The Development of the Midrashic Methodology and the Philosophy of Science (Column 647)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

Some time ago I dealt with Pesachim 22b, in a discussion about the obligation to fear Torah scholars. In the course of that, an interesting connection to the philosophy of science occurred to me, and in this column I’d like to share it with you.

The beginning of the sugya: deriving benefit from the hide of an executed ox

Let us preface with a midrashic rule that the word et (“the”) comes to include something additional. For example, “Honor et your father and et your mother” is expounded to include honoring your mother’s husband, your father’s wife, and your elder brother. In Pesachim 22b the Gemara records a dispute about deriving benefit from the hide of an ox that is to be stoned. The Gemara explains the source of that dispute as follows:

“Whence do they derive [the prohibition of] deriving benefit from its hide? They derive it from ‘et its flesh’—[the word et] adds that which is ancillary to its flesh; while the other Tanna does not expound [the word] et.”

In other words, the dispute is whether to expound the word et in the verse in Shemot (Exodus) 21:28 (“and one shall not eat et its flesh”). This is a dispute over whether there is indeed such a hermeneutic rule.

A note on the development of the hermeneutic rules

Already this raises a difficulty. All the early authorities agree that the hermeneutic rules are Halakhah le-Moshe mi-Sinai (a Sinaitic tradition). If so, how can one dispute a hermeneutic rule? One who did not hear of it should accept the other’s testimony as part of the tradition. And yet we find in several places disputes not only about the use of specific rules but about the very methodology of derash (interpretive exposition). For example, in Shevuot 26a and parallels we are told that the school of Rabbi Akiva expounded the Torah with “inclusions and exclusions” (ribuy u-mi’ut), whereas the school of Rabbi Ishmael expounded with “general principles and particulars” (klal u-perat). This was a systematic approach transmitted across generations, as stated there:

“Rabbi Yoḥanan said: Rabbi Ishmael served Rabbi Neḥunya ben HaKana, who expounded the entire Torah with general and particular; he too expounded with general and particular. Rabbi Akiva served Naḥum Ish Gamzu, who expounded the entire Torah with inclusion and exclusion; he too expounded with inclusion and exclusion.”

As is well known, inclusions (such as those derived from the word et) are characteristic of the school of Rabbi Akiva. In Rabbi Ishmael’s school such a rule does not appear (in his list of thirteen rules). Not for nothing does Rambam write at the beginning of his Second Principle (in the Sefer HaMitzvot):

“The second principle is that we should not count anything learned via one of the thirteen hermeneutic principles by which the Torah is expounded, or by way of inclusion (ribuy)…”

Rambam adds inclusion (ribuy) to Rabbi Ishmael’s list of thirteen. Among the examples he brings there is the very case cited in our sugya in Pesachim. But let us return to the development of the rules.

These phenomena led most academic scholars of the Talmud to conclude that the hermeneutic rules are the product of later sages and were not given at Sinai. Some even pointed to influences from the ancient Near East (see, e.g., Saul Lieberman, Greeks and Hellenism in Eretz Israel). Indeed, we find different lists of rules over the generations, and they seem to multiply with time. In Temurah the Gemara speaks of “qal va-ḥomer and gezerah shavah” that were forgotten during Moses’ mourning—only two rules. Hillel the Elder had seven (see the baraita appended to Rabbi Ishmael’s introduction to the Sifra), Rabbi Ishmael already lists thirteen, and ultimately Rabbi Eliezer the son of Rabbi Yose the Galilean lists thirty-two. Evidently, this is a process unfolding across generations. How can that be reconciled with the traditional view that the rules are Sinaitic?

In the second volume of our series on Talmudic logic, on the rules of klal u-perat, we detailed a model of a dynamic tradition. The claim was that the hermeneutic rules were given to Moses at Sinai in a potential, formative sense—namely, as a distinct way of reading the biblical text. God did not hand over a checklist of rules, a midrashic toolbox, but rather read the text with him via peshat (plain meaning) and via derash (interpretive reading). It is like teaching a child to speak his mother tongue. Over time, forgetfulness set in and there arose a need to formulate the rules—exactly as happens with grammatical rules of a language—whereupon scholars observe the community’s speakers and try to distill and articulate grammar. Thus later sages observed the “language” of derash and distilled from it rules; these are the hermeneutic rules. As time passed, the rules multiplied, but that does not mean that derash is a late invention. Rather, it is the ongoing articulation of a natural language transmitted from Sinai.

Within this framework, disputes between sages about methods of derash can also arise, for each proposes different articulations of the same system/language of derash. Hence my claim that the tradition is dynamic—yet it could certainly have come from Sinai. When sages look at the expositions received from Sinai and try to infer the rules on which they are based, that resembles scientific work. A scientist, too, observes facts and seeks to distill the laws governing them. There can be disputes between scientists about the laws of nature or different proposals for formulating them. Different sets of rules can account for the same body of facts. In most cases, we try to design observations that discriminate between the options (predictions that can be tested experimentally and decide between them). But until a decision is reached, two theories can be considered equivalent in that they both explain the totality of facts known to us.

In my understanding, that is precisely the situation with disputes in the world of derash. These are two theories offering an articulation and description of the midrashim we received from Moses. Different schools adhere to different systems of rules, and both systems fit the facts—that is, the expositions received from Moses. However, they yield different predictions for cases not yet expounded. Hence halakhic disputes between the schools of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Akiva: they apply different midrashic tools and reach different results. Unlike science, though, here we lack an experimental method for decision, for we have no way to know the “correct” answer. We have no decisive “observation.” And even if a heavenly voice were to speak, the rule is: “It is not in Heaven.” This perpetuates the dispute between the hermeneutic schools, which is why we encounter disagreements about the rules themselves—with legal consequences.

Let us now return to the dispute in Pesachim and see how the sugya proceeds.

The continuation of the sugya—disputing the et expositions

We saw that there is a Tannaitic dispute about deriving inclusions from the word et in the Torah. Evidently, such expositions rest on the assumption that straightforward language does not require the word et. As is well known, Ben-Gurion used to speak that way; e.g., “Bring me book.” Thus, when the Torah includes the word et, we must expound it—i.e., include something additional. This is part of the school of Rabbi Akiva, who would include (“inclusions and exclusions”) from the smallest strokes and crowns of letters, as well as from the word et and various redundancies—contrary to Rabbi Ishmael’s approach, who held “the Torah speaks in human language.” (See the extensive treatment by A. J. Heschel in Torah from Heaven in the Mirror of the Generations.)

Back to Pesachim: The Gemara continues that the dispute about deriving benefit from the ox’s hide depends on an earlier, well-known Tannaitic dispute about the et expositions:

“As it was taught: Shimon ha-Amsuni (and some say Neḥemiah ha-Amsuni) used to expound every et in the Torah. When he reached ‘et the Lord your God you shall fear,’ he withdrew. His students said to him: ‘Rabbi, what will be with all the ets you expounded?’ He said to them: ‘Just as I received reward for expounding, so I receive reward for withdrawing.’”

Shimon ha-Amsuni expounded every et, in the spirit of Rabbi Akiva’s school. But then he ran into a problem: a verse that could not be expounded in that way. When the Torah writes “et the Lord your God you shall fear,” it would seem to include someone else whom we should fear as we fear God. But to Shimon ha-Amsuni, that is theologically impossible—perhaps bordering on idolatry. To fear God and someone else is “partnership” in worship. He therefore concluded that this verse cannot be expounded that way; there is simply nothing we can include.

From here he drew a far-reaching conclusion: he gave up on all et-expositions throughout the Torah. Everything he had derived previously he discarded. Asked by his students, he responded with striking intellectual honesty: just as I was rewarded for expounding, so I am rewarded for withdrawing. Why did he not remain with a “requires investigation,” leaving in place all the expositions that did work? Evidently, because once there is a counterexample, the theory must be thrown out. Which brings us to Popper. But first, a note on intellectual honesty.

A note on intellectual honesty

This move points to impressive intellectual integrity: Shimon ha-Amsuni was willing to relinquish all his expositions if he understood they rested on an invalid rule. That is no small thing. There is a well-known story about Rabbi Shach: during a public lecture, a student raised a powerful question. Rabbi Shach considered it and, after a few minutes, stepped down from the lectern, saying he had not considered this question, it undermined his foundation, and there was no point in continuing. A model of intellectual honesty.

Nor should this be taken lightly. There is a famous story about the author of Ketzot HaChoshen. A contemporary scholar told him that he, too, had authored a halakhic-exegetical work no less than the Ketzot, yet his book was not succeeding. The Ketzot asked when he wrote; the man answered enthusiastically: in the morning when I’m fresh and clear-headed, so everything is precise. The Ketzot replied: “I write at night; in the morning I erase.” His point: it takes even more clarity to erase than to write. Every author knows how hard it is to give up a beautiful idea, even when you realize it’s wrong. The tendency is to cling to it and force strained reconciliations—anything not to give up the “pearl” you found. Shimon ha-Amsuni overcame that impulse and relinquished his earlier expositions. Admirable honesty.

After this moral interlude, back to our argument.

Scientific status per Popper

Note that Shimon ha-Amsuni’s step implies that the hermeneutic rules are not Sinaitic in the classic sense. Had there been a firm tradition to include from every et, he should have left this verse as a “requires investigation” but not discarded his earlier expositions. If he withdraws from the very rule and abandons all et-inclusions, it follows that the rule was not a static Sinaitic tradition as such, but a dynamic one, as described above. That is, the articulation proposed by Rabbi Akiva’s school—one of whose rules was inclusion from et—is a scientific theory that stands to be falsified: if counterexamples are found, we give it up and seek another articulation. This brings us to Popper.

The philosopher of science Karl Popper argued that a scientific theory cannot be proven. For example, the theory that all crows are black cannot be proven: you cannot observe all crows, and even if you could, a non-black crow might appear in the future. Scientific theories are general and sweeping; by nature they cannot be proven. What makes a theory scientific? Popper proposed: its susceptibility to tests that could falsify it. If a single crow of a different color is found, the theory falls; hence it is scientific. By contrast, “God exists” is not scientific; no experiment can falsify it. Try to imagine the empirical test that could demonstrate that God does not exist—there is none, because the claim makes no predictions. Likewise the claim that humans do or do not have free will (discussed in the last two columns): at least for now, it cannot be subjected to a scientific falsification test. Thus, at least for now, these (both the pro and the con) are philosophical stances, not scientific theories.

Accordingly, Shimon ha-Amsuni, as a “scientist” distilling theoretical rules—laws of derash—to explain all the facts (the midrashic halakhot known to us), concluded that one of the rules is to include from et. But at some point he reached a counterexample: a verse that cannot be expounded that way. By Popper’s lights, his theory fell. The counterexample shows the theory is false; and as an honest scientist, he promptly abandoned it.

The continuation of the sugya—Rabbi Akiva’s approach

Immediately thereafter, however, Rabbi Akiva—the very father of this inclusive approach—arrives and says to him:

“Until Rabbi Akiva came and expounded: ‘et the Lord your God you shall fear’—to include Torah scholars.”

There is an out: we can include Torah scholars from this verse and learn that there is a mitzvah to fear Torah scholars as well. First, note that Shimon ha-Amsuni apparently did not accept Rabbi Akiva’s solution and remained with his withdrawal, for the Gemara uses their dispute to ground the disagreement about the ox’s hide—i.e., it treats this as a standing dispute, not a settled matter.

Why did Shimon ha-Amsuni not accept the solution? The reason is clear. His problem with the verse was substantive: not that he couldn’t find someone to include, but that in principle one cannot include anyone, for fearful reverence of someone alongside God smacks of idolatry. Therefore, in principle there can be no inclusion here—certainly not Torah scholars.

What did Rabbi Akiva think? He surely understood the problem. Why, then, did including Torah scholars solve it in his eyes? Evidently, the rule that one must include from et was, for him, so compelling that he was ready to “save” it even with a forced reading. He recognized the difficulty, but felt it necessary to include something; and the least implausible candidate, to his mind, was Torah scholars. Why did he think inclusion was necessary?

The obvious possibility is that he thought the rule to include from et is a static Sinaitic tradition—i.e., given as such at Sinai—and therefore certainly true and not to be abandoned. Hence he had no choice but to find some inclusion, however strained. But as we saw, this is not likely: the rules are later articulations—a dynamic tradition. Moreover, if such a tradition existed, Shimon ha-Amsuni would likely have accepted Rabbi Akiva’s solution. But if it is not a Sinaitic rule but a later articulation, why did the difficulty—of which Rabbi Akiva was aware—not lead him to give up this articulation and seek an alternative theory?

To understand this we need a methodological stance according to which a theory that is not certainly true does not necessarily fall by virtue of a single counterexample. Enter Thomas Kuhn.

Thomas Kuhn’s critique of Popper

Thomas Kuhn was a renowned historian, sociologist, and philosopher of science; his major work is The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Popper, as a philosopher, dealt with what is right—offering methodological guidance for how scientists ought to act. Kuhn, as a sociologist and historian, did not (at least directly) address what ought to be done, but what is done. Unsurprisingly, he notes that Popper’s description does not match what actually happens.

In practice, there are quite a few scientific theories for which contrary findings exist, yet the scientific community does not abandon them. We are willing to live with a theory that is contradicted by some data. Note: by Popper, a single contrary finding forces rejection, for the theory is logically falsified. If you find even one human who is not mortal, you cannot maintain that all humans are mortal. Kuhn points to a fascinating phenomenon: indeed, we sometimes live with logical contradiction—but that is reality. This is how the scientific community behaves.

To explain this, Kuhn introduced a conceptual, fundamentally sociological framework. It is unusual to conduct a sociological study of scientific communities: sociology classically studied remote tribes, not Western high culture—certainly not the scientific community that, after all, invented sociology to study everyone else. How can we treat them, too, as a community worthy of sociological study—almost as though there were a “tribe of physicists”? It seems almost insulting. (In our own context, note how we speak of “Moroccan,” “Tunisian,” or “Yemenite” communities, but not of a “Polish” or “Hungarian” one; “communities” are always the others. We are the norm; the others are “communities” on the margins. To apply the same tools to us feels like heresy. One of postmodernism’s blessings is precisely this shift—like a broken clock that is right twice a day.)

Kuhn argues that a scientific community operates within a defined paradigm: a conceptual framework comprising basic terms with given definitions, fundamental principles, and characteristic modes of thought. Within a paradigm, we interpret and give meaning to all facts and observations. They create the paradigm; but once created, every new fact is interpreted within it.

What happens when an observation does not fit the paradigm—an empirical finding that contradicts the reigning theory? The scientific community is rather conservative. It does not discard the paradigm quickly. It seeks a way out: to refine the theory (articulation), or at least leave the issue at “requires investigation,” hoping someone wiser will come and resolve it. The assumption is that a solution likely exists; we are simply not yet clever or creative enough to find it. Hence, says Kuhn, Popper was wrong: a contrary fact usually does not topple a theory—certainly not a well-established paradigm.

It is important to see that Popper did not make a descriptive claim but a normative one: how we ought to proceed. His view rests on a straightforward logical point. Therefore, the fact that science actually behaves otherwise does not prove Popper wrong; it may show scientists are not acting as they should. Kuhn, by contrast, is descriptive rather than normative. Before returning to this issue, let us pursue Kuhn a bit further.

More on Kuhn vs. Popper

What accounts for the gap between what is right and what is done? If we take Kuhn’s thesis as purely descriptive (sociological facts about scientific conduct), independent of how one ought to proceed, we must ask: why does science behave so “irrationally” (assuming Popper is right logically)? And if science does operate conservatively and “irrationally,” how does it succeed? Alternatively, if Kuhn means a normative claim (science behaves properly), wherein lies Popper’s error? Popper’s logic seems ironclad: a counterexample falsifies a general theory. I will answer shortly.

Even descriptively, we can ask: does this imply that a scientific theory is never falsified? Do scientists never abandon a theory? Factually, that is false; Kuhn must agree.

Kuhn himself answers in detail: of course scientific communities sometimes replace paradigms. Thus, even for Kuhn, scientific theories are subject to empirical refutation, and that does happen. But on the ground, the process is more complex than Popper described. In practice, a single counterexample does not lead to abandonment. There is a more intricate path by which a scientific community replaces a paradigm.

Kuhn’s sociology of science

A theory arises as an initial proposal drawn from a set of empirical observations. Once proposed, it is subjected to tests of falsification—just as Popper suggests. If it passes, it is corroborated and becomes a paradigm: it takes root and defines the rules of the game. Now there is an agreed-upon framework (concepts and fundamental principles interlinked) within which facts and observations are discussed and explained, and within which experiments are run. Of course, we continue to test the now-paradigmatic theory with further attempts at falsification.

Should an experiment contradict the paradigm, we do not immediately discard it. Why not? Because a paradigm, once established, is viewed as robust: it explains a great many facts, displays coherence, and is persuasive. It is hard to assume that’s mere coincidence. It is reasonable to think it’s true. What then do we do with a contradictory finding? We set it aside, trying to explain it within the paradigm (articulation, refinement). If we fail, we record it and put it aside, pending a more insightful proposal.

Meanwhile, we continue experimenting and testing the paradigm. If enough contrary findings accumulate, the community enters a paradigmatic crisis: a consensus arises that the paradigm is problematic, and we must seek an alternative that explains all the facts—both the old and the new. Note that there is no clear metric for how many contrary findings produce a crisis. It depends on our confidence in the paradigm and the strength of the contradictions (i.e., the estimated likelihood of finding an explanation within the paradigm). Unsurprisingly, this looks more like a sociological question than a philosophical one.

At this stage, various proposals arise and are evaluated by the community (again, the account is sociological: a group decision), until a replacement paradigm is accepted. Then the game begins anew: we test the new paradigm until enough contrary data, if any, accumulates and triggers another crisis—and so on. The game ends only if we ever reach a paradigm that can account for all findings in that scientific field.

This account explains the factual gap noted above between scientific conduct and Popper. Even for Kuhn there is refutation; but it is not triggered by a single contrary datum. Rather, a quantity of counter-evidence produces a crisis. The philosophical questions remain: where did Popper err? Does Kuhn think the community is “merely” sociological and not acting properly? If it is acting properly, where is Popper’s mistake?

Sociology only, or also substance?

I suggested that Kuhn is describing science’s sociology. He tells us how science works in practice, not necessarily why that is justified. But it is implausible that science operates wrongly. Beyond the intelligence of its practitioners, its achievements suggest there is merit here. Hence Kuhn’s critique of Popper should also have substantive force.

As explained above: if a theory is well supported and has become a paradigm, there are strong reasons to think it true. Therefore, when a counterexample arises, it is reasonable to “judge it favorably”—see, for example, Columns 29 and 440, and also my paper here). That means that even if we face a contradictory fact, there may well be a good explanation; and even if we do not yet have it, it is reasonable to wait for someone else to find it. Hence, it is not right to discard a theory because of a single or a few isolated contrary facts. As noted, it depends on how well supported the theory is: the higher our confidence, the higher the bar for refutation.

Furthermore, sometimes a theory is indeed refuted in principle, yet what happens is a correction. Relativity replaced Newtonian mechanics, but as corrections manifest at high velocities or extreme mass densities. In ordinary cases, we still use Newtonian mechanics, even though it was “refuted.” Similarly in quantum theory for very small scales; at ordinary scales we continue to use classical mechanics.

Therefore, the conservatism of a scientific community is valuable. Conservatism in reasonable measure is a virtue, not a vice. The restless swapping of theories whenever a problem arises—Popper’s prescription—would lead science to ruin. This is Kuhn’s substantive critique: not only is science descriptively non-Popperian; it ought not to be Popperian.

Back to Shimon ha-Amsuni vs. Rabbi Akiva

We can now return to the Tannaitic dispute. Shimon ha-Amsuni acted in Popperian fashion: encountering a counterexample, he discarded the theory. Rabbi Akiva, who disagreed, exhibited Kuhnian conservatism: even if the rule is our articulation and not a static Sinai tradition, if it is persuasive and well supported, it is not right to abandon it because of one counterexample. At most, leave the problematic case aside and wait for a solution.

But Rabbi Akiva went a step further: he did not merely leave the counterexample aside; he proposed a resolution. The proposal is problematic, and he likely knew it. Yet if we truly believe in the theory, then logically there must be a solution. It is important here to distinguish two types of problems: (1) reconciling a theory with a contradictory scientific fact—this can be left aside pending a solution; (2) cases where we can prove a solution cannot exist. In the et case, the problem was acute: if only we had merely failed to find an inclusion, we could have left it aside. But here there is an a priori argument that no solution exists: one cannot include anyone to be feared like God. This is a zero-sum game: either find a solution or discard the theory.

Thus, Shimon ha-Amsuni, who chose to discard, was not necessarily acting in pure Popperian fashion: this was not just any counterexample but one for which we have reason to believe no solution will ever be found. In such a case, even Kuhn would agree the theory must go. What of Rabbi Akiva? He, too, agreed that one cannot simply put this aside. But his confidence in the theory—though it was a human articulation, not a static Sinaitic fact—was strong enough that he preferred a forced resolution and adopted the least difficult option: include Torah scholars. If the theory is true, we must assume that somehow there is room to fear someone else alongside God; the least ill-fitting candidate is Torah scholars. (Parenthetically, one might have argued that in this particular verse the et is not inclusive for some reason, which would have solved the issue without the theological strain. Apparently Rabbi Akiva did not find a satisfying way to exempt this verse, hence the forced move.)

This is a fine example of a common scientific dilemma: the clash between a paradigm and a falsifying datum, and the tension between our confidence in the paradigm and the contrary fact. The decision cannot be mechanized by rigid logic.

A parallel dilemma: the physico-theological argument

A similar pattern appears in the physico-theological argument for God’s existence. The proof relies on the principle of causality (everything has a cause). Its application leads to an infinite regress, so we are forced to posit an initial cause not subject to causality. Here we must exempt the counterexample without abandoning the principle itself: the principle of causality stands, but has an exception (God).

There are arguments for God that rest on gaps in scientific knowledge: if science cannot explain X, that shows God exists. The problem is that such gaps may be temporary. If we leave the difficulty aside without breaking the scientific paradigm, perhaps someone down the line will fill the gap. One should not prove God from a scientific gap. In the past, gaps were larger; had we argued then, our “proofs” would have collapsed. This is the “God of the gaps.”

Why is the physico-theological argument not just another gap-based argument? You do not know the world’s cause—leave it aside until someone explains it. Seemingly this is inference from a gap, which we said is problematic. But that is a mistake. Here the gap is essential: it is impossible for there not to be an exception to causality; otherwise we face infinite regress. This shows that God, by necessity, has no cause, and that no cause will ever be found in the future. The gap is essential, like Shimon ha-Amsuni’s case. From such a gap one can indeed conclude and carve out an exception or find a different explanation. In the case of creation we lack Rabbi Akiva’s option of forcing both rule and case, so we must necessarily exempt this case: the principle of causality stands generally, but has at least one exception.

The atheist may respond: if causality falls, the proof falls—since it assumes everything has a cause yet concludes the principle is not universally true. That is Shimon ha-Amsuni’s move: once there is a contradiction, throw out the theory, old applications included. Here I follow Rabbi Akiva: if the principle of causality is rational and compelling—and it is hard to find anyone who discards it because of this—then we should keep it and exempt God.

This is another form of a decision I have described several times regarding free will (see recent columns): lex specialis (preference for the specific). With respect to free will, the basic tension is between causality and freedom (for will is an act without a cause—at least a physical one). Two intuitions clash; we prefer the specific, i.e., free will. The reason: preferring the specific preserves the broader principle (causality remains true with an exception: free will), whereas preferring the broad principle (causality always holds) annihilates the narrower principle (free will). Thus both remain, at the “cost” of an exception to causality (acts of will lack a physical cause).[1] The same holds for the physico-theological argument. There is a clash between causality and God’s existence (=a being without a cause); we prefer the specific and conclude: causality remains, but with one exception—God. The alternative is to discard causality altogether, as Shimon ha-Amsuni would (and waiting for a future solution is impossible here)—and no one does that.

A brief note on fearing Torah scholars and relating to them

We saw that both Rabbi Akiva and Shimon ha-Amsuni likely understood how hard it is to include someone else to whom there would be a duty of fear as toward God. That borders on partnership in worship. Rabbi Akiva felt there was no choice and included Torah scholars; Shimon ha-Amsuni nullified all et-expositions due to this difficulty.

There is a similar derash elsewhere. The Torah states (Vayikra/Leviticus 24:16): “And one who blasphemes the Name of the Lord shall surely be put to death.” That is a penalty, but where is the warning (the prohibition not to curse God)? The Gemara derives it from (Shemot/Exodus 22:27): “Elohim you shall not curse.” In the simple sense this refers to judges, but it is expounded as referring to God. In Sefer HaChinukh, Commandment 69, we read:

“Not to curse judges, as it is said (Ex. 22:27) ‘Elohim you shall not curse,’ and its meaning is judges, as (Ex. 22:8) ‘whom the Elohim shall condemn.’ Scripture used the term Elohim so that another prohibition be included with it—namely the prohibition of blaspheming the Blessed Name, as our Sages said in the Mekhilta and the Sifrei: the warning for blasphemy is from ‘Elohim you shall not curse.’ What is written elsewhere (Lev. 24:16) ‘and he who blasphemes the Name of the Lord shall surely be put to death’—that is the penalty, but the warning is from here.”

He explains that the inclusion of God stems from Scripture’s use of Elohim rather than “judges.” Although judges are elsewhere called Elohim, here it is expounded thus. The term Elohim in its plain sense can refer to judges; that itself invites a derash. It seems to equate God and judges—very reminiscent of our case. Elsewhere I explained this by noting that, like God, judges possess formal authority: we are bound to obey their directives by virtue of who they are (see, e.g., Column 631). Still, such comparisons require scriptural warrant, for otherwise theological difficulties arise. Clearly the comparison must be confined to the specific matter at hand.

Without entering fully into it, I note that in light of this we should examine our attitude toward Torah scholars. Indeed, a duty of fear was innovated; but “you have no more than what was innovated.” To attribute to them traits and capacities that exist only in God (infallibility, all-encompassing “Da’at Torah”) presents serious theological difficulty—verging on partnership. As we saw, without a clear scriptural source, there is no room for such innovations. The discerning will understand.

[1] See in the previous columns that the structure is more nuanced: the arousal of will contradicts the principle of causality but not physics; the action brought about by will contradicts physics but not the principle of causality.