Gate Four: Categorical Systems and Categorical Changes

From the book Like Grass by Rabbi Michael Avraham. Translated from Hebrew using gpt-5.4 (reasoning_effort=high, batch API).

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Categorical Systems and Categorical Changes

Introduction

In the course of our discussion thus far, and especially in the previous gate, we dealt with several systems of principles. Some concerned ethics, some concerned aesthetics, and some concerned thought. In the realm of thought, one may treat the system of principles as a kind of axiomatic system, represented by what we called “the onion of thought.” In the realms of ethics and aesthetics, there are parallel structures that deal with norms, judgments, or evaluations. Every such onion, whether it concerns thought or evaluation and judgment, will here be called a “categorical system.” This is a notion parallel to, but more inclusive than, the notion of an “axiomatic system” already defined in the first book (see there, especially Chapter 3 of Gate One), and a more precise substitute for the general notion that until now was called, in pictorial language, an “onion.”

As we have already noted, one must distinguish here between two different planes. There is an abstract concept that exists in itself, as an idea. This concept has no structure; it is simply an abstract concept, and it defines the category under discussion. For example, the concepts “good” or “beautiful” in themselves define ethics and aesthetics, respectively. Looking at them yields an ethical or aesthetic theory, in the form of a hierarchical system of principles.

We saw the schematic structure of such a system, and described it as an onion composed of layers that envelop one another, with a core inside that contains the basic assumptions, whether intellectual or evaluative-normative, among which a hierarchical relation is defined. We saw that this is especially true in the ethical case. This is the structure that will here be defined as a “categorical system.”

We also dealt with the similarities and differences, and with the complex relations that exist among the various onions. But the entire picture until now assumed that there is one system governing each field, that is, each category. In other words, there is only one onion of thought, one ethical onion, and one aesthetic onion. In such a state, no substantive problem of overlap or contradiction arises between different onions, since each is responsible for a different categorical field. Apparently, ethics has nothing to say about aesthetics, or about thought, and vice versa.¹

However, there are situations in which several different categorical systems exist, and yet overlap can arise among them. At times such systems also yield conflicting evaluative conclusions. For example, a religious categorical system and a moral system, which some would call secular. These belong to different categories, at least in the common conception, yet in many cases both have something to say about the same domains, and what they say is not necessarily identical.

This is a phenomenon parallel to, but more inclusive than, the value conflicts with which we dealt in the third gate. There we dealt with conflict between values within the same onion, whereas here we are dealing with conflict between different onions.

As we saw there, in such situations there is a substantive problem in resolving the conflict: the problem of the incommensurability of values. In the situation described here, that problem becomes even sharper. We saw there that in order to resolve a value conflict, we must step outside the system under discussion and somehow “measure” or weigh the evaluative weight of the different values, thereby constructing within the core of our onion a scale of values. But when two different systems are involved, this is obviously much harder, for we must step outside both of them in order to place two systems of a different character, because they belong to different categories, on the same scale. Since these are two different systems, finding a common scale for ranking them is extremely difficult.

An example of such difficulty is a clash between religious values and moral-universal values, or a clash between religious axioms and scientific axioms. Anyone who has experienced such a situation knows that the problem here is much more acute and difficult than merely constructing a scale of values. Often it is hard even to define the problem, and to think of a framework within which a solution might be sought. The difficulty of such a situation stems from the fact that we must rank religion in relation to morality, or to science, or vice versa, and not merely rank two particular values that belong to the same system, whether moral values, halakha (Jewish law), or aesthetics. How does one even do such a thing? This is, of course, incommensurability at the most essential level.

Let us sharpen the problem further. We saw in the previous gate that constructing a scale of values, or setting a ranking among them, involves an ideational “observation” of the relevant onion, in whose core those values are found. The scale among principles or values arises from assessing the relation among them, and their standing within, and relative to, the relevant entity. The assumption was that there is an entity that exists in some sense, such that the onion of principles that exists within us, that is, the categorical system, is the result of observing it. From this angle one can see more clearly the problematic nature of ranking two different onions: it is not clear what one can “observe” in order to decide such a question. Apparently, there is no common substrate that can contain both of these systems.

What suggests itself here is a solution that would define such a basic substrate, perhaps itself an onion, that is, an ideal entity upon which one might gaze in order to determine the relation between two categorical systems. This would be a kind of super-categorical system. But we must now ask ourselves: how is it different from ordinary onions? Are all onions of whatever kind merely different layers of this basic onion?

Questions of this sort require us to examine categorical systems “from the outside” (see Gate Nine of the first book). We are accustomed to examining claims or values within a given system, and in light of that system’s principles. Here we must step outside the systems and ask about the nature of such systems in general, and of each system in particular. Beyond all this, if we ask questions about the totality of our systems, we find ourselves faced with a problem of substantive circularity: by what tools shall we examine our own tools?

Each system can be examined in light of principles that belong to more comprehensive and more basic systems, if such systems exist. But the totality as a whole cannot be examined “from the outside,” for precisely as a totality it has no outside. Yet neither can it be examined from within, since relating to it as a whole requires stepping beyond it. This is a problem that accompanies the study of the human being in general, and of human cognition in particular. The more comprehensive the theory, the more exposed it is to this methodological difficulty. Yet it seems that we have no way around it, and therefore the validity of the results of such reflection cannot be absolute. On this the Mishnah says, in Tractate Hagigah, Babylonian Talmud, Hagigah 11b:

Anyone who reflects on four things—it would have been better for him had he not come into the world (Rashi: it would have been an act of mercy toward him had he not come into the world): what is above, what is below, what was before, and what will be after.

I once heard a wise man say that the problem with the reflection described in the Mishnah is not prohibition, but inability. Anyone who thinks he can reflect on these things apparently does not know where he has arrived or where he stands. A human being cannot step outside himself, and certainly not outside the world within which he lives and acts.

And yet every human being does in fact reflect “from the outside” on himself and on the systems surrounding him. The very discourse about the meaning of those systems, and the decision whether to adopt them or not, are themselves products of reflection “from the outside.” How is this possible? Apparently there is a paradox here. It should, however, be noted that the description of this problem ignores a point we discussed in the first chapter of the second gate: the “I” stands outside this whole totality. There is the human being as such, an underlying entity, the bearer of emotion, character, will, intellect, frameworks of judgment and evaluation, and all the various onions. From this perspective, his own reflection upon his totality is not so paradoxical. This paradox sounds especially devastating if one adopts the analytic-conventionalist picture, according to which there is no essence behind the collection of a person’s characteristics. The substance is identical with its properties, and the concept is identical with its definition. The application of such an approach to the human being, as we saw in the first two gates, leads to the view that the human being is nothing but the totality of his characteristics. But then what is supposed to reflect “from the outside” upon those characteristics?

The “I” exists outside and beyond its characteristics only in the synthetic picture of the human being. This “I” will stand behind the entire discussion throughout the present gate, and it is worth keeping it in mind throughout the reading, even in places where it is not explicitly mentioned.

In any case, what we shall do is reflect from within outward. That is, we shall try to define the boundaries of what we see from within. This is the only meaning that can be given to reflection on the totality as a whole. Perhaps it would have been better for us had we not come here, but now that we have come, let us rummage a bit in the world to which we have arrived and in the soul that has been given to us.

From a vantage point external to the categorical systems, one can ask them several additional questions, and the present gate will discuss those as well. First, how do we decide at all to adopt a given categorical system? At the stage of adopting it, we are certainly not yet acting in accordance with it. For example, what is the philosophical-evaluative basis for the duty to obey the law? The law, too, constitutes a categorical system. This basis cannot be something contained within the law itself, and therefore we are compelled to look at it “from the outside.” This is the question that I will call below “the problem of principles of value.”

Beyond that, one may ask how we ought to relate to a change of categorical system, that is, to a transition from one system to another. For example, becoming religious, leaving religion, conversion, and so forth. Another question is how, if at all, one can define and examine an internal change of a categorical system from within itself and within its own terms. For example, a change in a religious system, such as reform, or in a moral system, such as liberalization or some democratic legal reform. Or even a change in a scientific system, what Thomas Kuhn defined as a “paradigm shift” (see Book Two, Gate Three, Chapter 2). In such cases we ask whether the new system is the same system, as in “Reform Judaism,” or whether it is an entirely different system from the original one, as in secularism or another religion, in which case we have returned to the previous question. This is the issue of conservatism and innovation, or more generally, the issue of “categorical changes.”

We can now also speak about an inter-systemic, or inter-categorical, relation. Such a relation appears, and will be discussed in the course of this gate, on two main planes:

1. The existence of two systems within a single individual. Can one adopt several parallel systems simultaneously? For example, commitment to the values of Orthodox Judaism together with commitment to liberal morality, to the law, or to any other system. One must also examine with regard to what kinds of categorical systems this is possible, if at all. This is the question of “polynormativity,” that is, multiplicity or doubleness on the normative plane.
2. The relation between two systems adopted by different groups. Here we shall return to the issues of openness and tolerance that occupied us in the first book, especially in Gate Four. This time we shall examine them as a kind of relation between categorical systems, and ask whether dialogue between different systems is possible, and what the nature of such a dialogue might be.

As we shall see in the course of the discussion, these questions and others like them, although they may appear very abstract, lie at the basis of a great many highly current ideological and intellectual controversies.

A considerable portion of these questions is connected to subjects already discussed in previous gates, and even in previous books. But here we shall try to propose a more systematic and comprehensive picture, a kind of systematic theory of categorical systems. In the last chapter we shall see that in the present gate several circles are closed that have been woven through the quartet thus far.

Chapter 1: Constitutive and Regulative Systems: “Principles of Value”

Introduction

In this chapter we shall define two kinds of categorical systems. The distinction between them will illuminate the meaning of looking at a categorical system “from the outside.” At the basis of this distinction stands the concept of a “principle of value,” which will also be defined here. These concepts will accompany us in the following chapters of the present gate as well.

A Necessary Return: Will and Intellect in Leibowitz

Yeshayahu Leibowitz is the clearest representative of the approach that says that will and thought are entirely independent of one another. According to his view, a person decides what he wants in a manner that depends on no other factor, and that is his will. He explains that thought is intended for the cognition and understanding of facts, but not for determining desires.² This position has led to many mistaken interpretations of his view, interpretations that see the determination of basic desires, that is, values, as an arbitrary act. As we already saw in the third gate, and as we shall see in greater detail in the fifth gate, these are mistaken interpretations.

A typical example that Leibowitz gives is that, in a situation entirely identical in terms of the facts and their known content, two people will decide differently, even oppositely. For example, when it is clear that the chance of economic success and of staying alive is greater in the United States than in Israel, and both people are fully aware of this, there can still be a situation in which one decides to remain in Israel, while the other decides to leave. These decisions stem from the fact that the desires of the two are different. One wants to remain in Israel even at the price of a risk of economic failure or death during military service, whereas the other prefers the opposite. We see that the facts and their analysis are not the factors that determine the decision, but only the will of the one deciding, though that will does take the facts into account in the process of decision.

According to Leibowitz’s conception, the function of thought is to know and understand reality. Therefore he writes in several places that the results of thought are forced upon the human being. By contrast, a person’s will is completely free, and in no way forced upon him.

In Leibowitz’s picture, when a person wants to become rich, that is simply his will. Thought then places before him the various possible ways to do so, and carries out the decision in the optimal manner for achieving that goal. Clearly, in such a picture, thought serves the will. Once the will has set the goals, thought finds the best route to implement them. Thought has other functions as well, such as knowing the world through science or in some other way. Here thought is not serving the will in the sense of finding the optimal way to realize it, but even here one should note that it is the will that decided that this person sees value in devoting time and effort to understanding the world, and thought is what carries out that task.

It follows that not only are will and thought functions independent of one another, but if there is any hierarchy between them at all, it is the will that stands at the top of the pyramid, not the intellect. This is the picture we described in the second and third gates, according to which will has no prior cause or reason. It is created out of nothing.

However, in Chapters 1-2 of the previous gate we saw that the will, too, is not arbitrary, and that it also has an intellectual dimension. At the stage of deliberation, as we saw there, there is a phase we call “evaluative deliberation.” We explained this by saying that the source of the choice of values is a kind of empirical observation of abstract entities, or ideas, what Husserl calls “eidetic seeing.” We observe “the good” or “the beautiful,” and the hesitation, or evaluative deliberation, is also a cognitive process, and not merely a process of thought, of understanding that picture and what it says about the situation under discussion.

If so, the grounding of our foundational values is not given in terms of reduction to more basic principles, since the values are our most basic principles. The grounding is by means of observation with the “eyes of the intellect.” This is also the root of the solution to the problem of the source of what we shall here call “principles of value.”

Let us now generalize our conclusion. When we want to justify some position, we rely on a basic assumption. In the context of values and norms, we rely on foundational values. But what happens when we wish to ground our commitment to those foundational values themselves? Apparently, this is similar to the problem of the validity of the axioms of thought. We are compelled to say that here the grounding is cognitive, not logical-intellectual, for logical grounding presupposes the existence of more basic principles from which these principles are derived.

If we generalize further, we may ask how one can ground commitment or trust in the categorical system as a whole. In the next section we shall deal with a common example of this question.

Why Must We Obey the Law?

We may ask ourselves why one should obey the laws of the state in which one lives. This is a basic question in the philosophy of law and in political philosophy.

First and foremost, it is self-evident that the principle obligating us to obey the laws of the state cannot itself be included within the legal system. It cannot be that some law commands us to keep the laws, and thereby serves as the reason for the duty to obey the law. If that were indeed the grounding, what would obligate us to obey that law itself?³

Thus, the reason for the validity of a normative system must be found outside it. It precedes it, and is accepted by us even before we have decided that we are committed to the system in question. From it, as a foundational value, we derive our commitment to that system.

In fact, the basic values from which we derive commitment to the law are more internal layers in the onion of our will. Commitment to the law is derived from them, and forms a more external layer in the onion of the will. As we have seen, even in the core of the onion there is an entire system of values, arranged according to a certain hierarchy, which is our scale of values. From these values we derive, by means of logic, the more external layers of the onion.

Now there are two possibilities. There are those for whom commitment to the law is located in an outer layer of the evaluative onion. In that case they must derive it from more foundational values. And there are those for whom commitment to the law itself is one of the values in the core of the onion. In that case they must derive their commitment to the law from something outside the onion, by a process of cognition rather than thought, as we saw above.

Even if the duty to obey the law is located for someone in the core of the onion, he may still be in one of two conditions: either it is the highest value on the scale in the core, or it is a value located lower down on that scale. If the value of obeying the law stands at the top of the scale, a person can arrive at the position reached by the Nazis who argued at the Nuremberg trials that they had merely obeyed the law. In fact, the focus of their claim was that their commitment to the law outweighed their commitment to morality. This commitment was part of the core of their onion, and it occupied the top rung of their scale of values.

It should be noted that even today, and among us, there are many arguments of this kind. One often hears claims that reject any disobedience to the law. Very often it is argued against someone that even if he disagrees with something, he must still comply, because it is the law. And when he asks, “So what?”, many people treat this as a kind of heresy against first principles. If someone refuses an order in the army, or calls for refusal to obey orders, the immediate response is: “That is the law.” In fact, such an approach rests on the hidden assumption that commitment to the law is the most basic value of all. But that is a fascist position. Fascism sees the law of the state as the supreme value. Anyone who is not a fascist will always find that commitment to the law is not the highest value on his scale of values.

But assuming we are not dealing with fascism, commitment to the law can appear in two different ways. Either it is not included in the core at all, but is derived from some other value located in the core of the onion. Or it is itself located in the core, and there is no more basic value, in the logical sense, from which it is derived, though there are still other values that stand above it, in terms of evaluative importance, on the scale of values within the core of the onion.⁴

In such situations, circumstances may arise in which a person is compelled to decide against the duty to obey the law. This does not mean that he is not committed to the law. It only means that for him there are other values that stand higher on his scale of values than the value of obedience to the law. We discussed this above in Note 18, which dealt with conscientious refusal and a manifestly illegal order. There we saw that conscientious refusal expresses the autonomy, or freedom, of the refuser. Here we shall describe the same phenomenon from the angle of law as a categorical system.

For example, conscientious refusal is called for in a situation where there is a value higher than obedience to the law on one’s scale of values, and that higher value instructs someone not to obey the law. By contrast, a manifestly illegal order is a situation in which the act commanded by the order stands in contradiction to another value that stands higher than obedience to the law, but this time the conflict occurs within the scale of values of the legislator, that is, of society itself, and not in the scale of the individual caught in the conflict. In such a case, the law itself does not recognize any duty to comply with that order.

Various thinkers have proposed different arguments from which commitment to observing the law may be derived.⁵ But in all these approaches, commitment to the laws of the state is always conditional upon values that precede them.

For example, commitment to the law may be based on gratitude to society, or perhaps on the duty to keep agreements, even unwritten ones, as in Rousseau’s “social contract,” and the like.

The fact that commitment to the law is a derived value does not necessarily mean that it is of lesser value. As we already noted in the previous gate, the fact that a certain layer lies farther outward in the onion does not mean that it is less important. This is only a logical hierarchy. The hierarchy of importance is expressed in the scale of values located entirely within the core of the onion.

For example, if the duty to obey the law stems from gratitude, then its value is exactly the same as the value of gratitude, neither more nor less. Obedience to the law is itself conduct that expresses gratitude, and is therefore nothing but a concrete realization of the duty to be grateful. Its value is the value of gratitude. Of course, there may be differences in the degree of obligation to be grateful, depending among other things on the nature of the one toward whom gratitude is directed, and on what he has done for my benefit. The same applies to the duty to keep agreements and the like.

If so, the importance of the value of obeying the law depends on the various justifications we have mentioned. For example, if for someone the value of commitment to the law is derived from gratitude, and the value of gratitude itself stands lower than some other norm on the scale of values in the core of the onion, then it follows necessarily that the value of obeying the law is also lower than that other norm.

Understanding this picture is important. Quite often a person finds himself in a dilemma over whether to obey the law, when one of his other basic values is harmed by such obedience. The decision in such situations will depend on the relative importance of the two values in conflict.

Why Must We Observe the Commandments?

A similar move can be seen with respect to the question of why one should observe the commandments of the Torah.⁶ Here too, different proposals have been offered to justify the basis of commitment to the halakhic (Jewish legal) system. For example, some have grounded it in gratitude toward the One who created us. Others have grounded it in the duty to observe the commands of the wisest of all, or of the Creator of all, and so forth.

In this context as well, that commitment may be the most basic one, and therefore it neither requires justification nor can be given one. Someone for whom the service of God is a value located in the core of the onion will not be able to provide any further reason for that commitment. The entire next gate is devoted to this point. The claim that such commitment can be justified assumes that the duty to obey this law lies in some outer layer.

Beyond that, even if this commitment is located in the core, one must ask whether it stands at the top of the scale of values in that core, or whether it is located at some intermediate stage. This question will determine the decision when a halakhic value conflicts with some other value, as we shall discuss below in Chapter 4.

With regard to civil law, we noted that it is implausible to place commitment to obey it at the top of the scale of values, that would be fascism. It likewise seems implausible to view that commitment as basic on the logical scale, that is, as belonging to the core of the onion.

Of course, if one regards the evaluative system as arbitrary, then “plausible” and “implausible” have no meaning in this context. But in the synthetic picture, even in the realm of values there is sometimes a single truth, even if not everyone reaches it, and even if no one knows whether he himself has already apprehended it. Therefore, from an “observation” of the objective value-onion, one may say that fascism, in the eyes of most human beings, is not a reasonable evaluative position.

By contrast, even someone who does not accept commitment to halakha and the Torah will agree that for those who do accept it, and clearly only one of the two sides is correct, that commitment is located in the core of the onion. More than that, it apparently also stands at the highest rung of the scale. Very often, for a believing person, commitment to other categorical systems is also derived from his commitment to the service of God. Therefore, “religious fascism” is certainly a reasonable position. We shall elaborate on this point below.

Constitutive and Regulative Categorical Systems

The two examples we have given, the duty to obey the law and the duty to observe the commandments, represent two models of categorical systems of a different character.

The first system, civil law, at least for someone who is not a fascist, is based on other values external to it, values of which it is either a means of attainment or an expression. For example, if we ground the duty of obedience to the law in the value of gratitude, then obedience to the law itself will be an expression of gratitude, and not a practical means to attaining it. This is a logical derivative, and its value is no different from the value of gratitude. Obedience to the law is itself an act of gratitude.

By contrast, we saw that the second example, the religious system, is usually the most basic system of the believing person. There is no more basic external value of which it is a means, and therefore one cannot find for commitment to it a more basic reason. In addition, we saw that it also usually stands at the top of the scale of values.

In analytic philosophy it is customary to distinguish between such kinds of systems by the names “constitutive” and “regulative.” A constitutive system is one for which there is no principle outside it that it is meant to realize. It has no external goal; rather, it sets its own ends. A regulative system is one whose principles are directed toward attaining some external goal.⁷

A classic example of a constitutive system is the system of the rules of chess. The rules of the game have no goal outside themselves, and are therefore a constitutive system. They are not meant to achieve anything outside the game itself. By contrast, traffic laws are a regulative system, since their goal is to prevent harm to persons and property, and to enable efficient movement. That is, they are directed toward other goals that are external to them.

From another angle, the rules of chess may be regarded as constitutive because someone who plays not according to the rules commits no offense at all. He simply is not playing chess, but another game. The deviation is only logical. By contrast, traffic laws may be regarded as a regulative system of laws. Whoever wants to preserve his life, and the law, ought to drive according to that system of rules. Someone who drives otherwise is still driving a car, but he endangers his life, and therefore the deviation is evaluative as well. This system of laws does not constitute the field of activity it governs, namely driving, but only guides us in how to do it correctly, or more precisely, safely.⁸

If a more efficient way is found to achieve the goals of some regulative system, there is no reason not to choose the more efficient alternative system of rules. This is true of every regulative system. By contrast, one cannot find a “more efficient” alternative to a constitutive system of rules, since there is no criterion for such efficiency, and the notion has no meaning there. In what sense is a game of chess with different rules more efficient? The rules of the game are the very definition of chess. One may of course change the rules and invent another game that gives some people greater pleasure, but that game will no longer be defined as chess.

This distinction is a kind of generalization of the distinction we made in the discussion of the single onion. There we defined values as norms that cannot be reduced to more basic principles. Values are not means, but ends, as discussed in Book One, Gate Five, Chapter 2. By contrast, there are derived norms, which are means to attaining goals external to them. Here we generalize that distinction to whole categorical systems.

It should be emphasized that such a distinction can be defined only for categorical systems of principles of judgment, or of norms. It is clear that axiomatic systems have no goal, neither within them nor outside them. Systems of that sort are a collection of facts. Facts are neutral, and have no goals. Only norms can have goals.

What Are “Principles of Value”?

Regulative systems of laws are very easy to understand. Their entire purpose is to attain some goal in the optimal way, and that goal is obvious to us. We are supposed to obey traffic laws in order to preserve our own lives and those of others. But what about a constitutive normative system? Why does a person take upon himself the burden of such a system, without any reason outside it? To be sure, in the example of the system of the rules of chess, he does not really take on a burden or an obligation. It is a system meant to provide him with pleasure or satisfaction. But with respect to other normative systems, it is hard to understand what could motivate a person to take upon himself their burden.

From another angle we may ask ourselves: what is the nature of a person’s ethical system? Is it constitutive or regulative? What does such a system achieve? Why do we adopt it?

The answer depends on the question of Taoism, as discussed in the previous gate. If morality is an instrument for creating more complete states of affairs, then one can understand it as taking on a regulative system, that is, one’s commitment is directed toward attaining more complete states. Put differently, one could say that in this context there is no obligation at all. I simply do what seems right to me, or what I feel like doing.⁹ But if one understands morality as essentially Kantian, then a value is always an end in itself, and never a means to something else. In that case the question becomes all the sharper: why obey it? From where does commitment to morality arise?

In the synthetic-Kantian picture, if some categorical system has an evaluative goal external to it, then it is not made up of values. Values, by definition, are always ends and never means. Hence a regulative system, by definition, is not a value-system. By contrast, a constitutive system is an end unto itself. But why should we indeed observe it? Hume’s naturalistic fallacy teaches us that a factual basis cannot answer this question, which belongs to the evaluative plane.

The only possible answer to this question is: “because that is how it is.” That is, the ethical system, in the Kantian-synthetic sense, is constitutive and not regulative, and therefore it is its own reason. There is no external, more basic basis that serves as a justification for the obligation of moral conduct. Once again we encounter the apparent arbitrariness of values.

In the discussion above of the duty to observe the commandments, we mentioned Ross’s article, which surveys several grounds for the duty to observe the commandments. He proposes several principles that might serve as such a basis. After rejecting all of them, he points to a simple intuition shared by anyone familiar with the religious frame of mind. There is no external reason for observing the commandments. They are their own reason. The reason we observe them is: “because that is how it is.”

Is there arbitrariness here? Certainly not. This is not determined by lottery. It is not an indeterministic process, but a process of choice. Yet it is of the nature of a choice that its outcome has no cause, but at most a purpose. The decision to observe the commandments is the most basic value of the believing person, and therefore no justification can be found for it in a more basic evaluative principle. We shall discuss this at length in the fifth gate.

The same applies to the synthetic moral system. Here too, the claim that it is not grounded in some external value more basic than itself does not point to arbitrariness. The absence of such grounding expresses the fact that the moral system occupies a very basic and deep place in the person’s overall normative system.

Thus, commitment to every categorical system, of whatever kind, is not based on an arbitrary lottery. In every case it is the result of a decision of choice. The difference between a constitutive and a regulative system is that a regulative system has a basis in an external evaluative principle, whereas a constitutive system has no such basis. The external principle that grounds regulative systems will here be called the “principle of value” of the system in question.

Since commitment to a constitutive system is also not arbitrary, but the result of judgment and decision, we arrive at the conclusion that at the basis of every constitutive system there is also a principle of value. The difference from a regulative system is that in a constitutive system the principle of value is not an external value from which commitment to the system is derived by logical tools. As we have already seen, the principle of value of constitutive systems can only be an entity that we “observe,” and not a more basic principle, or value, from which commitment to the constitutive system can be logically derived.

As we saw, commitment to the constitutive system is created as a result of observing that abstract entity. Thus it is with ethics and aesthetics, and so too with religion. All of these are constitutive systems, since one cannot find for them a principle of value that is itself a value lying outside them. As we saw above, the duty to heed that constitutive value which we observe cannot be justified. The only possible justification for it is: “because that is how it is.”

By contrast, in a regulative system, the principle of value is a principle more basic than the system as a whole, and naturally it lies outside it, while commitment to the system is logically derived from it.

Note 27: Commitment to the Oath at Sinai — The Halakhic Principle of Value

In the halakhic context, the question of the principle of value is raised by several commentators in connection with the oath at Sinai (see, for example, Mishneh LaMelekh on Maimonides, Laws of Kings 10:7, s.v. “I later saw in the Jerusalem Talmud”; and Avnei Nezer, Yoreh De’ah 306). In this note we shall discuss the matter briefly.

The Talmud in Babylonian Talmud, Nazir 4a, and parallel passages, states that we are obligated in the commandments because of an oath we swore at Mount Sinai. At first glance one might see this as an aggadic, metaphorical statement, and not necessarily a halakhic determination. But examination of that Talmudic discussion, and its parallels, shows that this is indeed a genuine halakhic determination. The Talmud bases on this principle the ruling that an oath to fulfill, or to transgress, one of the Torah’s commandments does not take effect. The reason is that one oath does not take effect upon another oath, and the obligation to fulfill the commandment in question is also regarded as an oath, because of the oath at Mount Sinai. If so, this is not merely an aggadic passage, but a formal halakhic determination.

The question that arises in light of this description is the following: how can the people of Israel be obligated to obey halakha on the basis of an oath, when the duty to keep oaths is itself one of the Torah’s commandments, that is, part of halakha? Someone who rebels against halakha will not, among other things, be obligated by the command to keep his oaths either.

One may understand this question as a technical one: what does the oath help? Why was it needed? Apparently it adds no deterrent beyond the transgression of God’s will as expressed in the Torah and halakha, and someone willing to violate the commandments of the Torah will not be helped by an oath either. But at a deeper level, this question belongs to the logical-philosophical plane, and not merely to the pragmatic one. It is precisely the question under discussion here: how can one subject someone to a normative system when the principle by virtue of which that subjection is created is itself a principle that belongs to the system in question?

It therefore seems that the obligation to keep oaths is indeed not derived from halakha alone. There is an obligation to keep oaths that precedes the general commitment to Torah and halakha. The reason is that keeping oaths is a basic human norm, some would say a moral one, to which we are obligated even without taking upon ourselves the burden of Torah and commandments.

This is how Avnei Nezer explains the matter in the responsum mentioned above, and this is also how he understands the answer of Rabbi Joseph ibn Migash cited there. He concludes from this that when a person undertakes an oath without speech, in writing, although the formal rules of halakha do not obligate him to keep it, he is nevertheless obligated to keep it by virtue of that pre-halakhic normative duty.

One may see such a conception elsewhere as well. We shall bring only one additional example here. Maimonides writes in Laws of Plaintiff and Defendant 5:10 that one never administers an oath to a minor, because he does not understand the punishment associated with an oath.¹⁰

Maimonides’ statement is very difficult, since in any case there is no punishment for an oath in the case of a minor, because a minor is not obligated in the commandments. If so, precisely an intelligent minor who knows the whole Torah knows that no punishments apply to him, and it is precisely he who would not be deterred by a false oath. A minor who does not know and does not understand may perhaps be persuaded by arguments that threaten him with severe punishments for a false oath.

From Maimonides’ wording here it follows that even minors are under some punitive obligation when they swear falsely. Although minors are not obligated in the commandments, the obligation to keep an oath stems from reason and not from the oath at Mount Sinai, as noted above, and obligations of this sort are not limited by age. Anyone who understands the reasoning from which the duty to keep oaths is derived is obligated in it.¹¹

If so, the principle of value from which commitment to the Torah is created is the explanatory principle of the duty to keep oaths. It is not necessary to say that only this principle stands at the basis of religious obligation, but it too is present there. This example illustrates the claim we encountered above: the principle of value that grounds commitment to any system must lie outside the system in question.

In a certain sense, the difficulty raised by commentators regarding Maimonides’ decision to include the commandment of belief as one of the Torah’s commandments, positive commandment 1 in his Sefer HaMitzvot, also raises the problem of the principle of value. Many commentators ask of Maimonides: how can one command someone to believe in the existence of the commander? The existence of the commander, namely God, is itself the religious principle of value, and therefore His existence ought to be a principle accepted even before commitment to halakha. This is not the place to elaborate on that issue.

Let us conclude by noting that Gate Five below is devoted entirely to elaborating the Torah’s principle of value. There we shall see that the basic principle of value is created by “observing” a normative object that stands at the basis of all categorical systems. By contrast, here we described a legal model that depicts that commitment, and not necessarily its historical-factual basis. In other words, what emerges from this note is that our commitment to the Torah is the result of consent, and that facts alone are not sufficient to establish it.¹² On the other hand, there we shall emphasize that the basic commitment is created by observation alone, and the object we observe is a “colored” object, that is, one charged with a normative tendency. Observing it is sufficient to create commitment.

In light of all this, the oath discussed here should be understood as a legal model describing this commitment, and not as its actual basis. An analogy is Rousseau’s notion of the social contract. There too one tries to offer a legal model that would serve as the foundation of the obligation of all human beings to systems of moral-social norms, and not necessarily to point to any actual historical event, namely a universal human signing of some contract, which of course never occurred.

Link to the Continuation of the Gate

We may now ask ourselves how many constitutive principles of value there are. Is there any limit to their number? What is the relation between these principles of value and regulative values, and among the principles themselves? Can such principles be changed? In Chapter 3 we shall present several additional subtypes of principles of value, and throughout the gate we shall see that this is a convenient theoretical framework for handling the questions presented in the introduction to this gate, as well as current ideological problems and controversies.

Chapter 2: On Innovation, Conservatism, and Heresy: “Categorical Changes”

Introduction

In this chapter we shall deal with the nature and characterization of categorical changes. Already in the introduction we saw that there are two kinds of categorical change: a change of principles within the system, which we shall call “renewal” or “reform,”¹³ and a change that is in fact a replacement of the system, which we shall call “heresy.” Behind both stands the most basic attitude toward the system, namely “conservatism,” which is unwilling to accept either of those two changes.

We must examine each of these kinds of change on two different planes:

1. What is the definition of each of them, or what distinguishes them from one another?
2. How does such a change occur? How does a person arrive at the conclusion that he was mistaken, and change his position? In light of what principles, and subject to what system, does he make the change? Is the change made “from within” or from outside?

It should also be noted that such a change can occur both in the onion of thought and in the evaluative, or normative, onion. The second case is a change in some evaluative system, whether moral, aesthetic, legal, and so forth, such as becoming religious, leaving religion, or converting to another faith. The first case is a change in the system of axioms according to which we operate, what Thomas Kuhn calls “paradigm replacement” (see Book Two, Gate Three, Chapter 2).

At first glance, a constitutive system of rules is not open to change. As we saw above in the example of chess, precisely because it is constitutive, any change in it in fact creates another system of rules. By contrast, a regulative system can be changed, for example in light of changed circumstances, or in light of a change in our understanding of how to attain the goal toward which that system is directed. It now seems to us, whether because circumstances have changed or because our views and conceptions have changed, that one must act differently in order to attain the goal the regulative system aims to achieve, and therefore some of the rules, or perhaps all of them, must be changed.

From another angle, one can see the distinction this way: change in a regulative system is easier to understand, since we define the changed system as the same system by virtue of the fact that its goal has remained in place. Of course, even in a regulative system, a change in the goal itself constitutes a transition to a different system, and in that sense it is equivalent to a change in a constitutive system.

In this chapter we break down the general question of changes in systems of rules into the attitudes of innovation and conservatism with respect to different systems of rules. This question belongs to the domain that deals with people’s relation to systems of rules, and that stands, apparently, in contrast to the earlier discussion, which concerned the characterization of the systems of rules themselves. For example, the distinction between constitutive and regulative systems concerned the nature of the systems themselves, though even that depends in many ways on the aims of the founder and the aims of those committed to those systems, whereas the distinctions between conservative, innovator, and heretic concern the person’s relation to the systems in question.¹⁴ We shall return to this point below as well.

In the second gate of the first book, we dealt with the question whether one can change some essential part of our understanding of the meaning of different concepts. We brought Putnam’s view there, according to which such a change is not possible at all, since its result is simply another concept. We clarified that according to this view one cannot change the definition of a concept at all, but only non-essential components of the system of characteristics belonging to it, those not included in its definition. But that claim contradicts intuition. Intuition recognizes that there is such a thing as substantive renewal of a concept without necessarily turning it into another concept.

Our conclusion there was that the only way to preserve that intuition concerning the possibility of changes in the definitions of concepts is to assume that concepts have an essence. A concept’s essence is only represented by its definition, but is itself a kind of being. The essence is the “matter” of the concept, or in Kantian language, the concept as it is in itself. In order to set up such an alternative, we needed the assumption of essentialism: concepts as such really exist. The concept as such is the object characterized by those properties that appear in its definitions. The characterization of the concept expressed in its definition is the result of observing the concept as it is in itself.

As we saw, in such a picture changes in the definitions of concepts can indeed occur. We observe the same concept itself and discover that it has undergone a change. The fact that it is the same concept is not determined by the identity between the content of its different definitions. That fact is determined by continuity of identity, exactly as in the case of human beings and material objects in general. Just as a person who has grown fat, or changed some trait or other in his personality, is still considered by us the same person, since a person is not the sum total of his characteristics but the being that bears them, the same applies to concepts.

With respect to changes in categorical systems too, we must follow a similar path. First, one must clarify what kind of change can be made in them. The question also arises whether, in such a case, we have not actually changed the system and turned it into another system of rules. This naturally bears also on how we classify the person’s relation to the system, since in fact he has become a heretic with respect to the previous system.¹⁵ This is an example of the connection that exists between classifying the systems themselves and classifying the kinds of relation to them.

In addition, we must try to understand how a change in a system of rules takes place at all: from within or from outside. Is the reason for the change derived from the system of rules itself, or from external constraints? What tools do we use to think about and decide upon such a change? The tools of the old system, or those of the new one? Neither possibility is free of problems. At the basis of the whole matter stands the need to understand what kind of human relation to a system of rules can lead to demands for change. These are the issues discussed in this chapter.

The Little Prince and the Lamplighter: An Anatomy of Conservatism and Innovation

It is illuminating to begin the discussion of conservatism and innovation with a passage from The Little Prince.¹⁶ When the little prince reaches the planet of the lamplighter, he greets him with due respect, and afterward an interesting dialogue develops between them:

“Good morning. Why have you just extinguished your lamp?” “Those are the orders,” answered the lamplighter. “Good morning.” “What orders?” “The orders to extinguish my lamp. Good evening.” And he lit it again. “But why have you lit it again?” “Those are the orders,” answered the lamplighter. “I do not understand,” said the little prince. “There is nothing to understand,” said the lamplighter. “Orders are orders. Good morning.” And he extinguished his lamp. Then he wiped his forehead with a red checked handkerchief. “I have a terrible job. Once it was a reasonable job. In the morning I would extinguish it, and in the evening light it. The rest of the day I could rest, and the rest of the night I could sleep…” “And since then the orders have changed?” “The orders have not changed,” said the lamplighter. “That is precisely the trouble! Every year the planet turns faster on its axis and the orders have not changed!” “And then?” “Now, when it makes one full turn every minute, I do not have even one second of rest. Every minute I light it and extinguish it!” “That really is funny! A whole day on your planet lasts one minute!” “It is not funny at all,” said the lamplighter. “We have already been talking for a month.” “A month?” “Yes. Thirty minutes. Thirty days! Good evening.” And again he lit his lamp. The little prince watched him, and he liked this lamplighter, who fulfilled the orders with such faithfulness. He remembered the sunsets he himself had wanted to see on his own planet, when for that purpose he would move his chair each time. And he wanted to help his friend: “You know… I can tell you how you can rest whenever you want…” “I always want to,” said the lamplighter. For a man can be both faithful and lazy. And the little prince went on and said: “Your planet is so small that in three steps you can walk around it. You need only walk slowly enough to remain always in the sunlight. When you want to rest, just walk… and the day will last as long as you wish.” “That does not help me much,” said the lamplighter. “What I love in life is to sleep.” “Too bad,” said the little prince. “Too bad,” said the lamplighter. “Good morning.” And he extinguished his lamp. “That man,” thought the little prince as he continued his journey, “all the others would despise him: the king, the vain man, the drunkard, and the businessman. And yet in my eyes he is the only one who is not ridiculous. Perhaps because he is occupied not with himself but with something else.” And he sighed sadly and thought further: “He is the only one with whom I could have become friends. But his planet is really too small. There is no room on it for two…”

This long quotation from the well-known children’s book presents with astonishing clarity many characteristics of a type that relates conservatively to a system of rules, hereafter “the conservative.” Let us list a few of them:

1. He is unwilling to deviate from the orders given to him even when the conditions under which he acts have changed, the planet now turns faster.
2. He is industrious and very precise in carrying out those orders.
3. “For a man can be both faithful and lazy.” This industriousness does not contradict a lazy character, and at times may even stem precisely from it, that is, from an unwillingness to examine basic assumptions.
4. Many others despise him.
5. Yet there is much reason specifically to appreciate him, contrary to the usual attitude toward him, because he is not occupied only with himself, unlike all the “rationalists,” the king, the vain man, the drunkard, and the businessman.
6. And finally, no less importantly, “his planet is really too small. There is no room on it for two.” The conservative does not accept other approaches besides his own, and cannot live with them on the same planet. He is usually not tolerant or pluralistic.

The problem of conservatism versus innovation accompanies almost every ideological movement, religious or otherwise, as it tries to cope with changing circumstances. Zionism is today dealing with questions of definition and identity after the establishment and consolidation of the state. Judaism, as both religion and nation, is confronting problems generated by changing times, and various conservative and reformist approaches are arising in response. Other movements and religions, such as Christianity, communism, and so forth, are not exempt from such confrontations either.

At present the debate in our own surroundings between Orthodox Jews and Reform, Conservative, and even secular Jews over who more faithfully represents the continuation of Jewish tradition has become more topical. See Amos Oz’s article, discussed in the previous gate. Within these debates questions are raised such as: who is changing, and who is consistent? Arguments like “halakha has always adapted itself to reality,” and consequently “one who advocates a view according to which halakha must not be changed is the true innovator,” are constantly heard as well. These claims are intertwined with claims about the essential irrelevance today of parts of halakha. A quick look shows that these two kinds of argument belong to two different categories of relation to halakha: one accepts it, while the other denies at least part of it.

A public discussion of this sort is by its nature highly emotionally charged, and therefore it usually fails to engage the real problems and the real differences among the positions. Before forming a worldview on such questions, one should clarify as carefully as possible the basic terms used in the discussion, and in order to enable a substantive discussion and neutralize the emotions, this should be done without direct connection to the concrete issue under debate.

Here we shall try to characterize and analyze the different ways of relating to systems of rules, whether ideological or otherwise, and to examine the assumptions that underlie the basic approaches: conservatism versus innovation or change. This is a first and necessary step in clarifying questions such as how one should relate to Jewish tradition. The next step in that clarification would have to be an empirical examination of Jewish halakhic history and an application of the abstract categories presented in these pages. That step goes beyond the framework of an a priori philosophical discussion, since it involves empirical research, and therefore it has no place here. The relevance of the present discussion to contemporary problems serves only as motivation for undertaking it. We are not discussing here at all the specific example of different attitudes toward the system of rules of Jewish halakha in the modern period.

This is also the place to add another important remark. In the discussion below we shall from time to time use expressions that sound like characterizations of the personalities of the types themselves, the conservative and the innovator. But this is not our intention. We do not mean to discuss the psychological levels of conservative or innovative behavior, but only the philosophical characteristics of these types of thought and relation.¹⁷

Innovator and Conservative: The Problem Itself

Let us begin the discussion with a simple model. A group of people has been given a list of instructions according to which they and their descendants are to act throughout their lives. Over the years the actual circumstances in which this group operates change, and as a result two subgroups develop, representing two different approaches to the list of instructions: the conservatives and the innovators. I shall now try to characterize the difference between them. The first formulation that suggests itself might be this:

Version A: The conservatives are those who continue to behave according to the previous instructions even under changed circumstances, whereas the innovators adapt the instructions to the new circumstances.

Let us take an example that illustrates this situation.¹⁸ Two people walk in the desert wearing swimsuits, just as their ancestors had always done. After years, they arrive in a very cold region. Person A continues to walk in a swimsuit, whereas person B changes his clothing to warm clothes in accordance with the new weather conditions. At first glance, the classification according to the above characteristics seems simple and obvious: person A is a conservative, and person B an innovator.

A slightly more careful examination of the situation shows that matters are not so simple. A’s claim is that he is continuing the way of his ancestors regardless of changing circumstances: just as they wore swimsuits, so does he. But B can claim in response that it is specifically he who is the conservative of the two, for just as their ancestors walked in clothing suited to the climate in which they lived, so too does he walk in warm clothing in a cold place. So who here is the innovator, and who is the conservative?

There is a well-known Hasidic story about Rabbi Noach of Malkovitz, who assumed leadership in place of his father, Rabbi Mordechai, and whose students noticed that in several matters he did not behave as his father had. When they asked him about this, he replied: “I conduct myself exactly like my father. Just as he did not imitate others, so I too do not imitate others.”¹⁹

This dilemma recalls Wittgenstein’s discussion of following a rule. Wittgenstein asks:²⁰ “Someone who promises, day after day, ‘Tomorrow I shall come visit you’—does he say every day the same thing, or every day something different?” A change in circumstances can cause the very same sentence to say different things.

If we return to our two acquaintances walking in swimsuits, and to the dispute between them over who deserves to be called the conservative, it seems to me that we can say that both are conservatives, and that the only question in dispute is which rules are to be preserved, whether one must walk in a swimsuit, as A assumes, or in clothing suited to the weather, as B assumes.

Despite all this, the natural tendency is still to say that specifically A is the conservative. If we try to translate that classification into a more general characterization of the difference between them, we obtain a formulation different from the previous one:

Version B: The conservative is one who interprets the instructions literally, whereas the reformist allows himself interpretive freedom. This interpretation is supported by thinking about the logic or values that underlie the instructions.

This formulation too recalls Wittgenstein’s discussion when he describes how one can follow new rules that one has learned:²¹ “We simply read the lips of the rule and act, and do not turn for any further guidance.” That is, the conservative is the one who really acts in accordance with the rule, and not the one who requires a further interpretation, one that can certainly be attributed to his own system of thought rather than to the framer of the rule. An action of the reformist type, according to Wittgenstein, cannot even be defined as action according to that rule.²⁰

Version B assumes, implicitly, that the pair possesses a text, written or oral, specifying the instructions, for example: “One must walk dressed in swimsuits.” If so, it is quite clear that A’s interpretation better fits the plain meaning of the text of the instructions.

If the pair has no such text, and all they possess is the ancestral practice, then the decision between the two claimants to the crown of conservatism depends on how one interprets the practice of the ancestors. A claims that their ancestors behaved that way because they had been instructed always to walk in swimsuits, whereas B claims that the instruction was to walk in clothes suited to the weather. In such a case, apparently one cannot use Version B in order to characterize the two types, since there is no written formulation at all, and therefore no text to interpret. The deeds of the ancestors can indeed be interpreted in both ways, and it does not seem that we have any way to decide the matter.²¹ In such a case, if the original meaning of the instruction was really as B suggests, then it would seem that specifically he is the conservative.

Here, however, one may argue that even if the original instruction was to walk in clothing suited to the weather, there is no justification for saying that A is an innovator. In the formulation above, the innovator gives a different interpretation of the instructions on the basis of the logic underlying them. It is very hard to say that A interprets the instruction “one must walk in clothing suited to the weather” as meaning that one must walk in a swimsuit in all weather. There is no logic in such an interpretation.

Here it seems that the characterization of conservatism or innovation depends on the interpretation of the data available to the group, and not of the original instructions themselves. If the data are only the facts that the ancestors walked in swimsuits, then the conservative will infer that the instructions were probably to walk always in swimsuits, whereas the innovator will claim that the instructions were to walk in clothing suited to weather conditions. From the analysis above it follows that, from B’s perspective, in which the instruction is understood as “one must walk in clothing suited to the weather,” there is no suitable classification for A’s approach at all. He is not a conservative, of course, but neither is he an innovator, at least not according to the definitions in Version B. By contrast, if the assumptions are as A understands them, namely that the instruction is “walk in a swimsuit,” then classifying B as an innovator is reasonable.

It seems that in such a situation the reasonable person will still say that A appears to be the conservative and B the innovator. This judgment is nothing but an application of the interpretive principle known as the principle of charity. This principle holds that one ought to assign a statement the most coherent possible interpretation, even if that is not its most literal meaning, or the speaker’s most obvious intention. Therefore here the decision is made to adopt the above classification, because the opposite decision would complicate our attempt to understand and define A.

The above classification, based on the principle of charity, seems misleading. It is hard to accept the fact that B is classified as an innovator only because, if he were classified as a conservative, we would then have no suitable classification for A at all. In such a case we should conclude that the two have no common measure, that they are incommensurable, and that each must be evaluated within his own interpretive context. There is no necessity that every interpretive context should allow a clear characterization of all the other approaches. This point raises the problem that even the determination of which of these figures is conservative and which is innovative is itself interpretation-dependent. If so, the categorical system that determines the matter is not the frame of reference of either of them, but rather that of the interpreter who observes them from the side and tries to characterize them. We have here an example of the claim made above, that our examination of our relation to normative systems must be carried out outside the systems being examined. In any case, in the question of how to define conservative and innovator we have returned to the starting point, since we still do not find a sharp distinction between them.

If we nevertheless try to discuss the problem objectively,²² it seems reasonable to say that both of these types are conservatives, though each does so in his own way. Such an interpretation departs from Wittgenstein’s strict requirements of one who acts according to a rule, as understood above. Here we would say that there is indeed a disagreement between them over the character of the instruction according to which they must act, namely whether it is constitutive or regulative, directed toward adaptation to the weather. Their disagreement is over whether the instruction is the concrete practical command or the value that underlies it but lies outside it. In any case, assuming that each regards himself as correct in his interpretation, both are adhering to the instructions received from their ancestors and seeking to live by them. In that sense, both are conservatives.

Even in the first case, where the group actually possesses a wording of the instructions, it is still difficult to justify why one interpretation is more faithful to it than the other. And if both interpretations are equally faithful, then again there is discomfort in defining A as conservative and B specifically as innovator. This is a hermeneutic difference, not a difference on the plane of normative commitment.

The conclusion that follows from our discussion thus far is that both of the types we have presented here are conservatives: one is a constitutive conservative, who takes the rule in his possession as constituting the behavior itself, and the other, who takes the rules in his possession as regulating values that underlie them, will therefore be called a regulative conservative.

It should be noted that it is not correct to say that the constitutive conservative acts irrationally because he follows the instructions without understanding the logic or values that underlie them. Even A, who apparently acts without any connection to the logic behind the instructions, may be motivated by a rational motive. That motive may be trust in the giver of the instructions, and the belief that there is logic in the instructions even if he does not fully grasp it.²³ In any case, the clear characteristic of the conservative lies in the fact that he refrains from acting on the basis of his own understanding of the logic underlying the instructions, for otherwise he would have no reason not to depart from them when circumstances require it.²⁴

Note 28: The Halakhic Attitude toward Christianity and toward Women — Two Types of Change in Halakha

In this note we shall consider two issues that stand at the center of the question of changes in halakha. Many claims are made regarding the change in the status of women today as compared to their status in the past, and the claim that this ought to be reflected in corresponding changes in halakha. For example, according to these claims, the disqualification of women as witnesses ought to change in our own day.

This is not the place for a detailed discussion of that subject, but it is important to note a central point that must be examined with respect to such claims. When one argues that a changed situation requires a changed halakhic response, different assumptions about the character and essence of the relevant halakha lie in the background. For example, when it is argued that women today are educated and involved in social and public life, that claim is certainly true. But that is not sufficient in itself to justify a demand for change in halakha.²⁵

If we return to the example of the disqualification of women as witnesses, then a demand for halakhic change must show that this disqualification stems from the lower level of women’s education in the past, or from their lesser involvement in social life. So long as these assumptions have not been demonstrated, the change in women’s condition by itself is not a sufficient basis for a demand for change.²⁶ One may see in this error traces of Hume’s naturalistic fallacy, which rejects the derivation of evaluative conclusions from factual data. Here too the factual data, concerning the change in the status and education of the modern woman, are agreed upon, but in order to ground a demand for change one still needs proof of the normative assumption that the disqualification of women as witnesses stemmed from these points, their status and their education.

A second example relevant to this discussion is halakha’s attitude toward gentiles. Here it is appropriate to bring a counterexample, namely the attitude of Rabbi Menachem Meiri toward Christians. Meiri, one of the most important halakhic authorities of the Middle Ages, took a revolutionary step and argued that a change had occurred in the characteristics of the Christians of his time, and that this required corresponding changes in the halakhic attitude toward them. This is a very interesting case, because it demonstrates the possibility of change in halakha while preserving its absolute status. The change Meiri proposes is justified on the ground that reality itself has changed, and therefore the relevant laws are no longer in force, because they do not deal with such a reality. This is a change like that of the regulative conservative in the swimsuit example. It is the result of an interpretation of the rules, but it does not express lack of commitment to them.

It should be noted that Meiri’s halakhic revolution has occupied a number of scholars and halakhic authorities, and we cannot discuss it here at length. In this note we shall follow the argument of Jacob Katz,²⁷ one of the outstanding scholars of the history of halakha, and point to a matter that seems to have escaped many of the scholars, perhaps all of them, and that bears on the significance of this innovation.

In his commentary on the Talmud, Beit HaBehirah, especially on Tractate Avodah Zarah, Meiri consistently and systematically rules that the entire group of prohibitions concerning gentiles no longer applies to the Christians of his time. At the beginning of his article, Katz notes that several medieval authorities proposed halakhic considerations leading to changes in the attitude toward gentiles. But as he shows there in detail, Meiri is unique in that he returns to this point consistently, and does not base his ruling on specific circumstances or difficulties, but on an essential change in the character of gentiles that requires a change in our attitude toward them. Meiri’s ruling is not presented as a mere ex post facto leniency, but as an evaluative duty, very close to an actual change in halakha.

Meiri argues that the Christians of his day are bound by the ways and norms of religion, and therefore do not deserve the rejecting and discriminatory halakhic attitude that was customary toward gentiles in earlier times. As we noted above, an additional assumption underlies Meiri’s words, one normative in essence, though he does not discuss it at all: namely, that the root of all these prohibitions is not the mere fact that these people are non-Jews, but rather separation from gentiles precisely because they are not bound by norms and the ways of religion.

The accepted understanding of Meiri’s innovation, and this is how Katz understands him as well, is that he classifies Christianity as a religion that is not included under the category of idolatry, and therefore it should not be treated as idol worship. This point makes it much easier to understand the fact that Meiri does not discuss the above implicit assumption at all. According to that reading, the Christians of his day are not idolaters, and therefore they do not fall under the scope of those prohibitions. Apparently it was obvious to him that those prohibitions were said only with respect to gentiles who are idolaters.

But this understanding of Meiri’s words raises several difficult problems. First, some of the halakhic prohibitions that Meiri discusses do not naturally appear to be prohibitions directed toward idolaters, but toward gentiles in general. Second, Maimonides’ well-known view is that Christians are idolaters, and as is well known, Meiri almost always follows him in law and interpretation, whereas here Meiri does not even see fit to note that he disagrees with Maimonides directly on such a central issue.²⁸ Third, Katz notes that Meiri does not draw the expected conclusions with regard to the ritual objects of Christianity. On that issue he in fact speaks in a manner similar to the other medieval authorities, and even recommends distancing oneself from commerce in them and from their use. This question is doubly difficult, for if in Meiri’s view Christianity is not idolatry, then permitting its ritual objects would require no halakhic revolution at all. It would be a simple consequence of the fact that Christianity is not idolatry.

Katz, like scholars who find themselves in distress, though generally he falls into this error less than others, resorts at this point to psychologistic and sociological explanations. But if Meiri’s words are not substantively understood, explanations about the psychological difficulties he faced, and his hidden motives in developing his revolutionary approach, will not help us. Even if those explanations are correct, and I am doubtful of that, they are irrelevant to the halakhic plane. Meiri’s position must be understood and explained within the halakhic context itself.²⁹

In light of all these difficulties, it seems that the accepted interpretation of Meiri’s words is simply incorrect. As far as I have seen, Meiri nowhere mentions the claim that Christians are not idolaters. He speaks only of their being bound by norms and the ways of religion.³⁰ Therefore, the interpretation presented above is not anchored in his own words.

It seems that Meiri holds that Christians are indeed idolaters, and therefore he does not disagree with Maimonides at all. For this reason he also does not permit their ritual objects, nor does he interpret the prohibitions under discussion in any unusual way. Meiri’s innovation is that Christians are indeed idolaters, yet they are nevertheless “enlightened,” or good people. For that reason the prohibitions that the Torah and the Sages imposed concerning relations with gentiles do not apply to them. Meiri argues that the prohibitions were directed toward the gentiles known to the Sages, but they are not relevant to the gentiles he himself knows and sees around him. Therefore one should relate to them as one relates to good people who err and worship idols: the ritual objects are still objects of idolatry, but the distance and separation from them may be lighter.

It should be noted that this innovation is far more revolutionary than the innovation that emerges from the accepted interpretation of Meiri’s words. The view of idolatry as something contemptible and base from the human point of view is a first principle in the world of halakha, especially in Scripture and among the Sages. The innovation that there can be enlightened idolaters is a revolutionary halakhic innovation. It transfers the prohibition of idolatry from the category of corruption and human baseness³¹ to the category of an ordinary halakhic prohibition, admittedly one of great severity in halakhic terms, and perhaps even this aspect should be reexamined in light of Meiri’s determinations. The corruption and degradation that the Sages saw in idolatry characterized the idolaters of the ancient Near East, where it was bound up with bloodshed, sexual depravity, and other horrors. But the Christianity of Meiri’s own time was not characterized by such acts, and therefore he did not find it appropriate to apply to it the usual rabbinic and halakhic attitude.

To conclude, it should be noted that in at least one of his articles Rabbi Hayyim David Halevi, of blessed memory, also seems to have understood Meiri in this way.³²

It seems, then, that we still have not identified the true innovator. The two types described so far are conservatives, of two different kinds. If we still insist that there is an innovative approach to normative systems, it seems that we are left only with the possibility of defining it as someone who does not accept upon himself the duty to obey the instructions received by previous generations, neither in the regulative sense nor in the constitutive one.

Version C: The conservative, in its different varieties, is one who seeks to obey the instructions as his ancestors received them, in his own interpretation, constitutive or regulative, whereas the innovator is one who does not acknowledge the duty of each person to heed those instructions.

It is immediately apparent that this formulation too is deficient. Clearly, the innovator also has some connection to the instructions, and does not recommend abandoning them altogether. For if not, he would simply leave the group that obeys them, rather than recommending reforms in the system of instructions. The type described in the last formulation as an innovator would be more properly called a heretic.

To sum up, we have defined three groups with different forms of relation to the system of instructions: the group with a constitutively conservative relation, preserving the rules in their plain meaning; the regulatively conservative group, preserving the rules while giving them a non-fossilized evaluative interpretation; and the group of heretics, who are not interested in preserving the instructions at all.

The problem now facing us is that this theoretical division into three groups does not exhaust all the types familiar to us from reality. There is a reformist, or innovative, relation that we have still failed to define. The reformist wishes, in some senses, to preserve a connection to the old instructions, but takes for himself the right and the freedom not to preserve them in full, and to change them. The characterization of this group seems quite difficult. The threefold division presented above appears to cover the entire space of theoretical interpretations, and yet it does not allow for its existence.

Let us try another possible formulation of the difference between the reformist and the conservative:

Version D: The reformist is a conservative with respect to some of the instructions and a heretic with respect to others, whereas the conservative relates in the same way to the entire system of instructions.

But this still does not seem to be an exhaustive definition of that type, since with respect to a system containing only a single instruction, such an approach is impossible. Put differently, with respect to every single instruction within the system, the reformist is either a conservative or a heretic. In addition, according to this proposal one must specify the nature of the changes that such a type can propose. Are proposals to add instructions possible within such a position? If so, what would be the status of those additional instructions? Would the relation to them be conservative or heretical? Are proposals to remove instructions, or change them,³³ what characterizes reform? And if so, instructions of what type? A change in instructions of the type with respect to which this model says the reformist is conservative is out of the question. With respect to the type concerning which he is heretical, he has no reason to remove them, just as the heretic himself has no such reason, because he never accepted them in the first place. Another possibility that must be examined is that removing those claims with respect to which he is heretical, namely cleansing the system of irrelevant instructions, is itself the essence of reform. This would distinguish him from the full heretic, who has no reason at all to occupy himself with the system of instructions because he does not believe in it.

According to this possibility, the reformist is a partial conservative, or more precisely a full conservative, except that the system of instructions he preserves is different from that of the earlier conservative. This does not sound like an essential difference in approach, but at most commitment to a different normative system. In addition, one must examine the source and validity of the instructions, and ask how it is possible to delete some of them while retaining others. A system of instructions usually obligates as a whole, for otherwise it would not be a system of instructions but a mere conjunction of separate instructions. With respect to each instruction separately, there is the argument above, which allows no third category.³⁴

It therefore seems that the current definition of the reformist requires a network of instructions interconnected with one another. But such a picture does not permit the deletion of parts of the system by one who accepts it as a whole. For such a system is logically equivalent to a system containing one instruction, with respect to which we have already shown that only two approaches are possible: conservatism, in its various forms, and heresy. And if we say that one who deletes parts of the system does not view it as an inseparable web, then again this is only a contingent difference in interpretation of the system of instructions, and not a real difference in approach toward it. It should also be noted that even with respect to what remains of the system of instructions according to such an innovator, obedience to it stems from his own decision, and not from his full subjection to the instructions.³⁵ Such an approach hints that even the reformist’s conservatism is something difficult to define in our previous terms.

Who Is an Innovator?

In order to understand the source of the attitudes described up to this point, let us try to examine, in the examples discussed above, what assumptions might underlie them.

When the walkers arrive at the cold region, B can justify changing his clothes either by saying that this is in fact what the giver of the instructions intended, or alternatively by saying that there is no need at all to obey him. So long as we walked in the desert, there was no reason to deviate from those instructions because they fit common sense, but now that they cause discomfort, one can simply cast off their burden. The little prince, in the passage quoted above, did not mean to argue that there is no need to light lamps at night, but only that this action requires too much effort in the present situation, when the planet turns at a much faster rate. Examination of the roots of such an approach could show that it is the approach of the heretic, whose underlying assumption is that from the outset there was no reason at all to behave according to the instructions, and indeed we did not really behave according to them except for incidental reasons. Walking in swimsuits or lighting lamps was our choice, and not obedience to any external authority.³⁶

But that characterization is not necessary. The little prince’s argument did not say that the instruction has no value at all, but rather that its value is limited, and therefore when the price becomes too high one should reconsider the commitment to it. This is a different position from that of the heretic, who is not committed to the instruction at all.

It therefore seems that innovation is indeed a distinct approach, one that claims that obedience to the normative system has considerable value, but that value is not ultimate. Obedience to the principles, even if it exists, still requires examination and evaluation of whether its benefit outweighs its harm. The harm is measured within the framework of some system that must also be accepted by that person. That is, the evaluation of obedience to the instructions is no longer carried out within a binary logic, either one must obey or one need not, conservatism or heresy, but within a continuous logic that admits a continuum of values: very much obligated, somewhat obligated, not so much obligated, not obligated at all.³⁷

Thus we finally arrive at a plausible definition of the difference between the conservative and the reformist:

Version E: The conservative is one who relates to the system of instructions, as he interprets it, in an ultimate way, whereas the reformist is one who assigns to that system a value that is not absolute, and makes observance conditional upon the “price” it exacts.

According to this formulation, contrary to our earlier argument, one can conceive of a reformist approach even toward a system of instructions containing only a single instruction. For example, the instruction to light lamps only at night can be accepted in one of four forms of relation: absolute obedience, constitutive conservatism; obedience in accordance with relevant circumstances, regulative conservatism; obedience on condition that the price is not too high, reformism; and non-obedience, heresy.

This final formulation brings us back to the issue of principles of value. The reason it is hard to notice the possibility of a non-binary relation to the question of commitment to a normative system is the very common neglect of the concept of the “principle of value.” As we have seen, there is no system in which the duty to obey it, or the reason to adopt it, is grounded in the system itself. There is always a more basic principle in the background, external to the system under discussion, which we called its “principle of value.” Once we notice this important point, we see that the principle of value is not necessarily something that either exists or does not exist. It too can be classified along a continuous axis. It can determine different levels of commitment to different systems. These partial commitments are what generate the type of the reformist, as defined above. The picture that emerges from this description will be presented below in Chapter 5.

A final remark regarding categorical systems that are not normative. An intellectual system, such as a scientific theory, is not given an innovative relation of this sort. We examine it constantly, but we are fully committed to the facts as they are known to us. If the system is true, then we are fully committed to it. If it is not true, then we reject it. And if the system is held to be true, but we are not convinced, then we are in doubt. In no case is there acceptance subject to a “price.” Such acceptance is relevant only with respect to normative planes, and not with respect to facts.

In Book Two, Gate Three, Chapter 2, we saw that Kuhn treats scientific systems in a similar way as well. In his view, a scientific theory does not deal with facts, and therefore its status is like that of a normative theory. There we rejected his approach outright, and saw that it does not withstand any test. Yet, as Kuhn claims, changes of categorical systems certainly do appear in the scientific world as well. Still, such changes in the scientific world stem fundamentally from changes in the facts known to us, and not from heresy with respect to some principle.

So Who Is a Conservative? What Does All This Have to Do with the Analytic-Synthetic Axis?

In light of everything said above in defining the reformist approach, the opposite question now arises: what is the source of the conservative approach? Why relate to a system of instructions in such a fossilized way? It would seem, especially in the religious context, that conservative approaches are driven by belief in the abilities and intentions of the giver of the instructions. In the case of the constitutive conservative, this is usually joined by the assumption that the system of instructions is not fully understandable to us, and therefore we have no possibility of changing it. For that reason, the constitutive conservative carries out the instructions even without understanding their value.³⁸ The regulative conservative thinks that he understands the intention of the giver of the instructions, and therefore allows himself greater interpretive freedom, but he too does not deviate from them at all.

But as we already saw above, one can also present a different conception leading to conservatism. One may describe a conservative for whom the system of instructions in his possession is a basic system of values, and as such it does not require justification, nor is it open to justification. On the contrary, this very system is the evaluative criterion by which all acts and states are measured. In the terms of the previous chapter, his basic system is constitutive and not regulative. As we saw above, the principle of value at its basis is an entity, something one “observes,” and not a norm, from which it is derived by logical tools. Therefore he regards it as something absolute and objective.

A very basic point now arises. Faith of this kind is bound up with a synthetic position. In order for a person to be a conservative, he must believe that there exists some ungrounded system that nevertheless has absolute validity, that is, that it is an absolute truth not derived from circumstances or from values external to it, and therefore not dependent on changing circumstances or opinions. According to our account, his interpretation of and commitment to that system is derived from “observing” that abstract entity. The analytic thinker, by contrast, claims that every system is measured only within the framework of some more basic system, and precisely because of that he treats all systems skeptically, and is unwilling to grant any of them a status of absoluteness or certainty.

In our world we are familiar with clear correlations between religiosity and conservatism in general. Both stand upon a synthetic platform. Critiques, from various directions, of the fossilization of such systems usually stem from analytic assumptions, explicit or implicit. Granting non-absolute validity to the duty of faithfulness to categorical systems as such is itself based on an analytic outlook that recognizes no certainties.

To be sure, this picture is not necessary. There may be a heretic who rejects a system of rules, or an innovator who changes it, for synthetic reasons. If we examine by what standards that heretic rejects the system of instructions, or alternatively by what principles the regulative conservative interprets those instructions, we shall see that they use some prior value-system, in light of which this system is interpreted or judged. And what is their relation to that prior system itself?

From this argument it follows, in fact, that these types as well are constitutive conservatives, except that they use a different constitutive system. That system is not the system of instructions under discussion, but another one that they regard as prior to it. From the perspective of each of these types, the constitutive system is the most basic evaluative system by which he judges even the current system. This is in effect a scale of systems of values, or of normative systems, an extension of the notion of a “scale of values.”

When a person acts within such a basic system, there is a tendency to interpret other systems by reducing them to that constitutive system. For example, someone who believes in the validity of natural morality will often tend to interpret religious laws in ways that accord with the rules of natural morality. It follows, then, that someone who has a clear constitutive system, yet at the same time feels committed to another system as well, will tend toward a regulative interpretation of the less basic system, such that acting in accordance with it will be understood as deriving from the rules of the more basic system.³⁹

Thus, every synthetic person is a constitutive conservative, except that his constitutive system is not necessarily identical with that of other people. Some of those constitutive conservatives will incline toward a regulative interpretation of less basic systems, and will reject systems that cannot be reduced in this way, that is, they will be heretical toward them.⁴⁰ In such a case it is clear that the discussion of whether a person is conservative or heretical must be conducted on the plane of a given system of instructions. In fact, the question is what place that system occupies relative to other principles in the intellectual world of the person under discussion. If it is the most basic, then we shall determine that this person is a constitutive conservative with respect to that system, and if it is not, then the path is open for him to be a regulative conservative. If that system does not exist at all in his intellectual world, then we shall say that he is heretical toward it.

The conclusion of all this is that the discussion of conservatism is not, as might appear at first glance, a characterization of a person, nor even a characterization of a system of instructions. It is a characterization of the person’s relation to the system of instructions in question, that is, of its place within a comprehensive scale of his systems of values and principles. Apparently, then, it would seem possible to reduce the discussion of a given person’s conservatism to a discussion of whether the system in question is constitutive, regulative, or irrelevant for him.

But all this is within the synthetic framework. If one wishes to speak of a person who is essentially an innovator, or a heretic, and not a conservative, where this is said with respect to every categorical system, then such a relation expresses his principled relation to categorical systems as such. A person who relates relativistically to every categorical system, as such, is an analytic thinker. For such a person there is a whole collection of categorical systems of different kinds, but no constitutive system stands at their basis. They are all regulative, yet the goals toward which they are directed do not really obligate, since there is no constitutive system from which they are derived.

Summary of the Attitudes, and Lines toward a Contemporary Application

To summarize our discussion so far: there are two kinds of systems of rules, constitutive and regulative. By contrast, there are four kinds of human relation to a given system of instructions: constitutive conservatism, regulative conservatism, reformism, and heresy. These names characterize a person’s relation to a particular system, and not an overall characterization of his personality. The discussion of whether someone belongs to one of these groups is not detached from the discussion of the nature of the system itself, but the subject of the discussion in this case is the person himself and his relation to the system of instructions. That relation is derived from the place of this system within the person’s overall evaluative world. The general structure is that at the basis of every person’s categorical world there stands a constitutive system. If no such system exists for him, then he is an analytic thinker, and we have already remarked more than once that there is apparently no truly analytic thinker. From that system are derived values, or facts, that are the goals toward which secondary categorical systems are directed.

Applying this to cases familiar from life is very difficult. Apparently, there are Orthodox conceptions that advocate constitutive conservatism. Yet it seems that in Judaism there are no conceptions that are literally of this sort.⁴¹ One may say that the Haredi world tends more toward constitutive conservatism, whereas Modern Orthodoxy tends more toward regulative conservatism. Reform represents what we here called innovation, and secularism represents heresy.

But clearly, in practice the division is not simple. In general, the transition from logic to sociology must be made with great caution. As we shall see below, arguments advanced by Reform thinkers against Orthodoxy sometimes take on the coloring of regulative conservatism, and at other times of innovation, against a position of constitutive conservatism.

The Haredi world, too, is not entirely constitutively conservative. There is no Orthodox Jewish group that makes absolutely no changes in halakha. Generally speaking, Orthodox Jews are regulative conservatives, who interpret halakhic-Torah principles in renewed ways according to the circumstances. But unlike reformers or heretics, it is clear to them that they are merely interpreters of the system, and of the will of the giver of the system, namely God. This is what is called religious renewal, as distinct from reform. A call for Orthodox religious renewal, in our terms, means a call for a more regulative relation to Torah and halakha, and a less constitutive one.⁴²

Despite the ambiguity, this analysis is very important for several reasons. First, it is important to distinguish the theoretical types in order to distinguish the relations of concrete types, and to demand consistency. Second, claims raised by one group against another are sometimes rejected out of hand because of their source, which is the ad hominem fallacy. But it is important to note that from the same sociological source, claims of different kinds may arise, and the attitude toward them should be determined by their character, and not necessarily by the character of the source that raises them. Seen in this way, the distinctions we have made are first and foremost distinctions between types of beliefs and claims, and not between ideological camps, whose characterization is much more difficult.

Note 29: Reform and Religious Renewal⁴³

Precisely in light of the claim we have made, according to which Jewish Orthodoxy is usually regulative rather than constitutive, the question of the distinction between reform and religious renewal becomes all the sharper. Within halakha itself, as the reformers claim, revolutionary changes were made in the past. If so, why is there such strong opposition to reform? In fact, some reformers claim that they are the true continuators of halakhic Judaism, which has always adapted itself to the spirit of the times. According to them, Orthodoxy is what changes the tradition, by fossilizing halakha.

If so, the question of distinguishing reform from religious renewal requires a criterion for distinguishing regulative conservatism from reform. Constitutive conservatism is easy to distinguish from every form of innovation, since no innovations of any kind appear within it. But constitutive conservatism, as we have seen, also carries out changes in the normative system to which it is committed. See, for example, the cases discussed in the previous note. Therefore, the distinction between it and reform is very difficult.

On the theoretical plane, the distinction is clear. The regulative conservative performs no evaluative changes at all. Every change that stems from regulative conservatism is nothing but an application of accepted values, according to his interpretation, in a changed reality. Reform, by contrast, quite clearly makes evaluative changes. It claims that on the evaluative plane we ought to be influenced by our environment, and to draw values from it into halakha. In other words, Orthodoxy sees the environment only as a datum that determines the reality, and therefore a change in the application of eternal values is called for. Reform, by contrast, sees the environment also as a source for introducing new values into the Torah system.

In the practical realm, however, the distinction is often very difficult.⁴⁴ It is not always clear when a change is merely the application of the same values in a changed reality, and when there is a real evaluative change. For example, decisors and commentators living in a time and place where women have a certain status will tend to interpret the Torah and halakha in a way more suited to their place and time. At first glance, this seems to be an evaluative change, and not merely an application of Torah to a changed reality. The same applies to attitudes toward general education, and to many other issues.

The sharpest difference between these two movements lies in the question of awareness and lived experience. The Orthodox interpreter and decisor understands his role as that of an interpreter. He does not make explicit changes in halakha, and does not permit himself to change halakhic values because they do not seem right to him. His feeling is that he is an interpreter of the Torah. To be sure, interpretation also reflects the lenses of the interpreter, but that is not at the level of which he is conscious. Conscious change cannot be carried out within regulative conservatism, that is, within Orthodoxy. A person who consciously changes the norms of the normative system to which he is committed is in fact not committed to it, or at least not fully committed to it, since his commitment depends on the “price” he must pay, as in innovation or reform.

By contrast, a Reform interpreter is not really an interpreter. Many of his halakhic steps will be very “creative interpretations,” which in fact are not interpretations at all, but the conscious insertion of new values from outside into halakha. The changes may be exactly the same as those made by his Orthodox counterpart, but the difference of awareness remains. The Orthodox interpreter is an interpreter, and he is trying to understand, with his own tools of understanding, and here the subjective element enters, what the system says to him and instructs him to do. The difference lies in the question of the supremacy of the sources: are the sources above all, and the decisor or interpreter merely extracts the word of God from them, or are the sources a collection of approaches from which one may choose and reject parts according to one’s own will?

This distinction between the Reform and Orthodox approaches to Torah and halakha stems from very basic religious roots. Orthodoxy, which is regulative conservatism, assumes that the Torah’s values are not under its control and not within its grasp. It is subject to them even though it does not understand them. Its relation to values and norms is exactly like that of constitutive conservatism, and only with respect to application does its regulative approach appear. By contrast, Reform assumes that halakhic or Torah values can be changed. There is here an approach according to which these values are intelligible and accessible to human beings, and therefore they can examine them and, when necessary, replace them or add to them.

For that reason, despite the apparent closeness between Reform and regulative conservatism, the attitude toward Reform is as toward a kind of secularism. One who can replace values as he wishes cannot be considered fully subject to them. One who is subject to what he himself decides is not truly subject. Therefore, genuine reform is a kind of secularism.

But as we saw in the body of the chapter, this identification is not exact. Reform too is committed to those values, unlike heresy, but not in an absolute way. There is a “price,” moral or otherwise, that will compel it to give up commitment to those values.

A more extreme version of such an approach led Kant to regard God as an entity whose area of responsibility is to guarantee the validity and existence of human morality. In other words, God does not impose obligations of His own upon us, but is only responsible for our fulfilling the obligations that our humanity imposes upon us. According to Kant, God serves us, and not we Him. The Kantian God is a secular God, just like the Reform God. He is close to the Christian God, but he has nothing in common with the Jewish God.

One can characterize Kant’s approach as extreme innovation. The reason is that if Reform holds that there is commitment to halakhic values up to a certain price, Kant proposes that halakhic values themselves are nothing but servants of morality. According to the reformer there is still a price for relinquishing halakhic values in a situation where they conflict with moral values, because commitment to them exists up to a certain level. According to Kant, there is no price at all for relinquishing halakhic values, because religious worship is merely a means to the realization of moral values. Therefore, in a situation where religious values contradict moral values, or even where they are simply unnecessary for them, there is no value in observing them.

Clearly, these criteria too are far from being sharp and clear in practical situations, but they at least give us measures that help us make these subtle distinctions. In general, theory is always simpler than its application in practice.

Categorical Change

From the analysis we have offered here, several sharp questions arise. The place of the different systems within the overall evaluative framework seems to be a datum that precedes all our judgment. The judgments themselves are only applications to particular cases of principles already embedded in advance. Is such a conception compatible with approaches that are not deterministic? One may also ask the question differently: how does a person adopt his most basic system of principles, the one within whose framework and in light of which he judges and determines his relation to all other systems?

In both these contexts, we again find ourselves returning to the concept of “evaluative cognition.” The basic system, which provides the framework for every evaluative judgment, is the result of cognition and not of decision, since there is no more basic system within whose framework such an intellectual decision could be made. This basic system lies “outside,” in objective reality, spiritual and evaluative. Our principle of value for it is the “sense” that connects us to it and creates our commitment to it.

According to the picture described here, a change in a person’s positions, a categorical change, can stem from one of two processes. Either he “sees” the categorical system under discussion differently, for example the concept “beautiful” or “good,” or he finds an error in his actual judgments, that is, an error in the conclusions he has drawn from the overall system already present within him. In other words, he discovers that there has always been within him a truth different from what he thought was there.

Note 30: “From Not for Its Own Sake to for Its Own Sake”

In this note we shall try to present the problematic of categorical change by means of the simplest possible example. In fact, the simplest possible: a normative system consisting of only a single norm. In such an example, the questions raised in the main text can be sharpened very considerably.

In Babylonian Talmud, Pesachim 50b, and parallel passages, it is said:

Rabbi Yehudah said in the name of Rav: A person should always engage in Torah and the commandments, even not for their own sake, because from doing them not for their own sake one comes to do them for their own sake.

The Talmud determines that one ought to engage in Torah and commandments even when it is not for the sake of Heaven, because through such engagement one will eventually come to engage in them for the sake of Heaven. There is a clear assumption here, as stated in the Talmud and in its commentators in several places, that the superior servant of God is the one who serves for the sake of Heaven, and not for the sake of receiving reward. This apparently includes spiritual reward as well.

Let us now attempt, as a thought experiment, to imagine a person whose entire concern in life is determined by a single norm alone: the service of God for the sake of receiving maximum reward, whether in this world or the next, and avoidance of transgressions in order that his punishments be minimal. This person is punctilious regarding minor and major commandments alike, and invests his greatest energies and powers in performing commandments and refraining from transgressions. All his behavior is derived from the one principle of striving for maximum reward and minimum punishment. He is a spiritual capitalist, whose capital is not money.

Now let us try to think how, if at all, it would be possible to persuade that person to move to performing commandments and studying Torah for the sake of Heaven, and not for the sake of receiving reward or avoiding punishment. What arguments could persuade him to convert his “religion”? Apparently there is no way to do so. In order to persuade someone, we must address him through the assumptions he accepts. But those assumptions are nothing but the one and only assumption: spiritual capitalism. If so, one can address him, for example, and persuade him that if he serves for the sake of Heaven he will receive greater reward, and fewer punishments as well.

There is no doubt that this suggestion would be very attractive to him, but it would obviously leave him performing commandments for the sake of reward. Describing to him the high spiritual level of one who serves for the sake of Heaven will not help in our difficult case, because this person is not seeking to be on a high spiritual level. He seeks only maximum reward and minimum punishment. We have no way to penetrate the categorical shell of this person. Arguments that try to persuade him to change the shell itself cannot even be formulated within it.

This is the simplest possible example of a thinking-evaluative system containing one principle, and for that reason it is easy and convenient to think about it. Can one explicitly describe a transition of such a person to a phase in which he serves God “for its own sake”? Apparently there is no possible description of such a transition. This, in brief, is the problem of categorical changes.

Put differently: it is not clear how such a transition would occur. On the one hand, someone from the outside, even God Himself, cannot do it, because even if that were done, it would be devoid of value. A change has value only if the person himself makes it. On the other hand, the person himself, as he is now, cannot serve as the basis for such a change, as we saw above. At present he acts from the systems of principles to which he is presently committed, that is, prior to the change.

Beyond that, if such a change does occur, and this person begins to serve for its own sake, will this still be the same person, or a different one? Especially if the description of him is complete, we are dealing with a very simple person in intellectual terms, whose whole concern in life is service for the sake of maximum reward. This basic principle itself, which described his entire essence, has now changed. Therefore the question arises all the more sharply whether this is still the same person or not.

A similar example may be seen in the concluding chapter of the first book, where we asked whether one can “repent” from an analytic outlook to a synthetic outlook. There too one is dealing with a system containing a single norm, and for that reason the only change possible in it is a change of that single norm. But such a change seemed impossible there as well, just as we have seen in the present example.

We can now understand why this description is true also of more complex systems. The fact that we are dealing here with systems containing only one principle is not important. The same applies in more complex systems as well. These problems will also appear with respect to changes in them, though of course in a more complicated form. Even in a more complex axiomatic system, where one of its assumptions changes, a situation is created in which the new system is no longer the same axiomatic system. There too we may ask who made the change, and with what tools he used to do so, the “old” ones or the “new” ones.

By contrast, as we have seen, the Talmud declares and promises that this transition will indeed come to pass. One who serves not for the sake of Heaven will, in the end, come to serve for its own sake.

As we saw in the main discussion, such a transition can occur only in one of two ways. Either that person finds within himself that the principle he thought he believed in is not in fact the one he really believed in. He discovers within himself a norm of serving God for its own sake, one whose existence he had not noticed until now. Or the change comes through renewed observation of the abstract concepts that stand at the basis of the service of God. Perhaps this is an observation of the very concept of divinity.

If so, one who serves God not for its own sake is promised by God Himself that He will help him see the service of God from another angle, and arrive at a categorical change.

In such ways, apparently, “repentance” from the analytic to the synthetic is also possible. As we saw there, this is a more basic categorical change than religious repentance within the religious world. But perhaps precisely because of that, this categorical change is not actually required at all. Deep down, every person is synthetic to some degree. As we have seen several times, many analytic thinkers repress this, but that does not change the fact that there is within them an inner synthetic point, from which the contradictions in their declared position stem. That was the essence of the lesson of the second Hasidic intermezzo. There we saw that healing, or a change in worldview, is always carried out on the basis of something already present. This is the same picture we have described here.

In the analytic picture, the situation is different. There there is no “evaluative cognition” at all, and the adoption or change of values is done freely, according to utility, pragmatic convenience, and the like. If so, the process is either the finding of an error in the existing system, which itself is the fruit of an arbitrary decision, or the arbitrary replacement of that system. There is no real difference between these two possibilities, because both deal with relative systems lacking any objective dimension. This is parallel to what we saw in the second gate of the first book: in an analytic world one cannot change definitions of concepts, but only define new concepts and cease using the old ones.

Thus, the synthetic description opens up the possibility of describing categorical changes in a way that, on the one hand, allows someone committed to a given system to be an innovator and not merely a conservative, and on the other hand distinguishes his relation from that of the heretic, who does not subject himself at all to the system in question. The basis of the process is recognition of the categorical “entity,” that is, the onion, which exists in reality and serves as the source of the constitutive system of principles. The principles are descriptions and characterizations of the onion as it is in itself. A person contemplates a categorical concept and constructs from it a complete system of principles. The product is what we have here called a “categorical system.”

When a person contemplates the system and sees it differently, a categorical change is created. Above we asked why the new system, which may be substantially different from the previous one, nevertheless constitutes its continuation. Why do we define it as the same system as the previous one? The answer given to that in the synthetic picture is that the system of principles is derived from contemplation of the same entity, and therefore it is nothing but a description of that same category.

For example, there is the concept “beautiful” as it is in itself. Contemplating it yields a categorical system of aesthetics. Renewed contemplation that presents us with a different picture will cause a categorical change, yet it will still be an aesthetic system, that is, a description of the criteria of beauty. The same applies to contemplating the concept “good,” which yields an ethical system.

In the first book, Note 8 and the surrounding discussion, we pointed out that every dispute over the concept “good” or “beautiful” presupposes a shared meaning, and therefore the very existence of a dispute constitutes evidence against value relativism. Here we ground that claim in the ontological thesis according to which the two systems in dispute, or the two systems before and after the change, describe the same object, and therefore they are two systems belonging to the same category, or two variations of the same categorical system. It is this ontological claim that allows us to define and understand categorical changes, and to reject categorical relativism.

If so, the category is determined by the essence of the object being contemplated. The system is created from a description of the concept by means of a theoretical system of principles. This is what we have here called a “categorical system.”

According to this, a categorical change is one of two processes: either finding an error in the previous contemplation, or a renewed and different seeing of the object one contemplates. According to this, innovation or reform, in the senses defined above, which assumes incomplete commitment to the system of principles in question, leads to different kinds of changes. It is a replacement of system, and not a different description of the same system.

One must now discuss whether there is indeed an object, or entity, corresponding to the new outlook created in the innovative-reformist way, and to what category that structure belongs. Sometimes reform constructs a new entity in place of the earlier one, and then this is not change but implicit heresy. Sometimes it finds a new object that really exists. And sometimes it finds only a new angle from which the earlier object is seen differently.

Is the Overall Structure Subjective?

In the structure described above, the conservative relation to a system of instructions is described as the high placement of that system on a person’s scale of values. A conservative relation is in fact the conception of that system as transcendental, that is, prior to every other judgment, and constituting the framework within which all the other judgments are made. Apparently, it seems that what we have here is a subjective transcendental system, one that varies from person to person. Such a conception stands in opposition to Kant, and to various transcendental arguments that followed him, which take for granted the unity and objectivity of transcendental concepts and rules.⁴⁵

However, in light of what we said above, it appears that in the synthetic picture the system of values and foundational principles is created as the result of an observational process, and not by way of free decision detached from all objective reality.

But if that is indeed so, then the conclusion would seem to be required that this overall system is identical for all human beings. All they need do is contemplate the abstract structure that exists in objective reality and derive the evaluative conclusions. Is there nevertheless such a thing as synthetic pluralism? Our intuition indicates that there are differences between the conceptions of people and groups that cannot be erased or blurred, and are not merely the result of an error in observation. Can such a situation be given a place within the rigid synthetic framework presented here? This subject will be discussed below in Chapter 4.⁴⁶

At this point we shall pause and present two important examples of the process of categorical change that we have considered here. The first example is the concept of a “scientific revolution,” from the school of Thomas Kuhn.⁴⁷ The second example is the categorical change in the meaning of the concept “Jew,” within the framework of which we return once more to Amos Oz’s article discussed at length in the previous gate.

Categorical Changes in Science: Paradigm Shift

In this section we shall consider a clear example of the problematic nature of categorical changes in the analytic picture. Here we shall deal specifically with changes pertaining to thought rather than values: paradigm shifts in science.

As we described at length in the second book, the picture that Thomas Kuhn offers of scientific development is built fundamentally on a process of “normal science,” operating according to fixed and stable norms shared by all researchers in the field, or more precisely, according to Kuhn, these are the norms that define who counts as a researcher in the field. Such science operates until it reaches a crisis, that is, until a significant quantity of contradictions accumulates between the facts known to us and the predictions of the accepted paradigmatic theory. In such a situation an epistemological and sociological crisis is created, and then a paradigm is replaced in a process of logical leap. This is a categorical change, and, as emerges from Kuhn’s description, it is inherent in the process of scientific investigation and scientific progress.

Two points characterize Kuhn’s analysis. First, Kuhn nowhere explains this process. He makes an empirical claim that it simply exists. Kuhn does not address the question: how is such a change possible at all? How is discourse about it conducted between the scientists before and after the change? Second, he focuses mainly on the sociological aspects of the process, and minimizes the importance of its epistemological aspects, unlike the analytic philosophers of science, who explain the process exclusively in epistemological terms.

Both points are important. First, the important distinction between sociology and epistemology is closely bound up with the triple distinction we have made throughout the discussion. In the course of our remarks, distinctions arose between discussion of the systems themselves and discussion of our relation to them, and a distinction also arose between both of those and discussion of the character of the person who is engaged with them.

Kuhn assigns scientific revolution, and scientific progress in general, primarily to the sociological aspect of science, because he does not recognize that there is a possibility of examining systems in themselves in an unambiguous way. The prevailing analytic description, according to which a theory is replaced when it stands in contradiction to a known fact, that is, when it is logically falsified, is not accepted by Kuhn, and rightly so. Empirically, he is entirely correct. But his conclusion is that there is no escape from fleeing to sociological aspects, which have no objective meaning whatsoever and do not concern the degree of truth in a theory, or facts at all. He flees directly to the sociological-psychological level: the character of the person who is engaged in the field under discussion.

But if we believe that there is a rational way to deal with theoretical concepts, and that theory-building is not merely subjective creative thinking, as explained in the second book, then it is clear that this process itself does in some way concern facts. It has some measure of objectivity. Flight to the subjective cannot explain the success of the scientific process.

We now turn to the second characterization of Kuhn’s analysis. Kuhn offers no explanation for the revolutionary stage in science, because according to his view there can be no logical explanation for such a process. In order to give such an explanation within the analytic picture, one would have to find the meta-paradigmatic system within which it occurs. When we change a system of basic terms and principles, and not merely claims made within the given system, then we are dealing with a paradigm shift. But every explanation, both in science and in the philosophy of science, requires a system of known concepts and principles that will be relevant both to the old theory and to the new one. Yet if such a system exists, then there is no paradigm shift here, but only a local change within a stable paradigm that survives even after the revolution. A paradigmatic change, by its very nature, is a change in the system of discourse itself.

It is therefore clear that Kuhn cannot offer such a system underlying paradigmatic, that is, categorical, change. It is important to note that his analytic rivals also do not offer an explanation, perhaps even less than Kuhn himself does. See immediately below the discussion of Popper. The reason is simple: if Kuhn himself is willing to accept non-logical aspects in the process of scientific progress, they strongly resist this. As befits true analytic thinkers, in their view everything beyond logic is subjective and devoid of scientific significance. If according to Kuhn there are two components in the scientific process, the objective-logical and the subjective-sociological, then according to them there is only the first.

In the second book we saw that the approach of the analytic philosophers of science leads to relativism regarding scientific theory. From this it follows that in fact their arguments are of no real importance, because in effect they are defending a system devoid of real content. A system that says nothing about the world is not vulnerable to attacks, and therefore does not need to defend itself against them. But Kuhn himself also does not draw the correct logical-philosophical conclusion required by his theory. His conclusion should have been that there really is a basic system within which the entire process occurs. This is not a paradigm, that is, a convention agreed upon by the community of scientists working in the relevant field, for as we have seen here, a change in the most basic paradigm, by definition, does not take place within another paradigm.

Therefore, it is clear that if this most basic paradigm can be replaced at all, then it is a process of direct apprehension, and therefore it cannot be explained in terms of logical arguments—that is, procedures for inferring conclusions from existing premises. The system of the new paradigm is not logically derived from the old system; otherwise there would be no paradigm shift here. It is a process of adopting new premises, and that is the result of apprehension, not of thought or reasoning. In the second book, we discussed at length the fact that theories and theoretical entities reflect some factual truth, and that truth can be “observed” or grasped by “eidetic seeing.” This is the only way to understand paradigm shifts. Here we have inserted the description from the second book into a broader framework of paradigmatic or categorial shifts. The conclusion is one and the same: a cognitive component is involved here, not only a logical one.

It is important to note that we are not speaking here about the recognition of new scientific facts. That is an earlier stage, the stage of the formation of the crisis. We are now at the next stage: the stage of searching for and finding the theoretical solution. Here we are not looking for facts, since we already have “too many” of them. At this stage we must find a theory that fits the entire stock of facts in our possession. Worse still, we must persuade all our colleagues to accept it, and do so without any shared discursive infrastructure—that is, a paradigm—common to all of us. As we saw in the second book, at every such stage there are innumerable possible theories, and even their simplicity, which is usually taken to be the criterion for choosing among them, is not a measure that can be defined and quantified.

Kuhn himself, who belongs to the analytic wing of philosophy—and perhaps even more than his analytic colleagues—does not offer an explanation of this change, and not by accident. He has no such explanation, nor could he. An explanation of this process, or even the possibility of understanding it—and more than that, its very existence—proves the synthetic thesis: there is an element of apprehension, or observation, that underlies the construction of the new scientific theory and the replacement of the reigning theory.

The process of persuasion that must accompany the transmission of the new paradigm to all members of the scientific community is problematic, and we will deal with it in Chapter 5. The problem is this: how can one persuade someone that his basic assumptions are incorrect? One obviously cannot rely for that purpose on those very same basic assumptions—unless they contain an outright contradiction, but then we are dealing with an analytic problem. As Kuhn himself shows, almost no scientific problem is of that kind. In everyday life it is even clearer that analytic problems are far rarer.

The standard term in analytic philosophy of science for avoiding the need to confront this problematic stage—from their point of view—the stage of creating a new theory or replacing an existing one, is “the context of discovery.” As we saw in the second book, this is a magic phrase that conceals behind it all the non-rational, or mystical, aspects of science. According to this magical solution, science is not interested in the origins of the theory’s creation, since those can come from divine revelation in a dream, or from some random sentence the scientist heard in the street. Science is concerned only with the empirical testing of the proposed theory, whatever its source may be. This is what philosophy of science calls “the context of justification.” The main problem—which not a single philosopher of science, in any of the various schools in philosophy of science, offers any way of dealing with—is that this mysticism yields rather impressive results.⁴⁸

Pushing something outside the domain of science and sweeping it under the rug is a classic analytic solution. As we saw in the first book, an analytic solution is simply a totalitarian prohibition against raising the problem and discussing it. But this totalitarian technique cannot exempt us from the need to seek an explanation. Such an explanation need not offer an analysis of the “mystical” process and a rationale for every stage of it, but it must offer a theoretical infrastructure and framework that explain its very possibility. As far as I know, no such proposal currently exists.

Our proposal here once again requires non-sensory apprehension—eidetic seeing—which all analytic thinkers will classify as mere “mysticism.” But this denunciation cannot replace recognition of the problem. Does a conception of science as a field founded entirely on mystical illuminations become any less mystical if one gives this segment the impressive name “the context of discovery,” then ignores its existence with an ostrich-like policy, or forbids discussion of it?

It should be noted that the description proposed here casts Kuhn’s terminology in a different light. Kuhn needs to describe paradigm shifts as a process of a logical leap. By this he means that we have no rules that accompany us through this process. There is no continuous description that explains all its parts, because what is changing here is the rules themselves. But how can one describe the change of the rules themselves? It is true that there is no explanation for such a process, but according to what we are proposing here, no explanation is needed. We do not propose an explanation for the correctness of our direct empirical observation. No philosopher of science today troubles himself with the question whether what our eyes show us is indeed correct. As we saw, theory construction is also a cognitive process, a process of direct observation of theoretical concepts. Therefore, the fact that we have no explanation for it does not make it a meaningless logical leap. This is apprehension, not thought, and that is the whole story.

This embarrassment points very sharply to analyticity. An analytic position sees meaning only in logical arguments based on proof and logical reasoning. If so, replacing the basic logical rules that constitute the field must itself be arbitrary. In the analytic world there can be no explanation for it. It is obvious that in order to find an explanation for explanations—or for changes in explanations—we must broaden the very concept of “explanation.” This broadening is the adoption of a synthetic position, a relinquishing of the demand that explanations themselves be analytic.

A similar mistake to the one made by Kuhn and his analytic colleagues in the philosophy of science can be seen in Stephen Körner, in a more abstract and broader context.⁴⁹ Körner conducts a systematic analytic discussion of the very concept of “categorial change,” but he too manages at most to characterize it, not explain it. He too oscillates between the analytic pole, which sees every such change as a non-fundamental change—that is, one in which a more basic system still exists throughout the process and even survives it—and the opposite pole, which sees such change as an unexplained arbitrary decision. This is precisely the Kuhnian revolutionary leap.

Again, the core of the problem is analytic “rationalism,” as distinct from “rationality,” which prevents these philosophers from seeing the simple fact that at the basis of the “revolutionary” process there is an element of apprehension, not only thought. This element offers a simple theoretical ground for the entire process.

To conclude this section, let us turn to statements by Karl Popper, one of the greatest analytic philosophers of science, where he attacks Kuhn for his relativism:⁵²

Kuhn argues that the rationality of science presupposes the acceptance of a common frame of reference. He argues that rationality depends on something like a common language and a system of common assumptions. He argues that rational discussion and rational criticism are possible only if we have agreed on the foundations…

This is a fashionable claim, accepted by many: the claim of relativism. And it is a logical claim…

I regard this claim as mistaken. I admit, of course, that it is much easier to discuss puzzles within an accepted common frame of reference, and to be swept along by the current of a new reigning fashion into a new framework, than to debate foundations—that is, the very frame of reference of our assumptions. But the relativist claim that it is impossible to discuss a frame of reference critically is itself a claim that can be discussed critically, and it does not withstand criticism…

I gave this thesis the title “the myth of the framework,” and I have discussed it on various occasions. I regard it as a logical and philosophical error. (I remember that Kuhn does not like my use of the word “error,” but this reservation of his is itself merely part of his relativism.)…

I should like only to make clear briefly why I am not a relativist. I believe in “absolute” or “objective” truth in Tarski’s sense (though, of course, I am not an “absolutist,” in the sense that I do not think that the truth is in my own pocket or in anyone else’s). I have no doubt that this is one of the points on which Kuhn and I differ deeply, and it is a logical point…

I admit that at every moment we are prisoners trapped in the frame of reference of our theories, our expectations, our past experience, and our language. But we are prisoners only in the Pickwickian sense—that is, in a technical, not substantive, sense. If we try, we can break out of the frame of reference at any time. It must be admitted that we will again find ourselves within a frame of reference, but it will be a better and roomier one, and we can at any moment break out of it again…

The central point is that critical discussion and comparison of different frames of reference are always possible. It is merely an example—and a dangerous one—to say that different frames of reference are like languages that cannot be translated into one another. The fact is that even languages completely different from one another, such as English and Hopi, or Chinese, are not untranslatable into one another, and that there are many Hopis and Chinese who have acquired excellent command of English…

This passage describes our claims here powerfully and sharply. Several important points appear in it, and we will mention them briefly.

Popper draws the distinction between absolute truth and self-confidence that the truth is in one’s own possession, a point we discussed at length in the first book. He treats the claim that all thought occurs within a frame of reference as a claim that leads to relativism, and therefore he opposes it. We too discussed this at length there—though Popper apparently is not aware of the necessity of a cognitive component in the discussion for this purpose. Popper argues that discourse is possible between different frames of reference, and he does not see himself as completely imprisoned by them. See Gate Nine of the first book on going outside the system. He denies the necessity of a shared frame of reference as a basis for discourse. Therefore, in his view, a genuine scientific revolution is possible, and it is not merely a sociological process, as Kuhn describes it.

Perhaps one last point, apparently marginal. Even when reading our quartet, a feeling of discomfort may arise from the decisive references to the “errors” of many wise and worthy people. Perhaps one senses some arrogance here. But, just as Popper claims against Kuhn, this protest itself is grounded in analyticity. There is no doubt that a measure of humility is appropriate for everyone, and it is not clear in whose pocket the truth lies. But the conclusion that there is no truth does not follow from that at all. These statements, which ostensibly express humility, usually testify to analyticity. See Gate Four of the first book, and also below in Chapter 5.

Precisely because Popper fits so well with the synthetic position presented here, one cardinal point is missing from his arguments: the rationale. Why is discourse without a shared infrastructure really possible? Why are we not entirely subject to our frames of reference? As far as I know, no such rationale can be found in his writings, for the simple reason that he himself was one of the most prominent founders of the new analyticity. In him the positivist failure is strongly expressed: he believes in absolute truth but does not notice that, although this belief is correct, it necessarily leads to the abandonment of analyticity itself. See also the appendix to the first book. For truth, in its analytic sense, necessarily leads to relativism. Popper deceives himself into thinking that one can remain an analytic thinker while simultaneously believing in absolute truth. In this deep sense he is mistaken, and specifically Kuhn is right. See also the appendix there.

One cannot speak of intellectual intuition, as Popper does there, without proposing a reasonable theoretical basis for its existence. In other words, a basic condition for such discourse is relinquishing the distinction between thought and apprehension. Such discourse can be based only on a shared ontology, in place of a shared logical frame of reference of theoretical principles—within an ontological-epistemological onion rather than a logical onion. As long as this is not done, Kuhn is the one who is right in their dispute. The correct conclusion from an analytic outlook is precisely relativism, even though relativism is not itself a correct position, and is not even consistent, as we have seen many times throughout the quartet.

The move of a paradigm shift requires one of two things: either the infrastructure of a supra-system, more basic, within which the entire process takes place—as Kuhn proposes regarding intra-paradigmatic transitions—or, alternatively, a substitute process of apprehension, as we propose here. Without adopting at least one of these two possibilities, Popper does not succeed in offering any real alternative for understanding the scientific revolution. This is the reason that, in the judgment of history, Popper—who was right—was nevertheless the loser in the confrontation with Kuhn. Historically speaking, positivism did not sober up and mature in a synthetic direction, but specifically in a postmodern direction. See the introduction to Gate Three of the first book on two ways of maturing out of analytic youthful skepticism.

To sum up, Popper joins here a distinguished list of positivists who sense the problem but do not draw the required conclusions. Those conclusions concern a change in their own paradigm, that is, a transition to another categorial system: the synthetic system.⁵⁰

Once Again, Amos Oz: Categorial Aspects

We mentioned that Amos Oz, in the article cited above (see Gate Three, Chapter 5), argues that the true continuers of the Jewish tradition are specifically the Hebrew writers, most of whom do not see themselves as committed to faith and observance of the commandments. They, he says, are the ones who confront the Holocaust and respond to the transformations that have taken place around us. There we dealt with some of the factual and evaluative errors in the article. Here we will address its implicit conception of categorial changes.

The continuity of an idea can take place in two principal ways: complete conservatism and innovation, or reform. Heresy continues nothing; it simply abandons the system altogether. Presumably Amos Oz does not mean to say that he is the conservative continuer of the traditional Jewish system. He probably sees himself as an innovator, meaning that for him the system has undergone change.

As we saw in the discussion of Putnam’s doctrine in Gate Two of the first book, and at greater length in the present gate, a change in any categorial system presupposes two almost contradictory characteristics: there must be some commitment to the system, for otherwise this is heresy, which is not continuity in any reasonable sense. On the other hand, it is not full commitment, and therefore some change within it is possible; otherwise we are speaking of conservatism.

Amos Oz and his companions fulfill the second characteristic to the utmost degree. They are indeed not committed to anything in the Jewish tradition. At most they draw inspiration from it, and even that only rather rarely. See above, Note 17. But, as stated, that is not the only characteristic. In order to be considered innovators working within that same tradition, they must also show some degree of commitment—in intensity or scope—to that tradition. Otherwise this is nothing but heresy with respect to the system in question.⁵¹

We return to Amos Oz’s example of the house and the furniture. In the previous gate we dealt with it from the aspect of creativity; here we are dealing with it from the aspect of innovation, which of course is not independent of the former. A person who takes for himself the freedom to remove and bring in furniture to and from the house at will cannot define himself as one who changes the house. That freedom—as distinct from liberty—indicates a total absence of commitment. In our language, this is heresy, not innovation. I cannot be regarded as someone who changes Chinese culture, even if I am interested in it and even if I write in its language.

Change too is connected to liberty, and freedom in the sense of the absence of shared standards—incommensurability—is the antithesis of the concept of change, and certainly of the concept of continuity.

Even if someone comes and says, with some justice, as in the case of Rabbi Noah Malkovitz whom we cited above, that the Jewish tradition was always rebellious rather than conservative, the definition of continuity given here is still quite flexible. By that criterion Martin Luther King too would count as a continuer of the Jewish tradition, since he too rebelled against the conventions current in his day. That is absurd. Clearly, beyond rebellion there must be an infrastructural system that defines its contours and its standards. There must also be some degree of “conservative” continuity in order to be called a rebel, just as there must be in order to be called an innovator.⁵²

“Confronting” the Holocaust cannot be done by someone who does not even see what there is to confront. What is the theological problem with which the various writers are grappling? If someone is troubled by the problem of divine evil, he can “grapple” with it in one sense or another. But how can one grapple with the evil of a non-existent being? At most one can find there a confrontation with human evil. But in what sense can that be regarded as theology?

Secular Hebrew literature can grapple with human evil, not divine evil, and in that it differs in no way from its liberal sisters everywhere else. It certainly has nothing specifically to do with Judaism. Unfortunately, logic is not so tolerant in this area, and therefore confrontation with divine concepts is a right reserved only for one who believes in God.

As we already mentioned in the previous gate, Amos Oz’s criticism is justified to some extent if one honestly examines the confrontations that exist in the religious world. But the alternative he himself proposes is absurd. In other words: even if this claim is correct, he is certainly not the person who can make it.

Thus, an “anarchic core,” in Amos Oz’s phrase, exists only where there is a framework that defines what anarchy is. As we saw in the previous chapter regarding aesthetics, where everything is permitted there neither is, nor can there be, an anarchic core. There all of reality is anarchic, and therefore anarchy cannot be defined at all.

In this sense, one who knows his Master and intends to rebel against Him—even though the stance of Jewish law toward him is harsher than toward an ignoramus, or than toward someone raised without Jewish knowledge—is far more “Jewish” than one who does not know his Master and therefore cannot truly rebel against Him.⁵³

The deep meaning of Abraham our forefather’s “rebellion” against the Holy One, blessed be He, is created specifically out of his profound faith in Him. One who does not believe cannot rebel either. Absurd as it sounds, even rebellion requires some measure of apprehension. A rebel, like an innovator, cannot be a heretic. Perhaps it would have been proper to define this type as a separate category in the colorful gallery presented above.

At this point the reader may ask whether there is not a contradiction in our words. In the first book, and here as well, we stressed that contrary to what Putnam says, a change in the meaning and definition of a concept, or in a categorial system, is possible. Putnam, as an analytic thinker, sees such change as possible only in the non-essential features of the concept, because he identifies the concept with its features. But in the essentialist picture proposed there as the infrastructure for the synthetic approach, in principle one can see such change even if all the features change, provided that the concept as such remains the same concept.

If so, why does the fact that Amos Oz and his companions preserve no essential component of the Jewish tradition prevent them from being regarded as its continuers?

The answer is very simple. The argument we raised here is itself analytic. The fact that there are no sharp and clear criteria does not mean that there is no boundary. Our claim was that a change in features is not necessarily a change in the concept in question. But the reverse is not necessarily true either. There are drastic changes that indicate that we are already dealing with a different concept. We must therefore observe the concept “Jewish” as such, examine what our interlocutor says, and ask ourselves whether we are indeed speaking about the same concept. A minimal degree of honesty will immediately lead to the conclusion that we are not. It is true that the sharp difference in features is only an indication, not a proof, of this.

There is also an internal contradiction in Oz’s words. In the analytic world, the possibility of change cannot be grounded in synthetic, essentialist conceptions. One cannot justify analyticity by saying that change is possible because the concept exists as such, while at the same time denying the existence of concepts, for that itself is a synthetic assumption. Therefore one cannot say that in fact there is no such thing as “a Jew,” and at the same time say “I am a Jew,” even though today millions do exactly that.

Of course, on a deeper level, all these phenomena indicate that all these people are synthetic at root, but they force themselves to repress that fact. We discussed this at length in Gate Three of the first book, and many times throughout the quartet. But when one examines the positions as such, one cannot use hidden assumptions within an argument without declaring them, and certainly not while denying their existence.

Analytic thinkers presume to define and characterize a concept without saying anything about it. In the postmodern-analytic world, empty and inconsistent rhetoric is a substitute for coherent arguments. When one exposes the substance of such arguments and definitions, such as that of Amos Oz, one sees that beyond impressive rhetorical ability, their only content is negative: “Jewish” is whatever I want. Or, in other words: “Jewish” is what you—the Jew defined by halakha (Jewish law)—do not want. No other content is presented in Oz’s doctrine as a criterion for Jewishness.

The connection between Oz’s work, and most contemporary Israeli creation in general, and Jewish creation throughout the generations is far weaker than the connection of those works to the general Western culture around us. The only criterion that can grant Oz the title “part of the continuation of Jewish culture” is the fact—accidental or not—that what he does is done by someone who continues Judaism on the biological plane, that is, one born to Jewish parents, or at least to a Jewish mother. Incidentally, that is of course a halakhic definition. This is a supremely racist criterion, and I am astonished that a liberal like Oz chooses it as a criterion for Jewishness. In general, the secular criterion for Jewishness, since it is not committed to any characteristics of content, culture, or essence, leads to sheer racism. The essence of the secular-liberal position can be formulated as follows:

1. “Jewish culture” is culture made and created by Jews.
2. “Jews” are those who create and act within Jewish culture.

This amusing version of the liar paradox appears in various shades in almost all the books springing up like mushrooms after rain, written by people with a “different interpretation of Judaism.”

It is entirely understandable why all those “liberal-rational-enlightened” people, like Oz and his like, become entangled in circular definitions of this kind. The alternative is only a racist definition, replacing the second sentence with one of the following type:

2. “Jews” are those born to a Jewish mother, or a Jewish father, or some other biological or non-cultural criterion.⁵⁴

Precisely against the background of this criticism, it is important to emphasize here that a racist definition of the term “Jewish culture” is not morally tainted. There is nothing racist in saying that Jewish culture cannot be produced by non-Jews in the halakhic-biological sense. By contrast, such a definition is certainly nonsensical. The problem here is not moral but logical. One cannot escape the fact that even if the term “Jew” has a biological-national definition, Jewish culture has substantive characteristics of its own, and not merely those based on the ethnic identity of the person who creates it.

To conclude, let us note that the term “Jew” does have an encyclopedic definition that by its very nature is not racist at all. This is the halakhic definition: one born to a Jewish mother or one who converted according to Jewish law. Requirements concerning a person’s culture may be relevant only to classifying him as a good Jew or a bad Jew; they have nothing to do with his basic Jewishness. Clearly, the culture he creates is not Jewish if he does not subject himself in some sense to the minimal framework that marks the boundaries of the term “Jewish culture.” There is no doubt that even if it is very difficult to define, the concept “Jewish culture,” or “Judaism” in general, is logically prior to the concept “Jew.” One must know what “Judaism” is in order to know who is a “Jew.” The concept of conversion according to Jewish law within the halakhic definition, which governs the question “Who is a Jew?,” is itself derived from Jewish culture. Oz and his companions, by contrast, propose that the concept “Jew” be basic, while the concept “Jewish culture” or “Judaism” be derivative. The reader is referred to the discussion of definitions by extension and by content in the first book, Note 23, where we pointed to the connection between an analytic worldview and attempts to define concepts through their extensions rather than through their content.

Repentance and Spiritual Transformation

To conclude the chapter, we will discuss a basic categorial change that is perhaps the paradigm of categorial changes: repentance. The discussion is Torah-based and lengthy, but several points appear in it that we have already touched upon during the course of the discussion. At its end we will return to the discussion of the “I.”

Note 31: Repentance

Repentance is perhaps the purest expression of an act of free choice. Maimonides’ discussion of free choice in his Mishneh Torah appears—probably not by accident—in chapters 5-6 of the Laws of Repentance. In this note we will deal with two kinds of repentance processes. Because of the length of the discussion, I will divide the note into subsections.

What Is an “Intermediate” Person?

At the beginning of chapter 3 of the Laws of Repentance, Maimonides defines the terms “righteous,” “intermediate,” and “wicked” as the result of weighing a person’s sins against the total weight of his commandments. One whose merits outweigh his sins is defined as righteous; one whose sins outweigh his merits is considered wicked; and the intermediate person is one whose situation is balanced. In law 3 he writes as follows:

And just as a person’s merits and sins are weighed at the time of his death, so every year the sins of each and every one of the inhabitants of the world are weighed against his merits on the festival of Rosh Hashanah. Whoever is found righteous is sealed for life, and whoever is found wicked is sealed for death; and the intermediate person is left suspended until Yom Kippur. If he repents, he is sealed for life; if not, he is sealed for death.

This law raises several difficulties.

1. Why is the intermediate person who did not repent judged to death? Even without repentance, his condition remains balanced.
2. How can there be such a thing as an intermediate person at all? The probability that the number of commandments and transgressions of some person—or some weighted calculation of them⁵⁵—will come out exactly balanced is zero. If so, all of our verdicts are already sealed on Rosh Hashanah, and there is no point in repenting during the Ten Days of Repentance.
3. It is not plausible that a person becomes righteous or wicked—to the point of a death decree—by performing a single commandment, however important it may be.
4. An additional difficulty lies in the possibility that Maimonides offers this intermediate person for improving his condition. Maimonides gives him only the option of repentance. Apparently the performance of any commandment at all should suffice to tip the scale in favor of the commandments. It is not clear why the intermediate person must do repentance specifically.⁵⁶

Among the commentators, two approaches are found regarding the last question. These two approaches reflect two different conceptions of repentance, and perhaps of the person altogether, and therefore we will begin specifically with them.

A number of later authorities offer the following formal explanation:⁶⁰ the judgment on Rosh Hashanah is conducted on the basis of the person’s state in light of his deeds during the year that passed between the previous Rosh Hashanah and the present one. All the deeds performed during these Ten Days of Repentance will be credited to the scale of merit in the judgment that will take place on the next Rosh Hashanah, since those deeds were done in the following year. What is unique about repentance is that it erases transgressions that are already lying in the balance of the past year. Therefore, during the Ten Days of Repentance, only repentance can alter the decree written on Rosh Hashanah regarding the year that has passed. Repentance changes the state of the past year, whereas any other commandment can count only toward the scale of merit of the coming year.

This explanation seems somewhat too much like bookkeeping. According to it, a person who performed a commandment on the fifth of Tishrei is classified as wicked. But if he had been in precisely that same condition on the eve of the Rosh Hashanah that just passed, he would have been sealed as righteous. Now, when he is in the same condition, he is sealed for death. The office hours, as it were, have passed. To issue a death sentence on the basis of such technical bookkeeping seems disproportionate, and certainly not worthy of the Creator of the world, who acts with mercy. Even the principled conception according to which, in essence, one commandment really can change the entire state—but only if it is performed during “office hours”—still leaves the other difficulties intact.

There is a different approach among the commentators to Maimonides’ words,⁵⁷ and it reflects an entirely different conception, far less “bookkeeping,” of the concept of repentance in general. According to this approach, a person’s state is not determined by an arithmetic account of his deeds. The Holy One, blessed be He, does not keep a ledger of actions. A righteous person is one whose basic aspiration is toward the good, and a wicked person is one whose basic aspiration is toward evil, perhaps even if the number of their transgressions or commandments does not reflect that. An intermediate person, according to this, is one who vacillates between the two sides and still has no consolidated spiritual direction.⁵⁸

In such a conception, it is quite clear that there is indeed such a state as an intermediate person, and in truth most human beings, if not all, belong to it to one degree or another. Those who hold this approach explain Maimonides’ statement above by saying that an additional commandment does not help the intermediate person; only repentance does. Performing any additional commandment cannot help, because the issue is not an arithmetic count of commandments versus transgressions but a different psychic-spiritual condition. That is attained only through repentance. Performing another commandment does not change the overall atmosphere, and therefore it does not turn a person from intermediate into righteous.⁵⁹

Two Types of Repentance

As stated, the two directions we have presented here reflect two different conceptions of repentance in general. Repentance of the first kind is indeed a bookkeeping erasure of transgressions. One must regret each transgression separately and carry out several additional stages, and then, as a special grace from the Holy One, blessed be He, even that is accepted. The second kind of repentance is an entirely different process. Here there is no ledger. A person must undergo an inner revolution whose result is a change of general direction. From someone who vacillates between two sides he becomes someone who aspires to the good, even if he sometimes fails. This is repentance on an entirely different level, whose spiritual stature is far higher. Here repentance is not conceived as a halakhic procedure, or as a commandment like other commandments, but as a deep and essential inner transformation.

Maharal, in his Netivot Olam (part 2), in the section Netiv HaTeshuvah, cites the Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 17a, which interprets the thirteen attributes of mercy of the Holy One, blessed be He, said in the context of Moses’ encounter with God in the cleft of the rock:

“The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, abundant in kindness and truth, preserving kindness for thousands, bearing iniquity, transgression, and sin, and clearing…”

In the Oral Torah these attributes are understood as thirteen different modes of divine governance in the world. The Talmud there explains that the second divine name in the verse is the attribute that makes repentance possible: “I am the Lord before he sins, and I am the Lord after he sins and repents.” Later the Talmud states that the attribute “and clearing,” which concludes the list of attributes, is responsible for cleansing sins. At first glance there is duplication here. Both attributes represent the relation to the penitent and God’s governance of repentance. The Talmud later clarifies the relation between these two attributes. Maharal explains it as follows: the difference between them is that the attribute “and clearing” is forgiveness for transgressions when a person has repented for some of his sins but not for all of them, whereas the attribute represented by the divine name expresses complete forgiveness when a person repents for all his sins.

At first glance this is puzzling. If a person performs the repentance of “and clearing” for some of his sins several times, he can cover them all, and thus be cleansed of all of them. If so, it is not clear why there is any need for a different and special divine mode of governance for this process.

To understand this, let us look a bit more closely at the process of repentance itself. When a person desecrated the Sabbath and regrets it, it is clear that the main object of his regret is not an act of kindling fire or trapping something on the Sabbath, but the very fact that by doing so he defied the command of the Holy One, blessed be He. But if so, true regret does not really relate to this or that act but to the root of the sin—to the weakness of will that found expression in the sin.

Yet repentance of this kind, by its very nature, can never be only for some of the sins. True and complete regret is always for all the sins. The regret concerns the very possibility that a person can sin. This is the repentance expressed by the attribute represented by the divine name.

By contrast, repentance for only some sins is in fact a fairly formal procedure in which a person goes through his list of sins and performs the procedure of repentance for them one after another. Regret of this type can be done only for some of the sins, and regret over one sin is not necessarily regret over all of them.⁶⁰

Halakhic Differences Between the Two Types

There are several halakhically required stages in the process of repentance, as listed by commentators and decisors: abandoning the sin, regret, acceptance for the future, verbal confession, and so forth. All these stages are required only for a person who chooses to repent in the procedural, “bookkeeping” way. There one finds detailed halakhic discussions as to whether every stage is indispensable to repentance, whether the order of the various stages matters, and so on.

The repentance expressed by the divine name, the “great” repentance, is not subject to all these rules. An inner revolution is not a commandment or a formal process but a reality. If it occurred, there is no need for all the discussions regarding the commandment of repentance, whether the repentance was effective, and so forth.

These are the two types of repentance of which Maharal speaks, and they are exactly the two types we presented above. One who performs the “small,” bookkeeping repentance is answered from Heaven in the same coin. There are “office hours,” there are delays in execution, and there are formal rules about how it works and how it does not. But one who performs true repentance, which is an inner revolution of the soul, is not subject to any bureaucratic rule. For if he is indeed a different person, then by definition he no longer deserves punishment for his previous deeds.

It should be noted that in the picture that emerges from Maharal’s words, these two types of repentance coexist. They are not two different conceptions of the concept of repentance, but two different processes, each of which is open to every person. He can choose whether to repent by means of the more comprehensive and complete process, or by the “bookkeeping” process.

Let us now look at two Talmudic references to the second type of repentance. The Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 49b, says that if a man betroths a woman on condition that “I am completely righteous,” then even if he was completely wicked, we are concerned about the validity of the betrothal, perhaps he had a thought of repentance in his heart. That is, the woman is betrothed out of doubt, lest that wicked man entertained repentance and thereby became righteous, so that the condition was fulfilled. One might well ask: what difference does it make that he had a thought of repentance in his heart? Did he count all his sins at that moment and carry out all the required halakhic stages of repentance—abandoning the sin, regret, acceptance for the future, verbal confession? It is clear from the Talmud that none of that is required here. The concern is that there was a thought of true and complete repentance in his heart, and in such a condition there is no need for all those procedural stages.

The second reference is found in the story of Rabbi Elazar ben Dordaya in the Babylonian Talmud, Avodah Zarah 17a, and in parallel sources, with certain changes. That Elazar was pathologically obsessed with transgression and left no sin uncommitted. One day he heard of a prostitute in the cities across the sea who took a very high fee. He immediately took what he needed and rushed there to fulfill his desire. For some reason, that Elazar was careful specifically with the commandment of fringes, and when he removed his garments the fringes struck him in the face, and he suddenly understood the depth of degradation into which he had sunk.

At this point begins a dramatic description of a drastic repentance process:

…She said: Just as this breath will not return to its place, so Elazar ben Dordaya will not be accepted in repentance. He went and sat between two mountains and hills and said: Mountains and hills, ask mercy for me. They said to him: Before we ask for you, we must ask for ourselves… He said: Heaven and earth, ask mercy for me. They said: Before we ask for you, we must ask for ourselves… He said: Sun and moon, ask mercy for me. They said to him: Before we ask for you, we must ask for ourselves… He said: Stars and constellations, ask mercy for me. They said to him: Before we ask for you, we must ask for ourselves… He said: The matter depends on nothing but me. He placed his head between his knees and wept with such sobbing that his soul departed. A heavenly voice went forth and said: Rabbi Elazar ben Dordaya is destined for the life of the world to come… Rabbi Judah the Patriarch wept and said: There are those who acquire their world over many years, and there are those who acquire their world in one hour. And Rabbi said: Not only are penitents accepted, they are even called Rabbi.

We see that after Rabbi Elazar burst into weeping, he died immediately. His repentance was accepted, and he was even called “Rabbi,” despite the heavenly voice heard earlier. Here too it is clear that he did not work with lists of sins, and certainly did not properly perform all the required stages of repentance. Nevertheless, we see that this type of repentance is accepted even without the required formal process. Rabbi Elazar is called by the title “Rabbi,” that is, teacher, because he taught us this type of repentance—the “great” repentance.

The Grace Within Repentance

Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman, in his Kovetz Ma’amarim, in the essay on repentance, reports that he asked his teacher, the Hafetz Hayyim, why many commentators wrote that repentance is a special grace bestowed by the Creator beyond the strict requirement of the law.⁶¹ At first glance, the explanation is that present regret cannot erase past sins from reality. One cannot ignore the fact that the transgressions were committed.

But this conception is difficult, because even an ordinary person can forgive an injury inflicted on him by someone else, so why should the Holy One, blessed be He, not do so? This would seem to be explicit in Kiddushin 29a, where it is explained that a completely righteous person who regretted all his good deeds lost all his merits. If so, it is proven that this is not a special act of grace but the strict law itself. The Holy One, blessed be He, does not act beyond the law in order to do evil, so one should not assume that such a former righteous man lost all his merits as an act “beyond the law.” If so, apparently that is what strict law itself dictates. But if that is the case, then it is clear that the same holds on the opposite side: if a person regrets evil deeds that he committed, that is, he repents, then by that same strict law all his sins should be erased. On that basis Rabbi Elchanan asks: why did all those sages write that repentance is a special grace beyond the law?⁶²

In light of what we have said here, it seems that in the “small,” simpler repentance, the grace lies in the very fact that it is accepted, even though it contains no genuine regret. Beyond that, as we saw, it also works backward in time and erases sins in the past, thus becoming part of the accounting of the previous year. This is a supernatural phenomenon, deriving from the Creator’s grace. God’s special grace places repentance above the laws of nature.

But the higher repentance, the inner revolution, seems at first glance to operate entirely according to strict law, for here there is genuine regret and the person has, as it were, become a different person. In such a case there is no special act of grace that the Holy One, blessed be He, performs for that person when He accepts his repentance.

Now when a righteous person truly regrets his good deeds of the past, it is clear that this state is analogous to genuine regret, not to “bookkeeping” repentance. For the regret does not stem from motives of utility, but from the fact that he truly regrets and does not think he acted correctly. From this a surprising conclusion emerges: regret over good deeds is always genuine, in contrast to regret over evil deeds, that is, repentance. Therefore that righteous person who truly regretted his good deeds really does lose his merits, in accordance with that same strict law. As we have seen, in such a case no formal halakhic requirements are needed, even in the process of repentance. Here the question is factual: did repentance occur or not?

And despite all this, it seems that there is real grace even in the higher process of repentance. Here the grace does not lie in the fact that repentance is accepted, but in the very fact that it can be carried out at all. If it was carried out, then its acceptance is fully according to strict law; but the very possibility of carrying out such a psychic-spiritual process of repentance is itself a wonder and marvel.

Such a process, as we have already seen in the main body of our discussion, contains within it an absurdity at the logical level. Such repentance is a categorial change, akin to a transition from serving God “not for its own sake” to serving God “for its own sake.” Above we saw that such a transition is inconceivable and impossible at the logical level. It is a system of values and desires that changes itself. Therefore, the very fact that such a process is possible and exists is the grace bestowed on us by the Holy One, blessed be He.

To sum up: in the “small” repentance the execution is seemingly simple, and therefore the special grace is that such repentance is accepted even though it is not bound up with a real inner upheaval. By contrast, in the “great” repentance, the grace lies in the very possibility of carrying it out. If someone succeeded and carried it out, then its acceptance—the erasure of the sin—is indeed his by right. Such repentance turns him into a different person, and if he is indeed a different person, then there is no reason to punish him for what he once was. That past no longer exists.

Two Types of Sin

If we penetrate more deeply, we will see that these two types of repentance depend on two different types of sin. As we saw in Chapter 4 of Gate Two, there are sins that stem from weakness of will, that is, from a lack of the power to be a chooser. In such a state the value system is correctly constructed, and there is nothing to change in it. We must overcome and strengthen our power of choice. Here there is no place for an inner reversal within us, because our inner structure is already correct. What is incumbent upon us is only to regret the weakness that was in us, the fact that we did not decide with sufficient energy to be choosers. But that is a local decision at the time of the sin. We have nothing to change now in our personality structure, since that structure is correct and sound. Therefore the only way out is to do the small repentance.

But, as we saw there, there are also sins of a different kind: sins that express a distortion in the value system itself, in the onion of our desire. As a result of self-deception, we create within ourselves a distorted value structure that does not correctly describe the good as such. This structure is the result of self-deception, but it now reflects the inner structure of the desires and values that guide us. The good as such is no one’s desire. It is nothing but a “value-object,” or a “value-fact.”

To correct such a state, an inner reversal is required. A change is required in the system of values located at the core of the onion of our desire. We must return and align it with the abstract concept of “good,” as we apprehend it.

The Logical Difficulty in Performing “Great” Repentance

We may now be able to understand the logical difficulty involved in the process of “great” repentance. Performing such repentance means replacing the person’s basic system of desire and value. This is a “categorial change.” In another formulation: it is a reversal that the person performs upon his very selfhood.

It is interesting to cite here Maimonides in the Laws of Repentance 2:1 and 2:4, where he says that the penitent must bring himself back into the very same situation in which he sinned, in order to ascertain that he has, as it were, become someone else.⁶³ He must also change his name, thereby expressing that he has indeed become “another person.”⁶⁴

As we saw, from a simple logical point of view, a process of categorial change is indeed impossible. Such a change cannot be done “from within,” but neither can it be done “from without.” See Note 30 on serving God “not for its own sake.”

How can a person transform his own essence? “A prisoner cannot free himself from prison.” It should be noted that we are not dealing here with problems of weakness or motivation. First and foremost, there are problems at the logical level: the person changes himself. The matter is similar to Baron Münchhausen, who pulled himself up by the hair and thereby rose out of the pit into which he had fallen. Who is the one who transforms? What is being transformed? By what tools does he do so? If by the tools of the old personality, it is difficult to explain why he decides to do it at all. And if by the tools of the new one, how do they serve him before he changes? What is the connection between what existed before and what emerges at the end of the process? Beyond that, evaluative problems are added here as well. If the person himself transforms himself—assuming that is logically possible—then there is value in it. But that seems impossible. And if the Holy One, blessed be He, transforms him from outside, what value is there in such a transformation? The combination of these two kinds of problem seems to create a closed loop with no exit.

It seems that the only escape from this problem is to distinguish between the transformer and the transformed. The “transformer” is the person as such, and the “transformed” is his traits, which are only his periphery. But as we saw in Gate Two of the first book, a reversal in traits is always the expression of a change that occurs in the essence itself. The traits reflect something about the essence itself, and therefore a change in traits and characteristics is an indication of a change in the essence. Thus this formulation merely conceals behind it the paradox of an essence that changes itself, and does not really solve it. The identity between the transformer and the transformed is problematic for several additional reasons, and this is not the place for them.⁶⁵

How Is Self-Transformation Possible? The Ontological Solution

Therefore there is no escape but to relinquish a hidden assumption that we make when presenting the problem. When we wonder about the reversal—whether it is done from within or from without—our assumption is that there is a sharp distinction between “inside” and “outside.” We ourselves are the “inside,” while the Holy One, blessed be He, stands outside us, that is, “outside.” It may be that this very assumption is the root of the failure. We propose here to conceive reality as a kind of continuum from God to each human being, so that the transition between them is metamorphic, not marked by a sharp boundary. There is something of God within every person, and therefore the distinction between the human being and God is no longer sharp. In such a state the inside is not distinct from the outside, and therefore it may be possible for a change to be made in a person when the factor that activates the process is something on that continuum. It is important to understand that this is not really an explanation, but at most a pointing to a problem that requires a solution, and to the assumption that creates the problem. Relinquishing that assumption can prevent the frontal logical collision—the analytic problem—but not really solve the philosophical problem—the synthetic one.

A computer, or an axiomatic system, cannot change itself—at least not its inner and fundamental dimension, which is itself the changing factor and therefore cannot be the factor that changes—precisely because these are isolated, bounded, and well-defined systems. One must always begin with some programmer who is outside them. In Gate Nine of the first book we saw that only the human being can go outside the system, because an isolated system cannot go outside itself. Here we are seeing that same fact from another angle.

Rabbi Elazar ben Dordaya, in the Talmudic passage cited above, expressed exactly these problems. He, who taught us the process of great repentance, himself did not understand how it could be done at all. He was convinced that it could not be done by him “from within.” It had to be done for him by someone from outside. Therefore he turns to every factor in the environment—mountains, hills, heaven, sun, moon, and so on—because he does not understand how he himself can perform great repentance. From within, this process cannot be carried out.

But in the end he arrives at the conclusion: “The matter depends on nothing but me.” He understood that God could not have created us in a stuck condition, because of which we would have no share in the world to come and nothing we could do about it. He concluded that because of the divine element within him, it could apparently be done from within as well. At that moment of true regret and inner revolution, his soul departed in weeping, and the heavenly voice went forth as well.

It is interesting to note that in the prayer “Our Father, Our King,” recited on fast days and during the Ten Days of Repentance, there are various requests of the Holy One, blessed be He, all of which seem reasonable: that He heal our illnesses, send us peace, livelihood, and so forth. There is one exception: “Our Father, Our King, bring us back in complete repentance before You.” It seems strange to ask that God bring us back in repentance. Seemingly this is an action from outside, meaning that it is not my returning in repentance, but my being “brought back” in repentance. Yet this task, unlike healing and livelihood, is placed upon me myself.

It seems that the explanation depends on what we said above. In the “small” repentance we ask that the Holy One, blessed be He, accept our repentance and forgive us. But in the context of the higher repentance, as we have seen, acceptance and forgiveness are required by strict law. We must therefore say that those who repent in this way pray that the Holy One Himself—or, in practice, His “part” within us—act so that we can repent. Without such action the process is impossible, as explained above. Not because it is difficult to do, but because of the logical problem involved in it.

This conception, which sees a continuous transition between God and man, appears in several places. By way of illustration alone, I will cite here a passage from Hakdamot u-She’arim by Rabbi Elyashiv, part of his series Leshem Shevo Ve-Ahlamah (Gate Three, end of Chapter 2 and beginning of Chapter 3):

Know, however, that although we have said that the parts of the form—that is, the spiritual parts—that are clothed in the body are three, namely nefesh, ruach, and neshamah, and that there are three vessels established for them in the body—brain, heart, and liver—which are the place and dwelling of the nefesh, ruach, and neshamah as explained above, the truth is that the principal parts of the form that are actually clothed in the body are only two: nefesh and ruach… But the general neshamah is not clothed in the brain except only at its lowest extremity, for the principal level of the human being is only nefesh and ruach… But the neshamah has no correspondence with the body at all except only at its very lowest extremity, and only in that way is it clothed… in order to be elevated and enlarged through them and above its level; and through that general neshamah a person is bound upward, far upward… The general ruach and nefesh are created, formed, and made, and are not divinity at all. But the general neshamah, hayyah, and yehidah—these three are all complete divinity… so that even in the world of action, from the general neshamah and upward, all is complete divinity…

From Rabbi Elyashiv’s words it emerges that our innermost part, the “I” itself, indicated by the three most inward, highest components—neshamah, hayyah, and yehidah—is not on the level of man at all but complete divinity. And that is precisely also the inwardness of the human being.⁶⁶

In certain senses, there is here a kind of soft pantheism. Rabbi Kook writes that the Jewish worldview is a soft form of pantheism, which some call “panentheism.”⁶⁷

How We Sin

Clearly, despite the fact that this is indeed a special divine grace—that God implanted the soul within us, thereby creating a continuum between Him and us that makes choice and repentance possible—this also has implications in the opposite direction. Because of that very same power, choice, even the righteous person who regrets his earlier good deeds—the one discussed in the Talmudic passage from Kiddushin cited above—can also carry out a reverse inner revolution.

Many people struggle with the question of how the Holy One, blessed be He, allows evil to exist in the world. Moreover, others struggle with how evil can exist at all, if everything exists solely through God Himself.

What we have said here clarifies both questions. True, such a step is a step in the opposite direction, and therefore it is an evil step. But the reality that allows us to take such steps was created for the sake of positive revolutions. This grace was bestowed on us at the creation of man, not at the time of repentance or its acceptance by the Holy One, blessed be He. As we saw in Note 10, the benefit God bestowed by giving us the capacity for free choice necessarily also allows man to do evil. It is impossible to give a person choice without allowing him to do evil. But this in no way detracts from the fact that the capacity for choice—the very existence of the crossroads—is complete good. Choice, which is supremely good, was created by the Holy One, blessed be He. Evil, which is the choice to take the worse path at the crossroads of choice in which we stand, is created only by us.

Back to the “I”

As emerged from the description in this chapter, and especially in the last note, the question of the “I” arises all the more sharply in the context of categorial change. Such change involves understanding who is the changer, who is changed, and what remains from what was. If a person can change his fundamental values, then clearly those values are not part of himself. The same holds for his traits, his intellectual assumptions, and the like. All these are different peripheries of the person himself. The “I” is the one who bears this whole complex, the one characterized by all these traits and capacities.

Thus, categorial changes, such as repentance, testify a thousandfold to the claim we raised in the earlier gates: the person is not the totality of his desires and traits. The person himself is the one who bears these totalities. He is the owner of these desires and values, or the owner of these insights. The person himself changes the totalities that surround him, and that is precisely what is required of him. This is the loftiest human act, and it contains within it an attachment to divinity, for without God it cannot be done. See the end of the previous note.

In the terminology of the previous note, we may say that the “I” as such is not really distinguishable from the Holy One, blessed be He. Something of God is present in every “I,” and in fact constitutes the basis for the possibility of such an “I” existing. That is what there is in man beyond the various peripheral totalities that surround him.

In Gate Nine of the first book, we saw that at this point man differs from every other created system, which is incapable of going outside itself. In the previous note we saw that the reason for this is that other created systems are essentially isolated from the Holy One, blessed be He.

We are accustomed to thinking of the human spirit as a collection of functions represented by a digital computer—thought, memory, input-output, and the like. The mode of operation of a computer is that of an axiomatic system, and that is what gives rise to this confusing tendency. We saw in the previous book that scientific progress became possible specifically because of relinquishing the desire to understand, and settling for the attempt to describe—as fully as possible—the world, rather than understand it. Attempts to understand the essence of man fail for the same reason. Attempts to define his essence in terms borrowed from the world of inert nature underlie the materialist-determinist fantasies that characterize the thought of the analytic world. Attempts to understand are limited by their nature because of human limitations, and we saw a good example of this here.

Clearly, the description we proposed is not unequivocal, and rightly so. Its purpose was to bring the reader to digest the problematic nature of describing man in the analytic picture. There he is described as an axiomatic, linear, and closed system, and the intellectual and moral price that such a “rational” picture demands is enormous. Sometimes truth is not so simple, and certainly it is not always available to scientific description and understanding. In fact, that is usually the case.

Chapter 3: Polynormativity

Introduction

Up to this point we have dealt with the relation of the human being to a particular categorial system, and with the overall structure of the various kinds of such systems—thought, ethics, aesthetics—within the human being. The assumption was that the structure formed is coherent. But already in the introduction to this gate we noted that in practice contradictions and oppositions appear within these systems. Here we are not speaking of an ordinary value conflict, but of an opposition between different kinds of categorial systems.

Let us recall, for example, the discussion we conducted in Chapter 1, and above in Note 18, concerning conscientious refusal to obey the law. We described it as occurring in a situation where there is a contradiction between the legal system, civil or military, and another normative system to which the citizen also feels committed.

As we saw in the introduction, because of the difference between the types of systems—the onions—a more essential incommensurability appears in such a state, which makes it very difficult to build a clear hierarchy. When the two systems are located on “the same floor” within the overall categorial structure of the person, then apparently there is no rational way to decide the conflict that arises between them, if and when it arises.⁶⁸

But can it really be the case that a person is subject to several different normative systems simultaneously? Is there nothing to prevent them from containing contradictory principles? What does one do in such a case? Does the answer depend on the character of the different systems? We will try to address these questions in a general way in this chapter, as part of a theory of categorial systems.

The problem of being subject to several parallel normative systems belongs in its essence to the philosophy—and even the practice—of law. But in recent years it has arisen in several additional contexts, some of them highly topical. For example, many people discuss questions such as the possibility of being committed simultaneously to the religious system and to universal morality, or to civil law, or to additional aspects of modernity. In the course of the chapter we will attempt to accompany and clarify the discussion by demonstrating its implications through a specific example: halakhic polynormativity. We will discuss the possibility of commitment to Torah and halakha together with simultaneous commitment to an additional normative system, such as universal moral principles. The goal here is not to clarify the problem of changes in halakha, but to use it to demonstrate and clarify common methodological errors shared by many of these discussions, and to sharpen the appropriate methodology for such inquiries.⁶⁹

Because of the importance of these problems to various planes of our lives, and because the same mistakes recur in the discussion of them, we will devote significant space to the proper method of conducting such a discussion.

Defining the Problem and the Methods

In recent generations, a number of problems have reverberated in the world of Judaism concerning contradictions between commitment to halakha and commitment to additional normative systems—for example, civil law, various moral principles such as equality of women, attitudes toward non-Jews, freedom, and the like. These problems arise, of course, specifically out of an unwillingness to relinquish either horn of the various dilemmas. One who is not committed to one of the systems under discussion does not enter such conflicts at all.

First, we must distinguish between two different planes of the discussion:

1. Whether, and how, it is possible to introduce values “from outside” into the halakhic framework. This question concerns the subject of changes in halakha, or the relation between conservatism and innovation. We dealt with the principled plane of this question in the previous chapter.
2. Whether, in order to be faithful to such external values, one really has to change halakha, or whether one can be subject to an external normative system in parallel with subjection to halakha—even perhaps in cases where its values contradict those of halakha. On this see below.⁷⁰

The methods of discussion of these questions can likewise be divided into two types:

1. Halakhic discussions. These take place within the halakhic system and take account of halakhic precedents and various Torah sources.
2. A priori-conceptual discussions, which are analytic in character. Such discussions are conducted outside the halakhic system. They deal with questions about the concepts that make up the dilemma: what is “halakha”? What is “subjection”? What is a “normative system”? The methods of such a discussion are philosophical, primarily a priori, and not ordinary halakhic methods.⁷¹

There is an obvious connection between the form of the discussion and the question we are addressing. One who deals with the question on plane 1—how, if at all, halakha can be changed—which is a question internal to halakha in character, must conduct the discussion by method type 1, that is, halakhic methods, and perhaps also Torah-based meta-halakhic methods. By contrast, one who deals with the question on plane 2—the simultaneous subjection to normative systems parallel to halakha—cannot examine it from within one of the systems, and certainly not from within the halakhic system, but only from outside the two systems under discussion. As we saw, one cannot determine subjection to a normative system by means of tools or principles drawn from the system in question. To discuss any categorial system, we must step outside it.

Therefore, in a discussion of this kind, halakhic-Torah precedents have no meaning whatsoever. It is simply not important how Maimonides saw it, because the discussion is not about Judaism but about me myself. We are discussing here how we ought to relate to Maimonides himself, and therefore his words cannot serve as a binding precedent in this discussion. Of course, as a source of inspiration or guidance, Maimonides is at least as good as any other thinker. He is relevant insofar as he persuades me. But Maimonides’ halakhic authority—and even that of Moses our teacher⁷²—is irrelevant to this discussion.⁷³

In light of what has been said here, a fundamental methodological problem arises with respect to the a priori discussion: how can one decide a question that is extra-systemic by its very nature? In what system—normative, logical, or other—shall we use to decide it? There is no doubt that these ways of deciding must be based on extra-systemic, a priori principles, and as far as possible on principles that are perceived as universal. It is possible that value “observation” will enter here as well, in the sense we encountered above.

But here it is very easy to miss an important point, which is the other side of that very same coin. Even if the a priori discussion does yield a theoretical possibility for a state of polynormativity, that does not mean that such a state has Torah legitimacy. It is entirely possible that denial of a fundamental principle is a coherent and possible position at the meta-normative level, or at the principled philosophical level. If that is indeed so, then an a priori discussion will not discover any problem in such a view. But it is clear that such a discussion cannot determine the halakhic legitimacy of such a view. Here the question of subjection to parallel systems must be examined on the basis of precedents and discussion of halakhic sources—an examination that is essentially a posteriori.

In other words: even if it is possible to be committed to two normative systems in parallel, and there is no logical a priori problem in doing so, each of the two systems may still place a veto on the matter. If system A contains a rule according to which subjection to system B is forbidden, then even though there is no principled problem in subjection to the two systems, in this case the matter is impossible. One who is committed to system B cannot at the same time be committed to system A, since he is acting against one of its rules. In such a state he will have to decide which of the two systems he prefers. Thus, in the end we must nevertheless return into the systems under discussion and ask ourselves whether subjection to both does not contradict their own demands.

In the example accompanying us here, it is possible that we will decide in favor of parallel subjection to the Torah system and to the system of universal morality, yet such subjection contradicts the commands of the Torah system itself, or of the moral system itself. In that case, willy-nilly, we are forced to relinquish one of them. The decision as to which one amounts to setting a scale of values. In principle, there could be here a state of “conscientious refusal” with respect to the will of God or to halakha. See Note 18 above.

We should add that there are two different levels on which such a problem may appear. For example, if a person decides that he is committed to the universal system, this can contradict Torah principles on two different levels: first, with respect to specific directives—for example, if universal morality commands equal treatment of non-Jews, while the Torah rejects that; second, with respect to the very subjection to the two systems—for example, if the Torah demands absolute exclusivity from those committed to it. In such a state, even if the commands of the two systems do not contradict at all, a principled problem may arise from the normative duplication itself.

The conclusion is that any discussion of polynormativity, or polycategoriality, must be conducted on two independent planes: a priori, outside the systems under discussion, and afterward a posteriori, within them.

An A Priori Analysis of Polynormative Situations

For the purpose of an a priori examination of a polynormative state, we employ, as stated above, general philosophical methods. For that purpose, we must define several basic concepts, which will be indicated below in quotation marks, and examine the possible relations between them. The discussion is somewhat formal, and therefore I will try to keep it as brief as possible.

A “normative system,” in the sense discussed below, is a system containing at least two components:

1. A set of commands, or norms, that obligate those subject to it. These commands must be:
   – univocal, that is, not ambiguous;
   – non-contradictory, or at least must include univocal rules of conduct for situations of contradiction.
2. A set of means of interpretation. I deliberately do not use here the term “rules,” because this component is problematic. Rules of interpretation cannot be defined in an absolute and objective way, and there may be disputes as to what these rules are for a given normative system, and even whether they are “rules” in the rigid and accepted sense of that term.⁷⁴

Subjection. An important component in the definition of a normative system is, of course, its normativity. Systems that do not demand subjection cannot be considered normative. For example, acting according to the inclinations of our impulse, even if this is not to be seen as an action of our true self, does not constitute a normative system, because it contains no element of subjection. As we have seen, a person does not choose to act according to his impulses; he is dragged into it. By contrast, with respect to norms themselves, a person chooses to obey them. A sin that results from being dragged after impulse is not subjection to another system, but weakness of will.⁷⁵

We must now examine how subjection to such a system comes about. As we saw in Chapter 1, there is no doubt that the principle from which subjection to a normative system is derived cannot itself be part of that system. Therefore it is clear that the principle determining subjection to any system, and especially to halakha, is always located outside the system in question. This is the “principle of value,” as defined in Chapter 1. As we saw there, the principle of value described in the Talmud with respect to commitment to halakha and Torah is the obligation created by the oath at Mount Sinai, that is, the principle that establishes an obligation to keep oaths.

We now distinguish between two different types of principles of value:

1. It is possible that the decision to be subject to the normative system is reached by a detailed examination of each of the norms included in it, and a decision concerning the acceptance of each one separately. Such a principle we will call a “particular principle of value.”
2. There is also the possibility of making such a decision wholesale—for example, on the basis of an a priori trust in the one who created the system and commanded us to observe it, that is, its source of authority, or on the basis of an a priori trust in the system itself for some other reason.⁷⁶ This is a “global principle of value.” Such a principle usually serves as an a priori motive for accepting commitment to the system as a whole, as one unit.⁷⁷

Let us now define two types of normative systems:

1. “Partial systems.” These are systems whose requirements leave a neutral margin, meaning that in real-life situations lying within that margin they demand nothing from the person committed to them.
2. “Complete systems.” These are systems that impose commands in all areas of human activity, and perhaps even thought. In such systems there is no margin of neutral situations.

We will now examine the possible relations between two different normative systems. If both are “complete systems,” then the relation between them is one of two possibilities: either they overlap completely, in which case—at least de facto—we do not really have two different systems here;⁷⁸ or else some of their commands contradict one another.

In the case of two complete systems, where the directives of each system are unambiguous—this being assumption A in the definition of a normative system above—there is no possibility of a third kind of relation between the two systems.⁷⁹

If the two normative systems are “partial,” then in addition to the two preceding kinds of relation, there can in principle also be a relation of foreignness, that is, the parallel existence of two systems that are different and at the same time non-contradictory, because they deal with disjoint sets of real-life situations.⁸⁰ A good example of this is the ethical system and the aesthetic system, which belong to two different categories.

We now arrive at the main question of this chapter: is there, a priori, a coherent state in which a person is subject to two different, even contradictory, normative systems? Is there not an inconsistency or inner contradiction in the worldview of such a person?

It seems that in order to understand the matter we must distinguish between different situations involving the two kinds of principles of value and the two kinds of normative systems. If both systems are “complete,” then in a state of overlap there is in fact subjection to only one system. But where there is a difference between them, they necessarily contradict each other, and therefore it would seem at first glance that one cannot be subject to both simultaneously.

But this determination is not precise. If the principles of value underlying the two systems are particular principles of value, then one indeed cannot be committed to both systems together. If the principle of value is particular, then commitment to the system in question is based on examining each of its principles separately. Therefore, in a polynormative state in such a context, there is a simultaneous acceptance of a principle and its opposite. On the other hand, if at least one of the principles underlying these systems is global, then subjection to both is possible despite the contradiction. Subjection is then interpreted as a commitment to fulfill both. True, there is created here a commitment that cannot be realized, and thus a normative dilemma arises, similar to a conflict between values within the value scale of each system separately.

For example, if a person accepts upon himself the halakhic system because of a “global principle of value”—for instance, a commitment to fulfill whatever his Creator commands him out of gratitude toward Him, or an obligation to keep the oath of Sinai—then there is not necessarily an acknowledgment that each principle of the system has a particular rationale and basis that is independently acceptable to him. If so, there can be a situation in which one of the commands conflicts with a norm of another normative system to which he is subject, for example universal morality, at least as he himself understands it. Such a state is possible whether the principle of value of the second system is global or particular.

It is clear that if he had a particular principle of value for each and every commandment, then the halakhic obligation to destroy Amalek would be justified independently and particularly, and if that were indeed acceptable to us, then no contradiction could emerge between that command and a contrary moral principle.⁸¹

If at least one of the systems is partial, then in the first two types of relation between them—overlap or contradiction—the situation is similar to what was described regarding complete systems. If the relation is one of coexistence in parallel, that is, there is no contradiction between them, then this is the trivial case, and it is quite clear that there is no a priori restriction on accepting commitment, or subjection, to both together.

Our conclusion is that a state of subjection to several normative systems is possible a priori, and is logically-philosophically coherent, in two cases: first, when both systems are partial and foreign to one another, and therefore there is no contradiction between them; second, when there is an area of overlap between them—whether because one of them is complete, or because both are partial but deal with non-foreign domains—even if within that area there is contradiction between them. However, the possibility of contradiction depends on at least one of them being founded on a global principle of value. If the principles of value of both systems are particular, then contradiction between them is impossible.

Thus, even polynormativity concerning contradictory systems—and all the more so non-contradictory ones—is possible a priori, that is, logically coherent. Granted, when there is a contradiction between the two systems in question, the person subject to both must decide which of the two he will obey in the case at hand.

In order to apply this description to the situation of halakhic polynormativity, we must examine whether the halakhic system is “complete” or “partial.” This depends on the question whether there are optional matters within the Torah and halakha, and this is not the place to discuss it.⁸² We saw above that there can be states of polynormativity in both cases, whether the system is complete or partial. The matter depends on what principles of value underlie the halakhic-Torah system. Therefore, in practice, it is more important to understand what principle of value underlies subjection to halakha.

Usually, at least in Orthodox Judaism, this is a “global principle of value.” It is difficult to see a particular principle of value underlying subjection to halakha. Such a state would describe a person who accepts subjection to halakha only after examining every halakhic principle in all its details and accepting it on its own.⁸³

In the note above we dealt with the distinction between Orthodoxy and Reform. In the terminology presented here, one may describe Reform, or other similar movements,⁸⁴ with considerable justice, as movements that accept the yoke of halakha in light of particular principles of value. Therefore they do not accept upon themselves the yoke of some of the halakhot—those that do not pass the test of the particular principle of value. Orthodoxy, by its very nature, is built on global principles of value. Of course, each Orthodox Jew may have a different principle of value, but it seems that usually, if not always, it will be global.

But in light of this discussion, a surprising conclusion emerges. Contrary to what is commonly thought—and below we will see why there is nevertheless some justification for that thought—it is specifically the Orthodox person, who as we have seen accepts the yoke of halakha as a result of a global rather than particular principle of value, who is exposed to the emergence of polynormative situations. By contrast, the Sadducee or the non-Jew, in the midrashim cited above about the giving of the Torah, who accept halakha on the basis of particular principles of value, generally will not accept upon themselves the yoke of laws that are problematic in their eyes.

Thus, in summary, the conclusion is that a polynormative position is in many cases coherent. It contains no logical problem, even when the commands of the parallel systems stand in contradiction to one another.⁸⁵

At the next stage in the discussion of any polynormativity, and especially the halakhic variety, we must examine empirically whether such a phenomenon actually appears in reality. There is no point in discussing a question that does not arise at all. But the answer here is clearly positive. Idol worshipers and believers in divine association are in exactly such a state. They believe in and are subject to the Holy One, blessed be He, and at the same time to additional systems. Dualism, or polytheism in general, constitutes a clear expression of such a state. As noted, these are logically coherent positions, and there is no a priori obstacle to holding them.

We must therefore now move to the third part of the discussion, in which we will address the a posteriori question: can there be a Torah justification or legitimacy for a polynormative state? In other words: does polynormativity of the kind examined here pass the test of halakha? As we noted at the outset, if it does not, then even if this position is logically coherent, there is still no possibility of being committed both to halakha and to the second system.

We explained there that we must examine this on two different planes: first, contradiction between specific commands of the two systems; second, a principled—but a posteriori—contradiction between commitment to both, a contradiction that in practice relates to the principles of value and not to the specific commands of the systems themselves.

Halakhic Polynormativity: An A Posteriori Examination

In this section we deal with the a posteriori examination of halakhic polynormativity. We are speaking of a decision to be subject to a system that is opposed to halakha, simultaneously with subjection to halakha itself. At first glance it is clear that there can be no halakhic legitimacy for this. True, as we have seen, this does not prevent the possibility of obeying the additional system for considerations external to both systems.

Shai Wozner, in the article cited above, nevertheless proposes a polynormative model of subjection to halakha. At the base of Wozner’s proposal lie two principal innovations: one theoretical, namely that there is a theoretical way to create polynormativity between two systems whose commands contradict one another. He does not deal with this at all in his article, but in our discussion up to this point we have seen that this is indeed possible. The second innovation, meta-halakhic, is built on a certain interpretation of the conception of the essence of halakha.

Let us explain this briefly through an example that he himself brings. See note 23 there. Suppose a doctor is asked by his friend, who is a movie actor, whether in his condition he is permitted to participate in a commercial in which he is required to smoke a cigarette, and the fee for participating is supposed to be very high. The doctor’s answer was: from a medical point of view, you must not participate in the film, because smoking involves medical risk. On the other hand, I personally strongly recommend that you participate in the film, in order to earn the enormous sum.

The laws of medicine, which are compared here to the laws of halakha, command him unequivocally not to participate in the film. From a medical point of view, doing so is wrong.⁸⁶ On the other hand, the laws of survival—economic survival, or at least comfort and pleasure—command him to participate in this film.⁸⁷ Both perspectives are valid, and therefore the person can find himself subject to both normative systems, which in this case contradict one another. Therefore, even though he advocates preserving health in every case, major and minor alike, it is plausible that in this case he will adopt the decision of the parallel normative system. The adoption of the laws of health means that his choice will carry a price, and he is willing to bear it.

Wozner proposes here a renewed conception of halakha. According to his proposal, halakha does not command us to do things, but determines that they have a certain value, and that whoever violates them pays a “price”—moral, spiritual, religious, or other. This conception seemingly opens the possibility of violating halakha for an external reason. Commitment to halakha means that the violator is aware that he must pay a price for his decision.

The main novelty here is that such conduct supposedly has halakhic “legitimacy.” The bare fact that one can in practice act this way and be considered a sinner is obvious. The fact that a priori, or logically, this is even a coherent path was also argued above. But here there is an additional innovation of a meta-halakhic nature, and it is this that supposedly creates genuine halakhic polynormativity: halakha merely sets prices; it does not set norms.

It should be noted, as Wozner himself emphasizes, that this is not a proposal to change halakha, since we are dealing with an “Orthodox” proposal, nor a proposal for creative interpretation of its commands, which contains no principled novelty. Nor is there here a claim about the use of extra-halakhic rules that are sometimes introduced into halakha, such as “its ways are ways of pleasantness,” and the like. Those paths too are well known and common among decisors. Nor is there here any relinquishing of commitment to halakha, which does not befit an Orthodox approach, since one who is not committed to halakha—that is, a heretic—does not stand in the dilemma whether to observe it. For him, he will violate halakhic laws when necessary, and in his view such a step carries no price at all.

However, in a more careful analysis, and in light of the discussion in Chapter 1, it seems that the type described in Wozner’s model is the innovator or Reform type, not the conservative type in its varieties. As we concluded there, the conservative is committed to the normative system without any reservation. True, the enlightened conservative allows himself more creative and broader interpretation of the norms within the system, but his commitment is full. From his point of view, this conflict is probably impossible. The conflict Wozner presents describes the innovator or the Reform type, because in light of our conclusions there, such types are committed to the normative system as long as the price is not too high. Their commitment is not full, and not at any cost. That is exactly the state Wozner presents. Thus, from the analysis we presented there, it emerges that this proposal does not describe heretics, but it seems directed specifically at Reformers and not at the Orthodox.⁸⁸

It should be noted that beyond the a priori claim, which he does not address at all and which we substantiated above, this claim deals with an interpretation of halakha itself, and therefore it must also be examined from within halakhic conceptions. At the beginning of our remarks we already stressed the need for such an examination as a condition of polynormativity, since if one of the systems is imperialistic—that is, it does not allow subjection to another system—then such a state is impossible. We shall see below that Wozner’s meta-halakhic interpretation does not pass the halakhic test. Even so, his proposal is of no little importance, because it expresses and formulates sharply widespread feelings in the modern Orthodox public.⁸⁹

We therefore now turn to discuss the problem of essential polynormativity, that is, the relation of halakha to other normative systems. Let us again remind the reader that our concern is with systems that do not express the will of God, but are systems external to the Torah and to the Holy One, blessed be He, in general. The will of God that is not expressed in halakha is an ancient concept, and we will not enter into it here. That question is internal to Torah thought, and therefore it does not concern the question of the relation between categorial systems in general.

This discussion must be divided into two parts: first, the relation to systems whose commands do not contradict halakha; second, the relation to systems whose commands do contradict halakha. Of course, if we find that even subjection to systems that do not contradict halakha presents a halakhic problem—in other words, that normative duplication as such is problematic—then that problem will exist in the second case as well, where there is contradiction.

The first question that arises in the context of essential polynormativity pertains directly to the foundations of Jewish faith: does subjection to an additional normative system not amount to heresy, and perhaps even idolatry?

At first glance, there is an essential problem in the very subjection to normative systems parallel to Torah—systems that do not express the will of God—because this involves acknowledging another source of authority beyond the Holy One, blessed be He. As stated, behind every normative system stands an obligating principle, which above we called a “principle of value.” Sometimes behind that principle stands an entity—or, in common theological language, a personal god—and sometimes not. When a person accepts upon himself commitment to extra-Torah principles, there arises a strong sense of theological dualism, or in halakhic terms, associating another power with God. As it were, there are two sovereigns to whom the person is subject, and not only the Holy One, blessed be He. If such association is indeed present here, it contradicts the belief in divine unity, which is one of the principles of Judaism.

Let us sharpen this further. The main problem in belief in association is not its specific content, but the very fact that it is “foreign,” as in “foreign worship.” The problematic element is the very fact that a person bends himself to something in addition to Torah and the Holy One, blessed be He. The worship of Baal Peor or other idols usually does not constitute direct violations of prohibitions in the Torah, although often such worship is accompanied by elements of sexual immorality and even murder; but clearly this is not the essence of the prohibition of idolatry.⁹⁰ The problem with such worship is chiefly that it expresses additional religious-cultic subjection.

The halakhic discussion of idolatry and heresy through association does not belong to our present topic, since we are dealing only with the theory and methodology of relations between categorial systems in general. In the next note we will enter somewhat into this topic. In the second part of that note we will also discuss the question of the relation to systems that include commands contradicting halakha.

Note 32: Polynormativity and Polytheism: The Torah Status of Universal Morality

In this note we will expand the claim made in the main text. Since the topic is current and arouses many controversies, I will go beyond what is required by the discussion itself. Because of its breadth, the note is divided into smaller headings.

The claim that identifies polynormativity with idolatry through association is not so simple. First, one must distinguish between heretical beliefs of various kinds and what halakha calls “idolatry.” The concept of “idolatry” in its halakhic sense involves two essential components: first, the performance of cultic acts; second, those acts are performed toward a particular entity, an idol.⁹¹

On the face of it, these two components do not exist in the examples we brought above. For example, moral principles and modern values are not bound up with belief in a concrete entity, a personal god. There is no “idol” here, at least not in the classic sense of the concept, because apparently there is no ontological dimension behind these systems of norms.⁹² In addition, commitment to these normative systems is apparently not bound up with cultic actions. True, such commitment usually requires the person to act in a way that accords with the commands of the system in question, but it is difficult to see these actions as cult, especially against the atheistic background of modern norms. In Maimonides’ language, there is no “acceptance of it as a deity.” We will now discuss these two components one after the other.

It is important to emphasize that the discussion in this note is conducted on the assumption that the external normative system is not part of the will of God, but has an independent “theological,” or non-theological, status. As explained in the main text above, seeing halakha as a partial expression of the will of God is a rather banal statement, and it is certainly true. That is not what concerns us here.

A Virtual Idol

We will begin specifically with the second component: the idol. When we ask ourselves what exactly the idol was that ancient idol worshipers served, it seems that the ancient idol was nothing but a piece of wood or stone, to which the believer would render service in one way or another. We must therefore ask ourselves: is the existence of that stone essential to the problematic nature of idolatry? What if someone performs all those actions before a transparent stone? Or with no concrete stone at all? Or perhaps for an abstract “stone”?

Does the prohibition of idolatry become more severe specifically when accompanied by the foolish naivete of believing in trees and stones? At first glance, the principal problem is the very subjection to an additional factor beyond the Holy One, blessed be He, and not specifically to one piece of stone or another. When the heretical belief is more “intelligent”—though, as we saw, belief and commitment without any abstract entity behind them suffers from failures similar to those underlying classical idolatry—and the entity to which we are subject is more abstract, it would seem that the prohibition is no less severe, and perhaps even more severe.

In our modern world, we are accustomed to virtual realities, and sometimes even attribute to them—usually metaphorically, though not always—real characteristics and effects. For that reason, in our own era it is easier to understand the non-necessity of the ontological component that once stood behind the prohibition of “foreign worship.”

Worship of the idol was the only way to create commitment to a normative system in the ancient world. The ancient world was not prepared to accept the yoke of abstract systems, or of systems that had no concrete entity behind them in our material world, and therefore behind every idolatry there was an idol. Later Abraham our forefather came and taught that one can create commitment and worship also toward an abstract entity. A few generations ago the process took one step further, and Kant taught that we do not even need an abstract entity. One can create commitment without any divine entity at all.

If so, it is very plausible that the problematic nature of the concept of “idolatry” remains even without such an entity, in the Kantian model, or when the entity is abstract, as in the Abrahamic model, but directed toward another god. It seems that the halakhic problem lies in the very commitment to extra-Torah systems, and therefore it remains intact even without an ontological idol.

Perhaps one can go even further. Within halakha there accompany the prohibitions of idolatry also peripheral prohibitions, called the appurtenances of idolatry. Acts that resemble idolatry are also forbidden as its accessories. It seems that in our case there is at least such a problem, for in the modern world there is belief in some kind of “image of man” that obligates a certain mode of action—perhaps, according to the secular-humanist conception, as against the “image of God” to which every person is obligated according to the Torah.

One might compare the modern condition to what the sages described—see, for example, Midrash Rabbah, Esther 3:2—regarding the wicked Haman. According to the midrash, Haman made himself into an object of worship and required everyone to bow to him. Some commentators even explained on that basis why Mordecai would not kneel or bow, though by doing so he endangered all Israel. Here we are dealing with an entity that is not transcendent and apparently has no “religious” aura at all, but is an ordinary human being. Yet the sages see here a possibility of idolatry toward him. Is the worship of the image of modern man—or perhaps man’s worship of himself—not in considerable measure parallel to this description? Modern man, more sophisticated than his predecessors, has turned himself—or the very idea of humanity, “the image of man,” or “the human image”⁹³—into an abstract idol before which he performs worship. Whether or not the similarity is sufficient at the formal halakhic level, at the principled level it does seem that a real resemblance exists.

Here we should add and recall what we saw in the previous gate. There is a serious philosophical problem in the very subjection to a system of norms that is not anchored in an existing entity serving as its source of validity. Can one really speak of “subjection” to a system that I myself create? This is not a psychological claim, that such subjection will not endure and therefore will not be effective, but an essential claim: such subjection points to the creation of an idol implicitly, even if the person does not admit its existence. This idol is no less tangible than the idol embedded in the wood or stone to which the idolaters of the ancient world bowed.

When a person stands in a dilemma between moral considerations and a religious-halakhic command, he cannot suffice with saying that his conscience—that is, he himself—does not allow him to perform some act that the Torah commands him to perform. Such a statement is equivalent to saying: I do not want to fulfill the Torah’s command. If so, we are dealing not merely with subjection to another normative system, but with the discovery that the person is not truly committed to the Torah system at all. A collision that arises from subjection to two different normative systems, rather than from lack of commitment to Torah, requires the existence of some entity—an “idol.”

The conclusion is that in fact there is here a real idol, in the ontological sense—the moral onion—but the person denies it because it is abstract, and therefore invents for himself the possibility of commitment to a system of norms without any obligating source.

Virtual Worship

Up to this point we dealt with the second component, the idol. In order to let the present discussion stand on its own, let us detach it from the previous one and assume that in the systems under discussion there is indeed an idol, at least halakhically. We must now ask whether there is here also a cultic component. On the face of it, the second component of the prohibition of idolatry—worship—is not present here. The actions required within the normative systems discussed here do not straightforwardly fall under the heading of religious cult. But here too there is full commitment to values external to Torah, and therefore again it is not clear whether the cultic dimension is really so essential. Let us try to go through in this discussion, as in the previous one, a process of abstraction.

If the worship required were more abstract and were not expressed specifically through sacrifices or clearly cultic acts, would that lessen the severity of the matter? Maimonides rules explicitly in the laws of idolatry that if one worships an idol in its customary manner, then even if that manner is not one of the four standard forms of service, he violates the prohibition of idolatry. See the Mishnah, Sanhedrin 7:6, Maimonides’ commentary on the Mishnah there, and the Laws of Idolatry 3:2-3 and elsewhere. Is clear and distinct conduct according to the principles of a normative system different from that of the Torah—not assuming for the moment, for the purpose of the present discussion, that there is some idol commanding it—not included within the category of idolatry? Belief in that idol certainly finds expression on the practical plane as well; it does not remain only on the abstract theoretical plane.

Let me add one more point to the present level of discussion. Involvement with an idol not in the form of worship—for example, using idolatrous trees for healing, see Babylonian Talmud, Pesahim 25a and the Ran and other early authorities there—constitutes in halakha an accessory prohibition of idolatry. For that too one must suffer death rather than transgress. See, for example, Encyclopedia Talmudit, entry “Appurtenances.” If so, even with regard to other, non-cultic involvements with that idol, one can imagine that they too would have the status of appurtenances of idolatry.

From the discussion of the last two points it emerges, after abstraction, that worship of a pseudo-idol, or virtual idol, even if it is abstract worship, can raise halakhic problems of the prohibitions of idolatry, or at least its appurtenances. Statements that treat such ideals as “idolatry” sometimes appear in contexts of preaching and moral exhortation, but it seems to me that there is here also a halakhic dimension that definitely deserves attention.

Between Heresy and Idolatry

The next level of the argument makes the comparison to actual idolatry unnecessary. As we saw above, one must distinguish between abstract belief, which is heresy or sectarian error, and belief that demands cult, in which case we are already entering the category of the prohibition of idolatry. For our purposes here, it is enough if we have shown that polynormativity involves a problem of false belief. That is, even if we conclude—despite the arguments above—that polynormativity does not meet the formal halakhic criteria of the prohibition of idolatry, it certainly still involves the problem of false belief through divine association. Presumably such a state is no better than a person who verbally joins the divine name with something else, an act not necessarily involving actual association in practice, but only a misleading mode of speech. See Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah 45b and Sanhedrin 63b, among other places.

In the end, even if there is no formal prohibition of idolatry here, there is at least an accessory form of belief in divine association, and therefore polynormativity is suspect as a dualistic heretical belief. The Holy One, blessed be He, requires me not to accept women’s testimony in a rabbinical court, while I accept upon myself subjection to another system of rules in which a woman has the status of a valid witness. That system is so binding for me that at times I set aside the commands of the Holy One, blessed be He, in deference to it. There is here strong and unequivocal subjection, to the point of surrender, to another factor, even if abstract, and this arouses a strong sense of dualism.

Thus our conclusion is that at least in the sense of beliefs and opinions, polynormativity is bound up with some kind of polytheism.

A Theological Consideration

The very topic of Torah polynormativity can also be seen from another angle. One who is subject to an additional normative system that contradicts the will of God—as stated, only in such a case do we need essential polynormativity—holds that he, or the source of authority of that system, knows better than the Holy One, blessed be He, what ought to be done in a given situation. If the Holy One does not think that this is what ought to be done, can one imagine that it would nonetheless be the more proper act?[^\98] From this angle one may ask whether such a person really believes in the same Holy One—in the good, omnipotent, and omniscient God—in whom traditional halakhic Judaism believes. This is not a problem of divine association but of the image of God in the faith of the polynormative person.⁹⁴

Additional Halakhic Considerations

Up to this point we have discussed the question whether polynormativity involves prohibitions of heresy or idolatry. We now turn briefly to additional halakhic aspects touching on, or at least adjacent to, the issue of polynormativity.

1. “Do not stray after your heart and after your eyes”

Maimonides, in the Laws of Idolatry 2:3-5, addresses a state in which a person considers fulfilling norms whose source is not the Torah, and especially norms that contradict what is written in it and its principles. It appears from his language there that he defines this under the prohibition of “Do not stray after your heart and after your eyes,” and he warns that a person must not rely on his own opinion against the Torah, because he may be mistaken.

Here we see a far-reaching claim, much more than the claim about polynormativity. Maimonides rules that even if a person adds things from his own view and sees them as a divine command, then because of the possibility of error there is here a prohibition of “Do not stray after your heart.” The fact that this prohibition is detailed in the laws of idolatry indicates that it belongs to that family of prohibitions, which is, as is well known, very broad, at least according to Maimonides. This point sharpens the claim we saw above about someone who knows better than the Holy One, blessed be He, what ought to be done, except that here it is directed toward the Torah rather than directly toward God.

2.

In this context, the prohibition of “Do not add” is also relevant. See Maimonides, Laws of Rebels 2:9. But because of the complexity of the subject, we will not discuss it here.⁹⁵

3.

In light of everything said so far, one should also examine Maimonides’ words in the Laws of Kings 8:11, where he writes as follows:¹⁰¹

Anyone who accepts the seven commandments and is careful to perform them is among the pious of the nations of the world, and has a share in the world to come. But this is only if he accepts them and performs them because the Holy One, blessed be He, commanded them in the Torah and informed us through Moses our teacher that the descendants of Noah had already been commanded in them. But if he performed them because of the dictate of reason, he is not a resident alien and is not among the pious of the nations of the world, but only—or according to another reading, not even—among their wise men.

Maimonides is dealing here with the question of observing commandments out of rational determination rather than out of commitment to the Torah. A non-Jew who accepts these seven commandments because of the Torah given at Sinai is a resident alien, is called one of the pious of the nations of the world, and has a share in the world to come. But a non-Jew who keeps these seven commandments out of rational determination and not because they were given at Sinai is not called a resident alien and not one of the pious of the nations of the world, but at most wise, that is, moral. Such an act has no value as service of God or as a commandment, but only as an act that is proper and good in itself.

The commentators on Maimonides there—see, for example, Sefer HaMafteah in the Frankel edition—extend this to every person, including a Jew. According to them, even a Jew who performs a commandment because of his own rational determination gives it no status as a commandment-act, but at most the status of a proper and good act.⁹⁶ This is also clear by simple reasoning: fulfilling any commandment without a motive of service of God cannot be considered a commandment-act.⁹⁷

It should be noted that in the passage from Maimonides just cited, he is not speaking about someone who accepts upon himself another normative system, but about someone who performs the Torah’s own commandments, only he does so out of commitment to a different source of authority. It is also important to note that the two cases Maimonides contrasts are acting because of “the dictate of reason” and acting because one believes that “this is what God commanded in the Torah given through Moses our teacher.” Maimonides is not contrasting “the dictate of reason” with fulfilling the will of God in a general sense, but with the claim that this is the will of God in the Torah given to Moses at Sinai. It follows that “the dictate of reason” here means the belief that one should act this way because it is the will of God, but in a form opposed to the belief that the only expression of the will of God is the Torah handed down to us from Sinai. If so, Maimonides here is speaking of someone who fulfills the commandments as the will of God, but who believes that God did not give them at Sinai. From his own rational judgment, he assumes that if these are fitting commandments, then surely God desires their observance.⁹⁸

The conclusion is that Maimonides’ words here do not at all refer to someone who does something because of another normative system that is not the will of God at all, and especially not a system whose commands stand in opposition to His will. Presumably, for the reasons detailed above, Maimonides would classify such a situation as entirely illegitimate, and perhaps even as idolatry or divine association. One should remember that in Maimonides’ period we are still in the pre-Kantian era, in which commitment requires an idol. It is therefore no wonder that he did not even find it necessary to address it.

In fact, it seems that we have here what Maimonides elsewhere calls “inventing a religion.” This means innovating a commandment not found in the Torah, while the innovator thinks that it is imposed upon him by the Holy One, blessed be He. See, for example, Maimonides, Laws of Kings 10:9, and Sefer HaMafteah in the Frankel edition there. In light of what we said above, it emerges that in the words cited above as well, in 8:11, Maimonides speaks of one who “invents a religion,” that is, someone who invents a commandment which, as he understands it, does not appear in the Torah, or one need not obey the Torah that commands it, but whom he thinks God nevertheless expects to observe it. This is a form of the will of God not explicit in the Torah, a category to which we referred above in Chapter 2.

And I found that in the book Kevod Melakhim, cited in the notes to Maimonides in the Frankel edition on this law, a midrash, Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer, is brought which says:

But if they performed the seven commandments and said, “We heard this from so-and-so,” or “of our own minds, because reason so dictates,” or if they associated idolatry with the divine name, then even if they performed the whole Torah, they receive reward only in this world.

Here there is explicit reference to one who performs the seven commandments because of association with idolatry, and this appears as an additional category, distinct from “the dictate of reason.” It is a different category because, as we saw above, the dictate of reason in Maimonides means a determination that this is the will of God, not detached reasoning in the abstract. Rational determination of the second kind is a form of divine association.⁹⁹

To conclude, it is important to note that commitment to moral principles as such does not contradict religious commitment. The problem arises when that commitment is not derived from religious faith, that is, from the will of God, but stands on its own. A religious person can indeed be committed to the system of universal morality if his principle of value is commitment to the Holy One, blessed be He, and to the Torah. In such a state the moral system is derivative, because it rests on commitment to Torah and to the Holy One, blessed be He, which belong to a more basic system. Such a state is not essential polynormativity, for that exists only between two constitutive systems. Presumably, such commitment would not be called by Maimonides “inventing a religion,” since it derives from the Torah given at Sinai.

These points also follow from what Maimonides writes in the opening laws of the Mishneh Torah—see also his first principle of faith in his introduction to Perek Helek:

1. The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a First Existent, and He brings into existence all that exists. All the beings of heaven and earth and what is between them exist only through the truth of His existence.

2. If it could enter the mind that He does not exist, no other thing could exist.

3. If it could enter the mind that none of the other beings existed, He alone would exist, and He would not be nullified by their nonexistence. For all beings need Him, while He, blessed be He, needs neither them nor any one of them. Therefore His truth is unlike the truth of any one of them.

4. This is what the prophet says: “And the Lord God is truth”—He alone is truth, and no other has truth like His. And this is what the Torah says: “There is none besides Him,” meaning: there is no true existent besides Him comparable to Him…

5. Knowledge of this matter is a positive commandment, as it is said: “I am the Lord your God.” Whoever supposes that there is another god besides this one violates a negative commandment, as it is said: “You shall have no other gods before Me.” And he denies the fundamental principle, for this is the great principle on which everything depends.

6. This God is one. He is not two, nor more than two, but one, whose unity is unlike the unity of any one of the unities found in the world…

Maimonides’ main claim is that God needs no addition, and that all existence depends on Him alone. It is obvious that all normative systems, no less than all entities, material or spiritual, exist and obligate only through the truth of His existence. One who says that there is some reality or norm that does not depend on Him thereby seems also to deny His truth. Therefore, belief in, or subjection to, a normative system that is not an expression of the will of God—especially if it contradicts His will—is nothing but a denial of His truth and unity.

From the standpoint of our discussion of categorial systems, we have seen here an example showing a case in which dual commitment is not possible a posteriori. If a person is committed to both systems, by that very fact he removes his commitment to one of them, namely the halakhic one, because that system demands as a condition of commitment exclusivity: it forbids divine association. Thus Torah polynormativity is impossible. It should be noted that the conclusion is that such a state is impossible even without any contradiction between the commands of the two systems. Maimonides speaks of a state in which a person observes the very commandments of halakha, and still this does not count as service of God.

The conclusion that emerges from the discussion in this note is that subjection to an additional normative system, beyond Torah, is impossible—not at the a priori level, but at the a posteriori one. Clearly, if such duplication is impossible even without a frontal contradiction between the commands of the two systems, then the situation only becomes worse when such contradiction exists, and therefore there is no need to test Wozner’s arguments with respect to those questions.

More generally, whether or not our arguments regarding the relation between polynormativity and polytheism are correct, our interest here is only in the form of the argument. One should therefore note the general theoretical aspect that emerges here: a contradiction of this type—essential polynormativity—between the systems, if it indeed exists, does not express a halakhic clash with any of the specific commands of the second normative system. It is possible that all of them accord perfectly with the commands of halakha. The problem lies with the very existence of an additional system, or with subjection to the additional principle of value standing behind that system. As noted, the existence of subjection is a condition in the definition of a normative system. This is an example of a posteriori problematicity in a state of normative duplication.

Chapter 4: On Pluralism and Openness: Inter-Categorial Discourse

Introduction

Up to this point we have dealt with the question of the changing of categorial systems, and with the possibility of simultaneous subjection of one person to several of them together. We must now examine a different relation between such systems, this time in the social-cultural aspect. We are discussing here a state in which every person, or every group, has a particular normative system, or several of them—see the possibilities for this in the previous chapter—and the question is how such a person or group relates to his or their peers, who are committed to systems different from their own.

Several types of questions arise here. For example, the question of rhetoric and its significance: how is an argument conducted between different categorial systems? How can one try to persuade a person whose value-base and axiomatic base differ from one’s own? Beyond that, we return here to questions of the uniqueness of truth, of tolerance and openness, and so on. Most of these questions were discussed at length in the first book, but this time we will try to discuss them from a broader angle.

Among other things, we will also deal here with the possibility of pluralism within a synthetic framework. To what extent is synthetic truth unique, or does objectivity not necessarily imply singularity?

It is obvious that the principled aspect of the objectivity and singularity of truth pertains in its foundation to the internal structure of the categorial systems within the single individual. The relation to another person is only a consequence of that structure. Therefore this chapter serves as an opening to the two chapters that follow it, and together the three will constitute the conclusion of the whole move. If this chapter returns us to the discussion of concepts of truth, the next chapter will deal with a concluding description of the complete spiritual structure—the cluster of onions—of the individual person. The final chapter of the present gate returns us to the beginning of the path, that is, to the beginning of the first book. There we will see, in a broader perspective, the circle of the first three volumes of the quartet—which were originally planned as a trilogy—closing and returning to its starting point.

Synthetic Pluralism: Is a Synthetic Position Completely Objectivist?

The synthetic worldview described up to this point grounds its concepts of absolute truth, factual and normative, on observation of abstract objects that exist in reality. Each such object grounds a categorial system and serves as the measure and source of its principles. The analytic picture, by contrast, does not recognize the existence of abstract objects, and therefore cannot offer any real grounding for objectivist claims. Everything depends on the basic frame of reference.

Despite the evidence presented up to this point in favor of the synthetic position, there remains a sense that complete objectivism is not correct. Analyticity does not arise in a vacuum. There is a certain plurality that intuition affirms, and therefore those who adopt a synthetic position must find a way to include it within their description.

With respect to facts, there seems to be no place for this. In the factual context, “truth” means correspondence between a claim and a fact. Such correspondence either exists or does not. But when we come to evaluations and judgments, there does seem to be room for a certain relativity. The question is how such a degree of freedom can be introduced into the tightly packed synthetic picture. Creativity is required here, and certainly not of Amos Oz’s kind. See above, Chapter 5 of Gate Three.

But even regarding facts the situation is not so unequivocal. There is certainly room for such a margin even with respect to the apprehension of facts—the phenomena, as distinct from the noumena. From the epistemological aspect, as we saw in Gate Two, even if the fact is one, there may be conflicting evidence regarding it. Every person sees that same fact from a different angle and with different tools. It is no wonder that the reflected picture is different as well.

From the theoretical aspect, we saw in the second book that theories and theoretical entities constitute a categorial system whose purpose is to describe and express empirical facts. There we saw that contrary to the dominant analytic conception in the philosophy of science, a theory is not merely a convenient and efficient description of the facts, but is itself a collection of factual claims. It has empirical content, and therefore it, together with the entities that compose it, belongs to the factual plane.

However, there is still room to leave a free margin in this context. That is, it is entirely possible that some of those theoretical entities or principles do not describe facts but constitute only a theoretical construction, for the convenience of scientific treatment. With regard to these, the analytic conception is correct. We saw several examples of this. One was the model, discussed in the second book, Gate Four, which is itself also a kind of theory. A model is nothing but a convenient and useful description of facts, without claiming to describe reality itself. As we noted in the second book, the very distinction between model and theory points to a synthetic position. The second example is the relation between causal explanation and teleological explanation. Philosophically, one may think that only one of them is the correct explanation, even though there is perfect correspondence between the empirical contents of the two kinds of explanation. In such a case, one of the theories is a convenient instrument for dealing with reality, but it certainly does not constitute a description of reality.

The conclusion is that theoretical principles and entities can at times allow a pluralistic attitude, just as on the value plane. The sages express this in the well-known saying, “These and those are the words of the living God.” That is, within the Torah framework there is a certain margin of pluralism, though certainly not every position or opinion enters that margin.

We must now show how these two aspects can be incorporated within the synthetic picture as substantial pluralism. In what follows we will deal mainly with the question of pluralism with respect to values and not with respect to facts, though the discussion regarding facts—that is, their phenomena, or the theory that unifies them—is very similar.

It seems that there are two possible mechanisms for introducing pluralism into a synthetic framework, and we will now discuss them one after the other.

Mechanism A of Synthetic Pluralism: Parts Without an Ontological Root in the Categorial System

As we mentioned, in the scientific context there are generalizations that are not the result of observation, but of sheer theoretical construction. For example, a model designed to describe a collection of facts in a way that is convenient, efficient, and easy to handle. Such a model is not the result of observation of reality, since it does not constitute a description of reality. There may perhaps be here a kind of observation, but not in factual reality; rather in ideal reality, the world of possible and plausible theories.¹⁰⁰ This is a partial acceptance of the analytic claim that some of our truths, in science and in life, in facts and in morality, are not derived from observation but from our own subjective construction.

Of course, this does not mean that all our theoretical structures, or categorial systems, are such a subjective product. There are also such components within the overall picture. But our ontological onions still remain in existence. What “breaks” is only the fit between them and the categorial system, that is, the system of principles within us.

With respect to these subjective components of the categorial systems, it seems that there is no way at all to bridge the gaps between systems. Apparently one cannot create inter-categorial discourse here.

Mechanism B of Synthetic Pluralism: The Relation Between Phenomena and Noumena

The second possibility for substantive synthetic pluralism becomes possible on the basis of the distinction we proposed in the second gate of the first book, between the facts as such and their descriptions as they appear in our consciousness. Here we shall extend that distinction to judgmental and evaluative contexts as well, beyond the factual contexts discussed there.

For example, when two people look at a chair, but one sees it from nearby and the other from a distance, or when one sees it through sunglasses and the other with the naked eye, we naturally expect them to see a different picture. Kant teaches us that not all our glasses are located outside us, on our eyes. There are also many pairs of glasses within us as well, that is, forms of cognition through which we apprehend reality. He admittedly regarded them as intersubjective, meaning shared by all human beings and not subjective. But many have already noted that this is an unfounded assumption. If these forms are indeed subjective, then there is no reason to say that all human transcendental systems are identical.

From our discussion one may assume that there are many components that are shared, but certainly not all of them. If so, there is variation in the “glasses” through which we observe that one and only ontological onion, objective in itself. This difference can generate different pictures within us.

It is important to note that the pluralism that emerges from this mechanism does not derive from the subjectivity of the various pictures, nor from the absence of an ontological dimension. It derives from the fact that the pictures formed in our consciousness concern phenomena and not noumena. In other words, one and the same objective reality can generate different pictures in different people because of the different means of “viewing” available to them.

The difference between the two types of pluralism is not merely semantic. The fact that there is one objective basis that serves as the source of all our pictures is what makes possible the sort of inter-categorical discourse assumed by Karl Popper, though without justification, since as we saw there, Popper too is an analyst, in the quotation brought in the previous chapter. Inter-categorical discourse is possible because these categorical systems, even if they differ, are observing the same reality. And reality, the noumenon, is one and only one.

For example, it is relatively easy for us to understand that just as a blind person cannot see while we can, so too there may be layers of being that are visible to creatures of a different kind and yet hidden from us. Here it is not at all clear that we would be able to bridge the gap, even though we know it stems from a difference between us and not from a difference in factual reality. When a sighted person and a blind person argue over whether there is a chair before them, only one of them is right. By contrast, when Reuven observes reality through red cellophane and Shimon through green cellophane, it is reasonable to assume that they may find a way to translate their pictures into one another’s terms.

Our ability to bridge two different forms of observation, if such an ability exists, derives from the fact that there is a common framework for all these forms: all of them refer to the same reality. Whoever finds the transformation between these different frames of reference will be able to “translate” one into the other. We saw an example of this in the first book, in chapter 3 of the eighth gate, in the discussion of the axioms of mutually contradictory geometries and in the theory of relativity.

But it should be added that even in this pluralistic mechanism, of multiple viewpoints yielding multiple pictures, it is not necessarily possible to translate every viewpoint into every other. In the example of the blind person cited above, such a translation would be impossible. In the cellophane example, by contrast, the translation is simpler, and certainly possible.¹⁰¹

The Criterion for Distinguishing Between the Mechanisms, and Its Meaning

These two mechanisms permit a certain measure of pluralism within the synthetic framework. But there is a difference between them. The first mechanism creates a completely subjective component within the picture: something that does not arise from observation at all and has no ontological source. It would seem that a gap of this sort does not permit translation, and therefore not inter-categorical discourse either. The second mechanism, by contrast, can often be bridged through processes of translation. This translation is carried out through attempts to bring the other person to our own vantage point on reality, so that he too can see the picture formed in us.

Of course, this description raises several problems. How do we know when a dispute is substantive and when it can be bridged? When we argue with someone and the dispute remains unresolved, should we conclude that the subject of the dispute belongs to the subjective part of our cognition? One must understand that such an argument says that the very fact that the other person is not persuaded is itself an indication, for me as well, that the principle I am defending does not actually derive from any objective fact, and is nothing more than an idea that is convenient and useful for me. That conclusion is highly relevant for myself too, beyond the question of how my argument with someone else turns out.

If that were so, then the argument so common among us, that if there are two opinions on a given issue then it is clear that there is no single truth about it, would be a valid argument. How can we prove to the other person that the truth is with us? How can we know that our truth is correct without proof? Why should we be superior to anyone else, especially if he is no less intelligent than we are? It is astonishing how deeply such questions, or assumptions, lie at the basis of our culture without any justification, and how despite that they serve as a framework for pluralism as the supreme value in our analytic society.

Precisely for that reason, it is important to note that this argument is by no means necessary. It is entirely possible that our dispute fails to reach a clear conclusion for reasons that are not substantive. There are quite a few such reasons. For example, one side in the dispute is insincere and unwilling to concede to the other even after being persuaded. A more substantive reason is that Reuven lacks the ability to bring the other person to see the picture from his side; see the next section on rhetoric as inter-categorical discourse. He simply cannot “put Shimon in his shoes.” The ability to do this is itself a kind of talent, one that not everyone possesses to the same degree, but it is clear that it is unrelated to scientific-cognitive intelligence, that is, to the question whether I am right. As is well known, powers of persuasion are not always a guarantee of justice, and justice is not always a guarantee of powers of persuasion.

On the other hand, it is clear that when something belongs to the subjective part of the picture, there is no logical or observational way to persuade another person of my view. In other words, there is a connection between a failure of persuasion and classification within the subjective part, but it is a one-way connection: if the subject of the dispute belongs to the subjective part, then we will not succeed in persuading; but if we do not succeed in persuading, that is not necessary evidence that we are dealing with the subjective part, that is, that there is no single truth here.

The criterion that can guide us in deciding whether the principle under discussion belongs to the subjective or objective part of our categorical system is only the objective criterion. We return here to the Cartesian principle of evidence. There is no more basic criterion than intuitive certainty itself. In the eighth gate of the first book we saw that it is also the only possible basis for the validity of the laws of logic themselves. True, this is not a sharp criterion, but we have nothing better. Intuition is also the basis on which we decide which of our insights belong to intuition, that is, to intuitive cognition, and which are fictive and subjective. Our intuitive power operates on several different levels, and at times it even relates to itself, as in cases where we are engaged in analyzing and understanding our own thinking.

It should be noted that intuition serves here in a double role:

1. It is a cognitive tool in confronting the material and ideal reality around us.
2. It is a tool for examining our inner life, in order to see which inference or cognition is truly the product of valid cognitive processes and which is merely a fictive theoretical construction.

In the first function, intuition turns outward, as a kind of cognition, whereas in the second it turns inward into the spirit, as inward cognition or thought.

In the first book, in chapter 2 of the eleventh gate, we already pointed out that the observation of ideas proceeds in two directions: inward and outward. It is an observation of concepts as entities existing in the world of ideas, and at the same time this observation is experienced by us as a gaze into the soul. There is a correspondence between these two objects of observation, the human spirit and the world, and this stands at the basis of the argument for the blurred distinction between cognition and thought.

In the previous paragraph we encountered a situation in which this correspondence breaks down, because there are components in the intellect that are not the result of observing what is outside. Therefore the two intuitive powers that until now operated in full coordination, and hence we found no need to distinguish between them, suddenly appear as separate powers. One turns inward, and its result is picture A; the other turns outward, and its result is picture B. The moment we detect such a mismatch, that is a sign that the matter under discussion belongs to the subjective component of the categorical system in question.

Precedents: Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin and the Maharal of Prague

In fact, such models of pluralism have long existed in Jewish thought. As for the first mechanism, there is no need to bring proof. The entire discourse of halakha (Jewish law) is saturated with recognition of the legitimacy of differing opinions. The well-known talmudic expression for this is, “These and those are the words of the living God,” which is usually interpreted as deriving from the first mechanism. This rule will be discussed in the next note. The second mechanism, however, which is based not on relativism and subjectivity but on multiple pictures, phenomena, of the very same real object, the noumenon, can be formulated somewhat differently: what we have here is a set of viewpoints, some of which can be translated into one another, that join together to create a fuller picture of the truth in all its facets.

On this presentation, pluralism does not express the absence of truth, but rather a more comprehensive and complete truth, one whose full description can be approached only by society as a whole, with all its diverse parts and the angles of vision they employ.

Two important Jewish thinkers paint precisely this picture of disagreements in halakha: the Maharal of Prague and Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin, both of whom interpret the rule “These and those are the words of the living God” specifically as a derivative of the second mechanism. Both begin from an ontological-theological assumption: everything that exists in the world originates in God. From this they conclude that even the oppositions we find here below are, at their root above, united within God Himself and constitute one divine wholeness. The split between them is created because each part of reality cannot express the full divine wholeness, but only a portion of it. Therefore it cannot see the whole picture either, but only observe from its own particular angle. Only the totality of all the angles together creates the complete, divine picture. In the next chapter, in the discussion of categorical monotheism, we shall see important and general theoretical implications of this picture.

Rabbi Tzadok writes in his book Resisei Layla as follows:¹⁰⁸

With regard to every new Torah insight, it is impossible for a matter to be fully clarified without there being an inclination in one direction and in the other, as it is written in Babylonian Talmud, Hagigah 3b, “These declare impure,” and so on, and “These and those are the words of the living God” in Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b. By “God” is meant the possessor of all the powers that are distinct in the world, and this is why the term is in the plural, for the words of Torah are the life-force of all creation… and they divide into different springs, to forbid and to permit. We suppose that this depends on the sage’s own opinion, but it is not so. This too is in the hand of God, who illumines his eyes and inclines his heart according to the divine desire and will alone, and therefore they are called “the words of the living God,” for in truth they are the words of God… like prophecy…

Speech is manifestation in actuality, and within manifestation two opposites cannot exist in one subject, as is known,¹⁰² for the human intellect denies this… But the sage is attached to the wisdom of God, which is in the thought within the mind, and there two opposites can exist in one subject. More than that, it is almost necessary, in accordance with the way God founded all creation as a thing together with its opposite… and there is nothing in the world that does not have its direct opposite as well… Only in actuality two opposites are not in one subject: when it is day it is not night, and when it is night it is not day. But at the source, all is one.

Almost identical ideas can be found in several places in the Maharal’s writings.¹⁰³

In fact, this picture connects very well with the issue of parallel planes of explanation that we discussed in the second book, in the fourth gate. We saw there that many events in the world can be given several parallel explanations at once. The relations between those planes were discussed there at length, and we saw that there are several types of such relations. Here we are proposing an additional relation, or a different way of looking at the whole set of relations, according to which all the explanations together create a complete description of the event. The comprehensive view is created out of the combination of all the partial views.

We shall conclude this section with a note that deals with halakhic pluralism, and with the pluralistic approach to it itself.

Note 33: “These and Those Are the Words of the Living God” Squared¹⁰⁴

It is very common to see original halakha as embodying an approach of substantive pluralism, whose sharpest expression is the saying, “These and those are the words of the living God” in Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b and Gittin 6a. In light of this interpretation, it is also common to criticize contemporary halakhic Judaism for not displaying a similar approach. In this note we will deal briefly with this rabbinic saying and examine some of its meanings.

There are different approaches among the commentators to the understanding of this saying itself. A detailed work devoted to this subject is Avi Sagi’s book Eilu VaEilu,¹⁰⁵ which presents a variety of halakhic and meta-halakhic approaches to the issue.

As I already remarked in my review mentioned above in De’ot, there is an academic tendency to present a very broad variety of interpretations of halakha or of a halakhic principle, often far beyond what can actually be found in the sources. This stems from two main reasons:

1. The academic method, especially with respect to Torah and halakha, is analytic in essence. It therefore tends not toward harmonization but specifically toward dichotomy. Often this stems from an agenda, and at times from intellectual inability and lack of creativity; see the discussion and examples above in the third gate.
2. An ideological tendency whose aim is to anchor as broad a range as possible, and beyond that as well, of interpretive possibilities, and thereby to display the broadest possible pluralism.¹⁰⁶

This is true of every halakhic principle, but it is hardly surprising if we find it especially with respect to the saying “These and those are the words of the living God” itself. Of course, the question of halakhic pluralism, when applied to the principle of “these and those” itself, gives rise to paradoxes. Which of the approaches found in the interpretations of this saying should we choose to apply to the disagreement among the commentators over the meaning of the saying itself? Is it even plausible to say that the saying “These and those,” independently of any specific interpretation of it, can itself be applied to the various interpretations said about it? This is the meaning of the title of this note: “These and those squared.”

Let us now briefly review the different positions on this issue and see, in a more specific way, the tendentiousness and the failure to which I have pointed here. Avi Sagi, one of the most prominent and gifted scholars of halakha in our time, whose method and worldview reflect a clear analyticism, see also the appendix, will serve us as a good example.

Sagi proposes three principal directions for interpreting the saying “These and those,” distinguished by the question whether there is only one halakhic truth:

1. Monistic approaches, which believe in only one halakhic truth.
2. Pluralistic approaches, which believe in several possible truths.
3. Harmonistic approaches, which believe in one truth that includes all the shades of the dispute, in the spirit of Rabbi Tzadok of Lublin and the Maharal whom we saw above.

In fact, the analysis depends on how one understands the concept of “halakha” and its relation to “truth.” Let us bring one example for illustration. In Derashot HaRan, the Ran is troubled by the question how the Torah obligates someone who is an eminent Torah scholar and knows that the Great Court is mistaken, and nevertheless requires him to act in accordance with their ruling. This is especially difficult in light of the assumption that sinful acts dull the soul, that is, they have spiritual consequences for the person himself. Why should such a person bear the consequences of the court’s mistakes?

The Ran’s answer is that disobedience to the court is itself a transgression, and therefore it too dulls the soul, apparently with even greater force than the transgression itself.

For example, if the court instructs the public that one is required on the Sabbath to perform some act that constitutes a forbidden labor, say carrying from one domain to another, that scholar knows that the act is forbidden and that the court erred in its ruling. Even so, he is supposed to obey them and do the required act. As stated, the Ran explains this by saying that obedience to the court is also part of halakha, and therefore disobedience to them is likewise a transgression.

Now we must ask ourselves: what is the “halakhic truth” in such a case? Is the Ran’s position monistic or pluralistic? If we are speaking of “truth” in terms of the laws of the Sabbath, then the truth is with that scholar, and the court was mistaken. But if our concern is halakhic truth in general, then one must also take into account the duty of obedience to the court, and then although the court is mistaken, the one who disobeys them is mistaken as well. In other words, there are here two concepts of halakhic truth, and each time we must examine which of the two is under discussion.

The matter becomes even sharper in light of the Maharal’s determination in Netiv HaTorah, that God expects us to rule and decide according to our own understanding, even if we are mistaken, and not necessarily in accordance with the truth.¹⁰⁷ In other words, the value of autonomy is no less important than the value of truth. Here again we may ask: what is halakhic truth? Is acting autonomously itself a halakhic truth, or is it a methodological instruction?

We saw another example of two planes of truth above, in chapter 7 of the third gate, in Rabbi Yitzhak Hutner’s discussion of Genizat HaDa’at. Additional examples were seen in the second book when we dealt with parallel planes of explanation.

Thus, in every discussion and analysis of monism versus pluralism, we must examine which plane of truth the commentator in question is addressing.

Beyond all this, one must distinguish between halakhic truth and metaphysical truth. In every halakha there are various aspects from each of which the very same halakha is seen differently, and therefore different halakhic conclusions may be reached. According to the harmonists, metaphysical truth is the whole complex. But that cannot be expressed in a ruling, because a ruling is supposed to give us one practical mode of conduct. If so, alongside metaphysical truth there is also halakhic truth, and that too may be called truth, with respect to decision on the practical plane. We decide that, with respect to practical implementation, a certain aspect is indeed the more fitting one.

A sharp expression of this can be found in the sugya in Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 6a, where two sages dispute what exactly the problem was with the concubine in Gibeah. One says that her husband found a hair on her, and the other says that he found a fly on her. The Gemara unifies the opinions of the two disputants and says: “These and those are the words of the living God: he found a fly and did not mind it; he found a hair and did mind it.” In this way, it turns out that neither opinion is entirely true, and the truth is composed of both together; and yet only one of them, the one who says he found a hair on her, is right on the practical level, that is, with respect to the cause that aroused the husband’s anger. It is noteworthy that this is the only source in the Talmud where the expression “These and those” appears with respect to general disputes, and not with respect to the heavenly voice regarding Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel.¹⁰⁸

If we were to review all the sources brought in Sagi’s book, and especially if we tried to fit them together with explicit sources in the Talmud, which he generally does not do, as is the way of scholars who do not employ harmonistic methods, it seems that we would not find even a single source that blatantly contradicts the harmonistic position of the Maharal and Rabbi Tzadok. Each of the sources can be placed on a different plane of discussion.

Therefore, one can show that from all these sources it is possible to construct one overall system, and that system is precisely the interpretation of the saying “These and those.” One may claim that all the sources are merely different variations on this approach, or descriptions of different planes of it, and therefore the need to apply the rule of “These and those” itself, in squared form, disappears. Each commentator contributes a different angle to this overall interpretation, and we then have an application of the synthetic pluralism of the Maharal and Rabbi Tzadok to the issue of “These and those” itself.

An important instrument in this critique is the thesis of parallel planes of explanation, which was elaborated in the second book, fourth gate. Already there we saw that it expresses a method opposed to what is customary in the academic world. For reasons of space, we cannot undertake a systematic review here of all the sources in Sagi’s book, and so I shall bring only a few representative examples:

1. At the beginning of the book, p. 33, Sagi brings the position of Rabbi Joseph Karo, which seems at first glance clearly monistic. Rabbi Karo cites the sugya in Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b, where the heavenly voice determines that the halakha follows Beit Hillel because they are gentle and humble, and asks:¹¹⁶

I find this astonishing: if the law were not in accordance with them, would it have been fixed according to them merely because of the abundance of their good qualities?

Perhaps this is what it means: why did they merit always to hit upon the truth? Because they were true, and therefore the halakha was fixed in accordance with them.

At first glance, this clearly reflects a conception of one halakhic truth, and therefore there is no room for moral considerations as a criterion for deciding halakha. But it is entirely possible that Rabbi Joseph Karo is speaking about the halakhic truth toward which they direct themselves, and not about some metaphysical truth. If so, there is not necessarily absolute monism here. Rabbi Karo is speaking about the truth that ought to guide us on the practical plane, and of that there is only one, even if we embrace metaphysical harmonism.

2. The “principle of acceptance,” as Sagi calls it, see the end of part 1, p. 62 and onward, expresses the conception that halakha is nothing but an authoritative decision and does not reflect any truth at all. In that sense, the principle of acceptance points to pluralism. But this argument is incorrect, for the conception of halakha as deriving from authority does not necessarily mean that there is no single halakhic truth. It may be that authority is a tool, an instrument for discovering the truth. If so, authority determines what that one and only truth is, a monistic conception. The relation between the words of the Rosh cited there and a monistic conception is discussed at length in my article mentioned above.¹⁰⁹ The words of the author of Derashot HaRan cited above likewise point to a separation between the question of authority and the question of truth. Acceptance of authority does not necessarily indicate rejection of metaphysical truth.

3. Sagi, pp. 73-74, finds a frontal contradiction in the words of Rabbi Yom-Tov Heller, the author of Tosafot Yom Tov. On the one hand, he explains the phenomenon of dispute as a historical accident, something that points toward halakhic monism; on the other hand, he explains that both halakhic positions in dispute are valid from the halakhic standpoint. It is worth noting that this contradiction already exists in various talmudic sources and later in Maimonides as well. According to our approach, this is no contradiction at all, because the way the dispute came about historically is indeed the “accident” mechanism, but once it came into being it expresses a plurality of truths. This is what Rabbi Yitzhak Hutner, for example, writes in his book Pahad Yitzhak, on Hanukkah, and in his article mentioned above on Genizat HaDa’at.

4. Rabbi Soloveitchik, whose position is discussed in chapter 2, p. 54 and onward, is presented as seeing halakhic decision-making as an activity that uses a priori tools with which the man of halakha comes to examine the world, somewhat like mathematical analysis. Halakha imposes its a priori tools on reality and does not adapt itself to it. Sagi contrasts this position with naturalism, which sees halakha as a reflection of reality and as the extraction of principles embedded in reality itself. Here again we must distinguish between a meta-halakhic theory and the implications of halakhic activity. One may proceed in the manner of Rabbi Soloveitchik, analyzing reality with a priori tools, almost mathematical ones, and at the same time see this as the exposure of an order present in reality itself. We do not find that order by means of a simple view of reality, but with the help of a priori tools that teach us how to look at it correctly.

There is here an implicit assumption that an a priori way of looking cannot reflect anything true about the world. But throughout our discussion in this quartet we have seen the opposite: trust in our a priori tools, expressed in the collapse of the distinction between cognition and thought, leads to the assumption of a fit between the human being and the world, that is, that human thought leads him to know something about the world itself.

This line of argument could be continued consistently throughout the whole book. Sagi assumes halakhic pluralism; he does not prove it.¹¹⁰

To conclude this brief discussion, one should note that there is no doubt that different halakhic decisors and different halakhic communities possess different halakhic consciousnesses. Some are more autonomous, others rely more on precedents. Some allow themselves more room for maneuver, others see halakha as a closed structure. Yet these disputes, which may look very extreme at first glance, all express very similar meta-halakhic theories. The disagreements concern a very narrow range within the framework described above, and questions of degree.

Halakhic practice as it is actually conducted says something very clear about meta-halakhic theory, something that cannot be gleaned from all the quotations that deal directly with the subject of the dispute itself. All these are only after-the-fact approximations to one truth, as described above, and the approximation depends on the interpreter’s ability and analytic tools. Halakhic reality, at least on the principled level, is quite clear.

From here we come to an important methodological remark.¹¹¹ Any analysis of halakha must rely primarily on descriptions of its actual mode of operation, more than on direct meta-halakhic reflections, which usually appear in introductions to books or in works of thought and philosophy. The sages do not generally speak about themselves in a reflective way, that is, they do not address their own methods directly, and not for nothing. Halakhic theory will always be only an inexact approximation to halakha’s actual manner of operation. These approximate descriptions may differ from one another, but the reality is almost one. This failure too is very common among scholars of halakha. Attention to halakha in its actual operation would clearly reveal the picture described above. There is hardly a halakhic sage who does not speak of halakhic truth and of errors in halakhic decision. It is difficult to see how such language can be reconciled with a model of pure “acceptance.”

In light of all this, the conclusion regarding halakhic pluralism accords with what we shall describe below as synthetic pluralism. This is the approach of Rabbi Tzadok and the Maharal, which treats the different opinions as a whole that together creates the complete divine truth.

Another characteristic of this pluralism is the existence of boundaries. Since it is based on a synthetic vision and not on analyticism, halakhic discourse has boundaries, arising from the non-pluralistic parts, outside the margins of the synthetic onion, beyond which the utopian pluralism that some people are inclined to find in halakha does not prevail. See on this point also Sagi, part 2, chapter 5, and the appendix.

What Is Rhetoric: Demagogy, Persuasion, and Debate

We can now try to understand the possibilities of inter-normative, or inter-categorical, discourse. In the first part of the chapter we saw that there are truths with respect to which only one possibility exists. By contrast, there are situations in which a dispute is created as a result of different viewpoints on the same thing. And there are also extreme situations in which truth is not at issue at all, and the subject under discussion belongs to the subjective components of the categorical system.

In the pure postmodern analytic picture there is no point at all in any sort of discourse. Each person proceeds from his own assumptions, and no one grasps any truth, because there is no concept of “truth” at all, at least in its classical sense. From such an attitude there emerges the feeling that wherever discourse is conducted in a way that leads to persuasion, as in seminars designed to bring people back to religious observance, it is obviously a matter of “brainwashing.” Within such a framework, the term “rhetoric” takes on a negative meaning and becomes synonymous with “demagogy.”

In an analytic world there is no trust in the possibility of persuasion except where one finds an error or an inconsistency in the arguments. Agreement is reached only between people whose assumptions are identical. This is the essence of analytic pluralism, which is in fact empty. This is the “emptiness of the analytic” that was defined at the end of the first gate of the first book. In the fourth gate of the first book we saw that openness cannot exist in such a world, because openness is the exact opposite of pluralism. Openness stems from a genuine search for truth in various directions, and therefore necessarily presupposes the existence of truth.

In the pure synthetic picture, by contrast, there is a sense that there is room for discourse, even in modes that are not logical-analytic. Such discourse is not conducted solely in order to find mistakes. It is indeed intended to reach conclusions, to persuade, and to decide, but not necessarily by pointing to errors in the argument or the logical derivation, but by means of synthetic forms of argument, which we shall discuss below.

Within the synthetic framework as described here, mistakes will not always be found, and the dispute may remain open. But that can point to one of several possibilities: either the alternative pictures of the two sides cannot be translated into one another; or they can be translated, but we have not succeeded in doing so; or there is no place for dispute at all, because the subject under discussion is a subjective component of the categorical system. As stated, there is no simple way to discover which of these factors stands behind a dispute, aside from an attempt to diagnose it by comparing the two types of intuition, as explained above.

But this whole process assumes that there are forms of persuasion that are not logical. Two people who disagree with one another can argue and arrive at a conclusion even if neither of them finds a logical inconsistency in the other. That is the essence of rhetoric, which in the synthetic world receives a more positive meaning and connotation.

The basic question raised here concerns the principled possibility of rhetorical persuasion. It is not enough for us simply to state that such persuasion is indeed possible. We must try to offer some description, even if only a theoretical one, that provides a framework making possible persuasion that is not logical. How does discourse proceed in a place where there are no proofs? How does the process of persuasion occur? Even if there is only one truth, in the synthetic picture there may be situations in which there is no logical proof that one of the sides is mistaken, and yet he is mistaken, and sometimes he is even persuaded. This occurs in situations where what requires change are his assumptions and not the logical inferences he draws from them.

But can assumptions be examined at all? Logical arguments will not help here, for they can at most reduce claims to first assumptions, but they have no way of dealing with the assumptions themselves.

In the first book we asked this question with respect to deciding disputes between people with different assumptions. But in light of what has been said here, the question grows sharper: how can one decide a dispute between different categorical systems, when even the most basic terminology is not shared? Above we saw an example of a single person’s inability to resolve conflicts between universal morality, or civil law, and halakha. Here one may ask precisely the same question, except that the discussion is not about how changes are carried out, but about persuasion between two disputants.

The answer in the first book was that there are “theological” ways, see there in chapter 2 of the tenth gate, that is, attempts to bring the other side to notice that his assumptions are in fact different from what he himself thinks. See there for the details.¹¹² But here we are dealing with a dispute between different categorical systems. In that context, the foundation of the discussion is a categorical entity, an ontological onion, whose observation yields the system of categorical principles. If a person does not perceive the onion of which Reuven speaks, for example, he is secular and therefore does not see the “religious onion” at all, how can one persuade him that such an onion exists?

We are forced to conclude that this process is rooted in cognition and not in logical reasoning. By various methods one may try to cause a person to notice, or to “observe,” an object of whose existence he had not been aware at all. Sometimes this is an inward observation into his own soul, parallel to what we saw in the first book, and sometimes it is an outward observation into the world of ideas.

The way to do this, that is, to cause someone to change his angle of vision, is not clearly defined, and it seems that there are several such ways. The ability to do this is more the ability of a writer than that of a logician or formal arguer. This area lies somewhere between literature and logic and mathematics. As a general heading, these methods may all be brought under the title “rhetoric.” When a person is led to an angle of vision of which he had not been aware, and from there suddenly sees something whose existence he had not previously noticed, we call this “rhetorical persuasion,” and not necessarily “brainwashing,” as analyticism tends to regard it.

This process resembles the process of “translation” defined above. A person may be led, by various means, to look from the angle from which his opponent is looking, and then he sees that the picture in his possession in fact parallels the other person’s picture. Such an observation may also yield a different result: from the new angle he suddenly sees that the picture in his possession is mistaken, while that of his fellow is more correct, though not always. This too is a rhetorical process.

Such an approach allows us to see rhetoric as an important, even critical, field. True, we have not presented here a general map of rhetorical modes of inference, but we do have a principled framework for understanding its meaning. In light of what has been said up to this point, we can understand synthetic persuasion, which occurs without pointing to errors in the argument and yet can lead people to change their assumptions. Here again cognition enters as a substitute for thought, which in the analytic world enjoys exclusive standing. There are several kinds of rhetorical arguments, and they are discussed in many books, unpopular though they are in the analytic age, written on this subject. We shall now discuss some of them, and also in the note that follows immediately.

Let us take, for example, rhetorical principles that are considered especially contemptible, and that at the beginning of every self-respecting logic book are labeled “fallacies.”¹¹³ For instance, the ad hominem fallacy, in the sense of basing oneself on the authority of a wise or important person; or the ad populum fallacy, which is basing oneself on the fact that most of the public agrees with me. At first glance this is demagogy at its best, or at its worst, and that is indeed how every student is trained in an introductory logic course. But one should note that the very fact that these processes really do persuade has significance. There is some persuasive force in them, and that force itself demands explanation.

The same holds for a sharpened and caricatured description of a situation, designed to illustrate the problematic nature of a certain value-position, or for a forceful description of the consequences of a certain approach. Strong literary descriptions of this sort are very important rhetorical devices. They are a way of bringing the reader or listener to look at the issue from a different angle. Of course one must be careful not to become captive to them, see the next note, but at the same time one must recognize their power, their importance, and their validity. They are fallacies in the logical sense, because they contain no argument that proves the absurdity of the position under debate, but in a non-analytic world even arguments that are not proofs may nevertheless be legitimate in a dispute.

Analysts will attribute the persuasive and influential power of rhetoric to our mental-psychological structure, such that familiarity with that structure allows rhetorical jugglers to excite us and persuade us of ideas that are not correct. But in fact that is not so. Rhetoric is a collection of techniques that help us bring the listener to view the issue from angles that he has not yet tried. Again, this is a consequence of our general move of grounding the synthetic on cognition existing alongside thought, whereas analyticism does not recognize that cognition takes part in determining first assumptions, and therefore treats them as arbitrary. For example, when one says, “If that great genius thinks thus, or if the whole public thinks thus, it cannot be nonsense,” the intention is not to claim that this is a logical proof, or that it always works, but only to point to the fact that it has persuasive force for which some justification can be found.

There is no doubt that in quite a few cases there is here a kind of emotional manipulation, or a cynical use of the listeners’ emotional centers, and the line is indeed thin. The wholesale contemptuous attitude toward rhetoric stems from an analytic lack of faith in the possibility of persuasion, or from a general disdain for any argument or claim not based on logical considerations. At this point lies the chief importance of the picture proposed here. If we are aware that persuasion in a dispute involves a process of pointing to a categorical object, then rhetoric can receive principled legitimacy. The existence of onions as the ontological basis of first assumptions turns out here to be a very important assumption for understanding the modes of argument used in daily life and in general.

In the next note we shall see a halakhic implication of this approach, one that will help us classify rhetorical rules into two principal types.

Note 34: Constructive Falsehood as a Rhetorical Device

The author of Magen Avraham on Shulchan Arukh, Orach Chaim, section 156, brings an interesting halakha whose source is in the talmudic discussions in Pesahim and Eruvin:

If one has heard a legal ruling and it seems to him that the halakha is thus, he may state it in the name of a great person, so that they will accept it from him. Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 51a; Pesahim 112a.

In other words, if a person believes that a certain halakha is correct, he may convey it to someone else, or to the public, in the name of a great person, even though it is not true that that person in fact said it, and this in order that they accept the halakha from him.

At first glance, these words are puzzling. What permission is there to lie without any real reason? Especially since there is always the concern that this halakha may not be correct, and some people may accept it from him even though they themselves do not agree with it, only because a great person said it. Why should he have permission to deny his listeners the possibility of judging for themselves whether they agree with this halakha or not?

It seems quite clear that this halakha teaches that one may not judge a halakha merely according to the person who said it. This is the fallacy called in logic ad hominem. Every halakha must be judged on its own merits, not on the merits of the person who stated it. Therefore no damage is done by attributing the halakha to an important person, because in any event we are forbidden to accept it merely because someone said it.

And so too we find in the article of Rabbi Abraham, the son of Maimonides.¹¹⁴ There Rabbi Abraham cites the dispute between the sages of Israel and the sages of the nations on an astronomical question, whether the sphere is fixed and the constellations revolve, or vice versa, in Babylonian Talmud, Pesahim 94b. At the end of the sugya, Rabbi Judah the Prince determines that the view of the sages of the nations appears more convincing, and rules accordingly. Rabbi Abraham, to whom Rabbi’s own judgment does not seem convincing, explains that this sugya is brought in the Talmud only in order to teach us that we must judge every matter on its own merits and not according to who said it.¹¹⁵

However, according to this explanation, we must examine why there is any need at all to say that this halakha was stated by a great person. If indeed every person is meant to judge the matter on its own merits, then what benefit does this false attribution provide? How can it be permitted to lie when there is no benefit at all? Especially since the Gemara itself says, “so that they will accept it from him,” meaning that the goal is to induce precisely an ad hominem response.

Therefore it seems that this permission concerns a case in which a person feels that an opinion he is stating is not being accepted at all, that the listeners are simply unwilling to consider what he says, and so his words are rejected without any reason. This is a reverse ad hominem: ad hominem disqualification rather than ad hominem acceptance. In such a case he is permitted to say it in the name of a great person, only so that they will not dismiss his words out of hand and will be willing to consider them.

According to our proposal, the citation in the name of a great person is intended to direct the listeners’ attention to the reasoning, and not to persuade them to accept it on the basis of authority.¹¹⁶ The purpose of the falsehood is to bring the matter to substantive consideration. In fact, such a way of acting is possible only in a world in which things are not accepted solely because of who said them, but are judged on their own merits. In a world in which citing a source is sufficient authority to determine practical halakha, as is common in our time, it would seem that there is no room for the Gemara’s permission, and the matter would be forbidden.¹¹⁷

Against the background of this halakha, it is worth noting several historical cases in which Torah books were forged. For example, the forgery of the book Besamim Rosh, attributed to the Rosh, and the famous early twentieth-century forgery of the Jerusalem Talmud on the Order of Kodashim. These deeds appear reprehensible to us, but in fact it is possible that there is no prohibition involved, aside from commercial fraud, because some people may buy them because of their attributed provenance. These were simply different ways chosen by those Jews in order to draw the Torah world’s attention to their own Torah innovations.¹¹⁸

Another anecdote in this connection is the saying attributed to the Hatam Sofer, who told his students that he had no objection to their presenting his Torah ideas in their own name, but strictly forbade them to present their own Torah ideas in his name. This sheds additional light on the problematic nature of the Gemara’s permission, and that should suffice for the wise.

The Gemara’s permission in Pesahim establishes a rhetorical method based on ad hominem. It is a rhetorical device whose purpose is to direct attention to a certain point, one that people would not otherwise be willing to consider seriously. The claim that the words of an important person should not be accepted without criticism is turned here into a device for preventing that very fallacy. Because of the ad hominem consideration, namely, that an important person presumably would not say nonsense and therefore the matter deserves examination, we arrive specifically at an examination of the matter itself. This is a rhetorical technique for directing attention to a neglected angle of the discussion, one toward which people are unwilling to look.¹¹⁹

Other rhetorical techniques are intended to direct attention to a different angle from which the subject under discussion can be seen. These techniques are not based on falsehood but on successful literary presentation. The question whether halakha would permit lying for such rhetorical purposes as well is not explicit, but it seems likely that there would be no halakhic difference between these two rhetorical contexts. According to what we have said, rhetoric whose purpose is to use false means in order to direct attention, in a situation where the halakhic conclusion itself will not be distorted, is permitted. Devices that would cause distortion in the decision itself are probably forbidden.

Against this background, it is worth paying attention to the words of Tosafot in Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 4a, s.v. “mezuyaf mitokho,” who determine that no one may cause a court to issue a correct ruling through false means. Their language is: “Even though the matter is true, one must proceed only through valid testimony.” For example, one may not have invalid witnesses sign a document that is itself true and valid. The problem thereby created is that a future court may rely on those witnesses and decide the case on the basis of invalid testimony.

Here we see that “rhetorical” devices of this sort are forbidden in the context of judicial action. There is room to deliberate with respect to the rhetoric of advocates’ speeches, as well as in additional contexts, whether the Gemara’s permission should be applied there too or not. The criterion is whether the resulting decision will be distorted, or whether this is merely a way of directing the listener’s attention to a neglected angle of vision.¹²⁰

To sum up, rhetoric is the synthetic process of persuasion, whereas logic is the analytic process of persuasion.¹²¹ We have seen that rhetoric stands between literature and logic, and that is where it belongs. When it leans too far in the literary direction, it becomes “demagogy,” yes, even those of a synthetic bent acknowledge that such a thing exists, whereas when it leans too far in the direction of logic it becomes analytic and therefore ineffective.

As we have seen, the process of persuasion in a dispute is in principle equivalent to the process of changing positions. The problem of understanding the process of persuasion in a dispute is the same problem that exists in every categorical change. At bottom, the issue is how one adopts a categorical system in the first place; see the next gate. The synthetic solution to all these problems is based on the same point: intuitive cognition in place of thought. A person adopts a categorical system from cognition that it is correct and binding. He changes systems, or argues and is persuaded, in that very same way: through intuitive cognition. Analyticity does not accept this mechanism, and therefore becomes entangled in all the failures described here.

Rhetoric as Analogy

In this section we shall see the connection between rhetoric and syntheticity from a different angle. In the course of a debate, when each side tries to persuade the other of the justice of his position, he can adopt one of two approaches:

1. The analytic way. This approach draws conclusions from the other person’s assumptions and tries to show a contradiction between them and his other assumptions. It is an analytic way, based fundamentally on deductive procedures. Deduction is a logical-mathematical mode of argument, that is, an analytic one.

One of the characteristics of this approach is reliance on the other person’s positions, since obviously one cannot persuade someone on the basis of my own assumptions. One must begin from his own assumptions and show that an internal contradiction grows out of them. This is the classic way of refutation, and it is used in the context of scientific justification as well, as we saw at length in the second gate of the second book. This method is sometimes called reductio ad absurdum. It is a knockout victory in debate, achieved by pointing to the opponent’s mistake.

The weakness of this method is that it offers no real way to deal with an opposing position that contains no internal contradiction. Those of an analytic bent conclude that disputes of this sort are sterile and pointless: “there is no arguing about taste and smell…” When they encounter a situation in which a non-analytic process of persuasion takes place, we have seen that they regard it as brainwashing or demagogy.

Yet there is a strong sense that debates generally proceed specifically in this other way. At times a person simply repeats his own position, each time in a different formulation, or brings an example and illustration, or an implication of the various positions, and thus succeeds in persuading the other. That same sense also tells us that what was involved here was not emotional bias but a genuine process of persuasion. Therefore there is no escaping the recognition that there is another way to conduct a dispute between positions that contain no internal contradictions.

2. The synthetic way. In this approach, as we have seen, a person presents his own position and does not attack the other person’s positions. The assumptions used in the argument are not the assumptions of the person under attack but those of the attacker. This may seem very strange, but that is generally how things work in the rhetorical world.

Many will accuse such an arguer of demagogy. Why is he proceeding from his own assumptions, which are not accepted by his opponent? A proof based on such assumptions is worthless, the analysts will say. It is nothing but begging the question, others will say.

But both sides are mistaken. What makes him rhetorically persuasive is that he presents his own positions, which arise from a different angle of vision. The attempt is to bring the listener, and in such a situation the opponent must become a listener and not insist on the analytic method,¹²² to see my own position and the point of view that constitutes it. This is the synthetic mode of persuasion that we encountered above. One may call it “rhetoric.”

The forms employed in rhetorical persuasion are not deductions. There are arguments there, but they are presented in a “literary” manner, in which expressive ability and creativity are part of the process of persuasion. But this is not demagogy. It is an attempt to present angles different from the one from which that colleague is accustomed to looking, to get him to step into my shoes.

As stated, these arguments do not use deduction. The methods are generally analogical or inductive. Reuven brings different examples and analogies for his own claims until he succeeds, if he succeeds at all, in bringing the opponent to see them in a different light or from another angle, and to agree. In rhetoric, the subject under discussion is my own position, not the opponent’s, and I try to present it in different ways to the best of my literary ability. If so, this is yet another connection, beyond the many others we have seen throughout these three books, between syntheticity and analogy, and between analyticity and deduction.

To sum up, we have seen another plane of connection between analyticity and logic, and between syntheticity and non-deductive modes of inference. The consequence of this dispute is expressed in the principled attitude toward rhetoric. Logic is the exclusive discourse of the analytic. In the synthetic world, analogy and induction join it. At the center of analytic discourse stand the listener’s assumptions, and they are examined with logical-analytic tools. By contrast, at the center of synthetic discourse stand the speaker’s assumptions, and they are presented primarily through analogical and inductive tools. In analytic discourse assumptions are only refuted, whereas in synthetic discourse they are specifically confirmed.

The next note will illustrate an important feature of the distinction between logic and rhetoric: the relation to the attacker’s angle of vision.

Note 35: The Stone That God Cannot Lift

There is a well-known paradox based on the question: can God, being omnipotent, create a stone that He Himself cannot lift? It is a paradox, because from any answer given to this question one can derive the conclusion that God is not omnipotent: either there is a stone He cannot lift, or there is some stone He cannot create. In philosophy this is called the paradox of omnipotence, because it does not deal specifically with God, but calls into question the very possibility of the concept of omnipotence more generally.¹²³

The purpose of this argument is to undermine logically the consistency of the concept of omnipotence by exposing a contradiction hidden within it. But in order to understand the emptiness of this attack, it is important to understand a basic feature that every logical argument in a dispute must possess: when one attacks a certain position logically, that is, analytically, one must assume its premises and from within them try to show that a contradiction emerges. There is obviously no point in attacking a position while relying on the attacker’s own premises. The aim of the attack is to shake the thesis of the person being attacked, and therefore the attacking argument must proceed from within the “shoes” of the attacked party.

Therefore, in order to formulate this paradox, we must assume that the concept of omnipotence is contradiction-free and can be defined, and then try to formulate the paradox from that assumption, in the language of the interlocutor in this dispute, namely the believer.

But from within that assumption, that is, in the language of the interlocutor, the paradox cannot be formulated at all. The concept of “a stone that the omnipotent cannot lift” is an empty and self-contradictory concept in that language. A question containing a contradictory concept cannot expect any answer. By the same token, we could ask: can God create a round triangle? Or is the color white square? None of these questions can be answered, neither positively nor negatively, and yet that does not refute the validity or consistency of any concept.

Thus, the question on which the paradox is based can be formulated only if one already presupposes the attacker’s premise, namely that the concept of omnipotence is not consistent and therefore there is a stone the omnipotent cannot lift. That is begging the question, and therefore there is no logical refutation here of the concept of omnipotence.

In another language one might say that a limitation on omnipotence arises only when the entity under discussion cannot create something that is logically possible. But inability to create something that is impossible does not constitute a limitation on its ability.¹²⁴

One could admittedly say that there is here at least a logical limitation, namely that God, like any other hypothetical omnipotent being, is necessarily subject to the laws of logic, and therefore cannot create a stone that He Himself cannot lift, or alternatively a round triangle. But that subjection is not necessarily a limitation on His abilities. It may well be a limitation on our own formulation, understanding, and imagination. In our language we cannot speak of an omnipotent being who creates a stone that He Himself cannot lift, but that says nothing at all about Him as such.¹²⁵

The discussion presented here is an example of a logical argument that must place the opponent’s assumptions at its center. If it does not do so, it loses its logical character. It is important to note that the resolution of the difficulty relied precisely on this feature of analytic argument, and exactly there it identified the attacker’s weak point. If one is careful to formulate the analytic argument correctly, that is, to state clearly the premises of the attacked party on which it is based, one immediately sees its limitations. Ignoring the analytic character of the argument is itself rhetoric, because it presents a rhetorical argument in logical form and tries thereby to grant it validity. In this case, then, it is “rhetoric” in the negative sense of the term.

How, then, can omnipotence nevertheless be attacked rhetorically, that is, synthetically? As we have already mentioned more than once, synthetic arguments are based on analogy or induction, and they can certainly proceed from the attacker’s assumptions and not from those of the position being defended. The purpose of a rhetorical argument is to place the interlocutor in the angle of vision of his counterpart, and therefore the argument is presented from the angle of the attacker and not of the attacked. That is what distinguishes it from logical argument. This is its disadvantage, that it cannot lead to an unequivocal refutation, but it is also its merit and advantage, that it can operate even where no unequivocal logical flaw exists.

A rhetorical, synthetic argument attacking omnipotence would be an argument of the “Puss in Boots” variety.¹²⁶ In the well-known children’s story, the cat asks the terrible sorcerer, meaning the omnipotent one, to turn himself into a mouse, whereupon the cat devours him. Thus the castle is captured and the whole problem is solved.

The question is whether a terrible sorcerer really can turn himself into a mouse. Put differently: can God turn Himself into a human being, so that one could then shoot Him and destroy Him? If He turns Himself into a human being and a bullet destroys Him, then it is possible to destroy an omnipotent being. And if He cannot turn Himself into a human being, or if that human cannot be shot, in which case he is not fully human, then there is a problem from God’s omnipotence.

This argument is not purely logical, but has an analogical character. It also involves additional hidden assumptions. For example, the assumption that a human being who cannot be shot is not human. But even this can be overcome, for we may define the question differently: can God turn Himself into someone who can be shot? Yet then, apparently, we have simply returned to the problem of omnipotence. Beyond that, there is another assumption here, namely that if He can be shot and killed, then He is not omnipotent. That assumption is not trivial, at least from a logical point of view. Why should that be incompatible with omnipotence?¹²⁷ Thus, the attack here is not one of pure logic.

Nevertheless, despite all this, it may still be seen as an analogical or intuitive argument, because even if its validity is not deductive, it may still appear persuasive to certain people. We shall not enter into a more detailed examination of it here, because for our purposes the goal of this note was only to illustrate one of the important distinctions between logic and rhetoric.

Now that we have proposed a justification and framework that make possible a conception of truth in its classical senses, and have discussed the possibility of discourse, debate and persuasion, concerning it even at the most fundamental meta-systemic level, and after grounding openness specifically on this picture, the time has come to discuss the relation between all this and extremism. In the next section we shall contribute something toward restoring this lady’s honor from the refuse heaps in which she finds herself in our analytic age.

Extremism: Between Openness and Pluralism

We already mentioned that these issues were discussed in the fourth gate of the first book. There we distinguished between openness, which specifically presupposes the existence of some objective truth, and therefore if a person is not excessively arrogant he must understand that there is no guarantee that the whole truth is in his hands, and it is worthwhile for him to listen to positions other than his own. By contrast, there is a pluralism that does not believe in truths in the classical sense, and therefore regards all positions as having equal status, or equal lack of status. From this is derived analytic tolerance, which theoretically regards every idea of every kind with indifference, except perhaps the synthetic idea that there are ideas at all. As stated, this position is the very opposite of openness, and in fact we saw there that it contains an internal paradox.

To sharpen this point, let us now bring an example. In 2004, Rabbi Gedalia Nadel, one of the most important disciples of the Hazon Ish in Bnei Brak, passed away. Rabbi Nadel was a unique figure, highly exceptional in the Haredi landscape and in general. He read and engaged in various fields of knowledge, was familiar with different approaches, and his way of learning and thinking was highly original. At the same time, he was characterized by great zealotry in many areas and was considered a major halakhic strict constructionist. Tamar Rotem, in an article in Haaretz on July 2, 2004, presented his figure and described the contradictions and oppositions in his personality. The most striking of these was the contrast between the figure of the extremist, stringent in halakha and zealous, and that of the open-minded rabbi. This found expression even in the opening sentence of the article: “Among the strictest and most open-minded rabbis of Haredi society.”

The contradiction that our society sees between openness and extremism testifies, as clearly as could be, to its analytic basis. As we saw earlier, openness not only does not contradict extremism, it can even provide a reasonable basis for it. Openness stems from an intense desire to arrive at the truth, and therefore from a clear belief that we have a way to do so. Precisely the open person, who takes the trouble to examine approaches different from his own, will be more convinced of the justice of his position at the end of the process, after seeing that his views have been formed through an ongoing process of testing and clarification. Such a person can fight more serenely, and more extremely, for that truth in the face of those who oppose it.

What really does contradict the concept of extremism is pluralistic “tolerance.” This “tolerance,” as stated, is based on the absence of belief in concepts of truth, and therefore it truly does contradict extremism, if indeed it can contradict anything. The constant confusion between openness and pluralism indicates that the “openness” of Western society is usually based not on moral principles but on the absence of truth; see on this point the fourth gate of the first book.

Here we come to the concept of tolerance. One can be extreme in one’s approach and hold to some truth to the bitter end, and yet at the same time behave tolerantly toward those who think differently. This stems from the fact that even if someone is convinced that the truth is with him, that does not necessarily entail blaming those who did not arrive at it. The path to truth is not necessarily equally open to everyone. And beyond that, the purpose of openness is to clarify whether I have erred, and to hear other views. But openness presupposes that I have a way of reaching the truth I seek and believe in.

However, the demand for tolerance, recognition, and legitimacy for every group and every idea, which serves as the guiding light, at least theoretically, of our society, is bounded along two axes:

1. The substantive axis. Tolerance stops at certain boundaries, beyond which, even if the person beyond them is not to blame, the harm he brings is too great, and one can no longer continue to treat him tolerantly. As we saw in the first book, this behavior certainly exists among the great majority of analysts as well.
2. The moral axis. Someone who has not seriously examined all the possibilities, according to his ability of course, cannot demand legitimacy from anyone for his views. Legitimacy belongs to positions that genuinely appear true to a person, after examination to the best of his ability. Today there is a demand to recognize everyone’s legitimacy, with no connection whatsoever to the degree of justification he offers for his claims, and with no connection to the degree of effort he has invested in examining his own views and those of others. This is once again an analytic demand, and those of a synthetic orientation cannot accept it.

Various social compacts, such as the “Kinneret Covenant” and the like, are offered for public signature, and in them there is an agreement to grant legitimacy and tolerant recognition to every current in society as a legitimate current. This demand again repeats the mistake involved in the demands made by those of an analytic orientation upon their synthetic counterparts. These demands, which seem to them neutral, are nothing more than expressions of analytic positions. For example, secular people morally demand legitimacy from the religious public, even though almost none of them bothers even to become acquainted with, much less to examine, the claims concerning faith. Legitimacy is perceived as a moral demand, although in fact it is nothing more than analytic propaganda cloaked in moral values. In other words, it itself expresses a secular stance, and is not merely a set of neutral rules of the game, as it is usually presented. If there is no truth, then clearly there is no reason to examine what the truth is. In fact, there is no reason even to examine that very claim itself, namely whether there is or is not truth.

On Extremism and the Middle Path

To conclude the chapter, nothing could be more fitting than to bring lengthy passages from the famous letter of Rabbi Nadel’s teacher, the Hazon Ish, who writes the following about extremism:¹³⁶

Just as simplicity and truth are synonymous terms, so too extremism and greatness are synonymous terms. Extremism is the perfection of the matter; one who champions moderation and despises extremism belongs with the falsifiers or with those devoid of understanding.

If there is no extremism, there is no wholeness; and if there is no wholeness, there is no beginning…

We are accustomed to hearing, in certain circles, people declaring of themselves that they have no share among the extremists, while still reserving for themselves the status of faithful Jews, with sufficient faith in Torah and the words of Torah. We permit ourselves to say, from the standpoint of judgment, that just as lovers of wisdom do not love a little wisdom and hate a great abundance of wisdom, so lovers of Torah and mitzvah do not love moderation and hate extremism.

All the foundations of faith, the Thirteen Principles and their ramifications, stand always in strong contradiction to easy common sense and to the stream of life as it unfolds under the sun. The clear and reasoned recognition of them, and the extended insistence on precise faith in them, is the sweetness of extremism.

Those who testify of themselves that they have not tasted the sweetness of extremism thereby testify as well that they are lacking in faith in the principles of religion, both in intellectual power and in inward feeling, and that only by cords of affiliation are they attached to it. And the extremists, in the depth of their souls, despite their very powerful desire to show compassion to those who lack the edge, will not feel honor and esteem toward these opponents of theirs. And the abyss separating them, when it is encountered in practical deeds that by their nature necessarily generate quarrels and strife, will deepen the rupture beyond repair.

The moderation that has a right to exist is the trait of those moderates who love extremism and yearn for it with all the longing of their souls, and who educate their offspring toward the summit of extremism. But how wretched is the moderation that storms against extremism with contempt.

It is our educational duty to educate toward extremism. The armor of education is to plant contempt and revulsion toward those who make sport of extremism…

Those who establish middle-of-the-road educational institutions have not succeeded, because of the falsehood inherent in that middle-ground. The intelligent heart goes on and abandons falsehood. Their education gives the student justification to turn his back on the laws thrust upon him against his will, and on the beliefs that weigh upon his heart against the current of life. And the secret of extremism has been stolen from him, because his parents and teachers too have made sport of it.

In the wake of these words of the Hazon Ish, the question naturally arises regarding Maimonides’ principle of the “middle path,” which seems to point to the opposite ideal. The solution to this contradiction lies in the very distinction made above concerning the late Rabbi Nadel. In the next note we shall deal briefly with this subject.

Note 36: Extremism and the Middle Path

As we have seen, the Hazon Ish points to extremism as a Torah- and faith-based ideal, and sees compromise as weakness in faith itself, that is, analytic skepticism. These words are surprising in light of Maimonides’ well-known statements in his introduction to Pirkei Avot, Shemoneh Perakim, and in the laws of character traits in the Yad HaHazakah, where he explains that the Torah’s basic instruction in matters of character is the “middle path.” He elaborates this and determines that one should not incline toward either extreme in any trait, except perhaps humility and pride, where Maimonides’ own words seem to contain contradictions. One must not be prodigal nor stingy, not rash nor overly deliberate, and so on. In this note we shall try to examine how these things fit with the words of the Hazon Ish.

The root of the matter lies in the distinction between intensity and direction. Maimonides points to the correct moral direction, that is, to the content of the various behaviors. The Hazon Ish deals with the intensity of those behaviors. For example, a person should conduct himself by the middle path and should be neither prodigal nor miserly. But with respect to the amount, that average amount, that he has decided to give to charity, he should act with firmness and maximal force in order to carry out his plans.

Or, to take another example, the struggle over Sabbath observance in the state should be conducted on the plane of the middle path as regards the choice of the struggle’s goals. But once the directions have been chosen, one should pursue them with full intensity.

Again, this distinction depends on the type of middle position one adopts. If the middle path is the result of straddling the fence, or of uncertainty about the truth, then the intensity of action too will be mediocre. But if the middle path is the right one in someone’s eyes, then he can act within it with full intensity. This distinction resembles the distinction between tolerance and pluralism on an analytic basis, and tolerance and pluralism on a synthetic basis.

In other terminology, one might say that the comprehensive truth of the Maharal and Rabbi Tzadok, which believes that divine truth is built from the combination of all the aspects together, will adopt in the service of God a path that includes humility but also pride, openness but also closure, and so forth. All these express a kind of middle path, arising from the recognition that there is an important point in each of these poles. But the intensity with which one pursues the service of God in this way need not be affected by the “middle” direction. There is no compromise here, but rather openness and pluralism on a synthetic basis.

In the Hazon Ish himself, this fusion was expressed with rare force. His conduct was measured, and he never lost control. He received every person graciously and responded to everyone gladly.¹²⁸ At the same time, the halakhic and ideological direction he represented was generally quite extreme. To this day, the term “Hazon Ish” is almost synonymous with stringency in halakha and religious conduct, not always justly. The Hazon Ish was, in a sense, the Beit Shammai of our generation, though even with respect to Beit Shammai that view does not reach the root of the matter.¹²⁹

Chapter Five: A General View of the Human Spirit: Onion Salad or Super-Onion

An Introduction That Is a Summary, or a Summary That Is an Introduction

If we look back at the last two chapters, which dealt with inter-categorical relations and discourse, we shall see that in fact we have created here a new overall structure, a kind of super-onion. At its base are the constitutive systems, those not directed toward a goal outside themselves. We discussed the question whether there can be several such systems within one person, the question of poly-normativity, and the conclusion was that in principle this is possible, though not always in practice. Among these systems there is supposed to be a hierarchical relation, a kind of scale of values similar to the one that exists in the core of every individual onion. Up to this point we have not yet answered the question of how that hierarchical scale is determined; see the introduction to this gate. In fact, that is the main concern of the present chapter, beyond offering a summary picture of the entire gate.

To complete the general picture, one must add that beyond the constitutive systems lie the directed systems, those aligned with their branches. By their very nature, these are intended to achieve a goal outside themselves, in some constitutive system. In other words, every directed system is merely a specification of one or more values from the constitutive systems. For example, according to certain approaches, the entire onion of law, with all its branches, is a specification of the basic value of gratitude.

Thus, the structure described up to this point is something like a “cluster of onions.” It is a kind of super-onion, in whose core lies the hierarchy of the constitutive onions, while in the outer “layers” appear the directed systems, each of them a complete onion that appears as a specification of different units located in the core of the structure.

Beyond all this there are also the subjective components, in each onion and in the whole system. These are components containing principles not derived from “value-observations,” and they are present in the structure in order to facilitate its use.

To conclude this description, we should add that the overall structure described here is the structure as it appears in the human spirit. It is a system of principles, that is, a system cognitive in essence. Thus, what we have described until now is an overall categorical system, and not necessarily an overall “onion” in the ontological sense. The conclusion is that corresponding to all this, in the world itself there is some entity from whose observation this entire complex structure is derived. As we have already claimed more than once, complex structures describe the phenomena and not the noumenon. Therefore the cluster of onions does not describe the thing as it is in itself, but our perception of it. In this chapter we shall discuss that entity.

How Does One Build a Hierarchy Among Constitutive Systems?

In the introduction we described the essential problematic of establishing a hierarchical ranking among constitutive systems. In the final analysis, this problematic is based on the difficulty of ranking principles that are essentially incommensurable, that is, principles belonging to different categorical systems. With respect to the scale of values, we saw that the solution to the problem of incommensurability lies in the fact that the ranking is based on observation, that is, on cognition rather than thought. In the terms of thought alone, such a ranking cannot be carried out. This is all the more true between different categorical systems. In what part of the intellect could such a ranking take place? Each part of the intellect is based on a different categorical system, and therefore thinking from outside about the relation among all the systems cannot take place there.

The conclusion is that a hierarchy among categorical systems, that is, the ability to decide in a poly-normative conflict, such as a conflict between religion and morality, or the ability to change and replace different systems, or conflict, debate, and persuasion between different positions, must likewise be based on observation. The question is: what are we observing? If at the base of each system stands a different ontological onion, what are we supposed to observe in order to rank and determine the relation among different systems?

We are brought back to the problem of the overall entity that stands at the base of the categorical superstructure, the observation of which determines the theoretical structure within us.

The Thing in Itself, or: “The Mind of the World”

If we continue in this line of thought, we find that the relation between this entity and the theoretical structure is like the relation between the thing in itself, the noumenon, and its characteristics or appearances, the phenomena. If so, we are looking for the thing-in-itself dimension of the overall supra-categorical structure described up to this point. It is important to note that this entity is not a structure situated above the overall structure, since it does not belong to the categorical structure at all. It is the structure as it is in itself, and the structure located in our consciousness is its appearance, its phenomenon, in the human spirit.

The conclusion is that if we believe in the possibility of discourse, debate, ranking, decision, change, replacement, and the like, among different categorical systems, we necessarily assume that there is an existing entity that is this structure as it is in itself. In Hegelian terms one may call it “the mind of the world.” This does not mean the rational principles underlying the world. Those are expressions, properties, or appearances of this entity, but not the entity itself.

Observation of this entity is what yields the categorical system as a whole, and it is also what makes possible the ranking among the different constitutive systems in the core of the overall structure.

The observer, that is, the human spirit itself, cannot be part of this entity, and apparently cannot even be one of its appearances, at least not in the standard Kantian sense of phenomenon and noumenon. Here the “contraction” of divinity appears in its purest form. On this point, see note 31 above on repentance, where from a different angle we discussed the metamorphic transition between God and man.¹³⁰

God and the Torah

It seems that there is no escape from the terminology demanded by this description. At long last, after three volumes, we have arrived at God. The entity that constitutes the principles of the structure and operation of the world as such, and whose observation yields the whole detailed and ramified structure we have described until now, is God, or at least something connected with Him.

This is, in brief, the belief in divine unity. It is the view of God as the root of being, as that from which everything is derived, in whom everything is unified and undifferentiated, while the differentiation arises only when what is potential passes into actuality in our reality.

According to this view, God is not the core of the onion of being, because being is not logically derived from Him. God is being as it is in itself. It is important to note that we are not claiming here that God is the totality, which would be a pantheistic claim, nor that everything is within God, which would be a panentheistic claim. The claim here is that God is an independent ontological essence, of which the totality as it appears to us is an expression or appearance.¹³¹

In the language of the theory of categorical systems, this can be formulated differently. If the religious system were the supreme categorical system, then all the other systems would be directed toward it and not constitutive. They would have their justification outside themselves. Only one system would be entitled to the title “constitutive system.” But in light of what has been said here, it is not true that all the other categorical systems are directed systems, and that the principle giving them value is the religious principle. There are among them several constitutive systems, but these too derive the basis for the obligation to them from observation of the divine entity. The difference is that this is not a logical justification, as in the example that grounds the obligation to law in the duty of gratitude. Here the justification comes through cognition, that is, observation of the total entity, and not through logical derivation.

Above we already noted that even at the foundation of the constitutive systems there is something analogous to a value-principle, except that it is not logical but ontological and epistemological. We saw there that at this point lies the center of the analytic confusion among interpreters of Leibowitz; see also the appendix.

In the conventional Torah understanding, this root of being is “the Torah,” which serves as the framework on the basis of which the Holy One, blessed be He, created the world. But the sages already said in the Zohar: “The Holy One, blessed be He, Israel, and the Torah are one.”

In the next note we shall bring several examples of such an approach from the book Nefesh HaHayyim by Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin, a disciple of the Vilna Gaon.

Note 37: The Torah as the Thing in Itself with Respect to the World: A Chapter in the Thought of Nefesh HaHayyim

In this note we shall cite several of Rabbi Hayyim’s statements in the fourth gate of his book, and show that within them lies a conception that sees the Torah as the thing in itself with respect to all the worlds. As it were, the Torah is God’s representative in the world, the root of all reality, while reality is the appearance of the Torah, its phenomenon. In this respect, the relation to the Torah differs from the relation to all the mitzvot (commandments).¹³²

In fact, anyone who studies his line of thought there carefully will see that this is the thread that runs through the entire fourth gate of his book in all its details. Understanding this point turns the reading there into an ordered and unified argument, and not merely an eclectic collection of praises of the Torah, as one might perhaps impressionistically assume after a first reading of that gate. The best way to show this is by pointing to several general examples across the chapter:

1. In the next gate we shall note that the intention accompanying Torah study is essentially different from the intentions accompanying the observance of mitzvot. Mitzvot are performed with the intention of fulfilling one’s obligation, whereas Torah study ought to be done for the sake of Torah itself. This principle opens the fourth gate of Nefesh HaHayyim; see chapters 2-3. Thus, the Torah is not a means but an end in itself. God relates to the mitzvot as His appearance, and performing them is a way of drawing close to Him. But His relation to the Torah is one of actual identity. It is the thing itself, as we saw in the passage brought before this note.
2. At the moment one is engaged in Torah study there is no need to cleave to God, in contrast to the relation to the performance of mitzvot. The very engagement with Torah is itself the cleaving to Him, for He and His will are one; chapter 10.
3. The root of the Torah is in the highest world, the infinite, above all the worlds. It preceded all the worlds, even the spiritual ones. “Therefore through it all the upper and lower worlds were emanated and created.” It is the speech of God, and His speech is the foundation of reality itself; chapter 10.
4. In chapter 10 we also find a “Pythagorean” approach: the combinations of the letters of the Torah are the basic components of the worlds themselves. The assumption here, of course, is that the letters of the Torah are entities and not mere signs. Their notation as familiar to us is only a representation of those entities.
5. The superiority of the Torah, whose root precedes all the worlds, is not meant to say that it is higher than the others on the same axis, like the relation between any two other worlds. It is their root. Its relation to them is not like the relation of one world to a lower world, but like the relation of the thing in itself to its phenomenon; chapter 10.¹³³
6. As long as the Torah had not been given on earth, all the worlds were unstable, because it is the adhesive that holds them together, builds them, and stabilizes them. Whoever studies Torah builds heaven and earth, like the Holy One Himself; chapter 11.
7. The whole Torah is the names of the Holy One. A name expresses the essence, that is, the thing as such, as we saw at the end of the second gate of the first book, chapter 19.
8. Therefore one who engages in it lishmah, that is, for the sake of its essence, merits many things; chapters 21-22.
9. The Torah stands at the base of the totality of the world and of the human being, unlike the mitzvot, each of which stands at the base of one limb or one part of the world; chapters 25-26, 29-30.
10. The Torah repairs all defects at once, and this differs from the performance of all the mitzvot, each of which repairs one limb. The reason is that the Torah deals with the whole, or the essence, the noumenon, whereas the mitzvot deal with the various appearances; chapters 30-32.¹³⁴
11. The Torah differs from the mitzvot in that the mitzvot, as they descend from world to world, preserve their form, but the degree of holiness in them diminishes. By contrast, the Torah indeed changes its form as it descends from world to world, but the degree of holiness does not change at all. The reason is that the Torah relates to the whole as one; it is not above it, but is the whole itself. Therefore there is no difference between its appearance through the lower world and its appearance through the higher world; chapters 27-28.
12. Therefore the Torah commands, “This book of the Torah shall not depart from your mouth,” because disconnection from the essence is not like disconnection from one characteristic, or even from all of them. Therefore it is called “a tree of life”; chapter 33.¹³⁵
13. Through engagement in Torah one makes a dwelling below for the Holy One. That is, the Torah is God’s representation, a kind of embassy of His, within the created worlds. It serves as the root of reality, as the representative of God Himself; chapter 34.

The conclusion that emerges from what we have said up to this point is that at the base of all the categorical systems, and especially at the base of the cluster that binds them all together, stands one entity of which they are merely appearances and characteristics. This is a monistic structure, and it makes possible the ranking and classification of different categorical systems, or the changing and replacement of any one of them. It is the basis for an extra-systemic standpoint, parallel to the standpoint we saw with respect to a single system. In fact, it is the basis for the conception of “categorical monotheism.” As we saw in the previous chapter, poly-normativity is connected to polytheism. Here we see the other side of the coin: monotheism is connected to mono-normativity. That is also why we saw in the previous note that it is impossible to set up an additional categorical system alongside the Torah system. They all derive from it, or else they have no validity at all.

It is important to emphasize, as we have now presented the matter, that the religious system is not situated on the same logical plane as the other categorical systems. Nor is it “above” them in some sense, that is, the relation between conflicting values is not one of displacement. It is simply the entity that underlies those systems as they are in themselves, as described in the previous note. The normative whole as it is in itself is the Torah.

The analytic person who observes such a phenomenon does not understand it. He interprets it as referring to parallel systems, the sort to which he is accustomed.¹³⁶ But the reality is different, as we saw above and as we shall see in greater detail in the next gate.

For this reason we needed the entire move that replaces thought with cognition. Here we arrive at the conclusion that the ontological basis of our normative whole is the Torah. The Torah is an essence, an entity, and not merely a system of norms. As we saw, all the systems are such at their root, and the Torah is the root of them all. This is the end point of the process of moving, throughout these three books, from epistemology to ontology.

The Concept of “Value” as Such

Let us now look at this claim from another angle. Up to this point we have encountered several kinds of values: religious, ethical, aesthetic, legal, with the latter to be discussed in the next book, and others. Each value-system represented a different category and was presented as a unique categorical system. That is what created the difficulty that accompanies the relations among them.

But now we can ask: why are all these called “values”? What, after all, is common to them? There is a clear intuitive sense that there is indeed such a common layer. Similarly, we saw that the concepts “good” or “beautiful” as such express a common essence and significance even for groups that disagree about the applications of those concepts. Someone who thinks it proper to put the elderly out to die in the snow, as the Eskimos are said to have done, applies “the good” differently from someone who believes they should be housed in nursing homes. But the dispute would have no meaning if there were not, in the background for everyone, one and the same meaning of the concept “good.”

The same holds with respect to the concept “value.” This time it is not a dispute between opposing parties, but different appearances of that concept in different contexts of judgment. What is shared by the concept “value” in its ethical, aesthetic, or religious appearance? What is common to all the judgments in all these areas? Is it the same spiritual faculty that carries them out?

In light of what has been said up to this point, this shared terminology also points to a real shared layer. All the various “values” express, in different forms, one primordial quality. Some may call it “truth,” of which the logical sense is only one expression. But however we name it, there is such a quality, namely “value” as it is in itself. Not “ethical value,” and not “aesthetic value,” but simply “value” as such.

This argument points to a common layer underlying all these appearances. It may be possible to say that this is closeness to God, or to “truth” as such, not necessarily logical truth. In this sense too, God gives meaning to all the various kinds of values. From here perhaps arises the sense of sanctity that surrounds, and is felt toward, those engaged in art, and likewise those engaged in science, a sense based on closeness to religious notions of holiness. In light of what we said above, one may say that “religious value” is really “value” as such. It is not one more value, one among many, existing on the same logical plane. It is the common basis of them all; it is the being of all values as they are in themselves.

The same move can be made with respect to the concept “category” as such. And perhaps also with respect to “entity” as such. When one generalizes a certain part of reality, that is, a certain entity or category, material or spiritual, one arrives at the Torah, and through it at God. This is the deep meaning of monotheism: it makes possible all the shades and contains them all. Without it, all the rest has no meaning, and everything becomes empty and, indeed, lacking in “value.”

This is a generalization of what we saw in the previous chapter about synthetic pluralism from the school of Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin and the Maharal. There we saw that all the truths and angles join together into one whole structure, expressing a fuller divine truth.

A Single Axis of All the Categories

The move made here can be described as the establishment of an axis along which we rank the different categories. This is the axis of “value.” The different kinds of values are aspects of one concept, and in some sense they can be arranged hierarchically according to a quantitative criterion. This classification is built on evaluations and judgments concerning how much “value” there is in each category and in each internal principle within that categorical system. There is also a placing of the values side by side, such as when one compares aesthetic values with ethical ones.

The question over which we struggled above, how different categories can be ranked, receives here an answer according to which there is a super-category, one primordial measure, that quantifies all the other categories and values. This measure is connected in some way to closeness to God, to the degree of “truth” present in each thing, as we saw above.

On this view, all the constitutive systems stem from one root. As we saw above, when we ask ourselves why we are obligated to a constitutive categorical system, we cannot find a value-principle that grounds it. In the language we have defined here, the obligation to all these systems stems from the fact that we find “value” in them. But this is not a principle that can be detailed or supplied with a specific reason. In fact, what we have here is simply a statement of “just so.”

We have already seen that analysts regard this as arbitrariness, and this is how they interpret Leibowitz; see on this point the third gate and the appendix. But we already explained that this is not arbitrariness. It is a basic axiom that requires no grounding. It is itself what grounds other, secondary principles. Analysts see statements like “Do this because it is a good act” as empty.¹³⁷ The reason is that for them the meaning of the concept “good” is nothing but “worthy of being done.” Therefore the sentence sounds like the following tautology: “Do this act because it is an act worthy of being done.”

But in the synthetic picture this statement takes on a completely different meaning: “Do this act because I see that it is derived from, or is a characteristic of, the idea of the good.”

Thus, in the final analysis, all the constitutive systems are based on one principle, which is God. For at bottom we are always observing only one entity, from which all the principles in all our categorical systems are derived. God is what gives different values to all the values in all the categories, and that is why we succeed in ranking them in an orderly hierarchical structure.

Already in the ninth gate of the first book we noted that once one leaves all the systems behind, everything is drained into one concept from which all is derived. Here we complete that journey of generalization and abstraction. We have arrived at the highest concept, and found that it is “God,” or “the Torah.”

Concluding Remark: Have We Arrived Back at Leibniz’s “Principle of the Identity of Indiscernibles”?

Quite surprisingly, we have arrived here, at least in a certain sense, back at Leibniz’s “principle of the identity of indiscernibles.” In the second gate of the first book we noted that Leibniz claimed that two objects identical in all their characteristics are in fact one object. There we argued against him that he assumes conventionalism, which identifies a concept, or an object, with its properties. But according to the essentialist conception, two objects or concepts can differ even if all their characteristics are identical.

We saw above that all the value-principles of the constitutive systems are devoid of characteristics. We also saw that all of them are the results of observations of entities. From this we inferred that they all constitute one principle, or are all results of observing one entity. This is something like Leibniz’s principle of the identity of indiscernibles.

But as we saw there, Leibniz was an analyst. That means that with him this principle belongs to the logical plane. By definition, he identifies the concept with its definitions and the object with its properties. He does not recognize the world as it is in itself, whether material or ideal. We, however, did not accept his principle on the logical plane. Our conclusion does not contradict the important distinction between the thing in itself and its properties. Our conclusion here is metaphysical and epistemological, but not logical. It does not follow from the definitions themselves that all principles lacking characteristics are one principle. This is the result of a philosophical argument, derived mainly from the possibility of dispute and of relations among different categorical systems, and not a logical conclusion.

If we were to find two drops of water that possess exactly the same characteristics, then unlike Leibniz we would not infer from this that they are identical. On the other hand, if it were to become clear to us from external considerations that they really are identical, this would contradict nothing. The essentialist claim is not that they are necessarily not identical, but that they are not necessarily identical. Contrary to what Leibniz thought, the question is philosophical and not logical.

Summary and Connection to What Follows

The conclusion of this chapter is that inter-categorical discourse is based on the assumption that there is one overall entity of which all the categorical systems are different appearances. The reason for the obligation to the other systems derives from “observation” of that entity. If we continue one step further, the reason for the obligation to this basic system itself cannot be explained at all. That reason is simply: “just so,” in capital letters. This topic will be elaborated in the next gate.

Summary of the Discussion in the Fourth Gate

In this gate we dealt with the theory of categorical systems. We saw that the principle grounding the obligation to every such system must be outside it. Directed systems are based on a principle belonging to a more fundamental system, whereas constitutive systems are based on observation of an abstract concept that constitutes the category under discussion. Ultimately, the whole structure is based on one abstract entity: God.

Within this framework there is a hierarchy among categorical systems, both constitutive and directed, and within the constitutive systems themselves. Within this framework there take place dialogue, confrontation, and ranking among different categorical systems, and among different people who adhere to different systems. So too aesthetic, ethical, and religious judgment all receive their meaning only within the super-system.

In the end we also noted that there is such a thing as synthetic pluralism, that is, conceptions that are not the result of observation but principles adopted for reasons of convenience and efficiency, reasons of an analytic character. These are intended to create different conceptions, different in essence and not merely because of error, whose combination together creates the totality of the greater truth. Only that totality can represent divinity in a complete way.

From this is derived a measure of synthetic tolerance, and not only openness. But this tolerance has a framework within which it operates: everything is within the super-system, while outside it there is only nothingness. This is unlike analytic tolerance, which operates in a vacuum and is generated from it. There everything is equally possible and equally legitimate, and therefore it has no meaning at all. Nothing can join together with anything else, for there is no greater truth that all these angles are meant to create. There is no meaning there to openness, and although tolerance could in principle arise there, it too would be valueless.

The next gate will deal with the super-system, that is, the Torah, and will attempt to examine the last question that can be asked at all about the axis outlined here: why study Torah? This is a search for the most basic value-principle possible, since it cannot be found anywhere. On the one hand, it ought to be located outside the system to which it gives value, namely the Torah. On the other hand, there cannot be anything outside the system that constitutes the totality. It follows that the value of Torah study has no place in which it can be located within categorical space. On the philosophical level, the answer should already be self-evident, cognition in place of thought, but in the next gate we shall present it from Torah perspectives as well.

Footnotes