What Is Memory? On the Modern Transition from the Ontic to the Mental (Column 7)
With God's help
In the wake of the memorial days (for the Holocaust and for fallen IDF soldiers) that have just passed, various thoughts arose in me about the nature of memory and the importance of remembrance. I ask your forgiveness in advance for straying into areas that may seem, at first glance, mystical, but necessity admits no reproach.
On the Sanctity of Memory
In today’s State of Israel, almost nothing is sacred (and that is a good thing). Yet precisely against this background, the aura of sanctity accorded here to memory stands out. These two memorial days are the only holy days in our public life. Anyone who affronts them immediately arouses Pavlovian reactions of anger and injury. Every year we are regaled with in-depth features about Haredim who do not stand during the siren or during the singing of the anthem, and the feeling is as though the secular or Zionist sacred has been desecrated. The Haredim rub their hands with satisfaction and like to say that perhaps now the secular public will be able to understand why they are hurt by the desecration of the Sabbath or Yom Kippur (there is not a little demagoguery in this claim, but there is nevertheless something to it, and this is not the place to elaborate).
Why Is It Important to Remember?
Why, really, is it so important to remember? What is sacred about this memory? One could enter into the question of the importance of history in general (History as a Higher Need, as in Yosef Avivi’s well-known aphorism), but that is not our subject. The question is more specific: why is it important to remember the fallen/the victims?
At first glance the question is outrageous. After all, they gave their lives for us, so why should we not remember them? But this is not true of Holocaust victims. The overwhelming majority did not sacrifice their lives, neither for us nor at all. Their lives were taken from them against their will. So it does not seem that we owe them gratitude. The same is true of victims of terror attacks. They were simply murdered by terrorists and did not sacrifice themselves for us. This is of course very sad and painful, but I do not see here a duty of gratitude[1]. With respect to fallen IDF soldiers as well, the matter is not simple. A considerable number of them were killed in ways unrelated to self-sacrifice. But let us assume that for most of them this is not the case. Many of the fallen did sacrifice their lives for us, and we owe them gratitude.
Moreover, gratitude, even where it does exist, does not seem a sufficient explanation. When we remember them, do they benefit from it? By now they are no longer here. Does their soul in the heavenly storehouses look down and check whether we still remember? Is it saddened when it sees that we do not remember? How does remembrance constitute gratitude?
Very well, perhaps the value of memory is instrumental. Memory is a means to achieve good ends. For example, Holocaust remembrance may help prevent another Holocaust. According to this proposal, memory is not a value that stands on its own (according to Leibowitz, values are always ends and never means)[2]. But this does not explain remembrance of the fallen. What is it meant to prevent or achieve? Another instrumental explanation seeks to ground the duty to remember in the fact that remembrance helps bereaved families. Public participation in their grief eases their pain and shows them that the sacrifice of their loved ones is appreciated, and therefore was not in vain. So is there here an interpersonal duty toward the families? If so, what about the Holocaust? Is remembrance there too a duty in order to help the families that remained? Does remembrance show that their sacrifice was not in vain? One of the problems there is that their sacrifice was entirely in vain. Did the victims of terror not perish pointlessly as well? All this seems highly implausible. And what about someone who has no family? Precisely there one has the sense that there is an obligation to come and attend the funeral (see the case of Sean Carmeli, the lone soldier who fell in “Protective Edge,” and Ariel Horovitz’s well-known song about the 20,000 mourners who came to the funeral. True, in that case there was family abroad). Whom did that help? Why is it important?
The obvious answer now is that gratitude is itself a virtue, and therefore it is important that we work to acquire and internalize it in our souls. This is done for our sake, not for anyone or anything else. Although I agree with this, I think it does not capture the essence of the matter. People feel that there is some kind of duty toward the fallen themselves. And of course an indication of this is the case of Holocaust victims and others with regard to whom there is no duty of gratitude, and yet there is still a sense of a duty of remembrance, or even a sense of sanctity toward it.
Very well, perhaps the required conclusion is that this is simply a piece of nonsense that has taken root. The fact that many people feel this way proves very little. Truth is not decided by majority rule, since majorities do plenty of foolish things. I have a feeling that in many cases, precisely when the majority says something, it is probably mistaken. To be sure, this applies to situations in which people give reasons for their views. There you will usually hear arguments whose stupidity is hair-raising. But when people simply feel something in all innocence, I trust that in most cases there is something to it. That, at least, is worth investigating. In many cases people have sound intuition; they sense or experience something, although when they try to rationalize it, one often gets nonsense. People do not always succeed in deciphering themselves.
If so, there is something about memory that demands explanation. The feeling, shared by many people, that there is a duty to remember is worth examining. The explanations may seem forced and artificial, which only deepens the difficulty and the need to try and examine the matter again. I think the explanation I will propose below, whether correct or not, does a good job of representing what many of us feel. But before that I must consider one more possibility.
On Need and Value[3]
If indeed there is no good reason for a duty of remembrance, perhaps memory can be seen as a need rather than a value. We have a need to remember these people and to feel their absence. If we do not feel it, we experience pangs of conscience, and therefore it is important to us to remember them.
This proposal is probably correct, but it is important to understand that its meaning is that remembrance is not a duty. There is no value in remembering the victims/the fallen; people merely have a need to do so. Fine. And someone who has no such need? Then he need not do it. In such a conception there is no room for criticism or judgmentalism toward one who does not remember. Nothing is lacking in him in the ethical or evaluative sense. He is simply constituted differently from us. He lacks this need, and nothing more. I doubt whether such a conception correctly describes the feelings of most of the people I know. The tremor of sanctity that accompanies these days does not reflect merely a psychological need. People see it as a value. Perhaps they are mistaken, but that is what they think.[4] The question with which I am dealing here is: on what is this prevalent intuition based?
The Zekher of Amalek
First, let me widen the scope of the evidence somewhat. In the portion Ki Tetze the Torah commands us (Deut. 25:19):
And it shall be, when the Lord your God gives you rest from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess, you shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; do not forget.
God Himself likewise promises us in the portion Beshalach (Ex. 17:14):
And the Lord said to Moses, “Write this as a remembrance in the book, and place it in Joshua’s ears, that I will surely blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven.”
What is this zekher that we are commanded to blot out, and that God promises to blot out? Moreover, in that very verse we are commanded not to forget. This is a counted commandment to remember and not forget what Amalek did, so how does that fit with the commandment to blot out his zekher? Many homilies have proliferated on this matter—about the Amalek in the heart, about remembrance within forgetfulness, and the rest of the wondrously strange Hasidic verbiage. But I think the explanation is quite different.
Rashi on Ki Tetze writes:
“You shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek” — from man to woman, from infant to suckling, from ox to sheep (I Samuel 15:3), so that the name of Amalek should not be mentioned even in connection with an animal, so that one should not say: this animal belonged to Amalek.
It seems that he sensed there is a problem here. He explains that the zekher under discussion is not something mental (memory) but objects. True, we are to remember Amalek, but at the same time we must erase everything that remains of him (everything to which his name is still attached). This means that in biblical Hebrew, the “zekher” of a thing is actually a part of it. Amalek’s zekher is something of Amalek, not a memory of Amalek. Amalek’s zekher must be erased, but his memory preserved. In this way we have, in effect, shifted the term “zekher” from the mental plane (memory) to the ontic plane of being (remnant, part).
Back to the Duty of Remembrance
If that is indeed the meaning of the term “zekher,” perhaps we can learn from it something about the meaning of memory in general. When we bring someone or something to mind, that is of course a mental act. Something in our brain begins to work, and an image of the remembered object or some experience associated with it arises in us. But perhaps there is something deeper here, something ontic: when we remember, there is within us something—a zekher, a remnant—of that object, actually present in our consciousness. When we remember someone, we are as it were conjuring up some part of him and bringing him back into our sphere, and thereby in some sense bringing him back to life.
If one adopts this strange conception, the duty of remembrance acquires a more substantial meaning. In remembering, we bring back to life something (a zekher) of someone who has died. The duty to remember is nothing other than a duty to diminish his death somewhat, since something of him still exists when he is remembered.
Is this not merely a metaphor?
From where does this mystical conception spring? Is it not merely a metaphor? The matter recalls, how could it not, Moti Hamer’s rather schmaltzy and somewhat sticky song (performed by Hava Alberstein), “A Single Human Fabric”:[5]
When I die, something of me
will die in you.
When you die, something of you in me
will die with you.
For all of us are one living human fabric.
And if one of us goes away from us
something dies within us –
and something remains with him.
The song says that something of one person is present in another. But to everyone it seems that this is, at most, a metaphor. If we are materialists (those who believe that only matter exists), then clearly no part of the deceased remains with us or anywhere else (apart from various molecules of his that have dispersed through the universe). But if we are dualists, that is, if we believe that there is something in the human being beyond matter, then there are mental components that are part of him. Where do these go when he dies? The answer depends on whether we see the soul as a single unified entity, all of whose contents disappear or go somewhere after death. But there is certainly room for the conception that the memories, thoughts, and ideas that were within a person are literally part of him. This is part of his mental component, and in that sense, when we call them to mind, they actually leave something of the deceased with us even after he has departed from this world. Presumably, when we remember what the person looked like physically, that is certainly not part of him. But when memory raises in our mind the ideas and thoughts of the dead person, then a part of his mental component (a “zekher” of him) truly remains with us.
In Yalkut Shimoni, Kohelet, sec. 989, it is written:
“For the living know that they will die” — these are the righteous, who even in their death are called living, as it is said: “And Benaiah son of Jehoiada, son of a living man.” Was Benaiah the son of a living man — are not all people the sons of mortals? Rather, “son of a living man” means that even in his death he is called living. “But the dead know nothing” — these are the wicked, who even in their lifetime are called dead, as it is said: “And you, slain wicked one, prince of Israel.”
The righteous are called alive because their ideas and thoughts remain after them.
And in Pesikta Zutarta (Lekach Tov), portion Shemot, chapter 1, sec. 1, it says:
How many times did He mention the names of the tribes, out of love for their fathers and love for them themselves. Therefore it is said, “A good name is better than fine oil, and the day of death than the day of birth.” A person’s praise is repeated after his death, for people recount his praise and his good deeds; but on the day of his birth he has neither praise nor greatness. Thus our patriarch Jacob was mourned by the Egyptians for seventy days, because the righteous, even in their death, are called living.
The righteous are called alive even in death because their good name and good deeds are part of them that remain alive.
And therefore the Jerusalem Talmud, Shekalim 2:5, says:
Therefore it was taught: Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says, monuments are not made for the righteous; their words are their memorial.
The memory of the righteous is their “zekher,” and above we already saw that this refers to a remnant that remains of them.
Perhaps this also gives a different sense to Rosh Hashanah, which in Scripture and in our tradition is called “Yom HaZikaron,” since on this day our remembrance rises before God. Does this mean that on that day He remembers us? After all, He remembers everything all the time. It is more likely that the intention is that our zekher rises before Him, that is, a part of us is present with Him. On that day we attain some kind of nearness to Him; some “zekher” of us is with Him.
If so, this need not be mere metaphor. Within a dualistic conception there is room for the view that memory is a “zekher” of the deceased that remains with us, and remembrance revives him in some sense. Memory has an ontic dimension, not only a mental one. It seems to me, admittedly, that in statements of this sort the gap between metaphor and metaphysics is quite narrow. The distinction is no longer sharp.
It is important to understand that whoever insists on seeing this as only a metaphor, that is, that the zekher is not a residue of the remembered person within the rememberer, will find it difficult to reconcile this with the conception that sees value in memory. Whoever thinks that way must adopt a conception of memory as a need and not as a value.
The Question of the Existence of Collectives
When we look again at the term “zekher Amalek,” we find that “Amalek” is the Amalekite people (or Amalek son of Eliphaz son of Esau, the progenitor of that people). Amalek’s zekher is a remnant of that people. If the Torah tells us to blot out the Amalekites and calls them Amalek’s zekher, this means that it sees them as part of the Amalekite people. This brings us back to the question of the existence of collectives, which I touched on somewhat in the column “The Relation of Right and Left to Racism” (on this site, 6.5.2016).[6] At root, what we have here is an expression of a collectivist conception. The Amalekite people are some kind of entity, and the individuals who compose it are part (a “zekher”) of it. This is a relation parallel to the relation between people’s memories and the people themselves.
It is interesting that the modern or postmodern world is not inclined to see collectives as existing entities, just as it also does not see memories as parts of people. The modern conception treats “zekher” as a kind of metaphor. Memory, in its eyes, is a state or a mental capacity that occurs in the brain of the one who remembers, and not something ontic in the world itself. So too, there is a tendency to view the collective, at most, as a useful fiction, and not as a distinct entity. In this conception, the individual is the entity that really exists in the world, whereas the collective is nothing more than a useful fiction.[7]
The Connection Between the Two Processes: The Transition from the Ontic to the Mental
These are two processes with the same structure: objects that were once perceived as existing entities, that is, as belonging to the ontic plane, undergo abstraction and are transferred to the mental plane. Memory is now perceived as something mental and not as an entity, and the collective too is perceived as a definition that exists only in our thought, a fiction, and not as something that exists in the world itself.
There is a connection between these two processes. In order to see an organic whole as some kind of entity beyond the particulars that compose it, we must assume the existence of a soul. Something that binds the collection of molecules into one overall organic entity. Without it, we merely have a collection of molecules (or perhaps really quarks). So too with the collective: in order to assume that this is some kind of entity (Amalek-ness) beyond the totality of the particulars that compose it (the Amalekites), we must assume that there is something that unites them into one organism. The Hegelian spirit that turns the particulars into one national whole. In the Bible, this is seen as a function of the king, who is called there “one of the people” (that which makes the people one). Perhaps this is also the function of God, who turns the universe into an organic whole rather than an aggregate of particulars (a kind of soul of the world).[8] If so, recognizing the existence of a mental component in the human being, that is, seeing him as belonging to the ontic plane, is similar to recognizing that the collective is an entity in its own right (beyond the particulars that compose it).
The willingness to see abstract things as entities has steadily diminished over the generations. In the past, these things were perceived quite naturally as entities, whereas today we tend to perceive them as subjective fictions. Ironically, although modern science has become more and more abstract, the modern approach nevertheless maintains that rationality requires us not to accept the existence of non-tangible entities (or entities inaccessible to the senses). If once the agent responsible for the decay of abandoned houses was a demon (whose name was desolation, and of whom it was said "and desolation shall batter the gate"; see Bava Kamma 21a and Rashi there), today the culprit is the second law of thermodynamics. But a law only describes what is done; it itself does nothing and cannot do anything. Thus the law of gravitation describes the phenomenon of attraction, but what produces it is the force of gravity (which is some sort of entity, and not a law. The law merely describes the way that force operates). If once the feeling of fear at night or in the desert when we are alone there was understood as the result of concern about harm from demons (abstract entities of some kind) roaming those places, today it is a mental-psychological phenomenon with no objective ontic root. Likewise, the evil inclination was perceived as a kind of entity dwelling within us, whereas today almost all of us conceive it as a tendency of the psyche, that is, as a mental phenomenon.
Frank L. Baum describes this process wonderfully in the following passage from The Wizard of Oz:
“Aunt Em told me that the witches were all dead—years and years ago.” “Who is Aunt Em?” asked the little old woman. “She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from.” The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said: “I do not know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?” “Oh, yes,” replied Dorothy. “Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries, I believe, there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off from all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and wizards among us.”
So who is right? Are the ancient conceptions primitive, so that we ought to abandon them, or is the required conclusion perhaps that we are blind to this part of reality? Perhaps modern rationality blinds us to abstract entities. The assumption that only the tangible exists and the abstract is fiction actually blinds us and prevents us from noticing such entities, and therefore we give them a metaphorical interpretation. Thus people speak of the fact that “grandpa is watching over us from above” after his death, and when asked they explain that this is only a metaphor. But the clear impression one gets on hearing these words is that they are meant as a real description. People are unwilling to acknowledge that such a conception exists within them, and therefore when it arises directly, they turn it into a metaphor. But that is not how their words sound. It seems that they do perceive it as though something of the person continues to exist even after his death.[9]
Back to Memory
As for me, I regard ontic conceptions with skepticism (probably because I am part of modern culture). On the other hand, the transfer to the mental does not seem to me self-evident or necessary either. Sometimes it is not really convincing. There are cases in which we must acknowledge the existence of abstract entities, and not only in science (such as the force of gravity). Entities such as the collective or the soul seem to me to be real, ontic entities, and not metaphors or mere fictions. Here I am a proud primitive. And so I also tend to interpret memory on the ontic plane, thereby returning it from the modern mental interpretation back to the ontic.
This is the explanation I propose here for the sanctity of memory and its value. There will be those who speak of the ontic interpretation as a metaphor, but metaphors are supposed to express or illustrate something real. A metaphor is not a justification for anything. One who sees memory as a value and demands that others participate in it cannot rely on metaphors, nor on linguistic phenomena in general. If there is value to memory, then apparently the zekher is indeed something ontic. Our tendency to perceive it on the mental plane is modern repression, or adherence to the demands of modern rationality, but as noted this is not necessarily justified.
Dualism is not mysticism in the bad sense of the word. The sense that I have a soul or a mental component is, in my eyes, certain and clear. True, modern rationalization transfers that feeling into the realm of metaphors, but as I explained in my book The Science of Freedom, that does not sound at all convincing to me. And if we indeed have a mental component within us, then there is no impediment to proposing an ontic interpretation of memory as well. As a dualist, I can certainly accept that this component remains in the world in some sense even after our death.
On Right and Left
In the column I wrote on Major General Yair Golan’s remarks, I linked these conceptions to the dispute between right and left. There I argued that the right is based on a collectivist conception and the left on individualism. In my book Two Wagons and a Balloon (Part Four, chapter 2), I already discussed studies that show that the memory patterns of these two groups are different,[10] and not by coincidence. On the right, memory is generally collective. When the fallen are remembered, one speaks about their contribution to the state, about the values they bequeathed to us, and about the general significance of their lives and deaths. This can be explained in light of the fact that the right is based on collectivism. The left, by contrast, whose conception is based on individualism, tends to remember the person on the personal plane: who he was, what and whom he loved, how he looked, what his tastes were, and so forth.
Since then things have changed somewhat, and memory has become more personal in all sectors of the population. Every year, the memorial days for the Holocaust and for fallen IDF soldiers take on a more personal and less collective character. The meaning is that although the collective dimension of memory has become less dominant, memory itself has become more ontic. The duty to remember is no longer instrumental (so that we may learn from the deceased’s path and contribute to the survival of the collective), but rather a duty to keep him alive, which, as noted, is based on an ontic conception of memory. As we have seen, this itself is based on a dualistic conception of the human being. The right too joins the left’s pattern of memory, but not because of individualism and a denial of the collective dimension, but because of a relation to the dimension that remains of the deceased himself. Perhaps attending to the personal is also the more correct way to preserve the collective. If remembering keeps the dead alive, then the collective too benefits and survives more, in some sense.
And as he departs, what does one say? May it be God’s will that the readers forgive me for words of mysticism and primitive speculations that I allowed myself to bring onto my keyboard in this holy place…
[1] See my eulogy for those killed in the terrorist attack at Mercaz HaRav
[2] See, for example, the final essay in his collection of essays, Faith, History, and Values, which deals with the sanctity of life and euthanasia.
[3] On the relation between needs and values, see the third part of the fourth notebook on this site.
[4] The entire fourth notebook is devoted to this type of argument, which is called there a “theological” argument.
[5] The quotation is partial and omits the repetitions required by the melody.
[6] See my article – The Relation of Right and Left to Racism. See also on this in my book Two Wagons and a Balloon, note 15, and in my article in Tzohar 14, The Problem of the Relation Between the Individual and the Collective and the “Defensive Shield” Dilemma.
[7] See on this in my article, “Suddenly a Man Rises in the Morning and Feels That He Is a People and Begins to Walk” – On Jewish Identity in Our Time and in General, Akdamot 30.
[8] I will only note here the conception known as pantheism (associated with Spinoza). This is the identification of God with the material totality of the universe. God is not something additional, but rather the totality called the universe in its generality. On its face, this is nonsense. One simply takes this totality, which we all know exists, and gives it another name. What is the difference between this and ordinary atheism? Is this merely a change of name? In what sense is there here belief in something, rather than only a semantic game? It seems to me that the only way to make some sense of this odd conception is to assume that there exists something that unifies the totality of the universe into an organism, the soul of the world, and this is God (and then the identification of God with the universe is roughly like saying that a person’s soul is the person himself, and not his body). Of course, if that is the sense, then pantheism loses much of its charm, since it becomes belief in God in a fairly ordinary sense. God is once again something that stands beyond the world, and the world exists and functions within Him. So what remains here of the difference between this and the conception of a personal God? It seems to me that only the subjective experience present in the believer in these two beliefs. In every other sense, this is once again semantics. Except that this time it is a semantic shift within the theistic conception, and not within atheism as in the previous version.
[9] Another example of the matter can be seen in my article, Two Conceptions of Myth: the New Historians, and the Rashba’s Ban, Tzohar 10.
[10] See, for example, Michael Feige’s article, Leave the Departed Be, in the book Myth and Memory, David Ohana and Robert Wistrich (eds.), Hakibbutz Hameuchad and the Van Leer Institute, Jerusalem 1997.
Discussion
Amir Hozeh:
After the interpretation you gave this view in note 8, you went on to say that as a result there is no special difference between the pantheistic view and the usual conception of God, according to which He is in fact separate from the world (but can still of course influence it). In the lecture you gave on whether tzimtzum is to be taken literally or not, you noted that the more Lithuanian school tends to see God as something separate from the world, transcendent, though still of course able to influence it, and that this world is nothing but a trial from which one should distance oneself.
In light of this, I דווקא see a great deal of potential for a difference—not only on the ideological plane but also practically—following the new interpretation you gave, in which you likened God and the world to the human soul and body.
I think both you and I know that I am not my body, and that I exist beyond my body, and can of course also control my body (up to this point, the Lithuanian conception). But even so, when you want to create contact with me (the real, transcendent me), connect with me, or simply be with me, you do so precisely through my body! You shake my hand and speak into my ears and are near my body (not to mention the deepest bond of man and woman), and all this counts as your creating contact with my true essence itself.
So if we understand the pantheistic or panentheistic conception this way, there is much room for serving God through action and through using the world itself, and not only through Torah study or studies about the very concept of divinity, etc. Just as many people think that if they want to grasp something of divinity or draw close to the Creator, they do so only through the intellect (and I have heard such people explain the practical commandments as a way to teach and imprint ideas in the intellect), on the contrary, the way to draw close to Him and cleave to Him would be by means of this material world and everything in it—through the Temple, through offering sacrifices, through prayer in certain places such as synagogues or the Land of Israel and Jerusalem—and the very practical act that you perform would mean that you created contact with Him, or in other words, cleaved to Him.
What do you think?
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The rabbi:
It is clear that the practical implications of metaphysical conceptions are not necessary ones. These are correlations, not a necessary logical connection.
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Amir Hozeh:
Then I did not understand your words properly the first time… if indeed there are no necessary implications from metaphysical reality for how we act in the world, then not only is the discussion of the pantheistic or panentheistic or pan-pan-pantheistic conception unimportant, but every discussion dealing with metaphysics is meaningless regarding what we end up doing in practice.
At most it is something to occupy one’s free time when for some reason one cannot study halakhah or Gemara. Or alternatively, it is therapy for those people who, because of a need to understand what and why they are doing what they are doing, find it hard—before whom they stand when they pray, etc…
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The rabbi:
Here you have jumped too far. There is reason to discuss even non-necessary connections. In fact, there are no necessary connections at all in the world of ideas. For example, China is a communist country, and yet it runs a fairly capitalist economy (not entirely, of course). And Perón’s Argentina was far-right and ran a fairly socialist economy. So because of this, do you think there is no point in discussing the connection between right-wing politics and capitalism or communism? Even the conclusion that the connection is not necessary is itself a conclusion of this discussion, and there you have it: it was worth having.
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Amir Hozeh:
I was hoping you would say something in that style, because in my humble opinion there is indeed benefit in speaking about metaphysical reality, and I am glad that you think so too. But still, it was not for nothing that you pointed out that the connection is not necessary but only correlative. I believe, in my humble opinion (correct me if I am wrong), that you said this because you adopt an approach that tries to separate theology from halakhah as much as possible. I, however, unlike you, think that not only is there benefit in the aforesaid discussion, but I also believe that after such a discussion there should be practical consequences as well. For example, if I understood that there is not just one god but several gods who rule the world and who created it and me, then I ought to show gratitude to all of them and not just one of them; and in addition I ought to fight against all those heretics in those gods who decide to follow only one god and neglect the worship of the others.
This seems simple to me, and much more in keeping with common sense than deliberately ignoring metaphysical reality. Just as when I act for the sake of a certain value I take physical reality into account (I do not put my hand into the fire because of “and you shall greatly guard your souls”), so too I will take metaphysical reality into account when I act for values or needs or desires; and truly one could give thousands of examples on the subject.
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The rabbi:
If I have reached a metaphysical conclusion, I have no interest in ignoring it. But two things must be examined: 1. Is this really my conclusion (and how certain am I of it)? 2. Does this conclusion bear on halakhah or not? In many cases it does not bear on halakhah, and so there is no need to drag it in there.
You wrote as follows:
“The willingness to regard abstract things as entities keeps diminishing over the generations. In the past these things were taken quite naturally as entities, whereas today we tend to regard them as subjective fictions.
Ironically, although modern science keeps becoming more and more abstract, the modern approach nevertheless holds that rationality requires us not to accept the existence of intangible entities (or entities that cannot be sensed).”
I do not understand what irony there is here. After all, abstraction is exactly this: stripping from an “idea” or “concept” its “sensible” part,
and thereby leaving it as something that is not apprehended outside the subject?
Is not the definition of a “concept” “that which exists only in cognition”?
I did not understand the question. The modern world moves toward abstractions and recognizes the existence of abstract entities (I mean scientists, not philosophers, many of whom doubt the existence of theoretical entities), and yet modern man tends not to accept the existence of abstract, non-sensible entities. People accept the existence of a gravitational field or an electric field only because they see the results of their actions, but they do not acknowledge the existence of demons even though they see the results of their actions.
Okay. I did not know there was a difference between scientists and philosophers. I tend to think like the latter.
I look at a “gravitational field” as a concept (“a useful fiction,” as you say).
That is, the only “being” here is the actual objects and the distance between them, and the whole story of “mass” creating a “force” or “curving space-time” is only an “intellectual classification and ordering” (“ordering” in the sense of before and after, which is called “cause and effect”) among the parts of the actual event (object, place, time), and the concepts (force, mass, curvature) are the ‘names’ of the parts of that ordering.
So here is the point of our disagreement. On your view, the entire search for gravitons is pouring a sea of money (billions) down the drain. The graviton is a particle that carries the force of gravity, but on your view there is no such force. It is only a fiction of ours used to describe the observed phenomena. The chance that it will be found is negligible. By the way, so it was with the other fields too—and lo and behold, usually they did find the particles that had been predicted to exist…
It is not that I have specialized in the matter (I know of it only from bits and pieces of reading), but I really did read about gravitons not long ago, and I was very puzzled:
What is the meaning of “carrier of gravity”? Does it mean that the particle “grabs” the object and “pulls” it toward the floor?
A second question: what have we gained? We still have not explained what the force itself is; we have only “placed” it on a carrier. And what is wrong if it has no carrier?
I would be very grateful if you could clarify this whole issue for me (to the extent that one can explain it to an ignoramus in the field).
In physics a distinction is made between particles that carry a force/field and particles on which the force/field acts. The best example is photons. The photon is a particle that carries the electromagnetic field/force. When it strikes particles it acts on them, and thus the effect of the electromagnetic field is produced. If the electromagnetic field were only our fiction for describing the electromagnetic field, then there would be no photons in the world. The parallel with respect to the force of gravity is gravitons. The particles that have mass are the particles on which the force acts. Gravitons are the force-carrying particles (which exert it).
The accepted assumption in physics is that there is no action at a distance, and therefore if two distant masses exert force on one another, there is probably something mediating between them, that is, transmitting the force. In this respect most physicists differ from many philosophers of science. Philosophers toy with the idea that theoretical entities do not exist, but are useful fictions for us. Physicists take it for granted that these are existing entities (in one form or another). To me it is clear that the physicists are right, and the philosophers simply do not know what they are talking about. There are very good arguments in favor of this. One argument for the reliability of our generalizations (of which theoretical entities are one example of the products) is found here (at the end):
https://mikyab.net/%D7%9B%D7%AA%D7%91%D7%99%D7%9D/%D7%9E%D7%90%D7%9E%D7%A8%D7%99%D7%9D/%D7%A2%D7%95%D7%93-%D7%91%D7%A2%D7%A0%D7%99%D7%99%D7%9F-%D7%AA%D7%A2%D7%A8%D7%95-%D7%A9%D7%9C-%D7%90%D7%95%D7%A7%D7%94%D7%90%D7%9D/
Many thanks. I will look into it.
Michi:
In physics a distinction is made between particles that carry a force/field, and particles on which the force/field acts.
Yisrael:
Three things are thus found: 1- the force, 2- the particle that carries it, 3- the particle acted upon by them.
1. I understand that “force” is the familiar physical “push” known to us all, and that there is no other “force” besides this. Is that correct?
2. I understand that “carrying” a force also means that the carrier is “accelerated” or “set in motion” by the force, and this causes it to move elsewhere, where it hits another carrier particle and “transfers” the force to it; then the second begins to move, until it too encounters a third particle, and so on until the target particle “on which the force/field acts” (to use your phrase). Is that correct?
3. Is there a difference in kind between a carrier particle and a target particle, or is the difference between them only relative to their “role” in a given event?
Michi:
The photon is a particle that carries the electromagnetic field/force.
When it strikes particles it acts on them, and thus the effect of the EM field is produced.
Yisrael:
4. I understand that this “action” is, as I wrote above, the “transfer” of force from one particle to its fellow. That is to say, there is only one “action”: the “transfer of force” from one particle to another. Is that correct?
Michi:
The parallel with respect to the force of gravity is gravitons.
Yisrael:
5. I understand that every force has a “direction,” meaning that it “pushes” in a certain direction (and this direction causes the direction of motion of the carrier particle). Is that correct?
If all this is correct, then here is what I do not understand:
A. How does mass create force?
B. Even if we assume that, this force has a direction, so either way: if its direction is from one object (with mass) toward the second object (between which there is attraction), then when it reaches the second object it ought to push it away (thus distancing it) instead of pulling it.
And if its direction is inward, toward the attracting object itself, how is this force transmitted to another particle outside it? And how is it that the graviton begins to “travel” and move away from the attracting mass? Seemingly it should have been attracted and absorbed into it.
Michi:
Philosophers toy with the idea that theoretical entities do not exist, but are useful fictions for us. To me it is clear that the physicists are right, and the philosophers simply do not know what they are talking about.
Yisrael:
If I have understood correctly up to now, it turns out that the scientist’s entire explanation is based on terms that he does not claim to explain.
And they are: the “particle” (the “being”), the “force,” the “place,” the “motion,” and the “transfer of force.”
I understand that philosophers are trying to deepen our understanding of these concepts and define them differently, so that according to their understanding one can describe the phenomenon more “easily” (albeit in a more abstract way)—that is, without having to add (invent) new objects (a carrier particle), but rather by a different “composition” of their deeper concepts. Is that not so?
I assume (and ask your opinion) that the photons (or other particles) that scientists have “found” (according to your testimony) were not really literally “seen” with their eyes. When they say they “found” them, they mean that physical results (phenomena) occurred that had been predicted on the basis of the photon explanation, and that constitute “proofs” of their existence. If so, philosophers could argue about this too, and offer another explanation according to their deeper understanding of the basic terms.
By the way, it seems to me (though again, I am no great expert in the subject) that the explanation in terms of “curving” space-time is a more philosophical explanation than the graviton explanation, and does not require them. Is that correct?
One last remark: I was persuaded by your words about the reliability of scientific generalizations. Nevertheless, as I understand it, this says nothing about their nature.
Even if I regard the generalization only as an intellectual ordering of concepts, I can still have great confidence in it and in its predictions.
I believe (in the power of induction) that this description correctly describes future phenomena as well.
You are looking a bit too simplistically at force-carrying particles. There is no physical description that explains how the carrier particle exerts the force on the actual particle. It is a basic fact that it exerts it. Even if there were such an explanation, it would be framed in terms of additional entities or events, and you could again ask how they work. In the end one stops with basic facts.
Philosophers have not found any alternative explanation. They only wonder whether the explanation scientists found is a claim about the world or only about ourselves. There is no dispute here between two options. Also, the distinction between scientists and philosophers is mine, so do not quote it as an established fact. But in my understanding it is an accurate description of the situation among most scientists/philosophers.
You may of course trust whatever you want, but trust in a generalization is no better grounded than trust in the existence of theoretical entities. If you reject the latter, it is not clear why you adopt the former. In general, moreover, a generalization without entities contradicts the principle of causality, since according to it every event has a cause. By contrast, on your view no physical event has a cause. It simply happens, that is all, but there is nothing that brings it about. Thus, for example, bodies move without there being anything that moves them (=the force of gravity).
Michi:
You may of course trust whatever you want, but trust in a generalization is no better grounded than trust in the existence of theoretical entities.
If you reject the latter, it is not clear why you adopt the former.
Yisrael:
Simply because (as you explained very, very well in the article) empirical reality shows us that our generalizations are correct (that too is a generalization).
But I have no indication whatsoever that theoretical entities exist outside us.
Michi:
In general, moreover, a generalization without entities contradicts the principle of causality.
For according to it, every event has a cause, whereas on your view no physical event has a cause.
It simply happens, that is all, but there is nothing that brings it about. Thus, for example, bodies move without there being anything that moves them (=the force of gravity).
Yisrael:
I am trying to argue that if the philosopher succeeds in describing the “physical” event in abstract concepts,
then the principle of causality too will hold in an abstract manner. The cause will not have to exist in the physical sense.
For example, if the philosopher succeeds in showing that space and time exist only in our intuition (as Kant claims),
he will be able to say that motion too (which is only change in space/time) does not exist outside our cognition.
And if so, he will not need to find a cause for motion that “exists” physically.
All the more so if he adds to this that mass too is only a “point concentration” of space/time (so I read that some say, though I did not understand it),
for then the body itself also exists only in our cognition.
True, at present I have no basis for such an explanation, and it is nothing but speculation.
Still, personally I prefer to wonder in the style of: “What is motion, and how is it possible?” rather than to ask: “Where is the graviton?”
And yes, if it were up to me I would direct scientific inquiry in that direction.
Even what has already been “proven” (photons) does not satisfy me.
To my taste it only postpones the demand for understanding to another place (how the photon is created, and what its properties are).
This reminds me of the question whether a proof of a mathematical result by computer counts as a proof or not.
As I understand it, it does not. For a proof is not only a means of checking and ensuring that the theory can be relied upon;
it also serves to understand the phenomenon, and understanding, in my opinion, belongs only where there is an explanation showing how the thing follows from axioms accepted by us (that is, ones we do not feel the need to explain).
I thank you for the opportunity you are giving me to clarify for myself what I think.
I wanted to ask about the obligation to remember, which is in effect the obligation to preserve something of the dead among the living. Clearly there is such an obligation toward those who fell defending the people, because of gratitude toward them. But regarding Holocaust victims, and generally anyone who fell because of his Jewishness, what obligation of gratitude do we have toward them? I thought to suggest an explanation: that the Jewish collective has an obligation to protect its individuals when they are attacked because of their belonging to the collective, and since the collective failed to protect the individual, the least it can do as compensation for this failure is to preserve the memory of the individual who fell because of his belonging to the collective.
Perhaps. But maybe it is only a quantitative matter. It may be that every dead person ought to be remembered, except that here there are many of them, and some have no one to remember them.
But then it is difficult to explain why victims of terror are included in the memorial ceremonies. They are a numerically smaller group than those killed in road accidents, and yet intuitively it is clear to people that it is more important to remember them than those killed in road accidents.
I am really not at all sure that they belong there.
That is, if there had been some epidemic in Europe because of which 6 million Jews were killed, would we have had the same duty of remembrance toward them as toward Holocaust victims?
Yes. Why not? Note that I wrote that perhaps you are right, but I am not sure. This is a discussion of the other side.
Even if what you wrote is correct (though it sounds a bit strange), it is correct only with respect to remembering individuals. On Holocaust Remembrance Day, the Holocaust is remembered as a collective, not as individuals, so your explanation does not fit Holocaust Remembrance Day. I would like to suggest another direction. The Holocaust constitutes an essential part of our identity, and that is why it must be remembered. Do you agree?
That is entirely relevant to the Holocaust as well. A collective that is remembered is present among us today.
I do not understand your claim. The Holocaust became an essential part of identity because everyone is busy remembering it. Why not decide that standing on one foot every morning is the essence of our identity?
“The righteous are called living because their ideas and thoughts remain after them”—what about the wicked whose ideas remain after them?
“The righteous, even in their death, are called living because their good name and good deeds are a part of them that remains alive”—what about righteous people that no one has ever heard of?
I did not merit to understand what, in your view, memory does; I would be glad if you could be more precise. “Raising by necromancy” is not a definition.
Even if indeed something of that sort happens, it still does not explain why this is a value, why this is important.
The wicked too whose ideas remain are called living, for the same reason. But “life” in biblical language means life for the good (see: “Behold, I have set before you today death and life… therefore choose life”), and in that sense only the righteous are called living.
Righteous people that no one has heard of (and let us assume there are no remnants of their thought and deeds, which is rarer) indeed are not called living in this sense.
I defined the matter to the best of my ability, and I have nothing to add. I explained the value in it (it is the value of life. Can you explain the value of life?).
A. It says “the righteous,” and the Gemara did not make any distinction.
B. The fourth question really depends on the second question—namely, what exactly is the definition of this “raising by necromancy,” and according to that one must assess whether even here the value of life applies.
Seemingly the verse proves the opposite: from the fact that the verse does not write only “life,” but “life and good,” it implies that these are separate things.
Whence this enormous distinction? Most righteous people were not heard of, or were forgotten, so most of the statement “the righteous in their death are called living” is not correct; and if the rabbi is right, then the main point is missing from the text.
One can understand that the value of life is the possibility of creating and progressing; one can explain that it is the ability to enjoy the pleasures of life; one can explain that the value of life is only a negative value—that is, that one may not murder—but
not a positive value—that one must have children, etc. etc. The concept the rabbi brings, “the value of life,” is
too complex for the rabbi simply to toss it out in relation to remembering the dead, and then refuse to define it properly.
Minimal familiarity with biblical language would help you understand that the doubling indicates that life is good. Beyond that, when it says “choose life,” it does not add “the good.”
The righteous whose ideas remain here are alive because the ideas keep them alive. There is no need to remember them. And the idea can even be assimilated into other ideas while still having had an influence.
One can explain many things. But a value is not a means to anything. A value is an end in itself. There is nothing complex here and no need for explanation. If there is a person who cannot give birth or create, is it permitted to kill him? Does his life have no value?
“Minimal familiarity” is not an answer, but at most an attempt to silence the one making the argument.
Why did they not add “and choose the good”? An excellent question; perhaps because that is only a result, I do not know.
My claim still stands that most righteous people were not remembered or influential; only the best of the best and the most gifted were remembered, like Rambam and Ramban and the like.
Even if a value is indeed an end in itself, one can still make my arguments, only instead of making them as an answer to “why?”—as the rabbi understood them—they can be understood as an answer to “what?”, namely: what is the definition of life.
Of course it is complex, and the best proof is that questions about such ‘simple’ values as these have stood at the center of philosophical discussion for thousands of years.
In Judaism we believe that the concept of creation is broader than buildings and children, and that suffering and destruction too are a way of building broader things.
If you insist, we will never make progress. I am finished.
I do not know why the rabbi thinks of me—and perhaps of all the commenters—as though I have come to pester and argue combatively.
I am a person seeking the truth and I greatly appreciate the rabbi, and I have gone through half the site and enjoyed it very much, but I found that there are many things with which I do not agree, and I am trying to understand the rabbi’s approach or reject it, since I think it goes against the spirit of Judaism (such as the rabbi’s denial of providence).
I have no right to demand this, but I would be glad if the rabbi would relate to me accordingly and with respect.
Especially since I think I am right and the rabbi is the one being stubborn.
(From a subjective point of view, if I am pulling the rope toward me and the rabbi toward him, there is no knowing who is really right).
The rabbi does not need to answer these particular questions, because they are not among the questions that really trouble me, but when the rabbi sees that it is a subject important to me, as I said, I would be glad if the rabbi would look at me at eye level, and not from his royal throne.
Wonderful words that touch very deep chords of the soul.
There is a tannaitic teaching that supports you: Rabbi Naḥman in Likkutei Moharan, Part II, 7:
“And therefore one needs to leave behind a son or a disciple,
so that his knowledge may remain below,
shining among the people of this lowly world.
*For when his knowledge remains below through a son or a disciple, it is considered as though he himself literally remains in the world*
…
When his days are full and the time of his passing arrives,
*then he will clothe himself in that speech which he implanted in his fellow, and it will be considered as though he himself literally exists in this world…*
For the essence is knowledge, *and when the knowledge remains after him through a son or disciple, it is considered as though he literally remains existing in the world*.”
Similarly, there, Part I, 192:
In the sage’s book the image of the sage is inscribed and depicted there,
for these words and letters that are inscribed and depicted in the book are the sage’s intellect, *and his soul*, and the aspect of his face.
It follows that his intellect *and his soul* and his face, which are truly his very image, are in these letters and words.
Therefore, in every single book is found the image and likeness of the sage who originated these words.
And in Likkutei Halakhot, by his disciple Rabbi Nathan, Seudah 4:7:
“And this is the aspect of the greatness of remembering the names of the righteous,
for in the holy name of each and every righteous person is included the whole essence of the righteous person—all his righteousness, Torah, good deeds, and all his virtues and levels,
*for the name is his soul and his spirit*.”
Yosef L.:
Regarding note 8:
It seems to me that a pantheistic conception does indeed require belief in a non-personal God, and that this is not merely a subjective matter. After all, Spinoza abolished the distinction between Creator and creation by saying that all of being as a whole (the attribute of extension + the attribute of thought + infinitely many other dimensions that man does not perceive) is God. In this great organism, there is no meaning to will or personality; after all, God does not speak to Himself, so He is not personal but only functional (which is why Spinoza advocated the determinism of God, and all the more so of man, who is nothing but one of His modes).
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The rabbi:
I did not understand the comment. As I explained there, to the best of my understanding, identifying the whole of reality with God is simply atheism with nothing more than a change of name. Unless one sees God as the soul of reality (rather than identifying Him outright with reality itself). But then one comes close to what is nowadays called panentheism (=the world is within God), and also to a personal conception of Him. I seem to recall an article by the late Yosef Ben-Shlomo on the subject of panentheism.
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Yosef L.:
Bergman (in History of Philosophy) and also Yosef Ben-Shlomo (Chapters in the Doctrine of Baruch Spinoza) emphasize that when Spinoza identified God with nature, he did not mean nature in its narrow sense—that is, material reality—but the totality of being in all its dimensions. I think this is where the difference between pantheism and atheism lies. Spinoza believed that both material reality (the attribute of extension) and spiritual reality (the attribute of thought) are both expressions of one substance, God. Atheism, by contrast, does not require any correspondence between these layers (and if it is materialist, then there are no other layers at all). And as stated, seeing reality as an expression of God erases the Creator/creation distinction, and with it also God's personality. Panentheism, in my opinion, does preserve that distinction, and therefore can sustain a conception of a personal God.
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The rabbi:
What you wrote seems to me exactly the same as what I wrote, except that in your view material reality is only some aspect of God. So what? At most, that means this atheism is not materialist (which some call panentheism). I have never understood the discourse about pantheism, panentheism, and all the rest of it. It all seems to me like meaningless word games, and therefore I do not think it is worth conducting an argument about it. To me it is like arguing over whether the whiteness we see in a cloud is the cloud, or whether the cloud (or the whole cluster of clouds) has additional dimensions of which the whiteness is only the material dimension—but the cloud is the totality as a whole, and therefore there is neither cloud nor whiteness. Forgive me, but this is all rather tiresome…