The Place of Religiosity in Religious Faith: A. A General Overview (Column 311)
In the previous column (310) I responded to several critiques of what I said in an interview with Yair Sheleg. One of the main points raised in the various critiques—perhaps the central one—concerned feeling and experience, and especially their place within religious faith and service of God. Among other things, because of this I was accused by Yehuda Yifrah of “rational autism,” a charge that, in different forms, recurs among many of my critics.[1] Although I have already dealt with these topics several times in the past (on emotions, see for example Column 22, and on experiences see a bit here), as I wrote there I thought it appropriate to focus my claims on this matter in a separate column—and here it is.
“And Mordechai the Jew would neither kneel nor bow down”
I found it appropriate to open the column with a strange response from “Mordechai” that I found on the site on Sunday morning.[2] He opens with the following riddle:
This is the central point—if indeed it’s impossible to attain prophecy and an unmediated relationship with the Holy One, blessed be He, with such “truth” (and I’m not asserting any positive claim here, only assuming for the sake of discussion)—then perhaps this itself is evidence that this isn’t really the “truth” (or at least only part of the truth)?
Even he felt that this riddle required some explanation, and so immediately afterward he added the following analogy:
Perhaps I was too terse, so I’ll expand (but only a little).
When I look at a map to find my way to Jerusalem and mark out a route on it, and at the end of the trip I find myself in Tel Aviv, it’s clear that somewhere I went wrong, as the saying goes, “This is neither the way nor the city.”
Clearly not everyone will merit prophecy or divine inspiration even if one is meticulous in mitzvah observance and studies Torah constantly. This is guaranteed to no one. Even if you marked the correct route on the map, you might make a navigational error, and so on. But if the route from the outset leads somewhere else—meaning, if the path you propose blocks in principle any possibility of prophecy and an unmediated relationship with the Holy One, blessed be He (and you even add words of disparagement toward that aspiration)—its end testifies to its beginning that something in your logical-philosophical analysis and your “thin theology” is flawed, even if I couldn’t point to the exact fallacy. (And it seems to me, after reading most of the trilogy, that I can point to a number of fallacies, but this is not the place.)
As noted, this is indeed a strange message (which begins with a sentence deserving to compete for understatement of the week), and I devote space to it because it expresses the point with which I wish to open here. Mordechai assumes that mapping out a theological-intellectual route (mine and in general) is meant to bring us to prophecy or to an unmediated (!) connection with God; therefore, if it does not do so, something in it fails.
Needless to say, Mordechai’s argument first and foremost begs the question. The claim I made, which he seeks to dispute, is that religious experience and feeling have no importance. Even if someone’s heart compels him to dispute these living words of God, I see no point in declaring that if my way does not lead to religious feeling and experience, this is a sign that the way fails. That is precisely what the debate is about. He assumes that my arguments are supposed to lead to his conclusions, and when they do not, they fail. If you wish to argue with me, it is appropriate to raise (positive) claims and arguments, not merely make declarations. The added GPS analogy only deepens the sense of question-begging and certainly does not help extricate us from this logical bind. Marking a route on a map is intended to bring us to the intended destination; if it fails to do so, it is indeed useless and unhelpful. By contrast, if the marking was intended for aesthetic purposes, for example, then there is certainly room to discuss its utility even if it leads elsewhere. In our case, our debate is about this very question: what is the purpose of the map and the marking on it (=my theology)? Therefore, as I wrote there, it is really not clear to me what this analogy could add to the discussion.
Mordechai’s substantive claim
But to reach our topic, we must leave aside Mordechai’s logic and methodology and focus on the claim itself. Like many others (some of whom were cited in the previous column and others appeared in the comments), Mordechai assumes that the meaning of faith (or at least a central part of it) is religious feeling or a religiose experience. I, as noted, deny this. In my view, this is not an essential component of faith, and certainly in my trilogy or here on the site I did not intend to chart a path that leads to them (and therefore, even if I did not help you reach mystical union, or a direct connection with the Creator, I do not feel I have failed—begging your pardon, of course). Moreover, I wrote that if someone finds himself in such a mystical union—good for him. As I wrote, even if there is some value in it (only when it appears beyond the foundational tier of commitment), I do not provide that service. Beyond that, I greatly doubt the cognitive/epistemic basis of such mystical experiences—that is, that they in any way testify to a connection with the Creator. True, I cannot deny their existence and perhaps cannot categorically reject their reliability; nonetheless, in my view they usually indicate a psychological structure and need of the experiencer rather than any referent in the objective world. The fact that a person feels some experiential connection to the Creator does not mean that this reflects any encounter with Him. To use the language of our Sages, it can also be wishful thinking. Finally, one could argue that even if this is not an encounter but rather an expression of the experiencer’s own religious feeling, perhaps there is value in it in and of itself. A person is connected to God with every fiber of his being, and therefore senses Him in the experiential and emotional realms of his soul (even if there is no encounter in any real sense). Later I will argue that I doubt even this—but this, of course, is debatable.
Why isn’t faith wishful thinking?
I can already anticipate readers’ questions: why not say, to the same extent, that faith too is wishful thinking? And indeed Marx already taught us that religion is the opiate of the masses. Incidentally, religious experiences and feelings generally do seem to me like that in practice. A person seeks a connection to the hidden, unfathomable God; it’s no wonder he finds it in one experience or another. But religion without experiences and feelings is actually less suspect of being an opiate meant to satisfy human needs. It is a religion that demands rather than supplies, requires rather than answers needs (perhaps it does answer a need for meaning and rationality, but that is true of any philosophical theory). And nevertheless, many accuse cognitive theology and faith of being the opiate of wishful thinking…
In principle, of course, this could be true. But to criticize and attack a claim based on reasons and arguments, one must substantiate the critical arguments. Someone who doubts the premises or logic of an argument should explain what in the premises or the logic seems wrong to him, and then there is room and need to conduct a debate about it. By contrast, the fact that a person experiences an experience or feels a certain feeling within his inner soul says nothing about their meaning. The human soul is rich and varied, and it has all sorts of depths from which a host of experiences and feelings can be hewn without any need for a source in the objective world. We dream, sense, and experience a great many things, and one who treats all these as expressions of an encounter with something in the objective world usually needs a professional’s care. Not for nothing do psychologists address the meaning of dreams in terms of revealing the depths of the soul—expressions of repressed needs and fears, etc. Ostensibly, none of this is necessary: a person dreamt that two pink eagles attacked him above Lake Hula—then apparently that’s what really happened, no?! After all, he had such an experience. A dream too is an experience.
In my view, when criticism is raised regarding feeling and experience, religious or otherwise, the burden of proof rests on the experiencer, not on the critic. This is not like criticism of an argument. Are there not plenty of people who experience visits by the angel Gabriel, by Jesus, or by Napoleon Bonaparte? Or those who feel that they are the Messiah, or the official spokesmen of God? Others feel that their grandmother appeared to them in a dream or is present at their daughter’s wedding. Even the officiating rabbi tells us again and again that all the grandfathers and grandmothers are gazing down upon us (as “the holy books” say—there, there). There are also people who are afraid at night. Does that necessarily mean that there are demons and harmful spirits there? Is anyone claiming that all these feelings and experiences must be taken seriously, or that the burden of proof lies on whoever doubts them?! Someone reports that he feels a certain feeling or experienced something—so what?! Does that mean it reflects a meeting or mystical union? Is anyone who doubts this a rational autistic? If so, then I am a proud autistic (see Column 218).
I stress again: in principle, it is possible that such experiences and feelings reflect a real encounter with the Creator. But it is also possible that they do not. My skepticism (or “autism”) only says that the burden of proof is on the one who claims that they do.
Summary of my claims
To summarize, my claims are the following:
- a. Religious feeling and experience are not necessarily expressions of an actual encounter with the Creator. b. Even if there were an encounter—there is not necessarily value in it.
- a. If there is no encounter, it may still be an emotional expression of the faith within us. b. But even such an expression does not necessarily have value.
- Even if there is some value in one of these, it is certainly not the foundation and not an essential component of faith and service of God. At most, this can be treated as a possible mode of faith or divine service, built upon the tier of cognitive faith and religious commitment, which are the basic and binding plane of divine service. As noted, I even doubt this.
- And even if all these had immense value (and as noted, in my opinion they do not), my theology does not try to help people reach illuminations of that sort. Does this disqualify the path I propose/describe? After the rational foundation, each person can take things and build upon them an edifice of experiences and feelings as he wishes and understands. As noted, unfortunately we do not provide that particular service, not even for an additional fee—but the path is open to anyone who desires to do so on his own.
Kant and Judaism
Kant conceived of Judaism as a kind of social code, not really a religion. His Jewish students and friends wrote at length about his mistaken conception and the unfamiliarity that led to that mistake.[3] But to the best of my judgment, he actually perceived Judaism quite correctly, and it was they who were mistaken. We must remember that Kant came from a Christian society and culture that saw two main essential features of religion: religiosity (religious experience and feeling) and morality. From that vantage point he looked at Judaism and saw that the main thing was missing. It is hard to deny that, at least factually, the essence of Judaism in the eyes of Jews is halakha (Jewish law). The experiential and emotional dimensions—even if they existed among certain Jews—were not regarded as essential components of Jewish religiosity. One who was not endowed with these was not considered religiously lacking (except on the fringes, which see these dimensions as the essence of Jewish religiosity). By contrast, one who was not committed to halakha could not be considered a religious Jew (perhaps a religiose Jew—but that very concept is Christian). The centrality of Torah study and the focus of learners on halakha, as well as the selection of rabbis and religious leadership according to their mastery of halakha in particular, also attest to this. It is no wonder that Kant’s conclusion was that this is not a religion but a normative code.
I do disagree with Kant regarding terminology. In my view, a religion can certainly be defined on the basis of a “code” and not on the basis of religiosity (and so it should be). Religiosity, at least in its Jewish sense, is indeed the acceptance of the yoke and commitment to a normative code—halakha. The definition of commitment to this code as “religion” derives from the fact that the source of this code is God (as opposed to commitment to other codes). Moreover, unlike other codes, most of it (and in my view all of it) has no practical, social, or other purposes. Like Maimonides, I too assume it has aims of some spiritual refinement (usually hidden and not understood), but it certainly is not a typical code. Morality and religious experience—even if they have some importance in the Jewish world—are certainly not the basis that defines Jewish religiosity. This is first and foremost an empirical fact. Go out and see what people actually do. But as I will argue below, in my view there is also a logical basis for this.
So, beyond terminology, I think Kant was right in his diagnosis. He grasped Judaism correctly and far more precisely than his Jewish students. Whether this is called a “religion” or not is secondary. In the Holy Tongue, as is well known, “dat” (religion) means law. True, these usages are later—mainly in the late prophets (the overwhelming majority in the Book of Esther, and also in Daniel and Ezra)—such as in the verse “and the decree (dat) was given in Shushan the capital,” “those who know every decree and law,” and many more. But there is at least one place in the Torah itself (Deuteronomy, the beginning of chapter 33):
“And this is the blessing with which Moses, the man of God, blessed the children of Israel before his death. And he said: The LORD came from Sinai and shone forth to them from Seir; He appeared from Mount Paran; He came from the myriads of holy ones—at His right hand, a fire of fiery law for them. Indeed, He loves the peoples; all His holy ones are in Your hand; they sit at Your feet; each receives Your words. Moses commanded us the Torah, an inheritance for the congregation of Jacob.”
From the plain sense of the text—and so explain all the commentators there—“dat” is the Torah. So, for example, in the Midrash Tannaim ad loc.:
“Dat—just as fire was given from the heavens, so too the Torah was given from the heavens. Another explanation: just as fire is life forever, so too the words of Torah are life forever. Another explanation: just as anyone who uses fire is warmed by it, and one who separates from it is cold, so too anyone who engages in words of Torah has life, and one who separates from words of Torah has no life.”
One could say that “Torah” includes not only halakha (the “code”), but we must remember that from the plain sense of the Torah it emerges that at Mount Sinai we were given primarily the halakha (the Ten Commandments). Add to that the meaning of the term “dat” in the later prophets as we saw, and it is quite clear that this is the meaning of the concept in the language of Scripture.[4]
Between Immanuel Kant and Yehuda Yifrah
I couldn’t help but recall a passage from Heinrich Heine’s biography of Kant:[5]
It is difficult to write the history of Immanuel Kant’s life, for he had neither life nor history. He lived a regular, mechanically ordered, almost abstract life, on a quiet, remote street in Königsberg, an old city on the northeastern border of Germany. I do not think that the great clock of the local cathedral performed its outward duty with less zeal and greater regularity than his fellow townsman Immanuel Kant. Rising, drinking coffee, writing, lecturing, eating, walking—everything had for him a fixed time, and the neighbors knew exactly that it was three-thirty when Immanuel Kant left his door in his gray coat, cane in hand, to go to the little linden avenue which, because of him, is still called the Philosopher’s Walk today. Eight times he would pace there and back, in all seasons; and on dark days or when gray clouds threatened rain, his servant, old Lampe, was seen walking behind him anxiously, an umbrella under his arm, a veritable image of Providence. A strange contrast between the outward life of the man and his destructive thought that undermined worlds! Indeed, had the citizens of Königsberg felt the full weight of this thought, they would have been gripped with terror at that man, a greater fear than the fear of an executioner, who puts to death only human beings—but the good people saw in him only a professor of philosophy, and when he passed them at the fixed hour, they greeted him and set their pocket watches by him.
This amiable fellow is depicted here as a person entirely devoid of experiences and feelings (=zeal). A punctilious square who does the same thing every day in exactly the same way, and who treats every idea and insight on a technical, logical, analytic plane—cold and dry as a cucumber. Where are the feelings and experiences, Immanuel?! And yet, let me remind you, Heine the writer understood that “Old Man Immanuel” is considered the greatest philosopher of the modern era, and he writes this critical description with genuine awe. Did he really have “neither life nor history,” in Heine’s words? Kant’s thought aroused storms and debates and effected passionate, emotional revolutions all over the world; it undermined ideas and worlds—even though he himself never left Königsberg, and in fact never strayed from the “Philosopher’s Walk” in Königsberg. I suppose Yehuda Yifrah would also call him a rational autistic. He would likely prefer mystical experiences to logical and philosophical analysis of synthetic a priori judgments, and he would prefer deep feelings about the categorical imperative over “wasting” time on cold, alienated intellectual musings on the foundations of moral theory. In his view, Kant too is a waste—after all, he could have been a shammes in the Baal Shem Tov’s synagogue instead of wasting his time on cold and empty ruminations (see here, and in Column 121).
You’ll probably be surprised, but I’m really not in Yifrah’s party. True, Kant tries with all his might to push me out of his party (in his view, as a religious person I am supposed to possess religiose experiences and not engage analytically and coldly with rational codes. In short, to be religious is to be Yehuda Yifrah). Still, I am very glad he did not succeed—that is, that I am still here. Not among the tribe of pagan cave dwellers who engage in channeling aliens and mystical reptiles, but among the group that has some cognitive statement. I am very happy to belong to this “autistic” party, even if some of my needs are not answered in this way (as noted, I am not autistic; no one is perfect).
A historical look
If at Sinai we received primarily a “code,” a normative system, then in the generations that followed it is hard to say that the focus was specifically on it. The Bible does not emphasize halakha, and one certainly cannot find in it the centrality of halakhic-Talmudic study. The Bible is a book of vibrant, tumultuous life and less of intellectual reflection—even beyond halakha. Even the wisdom books of the Bible are not written in the form of dry analytic thought. But beginning in the Second Temple period—the era of Oral Torah—halakha takes on an increasingly central place. The Talmud, as is known, includes additional components: aggadah and thought, life insights, and even illnesses and remedies, cosmology, and various stories. Yet in the post-Talmudic era, the focus returned to the halakhic component of the halakha. My sense is that in the Talmudic era the Sages viewed Judaism as the totality of life, and therefore included within it every insight and wisdom. In their eyes this was life, and nothing human was foreign to them. In my opinion, this is a by-product of the lack of self-awareness in antiquity and of living within a group that had no real competition from its surroundings. Anything that is not Torah is worthless, and anything of worth is Torah. In the modern era, when other forms of wisdom developed and it became clear that religion is not the whole of life but only a certain component within it, the focus on halakha is a natural and warranted development. Even so, I too am a product of my milieu, and I defined a peripheral circle of “Torah in the person” around the core circle of “Torah in the object.” I agree that not only Torah (in the object) has value, and that there is certainly interest and room to engage in other things. But precisely this requires us to define more clearly the place of each such engagement.
In recent generations, in my estimation, there has been a concentrated effort to change the essence of Judaism. People are trying to insert into center stage extra-halakhic conceptions—morality and values, theological principles and Bible study—and not least, feeling and experience. As I understand it, this stems mainly from two sources: Christian influences (to a large extent via Hasidism and no less via emancipation) and secularization. Christianity jettisoned practical commandments and preserved morality, religiosity, and faith; it redefined the concept of “religion,” and many Jews (including religious ones) are unwittingly following in its footsteps. Secularization also contributed to pushing halakha aside, since Jewish secularism seeks a way to define itself as Judaism—or even as religiosity—but without religious commitment (“you don’t have a monopoly on Judaism”). Naturally, everything beyond halakha moves to center stage, and halakha remains neglected on the side. The priestess and the innkeeper have switched places. Unfortunately, quite a few religious people—especially those influenced by the processes I described—adopt these conceptions as well. Why shouldn’t Judaism be a religion in the accepted sense? Why leave to Christianity the monopoly on morality and religiosity? We want that too…
Some go even further and see in this a renaissance—a religious revival through a return to ancient religiosity. Like Protestantism in Christianity, this too is a protest movement, a return to the Bible while skipping over thousands of years of exile and Oral Torah—a departure from the normative sphere (=the Philosopher’s Walk in Königsberg) to the breadth of life. In my view, this is also part of the influence of Zionism, which sought to revive Judaism in a secular-national sense, and of feelings of inferiority toward Christianity.
As I understand it, the years of exile—despite all their drawbacks—helped us focus our religious conception in relation to our surroundings and to understand what is religion and what is culture, and to distinguish between core and periphery, between the secondary (and perhaps trivial?!) and the principal. What belongs to God and the religious sphere, and what to the secular sphere and the breadth of life. Therefore these processes, in my view, are harmful and mistaken. Again, I say this as someone who sees great value in all the breadth of life; I simply see no need or logic to insert all of this into the religious sphere. It is possible—and proper—to engage in all these without a religious stamp of approval. As for feeling and experience, in my view this is less significant; still, if someone sees value in it—good for him. There is no need to turn these matters into principles of faith and foundations of the service of God.
Over the course of history, the very concept of “religiosity” underwent a metamorphosis. We saw that originally this term denotes a normative code, whereas under Christianity today it points specifically toward the religiose feeling. Some criticize the reduction involved—the turning of Judaism into a sector, whether code-based or experience-based. This critique too comes from a national direction (Judaism as a nation, not as a religion), and I do not see in it an authentic religious argument. But to me, it is not very important to debate the meanings of the terms “dat” and “religiosity.” The more important question is what is proper to do, and what is more or less important in serving God. Terminology is secondary. Here I return again to Kant, who was right at the diagnostic level—which is the important one—even if one can argue with him at the semantic-conceptual level.
The four claims I described above deal with substantive questions, not terminology. In other words: these are claims, not definitions. But claims, of course, require explanation. Why reject an approach that was prevalent in ancient times, especially when many of us see that period as a kind of religious ideal? If we have accepted the authority of the Talmud, how can we—and may we—depart from the picture of Judaism (or religiosity) that emerges from it? And even if we learned something from Christianity or from secular Zionism, does that necessarily invalidate these claims and conclusions? I am the last person to use “source” as a basis for invalidating an opinion or claim. In my opinion, the provenance of an idea is irrelevant to the substantive discussion about it. What matters is the idea itself. In the next column I will begin to examine the claims themselves.
[1] I don’t think this accusation is justified—but only because no one is perfect. See on this in Column 218.
[2] Perhaps I owe Mordechai an apology for putting him at the center of my remarks. I planned a column on the status of feeling and experience, and he simply lobbed me the perfect setup at just the right time.
[3] There is a chapter on this in Hugo Bergmann’s book, Immanuel Kant (see also a brief and imprecise discussion here). For many additional sources (though the entry itself does not discuss this), see the bibliography at the end of his Wikipedia entry.
[4] This itself is further evidence for my claim that the essence of the Torah is “dat,” i.e., halakha. So too emerges clearly from Rashi’s first comment at the beginning of his commentary on the Torah, where he asks why the Torah did not begin with the first commandment given to us in Parashat Bo. I have cited this several times in the past.
[5] From On the History of Religion and Philosophy in Germany, translated from German by S. Perlman, “LeGvulam” Press with the participation of the Bialik Institute. Quoted in note 2 in the aforementioned Wikipedia entry.
Discussion
In your view*
It’s very strange that the Amoraim and the other sages who are your guiding light, and in whom and whose words you delve so deeply on a certain point, have turned into fools in need of treatment.
There are several pages in Berakhot about dreams, especially Rava’s dreams.
For some reason, when you see people who are rational and wise in every area, but regarding something you haven’t experienced, you assume they’re fools. Isn’t it more rational to assume that there are things others have experienced and do experience, and I simply don’t?
R.Y.,
Not everything is a goal, but they do exist.
The spirit mentioned above is not a religious goal, but it is a concept that one can reach through religion.
Tam, if your comments were directed at me—where in my words did I call them fools?
My response was directed at the rabbi.
Here are some of his words that seem applicable to Abaye and Rava, for example (perhaps they needed treatment according to his view).
“We dream, feel, and experience a great many things, and anyone who treats all these as expressing an encounter with something in the objective world usually needs treatment from a professional.”
That is already a different discussion. It is not what defines religiosity. Whether it is important or not, and why, will be discussed below.
Not for nothing did I write anyone who relates to “all these.” After all, I wrote that in principle this is possible, but such a claim requires justification. The burden of proof is on the claimant. Maybe Abaye and Rava really did behold God in their dreams. I cannot rule that out, but the burden of proof is on them, not on me.
There were factual consequences to their dreams—why isn’t that enough as proof?
Presumably you’ll say those passages of Gemara are not to be taken literally, but that’s only because of your begging-the-question assumption that dreams and other spirits simply do not exist.
Hello, Rabbi,
First, thank you for the wonderful column.
But there is one thing I would like to know.
According to your approach, the axis of religion revolves around practical halakhic commands,
and feelings or emotional encounters are not an essential or obligatory part.
If so, what is the place of emotional commandments such as “And you shall love the Lord” etc., or “The Lord your God shall you fear”?
In them, a person is indeed required to marshal feelings and emotions for the Holy One, blessed be He.
After the rabbi’s words about feelings and emotions, commands regarding emotion in the Torah—
what need is there for them alongside practical halakhic commands,
whose objective source is much clearer?
Best regards.
An emotional experience is impossible without certain faith, and even if there is no proof for a commandment of feeling, from the fact that there were those who experienced Judaism [Rishonim, Amoraim, Tannaim, kings, and prophets] we see that at the very least they understood that one must indeed believe in one’s heart with certainty [after the intellect sees the probability of the truth of God].
The remarks about expanding the domain of Judaism beyond the commandments, when the real aim is basically to render their observance unnecessary, are very much on target.
Perhaps the reason Mordechai assumed there is an essential matter in attaining prophecy/the Holy Spirit is that the source of the Torah—even if you think its main element is a halakhic code—is Moses’ prophecy. He did not mention experience or emotion at all in his response, but no matter what he meant, it is in any case a very reasonable assumption that prophecy and the Holy Spirit have value if they are the source of halakha, which according to you is the essence of Judaism.
Perhaps you think Moses’ prophecy is only a technical means that enables the existence of Torah; perhaps in the past prophecy was a virtue and today wisdom is; perhaps you think prophecy is something more intellectual than emotional. But the simple assumption is that according to Judaism there is such a state as prophecy and it is a great virtue, and therefore if you accept that your approach blocks such a connection with the Holy One, blessed be He (even for an added fee…), then there is something in it that is cut off from its source, and that requires explanation.
It is true that the burden of proof lies on the one claiming the Holy Spirit or a dream, etc.—as it is written in the Torah that there must be a sign or a wonder—but given such a sign, even you, Rabbi, would have to listen to the dreamer, at least as a temporary ruling.
1b. “Even if there was an encounter here—there is not necessarily value here.”
But if you have not experienced it and therefore do not know what such an encounter is (I haven’t either), then how can one determine that perhaps there is no value to such an encounter? Formally there is no problem here, but from the practical standpoint it seems puzzling, and it also recalls the criticisms of great rabbis, may they live long, who issue rulings for the generation without knowing the actual situation. Even the use of the term ‘encounter’ seems a bit misleading. Seemingly, one can use a familiar term for an unusual and abstract meaning (and therefore a broader one) only if there has already been some penetration in thought or feeling into that abstract meaning. Otherwise a gap is created between the writer and the reader.
Tell me, do you yourself understand what you are writing? Because I don’t.
You brought up Abaye’s and Rava’s dreams and asked why I do not dismiss them. So I told you there is no necessity to dismiss them, because there can be true dreams. Now you are explaining to me that Abaye and Rava have proof from the dreams’ fulfillment (although in Sanhedrin 30 we see that fulfillment is not proof). So what do you want from me? Fulfillment is the reason to take it seriously, even according to the view that dreams speak falsely (which, as you may recall, is not my invention either).
I also do not assume that such powers do not exist, and I already wrote that. What you assume about my assumptions is not really relevant to the discussion.
Gladly. See column 22.
I lost you. Who was talking about prophecy? Why would my approach prevent prophecy? I am talking about experience and a direct connection with the Holy One, blessed be He, not about prophecy.
As for the argument that the Torah is based on Moses’ prophecy, I do not see any connection between that and our discussion.
You are putting the cart before the horse. This will be discussed later.
And I’ll just leave here as well the words of the false prophet Isaiah: “The Jewish religion creates the faith on which it is based. It is a logical paradox, but not a religious paradox.” One could argue in your name (probably not justly, but it requires explanation why not): “The Jewish religion treats as secondary the connection with God on which it is based.” And that too is not very logical.
Mordechai spoke about prophecy:
“This is the central point—if indeed it is impossible to attain prophecy and an unmediated connection with the Holy One, blessed be He, with such ‘truth’” “Clearly not every person will merit prophecy and the Holy Spirit, even if he is meticulous in commandments and constantly studies Torah.”
You chose to evade that and discuss some naked emotional religiosity of deluded people; he was speaking about aspiring to the Holy Spirit.
There is no need to wait for that. It is simply as obvious as an egg in yogurt. The Jewish religion does not treat connection to God as secondary, but rather emotional experiences that purport to express a connection to Him. The true and important connection to Him is made through studying His Torah and observing His commandments. That is the connection He demanded of us, and it is definitely important and not at all secondary. See Nefesh HaChayim at the beginning of Gate 4.
I already answered that. What is the point of repeating it again and again? Does repeating something give it a different color?
I didn’t see that you answered—it was written before I refreshed the page. Sorry!
Now I understand that the point of dispute is how one reaches the connection and what the nature of the connection is, not its very existence. I quite agree with your words that the way is through Torah and halakha. At the same time, if I return again to prophecy—in my understanding it also has other elements connected to emotion, imagination, etc., and this plane of connection with God is important too, not only as something secondary.
Thank you!
Interesting. Following.
In the context of the description of the separation between “secular life” and “religion,” it would be proper to mention Christianity here too (although, as you said, that in itself is not grounds for rejecting the matter): “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.”
And an aesthetic suggestion—if this series of articles is ever printed somewhere, in some future trilogy or quartet (God forbid), in my humble opinion it would be advisable to omit the part analyzing the response.
Avishai, a few thoughts to supplement your words. It seems from the plain sense of the Torah that the story of Mount Sinai and Moses’ prophecy that followed was actually meant to lock away the prophetic experience. The story—and I summarize this even before the explanation below—comes to answer a hidden question of the Jew: why should I accept commandments from God if He never told me His words directly? Why should I believe Moses as a conduit? The Jew’s natural expectation is that “would that all the Lord’s people were prophets,” and that the Torah should be received only in a collective event in which God reveals Himself to everyone and addresses each one in the singular, opening: “I am the Lord your God… you shall not covet…” Moreover, God Himself repeatedly warns Moses—despite Moses’ arguments—to go back and restrain the people lest they break through to see God and “many of them fall.” That is, the expectation was that there would be a mass rush toward the mystical experience or toward the divine speech. (This distinguishes the religion of Israel, unlike religions based from the outset on trust in one person who mediates the divine utterance, like Jesus and Muhammad. And all is well with that.) Yet, as is known, the opposite is what happened. The people were afraid, and instead of rushing upon the mountain, they drew back and cut off the revelation at its height—asking Moses to approach the thick cloud instead. He would be the emissary. Later Moses reveals in Deuteronomy (chapter 5) that God agreed with the move: “They have done well in all that they have spoken.” From then on all the commandments after the Ten Commandments (or two commandments) would be mediated only through Moses: “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying.” No one would have proof that Moses was not inventing things out of his own heart, except that reliance on the collective revelation which, just as it opened, so it ended—in a blink—“a great voice, and it did not continue.” In that moment when the entire people experienced the divine voice, a window was opened for them to what a prophetic experience is—and they recognized the fact that God prophesies to man and even conveys His will to him in words, in commands. That was the people’s finest hour—and by its power they believe Moses’ words decades later. Simply because for one brief moment they were with Moses on the same continuum. This is the purpose of the Sinai event, as God says to Moses near the event: “and they shall also believe in you forever.” That is, because they will be like you (see there). Note well: the expectation was that all of them would be prophets forever (and perhaps at the end of the event they would ascend the mountain to receive the rest of the Torah: “when the ram’s horn sounds long, they shall go up on the mountain,” and therefore there was the divine need to emphasize again and again the prohibition against breaking through to the Lord to see while He descended in fire). But already before the revelation, God leaves open the second possibility as well—that the revelation would be one-time only, and they would retreat and close off the possibility of speaking to God again. To this option too, God consents and declares the advantage of the event even in its temporary form, in that it would establish faith in Moses for future generations. In other words: even prophecy for a moment is better than nothing. This is the Israelite innovation, as stated. A democratization of prophecy (in the language of the “studies”).
After all this—the message emerging from the Torah’s words is that although the ideal is that all the Lord’s people be prophets, and as several prophets say that in the future God will pour out His spirit upon all flesh—in a democratic and egalitarian spirit regarding the word of God—nevertheless the Pentateuch contains an almost opposite message: for the time being, collective prophecy is impossible. You had such an opportunity and you missed it; you proved that nothing will help and there are no leaps and skips. A human being cannot hear the voice of God speaking out of the fire and survive—psychologically, socially, physically, or sociologically. Maybe in the future, maybe with the purification of the generations and the uprooting of idolatry and moral sin. But for now, no. What remains to us now are the 613 commandments given to us by an emissary whom we appointed to hear God’s word in our place. (Like selling chametz to a gentile, mutatis mutandis.) These matters are very subtle and sophisticated, and they seem to arise from the biblical story itself. It comes to ground trust in the Torah’s code (which wraps and is woven through with stories of revelation) even though it was not given directly by the Creator. It was supposed to be otherwise, but that did not materialize. Now this is what there is. (The Torah is very aware of the possibility of doubting its commandments, as proven by the law of killing a prophet who brings a sign in Deuteronomy 13, and by the very story of the swallowing of Korach’s congregation who doubted Torah from heaven. This is truly critical awareness within the Torah itself.)
Does this mean there is no expectation of prophecy? Not necessarily. While the individual must obey Moses’ words because of the authority the people delegated to him (with God’s agreement), and not expect religious experiences to guide his path, the reality of a prophet can still exist by extending Moses’ figure into later generations. For there is one small clause in this whole contract of locking away prophecy that nevertheless permits the possibility of prophecy by virtue of Moses’ prophecy (this clause is brought in Deuteronomy chapter 18 and does not derive from chapter 5; see there): “When you come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not learn to do according to the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or daughter pass through the fire, one who uses divination, an augur, an enchanter, a sorcerer, one who casts spells, one who consults ghosts or familiar spirits, or one who seeks the dead. For whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord, and because of these abominations the Lord your God is driving them out before you. You shall be wholehearted with the Lord your God. For these nations, whom you are dispossessing, listen to augurs and diviners; but as for you, the Lord your God has not given you so. The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you, from your brothers—to him you shall listen. This is according to all that you asked of the Lord your God at Horeb on the day of the assembly, saying: ‘Let me not hear again the voice of the Lord my God, and let me not see this great fire anymore, lest I die.’ And the Lord said to me: ‘They have done well in what they have spoken. I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their brothers, and I will put My words in his mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I command him.’” (Rabbi Moshe Shapira expanded on this in Ra’ah Emunah, as was his way.)
Later in the verses there, several criteria are given for establishing a true prophecy—that it takes place publicly—and on the other hand, a death warning for a prophet who speaks from his own heart. This strongly reinforces the rejection of a desire for halakhic decision-making on the basis of “the spirit of the Torah” or religious emotionalism. The Torah permits only a command that comes by way of a prophet. The stiff-neckedness of the people almost invites the growth of personal religiosity, from the gut—and therefore the Torah rejects it מראש. A reforming figure like Jesus is truly the antichrist of the Torah (by way of homiletics: “for the Lord your God is testing you”—“because the Omnipresent is testing you, and it was revealed and known before Him that Jesus the Nazarene would arise, therefore He warned in advance” [Rabbenu Meyuchas, 12th-century Greece]; “if your brother, the son of your mother, entices you”—this is Jesus the Nazarene. From here there is proof to answer heretics who believe in Jesus, for one tells them that Moses our teacher already anticipated him and commanded us not to believe in the one you say was born from a mother without a father, as it says “your brother, the son of your mother” [Rabbenu Ephraim]). But, as stated, any Jew who feels that God is speaking to him and that this is what he feels and experiences as the right thing to do, sometimes against the commands of the Torah—he too falls under what the Torah opposes. The only channel is Moses.
In summary: indeed prophecy stands within the halakhic commands of the Torah. Moreover, prophecy can also exist after Moses by virtue of a prophet “like him.” The only thing that was locked and sealed is direct speech and hearing the divine command by the individual. Such prophecy is not among the movements the Torah encourages, and in many respects it is wary of it. (The eruption of God’s spirit upon the seventy elders too was done only through an emanation from Moses—and these are one and the same thing.)
Thank you, the idea is beautiful and supports the explanation that prophecy is the basis of Torah but is not relevant as an aspiration now, only in the future to come. From what I understood from Rabbi Michi’s words, the main thrust of his answer is that prophecy is not by way of emotional experience, and he sees no connection between the two; therefore even if it is relevant now, there is no difficulty for his approach.
And I would add in this context regarding the historical analysis of the recent connection between emotion and religion: part of the idea of restoring the matter of emotion to the service of God is based on the thought of nearness to redemption and the return of prophecy. Rabbi Kook (and his students), for example, did not think he was giving value to emotion and imagination because he was implicitly influenced by Christianity and wanted to abolish the value of practical commandments, but because he assumed redemption was approaching and prophecy was becoming relevant again. [True, there are those for whom religious experience comes in place of the halakhic path, but it is not correct to say that the whole matter of bringing emotion and experience into Judaism stems mainly from Christianity and secularization.]
Like any generalization, of course it cannot be applied to each and every detail. My claim is that the acceptance of this approach by the broader public stems from that. Rabbi Kook did not want to free himself from obligation. That is clear. But it is indeed true that his messianism and the secular Zionist influence (including the shedding of exile) certainly could also have influenced him.
With God’s help, 9 Sivan 5780
Emotion in religious life is vital, not in order to be prophets, but in order to be living human beings.
The commandments dependent on religious feeling—love of God, fear of Him, and cleaving to Him—are an inseparable part of the Torah’s commandments. Even the observance of practical commandments should be done with joy, as Maimonides says, learning this from the punishment designated by the Torah: “because you did not serve the Lord your God with joy and gladness of heart, from the abundance of all things,” and as the Psalmist says: “Serve the Lord with joy; come before Him with song.”
By nature a human being is composed of intellect and emotion, and when service of God is dry and does not fill those who practice it with positive feelings—it becomes a burden and turns repulsive to a person, just as the sages described the grim state of “one who reads without melody and repeats without song,” for whom the Torah becomes, Heaven forbid, like “statutes that were not good and ordinances by which they could not live.”
But when “we walk in the house of God with feeling,” the yoke of Torah and commandments comes pleasantly, and then there is the ability to persevere in it even when difficulties arise, as they expounded: “with feeling”—through hail, wind, rain, and snow.
Best regards, S.Z.
Paragraph 4, line 1\
…and then there is the ability to persevere in it…
And perhaps Maimonides, who sees the Nazirite as a sinner (unless he does it as a fence to guard himself from falling into sin), is consistent with his own view that joy in the service of God is a great foundation.
And perhaps for that reason the priestly blessing was juxtaposed to the section of the Nazirite—to teach us that a person needs not only blessing and divine protection, but also the positive inner feeling of “May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you.”
When a person feels that God lifts His face to him with attention and care—then he reaches wholeness on all levels of life, a joyful integration of body and soul, intellect and emotion, and then he need not separate himself and abstain from the wine that gladdens God and men, but knows how to integrate feeling and joy into his life with proper critical guidance from the intellect.
Best regards, S.Z.
As for Nachmanides, who holds that according to the opinion that a Nazirite is called a “sinner,” this is not because he afflicted himself by abstaining from wine, but because he discontinued his Nazirite status—it is possible that this is consistent with his own view that the commandment “You shall be holy” requires a person to set up fences for himself and “sanctify himself in what is permitted to him.”
Rabbi Michi, could you expand on your suggestion regarding the difference between the periods—between the days of prophecy and the Oral Torah?
I understand that you claim this was under the influence of the nations in their respective eras; could you elaborate?
More power to you.
Good morning, Rabbi Michael.
Indeed, religiosity is really not the main thing in Judaism, and the concept is generally Christian, as you wrote. But engagement with God’s presence in the world and in the Torah is certainly important, even if secondary to halakha. What can one do—the rabbi of all the Lithuanians, the Vilna Gaon, decided to invest many hours in the matter; Nachmanides too was troubled by the issue, the Beit Yosef as well, etc.—there is no need to elaborate on what is well known. Now we need to clarify and define the nature of engaging in matters of divinity, and what relation it has to religious experiences.
The whole matter of religious experience and excitement, and its significance, is described nicely and briefly:
“Then Moses turned and went down from the mountain with the two tablets of the testimony in his hand, tablets written on both their sides; on the one side and on the other were they written. And the tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, engraved upon the tablets. And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said to Moses, ‘There is a noise of war in the camp.’ And he said, ‘It is not the sound of a shout of victory, nor is it the sound of a cry of defeat; it is the sound of singing that I hear.’ And it came to pass, as soon as he came near the camp, that he saw the calf and the dances; and Moses’ anger burned hot, and he cast the tablets from his hands and broke them beneath the mountain.”
On the one hand, Moses comes down with written tablets. On the other hand, they are occupied with religious experiences. Joshua, in his innocence and lack of experience, thinks these are the sounds of war—something is happening there, there is ecstasy—and Moses explains to him what the real situation is.
You gave me chills. I’ll add to my will a request to engrave on my tombstone: “Merited the dedication of column 311 (numerically ‘ISH’) from the Rambam-G (R. Michi son of George).”
As is your way in the trilogy, so here as well: you set the opposing view before a crooked mirror and present it in caricature, and even put words in the mouth of the other side that he did not say, while ignoring what he did say. A low demagogic trick. In any case, the expansion I added was not intended for you, but for the other readers on the site. I am still convinced that you understood my intention well even from the short comment, and I have difficulty believing in your innocence. (As I noted, you are simply far too clever and intelligent.) Indeed, you owe me nothing, including an answer to my comments. (It is also your right to block me on your site.) But if you are dedicating a column to me, then please, do not distort my words. (The full quote only adds to my anger at the distortion.)
As someone already noted above, I did not speak about feelings at all, and certainly not about “religious emotion” (what is that?). I am speaking about the aspiration to closeness to God, as it says (Exodus 19:6): “And you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” That is the declared goal of the Giver of the Torah for Israel, and as we learned (Avodah Zarah 20b): The Rabbis taught: “And you shall guard yourself from every evil thing” (Deuteronomy 23:10)—that a man should not entertain thoughts by day and come to impurity by night. From here Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair said: “Torah leads to watchfulness, watchfulness leads to zeal, zeal leads to cleanliness, cleanliness leads to abstinence, abstinence leads to purity, purity leads to piety, piety leads to humility, humility leads to fear of sin, fear of sin leads to holiness, holiness leads to the Holy Spirit, the Holy Spirit leads to the resurrection of the dead, and piety is greater than all of them, as it is said: ‘Then You spoke in vision to Your pious one’ (Psalms 89:20).” And this disagrees with Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. For Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: “Humility is greater than all of them, as it is said: ‘The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good tidings to the humble’ (Isaiah 61:1). It does not say ‘to the pious’ but ‘to the humble’; from this you learn that humility is greater than all of them.”
Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair describes a kind of deterministic path whose beginning is “Torah” and whose end is the Holy Spirit and resurrection of the dead. Indeed, the transition from stage to stage is difficult and demanding, and only a few ever merit reaching the end of the path. But that is the destination and that is the goal. Not “religious emotion,” not “mystical experiences,” and the rest of the vegetables you attributed to me (and I suspect not by innocent mistake). Nobody asked you for any “service” (you enjoyed that bit of wit so much that you repeated it twice). The question is whether the “Torah” you propose (in the object, the subject, the woman, or in spirits and souls) can serve as the first station on the route leading to “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” or whether it leads to Plato’s republic of philosophers. You do not need to be told that the end-point of a logical path teaches us something about its beginning.
Serving God for its own sake is supposed to open a possibility and a chance of drawing close to the Holy One, blessed be He, in the sense I mentioned above. The emotional experience is perhaps a bonus. I do not know; I have never merited it, and I am not even sure that Moses our teacher had “religious emotion” (though even of this I cannot be certain, of course, for I do not know what that emotion is). In any event, serving God is not an experiential sequence, and it has a strongly emphasized dimension of a servant’s service (“For the children of Israel are servants to Me,” Leviticus 25:55). But that is only the first story, whose role is to serve as a corridor to the higher stories of “You are children to the Lord your God” (Deuteronomy 14:1). In the second book of the trilogy you declare that in your opinion a Jew is nothing more than “a commandment-observing gentile.” But in fact, according to your “thin theology,” he is much less than that. A mechanistic, Leibowitzian, robotic ritual of that sort turns the Jew into a splendidly domesticated human beast, even if it is done by free choice following philosophical reflection. Even if the horse reaches the philosophical conclusion that its destiny is to be a beast of burden (cf. Orwell’s Animal Farm), that will not change its essence or the nature of its labor. But the Giver of the Torah declared that its purpose is to transform beasts of burden and intelligent computers into “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” human beings, seekers of closeness to God who also have a real chance of attaining it.
After you nullified the value of studying Tanakh and aggadah, you left us with studying Talmud and halakha (especially in the Brisker method that sharpens the intellect, ostensibly). That is, you blocked the masses of the house of Israel who are not fit for this from any chance of closeness to God, just as the Lithuanian scholars did who scorned the common folk in the fields, and caused a wave of mass conversion to Christianity that was stopped in its infancy thanks to the Baal Shem Tov and Hasidism, who taught that every Jew is beloved before the Holy One, blessed be He, if he serves God sincerely and out of love and fear of Him. Hasidism did not offer this as a substitute for Torah study (the early rebbes were outstanding scholars—suffice it to mention R. Chaim of Sanz, the Sefat Emet, the Chiddushei HaRim, the Minchat Elazar, and others. The decline began when rebbeship became a matter of family dynasties, and much more could be said. Full disclosure: I myself am an outright “Mitnaged,” but I try to be fair even to those whom I oppose). Kant described “Lithuanian” Judaism as he imagined it. But regarding Judaism, with all due respect, he lacked both substantive and formal authority, and was also a virulent antisemite like every decent German. (Incidentally, it is rather strange that he did not know Hasidism, although according to his own testimony his greatest student was Solomon Maimon, former student of the Maggid of Mezritch.)
It seems that you have built yourself a “Torah” in your own image and likeness, and you provide yourself with all the “services” you need. But serving God is not the provision of tailor-made self-services (and cf. vested interests).
By the way, most of the Tanakh, about half of the Jerusalem Talmud, and about two-thirds of the Babylonian Talmud are devoted to stories and aggadot (without even mentioning the midrashim, etc.). No one is trying to reduce the importance of halakha (in any event, not I), but those proportions say something that cannot be ignored. And one more thing: your main claim in the second book against the study of aggadah and Tanakh is that everyone approaches them with his own agenda. How little self-awareness for a person who wrote the third book precisely to prove that even in halakha it is so…!
After presenting my view in a distorted and caricatured way (though you did remember to ask forgiveness—forgiven…), you move on to mockery. But closeness to God is not “religious emotion” (again, what is that?) and not a subjective mystical experience. Not aggadah and not a dream. It is the result of giving Him satisfaction, purifying the soul, and ascending on the path of Mesillat Yesharim on the road that goes up to the House of God. Indeed, maybe yes and maybe no. Nothing is guaranteed. The path is hard, demanding, and full of pitfalls and obstacles, and the Holy One, blessed be He, has His own considerations too (which have eluded me). But—and this is the important but—this is the goal and this is the aspiration of the servant of God. One who denies this goal and mocks it is serving himself and taking God’s name in vain.
If I were to write all that is in my heart about this column (and your writings in general), my time would run out and they would not. I therefore had to make do with these associative reflections, which have not even undergone proper editing. I hope this is enough.
I didn’t understand. Ask a concrete question.
I do not reject such engagement. It just needs to be grounded and guided by straight thinking. In any case, it is difficult to reach conclusions about it. But what does that have to do with experiences? This is Jewish thought or philosophy.
Well said.
Because of idol-worship pursuers like you, the Torah had to command sacrifices and other such matters. Had it not done so, then you and your sort would have gone over to Christianity. Moses our teacher understood this after he saw the sin of the golden calf, and therefore broke the tablets.
Regarding the goal you speak of, the prophet says that it is “to understand and know Me, that I am the Lord who practices kindness, justice, and righteousness in the earth, for in these I delight, says the Lord.”
Kindness, justice, and righteousness have nothing to do with vigorous swaying during prayer, or kavanot involving holy names, or tightly squeezing one’s eyes shut.
Thank you. Finally a little encouragement 🙂
Hello Rabbi Mordechai.
Many thanks for favoring us with a broad explanation, but what can I do—I still have not merited getting to the bottom of your meaning.
If the closeness to God you speak of is conceptual and ethical rather than emotional-experiential, then what is your comment to me? Where did you see me saying otherwise? I am entirely in favor. I have written more than once that engagement in Torah brings us close to the Holy One, blessed be He, and this is devekut (according to the path of R. Chaim of Volozhin). And of course character refinement is also important for this (though of course this is not Torah study). This column is devoted to experiences and emotion, since many of the criticisms revolved around that point, and therefore that is also how I understood your words. You claim I am mistaken, that your words do not concern experience and emotion, but I am still not convinced of that. I will try to explain why.
Why, in your opinion, is it impossible to reach prophecy and a conceptual-moral connection with the Holy One, blessed be He, according to my path? I think that is precisely the path of Mesillat Yesharim ascending to the House of God. Therefore I understand that you are speaking about emotion and experience, not about that. Otherwise you are attacking me for things I neither said nor think.
Be that as it may, you also did not explain why your words are not begging the question. I sketch a path according to my understanding, and you explain that it fails because it does not lead to the goals you assign to it. If those goals are different from mine (emotion and experience)—then what is the question? And if they are the same (character, observance, and study)—then again I do not understand why it does not lead there. I conclude from this that you are speaking about emotion and experience.
By the way, even your words in the last message, which came to explain yourself, are interpreted that way. What exactly are those ‘giving Him satisfaction,’ ‘purification,’ etc., that you spoke about? How are they achieved? Through character work, halakhic observance, and Torah study? If so, what is the argument about? Again we have returned to the realms of emotion and experience.
You write that I belittle closeness to God and connection with the Holy One, blessed be He. Where did you see that? I belittled emotional and experiential trends. You repeatedly reiterate words directed entirely at emotion and experience, while at the same time denying that this is what you meant. It is a bit hard to discuss things this way.
As for the aggadot, my word has been said many times. You can assume that I too know that the sages built the Talmud this way. Moreover, I even know (after all, I studied Bible in kindergarten) that the Holy One, blessed be He, also built the Torah this way. So I too would expect there to be important and useful content there to study, and that this too would be Torah. But to my disappointment, in practice I do not find such content, neither in myself nor in others. What I find are either homiletical quips or begged questions (conclusions clear in advance, and never any new insight). Therefore, unfortunately, I have no good answer as to why all these appear in the Talmud and in Scripture. I have asked that question myself more than once, and as I said, I have no answer to it. But neither do you. You merely declare that it is very important (otherwise why is it there?!), and on the level of declarations I completely agree. I am only asking how and whether this actually happens in practice. I wrote that in the past people probably did learn various things from it, and therefore then it was necessary. My question is mainly about our own day.
I once saw on Shnerb’s site that he brought in the name of David Pilavin, who noted a certain historical change regarding the question whether there is a connection between spiritual status and the feeling of that status. I remember there was something illuminating there, but I don’t remember what. If anyone remembers and can link or point to it, he will be blessed.
A nice column, but in my opinion it misses an important point. In fact, I think your admirable aspiration to present a rational picture of religious faith (and I am still not yet speaking of specifically Jewish faith) fails on the following delicate issue.
You are right that faith, which can be grounded on reasons, is the infrastructure of authentic and rational religion. But I claim that the religious impulse is a second level and has necessary status. On the contrary, this impulse necessarily accompanies the “correct” faith, and in fact it is a necessary expression of it (not an optional one as you present it).
Does that mean every fantasy or “religious enthusiasm” is authentic? Are the nachnachim who stop with their commercial vehicles in the middle of the road and jump to ecstatic music a faithful expression of “faith”? The answer is no—but also yes.
No, if those “enthusiasts” tell themselves that what they are doing and experiencing (and maybe also thinking a little…) is the heart of religious faith. It isn’t.
But yes, if we understand that each one of us is necessarily a bit of a “nachnach,” and therefore each of us is in some way dancing with them on the road. Behind the infinitely varied emotional and experiential world of human beings stands a basic religious feeling (a kind of emotion). Something the Greeks defined as “eros.” It doesn’t matter whether it is ecstasy at a football game, sexual ecstasy, or the ecstasy of a philosopher at the moment he “gives birth” in his mind to brilliant ideas. The source of all these experiences is precisely that erotic impulse.
Accordingly, my claim above is a factual claim about the world: that’s how we human beings are, whether we want it or not. Even so, some normative significance follows from this as well—as “religious” people, we must constantly seek this connection between the religious impulse within our souls and faith (the rational one!). Of course the search is hard and contains no certainty, and of course in many cases the meaning believers ascribe to the religious experience is false, foolish, and even “anti-faith.” So what? The experience itself, irrespective of its interpretation, is an authentic and necessary expression. Hence ignoring its status as such distorts the picture, in my opinion.
A small word about Judaism: Kant was entirely right (and so were Spinoza, Luther, Paul, and whoever you like). Judaism is to a large extent a philosophical and historical attempt to abolish the moisture of religiosity found in the psychic (and bodily) life of man. You yourself, in this respect, are a much more authentic Jew than other Jews, since your attempt to do this is very stubborn and usually also consistent. But that attempt is, in my opinion, doomed to failure. Judaism (and you as part of it) failed in its mission to give up that moisture—and I am not speaking only of a historical failure (see, for example, Hasidism), but mainly of a principled one. Against its will, religiosity (Greek eros) seeps into human life, even if he is a Jew.
Sorry to break it to you: you are just as religious as all of us. Sorry.
I assume you will reply that you didn’t understand a word I said.
According to what you write here, it may be that there is no dispute between us about the goal, but about the means of attaining it. But if so, why did you see fit to set my words before a crooked mirror and distort them (like that “last posek,” who does not even deserve a response)?
You claim that the only way is Torah study (and specifically the Lithuanian way surpasses them all. I actually get the impression that the Sephardic method of study, especially according to R. Isaac Canpanton, hits closer to the truth, but that is a topic for another debate). I claim that the Holy One, blessed be He, wished to grant merit to Israel, therefore He gave them abundant Torah and commandments, so that each person could find in the Torah the portion suited to him. This patent is not registered in my name. Surely you know Maimonides’ words in his Commentary on the Mishnah (Makkot 3:16):
“Rabbi Hananiah ben Akashya says: The Holy One, blessed be He, wished to grant merit to Israel; therefore He gave them abundant Torah, etc.—it is one of the principles of faith in the Torah that when a person fulfills one commandment of the 613 properly and fittingly, and mixes with it no intention whatsoever directed to worldly aims, but does it purely for its own sake, out of love, as I have explained to you, then he merits by it life in the World to Come. Therefore Rabbi Hananiah said that because the commandments are so numerous, it is impossible that a person should not in his lifetime perform one of them in its proper form and full perfection, and by performing that commandment his soul will live through that act. And what indicates this principle is what Rabbi Hananiah ben Teradyon asked: ‘What is my portion in the World to Come?’ and the respondent answered him: ‘Did any deed ever come to your hand?’ meaning, did an opportunity ever arise for you to perform a commandment properly? He replied that there had arisen for him the commandment of charity in a perfectly complete way to the fullest extent possible, and by that he merited the World to Come. And the meaning of the verse, ‘The Lord desired, for the sake of His righteousness, to magnify the Torah and make it glorious,’ is: to vindicate Israel by greatly increasing Torah for them.”
When you reduce Torah only (or mainly) to “Torah in the subject” according to the method of Brisk (or R. Shimon Shkop, or whatever scholar you happen to favor), you are in effect decreeing distance from the Holy One, blessed be He, upon anyone who is not fit for this. And by what do women merit? But the Holy One, blessed be He, desired to grant merit to Israel—all of Israel—and therefore gave them abundant Torah (including aggadot, prophecies, ethics, Kabbalah, etc.) and commandments, so that every Jew could attain closeness to God. Not at all in the experiential sense (though even that is not repugnant to me, so long as it is clear that we are not speaking of hallucinations, etc., toward which I too, like you, am very suspicious in these generations), but in the sense of Torah study, commandment observance, and giving Him satisfaction through pure service of God, so that one may merit eternal life in this world and the next. Reducing service of God to Litvak pilpul is not only incorrect, it is also harmful—and remembered for good be that man, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov by name, for were it not for him almost all the Jewish communities in Ukraine, Podolia, Poland, and other lands would have apostatized from sheer despair. Outside, the sword of the pogroms bereaved; inside, the terror of the scholars who cited to them the Gemara’s words about an am ha’aretz, that it is permissible to tear him like a fish on Yom Kippur that falls on Shabbat, etc., and they asked themselves, “Why then am I here?” (How do you expect Berel the wagon driver to withstand such a trial when the priest across the way is all sweetness?) Let me remind you: I am a “Mitnaged” no less than you, but fairness requires acknowledging gratitude to the movement that saved the Jewish people from mass conversion and assimilation. What Herzl planned in his youth, the Lithuanian scholars of the generation between Sabbatai Zevi and the Baal Shem Tov almost brought about in practice (and out of respect for them I will not name names).
As for what each person finds in aggadah, etc.—on that the wisest of men already said (Proverbs 2:4–5): “If you seek it as silver and search for it as for hidden treasures, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.” Just as one can come to aggadah and Tanakh with an agenda, so too one can come to halakha, and the third book of your trilogy demonstrates this in a striking way. It may be that completely “clean” inquiry is beyond human capacity, but one must admit this honestly and not dismiss what does not suit one’s personality structure because of such arguments. If you found in Torah the part that suits you—fortunate are you—but that does not permit you to disparage the portion of others.
In passing: they tell that R. Chaim of Brisk was careful to fulfill the commandment of the third Sabbath meal with bread even on the short winter Sabbaths (and in Lithuania they are very short), when his stomach was still full from the cholent of the second meal. When his students asked why he did not rely on those who hold one can fulfill the obligation of the third meal through words of Torah, he answered: Suppose I say some brilliant learned pilpul, come up with some “two dinim” in Maimonides and the like, and on Sunday some scholar comes and refutes my novelty—then it turns out I did not fulfill the commandment of the third meal. But no one can take away from me the olive-sized piece of bread I ate… This teaches you that even he prepared alternative escape routes to God for himself, despite his Lithuanian learning…!
My question is how the Holy Spirit and prophecy and a kingdom of priests and a holy nation are relevant to our daily lives—aside from the hope of aspiring to such things in prayer.
What messianic vision and prophetic Holy Spirit am I supposed to aspire to? That of the Lubavitcher Rebbe? That of Har Hamor, who are sure the redemption is already here and work actively to persuade people to live according to that expectation? The vision of redemption of Rabbi Nachman? Of the author of Chesed LeAvraham? Of Bnei Levi? Perhaps of Heschel and Emmanuel Levinas? Or maybe of remote Muslim post-Sabbatianisms at the edge of the world? The thing I connect with most in Michi’s words (and, to distinguish, Leibowitz’s) is that faith and religious commitment are not supposed to be based on messianic expectations of this sort. Because when people hold such things and try to bring them into practice, usually these are very grand and lofty promises and statements with no backing and no real connection to reality. It may be that the expectation of some change in the world in the future, and prayer that it happen speedily, should indeed be greater once we have passed the first level, as you say. But it utterly transcends my understanding how one can devote a life and base faith on promises of an unmediated, prophetic, exalted connection of this sort. After all, such things have not existed in the last 2000 years. And we have no flesh-and-blood prophet sent in our generation to show us how to renew them. Therefore any attempt to renew these things in practice will end in speculation at best.
The Judaism that Kant depicts, as a ‘code’ of practical commandments without a religious dimension, is taken from the description of his countryman and contemporary Moses Mendelssohn, who described Judaism that way.
It is no wonder that in the next generation most of Mendelssohn’s descendants abandoned Judaism. A dry, lifeless collection of commandments cannot withstand the temptations of the environment. Such a conception can help someone accustomed to a living religious way of life, for whom it is difficult to abandon it even though its vitality has already been lost, but one who grows up from the outset on a conception of dry Judaism will not hold on to it.
Unlike the Mendelssohnian conception, in Lithuanian Judaism the scholarly engagement with Torah was accompanied by love and religious feeling, cultivated in prayer. In addition, Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin instructed that a few minutes before beginning study be devoted to contemplating the greatness of God and reflecting on repentance. In Rabbi Chaim’s view, those focused minutes can serve as the ‘small measure of preservative’ that preserves the fear of God for an entire day.
In the Beit Midrash of the Vilna Gaon, time was devoted to analytical study of Scripture. The Gaon recommended Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the aggadot of the sages as the best books of ethics, and instructed his student that “the book Mesillat Yesharim should guide your conduct.” Of all his writings, Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin took care to publish first his book Nefesh HaChayim, which is entirely guidance in the service of God. The Netziv would deliver a daily lesson in the yeshiva on the Pentateuch, from which his Torah commentary Ha’amek Davar grew, and they say that on a day when he did not cry during “Ahavah Rabbah,” he would not give the lesson (I saw this in Divrei Chizuk for Shavuot 5780).
Rabbi Chaim of Brisk was known for the powerful feeling of love of friends; he would warmly embrace his companions, until the Netziv rebuked him: “R. Chaim, necks? And Torah study?” 🙂 When he served as rabbi in Brisk, he worked devotedly to help the poor and needy. He left halakhic rulings to the local decisor, Rabbi Simcha Zelig, and saw the main task of his rabbinate as concern for those in need.
There was a careful insistence in Lithuanian Judaism that engagement in religious feeling not crowd out halakhic Torah study, but they certainly saw it as the ‘small measure of preservative’ without which the ‘storehouse’ cannot endure.
Best regards, S.Z.
Paragraph 3, line 2
…and with religious feeling that was cultivated in prayer…
Perhaps we are near the days of the Messiah, as the Jerusalem Talmud says: Rabbi Yohanan said: “The Prophets and the Writings are destined to be nullified, but the Five Books of the Torah are not destined to be nullified. What is the reason? ‘A great voice, and it did not continue’ (Deuteronomy 5:19)…” And the Korban HaEdah explains: “Since they are only for rebuking Israel, and in the future all will know the Lord, from the least of them to the greatest, and as for the laws explained in them, they are already all alluded to in the Torah.”
I wrote about this in my book, on the portion of Ekev.
Doron, I’d wager that Rabbi Michi would say that the word “sorry,” with which you signed off, is something he actually does understand. But now that I’ve already taken that option away from him—I really no longer know what to think.
Seriously, though: your words are excellent. More power to you. I understood them, but I disagree a bit, if I may: the Torah did not come to abolish the moisture of religiosity, but to regulate it. As in the Lurianic description of the shattering of the vessels—a great deal of light shatters vessels, but that is not a reason to turn off the switch; rather, to regulate it through a multiplicity of sefirot, openings, channels, and fine hairs—these can bring light in a way suited to the vessels.
Thanks… “A person should always show himself master of his teaching,” etc. The book is no longer with me, but the interested reader can find desirable words here: https://www.bhol.co.il/forums/topic.asp?whichpage=1&topic_id=2272938
Thank you, Gil,
If the Torah comes only to regulate the moisture, then it is doing a not-very-good job—twice over.
The first time, when its central regulatory mechanisms are converted into mechanisms of destruction. The metaphysical-logical structure of the Torah works to destroy “life” or religiosity. Paul said it long ago much better than I can: for the letter kills, but the spirit gives life.
The second time, the Torah fails because even its powers of destruction are limited. And although there are figures in Judaism who really went all in on this, no one has yet managed to answer this norm in full measure. Man’s “spirituality,” both the distorted and the authentic, has nevertheless survived the Jewish “letter.” In this respect, if there is authentic Jewish existence, then it is miserable; and if it is not miserable, then it is not authentic.
It goes without saying that this last claim is not about Jews as human beings, but about the phenomenon itself.
In any case, I have dug into this matter here a great deal in the past.
Doron,
This time I actually understood.
I am not dealing here with constraints of reality. The discussion here is about what is proper and what is right. As far as I’m concerned, even if you are right that this is a constraint of reality, there is no argument here in favor of its being correct. The naturalistic fallacy.
Mordechai,
I explained very well why I interpreted your words as I did. If you repeat your words again and again, that does not constitute an argument, nor will it persuade more (cf. Einstein). From your messages here it emerges that you yourself presented the matter in a crooked way, thereby causing me to interpret it in a manner that, according to you, was not the original intention (and I have no reason not to believe you about that), and now it is no wonder that you see the mirror I placed before them as crooked. What tower, in your opinion, is reflected in a mirror standing opposite the Leaning Tower of Pisa?
As for your words, since we have already mentioned crooked mirrors—pray tell, where did I say that the Lithuanian way surpasses them all? I do not recall writing such a thing, and I do not think so either (although R. Isaac Canpanton is definitely not the alternative I have in mind). I indeed use that method quite a bit (and not only it), both out of habit and because of personal taste. That is all. What I did write is that learning in the mode of understanding (as opposed to mere rote repetition) is the preferred way to study. But that is not necessarily Brisker-Lithuanian learning. Not at all.
Your righteous advocacy on behalf of the ignorant, women, and minors really touches my heart. Too bad you didn’t find a few more arguments on behalf of Israelites, who are obligated in fewer commandments than priests, and gentiles more than Jews. I have no idea where you drew the strange assumption that the path upward must be equal for everyone. In my opinion that is plainly untrue. What about those who are illiterate or have no halakhic knowledge whatsoever? Perhaps they too will merit the World to Come like Moses our teacher by virtue of their good intentions? And what about a simple person like me, who was not born like Moses our teacher with rays of light shining from his face from birth? Why should my portion be diminished from becoming the greatest of prophets? Well, I will not trouble you with objections to your words that even you yourself understand are absurd. Here you have descended far below the abysses of populist Hasidism, bringing forth the precious from the worthless. Gratitude toward someone or some movement does not necessarily mean one must regard them as supreme saints, and certainly not that their method is correct.
And your bringing proof for this from Maimonides’ words in his Commentary on the Mishnah in Avot is already a truly wondrous midrash—in triplicate:
1. His words there are highly innovative and quite implausible (and I phrase this gently). So Maimonides innovated an idea. Therefore what? It seems to me I once saw an article by Halamish on this matter, and he found for it a house of origin in mystical literature.
2. Maimonides himself was the greatest of elitists (next to whom I am like a wretched little Hasidic worm), so it is strange to me that you use him against my elitism.
3. This very statement of Maimonides is itself elitism of the highest order. What about those who are not such great righteous people and cannot fulfill even one commandment in complete purity to the end?
As for your repeated claim about halakha’s dependence on agenda—I completely disagree. A column is planned on that, so I won’t get into it here.
Your charming (and fabricated) story about R. Chaim is irrelevant to us. He was careful to fulfill the laws of the third meal. What has that to do with cholent versus study? Did R. Chaim say that study substitutes for observance of commandments? Presumably not, since that contradicts an explicit Gemara. And in general, the (groundless) argument he supposedly made is itself a Lithuanian pilpul to the core.
Michi,
I don’t know where you see a naturalistic fallacy here.
If you derive a norm here from a distorted description of reality (that is, by ignoring the fact that the religious impulse is something necessary), then you have a logical problem.
Therefore, what is proper and right is probably very different from what you propose. In any event, in my humble, poor, and indigent opinion, the theology you are building on top of your words here is mistaken at best and confused at worst.
It’s simple, and I explained it well.
You assume there is a religious constraint. Let us assume for the sake of discussion that you are right. How have you proved from this that it is proper to live that way? At most you can claim there is no choice. I am speaking about what is proper, not about what exists. Therefore this is the naturalistic fallacy in all its glory.
It is proper to live that way precisely because the “religious constraint” is not a contingent impulse that sometimes attaches itself to the level of faith and sometimes does not. Just as belief in God—if it is rational and reasoned—is necessarily grounded in the fact of God’s existence (as far as we can judge), so too the level above it stands in a similarly necessary relation to the level before it. The religious impulse is ultimately anchored in a metaphysical truth (even if it itself is not such a “truth”). If you accept this fact—and to the best of my judgment it indeed is a fact—then the religious norm necessarily follows from it.
You see? At first I still understood. Now I’ve lost you.
What is unclear? The religious impulse and the experience accompanying it are anchored in a metaphysical foundation or in faith. That is a factual claim (true in my opinion). If that is a true fact, it is reasonable to interpret it as something God created—that is, He created this connection—and therefore a norm follows from it that God expects us to fulfill. The norm is, of course, to bring our religious world closer to the religious experience.
With God’s help, Monday of the portion of Beha’alotekha, 5780
To Gil—greetings,
There are situations in which powerful emotion exists naturally, and the expression given by the Torah and commandments gives it the possibility to be expressed and channeled into a positive direction.
An example is the powerful emotion of mourning, which in ancient times brought a person to gash himself “to the point of bloodshed” and wound himself out of pain and despair. The Torah comes and forbids self-laceration and the disfigurement of making a bald patch, saying, “You are children to the Lord your God,” and that even in the face of death one should not sink into despair.
By contrast, the Torah and halakha do give expression to the pain: three days for weeping, seven days for lamentation, and thirty days regarding pressing clothing and haircutting. They give expression to the pain, yet one gradually returns to the course of life while preserving the memory of the deceased, transforming the emotion of loss into positive activity of study and prayer that preserve the memory and perpetuate the precious soul by doing good deeds in its merit.
And so too with joy: the wedding day, on which joy soars to the heavens, is accompanied by blessings emphasizing the great spiritual meaning of marriage, and the joy continues through the seven festive days, during which meals of rejoicing are also held and accompanied by the “seven blessings,” and then one returns to routine while taking care that “he shall be free for his household and gladden his wife.” The laws and customs shape the intense emotion of joy and give it a way to be expressed.
On the other hand, there are routine situations in which religious feeling naturally wanes, and here the commandments come and breathe the spirit of life into it, lest the feeling fade in the routine of daily life. A person is reminded of his Creator, thanks Him, and asks His help morning, afternoon, and evening; he thanks his God and blesses Him for every small pleasure, and even going to the bathroom becomes an opportunity to thank the Lord, “who heals all flesh and works wondrously.”
This is true on weekdays. All the more so on Sabbaths and festivals, when the community gathers for prayer and Torah study, and when the Jewish family gathers for a meal rich with songs and words of Torah. Fathers and sons are connected; thus, for more than a seventh of his life, a person “refuels” the reservoirs of religious feeling.
In short: the detailed performance of the commandments not only regulates intense emotion, but also breathes life into it, lest it sink and fade in the routine of ordinary life, for “hearts are drawn after actions.”
Best regards, S.Z.
Paragraph 4, line 4
…and gladden his wife.’ The laws and customs shape the emotion of joy…
Paragraph 5, line 3
…he thanks his God and blesses Him…
Paragraph 6, line 3
…that connect fathers and sons…
My question is whether, from your perspective, creating a feeling that is supposedly fake is necessarily something invalid?
Don’t you think there is significance to preserving tradition in order to keep the Jewish flame alive?
Are you completely ignoring the presence of emotion in the preservation of the Jewish people as it exists today?
Are you ignoring the concept of temptation, which often arises because of a lack of experience and emotion regarding observance of the commandments?
Even if you repeat a faulty argument ten times, it does not cease to be faulty.
I was not dealing with instrumental questions. I am dealing with essence.
With God’s help, 9 Sivan 5780
The “life-giving spirit” of Paul and his disciples we know very well—a wild spirit of drunkards on their holidays, incited to hatred by their priests, who in their fervor attack, beat, riot, and plunder. By contrast, the “life-giving spirit” of the Torah and its commandments brought a restrained and refined joy, saturated with lovingkindness and spiritual elevation. How goodly are your tents, O Jacob.
Best regards, S.Z.
What an impressive philosophical and theological argument, built like a palace. And it corresponds exactly to what I said. Fortunate are you.
Rabbi Michi,
I do not understand how you explain to yourself the spirit that rises from the book of Deuteronomy, where Moses our teacher weaves together the laws he repeats with the desired purpose of them, and repeatedly emphasizes over and over that what the Lord your God wants from you is love of God, cleaving to Him, fear of Him [walking in all His ways is one final part of the totality of complete, devoted cleaving to Him], and you with a flick of the keyboard dismiss all this as if the Torah were a set of laws and no more [which themselves developed and changed from generation to generation, and according to your claim the Torah is ‘the command to obey what they say the command is’]. This is most puzzling.
I saw that you referred to an article where you explain the matter of love of God, but with all due respect you wrench the simple meaning of the commandment into some Platonic love. It is clear that all the commentators who speak about constant intellectual cleaving did not mean something like that, and the way you forced Maimonides there into this is extremely absurd. Why would a person force himself to keep bringing God into his thoughts all the time if not out of overflowing emotional love? Is there some “halakha” that one must keep passing thoughts about God through one’s mind all the time? And this is the desired love???
With all due respect, it is clear from the Torah that its main concern is the creation of a treasured people cleaving to its Creator out of love and longing, not programmed computers reaching the conclusion that “they must carry out the instructions of their maker” as technical actions detached from understanding and context.
Forgiven forgiven forgiven
Come on, seriously…
Do you not admit that the Torah’s commands spur a person toward a relationship with his God, and toward loving Him to the point of supreme cleaving [as the Rishonim described]? Do you really think this is the original intention of the Torah and the words of the Rishonim?
I wrote in complete seriousness.
Come on, seriously: do you really think that I devoted articles and columns to this and wrote all that not seriously? That I don’t really think this?
Really?! In some parallel and bizarre world, readers of this response are actually standing at attention because of it?
Among other things, what emerges from your words is that you attach no importance at all to “Jewish feeling” as such.
Should I repeat again what I wrote?
Hello Rabbi, if I’m not mistaken, many people confuse emotion with recognition/awareness (like the bond between siblings), and therefore when one says that the connection with God is built on intellectual conceptions, that halakha is the main thing, etc., they interpret this as a lack of connection to God.
1 From awareness, Platonic love, and deep connection, emotion is created. Isn’t that so? [Does the rabbi mean that Judaism states the intellect, and emotion is an individual matter for each person according to how he receives it?]
2 There is a point that was missed—if our whole view of Judaism is as a not-absolute truth, it is impossible to reach connection, including intellectual love; if there is a commandment concerning connection to God [as also in Maimonides’ descriptions of love, that one is ‘constantly obsessed with it,’ etc.], that means a person needs to decide that he believes with certainty after reaching intellectual recognition that it is probable that God is true.
Indeed.
I didn’t understand a thing.
1 Does the rabbi also think that in Judaism there is a way to reach emotion, only that this is not the goal? [Connection and cleaving through Torah also bring emotion with the Creator, if there is cleaving with the Creator through Torah and one does not stop at Torah.]
2 If there is a demand for connection and love, even if its source is in the intellect [which develops into ‘constantly obsessed with it,’ etc.], we see that there is a demand in Judaism to believe with certainty, and not to view God as a logical probability; rather, after seeing a logical probability for faith, one must decide to believe with certainty [a positive leap of faith].
If the rabbi rejects these two assumptions, does the description ‘constantly obsessed with it’ or the description of any religious experience contradict that?
1. What does it mean, “Judaism has a way to reach something”? Either there is a way or there isn’t. What does that have to do with Judaism? That is a factual question. I also don’t know what “Judaism” is. There are many Jews and many thinkers.
2. I don’t understand these leaps. I doubt that you do. If you don’t have certainty, then you don’t have certainty, even if you jump until tomorrow. Certainty cannot of course be demanded, because a person has no ability to be certain of anything.
I didn’t understand the final question. After all, you know what I explained there in Maimonides regarding “constantly obsessed with it.”
Well, this is starting to get petty. It is your routine practice to distort and twist the words of those who disagree with you, make them ridiculous, and mock the caricature you created. Your books contain not a few examples of argumentation devoid of basic intellectual honesty. For example—the caricature you drew in your description of the precedent-based approach to halakhic ruling. (I am expressing no opinion on the issue itself. I am not a decisor. But even according to those who think autonomous ruling should be preferred, debate should be conducted with intellectual honesty, and cf. vested interests, and much more could be said.) If you did this only to me, fine—I have no pretensions, and all my days I have been accustomed to humiliation and spittle. (This is not a modest self-deprecating remark.) But you do this to everyone, equally, according to the Marxist ideal… What is nevertheless infuriating is that afterward you accuse me of distorting my own words(!). I am still convinced that you understood my words correctly even without the expansion I added, which, as stated, was not intended for you at all.
So what will you see when you look in the mirror opposite the Leaning Tower of Pisa? It depends. In your mirror and your glasses there will presumably be fulfilled the prophet’s words, “And the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places a plain.” In your philosophy, elephants, wild oxen, and leviathans can march in formation through the eye of a needle.
Maimonides does not need my defense. But when you free yourself from your tendency to belittle everyone who is not you, and you study carefully the words I quoted above, you will see that “they are all straightforward to the understanding, and right to those who find knowledge” (Proverbs 8:9). Try it and enjoy it.
As a side point, when you read seriously and with minimal fairness even the words of little me, you will see that I did not come to plead on behalf of the ignorant and unlearned, and my words were aimed in an entirely different direction. In response to another commenter you asked what benefit there is in repeating things. Sometimes there is benefit in repetition and additional explanations for one who genuinely wants to learn and understand. In your hall of crooked mirrors, the trouble is wasted.
Here above and elsewhere you feign innocence and claim that you are engaged in philosophy, and that real-world constraints are not of the matter at hand, and you lash out at those who raise them as suffering from the naturalistic fallacy. Well, the naturalistic fallacy itself is far from a settled matter, despite how you present it at every turn (minimal fairness requires at the very least mentioning that it is disputed among philosophers)*. This is basically the ultimate Marxist argument—that the fact that Marxism brought nothing but tyranny, mass death, and economic degeneration wherever it was tried does not show that the idea itself is not just. For that would be a naturalistic fallacy! I am no philosopher, certainly not on your lofty level. Nevertheless I think that a philosophy and ethics whose implementation leads to negative results are necessarily not right and not just. Fallacy or no fallacy, the “natural” is definitely a factor that must be taken into account in evaluating a philosophical and ethical theory, for otherwise these are nothing but word-grinders. A Torah that is not a “Torah of life” is not Torah (and see today’s daf yomi).
* In the third book of the trilogy you mention an article of yours in which you argued that there is no halakhic position that waives acceptance of commandments as a condition for conversion, and you tell of someone who pointed to a responsum of R. David Zvi Hoffmann (in Melamed LeHo’il), to which you replied: (a) There is no necessity to interpret that responsum in that way (a legitimate answer whether correct or not). (b) Even if that is indeed his intention—he is wrong, and therefore there is no such position in halakha. Nothing more is needed to conclude that intellectual honesty is not your strong side.
Mordechai, in your previous messages there was at least the appearance of argumentation. Here even that is already absent. Here you suffice with declarations for the record. So I have noted your words. It seems, then, that we have exhausted the matter.
1. I did not see even one point where I distorted your words, and you do not show that either (you merely declare it without argument). But let the reader judge.
2. Regarding the naturalistic fallacy, you are mistaken. No one can dispute that a norm does not necessarily follow from a fact. This is a simple logical principle, and it has not the slightest connection to Marxism or any other ideology. The question of how the fallacy is defined and what its precise name is, is another matter (which I have already remarked on in the past).
3. The appeal to Marxism is demagoguery that does not require a response. It is like saying Einstein’s physics is incorrect (indeed despicable) because it is Jewish. If you have something against the fallacy, kindly write it. The claim (incorrect in itself) that it is Marxist is not a relevant argument. If you insist: the appeal to Marxism is itself Marxist (and unlike you, I substantiated that claim in my columns on Marxism, 178 and onward).
4. Regarding R. David Zvi Hoffmann, I explained my claim very well. It would have been proper to present the explanation too before criticizing the matter, especially in a comment dealing with distortion in presenting positions.
All the best and much success.
It is a shame that the rabbi invents for himself a new Judaism, emptied out and soulless, and then goes on to preach to us that we do not understand the essence correctly.
If the rabbi has forgotten, we are not Israelites of the religion of Moses, not gentiles who keep commandments, and not philosophers who happened to conclude that commandments must be observed. Judaism is a nation, a holy culture, whose purpose is to establish a life of holiness and purity of character in the Land of Israel, between man and his fellow man, to unite all parts of Israel, and afterward to be a light unto the nations. Beyond the obligation of the commandments, Judaism contains principles of the community of Israel, preservation of tradition, love of every Jew, and repairing the world under the kingdom of the Almighty. If the rabbi wants to erase explicit verses from our Torah and Gemara and become a rationalist philosopher who also happens to observe commandments, good for him. He just shouldn’t preach to us about what Judaism is. And yes, emotion is a very Jewish quality and very important to Jews. As Jews, we observe commandments not out of an intellectual decision and not out of deep philosophical inquiry, but from the testimony of our forefathers that the Holy One, blessed be He, took us out of Egypt, gave us the Torah, and performed for us miracles and wonders. And once we have that knowledge, our souls are tied in cords of love to the Holy One.
It is a shame that with all the rabbi’s innovations and the things one can learn from him, he has forgotten a bit what historical Judaism is, what the tradition of the fathers is, the natural and simple feeling a Jew should have when hearing the Passover Haggadah and filling with tears, the crying and supplications in the prayers of Yom Kippur.
And let us say Amen!
(And of course I’m the one preaching here.)
No need.
I understand that it isn’t connected to the column itself, and still I’m asking something implied by it, instead of asking in the Q&A (it’s the same effort from your standpoint…)
Even if you asked in the column, I would answer you the same thing. After all, I explained it at length. So what is there to ask here? Of course you may disagree, but what is the point of asking whether this is what I think if I wrote it?
If I’m not mistaken, Rabbi Uri Sherki reads these verses this way—as a source for the idea that “religious experience” is a bad thing and the root of idolatry.
You are deteriorating more and more; what a shame.
I will suffice with just one remark that speaks for the rest. I went back and reviewed your book Mehalchim Bein HaOmdim (p. 250) and saw that I was completely precise. If I could, I would scan the relevant pages in the book and upload them here so the reader could judge.
With God’s help, 11 Sivan 5780
The idea you apparently heard from Rabbi Sherki is that the desire for closeness to God is also the root of idolatry—but also the root of holiness. Both of them stem from man’s aspiration for closeness to God.
And as Rabbi Kook writes (Ma’amarei HaRa’ayah, p. 492), the thirst for God may also deteriorate into a state in which a person tries to quench his thirst with the “stale waters” of idolatry. Therefore, when the situation deteriorated and it became necessary to uproot the evil inclination for idolatry, prophecy too ceased.
However, this state—in which, to heal a severe illness, one uses harsh measures that weaken the healthy life-force—is not the ideal state. The people of Israel must return to the freshness of aspiring to love of God, but must do so through the proper cultivation of religious feeling under the guidance of Torah (see Adar HaYakar, pp. 30–32; Orot, p. 36, and more).
Best regards, S.Z.
And similarly the Kuzari wrote regarding the sin of the calf, that “the root of holiness is the root of rebellion”—the desire for closeness to God, which can elevate a person to the heights of holiness, but also, Heaven forbid, the opposite. Therefore it must be done under the close guidance of the Torah.
Paragraph 2, line 2
…tries to quench his thirst…
Paragraph 4, line 3
…under the close guidance of the Torah…
As a service to my dear friend Mordechai and to the honored readers, here is the relevant passage:
I already mentioned my article on conversion, in which I argued that there is no opinion in halakha willing to waive acceptance of commandments (not the declaration of acceptance, but the actual inner acceptance). Afterward, an angry response was published by a well-known scholar of Jewish law, who quoted from a responsum of R. David Zvi Hoffmann in Melamed LeHo’il (which was familiar to me) where he wrote this explicitly (that is, apparently there is an opinion willing to waive acceptance of commandments, and what I wrote is incorrect). As far as I am concerned, the fact that Rabbi Hoffmann wrote this says nothing, because in my opinion he was mistaken. The fact that his book is written in Rashi script and bound in gold letters does not turn this into an opinion that is on the halakhic map. But that is only from my standpoint, as a decisor who is on the halakhic playing field and arguing with Rabbi Hoffmann around the halakhic table. From my standpoint as a man of halakha, if R. David Zvi Hoffmann says nonsense, then even after he wrote what he wrote, there is no such halakhic opinion. But from the scholar’s perspective he was right. He is not supposed to relate to the matter as a player on the halakhic field (or around the table), but as a scholar dealing with objective data and talking about it, not in it. He is supposed to present a testable thesis measured against sources. From his perspective, if there is such a source then there is such a halakhic opinion. He is obviously not supposed to give preference to my opinion over that of R. David Zvi Hoffmann. The scholar does not sit around the table of the decisors, but watches it from the side; therefore, from his point of view, there is indeed such an opinion in the halakhic field, and he is therefore obligated to present it and take it into account. By virtue of his role as a scholar, he must sketch the general map that contains all the halakhic opinions that exist.
I explained there that that scholar’s anger stemmed from a problematic blurring that exists between the mode of activity of the decisor and that of the scholar, which itself derives from the conception of second-order decision-making. He read my article as though it were research on conversion surveying the views, or as a second-order decisor bound by all precedents. But I am not a scholar; rather, I am a player on the halakhic field itself, who advocates first-order decision-making.
Whoever finds here a lack of intellectual honesty is invited to bring it to the police station, and he will be rewarded.
It was after midnight. Rabbi Michi was getting ready for sleep. He had had a long day. In the morning he had given a class at the midrasha to female doctoral students. In the afternoon he had met with a Haredi yeshiva lecturer who had fallen into doubts of faith, and in between he had taken part in a stream of discussions, read articles, and answered questions he was asked. There were days when he managed ten discussions in parallel on various halakhic and philosophical matters. He recited the Shema, said the bedtime blessing, put the mask on his face, and fell asleep. In his dream, his thought wandered to the issue of migo as a power of argument. There was a point there he was trying to clarify.
Suddenly he heard a voice calling to him: Michi.
Rabbi Michi: I’m busy.
The voice did not let up: Michi.
Rabbi Michi loosened his concentration on the sugya: Who is it?
The voice: Me.
Rabbi Michi:
The voice:
Rabbi Michi: The One whose existence I proved by the ontological proof, the cosmological proof, the pascu-theological proof, the proof from morality and from history? The One whose existence I have not a shred of absolute certainty about, and yet I have given my life for the observance of commandments and making Him beloved among people for thirty years (and lately, since finishing the trilogy, I’m a bit tired)?
The voice hums in agreement.
Rabbi Michi:
The voice:
Rabbi Michi:
The voice: I must note that we in heaven have a question about the pascu-theological proof as presented in the trilogy. Something there in the relation between plausibility and probability is not entirely clear to us, but that’s not what I came to talk to you about. I need you to do something for Me.
Rabbi Michi: Isn’t there someone else?
The voice: Is there?
Rabbi Michi: The great Lithuanian rabbis?
The voice: Not sufficiently involved in the thinking of ordinary people. Did you see the disgrace they caused Me with the coronavirus?
Rabbi Michi: Hasidic rebbes?
The voice: Come on.
Rabbi Michi: Sephardic rabbis?
The voice: Busy giving halakha lessons and Q&A to the public; I don’t want to bother them.
Rabbi Michi: The chief rabbis?
The voice: They don’t even represent themselves. Puppets on the strings of the Haredi parties.
Rabbi Michi: Religious Zionist rabbis?
The voice: Too politically identified.
Rabbi Michi: Rabbi Tau?
The voice: Busy with his own metaphysical wars. I might end up conscripted into them. Besides, I need someone with whom I can speak in lomdus.
Rabbi Michi: Rabbis of Tzohar?
The voice: Busy.
Rabbi Michi: Some Conservative woman rabbi?
The voice: You yourself argued it would take them time to ripen.
Rabbi Michi: Is there no one else?
The voice: There isn’t.
Rabbi Michi: Fine, what do You want me to do?
The voice: Go and tell all those who speak in My name, who plunder and oppress and rob the people of Israel with blessings and amulets and segulot and other evil maladies, who act like Zimri but seek reward like Pinchas, who speak loftily about modesty and making do with little while constantly coveting and extorting money, that the game is over. I’m coming.
And now seriously: the rabbi deals with proofs for the existence of God in several of his books. Has the rabbi never wanted to skip over the proofs in favor of a direct encounter with the Master of the Universe? It is clear to me that in Torah there is a direct encounter with the Master of the Universe (“Anochi”—“I Myself wrote and gave My soul”), and still, didn’t the rabbi ever have a desire for something more?
In paragraph 1, line 2
…that both of them stem from man’s aspiration for closeness to God.
Y.D., all this charming composition just in order to ask whether I do not have a desire for a direct connection/encounter? I certainly do.
Thank you very much. In the various discussions with Mordechai and Doron it seemed to me as though this point was not clear.
(As for the story, it has been circulating in my head for two years, and now it fit.)
Your great good fortune is that I do not have a drop of trust in the police (which my late father was among the founders of)…
Do I have to explain to you what you yourself wrote? Indeed, that is exactly what I meant. This passage is a display of first-rate, deluxe “first-order” intellectual dishonesty.
Even if you think that R. David Zvi Hoffmann wrote nonsense and drivel (and I am expressing no opinion here on the issue discussed in his responsum), it is still a halakhic opinion, if only because of the small fact that R. David Zvi Hoffmann’s book “was written in Rashi script and bound in gold letters.” (More low mockery from your school.) That is to say: because it is a position expressed by a Torah scholar in the house of study. Moreover, before you determine that his words are nonsense, it is your duty to study them carefully, understand them, and give them a rationale, even if in the end you disagree with him. Sometimes this is called “the principle of charity,” but it is really a basic demand of fairness and intellectual honesty. (“A great man said something; let us give it a reason,” Shabbat 81b; “A great man said something; do not laugh at it,” Berakhot 19b.) Total disregard in the spirit of “there is no such creature” is a lack of intellectual honesty. (Maybe even intellectual fraud.) Your retroactive excuse after being caught in your failing (“I am a first-order decisor”) is really embarrassing. Even a “first-order” decisor is bound by fairness.
The fact that you wave this scandal around and take pride in it is truly depressing. What is even more depressing is that this is far from the only example. The trilogy is full of intellectual dishonesties of this kind. (I noted above that your discussion of the “autonomous approach” versus the “precedential approach” is marked by intellectual dishonesty, and there are many other examples, and much more could be said.)
In these realms of demagoguery, I shall stop and leave the matter to the judgment of the reader.
If I may be the judge, Mordechai is right. I do not mean distortions, quotations, etc.; I don’t know who is right in that whole argument. I mean specifically regarding the place of religiosity in Judaism. To the best of my judgment, the “thin theology” Rabbi Michi proposes, though very well reasoned, is certainly a “novelty” (which is perfectly fine, of course; there is no principled problem with that). Biblical and Talmudic Judaism has a “thick theology”—there is no doubt about that. Mordechai pointed to this briefly in his first response to this thread, and there is no need to elaborate: the Bible and the Talmud are flooded with religiosity and religious experience. Rashi, Nachmanides, Maran the author of the Shulchan Arukh, R. Nachman, and the Lubavitcher were very fat in this sense. God help us—even Maimonides was somewhat plump compared to Rabbi Michi. Rabbi Michi’s thin theology is in fact a crash diet that the modern educated person is forced to undertake, with no choice, if he wants to preserve his faith (in the Jewish-Orthodox sense) in today’s modern world. There is no choice but to take the rabbi’s sharp surgical knife and cut off entire chunks of flesh. No wonder the rabbi’s theology arouses opposition—it simply hurts. To the best of my understanding, religiosity in Judaism is like a kidney in the body. It is possible to manage without it, but presumably it is there, and it takes surgery to remove it. Some people can manage without a kidney; some will simply die.
An interesting reference to Ma’amarei HaRa’ayah, many thanks.
Nevertheless, attached is a video in which Rabbi Sherki speaks about religious experience as a negative thing:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kW4E8EsCk4&index=45&list=PLa7LNhVrFIG7-iPcg4PtotzIskm_J62un
Broadly, he argues that one’s relation to divinity comes only after God’s turning and revelation (from above downward); any turning toward God without relation to revelation (from below upward) is a turning whose source is religious feeling, and it is invalid in his view.
I’m trying to respond to Shveik’s last comment and I can’t find the reply button… so I’m doing it here… sorry.
Shveik, your comment seems really confused to me. If in your view Mordechai is right (I’m not ruling at the moment whether yes or no, although in the general debate it is clear to me that I am closer to his position), why do you claim that it is possible to manage without religiosity in Judaism? What difference does it make whether it is “possible” or not? The main question is whether there is religiosity in Judaism—or at least a demand for religiosity—and if the answer is yes, then one certainly need not, as you say, “manage without it.” Quite the opposite: if there is such a norm, then as a religious person you are commanded to make efforts to give it content. The fact that we are “modern” Jews is irrelevant. If there is a Jewish truth anchored in an eternal Torah (I am admittedly a bit skeptical about that…) to “seek closeness to God,” then the diet Michi proposes distorts it.
Maybe there is a maximum nesting depth for comments (so the line won’t become too short). You can respond to the comment to which Shveik replied, and then your message will thread after his comment (without being indented as a reply to it).
An illuminating article, as usual.
Indeed, my feeling, especially in recent years, in every circle I move in (from the “dati-lite” all the way to Satmar at the Chazon Ish corner—yes, yes, even among them [among some of them] the hard halakhic shell has cracked a bit in favor of religiosity, in order to “bring near those who are near,” and enough said to the discerning), is that little by little “Israel in spirit” is taking precedence over straightforward halakha. More than it seems to come from external influences, I suspect (without firm grounding for now, only a gut feeling) that this is a kind of self-apologetics, perhaps spiritual “tranquilizers.” Good luck to them…
At any rate, I would just note one small point where I think differently: the rabbi mentioned that Hasidism imported Christian influences into Judaism (I’m not entering the debate over whether this is true or not; I know the approach of the scholars [which seems unfounded to me] that there are various things taken from influences of all kinds of Christian sects and streams, etc. Incidentally, I once spoke about this with Professor Zvi Mark, and in his view the drive of scholars to point to such immediate influences is mainly a curiosity, “desserts,” in his words, and it is unlikely that so many religious thinkers dug their food specifically out of Christian and philosophical hands, especially since even in our own day, when information is far more accessible, not many do so, because of fear or ignorance, and that is enough).
In any case, regarding the claim itself that Hasidism is focused solely on religiosity—true and established, and at first glance that is how it appears. But I would like to argue that this is not necessarily correct, because when we analyze the basis for the Hasidic “levels” (at least according to the outlook of Chabad, with all its problems and trappings as they developed gloriously over the last century), we find that at the center of the thesis there actually stands precisely the crushing and total antithesis to religiosity and to eros (whose imagery is beloved to our kabbalistic masters), namely four levels of self-nullification: acceptance of the yoke (even without reason, somewhat like the service your honor proposes—to understand the faith and keep the commandments as is, but not beyond that), love and fear (which are based solely on the fact that the person is fully aware that he himself is the one arousing the love and fear—in other words, “emotion as a result,” as discussed in column 22), contemplation of God’s greatness (again, the person is the focal point; there is no need to stew in expectation that the Holy One will throw “madreges”/angel dust/Jerusalem syndrome and other such maladies upon us), and self-nullification (is there anything more anti-religious and non-experiential than “nullification,” in which the person has no significance as such?)
And so things continue, among many of the disciples of the Maggid of Mezritch, and especially with the author of the Tanya (his successors are not relevant to the discussion; clearly each built a layer for himself on his teacher’s/grandfather’s words, but in my view to dribble Hasidism into one single monolithic entity does it a bit of an injustice).
And from here I wonder about Yehuda Yifrah (who wrote his doctorate on the Mitteler Rebbe of Chabad! on these very subjects!!) how he places such enormous weight on this desirous experientialism, when Hasidic practice itself (at least early Hasidic and Chabad practice) stands on the basis of negating religious inspiration and annihilating the self.
I agree that the only thing agreed upon—or, more precisely, the main thing in Jewish history—that defines a person as a properly Jewish Jew is his commitment to observance and commandments. Except that in your view most Jews (and also most of the early and later Jewish leaders in history—the Tannaim and Amoraim) also expected that in the end some kind of messianism would come into the world: the restoration of prophecy, the resurrection of the dead, and so on and so forth. And once Maimonides established the 13 principles of faith, these things—that is, those beliefs—were set as central in defining who is inside and who is outside, no less than meticulous observance of both minor and major commandments. The whole discussion of whether you missed the point or didn’t reach it (like Mordechai’s remark) is itself unclear. Whose goal? The goal of what? I’m not his interpreter, nor Yehuda Yifrah’s, but it seems to me that what emerges from such statements (not necessarily only from the two of them, but generally from criticism of this kind) is that part of what makes up Judaism—even if not what defines it—is the expectation of some redemption, some mystical repair of the person, the nation, or the world. (And indeed, as you rightly noted, most return to religion in our generation—for better or for worse—is motivated precisely by such themes, and not only in our generation; see the stories of Levinas, Bnei Levi, André Neher, and the like.)