Debate on Faith — Yaron Yadan and Rabbi Dr. Michael Avraham — Transcript
[Moderator]
“Women are light‑minded”—at least that’s how our Sages (Chazal) put it; that’s what is said. Rabbi Yose ben Yochanan reinforced this, claiming—apparently citing his teachers, the sages or his rabbis—“Whoever increases conversation with a woman brings evil upon himself, neglects words of Torah, and will ultimately inherit Gehenna.” That’s in Pirkei Avot 1:5.
That attitude of a certain disparagement toward women is also found among later halakhic authorities. For example, Maimonides (the Rambam) says something—very ill‑suited to what people today imagine the Rambam would say, given that many think of him as the greatest of all—he wrote: “A man may do whatever he wishes with his wife: have relations whenever he wants, and kiss any part he wishes; come upon her in the usual manner or not in the usual manner.”
Now unfortunately, this perception also appears—at least in some streams and in a good deal of public opinion in Israel today. We can see it in one of the lectures of the Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rabbi Yitzhak Yosef, who said: “Women are subjugated to their husbands: to cook for them, to do their laundry,” and so on.
In the Talmud there are many elements that one could say don’t exactly honor women. But there are also positive things—positive sides we can see. For example, Rabbi Akiva, the greatest of the tannaim—everyone knows him, grew up on his stories at least in religious circles—said of women: “By the merit of righteous women Israel was redeemed from Egypt, and by their merit they are destined to be redeemed.” In Berakhot 45a it says: “The Holy One, blessed be He, endowed a woman with greater understanding (bina yetera) than a man.”
And to fill out the picture regarding the Rambam—again, a later halakhic authority, not from the Talmud but certainly influenced by it—he wrote: “So, too, the Sages commanded that a man should honor his wife more than his own self and love her as himself. If he has means, he should increase her welfare according to his means. He should not impose excessive fear upon her; his speech with her should be gentle. He should not be sad or angry.”
So, as we saw, there are two sides to the Talmud—positive toward women and negative toward women. But the Talmud is not really what ultimately matters for me, whether I’m religious or not; because if the Talmud is true or false—reliable or unreliable—that’s not what truly matters. Of course, we’ll discuss the Talmud here, but what matters even more is not the Talmud—it’s the Tanakh (the Hebrew Bible). The Jewish view says the Tanakh was written with divine inspiration—or that God Himself wrote it; at the very least, the words of the Lord are presented in the Tanakh, okay?
The Tanakh represents some kind of truth—holiness of a sort. And in the Tanakh, too—at least according to certain interpretations—we see different moral facets. I’ve just given you the “women” side, okay? Sometimes there are aspects in the Tanakh that are not so worthy regarding women. True—women were prophetesses and queens; there were truly great women in the Bible. Ruth and Esther—entire scrolls were written about women! But of course there are also not‑so‑pretty sides.
For example, in the Torah, in Numbers, I think—Zimri, a prince of Israel, decided to lie with a Midianite woman. In Numbers Pinchas, the religious zealot, “went crazy,” and instead of turning to Moses—who was “the law, the justice, and the order” at that time—he decided to take a spear or a lance and stab them both and kill them. Or consider the severe punishment Moses and the Levites carried out upon Israel in Ki Tissa, after the sin of the Golden Calf. They sinned—you’d assume they’d get a reasonable penalty; but no—3,000 Israelites were killed that night by the Levites and by Moses.
Yaron Yadan—our guest being interviewed by Eyal—says that the Plague of the Firstborn was so disproportionate that he doesn’t even know how to begin to justify murdering all the Egyptian firstborn. To him, it’s utterly illogical.
And since we’ve touched on our main topic—discussing the sanctity of the Torah: whether the Torah is the word of God, whether the Talmud is moral, the political ramifications of these conceptions, and atheism and theism in general—today I have the honor of hosting Yaron Yadan.
Yaron Yadan is a former kollel head who left religion, is an atheist, and runs the YouTube channel and movement “Daat Emet,” which aims to educate toward critical thinking and to fight religion. Opposite him we have Rabbi Michael Avraham: he has a PhD in physics, teaches at the Verha Institute at Bar‑Ilan University; he’s a wide‑ranging thinker, an autodidact, an author of books.
We’re going to discuss exactly the issues I raised. And for Yaron Yadan I have the first question we’ll be discussing. The first question is this: Yaron, I’d be glad if you would present your view regarding the sanctity and provenance of the Torah: how does one define a book as “holy,” and in general how can one say a book is reasonably likely to be the word of God?
[Yaron Yadan]
First of all, I want to start by saying the word “holy” is a very dangerous, misleading word. It essentially negates critical thinking. Once something is “holy” and we, as human beings, are not holy, then we must always nullify our independent thought—nullify the tzelem Elohim (the divine image), as religious people call it.
In any case, the biblical text is a text of words—definitions, concepts, stories, laws. To examine whether it’s a book written by humans in specific periods or not—you simply have to read it and understand the words there. Whoever reads the Bible and removes this thing called “holiness,” removes “God,” and begins to examine it to see whether it is divine or human—once a person makes that move—[music]—that shift in their conception and approach to the Bible: if they purge the holiness, purge God, and start to examine it as it is—like a physicist examines the physics of the natural mechanism, or like any scientist who studies nature from within nature without ascribing holiness, anger, will, etc., to nature—so too with the Torah text.
How could a reasonable person reading this Bible think it was written by something beyond human? In religious terms—by God? I always tell religious people: you define God nowadays, at least—not like Chazal (who defined Him like… children, frankly)—today you define God as the Rambam does: He has no time, no place, no beginning, no end; He is causa sui; He created all the galaxies and this amazing nature—and suddenly you come and say, “Oops, He wrote this book.” It’s such a dissonance, such a gap.
What’s written there? What stories? The entire book of Leviticus is about sacrifices—God wants people to bring Him sacrifices: slaughter sheep, cows… At the dedication of the Tabernacle, the book lists every tribal prince’s offering—there are 12 princes, they offered the same thing—then it repeats the same thing, eight verses for each, over and over. Are you serious?
And the contradictions, duplications… That’s how God tells stories? But mainly the essential things: the calendar—no guidance at all. The laws of niddah—not at all. No mikveh, no obligation to immerse—only the Sages say, “We have a received tradition that you need ritual slaughter,” because the Torah itself doesn’t require shechita; in fact, it implies hunting is fine. The central things—like the 39 labors of Shabbat—God is silent. But what is important to Him? Washing the feet of the patriarchs’ servants; house tzara’at (mold); metzora—things limited to a specific time; nine repetitive chapters on the Tabernacle—again and again.
How can a normal person think that suddenly God tells Moses, “Count the Israelites,” and then counts them four times in the Bible—four times! What’s God’s thing with counting? And He threatens that if you count without giving a half‑shekel per person there will be a plague. What is this? How can one regard this confused text seriously—with errors like listing animals as “chewing cud” that don’t, or the Euphrates and Tigris not emerging from the same place as in Genesis; duplications, contradictions—and mostly unimportant things—where instead it should be opening humanity to freedom. Where are human rights? Nothing.
What matters is that Pinchas killed the Midianite woman, as you noted in the opening, Eyal—and then God tells Pinchas, “I’ll give you a covenant of eternal priesthood.” What is that?
Can you give more examples of things you consider immoral in the Bible? Maybe expand on Pinchas and Zimri?
Everything is immoral—the stories. Abraham—God asks him to bind Isaac. It’s dramatic, a fan‑favorite—but what does the Binding mean? Nullify your paternal conscience and reason before God’s will. It erases common sense and natural moral conscience. And what does Abraham do? “And Abraham rose early in the morning…” takes the knife to slaughter his son.
How he sends Hagar away—Sarah tells him Hagar is not okay, and God says, “Whatever Sarah tells you, listen to her voice,” and he sends Hagar and Ishmael to the desert. Is this serious?
And the Golden Calf—Moses says 3,000 must be killed. He kills 3,000.
And the fact he left Tzipporah—he left his wife and children with Jethro, a Midianite priest, an idolater. He left his family there—what about the children’s education? Moses doesn’t care—that’s unbelievable. And God constantly kills, curses—“If you don’t listen, blight, mildew; every disease I didn’t put in Egypt I’ll put on you…” Curses and curses—nearly two full chapters of curses in Leviticus, then repeats it in Deuteronomy. It’s all sacrifices, sin offerings—again and again—and because of the repetitions and duplications there are also contradictions about which sacrifice to bring. Then the commentators—what an absurdity, a tragicomedy: the Torah was edited sloppily—multiple versions were pasted, so you have double and triple stories and contradictions between them.
Why is it comic? Because the Sages and later medieval commentators—Ibn Ezra, Saadia Gaon, and half a dozen more—try to reconcile the contradictions. Because of editorial negligence, Jews go in circles: “He says this, that one says that,” and the Talmud explains with midrashim why it contradicts, and then why Chazal said this here and that there—it’s “full gas, neutral brain.” That’s the tragicomedy.
And that’s what I show in my videos—I go parasha by parasha and show the absurdities. Those who follow my videos see, portion after portion, contradictions, duplications, absurdity.
For example, “Do not stray after your hearts and your eyes”—the early authorities learn from this that it’s forbidden to think critically about faith, that one must not dare to doubt. See what a closed circle they created: they invented a religion, called it “holy,” defined holiness like someone who takes a stone, carves it, says “This is a god—no one touch it or I’ll kill you.” Same here: they took a text compiled by several people, called it holy, and said anyone who doubts has no share in the world to come; anyone who reads “external books” has no share. Why? Because “do not stray after your heart and eyes”—you mustn’t think thoughts that lead to doubt. It’s like a closed cult—no departing the walls, no doubting, no criticism, no thinking.
I’d like you, Yaron, to address just this: how can one define a book as “holy”? Is it possible to say the Bible is a book written by the word of God—like, is it reasonable to say God wrote it? And how do we say whether a book is holy or not?
Not only is it not reasonable—it’s absurd. That’s what I’m saying: it’s absurd to suppose that—even set aside “holy” and “God”—it’s absurd to think that a serious human being wrote Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. Even a serious person—even, say—I can’t imagine Michael Avraham writing such a book. He’d write a far more orderly book; then the commentators wouldn’t need to say “there is no earlier or later in the Torah,” because the Torah, due to sloppy editing, keeps going back and forth: the journeys of the Israelites—one moment the second year after the Exodus, then suddenly back to the first year. The average reader who doesn’t look closely comes out totally confused.
So leave aside God and holiness. A reasonable person—Michael Avraham seems reasonable—would write a much more organized book. Holiness—those are human words: totems, magic; stories how they fought Amalek—Moses raises his hands, Aaron and Hur hold them up: when his hands are up, Israel prevails; when down, they lose. What is this nonsense? What are these stories? This magic? Unbelievable.
I can explain why people believe this absurdity—like the story of the emperor’s new clothes: the tailors sew him the finest garment—really he’s naked, but anyone who says the king is naked is jailed. So everyone “believes” in the beautiful garment. Education, brainwashing—religious and not—create paradigms that keep people from seeing reality. That’s my only explanation why reasonable people believe this absurdity—as if there’s some wisdom there.
[Moderator]
Rabbi Michael Avraham, I’m sure you have plenty to say. Please share—why do you think this is a holy book—or better, a book that simply represents the word of God? And how do you reconcile the immoral or even scientific contradictions in the Bible? And of course, respond to what he said.
[Rabbi Michael Avraham]
Honestly, many points were raised—I don’t think I’ll touch them all, but I’ll try to explain the principles as I understand them. First, about “holiness.” My attitude to that term is actually close to Yaron’s: I think it’s a concept whose harm outweighs its benefit, because it can cause people—wrongly, to be sure—to lose their critical sense. In that sense, I fully identify with Yaron’s basic move: you must never lose critical thinking—even in a religious, believing world, within a world of “holiness,” if you will. I don’t really know what that term means—but one must not lose criticism. The question is: to which plane do you direct the criticism; what is “criticism”?
You began by asking what makes me think a certain book is “holy” or “the word of God.” The term “holy” actually bothers me, but let’s use it. “Holy” to me means: you don’t toss it in the trash—nothing more. The real question is: how do I reach the conclusion that this book is the word of God, that it has value—that I must learn from it, obey it, etc.
Here I disagree with Yaron’s premise. In my view it’s not dependent on content at all. It doesn’t matter what content is there—that is not the criterion for my stance toward the book. If it’s a book Yaron or I wrote—I hope he’s right that I can write good books—then I will indeed judge it by its content; because such a book has no inherent authority for me. If there’s something smart or interesting to learn, I’ll learn; if not, then not—I judge it by its content. But I do not judge the Torah by its content.
Anyone who tells me he concluded the Torah is divine because of the great wisdom in it—I’ll ask for examples, because I haven’t encountered any example so striking that, by virtue of its wisdom, compels a transcendental source. I conclude this book is “holy” because of its source, not its content. If I conclude—and that’s a separate debate—that a divine revelation occurred, that there is a God who revealed Himself and conveyed to us, by tradition in some form, a text or a message—if I reach that conclusion, then such a text has status for me: it is the word of God.
Now I’ll ask myself: okay, what’s written in it? There are contradictions, morally troubling events, etc. Fine—there are difficulties; I need to resolve and work through them. But I think everything hinges on the starting point.
There’s a mishnah in Avot—“Judge every person favorably.” It’s attributed to R. Chaim of Brisk that when asked why God created a “crooked mind,” he replied: “To judge favorably.” You see someone committing a sin? Use your “crooked mind” to find merit—to show he was actually okay. That’s a mistake. If you look at the Mishnah—and you don’t need commentaries—it’s clear that’s wrong. To judge favorably is to make the right and straightforward interpretation; not to follow an urge to paint someone as evil when there’s no real basis to say so.
For example: you see Mother Teresa running in the street with a drawn knife after a young woman who is fleeing. Two possibilities: she’s going to stab her—or here’s my “crooked” interpretation—she left her knife in the woman’s kitchen, and Teresa is chasing her to return it. If you know it’s Mother Teresa, the straight interpretation is the second—even if, absent that info, someone might say it’s “crooked.” In other words, “straight” versus “crooked” depends on your starting point.
If your starting point is that the text is holy, you’ll find solutions to most difficulties—maybe not all. As Thomas Kuhn said of scientific theories (contra Popper), a single counterexample doesn’t kill a theory; we don’t replace paradigms for every anomaly. Only if the threshold is crossed. There are difficulties; you think them through. Only when it surpasses a threshold do you abandon it.
So the main issue in determining your stance toward a book like this is not its content—it’s its source. After saying that, I now look at its content with full critical freedom. I look at it critically—just as Chazal did and commentators throughout history did—sometimes taking it non‑literally, sometimes offering interpretations Yaron will call “comical,” and I’ll say it’s like the Mother Teresa case: if you assume it’s the word of God, you’re justified in interpretations that aren’t the surface reading—because it’s a divine text and can’t be nonsense, cruelty, etc. Starting point drives most of the story.
Now, examples—how this works. Yaron asks why essential things are missing while marginal ones appear. He says: mikveh—missing; Shabbat labors—missing; but negaim (leprous lesions) and sacrifices—there. I’d bet—without knowing Yaron before this—that if mikveh were there, he would say: “See? Mikveh is there—what a silly thing.” When convenient, whatever is absent is “important,” and what appears is “unimportant.”
I’ll tell you my criterion: if the book is holy, then what appears is, by definition, what’s important. Then I can ask why it’s important. Here’s a very important point for the rest: I draw a categorical distinction between halakha and morality. To me they are two orthogonal categories—transparent to one another. I do not assess halakha in moral terms. It doesn’t aim to lay out moral principles; it lays out halakhic ones.
Example: Eshat yefat to’ar—the allowance to take a beautiful captive woman and have relations with her; in context it’s effectively rape, not consensual. Periodically, there’s a public uproar—some rabbi said something about it.
When you look at the parasha, it’s not about morality; it’s halakha. What the parasha (and early sources) say—even Chazal say, “the Torah spoke only against the evil inclination.” It’s a post‑facto allowance—a bediavad, not ideally permitted. What bothered them wasn’t the moral problem of rape—they didn’t address that at all—but that it involves intercourse with a gentile woman, which is a halakhic prohibition. How can the Torah permit it? Answer: only bediavad—because there was no alternative.
What about the rape? The moral problem of taking a helpless woman and raping her? The answer: you can’t—it’s forbidden. But that is morally forbidden; halakha isn’t speaking to that. So the halakha says: the intercourse with a gentile—no halakhic problem in this case. You ask me: if an IDF soldier today did such a thing—he should be hanged, imprisoned—because he committed a moral crime. But that parasha isn’t about morality; it’s about halakha.
So which is more important—morality or halakhic rules about sex with a captive? Both are important; but some things need no Torah, because we already know them. Some things—like not murdering—were known even before Lo tirtzach. God rebukes Cain for killing Abel before any command was stated—on what basis? There was no prohibition yet. Answer: it should be self‑evident—it’s morally wrong.
When the Torah says “You shall not murder,” it adds that, beyond the moral wrong, there’s a religious wrong. The moral question is separate. For moral matters, each person, by conscience, can know—often there’s broad consensus—what’s moral and what isn’t. The Torah, especially in its legal (halakhic) aspects, usually doesn’t address that.
[Yaron]
Then why do we need halakha? If we can grasp things on our own? I didn’t quite follow.
[Rabbi Michael]
Because we can grasp morality on our own—via conscience. The nations didn’t receive the Torah, yet we expect them to behave morally. You don’t need Torah for morality. People unfamiliar with Torah can behave morally—and must.
Halakha comes to tell me the things I wouldn’t know on my own. It gives me norms that may seem “esoteric” and aren’t about morality. Not anti‑moral—just a‑moral. Because halakha teaches what I couldn’t know myself.
So: is intercourse with a captive a health issue? Ecology? No. It’s immoral—that’s one axis. On the halakhic axis: is it a halakhic violation to have intercourse with a captive in that case? No. But that doesn’t mean it’s moral. Halakha is a category—like health or ecology. I can say something is halakhically permitted or forbidden—independent of whether it’s moral. Two completely different questions. I’ll decide the moral question exactly as Yaron would (allowing for disagreements in gray areas). Halakha doesn’t guide me there and doesn’t aim to.
Therefore we must beware of critiques of this type. Again, this rests on my starting point: if my starting point is that the text is the word of God and tells me what halakha requires, then—just as a medical text tells me what health requires, without giving moral pronouncements—I don’t expect moral dicta from halakha. Morality is a separate category. Regarding raping a captive: that is blatantly immoral; whoever does it deserves severe punishment. That’s a completely separate question.
[Yaron]
I think I understood roughly what you’re arguing. But here’s the problem: you’ve invented a nice idea that isn’t really religious—it contradicts the mainstream religious conception. You invented a division between halakha and morality—contrary to the Rambam and the Chazon Ish, who said halakha determines the Torah of “permitted and forbidden” in the realm of morality. To claim there’s a distinction—that sounds odd, and wrong.
But okay—I’ll argue on your terms. If, as you say, morality is left to the person’s conscience, what do you do when halakha and morality conflict?
Example: the Shulchan Aruch rules that a gentile woman in labor on Shabbat—one does not violate Shabbat to deliver her, because pikuach nefesh (saving a life) overrides Shabbat only for a Jew who keeps Torah and mitzvot. But for a gentile, it’s forbidden to desecrate Shabbat. So someone who saves a gentile is violating halakha.
What will you do then?
[Rabbi Michael]
First, throughout the generations, commentators addressed this in many ways. The simplest, theologically, is to reinterpret: adjust the halakhic reading to avoid contradicting a moral principle—e.g., mishum eivah (fear of enmity), darkei shalom (ways of peace), thus you do desecrate Shabbat to save a gentile. One may ask if, behind that, really stands the moral principle—or it’s merely an exegetical out.
Second—and this I’ve written about (and I’m not first): the Meiri in the 14th century already wrote that the Talmud’s statements regarding gentiles refer to certain types of nations in their context. Modern nations, behaving decently, aren’t included. So the old rules don’t apply.
But suppose none of that worked, and a true conflict remained between a halakhic norm and a moral norm. What then? Note we also face conflicts between two moral norms. Sartre tells of his student in Nazi‑occupied Paris: Should he care for his elderly, sick mother with no one else, or join the Free French to fight the Nazis? Both are moral imperatives, but you can’t do both.
From my perspective, a conflict between morality and halakha is the same as a conflict within morality: two values I am obligated to. If I cannot resolve exegetically, I have a conflict. How do we resolve conflicts of values? That’s a huge question in moral philosophy.
For a religious person like me, my “arsenal” has more than the set of moral values Yaron has. I have that set too, plus additional values. From here on, my situation is no different: conflicts can arise between two moral values, or between a moral value and a halakhic value. And what do we do? That’s a whole field—also within morality alone.
Sometimes morality will prevail—this is not “changing halakha”; I will violate halakha because morality says so. That’s what the Gemara calls “a sin for the sake of Heaven.” Other times, I’ll violate the moral value because I think the halakhic value prevails. Not because I’m uncommitted to morality—just as, in Sartre’s case, choosing one moral value doesn’t negate commitment to the other.
A quick analogy: One says eat chocolate because it’s tasty; another says don’t because it makes you fat. Who’s right? Both. It’s tasty and fattening. So what do you do? One prefers the pleasure criterion over health; the other, the reverse. Conflicts arise because we’re committed to both.
[Moderator]
I think Yaron’s point is: the very existence of a halakhic value like “don’t save a gentile on Shabbat” is the problem—not just the conflict. That value shouldn’t exist at all.
[Rabbi Michael]
Which returns us to my preface: there’s independence between halakha and morality. In religious terms, Shabbat desecration is extremely serious. Indeed, according to one Talmudic view, we don’t desecrate Shabbat even for a Jew because of the intrinsic value of life, but only to enable him to keep future Shabbatot.
A secular person will say: Shabbat desecration is meaningless—so, of course, a moral value trumps it. He argues “why is there such a value at all?”—because he recognizes no religious ends, only moral ends.
From my starting point, Shabbat desecration is a profound wrong—metaphorically: it “destroys worlds”—and morality is also very important. Thus I have a real dilemma. I didn’t say which will win—sometimes this, sometimes that, case by case. There’s an entire doctrine on resolving such conflicts.
[Yaron]
You didn’t get the depth of the question. It’s not two values within one moral system—it’s two sources of authority for behavior. There’s the halakhic authority and the conscience (morality) authority. It’s like epistemology: two sources of authority—reason vs. scripture. The Rambam, Rabbeinu Bahya, Saadia Gaon—all say that when reason and scripture conflict, the authority of reason prevails over scripture. That’s what I’m asking: since these are two different sources of authority for you, which one wins?
[Rabbi Michael]
First, this “doctrine” isn’t my invention; I may be formulating it, but it follows obvious facts. I’ve written about this in many places. Also, if you’re arguing with me, why bring the Rambam or Saadia? Argue with me.
Third, I don’t accept that morality’s source or authority is human. I claim morality’s authority originates with God. I don’t need His revelation to know what’s moral—because the conscience He implanted in me tells me what’s right and wrong. But ultimately, morality’s authority is His.
Therefore, when I face a conflict between halakha and morality, it’s a conflict between two values from the same ultimate authority—divine expectations of me. There’s no difference between that and a conflict between two moral values.
There’s a whole debate (I had one with David Enoch) about whether morality can have human authority; I say no—by definition morality needs divine authority. There are arguments—but this isn’t the place.
So, again: conflicts between religious and moral values are resolved the same way as conflicts within morality—acknowledging often there’s no common measure (incommensurability). Give me your method; I’ll copy‑paste it to my case.
Back to the gentile on Shabbat: in practice, I’m not in a dilemma, because I’m convinced the Meiri is right: for nations behaving decently today, you desecrate Shabbat to save them—the Meiri already wrote this; others like Rav Kook continue it.
But even if not, even if no such reading were possible—which is rare—it could be that I’d still save the gentile. Why? Because unless I heard directly from Heaven, as Abraham did at the Akedah, my certainty about the halakhic value isn’t high enough to justify paying the price of a human life. If I had direct revelation, the divine command could trump the moral value, painful as that is.
[Moderator]
When, then, would halakha trump a moral value for you?
[Rabbi Michael]
As I said: where it’s explicitly in the Torah. Anything only from the Sages—I’m not 100% sure; sages can err. So when the moral cost is clear and heavy, I need very high certainty to override it.
There are things explicitly in the Torah—there I think I must sacrifice a moral value. Usually not life‑and‑death—but in principle, even that. For example, erasing Amalek is a huge moral problem—and I don’t buy the apologetics that it’s some higher morality we can’t grasp. My conscience is my basis—so it’s a moral problem. But there’s a religious value as well. If it’s written explicitly, that likely reflects God’s will.
If you want a less extreme case: the wife of a priest who was raped must separate from her husband. She’s a victim; beyond the trauma, she must divorce—destroy the family, though they all want to stay together. In such a case, I would likely say: they must separate, painful as it is, because if the Torah said so, that value outweighs the moral pain.
[Moderator]
So, in a way, like training soldiers: we teach them not to kill, but for the sake of protecting the state and citizens—the purpose for which they enlisted—they will sometimes have to do things that, morally, are awful. And sometimes war requires harming innocents. If your heart doesn’t ache, you’re a scoundrel—but pain doesn’t mean you won’t do it. Sometimes other considerations are more important. Likewise, a conflict between halakha and morality.
[Yaron]
Okay, let’s go to the second issue I wanted: I see a contradiction in your starting assumptions. On one hand, you say a person must engage in critical thinking—even as a religious person. On the other, your basis is that the source of the Torah—Genesis through Deuteronomy—is divine. Do you apply critical thinking to that assumption? Because when I do, it seems absurd to think the source is God.
I understood that you believe in the revelation—Mount Sinai. Do you apply critical thinking to that? Because I arrive at the conclusion that it’s a tragicomedy to claim this is divine. You hinted you believe in revelation. I ask: do you apply critical thinking to the revelation story?
I once debated a Hasid. I asked: on what basis do you believe God wrote the Torah? He said: he himself was at Sinai—because of reincarnation; he was there. So like a car crash eyewitness contradicting a police officer, he knows. With someone like that, there’s no debate.
But if someone doesn’t think he was there and relies on the written text—yet that text is the very subject under examination—it’s a sloppily written book. Any reasonable person sees humans wrote and edited it carelessly. On what basis do you think this confused book is divine?
[Rabbi Michael]
Two levels. First, everyone has conclusions they live by. For example, those who think murder is wrong, that life has value—you could ask whether they apply critical thinking to those beliefs. Maybe they do, maybe not—but almost nobody concludes otherwise. Having a conclusion doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned critical thought. I have concluded that a revelation occurred. You can ask me the basis—but having a conclusion doesn’t mean I’m uncritical.
Second, as I said at the start, I don’t reach that conclusion from the content. Nor do I accept your claim that the tradition of revelation is based on the text itself. The tradition is a story that accompanies the text—passed down orally, delivering the text along with the surrounding story. If this tradition is broadly transmitted—that arouses in me… well, we must discuss it; I don’t claim it’s airtight. But it’s a tradition carried broadly.
So since I concluded the book is divine based on context, I now discuss its content.
[Yaron]
Okay, but please lay out the critical‑reasoning path you took to reach “divine origin.”
[Rabbi Michael]
I’ve written a book about this; I’ll sketch it. From philosophical arguments I conclude there is a God—detached from specific religion. In a parallel track, I conclude God is the source of moral authority—He implanted moral obligation in me. It follows He has expectations of me—He created the world and me for a purpose.
Before revelation, I ask: what does He want? If He wants morality—that’s the obvious option since I already feel that obligation—still, that’s not plausible as the goal; morality is a means to a functioning society, not an end. So it’s likely there are religious ends beyond morality—ends I can’t know without Him telling me.
Now, from the other side, a tradition arrives that God revealed Himself and gave a Torah with do’s and don’ts. If I had only the tradition, I’d be very skeptical—mythologies abound. But since I already, from philosophy, expect some revelation to convey what He wants, and now a tradition says it happened—these two tunnels meet. Each gives the other more strength than it had alone.
Nothing is certain in this world—including the claim that nothing is certain. But it’s sufficiently plausible that I live by it—while recognizing limits: my certainty isn’t 100%, so the price I’m willing to pay for these values is limited by that uncertainty (as I said earlier).
[Yaron]
Is there anything—any argument or fact—that could, even theoretically, make you retract the premise that the Torah is divine?
[Rabbi Michael]
In principle, yes. If someone shows a flaw in my philosophical arguments for God or for the necessity of divine authority for morality, that would undercut step one. Or if someone shows, historically, that the tradition is a fabrication—that would undercut the other tunnel.
What won’t refute it is textual content—because my argument doesn’t rest on content. Looking for refutation in the wrong domain is a category error.
[Yaron]
Suppose from the Bible’s content I show there was no such tradition—e.g., verses implying there was no continuous transmission—would that refute it?
[Rabbi Michael]
If you bring real evidence—perhaps. There are complex cases—e.g., “It is not in heaven” (lo bashamayim hi) about halakha—but that’s about legal decision‑making, not about the origin of the law at Sinai. The discovery of the “book” in Josiah’s time or other episodes—people cite them to argue there was no tradition. I don’t think that follows. Yes, many kings sinned—that doesn’t mean there was no tradition or commitment; there were human desires and failures.
[Yaron]
So if the Torah explicitly says a father can sell his daughter as a maidservant and marry her off as a child—what do you do? Or that the High Priest must marry a na’ara (young maiden)—say that’s 12 years old?
[Rabbi Michael]
First, about the Rambam you cited earlier—Issurei Bi’ah 21:9—“a man does as he wishes with his wife”—that’s a misreading. That halakha begins: “A man’s wife is permitted to him”—meaning, the types of intercourse aren’t themselves prohibited acts; it doesn’t address coercing a wife. Issues of coercion and marital rights are in Hilchot Ishut, not Issurei Bi’ah. If the wife objects, that’s not here. Even if, hypothetically, it said what you claimed—it would only mean legally permitted, not morally right. The court could prevent him because morality forbids it.
Regarding a father selling a daughter: the Torah grants that power to secure her future in a world where women couldn’t support themselves without a family framework. If a father uses it arbitrarily and immorally, morality intervenes; the court can stop him. The halakha says “may”; morality may say “must not.”
[Yaron]
But then the Torah’s will depends on era? I thought a divine text is eternal; now it seems time‑bound.
[Moderator]
We can see the two guests operate with different frameworks. Those frameworks affect politics—how values shape society. If I’m a hardline religious zealot, I’ll want everyone to keep Shabbat, even by force. If I’m a liberal atheist, I’ll care less how people worship, but I will care that morality and liberalism prevail.
Rabbi Michael, please outline how—according to your view—state policy should look. Then Yaron, your turn.
[Rabbi Michael]
We must split the question. First, the state as it is today—whose population, for the most part, isn’t fully committed to Torah and mitzvot. Second, an ideal state where everyone keeps Torah and mitzvot—there our lawbook would, in practice, look quite similar to today’s—though not identical. Practice carries more weight than principles; halakha itself recognizes that.
As for today’s state: most people aren’t fully halakhically committed. There I activate the two categories I spoke of—morality and halakha. Morality is universal; my expectations from the state are the same as Yaron’s: fairness, decency, liberal democracy. I support liberal education and a liberal, democratic, secular state—not as a compromise, but as an ideal. I’ll fight for it against those who want to impose religious values on the state’s conduct.
Regarding halakha: in a state like today’s, it’s not relevant; I oppose coercion of halakha—not only because it’s ineffective but because it’s morally wrong. Coerced mitzvah‑observance has no religious value. So, for today’s state: my vision is very similar to Yaron’s—allowing for the usual political disagreements between any two citizens.
[Yaron]
I’m glad to hear that. I hope his thinking influences many religious people, especially Haredim—so we can have a shared liberal, secular state, which is crucial in these difficult times.
But I want to clarify with Miki: what happens when a liberal, secular state legislates laws—every law is coercion—that contradict halakha? For example, equal inheritance for women and men, on grounds of human equality; or animal welfare—if the state concludes that ritual slaughter (shechita) causes animal suffering and mandates a more humane method. Suppose Miki agrees it’s more compassionate—what then?
[Rabbi Michael]
We must distinguish between “thin” and “thick” liberalism. About the public square—like enabling people to bequeath equally to sons and daughters—I will fight for the law to allow it. Must the law mandate it? I’m not sure I’d join, not because it necessarily bothers me, but because we should also consider those with non‑liberal commitments. The boundary is subtle—depending on cost and the weight of the value.
Regarding shechita: that’s not a head‑on clash. It would just mean religious people don’t eat meat. I’m a vegetarian anyway, for moral reasons. If there were solid findings that slaughter inflicts severe suffering, the state should ban it; if so, then no one would eat meat—or we’d develop cultured meat, etc.
[Moderator]
Right—that ties back to what you said earlier: halakha and morality are different axes, and policy navigates both.
[Closing]
I truly enjoyed this conversation. I understand what Yaron wants; I understand what you want, Rabbi Michael Avraham. In the end, you presented a compelling framework about halakha and morality—persuasive to me, though of course Yaron remains unconvinced. It’s good to hold such discussions. Thank you very much—Eyal, Miki—goodbye.
End of transcript.
