and its predecessor, and although we also cannot entirely give up trust in science, for otherwise there is no synthetic dimension to our position, the only remaining way out is the simultaneous adoption of both planes. As we saw in the previous section, there are several ways to do this, and we will discuss them in what follows.

We will begin the discussion itself by pointing to several examples of contradiction that will stand before our eyes, so that the conflict with which we are dealing does not seem detached and incomprehensible.

Examples of Contradictions

A considerable part of these conflicts has already been presented in one form or another in the previous sections. We saw that religion explains events in the world in terms of theological considerations, such as reward and punishment, whereas science explains them as causal-deterministic occurrences. Even the operation of the laws of nature themselves is described, in the scientific context, as a natural phenomenon: the stone falls because gravity pulls it downward. In a traditional context, by contrast, this is God’s action: it falls because God decided that it would fall. The creation of the world is described in religious contexts as having been performed by God in seven days, whereas science describes it as a contingent natural process that lasted billions of years.

The creation of the human being is described as God’s final act at the end of the six days of creation, whereas science describes it as an evolutionary product, that is, as part of the contingent natural chain of the world’s development, which also lasted billions of years.

The various events of the Bible, such as the Exodus from Egypt, which are described in the Bible as historical facts, receive in the scientific context a highly skeptical treatment, to say the least.

The redaction of the Torah, which tradition understands as a unified and harmonious text written by God Himself, is treated as a human creation edited several times by several editors in different periods.

Various halakhot are described by the traditional approach as having existed since the revelation at Mount Sinai, whereas the study of halakha and the Talmud points to a later emergence. The basis of those halakhot too is described, in the scientific context, as a product of the social and historical influences of their environment, and not as an autonomous product written by God, and “preceding the world,” in the phrase of the sages.

Questions such as determinism, vitalism, and the like are traditionally associated with the framework of conflicts between science and religion, although at their basis stand philosophical-scientific disputes with an independent status. The reason is that in a nontraditional society one simply does not take into account possible approaches that differ from the accepted scientific one. Today it seems that almost only within a religious worldview are these questions treated as problematic, though this is somewhat less true with respect to determinism.

There are also various other specific problems of mismatch between what is said in the Torah and the Talmuds and scientific data, such as the Talmudic assertion that a louse does not reproduce sexually and that it is made from water, or the Torah’s zoological assertions regarding certain animals that have split hoofs but do not chew the cud, or the reverse. We will hardly deal with such problems here.

Directions of Solution: The Dilemma of the Fool and the Wicked

There are several ways of relating to the dilemmas described above. Usually the matter is presented as a dilemma between the fool and the wicked man. The secular person accuses his religious counterpart of being a fool, because he is unaware of the results of modern scientific research, or does not accept them. The defensive religious person, by contrast, claims that the secular person is wicked, because he does not believe what is written in the sacred scriptures.

The perplexed person, standing before these dilemmas, does not know whether to be a fool or wicked. Neither of these ways out seems promising to him.

Yet there is a common denominator between the one who chooses to be a fool and his companion who prefers wickedness. Both believe that this is the correct way to present the dilemma. Both the person who abandons his faith because of scientific arguments and the one who abandons science because of traditional arguments assume that there is a contradiction between these two systems of argument.

The modernist, who denied religion and abandoned it because of the conclusions of science, and the fundamentalist, who remained firm in his faith and declares,⁷ “Our Torah is true and science is false,” share this same basic assumption.

The Church, which decided to burn scientists as heretics, thereby joined them in the assumption that scientific conclusions really do contradict religious tradition. The difference between the Church and the scientists whom it condemned to burning lay only in the question of which horn of the dilemma ought to be chosen.

This view treats the dilemmas between religion and science as a kind of children’s game of staking out territory. In this game, each side may stand only on its own patch. In turn, each player stabs a knife into the ground and tries to “conquer” another slice of the area belonging to his companion. As one player’s territory shrinks, he is forced to stand on tiptoe, because he no longer has space that belongs to him. The game ends when one of them has no standing room left at all.

The Church understood, exactly like some of the scientists whom it burned, that we are playing this game of staking territory with God. Wherever there is a domain we do not understand, there God is present. By contrast, wherever we do understand, that is, wherever we have a scientific explanation, we thereby remove God from that domain. He is no longer needed there. When we understand everything, the game will be over. At that point we will all be forced to give up religious faith, because once a scientific explanation is available, no room is left for God.

This was precisely Laplace’s position, mentioned earlier. It is also the position of many scientists who already today, even before we understand everything, optimistically assume that everything will be understandable in the future, and therefore it is already clear to them that the world is materialistic at its root and that there is no need at all to posit the existence of God or of spirit.⁸

So much for the “wicked.” By contrast, the “fools” try to defend themselves in various ways, mainly by undermining the reliability of science. We have seen a number of points that can ground such an attack. As noted, this means giving up the synthetic dimension that underlies reasonable religious worldviews, and so it amounts to a kind of “own goal.”

Many people try to coordinate the claims of science and religion through creative interpretation of the sources, and sometimes of science as well, often accompanied by the smell of unconvincing apologetics. The more extreme among them claim that the Torah already contains the laws of nature now being discovered, and that the sages already knew all of modern science from time immemorial. It should be noted that such apologetics, whether more or less successful, do not always succeed. There are issues regarding which it is very hard to coordinate the traditional view with the scientific one.

In any case, we should note that even these thinkers, although they apparently do not see a contradiction between science and Torah, still share the outlook that sees these dilemmas as a game of staking territory. They therefore see themselves as obligated to reconcile the two allegedly contradictory sides.

But it is much simpler to assume that science and understanding are not a game of staking territory against God. Understanding in the various domains does not render Him superfluous. In fact, the opposite seems true: the more we understand a certain domain, the more we ask ourselves why it in fact operates in such an orderly way. The simplest answer is that God is the one who sees to it. According to this approach, science is nothing but an increasingly refined description of the way God acts. There is no contradiction between the claim that the stone falls because of gravitational attraction and the claim that God causes it to fall. He is the one who creates the gravitational force that pulls the stone.

By the same token, there is no contradiction between the assertion that God created the world and the view that the world was created from a Big Bang. It is entirely possible that the Big Bang was the form God chose for creating His world. If the Big Bang theory is dubious, it should be rejected on scientific grounds, not out of one apologetic motive or another. And if it is persuasive, then it is apparently true, and therefore it describes the way God acts.

The same is true of the emergence of life, and even of the emergence of humanity, through evolutionary processes. Here too we may say that if there is criticism of evolutionary theory, it should be rejected on scientific grounds, but there is no apologetic need for that from the religious point of view. Here too one may certainly say that evolution was the tool God chose in order to perfect His world and ultimately also to create life within it.⁹

These forms of response recall the distinction we drew in the fourth section between semantics and syntax. God is the one who operates the laws of nature, and those laws are only descriptions of His mode of operation. This is the distinction between description and essence, or between semantics and syntax.¹⁰

All this we saw in earlier sections. But there we also saw that the explanation of specific phenomena, as opposed to laws of nature, does not work so simply. The reason stones fall to the earth may be God’s action. But the reason a particular stone, or apple, falls on a particular person requires a broader and more complex theory. The reason is that here there are two systems of conditions, divine will to punish and physical conditions, which are apparently independent of one another. One is not an explanation of the other, as in the case of general laws of nature, and yet each of them constitutes a necessary and sufficient condition for the specific event described.

For example, in the case of the apple that fell on Newton, we saw that the scientific explanation attributes it to the strength of the connection between the apple and the branch, as against the force of gravity acting on it. Theology, by contrast, would attribute the event to Newton’s deeds and to divine considerations of reward and punishment. Here we can no longer explain that the strength of the connection depends on Newton’s deeds, since it too is the product of blind physical processes that do not depend on any human deed. Thus, although with respect to the general laws of nature the situation is simpler, here it seems that we are compelled to arrive at a model of global correspondence.

Let us take another example. Rainfall is described in the portion of Bechukotai as a result of observing mitzvot (commandments). But those who hold a synthetic attitude toward science believe that it is also the result of meteorological conditions. We must now ask ourselves what happens if the meteorological conditions exist but the commandments are not observed, or the reverse. Will it rain or not? Situations of this kind cannot be solved in terms of the distinction between semantics and syntax, or by viewing the scientific description as a description of God’s actions. They lead us to the thesis of global correspondence, which we encountered in the previous section. According to that thesis, God not only operates the laws of nature, but also uses them for His “needs,” that is, for the realization of His purposes.

Breaches in Global Correspondence: Miracles

In note 41 of the previous section we saw that fixed and persistent natural behavior ought to arouse more wonder than capricious and chaotic behavior. A chaotic situation appears to be beyond the control of an external agent, whereas precisely persistent behavior points to the existence of an external agent directing it.

But all this concerns the general laws of nature. When nature behaves regularly, this points to an agent that governs it. When the regularity is broken, this raises doubt as to whether creation is an organic and unified phenomenon.

In the context of global correspondences, however, the situation is reversed. The fact, emphasized in the previous section, that global correspondence is very difficult to achieve, and sometimes even impossible, leads to situations in which the correspondence breaks down. There we saw that in the context of theological and physical explanations of creation we call this breakdown a miracle, and in the context of Torah interpretation we call it a scriptural decree. Thus the occurrence of a miracle, within a continuous and natural behavior governed by rigid laws, certainly arouses the sense that there is indeed a guiding hand.

As noted, the persistent laws of nature point to an agent who governs the world by means of those laws. If the world had been created in a chaotic way, that would distance us from the recognition that there is a governing and directing agent. But if within the persistent behavior there is a breach of the laws, then this indicates, on the one hand, that the laws are generally valid, and therefore it is plausible that “the palace has a master,” and on the other hand, that there is another system of considerations parallel to the natural one, the theological system, such that when the correspondence between it and the natural system is violated, a miracle occurs, meaning that it overrides the laws of nature. In this sense, miracle is a tool that brings us closer to recognition of the Creator’s existence, as we usually tend to think. The breaking of the laws of nature indicates that alongside them there is another system, and that the correspondence between the two is global and not local, so there is no guarantee that it will always be preserved.

We know of another phenomenon of breach in global correspondence, in a different context: an irresistible impulse. In such a case the psychological system, which constitutes one plane of explanation for human action, overcomes the volitional, choosing system, which is the second plane, the one we called the philosophical-value-ideological plane. By contrast, when a person overcomes extremely difficult psychological conditions, this is a breach in the opposite direction: the system of value-choice overcomes the psychological system.

In both these cases, the correspondence between the human planes of explanation, the psychological and the philosophical-value plane, is broken. There is behavior that can be explained only by one of them and not by the other. Both are “miracles” in the sense that they testify to the existence of an additional relevant plane of explanation beyond what we see superficially.

Such breaches prove to us that both planes are relevant to a full explanation of human action. These may be additive planes, that is, planes which together provide a full explanation of human behavior, or planes that are globally parallel, and as long as the correspondence between them is not broken, they operate in harmony and full parallelism.

Summary and Link to the Next Chapters

So far we have seen the picture in general outline, and have entered into several issues concerning the relation between a natural explanation of physical events, based on the laws of nature, and their theological explanation. As we have already noted, these subjects are no longer at the center of public interest. These problems are considered “solved.” To summarize and sharpen the discussion, we will present a note dealing with an issue that occupies no small part of the religious world and sustains many polemics about the relation between religion and science: the age of the world. We will try to show with respect to this issue as well several consequences and applications of what we have seen so far.

Note 42: The Age of the World — Between Science and Religion

In Jewish tradition it is accepted that the world was created about six thousand years ago. There is even a rather detailed historical description of this entire period, most of it found in the Bible itself, passed down from generation to generation. The Hebrew calendar too is based on this tradition, since its beginning is calculated according to the time of the placing of the luminaries in the firmament, and considerations such as the time of the Flood and the like also play a role in fixing it. The determination of Sabbatical and Jubilee years also depends on this calculation, since in order to know whether we are in a Sabbatical year, every seventh year, or a Jubilee year, every fiftieth year, we must know how many years have elapsed from the beginning of the count until our own day.

By contrast, the accepted scientific picture is of a world billions of years old. The calculations are based on biological considerations, such as the duration of various evolutionary processes, on physical considerations, such as dating the Big Bang by background radiation and the like, and also on archaeological considerations, arising from measuring the ages of fossils and various inanimate objects, and more. Admittedly, the correspondence among all these is far from satisfactory even scientifically, since each type of consideration yields a very different age, and therefore the determination of the age of the world is disputed even among scientists in the various fields, and even within the same field. But no one doubts that the age of the world is measured in billions of years. That is, the contradiction between religion and tradition cannot rest on adopting one scientific estimate and rejecting the others.

As stated, this is one of the oldest questions in the field of contradictions between Torah and science, and it has received many responses. Several approaches have developed in this context.

First, there are the postmodernists, who explain that these are different narratives and there is neither any possibility nor any need to connect them. Among other things, they rely on Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s well-known statements that as a man of science he believes the world is billions of years old, while as a believing Jew he understands that the age of the world is about six thousand years.

Slogans of this sort do not seem plausible in the context with which we are dealing here. It is quite clear that, as a matter of fact, the world was created at some time, and the question is: when? Here, apparently, only one side can be right. This is a factual question, not a question of “discourse.” Therefore, some accept the scientific estimates and reject the traditional determination on that basis. These divide into two main types: there are those who remain religious and find a creative interpretation of the traditional sources, for example, that each “day” of creation lasted several billion years,¹¹ and there are those who reject tradition and on that basis ground their secular outlook. By contrast, some reject the scientific determinations and adopt only the tradition.

Here too, it seems that on one point all of these agree: that there is a contradiction between the two kinds of determinations, the scientific and the traditional. And indeed, at first glance it seems that the solution of parallel planes of explanation is not possible in a factual question like this one. Here we are not speaking about explanations, but about facts. With respect to facts, there is only one correct answer.

But it seems that even this “factual” question can be shifted to the plane of explanations, and only afterward can one apply the approach of parallel planes of explanation. This translation process is based on the fact that with respect to facts there is no point in arguing. One must therefore examine what the agreed facts are and see what explanation is to be given for that agreed body of facts.

The scientific facts are that today we know of fossils that appear to be several million years old. There are rocks whose age, as measured by accepted scientific techniques, is even greater. There is radiation issuing from the Big Bang which, according to accepted theories, also points to an age of billions of years. In short, the world today, by the measures of today, appears as though processes lasting several billion years have passed over it.

It is important to notice that one cannot measure the date on which the world was created. This is a historical factual question, but it is not empirically testable, and therefore it is not scientific. Scientific determinations can deal only with the facts that stand before us. To be sure, the “translation” of those facts by means of the theories currently available to us leads us indirectly to a historical claim, but it is precisely this “translation” into a historical determination that we must examine here.

As stated, some challenge the scientific measurement processes and the scientific theories on which they are based. Others, by contrast, emphasize the fact that scientific determinations concern the present, and there is no way to move from them to a historical determination. This can be done in several ways.

For example, some argue that these theories are based on knowledge that is at most about a hundred years old, and the scientists are making an extrapolation, that is, extending beyond the known segment, along an axis of billions of years. Such an extrapolation is very difficult to justify in scientific terms. If we imagine a timeline billions of years long, then a segment of one hundred years will appear almost as a point, or at most as a negligible tiny segment. A short segment like that always looks like a straight line; any graph can be given a linear approximation over a very short segment. But there is no justification for concluding from this that the linear approximation is justified over the entire course. This argument suggests that the rate of events is unknown to us, and therefore there is no way to reconstruct the date of creation from it.¹²

As an addition, I will bring a parable I once heard about this matter. If we observe the growth rate of a newborn infant and see that he grows at a rate of about ten centimeters per year, and we make a “reasonable” extrapolation thirty years forward, our prediction of that person’s height at age thirty will be well over three meters, not to speak of age sixty or eighty. The mistake lies in drawing conclusions from observation of a certain segment of time, a very short one, regarding the rest of the timeline. A similar mistake can be made when we draw conclusions backward in time from the rate of events in the last hundred years and infer from it what happened billions of years ago.

The problem is that this scientific extrapolation is backed by theoretical explanations, and these are also examined on other empirical planes. Therefore, precisely from a synthetic position, the inclination is to accept the truth of scientific theories so long as they withstand accepted scientific tests. Those who hold a synthetic position aspire to “live in peace” with both planes of explanation.

In what follows we will discuss proposals in two directions for solving the problem of the age of the world. My intention is not to argue specifically in favor of these proposals, but to show by means of them why the question need not disturb our peace of mind.

To achieve such “peace,” meaning the simultaneous adoption of both planes of explanation, one can proceed in two main directions: truncation and acceleration.

1. The theory of truncation. Let us think about the thesis that God created the world. In the book of Genesis it is described that He created perfect creatures: human beings, animals, and various inanimate objects. In the language of the sages in Midrash (rabbinic interpretation) Bereshit Rabbah: “The works of creation were created at their full stature.” We may now conduct a thought experiment: if we had measured the age of the created beings at the end of the sixth day of creation, using the scientific tools available to us today, what would the result have been? How old would the newly created world have looked?

There is no doubt that the result would have been that the world already then looked to be several billion years old. According to the traditional description, the world at the end of creation looked very much like ours. It contained human beings and animals we recognize, and the differences between it and our world are not conspicuous. It is therefore very likely that the measurements would have yielded very similar results.

Thus, it seems that even if we adopt the traditional description literally, our conclusion would be that the world was created already at an age of several billion years. In fact, it was at the same evolutionary age at which it stands today.

It follows that there is no problem at all in coordinating the traditional and scientific dating, since the world, as it appears today, really is six thousand years old since its creation. All the billions of years before that did not in fact occur. The world was created already at a “mature age.” This is a truncation of the timeline.

If we think of a person born as an adult, it is clear that all scientific age measurements performed on him that day would yield the age of an adult. Yet historically his age would be one day. This is the model of truncation. The timeline about which science speaks was truncated. It was created in the middle, not at the beginning. In physical terms, we would say that the world was created when the galaxies were already very far from one another, continuing to recede rapidly and with acceleration. Everything looks as though there had been a Big Bang in the past and everything emerged from one point at one time, but this is a virtual reality. The world was created in the middle of the process.

This is similar to the image seen in a mirror. In fact, all the light rays are in front of the mirror, but they advance toward our eyes as though they were coming from a place behind the mirror. Thus an illusion is created, as if there were a figure identical to ours somewhere behind the mirror. But that is, of course, a virtual figure, whose existence is a mistaken, illusory projection of the rays backward in space and time. In terms of this parable, creation is a mirror, and the entire part of the timeline that seems to lie before it did not really exist. Only today does it appear as though it actually occurred.

One can, of course, raise several objections to this picture. For example: what reason would God have had to create a world in whose ground fossils were already embedded that appear billions of years old?

To that one may reply that this is indeed a good question, but it is not a scientific question; it is a theological one. At most there is here a lack of understanding with respect to God’s motives, and the question is therefore already removed from the domain of science. At most, there is a failure to understand God’s motives, which is not surprising in view of the enormous gap between our human concepts and His “concepts.” In any case, when the problem is theological rather than scientific, it already seems easier to solve it, or at least not to be disturbed by it.

Whoever is nevertheless troubled by such questions may move to the following model.

2. The theory of acceleration. According to the model of acceleration, all the scientific processes, evolutionary and physical, really did occur. They are not virtual, as follows from the truncation model, but they occurred very rapidly, so that the true age of the world is in fact about six thousand years.

Several explanations can be offered for this. Some have made a calculation based on the general theory of relativity, according to which the rate at which time flows depends on mass density. It should be remembered that at the time of the Big Bang, mass density was enormous, since all the mass of the world was concentrated at one point, a singularity. After the Big Bang, the matter began to spread out, and its density steadily declined. The rate of time flow in the early stages after the Big Bang is extremely slow; enormous processes are described in scientific literature as occurring within the first few seconds. Afterward it begins to accelerate, and it reaches its present rate only about six thousand years ago. Therefore, the age of the world in our units of time is six thousand years, even though processes occurred within it that, if measured by today’s rate of time flow, would have taken billions of years.

Thus, once again we see the distinction between the scientific determination and the historical determination, and the problematic nature of translating a present picture into a historical date.

Let us now sharpen the accelerated picture from a somewhat different angle.

Even when God performs a miracle, He uses natural tools. Clearly, if we had measured the waters at the splitting of the Red Sea, we would have discovered that forces were acting on them. Presumably the waters did not rise without the action of forces. God raised the sea by creating a physical force that did so. Thus, even when God acts in the world, He does so by means of natural tools, which He Himself created. We saw above that the laws of nature themselves constitute a description of God’s mode of action in the world, that is, parallel planes of explanation.

If so, if in scientific terms evolutionary processes are required in order to produce a human being, or rocks, or any other creature, and by means of those processes a human being emerges from an ape, and a rock from some liquid magmatic material, then God too, when creating all these, uses those processes. In order to create a human being, He carries the world through the whole evolutionary process, and in the end a human being emerges. True, according to our description this process lasts billions of years, but God can perform it in a very short time.

Therefore, even apart from the acceleration that follows from general relativity, one can think of a rationale for why we find fossils in the ground. All of these are evolutionary stages that are scientifically required in order to create the world as it appears today. And since God does not “bypass” scientific regularity, He carried the world through all these stages in order to bring it to its present form.

According to this model, unlike the truncation model, the entire timeline is real and not virtual. But the pace is accelerated, and therefore the actual age of the world can be about six thousand years.

All these proposals are merely speculative illustrations, and of course I do not mean to persuade anyone of their validity. The important point is that in any case, even if we do not accept these descriptions, it is now clear that the question of the age of the world is not a factual-scientific question, and it cannot be answered unequivocally by scientific means. We are dealing here with different models for explaining present facts. Whether these models appear plausible to someone is, of course, an open question. But it is already clear that one cannot claim that there is scientific proof that the age of the world is billions of years.

One might say that this solution does not make use of the method of parallel planes of explanation, since the scientific determination is being challenged here. In fact, this is an essentially analytic solution.

But it should be noted that in none of the arguments above was any scientific fact challenged. Scientific facts concern only the present, and on that plane science can be accepted exactly as it stands. What was challenged is the translation of present facts into a historical determination about the past, but that is not part of the scientific picture itself. Science is a tool for discovering the present, not a tool for describing the past. When we move from present and well-grounded scientific knowledge to a description of the historical past, we are forced to assume additional assumptions, and it is only those assumptions that are attacked by these critiques.

Thus, the account of science remains synthetic, and what we have done is only to delimit the domain of validity and application of the scientific theories in question.

To the set of scientific facts, meaning those that concern the present, we did indeed propose two parallel planes of explanation, both of them true:
a. the events occurred through a natural evolutionary process;
b. God brought them about by using those processes.

This is therefore precisely the approach of parallel planes of explanation that we saw with respect to theological and scientific explanations of physical events.

I will end by saying that today it is no longer customary to occupy oneself with this question, and I too feel embarrassed that I am even compelled to do so. It seems to me that the reason is that the dilemma cannot really be solved by scientific tools, nor by interpretive ones. But it is important to notice that all the proposals raised here fit the facts, and therefore the choice among them is not made by scientific means. Hence it has no scientific value, nor any theological value. There is no dilemma here, but only a question, how old is the world, whose answer is unknown, and probably cannot become known to us. The solution is not clear, but precisely for that reason the question is entirely devoid of interest and value. I hope the reader too has been persuaded of this. Beyond demonstrating the tools under discussion here, that was my main purpose in this note.

In the following chapters we will move to several issues that belong to the humanities, despite the doubt about their classification as sciences, as discussed in chapter 6 of the second section. We mentioned that these problems still lie within the sphere of public interest, and with respect to them there is indeed a strong feeling that the two planes of explanation contradict one another.

In the next two chapters we will examine two types of interpretive dilemmas, each of which also reflects a contradiction between parallel planes of explanation. Each of the two types reflects a large group of specific dilemmas, for all of which a similar solution may be proposed. We will propose for the two types of problems general schemes of solution reflecting the modes presented above. These schemes will be applicable to a wide range of problems, which may be classified as particular cases of those two general types. In each chapter several examples will be brought to clarify the general scheme.

In the next chapter we will deal with the question of the different sources that served in the redaction of the Bible, that is, biblical criticism. We will present there a scheme of response proposed by Rabbi Breuer, which constitutes an application of the tools presented above. In the chapter after that we will deal with criticism of the Talmud and halakha, and there we will propose a similar scheme.

Chapter Two: Interpretive Dilemmas: Biblical Criticism

Introduction

In this chapter we will deal with the question of the different sources from which, supposedly, the Bible as we have it is composed, according to biblical critics. This question greatly troubled the thinkers of the Enlightenment, and its vitality has not faded to this day. In recent years, Rabbi Mordechai Breuer proposed a comprehensive approach that offers a solution to most problems of this type. This approach expresses a conception of parallel planes of explanation.¹³

The Problem

Let me preface this discussion with an apology for the schematic and simplified character of the descriptions that follow, both of the critical-research approach and of the traditional approach. Since our concern here is only methodological demonstration, I will not try to enter into the subject itself in greater detail, because that is not required for our purposes here.

Biblical scholarship shows that the Bible contains different parts of different character. The intention is to differences of style, values, and forms of expression, linguistic differences, different vocabularies, imagery, different names for God, and so forth. At the same time, passages of similar character are scattered in different places, and differ from other parts. That is, the division among the different sources is not necessarily according to the order of the Bible as it lies before us today.

From this, biblical critics conclude that the Bible is composed of several different sources, or documents, that were used in the redaction of the Bible. Anonymous editors inserted parts of the different sources in such a way that they are interwoven with one another, and that combination is the Bible that now lies before us.

A considerable part of biblical scholarship deals with questions such as: to which scroll does each biblical passage belong? Another part assumes this division and draws various conclusions from it.

Today it is a clear convention among Bible scholars that the redaction of the Bible was a composition and interweaving of different sources, and there are various attempts to date the formation of those sources as well as their final redaction, many placing it in the Second Temple period.

The traditional approach is diametrically opposed to this description. According to tradition, the whole Torah, as we have it today, existed even before the creation of the world. Its author and editor was the Master of the universe Himself. It was given to Moses for the people of Israel for all generations by God at Mount Sinai, about two months after the Exodus from Egypt. From then until today, the people of Israel have preserved the Torah exactly as it was written, down to our own day.

From these two approaches several conclusions follow that differ from one another in significant respects. Some of these differences concern the theological plane as well. The obligation to observe what is written in the Torah is based on its having been given to us by the Creator of the world. One who does not believe in Torah from Sinai is not expected to develop an obligation to observe what is written there.

Likewise, the obligation not to change what is written in the Torah does not exist if the Torah is the work of human hands. Only a Torah from Heaven can claim for itself the eternal status that allows no changes or innovations, and that is based on the claim of eternal relevance for every generation and every period. Clearly, within the critical approach such a status cannot exist.

Attempts to ground obligation without belief in revelation, such as that of Ahad Ha’am, are rather ludicrous, and of course do not really “catch on.” No one is careful to observe commandments without belief, though in different forms, in revelation from Heaven, and rightly so.

These are some of the central theological consequences. There are additional consequences belonging to the interpretive plane. For example, in the traditional approach every contradiction in the Bible requires resolution. Since that approach assumes that the Bible is one harmonious and unified text, every contradiction is supposed to be resolved, and indeed to tell us something. Many rabbinic midrashim are based on attempts to resolve contradictions between different biblical sources. We derive halakhic and aggadic conclusions from the existence of such contradictions.

According to the scholarly approach, by contrast, there is no point in resolving contradictions between sources that belong to different scrolls. These are different authors, who thought differently, believed in different values, and therefore commanded different commands and described events differently. Clearly, according to this approach, no conclusions should be derived from the contradictions that emerge in the text.¹⁴

Beyond that, in the traditional approach the possibility that the Bible contains an error, scientific, historical, or otherwise, is intolerable. The Master and Creator of the world cannot err. According to the scholarly approach, by contrast, there is no impediment to the presence of various errors in the Bible.

Approaches to a Solution

We will now follow the outline of the solutions and responses described above and see how it is applied to this problem.

Scholars naturally tend to adopt the critical worldview. Today it is taught as an unquestionable truth in most educational and higher academic institutions. The traditional approach is rejected as tendentious, unfounded, and exposed to many contradictions. It is a “mythic,” or “dogmatic,” approach, and is therefore not presented as an alternative at all.¹⁵

Believing Jews, and Christians as well, especially Catholics, by contrast, accept the traditional determinations. They therefore look for ways to undermine trust in critical methods, thereby strengthening trust in traditional positions. The postmodernists, secular and religious alike, “assist” in this by claiming that criticism is a myth, just like tradition. Both approaches are presented as “narratives,” and thus tradition receives “rehabilitation,” in the postmodern sense described above.

Religious postmodernists, as we have already mentioned, often accept the results of critical research but continue to observe halakha, in one form or another, without any real justification. In their case, astonishingly, the narrativization is reversed. It is directed mainly toward tradition and not toward research. They preserve a religious narrative, but do not really believe in any metaphysical or ontological grounding of religious-halakhic obligation. It is about them that John Searle’s remarks cited in the first chapter apply.

What all these have in common is that they all accept the assumption that there really is a contradiction between critical claims and traditional claims, and that this contradiction requires resolution.

Against all these, Rabbi Mordechai Breuer proposes a solution of the type of parallel planes of reference.¹⁶

According to Rabbi Breuer, God indeed redacted the Bible, which was entirely written by Him and preceded the world, as the traditional approach holds, by combining several different sources. The Bible was written as a combination of different sources, each of which expresses a unique form of perspective, different from the others parallel to it. This is reflected in the names of God used in each document, in the values it expresses, in differing formulations, and the like.

The reason for such an editing, insofar as one may grasp God’s intentions, is that different commandments, and even different events, have different aspects. For that reason Rabbi Breuer’s method is called the aspect theory. Each source comes to express one of the possible perspectives, and we must synthesize all of them into an inclusive perspective composed of all those aspects together. Here the uniqueness of the reader or commentator comes to expression, for he can construct different pictures from the collection of sources. All these possibilities are legitimate, and the Torah leaves them to our choice. According to Rabbi Breuer, in the end all the documents were written and given to us at Sinai, and all of them obligate us equally.

It is important to emphasize that in this proposal Breuer does not reject either horn of the dilemma. He adopts both planes of interpretation together and proposes a theory that integrates them. In the next chapter we will see a similar direction with respect to criticism of halakha and the Talmud.

We will now bring two examples that will help us understand the matter. The examples are based on articles by David Henshke, Rabbi Breuer’s nephew.¹⁷ These articles deal with the relation between peshat, the plain sense, and drash, homiletic or legal exposition, in biblical interpretation. This is not our direct concern here, but it nevertheless touches our subject in several ways.

As already mentioned, the Torah can be expounded, our concern here is with halakhic midrashim, by means of the thirteen hermeneutical principles by which it is interpreted. Sometimes these expositions stand in complete contradiction to the plain-sense wording of the Torah. When the drash takes Scripture away from its plain sense, we must ask why the plain sense was written differently. For example, if the rabbinic interpretation is correct that “an eye for an eye” means that the injurer pays money to the injured party, and not that we gouge out his eye, why does the Torah formulate itself in a way that contradicts this halakha? Can one say that this was indeed the Torah’s original intention?

In the context of halakhic midrashim, and especially expositions that contradict the plain wording found in the Torah, many tend to say that the plain wording of the verses was intended to fulfill another function, meaning that it is not relevant on the plane of practical halakha. For example, some say that the plain meaning is meant to teach us a moral lesson, or to teach what ought to have been the case in some ideal state, whereas the rabbinic exposition is what teaches us practical halakha.

This too is an approach that reflects a conception of parallel planes of explanation or interpretation. But Henshke, in his articles, goes one step further, and that is why I chose specifically him for these examples. He argues that both planes of explanation are relevant to practical halakha. Halakha itself is determined by both planes, not only by the drash. The peshat is not meant merely to fulfill other functions; it also takes part in shaping halakha, together with the drash.

Such an approach sharpens much more strongly the claim about parallel planes of explanation, both of which are genuinely true. For Henshke, both concern the same context, and yet neither is regarded as a model or as a description, rather than a causal explanation. Both constitute a real explanation in the full sense, and both explanations concern the same context, namely practical halakha.¹⁸ We now turn to the two examples.¹⁹

First Example: The Hebrew Slave

A Hebrew slave is a Jew who is sold into slavery, usually someone who stole and has no money with which to pay back the theft. Such a slave is sold for six years, after which he goes free. The Torah addresses the law of a Hebrew slave who does not wish to go free after six years of servitude in two places.

In the portion of Mishpatim, the Torah deals with the laws of slaves generally, and writes as follows regarding a slave who does not wish to leave his master, in Exodus 21:5–6:²¹

But if the slave plainly says, “I love my master, my wife, and my children; I will not go out free,” then his master shall bring him before the judges, and he shall bring him to the door or to the doorpost, and his master shall pierce his ear with an awl, and he shall serve him forever.

The Torah rules that in such a case the slave’s ear is pierced, and he remains with his master as a slave forever. In the portion of Behar, however, the Torah deals with the laws of the Jubilee, and there the halakha appears to be different. The Torah writes there, in Leviticus 25:10:

You shall sanctify the fiftieth year and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants; it shall be a Jubilee for you, and each of you shall return to his holding, and each of you shall return to his family.

Here, then, the Torah states that in the Jubilee year each person returns to his family and his ancestral holding. In the Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 15a, the question is discussed as to which slave this refers, and the conclusion is that it refers to the slave whose ear was pierced.

The contradiction between the two sources is striking. On the one hand, the Torah states that the pierced slave is a slave forever. On the other hand, the Torah states that he goes free when the Jubilee year arrives.

Scholars would naturally treat this contradiction as belonging to two different sources, and so they are not overly troubled by it. There is nothing surprising about two different sources relating differently to the same law.²⁰ Such scholars, however, characteristically ignore the fact that the editor, for some reason, is likewise untroubled by the existence of a contradiction in the text edited by him.²¹

Now later in the tractate, Kiddushin 21b, it is explained that the word “forever” is interpreted by the sages as meaning: “for the age of the Jubilee.”

This is an example of what we noted above, that many rabbinic expositions are intended to resolve contradictions between different parts of the Torah. But here the resolution is, apparently, a decision in favor of one side, while ignoring the other source.

Scholars will say that the sages are trying artificially to create biblical coherence, and therefore take tortuous routes in order to present the Bible as a uniform and harmonious text. The reliability and coherence of the sages do not usually trouble them either. In their view, the sages simply decided what they wanted and anchored it in very strange ways in the texts, merely in order to present a “united front.” The traditional students, who accepted this mode of exposition by the sages, are not highly regarded by the scholars either. These “naive” students are generally ready to accept what the sages “feed” them.

Still, one cannot ignore the fact that this exposition really does seem problematic. First, it removes the verse from its plain sense. The Torah says “forever,” and the sages teach that the meaning is only until the Jubilee.

Beyond that, the question is why, according to the sages, the Torah did not write explicitly “until the Jubilee.” In fact, it is not clear at all why it repeats this law twice, in two different places.

And more than that: it is not clear what the sages “gained” by the strange wording “the age of the Jubilee.” This is not really an explanation of the contradiction, but rather a choice of one of the sources while ignoring the other. The semantics of “the age of the Jubilee” are not really a persuasive interpretation of the biblical expression “forever.”

In order to explain all this according to Rabbi Breuer’s method, Henshke proposes the following. First, one must know that according to many views there is a difference in halakha between perpetual ownership of an object and ownership for a fixed term. Perpetual ownership generally means ownership of the object itself, allowing the owner to do with it whatever he wishes. By contrast, fixed-term ownership is closer to a right of use than to actual ownership. It does not confer real ownership of the object itself. In halakhic terminology this is closer to usufruct than to title. In such a case the holder is not free to do with the object itself whatever he wishes, and therefore he is not regarded as owner of the object’s very substance.

The halakhic assumption is that ownership is not merely a legal relation. Ownership expresses a metaphysical bond between the owner and his property. Rights of use in the object are a result of that metaphysical relation.²² Therefore, a temporary bond cannot constitute an expression of a metaphysical relation. Such a relation cannot lapse by itself after a fixed period,²³ and so such a bond is defined as usufruct-like rather than full ownership.

Let us now see what happens with respect to a slave. On the one hand, the master acquires the slave himself, not merely the fruits of his labor. The Talmud in Kiddushin states: “A Hebrew slave’s person is acquired.” There are several halakhic consequences of this fact, though this is not the place to elaborate upon them. The question is how this fits with the fact that he is acquired only for a fixed period, until the Jubilee. Apparently, at least according to the halakhic views mentioned above, fixed-term ownership should always be only usufruct-like.²⁴

David Henshke explains that the meaning is that the slave is acquired for a fixed period, until the Jubilee, but despite this the type of acquisition is perpetual ownership, that is, ownership of the person himself. This is exactly what the Torah wished to teach in these two passages. It devoted two separate passages to the matter because its intention is to tell us that from one aspect, the duration of the acquisition, he is acquired only for a time, until the Jubilee, but from another aspect, the type of acquisition, the acquisition is perpetual, namely acquisition of the person himself.

To state this more fully: if an object belongs to its owner forever, but after a certain time the king, meaning the government, comes and expropriates it from him, it is clear that this does not mean that until that moment the ownership was not full ownership of the object itself. It was such ownership that later came to an end. For example, if the object evaporates after a certain time and disappears from the world, it is obvious that while it exists in the world one can own the object itself.

Thus, the Torah’s division between the two passages is explained as follows. In the portion of Mishpatim we are dealing with the laws of the slave himself. There the Torah states that he is acquired by his master forever. That is true from the angle, or the aspect, of the laws of the slave himself. On the other hand, there are the laws of the Jubilee, according to which God, who is Lord of the world, the king or governing authority, expropriates certain objects from His subjects. These are Jubilee laws, that is, laws concerning the relation between the king and the property of his subjects. They have no direct relevance to the laws of the slave. That is why they appear in a different passage.

Thus, the portion of Mishpatim presents the viewpoint of the laws of the slave, while the portion of Behar presents the viewpoint of the laws of the Jubilee. These are not two different scrolls of different origin. They are two different perspectives, both true, both given to us at Mount Sinai by the Giver of the Torah. The stylistic and substantive differences between the two passages do not derive from different sources, but from a desire to present a different perspective on the matter under discussion. The overall picture is created by combining these two aspects and fusing them into one picture: the slave is acquired in the fullest sense, but all this is only for a limited time, until the Jubilee. This is the meaning of the expression “the age of the Jubilee.”

This resolves all the difficulties raised above. On the one hand, the Torah splits the discussion into two passages because there are two perspectives, two aspects: the laws of the slave and the laws of the Jubilee. The sages’ exposition does not choose one source and ignore the other, as one might have thought. It merges these two aspects and formulates them into halakha in a way that takes account of both dimensions together. Both sources find expression in the halakha that emerges. True, the sages’ interpretation does not seem to conform to the plain sense of Scripture, but this is peshat in a broader sense, taking into account all the Torah’s passages and not only the one currently before us.

This example demonstrates well how one can adopt two planes of explanation simultaneously, without being forced to reject one in favor of the other.

Second Example: An Eye for an Eye

A second example, in which we encounter a treatment of peshat and drash as parallel planes in Torah interpretation, is the sages’ well-known exposition of the verse “an eye for an eye,” in Exodus 21:24. Here we are not dealing with a case in which two biblical sources explicitly contradict one another, but implicitly it is certainly possible that something of that kind is present here too.

In this verse the Torah explicitly states that whoever injures another’s eye should have his own eye taken. And so too later in the verse: “a hand for a hand,” and likewise “a foot for a foot.”

But the sages, in the Babylonian Talmud, Bava Kamma 84a, expound:

It was taught: “An eye for an eye” means money. But perhaps say: an actual eye? Rav Ashi said: It is learned from “in place of the fact that he afflicted her”; just as there it means money, so here too it means money.

Rav Ashi learns from another verse in which the word “in place of” means a monetary obligation that in our case too the obligation is to pay money and not literally to remove an eye.

As in the previous example, the difficulty is obvious. There is a sharp mismatch with the plain sense of the verses. Here too it is not clear why the Torah does not state explicitly that we are to take money from the injurer, as it knows how to do in other contexts.

Scholars, and one may see something similar in Rashbam on that verse, who interprets Scripture consistently according to the plain sense, explain, in line with their general method, that this is a new exposition that inserts the expositor’s values into the interpretation of the verses. The appeal to verses is only meant to persuade the audience, but the intention is not to interpret the verse; rather, it is essentially to reject what it says.

From the standpoint of the aspect theory, however, the explanation here too is that the drash is a kind of peshat in the verse, a peshat that takes other verses and sources into account. Admittedly, this is not a case of direct contradiction between different sources within the Bible itself. But the claim is that there is some indirect source, or some other interpretive consideration, for why one must not literally put out the eye of one who injures his fellow, and many have already written about this. On the other hand, the verse says that one must put out his eye, not merely take money from him. Therefore here too we must understand that the expositor is committed to the biblical formulation. He does not ignore it altogether, but adds another aspect.

As in the previous example, this too may be formulated in terms of the aspect theory. In this context one may say that from the perspective of the laws governing punishment of those who inflict injury, we ought indeed to put out the injurer’s eye. But there is an additional perspective, namely the laws governing the treatment of offenders, perhaps human dignity,²⁵ and from that perspective we must content ourselves with taking his money, and we are forbidden to put out his eye.

Thus, in effect, we can say that there are two aspects here: from the laws of punishing one who causes injury, we ought to put out his eye; and from the laws of treating offenders, we ought to content ourselves with taking his money.

A clear consequence of this is Rav Ashi’s exposition in that same Bava Kamma passage, where he explains that the sum we collect is the value of the injurer’s eye, not the value of the injured party’s eye.²⁶ Thus he expounds:

It was taught: Rabbi Eliezer says, “An eye for an eye” means literally. Literally? Could that really enter your mind? Rav Ashi said: It means that valuation is made not with reference to the injured party, but with reference to the injurer.

Rav Ashi thus senses the difficulty created by the Torah’s wording, and therefore determines that the purpose of that wording is not merely to confuse us, but to teach us that we assess the injurer’s eye.

His meaning is that the amount the injurer pays the injured party is not the monetary value of the injured party’s eye, namely the difference between his worth as a slave with an eye and his worth as a slave without one, but the value of the injurer’s own eye.

From the standpoint of compensation for damage, this makes no sense. If we wish to compensate the injured party for the eye that was damaged, we ought to obligate the injurer to pay him the value of his, that is, the injured party’s, eye. But instead we obligate the injurer to pay the value of his own eye, that is, the injurer’s. What is the meaning of this?

Rav Ashi himself explains the matter in his exposition above. In fact, the Torah meant that we should literally take the injurer’s eye. According to this, the amount is not meant to compensate the injured party, but to serve as a substitute for the injurer’s eye that ought to have been taken. Therefore the size of the amount is according to the value of the injurer’s eye. The sum is given to the injured party because we also want to compensate him, but the basic purpose is the punishment of the injurer.²⁷

Thus it is clear why the Torah writes that we are to put out the injurer’s eye and does not merely state that he is to be charged with payment. Its intention is to tell us that the sum the injurer pays is in place of his own eye and not in place of the injured party’s eye.

In summary, this interpretation points to two aspects in the law of “an eye for an eye.” There is an aspect of punishing the injurer, and from that aspect we ought literally to take his eye. On the other hand, there is a law governing the treatment of offenders, requiring us not to do so, but rather to take money in place of the eye. The combination of these two aspects is that we take money, but the amount is the value of the injurer’s eye and not the value of the injured party’s eye.

One may still ask why the Torah does not explicitly write that the injurer should pay the value of his own eye. That would seemingly be the clearest formulation, and the obvious one to adopt. Here we require the moral-value dimension.

The previous context was legal-halakhic.²⁸ But, as several commentators have written, even from a moral standpoint one can learn from the Torah’s formulation that the injurer really deserves to have his physical eye taken as punishment for his act. True, we do not do so out of mercy for him, but the lesson must be preserved. For that reason the Torah chose to express itself specifically in that way.

Summary and Conclusions

In this chapter we demonstrated how Rabbi Breuer’s aspect theory enables us to combine several conflicting perspectives without giving up the assumption that they are found in conflicting sources.

It should be noted that by this method we are not trying to combine them into one another. There is no attempt here to solve the contradictions between the planes, and certainly no tendency to reject one in favor of the other or to undermine the reliability of one of them. The principal claim is that there are different aspects, that is, different planes, from which one can look at the halakha under discussion. From each aspect a full picture emerges, one that differs radically from the other aspect. Yet we must adopt all of them in parallel, for all of them are true together, despite the apparent contradiction among them. The full picture should, as far as possible, take into account the whole range of aspects of the subject.

It is important to emphasize that in this context the problematic character of parallel planes of explanation is weaker. The explanations here are not causes but interpretations. Therefore, there is no necessity to see each of them as a necessary and sufficient condition for some outcome. Hence there is not necessarily any contradiction in adopting two different interpretations.²⁹ Yet despite this understanding, many do regard these planes as excluding one another, that is, as contradictory. In that sense, the method of parallel planes of reference is relevant and applicable here as well.

In this connection we have already seen the dispute between Maimonides and Nahmanides concerning the relation between peshat and drash in the Torah, and we saw that Maimonides says in the second root that it is impossible for one text, especially Scripture, to have two different interpretations, as noted above in note 27 to the fourth section.

It should further be noted that in the earlier discussion, which dealt with the relation between theology and science, we could content ourselves with the claim that both planes are true together, and no more. But it is important to notice that in the halakhic context discussed in this chapter there is an additional problem. In the halakhic context we must derive from the different planes of discussion a practical conclusion: how are we in fact to act according to halakha? In such a situation we must reach a decision about how the different aspects, or different planes, combine with one another, and construct from them a complete worldview. Here one cannot suffice with the theoretical claim that both are true in parallel. We must derive halakhic conclusions, and therefore all the aspects must be consolidated into an inclusive halakhic picture.

Thus, in fact, one may say that the halakha under discussion is not based on either of these planes by itself, nor even on both in parallel. Here there is a model very similar to that of combined planes of explanation, mode 5 of the responses to parallel planes of explanation discussed in the previous section. Here too the two planes combine to present the picture as a whole. Only both together clarify the halakha in its full scope.

In fact, we have already seen a similar model in note 37 above, which dealt with Rabbi Hayyim of Brisk’s method known as two laws. This parallels Rabbi Breuer’s method in many respects, though there it was called two aspects. As we saw there, however, it includes a number of different methods. It seems that this could also be shown with respect to biblical interpretation according to Rabbi Breuer’s method, but this is not the place for that.³⁰

Chapter Three: Interpretive Dilemmas: Criticism of Halakha and the Talmud

Introduction

In this chapter we will see a move similar to the one presented in the previous chapter with respect to biblical interpretation, and we will apply it to the interpretation of halakha and its scholarly study. At times we will speak of the study of the Talmud, but we will generally mean the study of halakha more broadly. Here we will not distinguish between the two contexts, because the aspects under discussion are shared by both.

The Problem³¹

When halakha is studied in traditional study halls, no attention is paid to the social, cultural, and value-laden context in which it was formed. Halakha is understood as a closed and ahistorical field of discussion, in which every position is examined on its own merits, independently of who said it and in what context.

In the scholarly world, by contrast, halakhot are seen as a creation that is a product of their time and of the context in which they were formed. In the study of the Talmud, different halakhot are usually explained as products of constraints, interpretive or value-driven tendencies, development, external influences, and the like.

There is here an aspect of external vision, as discussed in chapter 6 of the second section, where we saw that science by its nature looks at things from the outside, with a tendency toward comparison, sorting, and classification, and with the aim of finding mechanistic explanations for the phenomena under discussion. By contrast, an internal vision leads to internal understanding, but greatly impedes comparison, classification, and objective treatment, insofar as that is possible at all. Very often scholarship speaks about things, whereas the study hall studies the things themselves.

This is very similar to what we encountered in the previous chapter with respect to the study of the Bible. There too scholarship sees the Bible as made up of many scrolls and as expressing different influences, whereas the traditional, mythic, approach sees it as a single whole. The study of halakha and the Talmud likewise sees them as made up of many scrolls, so to speak.

Therefore, the consequences we saw there are mostly relevant here as well. Whereas scholarship is not concerned with resolving contradictions between different Talmudic or halakhic passages, because each is understood as a product of its time and of the context in which it was formed, traditional study is constantly occupied with resolving contradictions between different parts of the Talmud and of halakha generally.

In many cases scholarship clearly shows external influences on halakha. It also points to cases in which halakha arose as a result of very specific constraints that characterized only that context. In such cases it is not clear why the traditional study hall does not accept these critical scholarly findings and continues to treat halakha as a single coherent whole.

For example, it is quite clear that in the Middle Ages there were different tendencies in the laws of desecration and sanctification of God’s name among the sages of France, the Tosafists, and the sages of Spain. This finds expression in several points, and it is difficult to deny.

Halakha rules that a Jew who is coerced into transgressing is exempt. A threat to a person’s life in order to make him commit a transgression is complete coercion. But in three exceptional cases, the three cardinal transgressions, halakha rules that one must even be killed rather than commit the transgression: forbidden sexual relations, murder, and idolatry.

The sages of Spain rule that if a person wishes to give up his life rather than transgress any of the other commandments, he is not permitted to do so. Maimonides states about such a person, if he is killed, “he is liable for his own life.” That is, they are stringent in the laws of preserving life and lenient in the laws of sanctifying God’s name. By contrast, the sages of France permit this. They are stringent in the laws of sanctifying God’s name and lenient in the laws of preserving life. There are several additional examples of such positions, and in all of them one finds expression of a stringent French approach and a lenient Spanish approach.

Scholars explain this by noting that the French sages operated during the Crusades, when Jews were required to give up their lives for the preservation of their religion. By contrast, the Spanish sages of that period functioned in a relatively comfortable atmosphere, and therefore allowed themselves to be lenient in the laws of self-sacrifice for sanctification of God’s name.

In light of this, one might expect halakha not to regard these disagreements as a real dispute. There is no dispute here, only a change of circumstances. One could infer from this approach that even in halakhic decision-making we ought to rule according to the character of the circumstances under discussion. In circumstances similar to those prevailing during the Crusades, we ought to rule and act like the Tosafists, whereas in circumstances more similar to those prevailing in Spain, we ought to rule and act like the Spanish sages. If so, there is no real value dispute here.

But the study hall, and with it the halakhic decisors, does not treat the matter this way. Awareness of context and the clarification of textual versions, which characterize scholarship, are found to varying degrees even within the halakhic world. But on the point of the influence of context on halakha there is complete unanimity: all the sages and decisors discuss this French-Spanish dispute as if all these early authorities were seated around one round table, debating one another. Traditional study tries to clarify the halakhic-value assumptions underlying the French and Spanish conceptions and makes no use at all of the question of the circumstances in which those rulings were formed. In fact, the fact that these things were said in France and Spain is not present in the consciousness of the students. The dispute is seen as a dispute among people, not among study centers operating under different conditions. Few even notice that there are principled and consistent differences between these two schools.

Halakhic decision-making too proceeds according to general halakhic considerations and takes no account at all of the circumstances in which the question arises. For example, if we take into account, in a simplistic way and only for purposes of illustration, only the customary component in halakhic ruling, then many decisors would rule that an Ashkenazic Jew should follow the ruling of the Tosafists, even if he lives in peace and quiet in his country, unlike the Tosafists in their time. By contrast, Sephardic Jews would be instructed to follow the sages of Spain, even if they live under continual persecution, unlike those Spanish sages in their time.

The scholarly world criticizes traditional study for this approach and argues that the traditional world ignores context, even though its influence on the rulings in question is entirely clear. And indeed, in many cases it is very difficult to ignore the influence of circumstances on the ruling.³²

Approaches to a Solution

In the context under discussion here as well, all the approaches presented above arise. There are scholars who conclude that the world of traditional halakhic decision-making is “fossilized,” and therefore abandon it, or at least condemn it on that basis. In other words, they choose the critical-research position and reject the traditional, “mythic,” one.

Postmodernists, as is their way, will say that there is no problem here at all, because in the research “narrative” the reason for these halakhot is the circumstances, whereas in the halakhic narrative the reason is halakhic and value-laden and timeless. It is interesting to note that postmodernity may appear in this context specifically as one side of the debate, because according to the critical-research side, every halakha is the product of the circumstances in which it was formed. That itself is a claim postmodern in character. Precisely for that reason, the different approaches cannot really be examined and compared, and certainly one cannot determine which of them is “more right” or “truer.” Thus postmodernity may appear here on two different levels: within the discussion itself it sides with the critical approach, but in the meta-discussion it says that it too is only one narrative among several possible ones.

The religious postmodernist, here too, will generally belong to the first plane of argument. He will say that halakha is a narrative, and as such it possesses full legitimacy. Quite often we will find that in his opinion objective truth lies specifically in the determinations of research, but that does not damage his right to preserve the narrative within which he chooses to operate. We have already related to this approach above, for example in the words of John Searle.

Against all these, the believing Jew tends to defend himself in several ways, similar to what we encountered earlier. Some use postmodernity as a tool that damages the credibility of scholarship and places it too on a subjective or narrative basis. Traditional halakha, by contrast, enjoys objective status according to this view, and is not seen as a mere narrative. In this case, analyticity is an instrument of defense and not an essence. In this context one hears, for example, claims that our sages throughout the generations are like heavenly angels, and therefore, unlike ordinary mortals, they are not influenced at all by the circumstances in which they operate.

As in the earlier issues, here too one must say that this is “throwing out the baby with the bathwater,” because by holding this approach the defensive believer gives up his synthetic position. And yet, as we have seen, syntheticity is precisely the logical position that underlies the religious stance. The same intuition that leads to religious conclusions also underlies scholarly conclusions. As we have already mentioned several times, science too rests on a synthetic foundation.

Here too there are those who try to reconcile the two approaches, but usually without success. It seems that these two forms of response cannot truly be reconciled with one another.

Therefore, here too we often have to adopt a position of parallel planes of reference. In other words, these two positions are not playing a zero-sum territory game with one another. Both are true, and both can be adopted simultaneously. Sages are not angels, at least not in this respect, and they are indeed influenced by their surroundings and act in light of the circumstances in which they live. Yet despite this, the way of halakha does not require change at this point. Of course, this claim requires further clarification.

With respect to the example dealing with the laws of sanctifying God’s name and self-sacrifice, we may say that the French halakha was indeed influenced by the harsh circumstances of the Crusades, and the Spanish halakha by the relative tranquility in which the sages of Spain lived. The claim is correct, but it concerns the historian and not the halakhist.

According to the traditional position, the question of what influenced these sages or others is a question for historians, not for halakhists. So long as the French halakhic sages did not justify their position by saying explicitly that it was relevant only under the circumstances prevailing in their own time, then from the standpoint of the traditional approach they established a universal halakha, valid, in their view, under all circumstances. True, the influence that led them to formulate such a position was the Crusades, but that was only an unconscious influence. From the standpoint of halakha, their position is based on values, not on circumstances.

This may be explained in at least two ways:

1. It is similar to the example that accompanied us in the fourth section concerning one who returns to religion or leaves religion. Psychological influences do indeed affect him, and they certainly played a role in the decision he made. But that concerns the psychologist. As those standing on the side, we should be interested only in the philosophical-value dimension of the decision, because that is the only dimension relevant to us.

One may say that the circumstances caused that person to change direction in life, but the change itself certainly expresses a shift in positions that appears to him justified on the value-ideological plane as well. Had there not been a justified change here, even under such psychological conditions he would not have made the decision he made.

In our case, the expression of this is that if the Tosafists had really thought that their position was relevant only under certain conditions, they should have said so. It therefore seems that the circumstances only caused them to discover this position, but it also appeared to them correct in itself and in every situation.

The comparison to the relation between the psychological plane and the philosophical-value plane gives us the key for analyzing the relation between the planes here, in terms of the modes of response defined in the previous section. In the context of the psychological and philosophical planes, we saw two ways to understand the relation between them. Correspondingly, we may say here as well:

• One may say that the meaning of this direction is that the two planes relate to one another as purpose and cause. That is, the purpose of the halakhic argument was indeed what the circumstances dictated, but the halakhic reasons are the substantive justifications.

  As we shall see below, in the discussion of saving a Gentile on the Sabbath, situations can arise in which a decisor looks for a halakhic path in order to reach a certain result that seems correct to him, a teleological consideration, but the justification for his ruling will be anchored in tools drawn from the ordinary halakhic “toolbox,” a causal consideration.

• One may also treat this as a case of combined explanations. That is, only if the circumstances and the value-beliefs together allow a certain halakhic decision will it be adopted.

2. One can say more than this. It is reasonable to assume that the Tosafists themselves, had they lived in Spain, would have adopted a different halakhic position. But God placed them in different circumstances in order to bring into the world a different halakhic position, which is also correct in itself, under all circumstances. According to this approach, the position of the Tosafists is a halakhically legitimate position in itself, and the Tosafists were the instrument through which it was brought into the world. God uses them to create that halakhic perspective within the overall mosaic of halakha. Therefore, even if the Tosafists thought this way only because of circumstances, their position, as an expression of the divine will, is valid in all circumstances.³³

These two halakhic positions are analogous to Rabbi Breuer’s two aspects that we saw in the previous chapter in the biblical context. Here we do not necessarily fuse them into a single conception, since they are the product of two disputing sides, though sometimes that is done too, but they exist on the same plane and are discussed in relation to one another.

This position is in fact a genuine mode of response by way of parallel planes. In the consciousness of the people who acted in the given situation, perhaps there were causes connected to the circumstances and the context in which they acted, but halakha analyzes only the halakhic meanings, which are meta-historical. Thus there is here a claim about parallelism between the historical plane and the essential plane, or between meaning and development.

In this connection it is interesting to cite a passage from the book of an important scholar who dealt with questions of interest and pledges in the Middle Ages. Professor Haym Soloveitchik,³⁴ in his book Halakha, Economy, and Self-Image, writes as follows, at the end of the second chapter there:³⁷

Ashkenazic Jews lived in two worlds: in the lands of exile and in the world of Torah; and because their suffering under Gentile hands only deepened their loyalty to the “portable homeland,” concession and obstinacy paradoxically intensified side by side. Leniencies regarding loans at interest to and from Gentiles were given and accepted, but changes in principle were rejected utterly… Once halakha emerges from the zone of pressure, its eternal principles immediately return to their place…

But after all, many important responsa were written and preserved in areas where foreign and cruel reality had the upper hand, containing assumptions and constructions so far-reaching that one might suppose that even after the passing of time and the forgetting of the circumstances that produced them, their cumulative effect on halakha would be great… And indeed, those responsa were studied and considered throughout the diaspora, under entirely different living conditions, by pious and upright scholars with no knowledge of history and full of reverence for the words of the early authorities, scholars whose highest aspiration was consistency and harmonization. Yet the astonishing fact is that these rulings, which never occurred to them as deriving from German law, were never integrated by them into their great and comprehensive halakhic synthesis. In the natural and ramified development that occurred in the Middle Ages in the law of pledges, and which found expression at the end of the sixteenth century in that large and expansive section of Hoshen Mishpat, section 72, we search in vain for traces of the rulings of Rabbenu David, Rashi, the Riva, Rabbenu Tam, and the Ri, which had shaped the laws of interest.

In response to the problems of adaptation and purity, the halakhic sages developed, alongside their conscious synthesis, an intuitive method of halakhic federalism: to grant each domain a measure of autonomy so as to reach the balance required by it, to develop its rules and establish its details, whose applicability would be ad hoc and binding within their own sphere; but if they did not accord with the classical sources, they could never acquire generally binding force.

Of the whole range of rulings issued in that period on pledge and interest, only one, the sale of a debt by transfer of the pledge, was ultimately found to be latent in the Talmudic sugya. It alone won official recognition in Hoshen Mishpat, and only it was granted general and binding authority in halakha.

Soloveitchik points here to the wondrous phenomenon of an “invisible hand” that sees to the removal from the eternal halakhic corpus of everything temporary and passing. This occurs even though the editors of the canon themselves, who are not scholars but traditional learners, are not aware of the external source of the rulings they choose to leave outside.

Development and Meaning

The meaning of the last proposal is far-reaching. One must distinguish between the meaning of halakhot or customs and the historical-social circumstances through which they developed into halakha. It may be that a halakha or a custom entered halakha through the influence of an external source or as a result of some social constraint, but the circumstances of the development do not necessarily express the essential meaning of those customs and halakhot. Sometimes even the sages themselves are not aware of the full meaning of the halakha they establish. As noted, they serve as agents of providence in shaping halakha.

According to this proposal, development is the concern of historians, and generally it is not regarded at all as part of Torah study. Halakha concerns itself only with meaning. Only that is Torah study in the full sense.

This is the true difference between the two forms of response. It is not a difference between criticism and traditional dogmatism, but two forms of response reflecting a different plane of explanation or interpretation. One who is interested in halakha seeks halakhic explanations. One who is interested in history seeks contextual explanations. But both planes of explanation can be valid simultaneously, and we are under no obligation to reject one in order to believe in the other.

From this conception follow several puzzling features of halakha, such as its ignoring of context and of the clarification of the original text of the sources. We will now bring two additional examples.

1. Halakha rules that rabbinic enactments whose reason has lapsed do not lapse.³⁵ That is, they are autonomous and do not depend on the reason for which they were enacted.

Some explain this as a principle intended to prevent slackening in one’s attitude toward halakha, that is, as a technical matter. But the Vilna Gaon, followed by many halakhic sages, explains it as a substantive matter. Halakhot do not depend on the reason because their meaning is not necessarily the meaning given them by the sages who enacted them. Some have maintained that the sages themselves were aware of the additional reasons, and in the name of the Hatam Sofer it is well known that it is possible that even they themselves were not aware of them.³⁶ In any case, every enactment has additional reasons, and therefore it does not depend on the explicit reasons given for it. The reasons given for the enactment were only the mode of its development into halakha, but now that it is present within the halakhic context, we find in it additional reasons and additional meanings.³⁷

2. A similar understanding is given by Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook in his book Musar Avikha,³⁸ with respect to halakhic fences. Usually we understand fences as commandments that have no importance in themselves. Their whole essence is a barrier meant to prevent other transgressions, which are the truly problematic ones.

For example, the prohibition of seclusion, meaning being together in an isolated place, between a man and a woman forbidden to him, is understood by many as a fence. At first glance, this means that there is no essential problem in such situations. The real problem exists only in the forbidden sexual relations that may arise between them. The prohibition of seclusion is only a fence around the substantive prohibition.

But Rabbi Kook explains there that if a certain act leads to transgression, that is an indication that it too is itself problematic. Therefore, although the prohibition entered halakha as a fence, and that was the declared reason for its enactment, afterward it becomes clear to us retroactively that there is apparently a problem in it itself as well. Again, there is here a distinction between development and meaning and essence. These are parallel planes of reference.

Intensifying the Conflict: Religious Scholars

It should be noted that the conflict between the two forms of response, the traditional and the critical, becomes especially sharp among scholars with a religious worldview. These people confront far more intensely the duality in the two approaches and adopt positions that try to draw the two planes closer together. But there are many places where it is very difficult to do so.³⁹

In biblical scholarship, many scholars take part who do not have a religious worldview and do not observe the commandments. In the study of the Talmud, however, the situation is different. There, as a rule, the important scholars, almost all of them, are religious people to one degree or another, and therefore the conflict between the two forms of response emerges there with greater force.

There are several reasons for this. The main one is that Talmudic scholarship requires tools not available to a person who did not acquire them from childhood. It is very difficult to acquire the tools of learning in the field of Talmud and halakha within the academic framework alone. By contrast, the study of the Bible is more accessible to the general person, and it is also closer to the hearts of those without a religious worldview. Therefore it is studied even in state educational frameworks, including nonreligious ones.

Later in this chapter we will present responses specifically from scholarly sources close to the traditional halakhic approach, because it is precisely there that the distinction between these two forms of response is sharpened.

We now turn to several examples reflecting these approaches. The last two deal with relations between Jews and Gentiles, because this is a clear context of changing circumstances that can affect halakhic responses. But we will begin with an example dealing with the Sabbatical year.

First Example: The Sabbatical Year in the Present Era

In this example we will discuss Professor Yitzhak Gilat’s article on the status of the laws of the Sabbatical year in the present era, that is, after the destruction of the Temple. Gilat himself was an observant Jew, a graduate of Hebron Yeshiva in Jerusalem. This article was printed in his book Chapters in the Development of Halakha,⁴⁰ which collects several of his essays in different areas touching on this theme. It should be noted that when the book appeared it aroused a great polemic within the religious world and provoked much wrath from various directions. It was claimed that he was uprooting the very foundations of the traditional relation to halakha as a body of directives whose source is Mount Sinai and which was given to us by divine authority. This is a clear expression of the conflict described in the previous sections. Meanwhile, the critical approach has entered to some extent even into the yeshiva world, and far sharper statements than his no longer arouse the same level of criticism. But precisely for that reason, the discussion we are conducting here has become much more relevant.

In the introduction to his book, Gilat writes the following:

The gathering of all these essays under one roof, discussing issues of the Oral Torah from a halakhic-historical perspective, serving as a kind of central bar and common denominator, shows us the scope of the sages’ confrontation with a wide range of problems and circumstances in the areas of religion, society, and economy, and the capacity of the halakhic world to adapt to historical events and changing situations without deviation from principles.

Gilat points out that despite the historical-critical method he adopts, his studies show, precisely by means of that method, that halakha develops without deviating from its principles.

Gilat opens his article on the Sabbatical year by noting that halakhic literature is full of discussions about the status of the prohibition of plowing during the Sabbatical year. This has several halakhic implications, chief among them the heter mekhira arrangement, which has generated broad controversy in recent generations. He continues by saying that he will discuss the matter only from the standpoint of the development and unfolding of halakha.

As already explained, traditional halakhic discussion makes almost no use of the historical layering of sources, apart from fairly coarse schemes such as divisions into Mishnaic sages, Talmudic sages, medieval authorities, later authorities, and the like. The words of a given sage are not examined in light of the question of his place in the chain of transmission or the period in which he lived. In yeshivot, and in halakha generally, the words of all commentators are treated as ahistorical statements. Gilat, like other scholars, makes use of historical layering in his analysis of sources. Each source is examined according to the period in which it was stated, and a panoramic picture of the development of halakha across history is thereby spread out. In such a picture one can examine statements against the background of our historical knowledge of those periods and connect the various halakhic positions to those backgrounds. This is the contextual perspective characteristic of Talmudic-halakhic scholarship.

In chapter 2 there, Gilat argues that the tannaitic sources clearly imply that plowing in the Sabbatical year is forbidden by Torah law. His description of the subsequent development is as follows, with ellipses mainly omitting the citation of sources and discussions not required for our purposes:

In the early period, when the commandment of the Sabbatical year was observed with great strictness, opinions abounded that saw plowing and the other forms of labor in field and vineyard as Torah prohibitions, and imposed lashes for them on the basis of scriptural exegesis. Even after the destruction, in the Yavneh period, they were careful about the laws of the Sabbatical year, despite the great financial loss on which the observance of this commandment depends, for in the view of the sages of that generation the Sabbatical year still applied by Torah law even in the present era…

But in the wake of the severe economic conditions after the destruction, the number of those “suspected concerning the Sabbatical year” and “transgressors in the Sabbatical year” increased. At first the sages tried to prevent deviations from the law by decrees and by imposing penalties on offenders…

Yet these decrees, whose purpose was to seal the breaches made in observance of the Sabbatical year, were ineffective. When the economic situation worsened after the Bar Kokhba revolt, and the burden of taxes and levies kept growing, this commandment weakened still further. The many difficulties faced by the masses in Sabbatical years served as motives for renewed examination by the sages of the foundations of the Sabbatical commandment and the details of its laws, for changing attitudes toward those who were not careful in observing it, and for responding to the needs of the time and of the nation…

From a tendency to ease the economic burden of observing the Sabbatical year, Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, aided by scriptural exegesis based on the verse, advanced a major rule: that the Sabbatical year in the present era is only rabbinic. Following this view, Rabbi enacted several ordinances that narrowed the scope of the application of the Sabbatical commandment and made the use of Sabbatical produce much easier than had been customary until his day.

Yet sages who did not agree with this overall lenient conception, and who continued to maintain that the Sabbatical year in the present era is biblical, adopted another approach, which likewise aimed to limit and reduce the force of the Sabbatical prohibitions. They ruled that only the four labors explicitly mentioned in Scripture, sowing, pruning, reaping, and gathering grapes, are forbidden by biblical law. But all other forms of labor in the land and on the tree, including plowing, are forbidden only by rabbinic law, and no lashes are given for them…

Thus a door was opened for leniency in pressing circumstances, because of tax burdens and in cases of financial loss, with respect to plowing and the other Sabbatical prohibitions not explicit in the Torah…

Gilat’s description can be interpreted in several ways. In the simple reading, it may be read as a description of halakhic ruling that takes constraints into account. Since it is difficult for the people to observe the Sabbatical year, the sages adopt the view that in the present era it is only rabbinic and open the door to leniency in the laws of the Sabbatical year. The historical correlations between the various sources are certainly persuasive, and so it is rather difficult to reject them outright.

But according to this simple description, one might conclude that sages can do whatever occurs to them and tailor halakha optimally to reality and its constraints. Whenever some halakha is inconvenient for us, we can arbitrarily classify it as rabbinic and be lenient as we wish. More than that: it is not at all clear why one should even use the terminology of rabbinic law if we can determine it at will. The sages can simply decide that something is permitted, and that is that.

This, of course, is a position that halakha cannot accept. It empties halakhic obligation of its content and meaning. The question whether the Sabbatical year in our time is biblical or rabbinic is a halakhic-interpretive question, not a matter of arbitrary decision. The sages who determine it, as Gilat himself notes, make use of scriptural exegesis. Thus this is almost a “factual” question in certain respects. The question is what the Torah says and what is the correct interpretation of what God gave Moses at Sinai. One cannot decide this on the basis of one desire or another, or according to needs. Needs are the background to enactments, but interpretation is supposed to be anchored in the text, whether in its plain sense or in exposition.

Beyond all this, according to this interpretation one may ask whether in our own day, when the situation is not so pressing, we ought to return to greater stringency and act as though the Sabbatical year in our time were biblical. If the lenient position is based on a desire to ease the burden on the public, then in a time when there is no need for leniency because the situation is not so pressing, that halakha would seem to have no place. We saw above that understanding halakha as dependent on circumstances turns it into a particular statement that cannot be applied in every situation. According to that, there is not really any determination that the Sabbatical year in our time is rabbinic, but a determination true only for its own time and period. Interestingly, here the conclusion that follows from applying the scholarly approach within halakha is a stringent one.⁴¹

It should be noted that many decisors cite the conclusion that the Sabbatical year in our time is rabbinic as practical halakha, yet none of them sees fit to note that this is only when the situation is pressing. As stated, halakha does not attach laws to the circumstances in which they arose.

The way therefore seems paved for concluding that Gilat is a heretic who turns halakha into nonsense, as indeed many did during the polemic that accompanied the book’s publication. According to this approach, the believer must argue that Gilat’s analysis is incorrect, and that he assumes various things that are not necessary. Sometimes that too can be shown, but that is not our concern here. This is the apologetic direction that diminishes the reliability of scholarship, or science, in order to magnify the reliability of tradition, the myth: everything was given at Sinai, and nothing depends on circumstances.

The religious postmodernist can agree with Gilat and nonetheless remain committed to halakha as it now stands, but without any reasonable grounding for that commitment. It is only a narrative, and a form of discourse does not require grounding.

But it seems that this is not the truth, and that Gilat himself did not mean this either. The wrath was unnecessary. There is no reason to doubt Gilat’s analysis, and even if he himself is not persuasive, one must remember that he is only an example of a critical scholarly treatment. Other parallel analyses may be persuasive, and they are what would raise the problem.

The historical description can, in principle, be correct. If one pays attention to the historical placement of the sages who made the various statements, it seems hard to ignore the historical correlations Gilat points out. We will therefore adopt his words in their simple sense on the plane of historical description. But the traditional world does not deal with that plane at all. There things are analyzed only on the essential plane. Positions are examined solely in light of the interpretation of their halakhic sources and the underlying reasoning. The reason is that traditional study concerns Torah study, not historical research. These are two planes of discussion, and both are true. Our choice between them depends on what we mean to engage in.

The sages of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch’s generation, including Rabbi Judah the Patriarch himself, ruled leniently in the laws of the Sabbatical year. According to Rabbi Judah the Patriarch himself, the Sabbatical year in our time is rabbinic; according to the other sages, only the labors beyond the four mentioned above are rabbinic. But each of them brings sources of exposition and interpretation for his own position. Thus they do not at all state the economic-contextual reason for their lenient ruling. The stated reason is halakhic and not social-economic.

Therefore, here too one may understand the correspondence between the historical plane and the halakhic-essential plane in the different ways we saw at the beginning of the chapter:

a. According to the second proposal above, one may say that these sages were convinced they were right. It may indeed be that what led them to this, probably unconsciously, was the historical circumstances. But now we have before us a position that the sages justify by halakhic-essential reasons. That is the only plane that interests the student of Torah and halakha. God arranged these circumstances in order to create the halakhic position that is correct in itself, namely, that the Sabbatical year in the present era is rabbinic.

b. One may also say that the circumstances are what led the sages to reexamine the issue. Had those circumstances not existed, no one would have troubled to reexamine the sources and positions current until that time. The circumstances were thus a catalyst for renewed examination of the issue. But the examination itself was conducted only with halakhic tools. If on the halakhic plane we do not think that the Sabbatical year in the present era is rabbinic, then no circumstances, whatever they may be, will lead us to rule that way. But if circumstances caused us to see things we had not seen before, should we then give up the halakha as we truly believe it to be?

As we saw in the fourth section, even in the example of returning to religion one may say that the circumstances caused a person to reexamine his positions, but the decision to change them rests on substantive reasons.

This argument strongly recalls the distinction we brought in the second section between the context of discovery and the context of justification. The circumstances are what caused the sages to discover the halakhic theory. This is the context of halakhic discovery. In the field of science, we saw that this context does not concern science, and here we see that it does not concern halakha. But, as we saw with respect to science, at the subsequent stage the “theory” is examined by precise scientific tools, and this is the context of justification. So too with halakha. After a new halakha or custom is introduced into the realm of halakha, in a process that certainly has historical-social characteristics, its meanings are examined by objective halakhic tools. In these terms one may say that historians deal with the context of discovery, whereas halakhists deal with the context of justification.⁴²

This seems to have been Gilat’s own intention as well. We cited above his words in the introduction, where he notes that he intends to deal only with aspects of the development of halakha. His wording makes it clear that he is aware that there are also halakhic aspects to the discussion, but he is not dealing with them. His aim is not to replace the halakhic discussion, which deals with meaning, with historical discussion, which deals with development. Beyond that, in the long quotation above one can see that he writes that the new circumstances “served as motives for renewed examination” by the sages of the issue, and that is exactly what we proposed here. He certainly does not write that the circumstances themselves are what led them to rule as they did.

Thus it seems that the wrath was unnecessary. Gilat, as a scholar, was dealing with one plane, and it may be correct and true. Halakha deals with another plane, and it too is correct and true. There is no contradiction, and there is no need to think that the explanations are opposed to one another. Both warring sides tend to err at this point.

There is, however, one important conclusion that may be drawn from this: Gilat’s analysis and similar ones do not fall under the category of Torah study. This is historical research and not the study of halakha. One may be interested in the history of halakha, as in any other history, and one may plausibly say that this has value. In any case, this is engagement with history and not with halakha. Torah study, by contrast, is only engagement with essence.

As an extreme example, one might say that this resembles someone who studies the kinds of bindings used for halakhic books or Pentateuchs through the generations. Clearly, although the object of his study is halakhic literature, he is not engaged in Torah study. His occupation is with questions of printing and publishing history. This is a legitimate occupation in itself, but it does not constitute fulfillment of the commandment of Torah study. At this point many scholars err, supposing that what they do is merely another form or method, and some of them claim it is even a more correct one, of Torah study. Of course, there are studies that deal with essence, and these can certainly fall within the category of Torah study. Our subject here is only historical-contextual studies.

Second Example: Saving the Life of a Gentile on the Sabbath⁴³

In the previous example we saw the consideration of a scholar aware of the existence of a second plane of reference, the halakhic-essential plane, and explicitly stating that he is concentrating only on the historical plane, the plane of the development of halakha. We also saw the confusion that his approach aroused among those who were not aware of this distinction. In the present example we will encounter the opposite case. This is a halakhic consideration that errs in its understanding of the relation between two different planes of explanation. As we shall see, the fact that this error was made by someone who served both as a rabbi and as a well-known Talmudic scholar is not accidental. The source of the error is his failure, apparently for ideological reasons, to distinguish between the two planes in which he operated, as rabbi and as scholar. Precisely as someone who “wore both hats,” he ought to have distinguished sharply between them.

As noted, the researcher deals with the context within which halakha (Jewish law) develops, and therefore encounters very powerfully the hidden, meta-halakhic considerations that lie behind a halakhic ruling. Sometimes these are moral-value considerations, sometimes a desire to close loopholes, and sometimes there are also external influences on the halakhic system, or various constraints and needs. On the other hand, halakhic rulings must also always be grounded in a valid formal-halakhic consideration, which sometimes operates on a different plane. Here too, a picture emerges similar to the one we saw above in the example of the psychology-philosophy axis.

A researcher who is a believer committed to halakha, and certainly one who also serves as a rabbi, may reach a point at which he understands the halakhic consideration as based directly on a rationale that belongs to the meta-halakhic plane, while not agreeing with the reasons on the formal plane. In such a situation, he may arrive at a halakhic decision that ignores the formal consideration and relies only on the value-laden, meta-halakhic one.⁴⁴ This is a grave error in halakhic decision-making, involving a failure to understand the nature of halakha, and also the proper relationship between the parallel explanatory planes in this context.

The issue under discussion in the present example is the question of saving the life of a non-Jew by means of actions that involve desecration of Shabbat. The matter is emotionally and morally charged, and therefore the reader is already directed to the following note, which will deal with its moral aspects. For the sake of the halakhic discussion and the illustration of parallel explanatory planes, we will suspend those considerations for now and discuss the issue only from a substantive halakhic perspective.

In Nisan 5726 (1966), a story was publicized in Israel about a Black man who was found unconscious on Shabbat morning on one of the streets of Jerusalem, and Jews refused to treat him for fear of desecrating Shabbat.⁴⁵ On the eve of Passover that year, Rabbi Unterman, the Chief Rabbi of Israel, published an article in Haaretz, in which he argued that the criticism of halakha was baseless from the outset, and explained that the permission to save the life of a non-Jew on Shabbat—a permission based, among other things, on the halakhic principle of for the sake of peaceful relations—means a permission grounded in morality.⁴⁶

Anyone who studies his words closely, especially bearing in mind the fact that they were published in Haaretz, will see that in the end the principal basis for the permission rests on fear of enmity—that is, danger to Jews throughout the world, or the fear that Jews found in a similar situation would not be treated. In other words, this is not a substantive value-based permission.

Four days later, the founding conference of Tenu’ah le-Yahadut shel Torah was held in Jerusalem. Its declared aim was to oppose extremist tendencies in religious Judaism. In the conference’s closing address, A. S. Rosenthal dealt with the issue of saving the life of a non-Jew on Shabbat. It is this presentation that concerns us here.

The basis of the matter, as stated, is the halakha that one may not desecrate Shabbat—at least by performing labors prohibited by Torah law—in order to save the life of a non-Jew on Shabbat. In Mishnah Berurah, section 328, subsection 8, it is stated that even the permission to desecrate Shabbat on account of enmity is limited, at most—if it exists at all—to labors prohibited only by rabbinic law. That is, strictly speaking, it is forbidden to save the life of a non-Jew even by means of rabbinically prohibited labors, and even the permission on account of enmity permits no more than such labors.⁴⁷ By contrast, Hatam Sofer—who himself relies on Nahmanides—cited in Pitchei Teshuvah, Yoreh De’ah 154:2, holds that where enmity is involved, even labors prohibited by Torah law are permitted. There is another responsum of Hatam Sofer on this subject in Hoshen Mishpat. Rosenthal discusses that as well, but this is not the place to expand on it.

Rosenthal sees Hatam Sofer’s words as a halakhic revolution. In his view, what we have here is an influence of the modern Enlightenment and the values of liberalism, or “tolerance.” In Rosenthal’s words:

There are grounds to think, it seems, that we have not greatly missed the intention of our master, the author of Hatam Sofer, in these responsa. And if this is indeed so, then these two responsa are of special interest even for the history of halakha. For if so, we have here an extraordinarily illuminating example of the way in which a socio-political principle deriving entirely from the heritage of the European Enlightenment found expression in authentic halakha.

The principle that recognizes an equal right for every human being, without any religious discrimination, receives the force of settled halakha: for the sake of peaceful relations and as something akin to danger to the community. Be that as it may. We, as we are in our present age, can only act according to the principle of equality, that all human beings are entirely equal, even with regard to the setting aside of Shabbat because of danger to their lives…

Therefore, we cannot believe that the law of the Torah would obligate us, as we are in our own day, to abandon the life of any human being—any human being at all—even for the sanctity of Shabbat…

All this derives from the power of our legal consciousness. True, we drew it from the world into which we were planted, from the culture in which we were raised, but we also acquired it with our blood. It is no longer possible for us to deny it without denying ourselves and our entire being. And how fortunate we are that one of the great later authorities, our master Rabbi Moshe Sofer, the author of Hatam Sofer, emerged and supported this recognition of ours in his own way, and found for our conception a place of honor within the system of settled halakha.

The moral pathos from which Rosenthal speaks may fall on receptive ears, and therefore there is an immediate tendency not to examine the matter objectively. But from the standpoint of halakha, every argument must be examined on its own merits and in terms of substantive halakhic considerations. This is the distinction we have already encountered between the context of discovery and the context of justification, and we shall return to this point below.

There is no doubt that a situation in which a non-Jew lies before us in mortal danger and we cannot come to his aid because of concern about desecrating Shabbat would place any conscientious person in a terrible dilemma. Whether one chooses to obey the halakha that forbids saving his life, or decides to follow the command of conscience and save him, one is in no simple dilemma. But a Jew who obeys halakha must accept its ruling, even when the command of conscience clashes with the halakhic decision.⁴⁸

Rosenthal, however, argued that the moral reason itself is sufficient grounds to permit desecrating Shabbat in order to save the non-Jew’s life. If so, then apparently there is no dilemma: halakha and morality converge into one practical directive.

But this is a mistake. The fact that Hatam Sofer permits labors prohibited by Torah law in order to save the life of a non-Jew is clear. But it is no less clear that he justifies this on the basis of risk to Jewish lives. More than that: he recommends that every physician evade making the trip, if he can do so without arousing enmity and without endangering Jews, rather than travel to save the life of the non-Jew.

The question whether Hatam Sofer’s permission was accompanied by a moral desire is a question in psychology, not in halakha. At this point too, it seems that the claim that Hatam Sofer’s ruling was based on the influence of the European Enlightenment is highly doubtful in the eyes of anyone familiar with Hatam Sofer’s views and positions on such matters. As is well known, he coined the slogan “what is new is forbidden by the Torah” in its modern Orthodox sense.

But even if the psychological analysis were correct, this would not substitute for finding a valid formal-halakhic rationale. A person may say that his heart would be torn if he were placed in such a situation, and it is possible that he would be unable to comply with the halakhic directive, and might even choose to act against it. A person may also say that he rejoices greatly at finding the permission based on for the sake of peaceful relations and enmity, because that permission spares him the dilemma. But from there to the leap Rosenthal makes—severing the ruling from its halakhic rationale and determining that one must act in a completely egalitarian fashion even where there is no issue of enmity or peaceful relations—the distance is very great.

A halakhic ruling is supposed to be based on a halakhic toolbox. Even an inclination of the heart, however sensitive and moral, cannot provide sufficient grounds to uproot a clear halakha and permit desecration of Shabbat. This is akin to the distinction between the context of discovery and the context of justification that we saw in the philosophy of science. In our case, the moral consideration belongs to the context of discovery: it is what led to the desire to rule in a particular way. But that consideration lies outside the domain of halakha, and it cannot serve as halakhic justification. The halakhic context of justification lies wholly on the formal-halakhic plane, and in this case within the laws of Shabbat.

Thus there is here a confusion between two planes of discussion: the psychological-moral and the halakhic. On the first plane there is certainly room to argue that many decisors—although I am far from sure, to put it mildly, that Hatam Sofer was among them—would be glad to find permission to save the life of a non-Jew on Shabbat. But this is not halakhic reasoning. The halakhic discussion must be based on the laws of Shabbat, and there it appears simply that such a ruling cannot be justified.⁴⁹

Thus we find ourselves in a situation in which there is a contradiction between the conclusions of the two explanatory planes offered regarding Hatam Sofer’s ruling. On the one hand, Rosenthal is certain that Hatam Sofer’s motivation was moral-liberal—and I, for my part, very much doubt it. On the other hand, Hatam Sofer’s halakhic reasoning explicitly speaks of evasion wherever possible, which means that there is no blanket permission in his words. The halakhic basis for the permission is a consideration of danger to life, which is an ordinary and straightforward halakhic consideration. To extend the permission beyond that reasoning is to break through the boundaries of halakha and to act with interpretive and intellectual dishonesty.

According to this method, one could say that the commandment to observe Shabbat is intended only for social reasons, and therefore today, when there are adequate social alternatives, one may permit its desecration. In this way halakha can be emptied of its “religious” content and left as a set of commandments that fully overlap with the dictates of modern liberal morality. This is the approach of certain sectors of the Reform movement.

As we saw in the previous example, the ruling that the Sabbatical year in our time is of rabbinic rather than biblical force is based on an exposition of the verses, and therefore has an autonomous halakhic rationale. The fact that it was found at a time when the circumstances required such a ruling, though perhaps true, cannot in itself serve as a halakhic justification. At most, one may say that the circumstances compelled the decisor to reexamine the halakha, and that through that inquiry a legitimate and valid halakhic path was found on which to base a new ruling.

To take the circumstances themselves as the rationale is to confuse the academic-contextual-historical plane with the halakhic one. It is like saying that the Sabbatical year today is rabbinic because our economic situation is difficult.

Rosenthal, who served as a rabbi and, as such, was required to justify and ground halakha on the formal-halakhic plane, mixed into his considerations his second “hat” as a scholar of Talmud and halakha, and based a halakhic ruling on context—in this case a moral one, rather than an economic one as in the previous example. This is a sharp demonstration of the danger inherent in mixing two different planes of reference, or explanation.

To complete the picture, it is important to stress that if there really were halakhic arguments to both sides of this question, then there would certainly be room to adopt one halakhic side over the other on the basis of meta-halakhic considerations or motivations. Even where there is doubt, it is sometimes possible to follow the path that appears more moral and correct from aspects that are ostensibly “external” to halakha. A good illustration of such considerations appears in the next example, which deals with attitude toward the non-Jew. But when the halakhic picture is clear, and there is no real doubtful side or other significant position that permits, there is no room for this.

It should also be noted that some have raised substantive considerations in favor of the possibility of saving a non-Jew by desecrating Shabbat,⁵⁰ and perhaps one could have relied on them on the strength of the moral consideration, as we explained. But Rosenthal himself does not rely on them, and therefore they do not concern us here.

Thus, according to halakha—at least as Rosenthal presents it, and as accepted by almost all decisors—it seems that there is no way out, and the permission to desecrate Shabbat remains contingent on “technical” considerations of enmity or peaceful relations. Without these considerations, it apparently is not possible to arrive at a blanket permission to desecrate Shabbat in order to save the life of a non-Jew. This may be a moral disappointment—see the following note—and clearly the dilemma is unbearably difficult. But even so, one must not confuse what one wishes to be the case with what actually is.

Note 43: Saving a Non-Jewish Life on Shabbat — Moral Aspects

It is very difficult to free oneself from the harsh feelings that arise from the previous discussion. Halakha obligates every Jew not to take part in saving the life of a non-Jew if doing so entails desecrating Shabbat by means of labors prohibited by Torah law.

At first glance, this seems to involve discrimination between one life and another, and a lack of proportion between the two values of Shabbat observance and saving a human life.

These questions concern the relation between morality and halakha in general. This is a very broad issue, and of course there are different approaches to it. Some argue that halakha is always moral, and when it seems to us that there is a contradiction between it and morality, this is merely due to our own misunderstanding. In fact, in certain respects morality is included within halakha. For example, there are halakhic commandments that pertain directly to moral conduct, such as “You shall do what is right and good,” “that you may walk in the way of the good,” “You shall be holy,” and the like.⁵¹ On the other hand, some argue that halakha does not recognize the moral category at all, and in the words of Yeshayahu Leibowitz, morality is an atheistic category. Some hold that there is indeed an obligation to morality, but that this is an extra-halakhic domain, and that in the event of conflict between the directives of the two domains, halakha always prevails. Leibowitz would probably have agreed with such a formulation. This is not the place to elaborate.

One’s position regarding the dilemma before us obviously depends on one’s general view of the relation between halakha and morality. Here I shall try to show briefly that the moral question itself is also not so simple. In other words, the determination that this is morally wrong is not so objective and unequivocal.

Take, for example, a situation in which a person is in mortal danger, and a great deal of money is required to save him—for treatment, medicine, surgery, and the like. Would each of us sell his house and everything he owns in order to save that person’s life, whether Jew or non-Jew? Clearly, even in our present liberal-moral age, almost no one would do so. Nor do we expect everyone to act in this way. The reason is that there is a limit to what one may demand of someone, even when the goal is to save another person’s life.

By contrast, if the person in need is my son or daughter, there is no doubt that I would sell everything I own in order to save their lives. More than that: there is no doubt that society expects everyone to act in this way. The reason is that a person’s obligation to save the lives of his immediate family is greater than his obligation to save other human beings. There are different circles of concern, and everyone invests in others according to their location within his circles of proximity. Very few universalists, if any, would do for every person what they would do for members of their own household. Even if they would, I am not sure that this itself would not involve a betrayal of their moral obligations toward their own family and toward those closer circles.

This raises the question of the meaning of desecrating Shabbat, and conversely, the meaning of human life. Is desecrating Shabbat a heavy price or not? In the eyes of a secular person, it carries no price at all. He desecrates Shabbat even without any need to save life. At most, he sees Shabbat as a social value. By contrast, within halakha Shabbat is a supreme value. Many Jews gave their lives—their own, not others’—in order to observe Shabbat. One who desecrates Shabbat is, according to halakha, liable to death by stoning. That too is a punishment that takes a life—and again, a Jewish life—for desecrating Shabbat.

On the other hand, human life is not the supreme and exclusive value in halakha. There are three grave transgressions—idolatry, illicit sexual relations, and bloodshed—for which a person must even give up his life rather than transgress. According to halakha, there are values for which it is worth dying. Secular-liberal worldviews tend to treat human life as a supreme and absolute value.

Let us return to the value of Shabbat. We have seen that, from the halakhic perspective, the value of Shabbat in many cases is equivalent to human life, even Jewish human life. If so, why should the value of retaining one’s house for residence—which, as we have seen, many agree is not set aside for the sake of saving another person’s life, whether Jew or non-Jew—be greater than the value of observing Shabbat? Incidentally, in order not to desecrate Shabbat, a Jew is obligated by halakha to surrender all his property. It is therefore clear that, according to halakha, the value of observing Shabbat exceeds the value of any property whatsoever.

The fact that refusing to sell one’s house does not arouse the same feelings indicates that the contrary feelings regarding desecrating Shabbat do not necessarily stem from moral superiority, but from a lack of understanding, or lack of agreement, regarding the meaning and supreme value of Shabbat. One who understands the value of Shabbat will also understand the halakhic directive not to pay that price, not to “sell” Shabbat, even for the sake of saving a human life. Thus one may say that, according to halakha, desecrating Shabbat is a very heavy price—no less than selling one’s house—and therefore it is not set aside for the sake of saving a human life.⁵²

But that is not the whole picture. For if that were all, it would not be clear why, for the life of a Jew, we are indeed commanded to desecrate Shabbat. The reason can be described on two planes, which are apparently related to one another.

1. As we have seen, a person’s obligation to another depends on that other person’s social-familial location relative to him. A Jew is a member of my people, and therefore belongs to a closer circle relative to me than a non-Jew. My obligation toward him is therefore greater, just as my obligation to my child is greater than my obligation to another person. This is not, Heaven forbid, to say that one should not save the life of a non-Jew. The question arises only when the value of saving life stands opposite another high value—like selling one’s house, and in our case, Shabbat.

2. The formal-halakhic reason for this halakha lies in various halakhic considerations, and we shall bring only one here for illustration. It seems that it too has significance for clarifying the assumptions that underlie the moral discussion.

The Talmud bases the permission to desecrate Shabbat in order to save the life of a Jew, among other things, on the argument: “Desecrate one Shabbat for him so that he may observe many Shabbats.”⁵³ In other words, the permission to desecrate Shabbat in order to save a Jewish life is itself based only on the fact that this desecration of Shabbat will bring about the observance of many Shabbats in the future. If so, even the life of a Jew does not override the value implicated in desecrating Shabbat. What overrides it is the observance of other Shabbats. As we have seen, in halakha human life is not necessarily a supreme value, and here we see that it is not even clear whether its value stands above that of Shabbat observance.

Accordingly, in the case of a non-Jew, who is not commanded to observe Shabbat, there is no halakhic basis for permitting the desecration of Shabbat in order to save him. The reason is not contempt for his life, but rather that human life as such does not override Shabbat. Only the rescue of future Shabbats overrides Shabbat. In saving a non-Jew there is no rescue of future Shabbats, since he is not commanded to observe them, and therefore it is forbidden to desecrate Shabbat in order to save him.

In any event, these considerations may provide some counterweight to the harsh feelings aroused when one encounters this painful halakhic directive. The pain of one who finds himself in such a situation is legitimate, and even necessary. Human life is a very important value in halakha, no less than in liberal morality. But this does not mean that this directive is incorrect. In a clash between values, we must always act in light of one of them while injuring the other. Such injury is always accompanied by pain, and it certainly reflects a dilemma that is legitimate and positive. But one must understand that what is at stake here is a dilemma in which two extremely important values collide, and the decision as to which one overrides the other is entrusted to the Torah—as understood by its authorized interpreters—and to the Giver of the Torah. Above all, pain in itself is not a valid halakhic reason for changing halakha.

In the background of all this one must remember that, from a religious perspective, the assumption is that God is the One who creates the situations in which human life is endangered, and therefore, if He truly wishes to save the person from danger, He can do so. Clearly this is not a general approach, and usually we are required to act ourselves and not rely on Him. But when halakha forbids taking the required actions, we are supposed to “return the key” to God.

The secular point of view, when it comes to “judge” the halakhic ruling morally, should also take all these considerations into account—at least in order to understand the motivations and considerations of halakha, which stem from a different angle of vision and from different foundational assumptions.

In this example we examined the issue of saving the life of a non-Jew on Shabbat. In the next example we will address more generally the attitude of Jews toward non-Jews according to halakha.

Third Example: Attitude Toward the Non-Jew

There are many laws intended to distance the Jew from contact with non-Jewish society. The reasons for this include a desire to prevent negative influence, intermarriage, and more. It should be noted that some of these laws are biblical, while others are rabbinic.

In the modern era, characterized by liberalism and by the desire to equalize all human beings, these laws are perceived as discriminating against the non-Jew.⁵⁴ It is therefore not surprising that here too, as in the example above, many express a desire to ease the restrictions imposed on relations with non-Jews. To this is added the fact that non-Jews today—at least those relevant to us—unlike in the past, are not idolaters.⁵⁵ Some of the laws of distancing stem from the fact that the non-Jews of antiquity practiced idolatry, and therefore this too gives reason for leniency.

It should be noted—and in this respect, unlike the previous example—that the grounds for leniency in these matters are indeed better founded also from a halakhic perspective, and not only at the level of motivation, as we shall see below. Therefore, in this case there is certainly room to involve moral-cultural considerations that are ostensibly external to the halakha in question, since each option has a reasonable halakhic basis.⁵⁶

As we shall see below, the problem relating to the relation between parallel explanatory planes appears here from a somewhat different angle.

The point of departure for our discussion is an article by the historian Jacob Katz dealing with the revolution introduced by Rabbi Menachem Meiri, one of the sages of medieval France, regarding the halakhic attitude toward the non-Jew.⁵⁷ Here too it is important to emphasize that Katz is fully aware of the correct relation between the different planes, and he prefaces his discussion by saying that the root of the problem of the attitude toward the non-Jew does not lie in halakha. This problem arises from the social and economic reality of Meiri’s time, and even earlier, when Jews could not avoid engaging in commerce with their non-Jewish surroundings. And thus he writes:

There were halakhic authorities who recognized the historical-social root of their problem: the change in conditions that had created a contradiction between law and reality. But that recognition alone did not provide a solution. For from the halakhic point of view, a change in conditions does not justify the abolition of laws. Halakha, as is well known, does not recognize a legislative authority empowered to change laws according to the needs of the hour; at any rate, the halakhic authorities of the Middle Ages did not assume such authority for themselves. There remained no path before them other than to seek an immanent halakhic rationale for the cancellation of each and every law.

Thus Katz, though he did not serve in the rabbinate like his colleague Rosenthal, is nevertheless fully aware that even if there is a change in circumstances that creates the need for halakhic change, there is no halakhic way to do this unless one reexamines the halakha and finds a valid immanent halakhic rationale that can ground such a change. This is exactly what we saw above in Gilat: when circumstances and practical need require renewed examination of the halakha, the need serves, at most, as a catalyst for renewed halakhic clarification. But the change in halakha, if it occurs, is always justified by an internal halakhic argument.

Precisely against this background, it is interesting to see that despite this understanding, Katz himself falls into the same trap that lies in wait for researchers: in the end they do not ground the halakhot on the substantive plane, but rather on context, emotions, and needs. As a result, they lose a substantive layer of the matter and misinterpret it.

There is a wide range of laws relating to the halakhic attitude toward the non-Jew. Above we mentioned the law concerning a non-Jew’s lost property, the permission—or commandment—to lend to him at interest, and many more laws could be added.

Most medieval authorities employ local rationales that allow specific changes with regard to each and every law. Katz argues that Meiri was the only one who chose a sweeping theological solution that altered all these laws at once.⁵⁸ Meiri argued that the non-Jews of his own time are not like those about whom the rabbinic laws spoke, and therefore all those laws together are not valid with respect to the non-Jews of his time.

Meiri says this in dozens of places, mainly in his commentary Beit ha-Behirah to tractate Avodah Zarah. Many references are cited by Katz. It is therefore clear that we are dealing here with a systematic thesis, not a local solution or one factor added to other halakhic considerations, as is found among other medieval authorities. Let us now bring one example from his commentary on Avodah Zarah 26a:

We have seen many who wonder why in these times no one is careful about these matters at all [that is, the laws concerning relations between Jews and non-Jews]. But we have already explained the principal intention of the book—about which nation it revolves—as is testified by the days of their festivals that we mentioned: they all refer to the ancient nations, who were not governed by the norms of religion, but were attached and devoted to the worship of idols, stars, and talismans; all these and the like are the essence of idolatry, as has been explained… And now these matters will be settled in your heart, and we shall not need to repeat them in each and every case. Rather, you must examine which matters are to be interpreted as referring to the ancient nations and which are to be interpreted as applying to all generally.

Meiri distinguishes between the ancient nations, who were not governed by religious norms but were devoted to idolatry and star worship, and the nations of his own time—apparently chiefly Christians—who were governed by religious norms. There he distinguishes between two kinds of laws: one type that pertains to every non-Jew as such, and another type that pertains only to the ancient nations, which were tainted by idolatry.

Jacob Katz notes there, as an indication that the other medieval authorities did not draw an unequivocal conclusion regarding the classification of Christianity as idolatry, that none of them drew the necessary conclusions with respect to the status of cultic objects or the permissibility of trading in them. The decisors assume that even these cultic objects of Christians are objects of idolatry, from which benefit and commerce are forbidden.

However, as Katz himself notes, Meiri too, surprisingly, joins those who forbid deriving benefit from Christian cultic objects. Although he generally uses the past tense—speaking of cultic practices that were current in ancient times—he does not apply his sweeping permission to Christian cultic objects. His permissions concern only laws of theft, lost property, interest, and the like.

This is especially striking with respect to cultic objects not mentioned at all in the Talmud, such as candles, bread, and priests’ garments. None of these is mentioned in the Talmud, and therefore it is clear that Meiri is dealing with the Christian world around him, not with some ancient nations. Thus a striking puzzle arises: if Meiri indeed holds that Christians are not idolaters, why does he continue to treat their cultic objects as forbidden?

At this point Katz begins to explain the matter in terms of various needs. For example, he suggests that Meiri needed to rely on the permissions already practiced in his own time—that is, he did not wish to innovate permissions with respect to other practices that had not yet been permitted. The difference between Meiri and the other medieval authorities, according to Katz, is only that he adopts a sweeping approach with regard to all the permissions rather than local rationales. Beyond that, Katz argues that Meiri did not dare draw the full conclusions from his revolutionary thesis. Thus Katz writes:

There is no doubt whatever that here too Meiri felt the logical pressure of the principle, but did not dare derive from it a practical halakhic conclusion…

These hesitations are an expression of the contradiction between the principle of exclusion—that is, the principle that excludes Christianity from the status of idolatry—and the need to maintain the prohibitions accepted in society without undermining them. In the language of personal psychology: the embarrassment is caused by the contradiction between the tendency toward intellectual generalization and the mental recoil from the concrete symbols of the foreign religion.

Thus Katz too, although fully aware of the difference between the various planes of reference, when he does not find a substantive explanation for one detail or another, returns to the path of the classic researcher and attributes halakhic rulings to emotions and psychological inhibitions.

As we saw above, it is certainly possible that Meiri really did have such inhibitions. But that is the business of the psychologist, and perhaps of the historian—not of the scholar or student of halakha. The latter is supposed to understand Meiri’s substantive consideration, not be satisfied with describing his psychological motives.

In yeshivot, in such a case, one would at most say that the matter requires further study. Psychology has no place in the study hall. Again, not because it is absent there, but because a psychological explanation is not a substitute for a substantive-halakhic explanation. The question is on which plane of reference we are engaging the issue at hand.

As we saw in the example of psychology and philosophy, even if a person’s decision has psychological motives, the assumption is that he does not adopt a position for which he also lacks a reasonable philosophical rationale. Thus, in the present context as well, it is clear that psychology cannot substitute for a substantive-halakhic explanation.

As for the puzzle itself—why Meiri does not permit Christian cultic objects—the solution seems to me very simple, and there is certainly a substantive explanation for it. There is no need to descend into psychologism.

It seems that Meiri never intended to say that Christianity is not idolatry. I know of no place where he writes this explicitly. It therefore seems that his intention was to say that the modern religions, unlike idolatrous religions, are indeed religions whose beliefs and practices are erroneous, and some of them may perhaps still be classified as idolatry, but they do not place themselves outside the norms of religion—that is, outside the category of “human being.”⁵⁹

If so, Meiri’s innovation lies not in defining the Christian nations as nations that do not practice idolatry, but in his moral evaluation of them, and consequently in the halakhic attitude toward them. His innovation is that the laws concerning non-Jews do not derive from their being idolaters, but from their being on a morally degraded human level. Therefore, if there are idolaters who are on an adequate human level, we are obligated toward them to behave in a proper moral manner despite their being idolaters.

It is therefore clear that Meiri should not permit Christian cultic objects, since these are forbidden objects by virtue of the fact that they are used for idolatry.

Katz himself, later in the article, distinguishes that Meiri does not express appreciation for Christianity on the theoretical plane, but only on the moral-practical one. This fact strengthens the claim that this was indeed his intention.

Accordingly, Meiri does not really depart from the path of Maimonides, who classifies Christians as idolaters. Indeed, Meiri’s method is generally that of Maimonides.

It is important to note that Meiri’s innovation is not diminished by this interpretation. Anyone familiar with the Torah’s and halakha’s view of idolatry as the lowest rung of the human species and as first-rate moral depravity can appreciate that Meiri’s words contain another major innovation: in his view, there can be idolaters who are moral and good people, whose error is confined solely to their beliefs and nothing more. According to this, the human-moral degradation of idolaters does not stem from the very fact that they are idolaters, but from the nature of ancient idolatry. In antiquity, idolatry was bound up with horrifying rituals such as human sacrifice, sexual corruption, and the like. These are forms of worship that testify to human depravity, and all those laws are directed toward them. But Meiri innovates that this depravity is not essential to idolatry as such.⁶⁰

Thus, there are two innovations in Meiri’s position

1. Some of the halakhic restrictions on the relationship between a Jew and idolaters derive from their moral level, not from the mere fact that they are idolaters.
2. Idolaters are not necessarily people of low human-moral level. Today there are idolaters who are not such.⁶¹

Let us return to Katz’s failure, which mixes psychologism into the substantive explanation. In fact, a similar failure can be seen in many articles of Talmudic research. The mechanism is usually this: the substantive explanation does not account for all the details—for if it did, the accepted traditional explanation would suffice. Only at that stage does the researcher turn to a contextual explanation.⁶²

The mistake, from the standpoint of the relation between parallel explanatory planes, is that the substantive explanation must be complete. If it is not complete, it is not an explanation. The researchers assume a different model, one that we also saw in the psychology-philosophy example: the model of complementary explanations. In their view, circumstantial-motivational explanations join the halakhic explanations, and only both planes together provide a full explanation of the halakhic rulings under discussion. It is therefore clear that, in their eyes, not only the circumstantial explanation is incomplete, but the halakhic explanation as well.

But one must note an important difference. In the present case, the two explanations join in a special way. They do not join together to explain a single halakha. Rather, each explains a different part of the overall picture. Some parts are explained by substantive explanations, and other parts by psychologistic-circumstantial explanations.

Such a picture is far more problematic. For each part of the halakhic picture, according to Katz, there is only one explanation, but each explanation belongs to a different plane of reference. Why do some of the laws require a substantive explanation, as Katz himself says in general in the quotation above, while for another part—the status of Christian cultic objects—an external psychological explanation is considered sufficient? In his view, does halakha require substantive rationales, or can one make do with external explanations? There is some disguised cutting of corners here.

As noted, even according to Katz himself, such a thesis requires proof. The way of halakha, as we have shown and as he himself points out, is that its rationales do not depart from the halakhic plane. A change in circumstances cannot suffice as grounds for changing halakha; a valid halakhic rationale is also required. Such a rationale is based only on halakhic principles and valid halakhic arguments, not on motivations, needs, or circumstances.

As we saw in this case, and as can also be seen in many others, one can offer a substantive addition to the initial understanding that provides a full substantive-halakhic explanation of the halakhic rulings. Such an addition removes the need to resort to the circumstantial planes, even though those planes may be true, as we explained above. Usually—and perhaps always—there is no need for external additions to enter into the substantive explanation. They can stand as a parallel explanatory plane in its own right. As already noted, this plane does not constitute fulfillment of the mitzvah (commandment) of Torah study, but rather historical, psychological, sociological, or other learning.

Of course, fields of research such as the psychology of decisors or the history of halakha are legitimate fields of interest, and sometimes genuinely interesting. But what we have tried to demonstrate here is that they should not be mixed into Torah study, which deals only with substantive-halakhic explanations. Whenever researchers offer this merchandise in the halakhic marketplace—that is, on the halakhic plane—there is a mixing of unlike kinds. Their claim that research is a form of Torah study, or of halakhic interpretation, at least in contexts such as these, is incorrect—and is unnecessary for completing the substantive explanation.

Summary of the Discussion in This Gate

In this gate we dealt with contradictions between different fields of research and traditional determinations. We saw that misunderstandings regarding the relation between different planes of explanation and interpretation lead to unnecessary conclusions, and to the notion that we must make a dichotomous choice between traditional, or mythical, beliefs and the findings of science or academic research.

The various methods we presented try to show that these dichotomies do not really exist. It is possible to hold on to two planes of explanation and interpretation at once, just as all of us do in other areas, even if without noticing it.

According to Rabbi Breuer’s approach, biblical criticism as such does not contradict traditional belief. It may therefore be treated as a useful tool for uncovering new layers that traditional interpretation did not notice.

With regard to criticism of the Talmud and halakha, the situation is somewhat different. There we distinguished between research, which is interested in the history or psychology of the halakhic authorities and is usually conducted in academic settings, and study, which is interested in the inherent meanings of the halakhot themselves and is usually conducted in yeshivot. It is important to note that there are many fields of research that also deal with essence, and therefore can compete in the marketplace of Torah study. We did not discuss them here.

The two domains we discussed can indeed live side by side, but they do not join one another. Their parallelism here is based on their separateness and difference. Contextual research does not contribute to Torah study, and therefore it does not constitute Torah study. It is interesting, and it is legitimate, but it is not connected to Torah study.

It is important to note that in other contexts academic research can certainly also assist traditional interpretation, even as a preparatory instrument for a mitzvah—that is, as a means for Torah study. We did not dwell on those points here, because that was not our concern. The claim regarding the parallelism and separateness of the different planes applies only to the contexts we examined here. Clearly, there are areas around the boundary between the two domains, and that boundary is by no means sharp. Some of them depend on the intention of the learner, and some on the nature of the research or the study, but this is not the place to expand on that.

Summary and Conclusions: Science, Religion, and God

In this book, the second in the trilogy, we presented an application and the conclusions of a synthetic position to the field of the philosophy of science, and through it we examined the relation between science, religion, and myth.

In the second gate we saw that the philosophy and methodology of science make a desperate effort to explain several unclear and ungrounded points in the process of scientific inquiry and scientific progress. We saw that most accepted explanations assume, at least implicitly, an analytic stance, and we found that the analytic “blanket” is too short. Whenever it succeeds in explaining one problematic point, other points appear that remain unexplained.

As an alternative, we proposed a synthetic explanation of science, as the use of a sense-thinking faculty, through which we apprehend and understand the foundational principles of science—its basic laws and first principles. We do this by means of such tools as induction and causality.

We saw that only relinquishing the sharp distinction between thought and cognition—which, as we saw in the first book, constitutes the foundation of the synthetic position—can convincingly explain scientific methodology.

This sense-thinking faculty, the “hearing” capacity, or in Husserl’s terms “eidetic seeing,” identifies these principles even before we succeed in formulating them clearly for ourselves. Scientific formulation and conceptualization come in the wake of this raw intuitive perception. The simplicity of a theory is an indication that it accords with our intuition—that is, with this immediate, uncontrolled, instinctive kind of seeing.

In fact, one may say that most scientists assume a synthetic position, though sometimes implicitly. When they try to formulate it explicitly for themselves, they reach a dead end, because they impose on themselves analytic norms of reasoning and grounding. This is exactly the situation we described in the first book. There too we saw that every person, even one who defines himself as a postmodernist, has foundational assumptions and relates to them exactly as everyone else does. But when people try to discuss this directly, they impose analytic norms on themselves and conclude that those assumptions have no sufficient basis. From this they draw skeptical and relativistic conclusions.

Thus both philosophy and science contain synthetic assumptions, and without them these fields cannot be properly grounded. But most of those who engage in grounding these fields are unwilling to recognize the legitimacy of a synthetic position, and therefore they become entangled in contradictions. As we saw in both books, the root of the matter is an unwillingness to give up the sharp severance between thought and cognition.

In the third gate we dealt with myth. We distinguished between two different planes. The first is myth as a framework for giving meaning and significance to various events in the present and in history, and to the values within which and from which we act. With respect to this plane, it seems at first glance that one can forgo the historical reliability of the events that mediated those values and meanings to us. As in the prevalent postmodern view, the values and meanings ostensibly stand on their own, and do not depend on the historical reliability of the events through which we transmit that framework to ourselves and to later generations.

There is also a second plane of reference: myth as pseudo-historical description, as a collection of mythical events. At the end of that gate we saw that the historical reliability of those events—or at least of their core—does matter, and we saw that most of us also assume this implicitly. This claim ties the two planes of discussion together. Historical reliability determines the status of myth as an a priori structure of meaning. At this stage we once again saw declared analyticity covering over hidden syntheticity. Major postmodern thinkers relate to myths in a rather naive way. Our conclusion is that there is no person who is not synthetic to some extent, though there are quite a few who repress this.

It should be noted that the same is true of belief in God, which is the basis of our synthetic capacities in general, as was explained in the first book. Synthetic belief implicitly presupposes God, though many of those who hold it repress and deny this.

Thus myth, in both its manifestations, expresses truths about reality. The values and norms underlying the giving of meaning and significance are not subjective and arbitrary. We draw them from reality, through the sense-thinking faculty. Myth is true in the ordinary sense of that term, not only in the sense it receives in the postmodern rehabilitation.

In the third gate we saw that science too operates within a mythical framework, and therefore it is not in a fundamentally different position from mythic, religious, and similar planes of reference. The clash between science and myth and religion is a clash between myths.

This fact leads postmodern thinkers to their postmodern rehabilitation of myth and religion. If indeed everything is based on myth, and everything is relative and cannot really be grounded—in their eyes, analytically grounded—then everything is relative. Science is no better than religion and myth. The concept of truth itself undergoes a relativistic metamorphosis, and everyone has “his own truth.”

But those who hold a synthetic position, despite their religious views, whether conscious or implicit, cannot accept such a rehabilitation. As we saw, they believe in religion and myth, but they also believe, in a basic way, in the reliability of science. For them, the concept of truth has not acquired postmodern meanings; in their eyes it still means objective truth that binds everyone. Therefore they cannot build themselves on the ruins of science, because the synthetic sense that yields faith is the very thing that also stands at the basis of science. In fact, in the first book we explained that this very faculty—intuition, or the sense-thinking faculty—is what we call faith.

Therefore, religious-mythic apologetics based on pointing to the weaknesses of science—even though science certainly does have weaknesses—must be rejected. Science must be examined with scientific tools, and a scientific problem must be solved on the scientific plane. Like Laplace, the synthetic believer also has no need of the hypothesis of God on the plane of scientific explanation. If there is a scientific problem in evolution, gravitation, or any other scientific theory, it will not help us prove the existence of God. We do not play such games with science. We have seen in several respects that God exists in areas understandable to us no less, and perhaps more, than in areas we do not understand.

Our conclusion is that scientific understanding basically supports faith, and is based on it, and of course does not oppose it. Theology and science are parallel explanatory planes. Those who hold a synthetic position and do not relinquish any of the human capacities must live in several planes of reference in parallel. They accept them all, and are unwilling to reject any one of them.

In the fourth gate we saw several models that enable us to live with several explanatory planes in parallel. Although, as we saw there, there is indeed a substantive problem in adopting parallel explanatory planes, we also realized that most human beings live in several such planes in various contexts of their lives.

The possibility of thinking in several parallel explanatory planes was presented there through several models. Some are based on the distinction between description and explanation—a hierarchy of relative semantics-syntax-semantics-syntax planes. Some are based on the distinction between model and explanation. Some are based on the distinction between cause and purpose. Finally, we pointed to the possibility of relating to two explanations in the same sense, without distinction, and nevertheless accepting the existence of them all in parallel.

In the fifth gate we dealt with the weaknesses inherent in the scientific process itself, stemming from the fact that every generalization deals with impoverished concepts and objects, not with concrete reality itself. The purpose there was to understand the meaning and scope of science, not necessarily to undermine its reliability.

In the last gate we applied the methods of parallel explanatory planes to questions involving contradiction between the religious plane of reference and explanation and the scientific-academic one. We saw that traditionally such questions dealt with clashes between the natural sciences and traditional determinations, but that the problems still considered open—those that trouble many people to this day—are specifically those relating to the relation between tradition and the humanities and social sciences: philosophy, literature, psychology, history, and Jewish studies.

We presented the prevalent apologetic approaches and saw that they relinquish syntheticity to a certain extent, even though syntheticity is their very basis. This is throwing out the baby itself with the bathwater meant to clean it. In order to defend a synthetic position, they give up the synthetic explanation of science and adopt an analytic stance.

To avoid this, we proposed the possibility of parallel explanatory planes—apologetics for the advanced. We brought several examples showing the necessity of the distinction between parallel explanatory planes, and the distortions and errors that arise when one does not distinguish between them. We demonstrated this with regard to the relation between traditional interpretation and biblical criticism, and also with regard to the relation between the academic study of halakha and Talmud and their traditional study.

We said that prevailing traditional apologetics seeks to undermine the “scientific” findings—though in the fields of the humanities and society it might be more accurate to say “academic” findings—and thereby to build itself. But those who hold a synthetic position are unwilling here too to relinquish a basic trust, though not an unlimited one, in both sides. They adopt both in parallel, and see no contradiction in this. This is true both with regard to Bible research and with regard to the study of Talmud and halakha.

It should, however, be emphasized that trust does not mean that all these forms of inquiry constitute fulfillment of the mitzvah of Torah study. The mitzvah of Torah study—at least in halakhic contexts—is fulfilled only when one seeks substantive-halakhic explanations. Psychological or historical explanations based on needs and circumstances may perhaps be correct; there is no need to deny them. But this is a plane parallel to Torah study, and therefore it must not be mixed with Torah study.

Despite everything said above, it is important to state that critical thinking is certainly a healthy trait, both with regard to tradition and with regard to science and academia. Beyond that, such critical thinking is often lacking with respect to both of those domains. Therefore I do not mean to conclude that every scientific or academic claim is necessarily correct. Such claims must be examined on their own merits, with scientific-academic tools. Sometimes it is indeed appropriate to challenge them in order to ground the traditional conception, if the challenge is itself independently justified on scientific grounds.

Very often there is reliance on scientists as authorities in areas where there is no justification for this at all. There are adherents of a scientistic—not scientific—outlook who turn science into an idol, and therefore regard it as beyond all criticism.

We have encountered people who are certain that science will prove that there is no God, no soul, and no world to come. This is the “religion of science,” but it has nothing whatever to do with science itself. Science cannot prove that the world is causal, or teleological. Nor can it prove that there is no vital substance, or that there is one. These are questions belonging to myth, and scientists who speak on them do so on their own private responsibility. Here they have no authority.

All these are examples of a lack of critical thinking with respect to science. The accusation usually directed at the believer appears in the accuser himself.

But all these are only remarks. Within its proper sphere, science has high reliability, and there is no real need to undermine it. My main intention here has been to show that one who believes in tradition has no need to challenge these domains in order to build himself upon that challenge.

Our conclusion is that just as a circumstantial description is of no use in the halakhic context, so too a halakhic-mythic-traditional description is of no use on the scientific plane. Anyone who thinks that life constitutes a contradiction to the second law of thermodynamics is invited to solve the problem with scientific tools and to find the correct scientific law. This is a scientific problem, and that is how it should be solved. Introducing the concept of God and using it will not help us on the scientific plane of reference. Each field must function autonomously. One should neither panic at the existence of contradictions between them, nor build one field upon the other.

Finished, yet not complete

Epilogue

Achilles (pinching himself in disbelief): I pinch myself, therefore I exist!

Tortoise: What?

Achilles (shaking himself out of his reverie): Sorry. I think, therefore I exist!

Tortoise: Would you stop quoting philosophers who will only live some two thousand years from now?! You really have no respect for the timeline!

Achilles: I am not quoting. That sentence is an existential experience for me.

Tortoise (mockingly): I do not understand. What is the connection between Descartes and existentialism?

Achilles: I see that you too learned something from the last race, you savage creature.

Tortoise: Thank you for the compliments. And as for the matter itself…

Achilles: Really now! What is the connection between your anti-existentialist philosophy and existentialism?! Did you not read the epilogue of the first book?

Tortoise (impatiently): Are you willing to begin explaining yourself? Do not forget that I am, as you say, an ignorant barbarian.

Achilles: Well, then apparently I still have to explain it to you slowly. A myth like me cannot exist unless it thinks. You yourself said so in the third gate, did you not?

Tortoise: No! I said that it cannot exist unless it is thought by someone. But that someone need not necessarily be the myth itself. If something does not exist, how can it think?

Achilles: Wow, you really have improved!

Tortoise: Well…

Achilles (continuing in tears): But in the prologue you promised you would prove to me the fact of my existence! How can I now return home, to Olympus?

Tortoise: I did say that, and indeed I did it. But the proof is not built on the fact that you think, for two reasons: first, because you have not yet reached that level, sadly. Second, because the proof from thought—that is, “I think”—to ontology—that is, “I exist”—has not yet been invented. Yes, what in the distant future will be called Descartes’s principle of the cogito.

Achilles: Then on what basis do you claim that I exist?

Tortoise: For three reasons. First, even if there is no proof, that still does not mean that you do not exist. It is time you stopped with this analyticity already! As I recall, in the prologue we agreed on eliminating the leaven. Remember? Second, more than that: if there is a proof, even if it has not yet been invented, its conclusion is certainly already true. Third, you surely remember from the third gate that the proof of your existence is itself based on the fact that you are an accepted and influential myth. I am speaking about a different sort of proof, you know—ontological or anthropological—not only a proof from the cogito argument. But since you still do not think, you have not yet managed to understand this simple distinction, apparently.

Achilles (offended): Even the distinction between these three types of proof will only be made some two thousand years from now.

Tortoise (in a conciliatory tone): Understand: if you have educational influence, then you exist. No, not in the postmodern sense of myth—the one you presented in the prologue. In the ordinary, classical sense. More than that: if you do not exist, then I too, as a physical creature, do not exist. At the basis of physics too a myth is hidden. A little synthetic pride, Achilles.

Achilles (jumping for joy): Yes!!! Mother, Hephaestus, do you hear…

No answer…

Footnotes