There Were Two Rabbi Elishivs – Words in Memory of Rabbi Elishiv Knohl, of Blessed Memory (Column 139)
With God's help
A week and a half ago, Rabbi Elishiv Knohl, the rabbi of Kfar Etzion and head of Tzohar's marriage division, passed away. We were not close friends, but I came to know Rabbi Elishiv, of blessed memory, during several shared Sabbaths that we spent together with a group of rabbis who discussed various issues on the agenda. I encountered a consummate man of Jewish law, a smiling and joyful person, friendly and very gracious, an energetic man of action with both feet on the ground, with a simple yet deep reverence for Heaven, and above all a man full of interest in people and love for others.
I was very fond of him, and I was saddened to hear of his illness and his passing at a relatively young age (about seventy). His name associatively reminds me of Rabbi Y.S. Elyashiv, who passed away several years ago, and this aroused several thoughts in me. The similarities and differences between these two figures remind me of an article I wrote several years ago about two rabbinic figures in the city of Dvinsk, the Rogatchover and R. Meir Simcha (author of Or Sameach and Meshekh Chokhmah), and about the differences between them as two different archetypes of rabbis. Here I will return once again to that basic distinction in the present context, and may these words be for the elevation of the soul of Rabbi Elishiv Knohl, of blessed memory.
Between Rabbi Y.S. Elyashiv and Rabbi Elishiv Knohl
It seems to me that to a large extent these were two opposites. Rabbi Y.S. Elyashiv was Haredi through and through, with a rather extreme and rather narrow worldview (in my impression). He was a man who kept to his own four cubits and never stopped studying Torah, twenty-four seven. The hagiographic stories told about him include not knowing, and paying no attention to, close family members because of his immense concentration and persistence in study. Public leadership was forced upon him at the end of his life, and it was evident that he found it distasteful. His halakhic rulings were very learned, and it was clear that he possessed phenomenal knowledge, but at times they seemed somewhat detached from the public and from the world. At times, rulings emerged from his room that pointed to a deficient policy of consultation, both politically and scientifically and technologically. At least toward the end of his life, his public image reached us through various attendants and associates, and among those in the know jokes even circulated about this (such as Rabbi Yosef Efrati and the like). I remember YouTube clips showing how various interested parties and ideologues tried to extract from him statements that suited their needs (although usually he actually displayed impressive lucidity for a man of his age).
Rabbi Elishiv Knohl, by contrast, had a distinctly Zionist worldview. A Merkaz HaRav man, deeply engaged with people. He loved people and took an interest in every individual. On every subject he consulted with anyone whom he thought could add something for him. From the eulogies delivered at the funeral I learned that he was not only the rabbi of Kibbutz Kfar Etzion, but even before that a member of the kibbutz from the time of its founding, and one of its pillars. He worked in various branches, served as kibbutz secretary (four times), and until the end of his life was involved in advancing the kibbutz's master plan, in memorial projects for the Etzion Bloc of 1948 and its people (following in the footsteps of his father Dov Knohl), and more. Rabbi Knohl also cared about the kibbutz's outward appearance and its aesthetics, and he walked among the people and in their midst.
The books he wrote, And You Shall Eat and Be Satisfied – on the laws of blessings, and Man and Woman – on relationships, both bestsellers by the standards of Torah books, are books of Jewish law accessible to the general public, and it is clear that their target audience is the common person in the street. As those who knew him in his work testify (see, for example, Rabbi Shmuel Ariel's eulogy in the Shabbat supplement of Makor Rishon, parashat Emor), he thought carefully about every formulation so that no mishap would come through him, so that people would not struggle or stumble, and would observe Jewish law. He was very attentive to comments and receptive to criticism (he literally asked for comments), and he was willing to admit when he had erred and to correct anything that needed correcting. The books are arranged in a way that allows anyone to study, read, locate the ruling he needs, and of course to apply it.
In short, these are truly two opposites in many respects. I think many readers will find it difficult to identify with the figure of Rabbi Y.S. Elyashiv and will prefer a figure like Rabbi Knohl. To the best of my understanding, both of these types of rabbinic figures are of great importance, and it is therefore important to appreciate the relative advantage of each.
The Jewish Gauguin Dilemma
There is a natural tendency to recoil from figures who devote themselves to one professional field or another, important though it may be, at the expense of their family. What counts in the Haredi public as hagiographic stories about a rabbi who had no time to speak with a sister he had not seen for many years, or who did not really know his grandchildren, is considered in a more modern public to be slander. Here I actually want to speak in defense of that figure, and I will do so through what is known as "Gauguin's dilemma."[1]
| Painter Paul Gauguin lived in the second half of the nineteenth century. At some point he felt that he was not advancing professionally, so he got up and abandoned his family in favor of wandering the world for the sake of artistic training and inspiration. In moral philosophy this is discussed as "Gauguin's dilemma." Such an act appears, on its face, wicked, since Gauguin did not fulfill a person's basic commitment to his family. On the other hand, he apparently thought that his unique artistic contribution to the world was more important than caring for a few people connected to him. For him this was a dilemma in which two values collided, and he decided in favor of art. |  Paul Gauguin: Self-portrait |
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A similar problem exists in the context of Torah study as well. It is accepted that a person is not supposed to neglect his family in order to study Torah. But here too, if this is agreed upon with his spouse (preferably in advance, but even after the fact), there is certainly room for it. I think this is even more justified when it comes to a person of special ability, diligence, talent, originality, and the like. If such a person can make a unique contribution to society and to Torah, there is certainly room to prefer that over investing time in the family, however cruel that may sound. In my view, Gauguin's own argument is invalid, since commitments must be honored. On the other hand, if Gauguin had stipulated with his wife in advance that this was how he intended to act and she had agreed, then there would have been room for such behavior. There is admittedly room to discuss the children, who were not parties to that decision. But it is worth noting that children in a single-parent family are also not parties to their parents' or mother's decision, and here, for some reason, I get the impression that a considerable portion of the public does not see the decision to bring such a child into the world as problematic.
Rabbi Y.S. Elyashiv was a very unusual person. Some speak of special gifts, while others dispute this (there are those who claim that his words contain no original innovations and that his lectures are lectures for laymen).[2] But no one disputes his power of persistence and devotion, or the enormous knowledge he accumulated thereby. The presence among us of such an unusual person, literally a walking Torah scroll (or rather, a sitting one), is a unique contribution to the public and to Torah. It is doubtful how many other people could have served as his replacement had he decided to invest more time in his family. In my judgment, his contribution was not necessarily expressed in issuing halakhic rulings to questioners, or even in writing original and distinctive works or delivering lectures. The contribution lay in the very existence of such a person, devoted to Torah, containing it within himself, and able to discuss with you any area of Torah. This is a living Torah scroll, and his public and historical value does not stem from the service he gives the public. Such a Torah scholar is a value in himself. Perhaps this is what the Talmud says (Makkot 22b):
Rava said: How foolish are other people, who stand before a Torah scroll but do not stand before a great man. For in the Torah scroll it is written "forty," and the Rabbis came and subtracted one..
A Torah scholar is a living Torah scroll, and how foolish are those who honor a Torah scroll, which is an inanimate object, but not a living Torah scroll.
Admittedly, the Talmud here links this to issuing a halakhic ruling (reducing the number of lashes by one), and from this it would seem that the value of a Torah scholar lies not in being a Torah scholar as such but in his contribution to Torah and Jewish law, in his rulings. But it seems to me that this is only an indication and not the reason. A human being can interpret the Torah and create Torah, and from this his value is greater than that of the written scroll, which for all its holiness is an inanimate object that does not change and cannot create anything.
In the past, students asked me several times whether there is justification for investing time in Torah study at the expense of one's family (both time and livelihood), and I told them that in my opinion there definitely is, on two conditions: a. that they have the talent and ability to make a unique contribution that others will not be able to make. b. that their spouse agrees to bear this burden. If those two conditions are met, then the couple is prepared to devote effort and endure difficulty in order to contribute something to Torah in the historical sense.
In this context I cited the example of the poor Chinese man who received two small coins and bought with them a slice of bread and a flower. When he was asked why he had not bought two slices, he answered that the slice of bread was in order to live, but the flower was so that there would be something to live for. If all of us concern ourselves only with bare existence and quality of life, the question arises: what are that existence and life for? What is this whole chain of generations meant to achieve and create? If we see the Torah as the collective goal of our entire history, then existence is supposed to serve it, not it serve existence. According to this, there is certainly room for special people who sacrifice quality of life and bear hardship for the sake of the larger goal.
Something like this can be seen in the Talmud, which states (Kiddushin 29b):
The Rabbis taught: If he and his son both need to study, he takes precedence over his son. Rabbi Yehuda says: If his son is diligent and sharp, and his learning will endure, then his son takes precedence..
If every person looks after his son's study, and the son in turn looks after his own son's study, who will study himself and create the Torah that is the purpose of the entire process? What is this whole chain meant for? Therefore the relevant consideration should be who can make the more unique and important contribution, the father or the son, and that is the one who should study. The other serves him, since both serve the Torah. Therefore, in certain cases, "he takes precedence over his son" (he takes precedence over his son), which is a somewhat "Gauguinian" statement of the Talmud (though of course there are differences, and this is not the place to elaborate).
The Two Rabbis of Dvinsk
In the above article I showed that differences similar to those I have described here appear between Rabbi Meir Simcha and the Rogatchover, both of whom served as rabbis in Dvinsk (the former for the Mitnagdim and the latter for the Hasidim). Rabbi Meir Simcha was a sociable man, a lover of people, interested in everyone, attentive and offering counsel to anyone who approached him with a pleasant countenance, and engaged in commentary on the Torah and in conceptual midrash, not only in Jewish law. The Rogatchover, by contrast, was always hurrying back to his studies (even during prayer he would urge the prayer leader to stop bothering people and the Holy One, blessed be He), did not answer people in the street, and did not often answer Jewish-law questions either. He hardly ever left his room and did not really function as a rabbi in the accepted sense.
In my article I wondered why a community would choose for itself a rabbi like the Rogatchover at all. He was of no use to anyone and in fact may have been exploiting them. They paid him a salary and received nothing in return except sour looks, disregard, and even rebukes. The people who were in contact with him were a few great Torah scholars (some of whom also got a taste of his tongue and his arm), but not the common folk, and certainly not members of the community.
I explained there that there were many communities in Europe (and probably not only there) that regarded it as an honor to maintain a rabbi who was several sizes greater than they were. They saw themselves as the rabbi's servants, not him as their servant. From their perspective, bringing a rabbi to a community is a service the community does for him, and through him for the Torah, for the Holy One, blessed be He, and for the Jewish people across the generations. They support a person whose singular contribution to Torah is beyond price, and if they do not support him perhaps the Jewish people and the Torah will lose him. This is a rabbi whom the community serves, not a rabbi who serves a community.
The Current Situation
In my article I argued that today we tend to look for a rabbi of the second type (the Or Sameach and Rabbi Elishiv Knohl), but there is an important place for both models. It seems that we have somewhat lost our understanding of the contribution that we are able—and obligated—to make to Torah across the generations, and we expect a rabbi to be a public servant. My sense is that we lack "Gauguin-like" rabbis. Of course they are justified only if the community is prepared to support them and bear the burden and hardship without receiving anything in return, but assuming the community understands the importance and is willing to do so, rabbis of this kind are very necessary, and their "unpleasant" behavior is justified.
Back to the Open Rabbi
None of this detracts in the slightest, of course, from the importance of rabbis like the Or Sameach. On the contrary, they prove that the wisdom of Torah also has a welcoming face turned toward the public, and after all the public really does need rabbinic leadership and guidance. But precisely because of this, it is no less important to emphasize the importance and role of the Gauguins and the Rogatchovers.
Moreover, with respect to study and rulings as well, each of the two figures has a relative advantage. The sage who shuts himself away in his room and is detached from the realities of the world can delve more deeply and find original interpretations. He is usually more erudite and can find precedents and arguments that help one reach the correct halakhic ruling. He is not swayed by passions and interests, since he is secluded in his room and uninvolved in what goes on in the world. But this is itself also his defect: he is detached from the world and does not always understand the significance of the ruling, or the factual situation of the public or the person to whom his words are addressed. Moreover, I have argued in the past that this form of halakhic ruling is mistaken, because the Torah is supposed to fit the condition of the world and of life. It is not that his ruling is the pure truth while the world has simply not yet merited to be on that level. On the contrary: that ruling is mistaken, because Torah has to be implemented in the world as it is. The Torah was not given to the ministering angels (the Torah was not given to ministering angels), and not to those who ate the manna (the eaters of manna) either.
This is the advantage of the more open decisor and rabbi, the one who is intelligently engaged with people and attentive to ordinary folk. He understands the meaning of things and the situation to which he is relating. He employs common sense as well, not only detached reasoning and logic. In my view, the author of books of Jewish law should preferably be of the first type, but a halakhic decisor (for cases that come before him) is really writing responsa that deal with a specific case, not with principled rulings of Jewish law (though of course he does that as part of the ruling as well). Therefore he must specifically be a sage of the second type. The first, even if he engages in practical Jewish law, is essentially a scholarly analyst and not a decisor, and he can write books of Jewish law but not issue rulings. A decisor is only a sage of the second type. This is perhaps the difference that jurists customarily make between a scholar (the person of legal theory, the researcher and university lecturer) and a judge. The ideal model, of course, is a ruling that emerges from a combination of, or discussion between, these two. The decisor ought to consult the analyst and make use of him in order to survey all the possibilities and think through all the aspects, but in the end he must make the practical decision himself.[3]
A Side Note
Just now I saw in Kuntres HaSfeikot rule 3 an interesting dispute that may bear on our matter. The subject is the law of "seizure," that is, the ability of one litigant to seize from the other the money over which the dispute revolves (or in certain cases to seize something of equivalent value). The Shakh in the treatise Takfo Kohen argues that if some question remained in the Talmud as a teiku (an unresolved question), then in such a case seizure can never be effective. Why? Because the rule is that seizure is effective only before the doubt is born. After the doubt has already been born, whoever is holding the money at that moment is the one in presumptive possession. The moment of the birth of the doubt is the time when the Talmud dealt with this issue (that is, more than fifteen hundred years ago), because when it concludes with a teiku, no halakhic decisor in the world has the authority to decide that question on his own judgment. The birth of the doubt is the Talmud's uncertainty, not the opinion of the judge now sitting in judgment. By contrast, if there is a dispute among major authorities, that is, a dispute between Amoraim or medieval authorities (Rishonim) on some question, then the moment of the birth of the doubt with respect to a particular case is the moment when the two litigants in that case come before the judge.
And there, the author of Kuntres HaSfeikot challenges both of the Shakh's determinations. He argues that the moment of the birth of the doubt is when the doubt is created in reality. Therefore, even when there is a teiku in the Talmud, the moment of the birth of the doubt is when the event occurs that raises the specific doubt before us, not the moment of the Talmudic discussion. And even when there is a dispute among major authorities, the moment of the birth of the doubt is not when the litigants come before the judge but the moment of the event itself (which is slightly earlier).
It occurred to me that the point of dispute between these two halakhic decisors is the question of what, exactly, a judge in a religious court is dealing with. The Shakh apparently understands that the judge's role is to deal with the halakhic question. If so, then the moment of the birth of the doubt in a case of teiku is at the time of the Talmudic discussion, because that is when the legal question itself arose. But in a dispute among major authorities, the legal doubt arises when the case comes before the judge (not when the event occurred). The author of Kuntres HaSfeikot, by contrast, holds that the judge deals with the case and not with the law. Therefore, in both cases the doubt is a doubt about the case, not a theoretical and general legal doubt, and that always arises with the occurrence of the event itself (in both situations I described, teiku or dispute among major authorities).
My claim is that the cloistered sage essentially rules like the Shakh. He deals with the abstract and theoretical halakhic question, not with the specific case that comes before him. Even if he enters into all the details of the case, that is only in order to define the situation properly so that he can determine the law. The more open sage, by contrast, the actual decisor, performs the action of a judge according to the model of Kuntres HaSfeikot. He deals with the case and not with an abstract halakhic question. Halakhic ruling is supposed to be conducted on both of these planes, but in my opinion the decision should be made specifically by the open decisor.
Rabbi Elishiv Knohl, of blessed memory, did write books of Jewish law, but it is quite clear that they are more like responsa than like theoretical books of Jewish law. These books have human beings before their eyes, not only abstract ideas. Therefore they could have been written only by a sage of the second type. What a loss. May his soul be bound up in the bond of life.
[1] See on this in Weinreb's Problems in Moral Philosophy, The Open University, vol. 1, pp. 19-20.
[2] See a bit about this in the discussion here.
[3] See on this in Column 62 and also in my article here (see also the examples and sources I brought there). In extreme and unfamiliar situations, the error of a ruling issued by a cloistered sage will of course be more severe. See on this in my article here.