The Way of Halakha – These and Those Are the Words of the Living God – Lesson 8

Table of Contents

• [0:00] Introduction to pluralism and “these and those are the words of the living God”
• [1:45] Defining tolerance and its moral conditions
• [7:45] A practical example: a dispute in the Haredi community
• [10:29] Pluralism versus tolerance – the central tension
• [17:34] The Talmudic source – “these and those are the words of the living God”
• [26:10] Three approaches to halakhic truth – introduction
• [28:15] The monistic part – sources and interpretation
• [31:57] The difficulty of pluralism in the face of one truth
• [33:19] The monistic position and its consistency
• [36:37] Russell’s paradoxes and the hierarchy of statements
• [42:53] The distinction between pluralism and tolerance
• [44:30] Legitimate mistakes and illegitimate mistakes
• [49:32] Weighing reasons in the dispute over the creeping creature
• [56:59] The model of monism, pluralism, and harmonism

Summary

General Overview

The text draws a sharp distinction between tolerance, openness, and pluralism, and argues that real tolerance exists only when there is a gap between positions: when a person thinks the other is mistaken, that the mistake is harmful, and that he has the ability to intervene, yet still refrains from acting out of a delicate balance between the value of truth and the value of autonomy. It then moves the discussion into the world of Jewish law and distinguishes between one’s attitude toward transgression and one’s attitude toward differing halakhic positions held by recognized authorities. It presents “these and those are the words of the living God” as a meta-halakhic source that must be reconciled with “and the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” It criticizes an academic attempt to justify substantive pluralism in Jewish law, arguing that logically and textually there is no basis for such pluralism, and proposes a harmonistic model that distinguishes between valid reasons on both sides and one practical ruling, while also distinguishing between legitimate and illegitimate error, and explaining that Jewish law weighs both truth and autonomy.

Conceptual Distinctions: Tolerance, Pluralism, and Social Contract

Tolerance depends on there being two different positions, on a person thinking the other is wrong, that the mistake is harmful, and that he has the ability to intervene. Otherwise, non-intervention is not the meaningful act of tolerance. Pluralism is defined as a multiplicity of opinions in which a person does not assume that the truth is necessarily on his side; therefore a true pluralist cannot be tolerant, because he has no position he sees as mistaken in the way that justifies the language of tolerance. The text rejects treating tolerance as merely an agreement, because if it is a value-demand by which people criticize those who do not act accordingly, then it cannot stem from voluntary agreement alone, but from an obligation referred to as a “social covenant.”

The Sde Boker Example and the Claim About Tolerance Slogans

The speaker describes a confrontation in Sde Boker around Haredi yeshiva students who came to study at the midrasha, and the response of the midrasha people, who established an association “to get rid of the Haredim” out of fear of takeover. He quotes a recurring claim from community members that they do not come “to influence” him not to light Sabbath candles, and therefore he has no place “to influence” them. He responds that tolerance is tested precisely where something is disturbing, considered harmful, and where there is an ability to influence. From this he argues that slogans about tolerance in different groups usually reflect the absence of one of the conditions: lack of belief that the other is wrong, uncertainty about who is right, lack of ability to influence, or the view that there is no harm.

The Value of Autonomy as the Source of Tolerance and Its Connection to Coercion

The text argues that tolerance is not absolute and depends on the degree and proximity of the harm, and that it involves a balance between the importance of a person doing the “right thing” and the importance of his autonomy to act as he understands, even at the price of some harm. It asks why a religious court does not “allow a person to sin,” and answers that there are transgressions for which coercion is applied and others for which it is not. It distinguishes between tolerance toward someone who holds a different halakhic position based on sources and reasoning, and one’s attitude toward a transgressor who desecrates the Sabbath “because he feels like it.” It connects coercion to the fact that the transgressor himself knows he is doing something wrong, and prepares the ground for distinguishing between two levels of discussion: differing halakhic positions versus transgression.

Law, Jewish Law, and What Is Included in the Framework One Is Not Prepared to Tolerate

The text compares civil society, which does not show tolerance toward lawbreakers, with Jewish law, which does not show tolerance toward those who deviate from the binding framework. It argues that the law is not the full set of society’s values, but only those values regarding which society is unwilling to show tolerance, while other values remain matters of free choice. It proposes a parallel in Jewish law, where there are correct values that are not anchored in formal Jewish law—not because they are not correct, but because the Torah or Jewish law does not want to turn them into a formal legal obligation.

“These and Those Are the Words of the Living God” as a Meta-Halakhic Source and the Internal Contradiction

The phrase “these and those are the words of the living God” appears in two passages: the dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, where it is also said that “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” and in tractate Gittin regarding Rabbi Evyatar and Rabbi Yonatan on the story of the concubine at Gibeah. The text presents the statement as a meta-halakhic claim with no direct halakhic meaning, because practical decision still binds even if one says that both sides are “the words of the living God.” It highlights the difficulty: if “these and those,” then both are right; but if “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” then Beit Shammai are not correct in practice. So the opening and the ending have to be reconciled.

Criticism of the Academic Project of “These and Those” and the Claim That There Is No Substantive Pluralism

The text refers to Avi Sagi’s book These and Those and to the mapping of monistic, pluralistic, and harmonistic approaches to halakhic truth. It describes academic techniques aimed at presenting Jewish law as pluralistic by gathering many positions, and criticizes writing that first populates a “tree” of positions and then looks for sources for each branch—to the point of “group assault,” relying even on marginal figures from the Cairo Geniza just to fill out the chart. It argues that the pluralistic section of the book does not begin with sources because there are no sources for substantive pluralism in Jewish law, or at least not in halakhic sources, and presents the whole project as already failing at the logical level.

The Logical Argument Against Pluralism About Pluralism Itself

The text argues that one cannot adopt a pluralistic position regarding interpretations of “these and those” itself, because saying that there are “several legitimate positions” about pluralism already adopts the pluralistic stance and cancels the possibility that a monistic position might be correct. It compares this to the modern claim that “democracy exists only toward those who accept the rules of the game,” and argues that this empties the concepts of their content, because tolerance is tested precisely in relation to those who are not accepted. It uses the example of Bertrand Russell and the hierarchical solution to paradoxes to show that forbidding self-reference does not solve the paradox but only bypasses it, and from this concludes that not applying pluralism to the issue of pluralism itself does not resolve the problem.

The Harmonistic Way Out: Combining Aspects Instead of the Slogan “Everyone Is Right”

The text argues that the only way out is harmonization, which does not deny truth but explains that each source refers to a different aspect, so that “one master said one thing and the other master said another thing, and they do not disagree.” It rejects the vague slogan “everyone is right” in the style of “the judge’s wife,” and demands a concrete model that maps the aspects each source is talking about. It states that harmonism can accept pluralism “in a certain aspect,” but not as a general claim of multiple practical truths.

Legitimate Error and Illegitimate Error, and the Social-Halakhic Boundaries

The text distinguishes between a legitimate mistake within the world of halakhic rulings by recognized halakhic decisors, and an illegitimate mistake that is “outside the fence.” It illustrates this with the claim that most halakhic decisors would see Reform Judaism as an illegitimate mistake that is not decided by vote. It describes a situation in which judges on a religious court are willing to sit on a panel even though they may end up in the minority and sign a ruling that is not in accordance with their own conscience, because they recognize the legitimacy of error within the system. It argues that the line between legitimate and illegitimate is itself disputed among groups, and that each group draws circles around itself, but that the very existence of these two circles is presented as a correct principle.

Jewish Law as a Weighing of Truth and Autonomy: “A Judge Has Only What His Eyes See”

The text cites the Talmudic statement that the Jewish law was not established in accordance with Rabbi Meir “because his colleagues could not get to the depth of his reasoning,” and concludes that Jewish law is not only “what is truly right to do,” but also depends on what a person is capable of understanding and ruling responsibly. It formulates this by saying that Jewish law is a weighing of the value of truth together with the value of autonomy, so that a person is obligated to do what he thinks is right after making a real effort to reach the truth. It presents this as a direct continuation of the concept of tolerance: recognition that a person may act according to his understanding even at the price of possible error.

The Model of Reasons and Decision: One Hundred and Fifty Reasons to Impure and to Purify, While in Practice “The Creeping Creature Is Impure”

The text cites the requirement that one appoint to the Sanhedrin someone who knows how to give one hundred and fifty reasons to declare the creeping creature impure and one hundred and fifty reasons to declare it pure, and presents the Maharal’s answer that the reasons on both sides are fully true, but the Jewish law is determined according to the weight of the reasons when they conflict. It argues that at the level of reasons, “these and those are the words of God,” while at the level of action there is only one truth, which is decided. Therefore “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” does not cancel the truth of Beit Shammai’s reasons, but only their practical weighting. It uses the Gittin passage about the concubine at Gibeah as internal proof from the Talmud that “these and those” means that each side grasped part of the truth, and the full truth is the combination.

“Because They Were Gentle and Humble”: The Beit Yosef’s Interpretation of the Justification for the Decision

The text cites the Talmudic statement that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because they were gentle and humble and would state the words of Beit Shammai first, and quotes Rabbi Yosef Karo’s interpretation that this is not a reward for good character traits but an epistemic reason why they were more correct, because they seriously weighed Beit Shammai’s arguments. It concludes that the decision is a truth-decision at the level of weighting, while the reasons of the other side remain “the words of God” at the level of argumentation. It suggests that this structure “stitches together” monism at the level of decision, pluralism at the level of reasons, and harmonism as the overall structure.

Being Competent for This, Judgment, and the Authority of the Text Versus the Author’s Intention

The text argues that “these and those” is said only about someone who is competent for this, because someone unqualified to issue rulings may produce reasons that are not correct at all, and therefore is not within the space of legitimate error of “judgment.” It emphasizes that there is such a thing as “mistaken in judgment,” and that even in assessing weight there can be error, not just stylistic difference, presenting this as proof that the system assumes truth rather than relativism. It raises the claim that in Jewish law, acceptance sometimes relates to a book that has gained authority and not necessarily to the author’s intention, and therefore interpretation of the text can work in two directions even without assuming that the earlier authority “did not err.” It concludes by saying that both are “with limited guarantee” and that there is “no absolute principle” at all.

Okay. Today I want to move on in our program and talk a bit about “these and those are the words of the living God,” about halakhic pluralism in general, and maybe also clear away some of the fog that usually surrounds both these concepts and the halakhic approach. Maybe a short introduction before everything else: there are several concepts that overlap with one another and circulate in the marketplace of ideas, and it’s easy to confuse them. We’ll talk about pluralism, tolerance, openness, things of that sort. Here we need to distinguish between a few different directions. I’ll do it briefly. We need to distinguish between several different directions. Basically, the concept of tolerance, if we start there, involves an almost internal contradiction. On the one hand, it requires that the other person have a position different from mine, of course. I can’t be tolerant toward a position that is exactly the same as mine. Second, I have to think that the other position is mistaken, because if I think that the other position is not mistaken, or is equivalent to mine, then my tolerance has no meaning at all, because obviously—if he is as right as I am, then in what sense am I supposed to be, how can I be, intolerant toward him? Fine, there could be someone who still tries to dominate out of sheer wickedness; I’m talking right now about comparing positions, not accusing people of wickedness. And a third condition is that the fact that the other person is wrong, in my eyes, must also be harmful. Because if it weren’t harmful, then again there would be nothing remarkable about my tolerance. Someone who is wrong about some issue but causes no harm—to himself, to me, to others, it doesn’t matter—that’s not something harmful, so why should I intervene? Meaning, what? Maybe in order to establish the truth it would be proper to enlighten him, but in the ideological-moral sense there’s nothing especially impressive about tolerance, or non-interference, or not disturbing someone when what he’s doing basically makes no difference and bothers no one. There may be some aspect of this in that perhaps I recognize another opinion even if I think it’s wrong, if it isn’t harmful, and already that fills out the concept of tolerance. What do I mean by that? That I mention and acknowledge that opinion? No—tolerance, I’m still talking now about people who hold that opinion, not about what I do in the study hall with different opinions or in theoretical discussion, but whether I let other people live, meaning before intellectual tolerances, first of all on the simple social level. So in fact we have several conditions for tolerance to have any value at all. First condition: that there be two opinions here, that I think I’m right and the other person is wrong, that I think his mistake is harmful, and one more condition I haven’t mentioned—that I of course have the possibility of intervening. Because if I don’t have the possibility of intervening, then the fact that I don’t intervene doesn’t point to any especially elevated tolerance; I simply can’t do it. Okay? So basically the conditions are that the other opinion appear to me clearly—or not clearly, but still—mistaken, that this mistake be harmful, and that I have the possibility of intervening, of changing it, or not changing the opinion itself but of course preventing behavior based on it. Well then really, why not? If all these conditions really exist, then I have to ask myself: so then really, why not? Why indeed not use the power I have and try to stop the other person from doing something that is mistaken and harmful, when I have the ability to stop him? If one of the conditions is missing—every time at this stage of the discussion people start saying: “No, maybe I can’t.” If I can’t, then that’s not anything remarkable about tolerance. “Maybe I don’t think it’s harmful.” Fine, if it’s not harmful, then again there’s nothing remarkable about tolerance. “Maybe I think he’s as right as I am, I’m actually not sure I’m right, maybe he’s right”—then again, that’s not some great act of tolerance; that’s perhaps what we would call pluralism. Pluralism means a multiplicity of opinions, meaning that I don’t believe that the truth is located precisely with me, if it’s located anywhere at all. So if all these conditions are met, then really, why not intervene? A kind of agreement—meaning, if people want others not to interfere with how they behave, then I also agree not to interfere with them. Okay, so whoever signed the agreement, fine. And whoever didn’t sign the agreement—what do you want from him? He didn’t sign it. Do you have some claim against him? Are you criticizing him, do you think he’s doing something wrong? If you relate to it only as some sort of agreement, then there’s nothing to discuss—whoever agreed should keep what he agreed to. But if we’re talking about it as some sort of value, as something by which one criticizes someone who doesn’t behave accordingly, then the assumption is that everyone ought to behave that way—the assumption of the critics. Right? So it can’t be the result of some agreement that someone chose or did not choose to sign, unless you tell me that it’s some sort of implied agreement. But then you haven’t said anything, because then once again we’ve returned to the point that basically one must. So the legal form they gave this obligation was: “Ah, it’s as if we all signed an agreement, a social covenant, as some would call it,” and now we also have an agreement. But that doesn’t express some specific personal commitment of mine; it’s really just another way of saying that everyone is obligated to do this. Fine, so that doesn’t change the basic situation. So the truth is that in most cases—at least it seems to me—in most cases tolerant behavior is indeed the result of the absence of one of these conditions. There was once, I was in Sde Boker at the Midrasha, and there was some quarrel there with a group of avrekhim from some Haredi community here in Yeruham, who used to travel there every day from the afternoon service to the evening service to study there. There were two Jews there who kind of wanted this and even got some funding for the matter and transportation and so on, and they came there, traveled there every day to study with them, and came back after the evening service. At some stage the people there at the Midrasha went into total hysteria, the whole thing got into the newspapers, and they set up an association—an association to get rid of the Haredim who were supposedly going to take over the Midrasha there and close streets on the Sabbath, Heaven forbid, and all kinds of things of that type. It was very amusing. So when I appointed myself to speak with them, with the committee of that gang there, I went to speak with them. At the first meeting there really wasn’t much to talk about; they only wanted to make clear the ultimatum they were issuing. But afterward there was some meeting with people from the community itself, not with the committee, which was militant, but with people from the community itself who really wanted to talk, and it was actually very interesting. So they made to me an argument that came up there more than once: “Look, we don’t come influence you not to light Sabbath candles, so why do you come influence us—I don’t know—to become religious or something like that,” as if anyone had come there to influence them, but fine. So I said to them, “Why indeed don’t you come influence me not to light Sabbath candles?” “Because do what you want, it’s your right, what’s the problem? If you want to light Sabbath candles, light them—why should that bother anybody?” I said to them, “If it doesn’t bother you, then there’s nothing remarkable about the fact that you don’t come to influence me. But someone who desecrates the Sabbath—that does bother me, so I want to influence him not to desecrate the Sabbath. Why, what place is there for that comparison? It’s exactly the same thing.” Meaning, tolerance is measured precisely in a place where, in your eyes, the other person is mistaken and you have the possibility of influencing him. Because if the other side isn’t mistaken, or isn’t harmful, or you have no possibility of influencing him—one of these three possibilities—then of course you won’t go influence him. Fine, so what does that prove? It proves nothing. There was an interesting dialogue there, but this thing demonstrated exactly—I tried to show them—that the slogans of tolerance that run around so much in these population groups usually express, maybe not always but usually, the absence of one of these three conditions. Either you don’t think I’m wrong, or you don’t know who is really right—you’re a true pluralist. A pluralist can never be tolerant. By definition he cannot intervene, because he isn’t more right than the other person, so what tolerance is there in that? Or you can’t influence, and then again it’s irrelevant. Or you think what the other person does isn’t harmful. So where is there nevertheless tolerance? I think one cannot ignore the fact that there is such a value called tolerance. First of all, it isn’t absolute, of course. In a place where the harm is too great, nobody will be tolerant—or too great, or too close. Meaning, if it is harm to me or harm to my son, then I’ll be much less tolerant than if it’s harm to the people of Darfur. There I’m very tolerant. Meaning, obviously there’s some kind of weighing here of the degree of harm and its proximity. But weighed against what? Meaning, so still some degree of tolerance—perhaps one that decreases the closer it gets to me—does exist. The question is, what does that depend on? Why is there some value that stands against these things? It seems to me that this can find expression in a few formulations, but something along the lines that there is importance no less to a person’s autonomy than to his doing the right thing. Some formulation of that kind. Meaning, if I think I can influence a person, and what he’s doing is wrong and also harmful, why do I nevertheless not use my power and prevent him from doing what he thinks? Because it seems to me that there is also value in his doing what he thinks, even though that involves a certain degree of harm and is problematic. And therefore, of course, this whole world of tolerance always contains a very delicate equilibrium between values. Meaning, because if the harm is too severe, I won’t allow myself to be tolerant toward it. So the question is how much importance I assign to the person’s autonomy, to his right to act as he understands, as against the major harm caused by his mistaken action. And this balance between these two poles—that, it seems to me, is what is called tolerance. That is really the only place where this thing truly exists. Everything else is just empty demagogic slogans. If there is value to that, why doesn’t a religious court allow a person to sin? It may be that in a place where the harm is already too severe. And what about letting him just desecrate the Sabbath? Letting him do things that are not sins for which coercion is applied. There are such things. There are sins for which coercion is not applied. There are such things within Jewish law: positive commandments whose reward is stated alongside them. But there are also things, say, non-halakhic values. Maybe about those they won’t coerce, or they’ll coerce only where they see fit, which is very unusual. It may be that from the standpoint of Jewish law, a transgression is something for which we are not willing to pay the price of tolerance. And even within Jewish law I want to talk a bit about this dimension of tolerance, and then maybe I’ll answer you somewhat more fully, because one has to distinguish between tolerance toward a different halakhic position and tolerance toward a sinner. Meaning, there is tolerance toward someone who has a position different from mine; I may think he is halakhically mistaken, but he has his sources, he is competent, he reached a different conclusion—that’s something else. There, in almost no case would coercion be used. Certainly not today, but even in a period when there is a Sanhedrin and so on—only in very specific cases would they coerce. In situations where someone simply desecrates the Sabbath because he feels like desecrating the Sabbath, there they would coerce. It’s not the same thing. These are two different planes of discussion, and I’ll get to them in a moment. In the meantime I haven’t yet even spoken about Jewish law; I’ve only spoken about defining the concepts. This is just an introduction to the halakhic discussion, a meta-halakhic one. On the matter of coercion regarding law, part of the issue is also that the assumption is that the offender himself knows he’s doing something wrong and still does it; this is connected to what I said earlier to Shlomi. Meaning, once you’re an offender, then I coerce you; once you have a different halakhic position, then in most cases I really won’t coerce you. That’s exactly the point. Good, so that was just the conceptual introduction. Now to our topic. Within the halakhic world it is commonly thought that there prevails—let me already anticipate, since Shlomi already raised it—we have to distinguish here between two planes. Often there is a feeling that Jewish law is very intolerant because there is in fact coercion to fulfill commandments, punishment for prohibitions, and so on, and a person is not given the right, basically, to do things that are wrong. That is from one perspective. From another perspective, toward other halakhic positions—not toward offenders, but toward someone who thinks differently from me halakhically and has his proofs and reasoning with him, even though I disagree and maybe the majority disagree—there the situation is different, and I intend right now to focus specifically on the second type, not on the attitude toward offenders but on the attitude toward different positions. Exactly in the same way that none of today’s advocates of tolerance would say—or almost none would say—that one must be tolerant toward someone who breaks the law. Why does a court punish him? Fine, he wants to break the law, give him the respect he deserves. No—why not? Because there is some framework of discussion such that if one crosses it, then we as a society are not willing to show tolerance. By the way, that framework of discussion is exactly what is called law. Meaning, law is not the totality of all a society’s values, contrary to what some people may think. The law contains only those values regarding which we are not willing to show tolerance. There are other values we believe in, but regarding those values we leave it to the person’s free choice. The values written into law are those values regarding which we are not willing to show tolerance. Parallel to that, it seems to me that in Jewish law too there is a similar situation. In Jewish law too there are values that are not found there, not anchored in formal Jewish law. That does not mean they are not true; it only means that we do not want—or the Torah does not want—to insert those values into formal Jewish law. Sometimes that is for reasons for which we genuinely do not want to intervene, we want to show tolerance; sometimes for other reasons, not important right now. But this distinction exists not only in the halakhic world but in the legal world in general. Good. So the basic source, of course, for discussing tolerance in relation to other halakhic positions is the Talmudic statement “these and those are the words of the living God.” And this statement appears, actually—not the whole passage, but the expression appears—in two passages in the Talmud. One passage concerns the dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, where a heavenly voice emerged and said: “These and those are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” And the second passage is in tractate Gittin, concerning Rabbi Evyatar and Rabbi Yonatan regarding the dispute over the concubine in Gibeah; there too it says: “These and those are the words of the living God.” In meta-halakhic thinking, let’s call it that—because really this isn’t a halakhic statement, “these and those are the words of the living God”; in principle it has no halakhic meaning. We may see today that perhaps it does have some halakhic implications, but on the face of it this is not a halakhic statement. “These and those are the words of the living God, and whoever acts this way desecrates the Sabbath and is liable to stoning”—meaning, someone who keeps the Sabbath like Beit Shammai. No—the law does not follow them. “These and those are the words of the living God” is some sort of meta-halakhic statement, or perhaps a statement made before the law was decided. Maybe Tosafot have various answers about this; we won’t get into that now. In any event, it’s a meta-halakhic statement that somehow took an honored place in thought in the study halls, and people are at least accustomed to applying it to all disputes of the Sages, at least the Sages of the Talmud—not only to Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel or to the places where it is explicitly stated. And perhaps also later, to the medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim). It is a pattern that, although it has no direct halakhic meaning, definitely influences how Jewish law operates. Meaning, the willingness to accept different halakhic positions or halakhic decisors who think differently, and not to launch a total war over every disagreement. That seems to have diminished somewhat in recent generations. In any case, this source is itself almost internally contradictory. It says: “These and those are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” You have to decide. If these and those are the words of the living God, then both are equally right. If the law follows Beit Hillel, then the law follows Beit Hillel, so the words of Beit Shammai are not the words of the living God. How are we supposed to reconcile the first half and the second half of the heavenly voice’s statement? On the one hand, both are the words of the living God; on the other hand, the law follows Beit Hillel. If you know it, there is a book by Avi Sagi called “These and Those,” where he tries to survey the different positions regarding this statement, regarding “these and those are the words of the living God.” And he lays out there a whole range of many possibilities—three basic ones that split into many sub-options, many possibilities—for interpreting this claim. Now actually this is his way, and that of others too, to overcome a methodological obstacle that stands before academics who want to criticize standard halakhic conduct. Because if you want to criticize halakhic conduct and say it isn’t pluralistic enough or something like that, that’s fine for an article in Haaretz or HaTzofeh or whatever newspaper you want. But if you want to write an academic article—an academic article is not journalism. An academic article is supposed to meet certain tests of what they call justiciability. Justiciability means that it can be examined in terms of true or false. And if you say one should be very pluralistic, wonderful, you’ll get the Israel Prize next year, but you can’t make an academic article out of that. So how do you do it in an academic article? There are a few techniques. One technique is really just to bring sources and show that the halakhic sages advocate a pluralistic position. That’s the straightforward approach; that’s what I would expect people who try to support such a direction to do. And there are more sophisticated methods. One of them, for example, is to take some sugya—I don’t know—something like “triple Purim that falls on the fifteenth of Shevat,” and to do what basically almost every collection today does: gather all the halakhic positions that were said regarding that matter and publish it as an academic article. That’s all. Meaning, once you read this book and see that there is basically no opinion on earth that you can imagine that does not appear with respect to this complicated halakhic issue, then you’ll understand by yourselves what the conclusion is regarding Jewish law. Meaning, there’s no need to write fiery journalism in favor of pluralism; you can simply present halakhic issues, which may be completely marginal or uninteresting or entirely technical, but just show that the whole range of possibilities exists. What characterizes academic writing of this kind, by the way, is usually gang rape. Meaning, we decide in advance what the optional positions are that exist at all. Let’s say there are three of them that branch into sub-options—ten positions, twenty, whatever you want, according to the measure of your creative imagination—and now we need to look for sources and place each one somewhere else on the tree. Here the situation is a bit harder, because you don’t always find enough sources to place all of them, but you have to populate the whole tree, because otherwise we won’t prove that the fifteenth of Shevat that falls on Yom Kippur is triple Purim. So for that reason there’s no choice, and we take Rabbi Yosef Abu Ali from the Cairo Geniza and explain that his approach was in fact different from Maimonides’ approach, and he actually held that it was Yom Kippur that fell on Hanukkah, while the other one thinks it was—I don’t know—the Sabbath that fell on the New Moon that fell on the Sabbath. And therefore, by that very fact, we’ve proven that the entire halakhic world is open before us and everyone may do what is right in his own eyes. And if we don’t find even Rabbi Yosef Abu Ali—which is actually hard not to find within the latitude we allow ourselves and the lack of discrimination regarding halakhic importance; I hope there isn’t really such a person, I didn’t mean to mock anyone specific here, but in the Cairo Geniza there are thousands, I know, so maybe there was some Rabbi Yosef Abu Ali there—then sometimes people force it a bit, raise possibilities a bit, meaning they say: okay, here it says this, but it’s also possible to interpret it this way and also that way, so now we got two possibilities from the same person, which is economical, no need to dig more deeply in the Geniza. And so in the end we populate the whole tree and prove with signs and wonders that Jewish law is pluralistic. Now the even stronger approach is one that shows halakhic pluralism in the thesis of “these and those are the words of the living God” itself. Meaning, regarding the thesis “these and those are the words of the living God”—which is itself the pluralistic thesis—we will show that all possible interpretations indeed appear. That’s already a knockout. Meaning, it’s not only about the fifteenth of Shevat that falls on Yom Kippur, but about the statement “these and those are the words of the living God” itself. After that there is really no comeback at all for all the loathsome conservatives who still dare to blink. Fine. So in that book he presents three—basically the question of halakhic pluralism is of course connected to a large extent to the question of the relation between Jewish law and truth. Meaning, does Jewish law uncover some truth, create truth, neither of those, various possibilities. But it isn’t exactly the same question, and that’s somewhat connected to the introduction I gave, and maybe we’ll get to that in a moment. In any event, regarding halakhic truth—there the basic map begins. The book is divided into three parts, and each part deals with one of three basic approaches to halakhic truth. There is the monistic approach, which says that there is only one halakhic truth. There is the pluralistic approach, which says that there are multiple halakhic truths. Meaning, there is not really one halakhic truth, but rather each person has his own halakhic truth, different shades. And there is the harmonistic approach, which sees the differing opinions in dispute as something that in the end converges into one many-shaded truth, or something like that. In order not to remain on that poetic level, one has to get a bit more into the details. I’m not going to do that right now, maybe later. Now within each of these three possibilities there are many sub-options, because for example the monistic possibility says there is one halakhic truth. So it’s very clear what “the law follows Beit Hillel” means, but then the question arises: what is the meaning of “these and those are the words of the living God”? After all, each opinion has to explain both the first half of the heavenly voice and the second half of the heavenly voice. And then all sorts of possibilities arise: the other opinion has significance, it’s also Torah study, I don’t know, whatever, they receive reward for saying it and so on, all kinds of things of that type. Halakhic pluralism, of course, fits better with the statement “these and those are the words of the living God,” but then it has to explain what “the law follows Beit Hillel” means. So then again one arrives at some technical ordering so that the Torah should not become like two Torahs, or something like that; therefore in the end we rule in one direction—not because that is the truth, but because one wants somehow to create coherent conduct, more or less uniform conduct within certain limits, and therefore Jewish law is decided. And the pluralistic approach—actually, sorry, the harmonistic approach—is a kind of monism, and I’ll get to that in a moment. Very interestingly, there is a difference in structure between these three parts of the book. The first part, the monistic one, begins with sources from which one sees the monistic approach, and then the question arises: fine, I understand what “the law follows Beit Hillel” means, but why “these and those are the words of the living God”? And then several possibilities arise. The third part, the harmonistic one, also begins with sources—of course Maharal, Rabbi Tzadok, Rabbi Kook, it’s hard to get confused there. Then of course the question arises: fine, “these and those are the words of the living God” is clear, but what is the meaning of halakhic ruling? In that sense it resembles pluralism a bit. For some reason the pluralism section does not begin with sources. Take a look—you should read things like that critically. It doesn’t begin with sources; it starts straight with the question: wait, so what does the pluralist do with “the law follows Beit Hillel”? And only afterward does it return a bit to the question of pluralism and raise possibilities. Why not? Because there are no such sources. There simply aren’t any. At least I know of no source that advocates substantive pluralism, meaning the view that there is a real multiplicity of positions in Jewish law. In a moment I’ll show what we do in fact commonly find. In my humble opinion there are no such sources, as far as I know, and he did quite a comprehensive search, so from what I read in his book I understand that he too had no such sources. Not even Abu Ali? What? Not even Abu Ali, apparently, I don’t know. The Egyptians wouldn’t let me into the Geniza. Fine. In any case there may perhaps be the author of Avodat HaKodesh, maybe there there is some such approach; there are many sources throughout the book, maybe there. Maybe there one can see some such approach—but certainly not in halakhic sources. Halakhic sources aren’t brought there at all. That’s the problem. Fine, in any case. Maybe let’s begin with the basic claim. It seems to me that, from a logical consideration, even before checking the sources, it is not reasonable to assume that there are several legitimate interpretations—pluralism with respect to interpretations—of the statement “these and those are the words of the living God” itself. The explanation is quite simple: because if the discussion is about pluralism itself, then how can it be that with regard to positions about pluralism I adopt a pluralistic stance? By doing that I have already chosen one of the answers—the pluralistic one. Meaning, that simply can’t be, right? To say that there are several legitimate positions regarding the sentence “these and those are the words of the living God” is already, implicitly, immediately to adopt one of them—the pluralistic one. Because it is really saying that… If all the approaches agree that there can be multiple opinions, then they all agree with the very fact that there is… No, no, I’m talking right now about the three directions I described earlier, the distinction among the three directions without the nuances within them. It could be that only one is correct. Is only one correct? Fine, so that’s what I’m saying. It cannot be that with regard to the interpretation of the rule “these and those are the words of the living God” we take a substantive pluralistic stance—unless of course we are truly pluralists, but then from within our pluralism we obviously would not accept the position that says only one position is right and all the others are wrong. It would be rather absurd to take a pluralistic attitude toward such a position. We know something like this today as well. Today they say tolerance applies only to someone who accepts the rules of the game. Or democracy exists only toward someone who accepts the rules of the game, but not toward someone who does not accept the rules of the game. Which usually means there is no such thing as democracy and no such thing as tolerance. Because obviously, toward someone who accepts the rules of the game you don’t need to exercise tolerance. Tolerance always comes into play toward someone where you don’t accept something he does. So it pretty much empties the whole thing of content. But here, at least in the logical sense, it seems to me there is no escape. And therefore I think that on the face of it the project of this book fails even before it starts. It fails because the state of affairs he is trying to prove cannot exist. The state of affairs that says there are several basic positions—or even all the basic positions—regarding the rule “these and those are the words of the living God,” and all are correct. Now one way or another—if so, then how should one decide which is the correct position? In the end one just finds different remarks here and there. How does one decide which position is correct? In principle what we should have done is take a certain position, say a monistic one, which thinks there is only one truth, and see whether it is consistent. Meaning, the monistic position thinks only it is right, and accordingly it disqualifies all the other positions, both in the different halakhic issues and in the interpretation of the rule “these and those are the words of the living God.” So that’s perfectly fine—it is consistent with itself. So that is a consistent position, right? And what would the pluralistic position say? That all halakhic positions are legitimate regarding the fifteenth of Shevat that falls on Yom Kippur, fine. And regarding “these and those are the words of the living God” too, all positions are legitimate—including which position? The one that says that only one position is legitimate and pluralism is wrong. Why? Rabbi Sagi in his book on pluralism and tolerance and all that says that… that’s what I said earlier: the thing is empty. Why empty? Because if you are pluralistic toward everything that is not pluralistic, then you are not a pluralist. If only toward things that are pluralistic, then you are not a pluralist either. Why not? Half a pluralist. No, you’re not. Because when the debate is about pluralism itself, then with respect to what can you be pluralistic other than whether pluralism is right or not? So if on that point you’re unwilling to accept disagreement, then on what point are you? Then we’ve come back to there being no such thing as pluralism. There is no such thing as pluralism as a sole value, right? And still, pluralism is not illogical, because there’s something here that changes the system. Why? He says there is no truth, and therefore everyone does what he wants, so what? What? He claims that? That’s already another question—whether he says that is a truth or that it’s a withdrawal, you know, like the conceptual analysis of “whoever is stronger prevails.” It’s withdrawal, fine? He doesn’t have a contradiction in his head about the matter, you know, between the different answers of the Rosh and his rulings. Fine, because it doesn’t make much difference, this withdrawal and… But say it’s only a withdrawal. Are you claiming there is truth from the other side? No—I’m also not saying there isn’t truth, I’m saying nothing, I simply don’t intervene. So that’s nothing, it’s not a position. Fine, that’s what he says. No—that’s what he does, not what he says. That’s how he behaves. But the Rabbi said earlier that he actually exempts the other positions by arguing that his position on “these and those are the words of the living God” is correct. No, not that… he didn’t say that at all. So that’s what I’m saying. When you… that’s when you’re speaking about pluralism in general. When you’re speaking about pluralism with respect to the issue of pluralism itself, then it really is completely emptied of content, exactly as I said. Because if you are willing to accept also the position that there is only one truth and the others are incorrect as a position no less true than yours, then I don’t understand what remains of your position. And if you are not willing to accept that, then I also don’t understand what remains of your position, because then you’re not a pluralist. Meaning, one way or another, you somehow arrive at monism. Unless you tell me—there are formalists who would say this; that’s also how they solve paradoxes in logic. Bertrand Russell, in the introduction to Principia Mathematica—he was a philosopher and mathematician in the early twentieth century—basically argues there, in a very important mathematical book, Principia Mathematica, very important and wrong. No, really, both things are true. And in the introduction there he proposes a way to deal with paradoxes. Paradoxes of self-reference, right? The book that lists all the people who do not list themselves, the sets that do not contain themselves, all the paradoxes of self-reference. So he says: there is a hierarchy of propositions, and each proposition can refer only to propositions lower than it in the hierarchy. In other words, it cannot refer to itself. The thought police prohibit it. Meaning, on the logical level you get out of the paradox, but of course this is nonsense, because okay—you can say it is forbidden to formulate paradoxes in the language we are speaking. Forbidden, and whoever formulates a paradox will go to jail. But that does not solve the paradox. The propositions that… if I make a proposition that refers to itself, I will end up in paradox. You’ll tell me it’s illegal to say that. Okay, so I’m saying it illegally. You cannot solve paradoxes by prohibition unless you show me that propositions that refer to themselves are genuinely unjustified, that it cannot be—not just ad hoc with regard to problematic propositions, but in general. But he doesn’t do that. So here too it’s the same. They’ll say: fine, pluralism exists, but not with regard to the issue of pluralism itself, only with regard to other things. Like what we often hear: democracy applies only to those who accept democratic rules. The problem here, if we’re talking about Jewish law, is that this comes out a bit problematic, because the pluralism that says everyone is equally right—so why exactly at this point do some of them suddenly manage to be wrong? If authorized halakhic sages cannot be wrong even if they try, then how did they manage to do that here, regarding the interpretation of “these and those are the words of the living God”? Because if I say that here I do not adopt the pluralistic position, but rather here only one interpretation is correct, then you are essentially telling me that Maimonides, or I don’t know, someone else who doesn’t interpret it that way, was mistaken. So here you are already willing to accept that one person erred. Well, if here one person can already err, then why can’t it be that in halakhic issues too one person errs? He said there is no such person. What do you mean there is no such person? The original statement—it’s not pluralism. No, obviously. I’m just saying that I’m now showing that even before I look for sources, it was clear to me that I wouldn’t find any. I wouldn’t find any because it cannot be. And therefore there’s no point in even reading the book, except maybe to leaf through the references and see local analyses. But the project—the book itself—is already absurd on page one. That… well, the book is interesting, and he has good analytical ability too, but… but the project itself is a failed project. Fine. In short, the point, the point of halakhic pluralism—so what is the solution? After all, we do find different sources, different references, both to halakhic ruling and to “these and those are the words of the living God.” It seems to me that the only possible way out, if I may join a group in which I generally perhaps do not naturally find myself—the harmonists. There really isn’t much choice. Meaning, the only possibility is indeed to perform some harmonization among the positions and claim that everyone is right, not because there is no truth, but because each one is talking about a different aspect of the truth, and the complete truth is the combination of them all together. That too is a joke. Why? Because you’re saying it’s like some sort of… assumption here. It’s not the kind of joke we had earlier, but it’s also like the judge’s wife. The judge says to one litigant, “You’re right.” The other comes and he says to him, “You’re also right.” So his wife asks him, “How can they both be right?” He says to her, “You’re also right.” That too is a joke. But if one explains it—not just says everyone is right. To simply say everyone is right and then add a few slogans about how Jewish law is beyond logic and we are believers, sons of believers, and all kinds of things like that—that is a sure recipe for… yes, gathering thousands in the town squares. But it is nonsense, of course. I mean to argue something more concrete. The claim is that one has to build here some model that shows to which different aspects each source is referring. Now I’m not going to go through all the sources here, but I’ll try to propose a basic scheme in the few minutes we still have left. The basic point where one really needs to distinguish—or more correctly, to treat this on two planes. One plane is connected to the distinction with which I opened. Does the harmonistic approach reject the pluralistic approach on this point? Like, can it accept it in a certain aspect? Or do you reject it with both hands? No, it accepts it in a certain aspect. Why doesn’t it reject it with both hands? Why not? If I show what it is talking about, then I’ll show that it accepts it in a certain aspect. But regarding the general question of pluralism in Jewish law… yes, but with regard to that question too there are several questions hidden beneath the general question, and that is exactly what I’m trying to show now—to show what each one is talking about, and then explain why in fact all together one says one thing and one says another and they do not disagree. So I’m saying: first I prove that it has to be this way. It cannot be otherwise, because otherwise we’re in a mess. Now I’ll try to show why it really is this way, or how one can indeed interpret it so that this is what comes out. The first plane of the discussion is what I said in the introduction: one has to distinguish here between pluralism and tolerance. Pluralism is the claim that everyone is equally right. There is no truth, basically, or there is no absolute truth, or whatever, all kinds of expressions of that sort. Everyone is right. There are multiple halakhic truths; pluralism comes from plurality, right? There is a plurality of truths. That is substantive pluralism. Tolerance, as I said before, can never exist in a true pluralist. A true pluralist can never be tolerant, by definition. He cannot be tolerant because you are always tolerant toward positions with which you disagree—but a pluralist has none of those. There are no positions with which he disagrees. A true pluralist… that’s basically the empty set, a true pluralist. But often tolerance, in its everyday appearance, is presented and sometimes even interpreted as pluralism, mistakenly. What we are dealing with here is tolerance, not pluralism. In the context of Jewish law, what I want to claim is that no one wants to say that the two halakhic positions are equally valid. There is no such creature. What people do say is that it is legitimate to act according to the second position as well, even though I think it is mistaken, or perhaps even though it has been ruled mistaken in certain cases. That is something else. It is not saying that it is correct. It is saying that it is legitimate. This basically means—if I sketch it schematically now—that there are two types of errors. And here I arrive at Shlomi’s question. There are two types of error even before transgression. There is an error that is legitimate and an error that is not legitimate. What does that mean? At least the accepted halakhic position is that being Reform is an illegitimate error. We don’t do a vote with them and see who is right by majority, right? For example. That’s what I assume most halakhic decisors would tell you. By contrast, a disagreement, say, between two recognized, accepted decisors—each thinks the other is mistaken, but it’s a legitimate mistake. And then indeed, if there were some authorized institution—today there is no such thing—but if there were some authorized institution, a court in which one could sit and vote, they would not refrain from sitting on the same court; they would vote and decide by majority. All judges who sit on a court and vote and in the end accept a decision by majority are judges who in the end are prepared to accept decisions against their conscience. Because sometimes I’ll be in the minority and I still have to sign at the bottom, and it is also forbidden to reveal outside who acquitted and who convicted, as is well known—“do not go about as a talebearer among your people.” The entire court signs the ruling, even though I oppose it with every fiber of my being. Why? That is why the “clear-minded of Jerusalem”—who was it?—used to check who sat with them at a meal and who sat with them in judgment. What? The clear-minded of Jerusalem. Yes. They would check who sat with them at a meal and who sat with them in judgment. Why? Because even someone who votes against me, I very much want to see that I am prepared to sit with him. I am not willing to sit with just anyone to vote and in the end accept his view because he is the majority and sign a ruling together with him. Meaning, I believe that even if he is mistaken, his mistake is legitimate. If that is so—if it falls within that framework—then I am willing to accept him as a member of the panel and enter that panel, even on the understanding that I may end up in the minority and then Jewish law will be ruled against me. And there are illegitimate mistakes. Illegitimate mistakes are outside the bounds. Those I disqualify. I don’t debate them. I don’t bring proofs. Whether to bring proofs may already be a tactical matter, but I do not go to a vote with them once we fail to persuade one another and accept the decision of the majority. Yes, like the questions of Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz, with the priest who asked him, “Why don’t you follow us? After all, we are the majority.” So he says… I think I mentioned this one of the previous times. He says that one follows the majority when one is in doubt. If I am not in doubt, I do not follow the majority. Meaning, yes, if there is a piece of meat here that I saw slaughtered properly with my own eyes, and most of the stores in this town sell non-kosher meat, I won’t declare it non-kosher, right? Why not? One follows the majority. “Incline after the many,” no? But if I know the truth about this piece, I am not in doubt, then I do not follow the majority. Following the majority is a rule for how to resolve doubts. If I am in doubt, I follow the majority. If I am not in doubt, I don’t need to follow the majority. So here too it is the same. I don’t hold votes against someone who is not even within the terms of doubt. I am not willing to accept his position as legitimate at all. So in any case there is no point in voting. Someone who is a recognized decisor and has a different position—assuming one needs to reach one decision—then we’ll hold a vote and the majority will decide, there’s no choice. So there is legitimate error and illegitimate error. And by the way, where the line passes between legitimate and illegitimate error—don’t ask me. I don’t know what criteria there are and what there aren’t. But the fact that there are two such circles, everyone understands that there are two such circles. Exactly where the line passes? There are Haredim who will tell you that Religious Zionists are like Reform. In other words, that’s an illegitimate error. And sometimes the knitted-kippah crowd thinks, “Wait, but Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel always had disputes, what is all this zealotry and this isolationism?” One has to understand: the claim is that this is an illegitimate error. Not that other positions aren’t recognized. Even within the Haredi world there are different positions, and here and there they accept them as well. That happens too. The only question is where the boundary passes between a position that is a legitimate mistake and one that is an illegitimate mistake. In my eyes, everyone stands at the center and draws circles around himself. Those circles somehow also have to intersect. But there’s no choice; everyone acts according to the circles as he understands them. And I think that in principle this is correct. There is no room for this criticism in the substantive sense. Meaning, because it is true: there are two circles—legitimate error and illegitimate error. Exactly where the line passes—that is already a much harder question to decide. Doesn’t this assume that it could simply be that I too am wrong? And that this is not a legitimate mistake? If I were certain… No, I think not, and I’ll try in a moment to explain why not. First I’ll just bring an example: the Talmud says that Jewish law was not decided in accordance with Rabbi Meir because his colleagues could not get to the bottom of his reasoning. He was such a genius, such an extraordinary prodigy, that no one could really debate with him, they couldn’t understand him. Well then such a prodigy certainly ought to have Jewish law decided in accordance with him everywhere—whatever he says is surely right, I’m not even capable of arguing with him. So why didn’t they rule like him? They didn’t rule like him because Jewish law is not only… what is truly the right thing to do. Jewish law is a weighing of two values: what is truly the right thing to do, and what I think is truly the right thing to do. Or in other words, the weighing is between the value of truth and the value of autonomy. Meaning, I am supposed to do what I think is right. That is what I am supposed to do. Of course I must strive for truth as much as I can, but in the end a judge has only what his eyes can see—that is, what I think is the truth—that is what is incumbent upon me to do. Even at the price of possibly being wrong. And if the person who disagrees with me is a great man, then his honor remains in place. I’ll reconsider his words again and again and ask him again and reconsider them again. In the end a judge has only what his eyes can see, and I am supposed to do what I think. There are various cases; I’m not entering all those cases right now. Broadly speaking, the balance between the value of truth and the value of autonomy is, in the bottom line, what is called Jewish law. And what does that mean? Precisely this leads us to the distinction with which I opened—between pluralism and tolerance. Because what we in fact see in Jewish law when we say “these and those are the words of the living God”: the law follows Beit Hillel because Beit Hillel are right, so the law follows Beit Hillel. Why do we nevertheless treat Beit Shammai as “the words of the living God”? What do you mean why? Because we have tolerance toward people whose mistakes are justified. Tolerance toward people whose mistakes are justified. Exactly how does one build the model? I’m shortening now, just trying to show the stages. There is an article in HaMaayan 47:2, you can see more details there if you want, an article of mine. I’m only giving the scheme here. Basically there is—yes, the Talmud says one appoints to the Sanhedrin only someone who knows how to bring 150 reasons to declare the creeping thing impure and 150 reasons to declare the creeping thing pure. So Rabbenu Tam there asks: what do I need all these empty sophistries for? What is this, declaring the creeping thing impure, declaring it pure? The creeping thing is impure—what is there to argue about? Maharal’s words on this are well known: in fact that is true, there are 150 reasons to declare the creeping thing impure and 150 reasons to declare it pure. And in the end what will the law be? That the creeping thing is impure. Is that not true? Could it just as well have turned out that the creeping thing is pure? Of course not. It is complete truth—the creeping thing is impure. Does that mean that the reasons to declare it pure are not correct? Certainly they are correct. Completely correct. No less correct than the reasons to declare it impure. Only what? Only now that there is a clash, I have to decide what to do. And here I now have to weigh the reasons from both directions. Weigh in the sense of weight: to assign weight to all the reasons and see which reasons prevail. And the reasons to declare the creeping thing impure outweigh the reasons to declare it pure, and therefore according to the one and only Jewish law, the creeping thing is impure. And still, one appoints to the Sanhedrin only someone who knows how to declare the creeping thing pure with 150 reasons. Why? Because it is very important to understand those reasons—they are correct. It’s just that compared to the reasons for declaring it impure, their weight is less, but they are correct. So when we speak—where is this statement “these and those are the words of the living God” brought in the Talmud? As I said: either in Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, except that there it has no explanation. In tractate Gittin there is an explanation. There there is an argument over the concubine in Gibeah—whether he found a fly in his soup or found a hair. Then Elijah meets Rabbi Yonatan, and Rabbi Yonatan asks him, “So what does the Holy One, blessed be He, say?” He says, “My son Yonatan says thus, my son Evyatar says thus.” So—can there be doubt before Heaven? He says, “These and those are the words of the living God. He found a fly and got upset, he found a hair and did not get upset,” or the reverse—I don’t remember now. Meaning, there there is also an explanation of what is meant when one says “these and those are the words of the living God.” What is meant? In the bottom line, both of them were wrong. “These and those are the words of the living God” means both are wrong. Because what happened there was that he found both things, and each one of them grasped only part of the matter. That is exactly the harmonism I spoke about earlier. Each one grasped something true. What he said was true, just not the full truth. There too, the question is what exactly it means to say “he found a fly and did not get upset, he found a hair and got upset”—did it combine together into the annoyance? Or was the truth that he found a fly, but what upset him was the hair? It seems to me the simpler reading is that the irritation accumulated. Meaning, after he found both things, the annoyance arose from both together. So each of the two speakers there was right. He said something true. He found a fly and he found a hair, and that did indeed cause him to get upset. But the full truth is the combination of both. And that is the meaning—the Talmud itself interprets “these and those” this way. This is the only place where there is an interpretation of that statement. The Talmud itself explains it. What does this actually mean? It means that when we see reasons this way and that way, there is now a dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel. Beit Shammai think these reasons carry more weight. Everyone understands all the reasons. Beit Hillel think those reasons carry more weight. Who is right? Beit Hillel are right, and therefore the law was ruled in accordance with them. Why are the words of Beit Shammai “the words of the living God”? What do you mean, why? Because their reasons really are the words of the living God. They are completely correct reasons, one hundred percent, not ninety-nine percent. Completely correct reasons. When we are speaking on the plane of reasons, then “these and those are the words of the living God”—everyone is equally right, and this contradicts nothing. But when we are speaking about Jewish law—what should be done? That is the pluralism I mentioned earlier: “these and those are the words of the living God.” When we are speaking about what should be done, there there is one truth: the creeping thing is impure. There is no possibility of saying the creeping thing is pure. There is one truth. Whoever says otherwise is mistaken. Where? In the weighing of the reasons, not in the reasons themselves. In the relative weight he assigns to the reasons—there one is right and one is wrong. You know that Rabbi Yosef Karo, in his rules of Talmudic interpretation, writes—there in the Talmud, where it says “these and those are the words…,” why does the Talmud ask there why the law was decided in accordance with Beit Hillel? The Talmud says: because they were gentle and humble, and they would cite the words of Beit Shammai before their own. So he says: what, they got a prize for nice behavior? Is that why we desecrate the Sabbath? We don’t desecrate the Sabbath because Beit Hillel were nice people. He says: no, of course not. They cited the words of Beit Shammai before their own, and therefore it is more likely that they were right. The fact that they were gentle means they seriously weighed the reasons of Beit Shammai. They didn’t assume their own reasons from the start and refuse to look right or left. They took the reasons of Beit Shammai, weighed them before they formed their own view, and only afterward formed their own view. So who is more likely to be right? Beit Hillel are more likely to be right. So because they were gentle, the law follows them—because they are right. Not as a prize for nice behavior. So what comes out of this? First of all, this is the model through which one can fit all the positions—monism, pluralism, and harmonism. Harmonism is simply the gathering together of these two things. And no one really disagrees with the other. Exactly as I now say even about this itself: “these and those are the words of the living God” with regard to the interpretations of the rule “these and those are the words of the living God.” Those who spoke about pluralism were speaking about the plane of reasons, and on the plane of reasons everyone is right, obviously. There are reasons to declare the creeping thing pure, there are reasons to declare it impure, and no one ever disputed that. All those reasons are all correct—all three hundred in both directions. And Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel agree on all three hundred, there is no disagreement at all. That is “these and those are the words of the living God,” and that is obvious. Halakhic monism speaks about the ruling. When the ruling is that the creeping thing is impure, then the creeping thing is impure. It is not pure. The reasons remain honored in their place; the weight of the reasons to declare it impure outweighs the weight of the reasons to declare it pure. So monism is talking about the ruling, and harmonism is talking about the whole structure. That is exactly what it says: there are reasons this way, there are reasons that way, and there is a ruling. These three aspects together create the three views, and that’s all. What now is the difference—and I’ll connect this to the introduction—between legitimate and illegitimate error in this model? Illegitimate error is either an offender, which we’re not talking about at all, or someone not qualified to give halakhic rulings. Someone not qualified to give halakhic rulings, someone not really capable of entering halakhic disputes at all, forms a halakhic position irresponsibly. What can happen there? Why don’t we accept that? One can find sources—the Rosh in Sanhedrin and others—that say that this halakhic pluralism applies only to someone who is competent. Why? There is also an article in Meisharim that touches on this; in the first volume of Meisharim I wrote an article on the matter too. Why in fact only toward someone who is competent? It seems to me the simplest way to explain it is that someone who is not competent may be using reasons that are simply incorrect. He is not yet even in this sphere where one understands that all these three hundred reasons are correct, and on that there is no disagreement; Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel do not disagree about those three hundred reasons. These hundred and fifty and those hundred and fifty—will there be something? No: there is a certain aspect by virtue of which it is impure, and another aspect by virtue of which it is pure. And they disagree about what weight to assign to this aspect versus that aspect. Not because this reason is incorrect and that reason is incorrect. No—they think this reason weighs less. It is almost hard to imagine a dispute in which someone says: your reasoning is simply wrong. Your reasoning is problematic from a certain aspect, and that aspect outweighs the other aspect for me. Usually there is no disagreement over… when you explain something to me, say a rationale, and I don’t agree with it, I don’t disagree because I directly reject it as the opposite of the truth or because what you say is nonsense. I disagree because I’m looking at it from a different angle than you are. That is usually what happens—certainly not between Jews who are already qualified to rule. It doesn’t happen there. Try checking it and you’ll see. It doesn’t happen. Hardly ever; I can barely imagine such a case. So someone who is not qualified can in fact say reasons that are simply incorrect. Regarding that, “these and those are the words of the living God” was never said at all. Why? Because if “these and those” meant there is no correct halakhic position at all, then what’s the problem? Do whatever you want anyway—what difference does it make? There is no correct halakhic position. As long as you think it’s right, great—do it. What’s the problem? If there is some circle that marks off legitimate errors from illegitimate ones, that already means there is some aspect of truth here. Meaning, someone who comes up with reasons that are simply wrong—about him there is no point in talking at all about pluralism or tolerance or things of that type. Within the circle of legitimate errors, these are errors of weighing. What weight do I assign to each reason? In the world of weights it is really hard to decide. Weights—how exactly do we weigh one thing against another? Here the mistakes truly are legitimate mistakes. These weigh this way and those weigh that way. We spoke about speed on the roads, you remember, one of the previous times—that’s exactly a question of weighing, a question of where to place the weight. It’s very hard to decide that. And therefore, someone who has already reached the level of giving rulings can be presumed to be saying things that are correct on the level of reasons. His weightings may differ. Toward that I am willing to be tolerant—again, not pluralistic, tolerant. The pluralism applies to the reasons. As for halakhic ruling, if he acts differently—“in Rabbi Yosei’s place they ate chicken with milk”—that was tolerance, not pluralism. Therefore there is really no need to get into this mess, this logical tangle, of applying the pluralistic rule to the interpretations of pluralism itself. It need not be applied either here or to Jewish law itself. And whoever checks all the prefaces, even those prefaces that authors usually quote there in the book—the prefaces explain at every step, “and although I fear that I may be mistaken,” and so on, “still these and those are the words of the living God.” If “these and those are the words of the living God” were a statement of substantive pluralism, then what is there to fear—that I’m mistaken? Maybe I haven’t reached the level of giving rulings? “Who am I compared with our rabbis? I am like moss on the wall,” and so on, all these funny expressions—and then they launch into whole speeches about “these and those are the words of the living God,” and basically everyone… All the halakhic decisors, speaking innocently, every last one. They are constantly afraid of halakhic mistakes. If there were no halakhic truth, then what fear is there of error? What’s the problem? I follow Rashba, you follow Maimonides—that is surely correct. Rashba surely didn’t make a mistake, so why do I need to start searching, not searching, following the majority, looking for proofs this way and that? Why should any of that trouble me? What is the concept of fearing to issue rulings at all? What is there to fear, especially if I am relying on some earlier halakhic decisor? What is the difference between one who errs in an explicit Mishnah and one who errs in judgment? What does “errs in judgment” mean? He has mistaken judgment. Have you ever heard of such a thing as mistaken judgment? That’s his judgment—what do you mean mistaken judgment? You have different judgment, he has this judgment. What is “mistaken judgment”? There is such a thing as mistaken judgment. What is it? That’s Talmud, not prefaces to Ketzot HaHoshen. What is mistaken judgment? Mistaken judgment means that even in judgment there is error and there is non-error. True, the Talmud itself—look there—it is more subtle than I’m presenting here. In the Talmud it appears that the accepted practice of the world goes in a certain direction, meaning the custom spread in a certain direction. But one can show that this is not only an indication; it is not the thing itself. The fact that the custom spread that way is an indication that this is the correct thing, and to say otherwise is incorrect—not that that itself is the criterion. But that really is already… Wait, but judgment is an interpretation of possibility, I don’t know, of each person’s life experience. The medieval authority meant one thing; that’s not “these and those are the words of the living God.” It doesn’t matter—what difference does it make what he meant? What? It doesn’t matter what he meant. So in many places, much of our Jewish law is shaped by saying that someone who behaves this way… Well, it doesn’t matter. What do you mean it doesn’t matter what the medieval authority meant? What matters is what is written in his book. And what is written in his book is what I understand is written in his book—why should I care what he meant? Why, what are you seizing on in what is written? Why? Because what received authority was his book, not him. I can’t argue—there is something to that. There is; read introduction 9, I wrote about it there. Admittedly, there it’s more extreme than what I think today, but read it there. It is not reasonable to assume that if a medieval authority were standing here in the class, we would never catch him in a mistake. Does that seem likely to you? I’m asking: likely? No—it seems likely that I would receive the medieval authority as I would receive the medieval authority. Maybe he’s mistaken? What? Maybe he’s mistaken. Fine, I accept everything he said. No, no, judgment—maybe he’s mistaken. No, I’m asking: maybe he erred. What is judgment? He could have erred. Missed something. Erred? Yes. There’s an objection to him with no answer. If he were here in the class we’d hit him with an objection and he’d collapse on the spot. So why do you assume he never errs? When you reconcile him with Talmudic passages, reconcile contradictions in his words, build all sorts of castles in the air—the assumption is that the book received some authority. You can call that mystical if you want, or without the mysticism. And as far as we are concerned, we are bound by what is written in the book, within certain limits. And what is written in the book can be interpreted in two directions. Exactly as “these and those are the words of the living God” was also said regarding interpretations of what was done in the Tabernacle in relation to the labors of the Sabbath. How exactly was it done in the Tabernacle? Seemingly this is a dispute about reality. Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner has an article on this, where he says: what do I care about the reality? What matters to me now is what is written in the Torah—how I understand from within the Torah what the reality was. And regarding that there really are two possibilities. I don’t care what truly happened in the Tabernacle. If Elijah appeared now and revealed to me what really happened in the Tabernacle, it wouldn’t change anything. So the assumption is that with regard to the medieval authorities too, the reception is of that same pattern. Not because the medieval authorities are like the Torah, but because the mode of reception is the same. I did not accept the person; I accepted the book. And both are in fact limited—there is no absolute principle.