Midrash and the Principles of Interpretation – Lesson 1

Table of Contents

• Midrash and plain meaning, and deciding Jewish law
• Halakhic midrash versus aggadic midrash
• Pilpul and homiletics
• The Pnei Yehoshua and a vow not to engage in aggadah
• Torah, Judaism, Jewish law, and morality
• A critique of reading values out of the Bible, with examples from slavery, the Holocaust, and politics
• Pardes as parallel systems of reading
• Parallel explanatory planes: theology and physics, emotion and nature, philosophy and psychology
• The definition of “explanation” as a sufficient condition, and the difficulties with two independent explanations
• Local correspondence and global correspondence between systems of rules
• Breaking the correspondence: miracle and scriptural decree
• A note on Leibniz

Summary

General Overview

The text defines halakhic midrash as a parallel reading system alongside the plain meaning, one that usually adds to the plain meaning but only rarely contradicts it. In cases of contradiction, Jewish law is ruled in accordance with the midrash, even though “a verse never loses its plain meaning,” and so the question remains why the Torah was formulated the way it was. The text sharply distinguishes between halakhic midrash and aggadic midrash, describes a suspicious attitude toward the world of aggadah and toward “vorts” that do not meet standards of inference, and argues that Judaism and Torah, in their binding sense, are only Jewish law and not “Jewish values” or “Jewish morality.” The text suggests that the different planes of reading in Pardes operate as parallel systems with a general correspondence, but that at certain points the correspondence breaks down, similar to a miracle in nature and to a “scriptural decree” in Torah.

Midrash and Plain Meaning, and Deciding Jewish Law

The text assumes that “the Torah has seventy faces” allows multiple interpretations of the same verse without contradiction, but it states that sometimes midrash and plain meaning do clash. The text presents “You shall fear the Lord your God” — including Torah scholars — as a case in which the midrash adds an additional obligation and does not contradict the plain meaning. It presents “an eye for an eye” as money as a case in which the midrash contradicts the plain meaning, and in such rare cases the ruling follows the midrash and not the simple meaning. The text emphasizes that even after ruling in accordance with the midrash, the demand of the plain meaning remains in force because “a verse never loses its plain meaning,” and this sharpens the question of why the Torah did not write the halakhic rule directly.

Halakhic Midrash versus Aggadic Midrash

The text states that midrash in the sense of parable or allegory is not halakhic midrash, and that “midrash aggadah” is a different world. The text declares that the course deals only with halakhic midrash and expresses suspicion that aggadic midrash is close to homiletics, where the conclusion is correct but the inference does not hold water. The text notes that there are the thirty-two hermeneutic principles of Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yose HaGelili, and that some commentators attribute them to aggadic midrash. It also notes that aggadic midrashim make use of tools such as verbal analogy and the hermeneutic principles of halakhic midrash, but the use of them seems different.

Pilpul and Homiletics

The text offers a critical definition of the difference between pilpul and homiletics through two criteria: the quality of the inference and the correctness of the conclusion. The text defines pilpul as an inference that seems well constructed but produces an incorrect conclusion, and illustrates this with an a fortiori argument that tries to obligate ritual fringes on a doorpost or a mezuzah on a four-cornered garment. The text defines homiletics as an invalid inference that leads to a correct and banal conclusion, and describes how the public applauds because the conclusion is acceptable even though the path to it is “nonsense.”

The Pnei Yehoshua and a Vow Not to Engage in Aggadah

The text brings, from the introduction to Pnei Yehoshua, a story about an earthquake in which his wife and daughter were killed and he was rescued after days beneath the ruins. The text notes that Pnei Yehoshua took upon himself a vow not to engage in aggadah in order to be saved, and explains that in his commentary he carefully works through the halakhic passages and skips over aggadic ones. The text explains this by arguing that in aggadah people are not careful about standards of precision and proof as they are in Jewish law, and therefore it is better to avoid it.

Torah, Judaism, Jewish Law, and Morality

The text argues that Judaism and Torah are only Jewish law, and that beyond that there is no “Judaism” in any binding sense. The text cites the words of Rabbi Yitzchak in the first Rashi, “Why didn’t the Torah begin with ‘This month shall be for you’?” and interprets the question as assuming that Torah is first and foremost halakhic commands, while everything else requires justification. The text argues that there is no “Jewish morality,” only correct morality that obligates all human beings, whereas Jewish law obligates Jews alone. Therefore, “Jewish values” as an independent category are not something real.

A Critique of Reading Values out of the Bible, with Examples from Slavery, the Holocaust, and Politics

The text argues that Bible commentators almost always arrive at conclusions the reader would have reached in advance anyway, and the novelty lies mainly in the way they fit those conclusions into the verses. The text uses slavery as an example and argues that the Torah regulates slavery as part of life and does not hint that slavery is wrong, whereas in the Oral Torah there may perhaps be directions like “the ear that heard at Mount Sinai.” The text argues that when modern morality rejects slavery or certain actions, a person will not change his view because of a verse, but will interpret the verses so that they do not contradict his position. The text compares this to the fact that every side learns from the Holocaust or from history whatever it thought in advance, and extends this to politics as well: every side drafts “Judaism” to justify its position, and therefore the use of Judaism to justify opinions is unnecessary.

Pardes as Parallel Systems of Reading

The text lists plain meaning, hint, midrash, and secret as parallel planes of relating to the Torah, and notes that the acronym “Pardes” has no source in the Sages and is a later invention, even though the approach itself exists. The text argues that one can read the Torah through each prism independently and arrive at different, and sometimes even contradictory, results. On the theoretical level, the text states that each of these interpretations can be true, and that “the Torah has seventy faces” means a multiplicity of correct interpretations, all of which are “faces of the Torah.”

Parallel Explanatory Planes: Theology and Physics, Emotion and Nature, Philosophy and Psychology

The text demonstrates the possibility of two explanatory planes through the myth of Newton and the apple, presenting a theological explanation of punishment alongside a physical explanation of gravity as two planes. The text brings the splitting of the Red Sea as a theological explanation of deliverance alongside a physical explanation of “a strong east wind.” The text brings from Oscar Wilde’s “The Happy Prince” the breaking of the statue’s lead heart, explained both emotionally as grief and naturally as a matter of cold and material. The text describes how repentance and going off the religious path are explained by one side in philosophical terms and by another side in psychological terms, and argues that both planes can be correct, but people choose the plane that is convenient for them in order to avoid intellectual confrontation.

The Definition of “Explanation” as a Sufficient Condition, and the Difficulties with Two Independent Explanations

The text defines an explanation as finding a sufficient condition for the thing being explained, and distinguishes between a necessary condition, a sufficient condition, and a necessary and sufficient condition. The text argues that if gravity is a sufficient condition for the apple’s fall, then Newton’s sins are irrelevant to the fall; and if the theological explanation is a sufficient condition, then the fall does not depend on the laws of nature. Therefore two independent explanations cannot both be complete explanations. The text suggests the possibility that the “explanation” is a combination of psychology and philosophy together, such that neither one alone is a sufficient condition, and the combination is the sufficient condition.

Local Correspondence and Global Correspondence Between Systems of Rules

The text presents local correspondence through the description of a point in a Cartesian coordinate system versus a polar one, where there are clear transition rules and every principle is translated into an equivalent principle. The text presents global correspondence through Hofstadter’s example in “Gödel, Escher, Bach,” in which rules for generating words in a typographic language can be translated into arithmetic rules. It raises the possibility that two completely different systems of rules could generate the same set of results without any direct mapping between one law and another. The text suggests that, theoretically, theology and physics too could be two different systems that produce the same set of “lawful” events, without any local translation between the laws of physics and theological considerations.

Breaking the Correspondence: Miracle and Scriptural Decree

The text argues that the global correspondence will almost always break at certain points, similar to the breakdown in the transition between Cartesian and polar coordinates at the origin, where the angle is undefined. The text defines a miracle as a place where there is no physical explanation for a phenomenon but there is a theological explanation, because nature cannot do what the theological consideration requires and so there is intervention. The text defines a “scriptural decree” as a place where there is no plain-sense explanation for a law but there is an explanation on another plane, such as the plane of secret, and parallels this to a breakdown of the correlation between planes of reading. The text concludes that the relation between the planes of Pardes is one of global correspondence with rare breaking points, and adds that a miracle points to an inability to produce a deterministic system that will suffice for all needs — but that inability is logical, like the impossibility of a “round triangle.”

A Note on Leibniz

The text refers briefly to Leibniz’s principle of the identity of indiscernibles as a possible analogy for the idea that absolute identity in phenomena points to identity in essence, but states that in the speaker’s view Leibniz is mistaken.

We’re basically dealing with the hermeneutical principles, and I want to start perhaps with the definition of what a derash is. And after we talk about what a derash is, we’ll get more into the principles themselves and their significance. So maybe I’ll begin by saying a bit about the relationship between derash and peshat. Usually, when we talk about derash and peshat, our assumption is that the Torah has seventy facets. Meaning, you can interpret the Torah by way of derash, you can interpret it by way of peshat, and there’s no contradiction. In other words, you can layer several interpretations onto the same verse. But sometimes there is a contradiction between the world of derash and the world of peshat. For example: “You shall fear the Lord your God”—to include Torah scholars. The assumption is that “et” comes to include, but the lesson derived from the derash does not contradict the plain meaning of the verse. “You shall fear the Lord your God” is an obligation of fear of God, a commandment of fearing God, and “to include Torah scholars” means there is also a commandment to revere Torah scholars, so that adds to the peshat but doesn’t contradict it. But what happens with “an eye for an eye” meaning monetary compensation? “An eye for an eye”—there aren’t many examples, so it’s not hard to think about this—there are very few examples where the derash contradicts the peshat. But there are such places. For example, “an eye for an eye” meaning money—the derash that says this means monetary compensation contradicts the peshat, because in the plain meaning it says to take out an eye. So there we see that there is a contradiction between derash and peshat. In cases of contradiction—there are a few other places like that, but not many—in most cases derash adds laws to the peshat and does not contradict the peshat. In places where there is a contradiction between derash and peshat, we rule like the derash. For example with “an eye for an eye,” look at all the halakhic decisors: the ruling is monetary compensation, not actually gouging out the eye. Meaning, it seems that the derash is actually the more—I don’t know, let’s call it the real interpretation, or the one accepted in Jewish law, the one aimed at what the verse really wanted to tell me. But on the other hand, the Talmud says, “A verse never departs from its plain meaning.” Meaning, after we derive a derash, the Talmud can still ask: but why did the Torah write “an eye for an eye”? Let it write “money for an eye.” If it wrote “an eye for an eye,” that means there is something that remains in the peshat too, even though we interpret according to the derash, and rule according to the derash. Therefore we haven’t solved the problem by ruling like the derash; on the contrary, we’ve intensified the problem, because if we rule like the derash, then the question arises: so why didn’t the Torah just write the derash directly? Why did it write it in this way? Can I ask a question? Just about derash in general—does derash also include, say, parable, allegory? Is that included in derash? No, absolutely not. What’s called midrash, say in contexts of aggadic midrash, is a completely different world, something entirely different. Maybe I’ll talk about that a bit. In any case, the point is that derash is some sort of parallel plane of relating to the verses, parallel to peshat. And still, since sometimes there can be contradictions, we need to understand the relationship between these two things. Which of them is true? It’s not reasonable that both are true, because after all sometimes there are contradictions. And if only the derash is the true one, then why didn’t the Torah write it directly? Why does it give me peshat and I have to somehow extract strange conclusions by way of derash? There are many more parallel questions, like how can we rely on the whole world of derash at all? It looks like some kind of game, where we don’t really understand how it works. It seems like there are almost no rules here; basically people do whatever they want. So here I want maybe first of all to talk about the essential conception of the relation between derash and peshat. But before that I’ll add one more preface, and that relates to what you asked earlier about derush or aggadah. There is legal derash and aggadic derash. In this course, in this series of lectures, we will talk only about legal derash. Aggadic derash is another chapter entirely—I suspect completely different. Still, once upon a time I wrote about the difference between pilpul and derush. So I said that interpretation—I’ve said this before—before I wrote it I said it, and someone was offended, because he had spoken before me and given some derushim there, and then I kind of… anyway, I didn’t say it jokingly, I said it critically, and he was offended, justifiably—a fairly famous rabbi. Well, in any case, my claim was that the difference is this: when you derive an interpretive conclusion from verses, from the Talmudic text, from whatever it may be, it ought to meet two standards, two kinds of criteria. The inference has to hold water—that is, the argument that leads to the conclusion has to be a good argument—and the conclusion has to be correct. And those two don’t always go together. When don’t they go together? Once in derush, and once in pilpul. Pilpul is when the inference is constructed properly but the conclusion is not correct. And derush is when the conclusion is correct but the inference is not correct. That’s the difference between pilpul and derush. I’ll give you an example. Authors of methodological works bring examples to illustrate a kal va-homer, an a fortiori argument, and they say: let’s derive by kal va-homer that one must put fringes on every doorpost. If a four-cornered garment, which is exempt from mezuzah, is obligated in fringes, then a doorpost, which is obligated in mezuzah, should certainly be obligated in fringes. Or conversely, the other way around: let’s obligate a four-cornered garment in mezuzah. If a doorpost, which is exempt from fringes, is obligated in mezuzah, then a four-cornered garment, which is obligated in fringes, should certainly be obligated in mezuzah. Okay. Now the conclusion here—to obligate a doorpost in fringes or a four-cornered garment in mezuzah—we clearly know is wrong. But to put your finger on what is problematic in the kal va-homer is not trivial. Meaning, the kal va-homer seems to hold water, even though the conclusion is obviously not correct. That’s pilpul. Meaning, pilpul is someone managing to bring you an inference that seems convincing, but the result is absurd. Okay, that’s basically pilpul. And therefore pilpul is some sort of challenge, an intellectual challenge, you could say. Since we know the conclusion is not correct, let’s try to put our finger on where the problem in the argument is. Because if the argument is correct, then how can it be that the conclusion is not correct? Okay, so if the conclusion is not correct, let’s work backward and see where the argument—despite appearing persuasive on the surface—where exactly, what exactly is wrong with the argument. It’s like a paradox, right? A paradox always brings you to a conclusion that is problematic, and the trick is to put your finger on where in the inference the problem lies. Yes, the paradoxes of Achilles and the tortoise, or all sorts of paradoxes like that, bring you to a conclusion that you know cannot be right—it’s absurd—but the inference leading there seems completely persuasive. And therefore a paradox is some sort of riddle, an intellectual challenge. Pilpul is also like that; pilpul is a kind of paradox. Derush, by contrast, is just conceptual garbage. Meaning, derush is an inference that does not hold water but leads to a correct conclusion. You take, I don’t know, some Torah portion or another, explain with convoluted analyses that have no connection to the portion itself, and arrive at the conclusion that one must be righteous and humble and careful in observing the commandments and all kinds of things of that sort. And the conclusion is of course correct, and therefore many times… “When you go out against your enemies”—that means the evil inclination? Maybe, I don’t know, could be. But I’m saying instead: the aggadic midrashim of the Sages—wait, I’ll get to that. First I’m talking about little sermonettes you hear, I don’t know, at a sheva berakhot or in synagogue; usually it’s all nonsense. Except that the conclusions there are conclusions no one will argue with. Meaning: yes, one should be humble, one should keep the commandments, everything is fine, everything is correct, one mustn’t be arrogant, one should give charity, help others, Jewish unity, I don’t know, all kinds of banal things of that sort. So once the conclusion is correct, everyone claps—well done, well done, may we merit to see children. Meaning, nobody bothers to say, wait, wait, but the interpretations you made on the way to this simple conclusion don’t hold water—what are you babbling about? It’s nonsense. People who arrive at conclusions that seem acceptable to the public, or correct, allow themselves to talk nonsense. The Penei Yehoshua, in the introduction to his commentary, tells a pretty shocking story. That same famous rabbi—we also once talked about the Penei Yehoshua on another panel we had. The Penei Yehoshua recounts that there was an earthquake in his city, and his family was buried under the rubble. He himself sat there two or three days under the rubble until they rescued him, and he lost his wife and daughter there. They were killed in that earthquake. And while he was trapped under the rubble, he took upon himself not to engage in aggadah. So that the Holy One, blessed be He, would help him be saved, he promised the Holy One, blessed be He—he vowed—not to engage in aggadah. And if you look at the Penei Yehoshua, you’ll see he goes line by line without skipping. He is rare in that respect. Every initial assumption, every conclusion, every Rashi, every Tosafot—what is the initial assumption, what is the conclusion—he works everything out to the end. Sometimes it is really exhausting how little he lets go. On aggadah, not a word. He does not touch aggadah, only the legal parts of the passage. That is a result of this vow, and he brings it in the introduction so that we understand why he skips it and why it is so. Because he says that in aggadah people say little sermonettes. People don’t really insist on precision there—on whether it holds water, on clearly defining the options, proving one possibility rather than another. It doesn’t stand up to the same tests that we try to apply to Jewish law or to legal analysis. And so he says: since people—and I myself too, he says—do not insist on truth here, it’s better not to deal with it. And in that sense that’s exactly the meaning of derush. Derush is some kind of thing that you evaluate by its result. If the result is correct, then great, everything is fine, everything is wonderful. But you don’t examine the inferences that lead to it. And my feeling—and it’s a strong one, I would say, though people get a little angry when I say it—is that a lot of aggadic midrash is derush. In the end, in the end, you arrive at the right conclusion and everything is fine. So what does it matter if you hang an elephant on the eye of a needle, if you twist it around in all sorts of ways that really aren’t convincing, that don’t seem to hold water? But the result is a correct result, so what’s the problem? Then everything is fine. Therefore I avoid dealing with aggadah and with derushim in general. And therefore the aggadic hermeneutical principles as well—I strongly suspect that they are basically tools meant to justify ad hoc conclusions that I wanted to say anyway. So I use one aggadic derush or another, but basically it’s not a real proof. Are there hermeneutical principles at all for derush, for aggadah? Yes, we’ll get to that. The thirty-two principles of Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei the Galilean. And according to at least some commentators, what characterizes them is that they are principles of aggadic derash. And you also see in aggadic midrashim that there is sometimes use of these principles—a gezerah shavah, all the principles we know from legal midrash also appear in aggadic midrash. But I think the use of those principles there is different. At least that’s how it appears. Maybe I’m missing something, because I don’t know how they did it. But on the face of it, it seems that when I see today what all sorts of preachers, rabbis, lecturers allow themselves to say in the world of aggadah, you understand that it’s all nonsense. So I don’t see—when did that begin? In the eighteenth century? It also looks that way in the eighteenth century. It also looks that way in the sixteenth century. It also looks that way in the eleventh century. So I suspect it was already like that in the Talmud as well. That aggadic derash in the Talmud is a derash meant to tell people ideas, not really something… Therefore I’m somewhat doubtful how worthwhile it is to invest effort in it, to be precise about what the initial assumption was, what the conclusion was, in the aggadic parts of the passages. And how much—leave it, it’s like trying to be precise about little sermonettes you hear at a sheva berakhot, I don’t know. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. In any case, I’m talking only about legal derash. Maybe as an addition to this point I’ll say that in my view people make a mistake in defining what Torah is or what Judaism is. I think Judaism and Torah are only Jewish law, nothing besides that. Rashi—Rashi’s very first comment on the Torah—brings Rabbi Yitzhak, who asks why the Torah did not begin from “This month shall be for you.” Everyone there discusses his answer, “He declared to His people the power of His works,” and so on, but his question is more interesting than the answer. The answer, true, is not all that convincing, but the question is an interesting question. Why should the Torah begin with “This month shall be for you”? What is the question in the first place? What’s the difficulty? What is better about “This month shall be for you” than “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth”? His assumption is that Torah is only Jewish law. Rabbi Yitzhak’s? Rabbi Yitzhak’s, yes—Rashi’s as he brings it. Meaning, therefore we really should have begun with the first legal commandment, which is “This month shall be for you.” Everything else needs explanation as to why it appears there. At the root of the word Torah is instruction, and instruction is Jewish law. Okay? Therefore Rabbi Yitzhak’s assumption is an assumption that has to be thought about—that he is basically assuming that Torah is Jewish law. Anything beyond that requires explanation as to why it appears there. And when you look, for example, at Bible commentators—I’ll tell you, I don’t deal with Bible commentators. In Bible commentators you’ll see there, I don’t know, I’ve never heard anything new there. It always arrives at conclusions I would have understood on my own. If there’s any innovation there at all, it’s in the question of how to fit it into the verses. Sometimes there can even be flashes of brilliance. You wouldn’t have thought that that’s what the verse intended to say. But never in my life have I seen someone derive a genuinely novel conclusion from a verse and say, wow, I wouldn’t have thought that, but the verse said it, so apparently it’s true, and now I’m changing my position. What, that the verse claims something innovative? Yes—something contrary to what I would have thought without the verse. Say in the area of values. Has anyone ever inferred from a verse in the Torah some value that originally he would not have said? For example, with everything connected to slavery—the ancient world, where slavery was really a cornerstone, the Romans, the Greeks, wrote against those crazy Jews who make things easier for slaves and redeem them, free them. What do Bible commentators say about that, through to our own day? I have no idea. I’m just saying in general that this is something innovative. Great example. What do Bible commentators say about it, through to our own day? What do they say? That this was said only for its time, but the truth is that slavery is something invalid. Meaning, if you think slavery is something invalid, then entire sections of the Torah devoted to it will not change that. You’ll explain: okay, so you have a difficulty—how does the Torah relate to it? Then you’ll say, for their time, or this isn’t a commandment, it’s only a regulation of an institution that existed then. But basically today—or “when you go out to war,” same thing. Nobody says there is a commandment to take captive women. Even though that’s what it says? No. Because if my morality tells me that it is forbidden, that it is morally defective, then of course I also won’t derive otherwise from the Torah. I’ll just give explanations of how to reconcile the Torah. But what for? If I already know the conclusion in advance, why should I bother with this? I already know it’s problematic. Rabbi, I meant that specifically in the ancient world slavery was something trivial, and the Torah perhaps lays out a kind of program that gradually weans the world off slavery. No, it does no such thing. In the Oral Torah maybe there is something like that—“the ear that heard at Sinai,” “let him have his ear pierced,” and things like that. In the Torah, on the contrary, slavery is treated as part of life; it regulates it. Not all of Parashat Mishpatim, but a lot of Parashat Mishpatim deals with slaves. There is no hint there that there’s something defective about it. Why, because you have to care for them, for example? Fine, caring for them is all very well, but that doesn’t say slavery itself is defective. That they have to free some of them, the Hebrew ones. I’m saying: that doesn’t mean slavery is defective; it only means there is regulation of the concept of slavery. Fine, in the Torah there is a more moral trend than what existed at the time, but you won’t find in the Torah—I at least don’t know of any statement—that slavery is something invalid. Today, after the values have been internalized in us, and perhaps came from outside, that slavery is something defective, now we already have a problem of Torah and morality, and we find explanations—we talked about this last semester—we find explanations of how nevertheless this does not contradict morality, but we are not going to change our morality because of what we found in the Torah. We always find in the Torah what we already think. It’s like those who learn lessons from the Holocaust. The Zionists learn from the Holocaust that one must not have been exilic and opposed Zionism, because look what happened there to those who stayed. What do the Haredim say? Look what happened because of Zionism. Right—everyone learns from history; what do they learn? What they thought beforehand. “Turn it over and turn it over…” Exactly, and therefore there’s no point in turning it over. I’m saying, if everything is in it, then there’s no point in turning it over—what for? If I know the conclusion in advance, why this whole story? Therefore I claim that the whole engagement with aggadah—not all of it, but the overwhelming majority of engagement with aggadah—is unnecessary and of no value. Because in the end, in the end, you’ll come out with the same conclusion that you desired from the outset. You’ll just explain with signs and wonders how this fits into the Torah and how the Torah doesn’t contradict it. Fine. But in the end the conclusion, for our purposes, is something you knew beforehand, so what’s the point of dealing with it? It’s unnecessary. Rabbi, just a question regarding what we said before. The rabbi also recognizes that the Torah has a direction, right? Meaning that even if it doesn’t say something explicitly, it presents things in such a way that in the end you understand that this thing is invalid. For example, that marrying two wives—although permitted by the Torah—… Where do you see that it’s invalid? No, the Torah doesn’t say it’s invalid, but it presents it as invalid. Where does it present it? Every time there’s a family with several wives, it never works out well. Always, every time there’s a family with several children, it also never works out well. So several children aren’t good either? Why? What? Yes, Jacob and Esau, Cain and Abel—not less than among pairs of wives. So that’s a very weak conclusion. And that conclusion, by the way, is another example of what I’m saying. What? That you live in an era in which it is obvious that a monogamous family is the right family. We all think that today—or I don’t know, almost everyone. Okay? And now suddenly, when we read the Torah, we understand that this is what the Torah says. It doesn’t say that. What? That monogamy is… that monogamy is preferable. The first human pair, Adam and Eve. Yes, and then Jacob did that, after he had learned about Adam and Eve and all that—Jacob married two women. Four, actually. Right, the choicest of the Patriarchs, we all ought to follow in his ways. “The book of the upright.” What—let’s say, if we lived in an environment where monogamy was considered the inferior model, and bigamy or polygamy the superior model, then we would learn from the Torah that polygamy is wonderful. That’s another example of what I’m saying. For example, there’s Rabbi Kook’s Vision of Vegetarianism, where basically he says that all the reasons the Torah gives are really stages. Another example of brutally forcing the Torah into shape, how we manage to arrange it so that it fits our values. Fine. No, I’m not saying that as criticism; everyone does it. But I’m saying—then what for? What’s the point? Like today, in the current arguments, even around current politics, right? Judaism obligates this, and someone else says Judaism obligates the opposite. What do you mean? My Judaism is liberalism and humanism and I don’t know what, and his Judaism is fascism and I don’t know what and our absolute rule in this land. Where does it come from? From the fact that you think one way and he thinks another, so now Judaism also says what you think. Everyone drafts it to their side. Capitalists say Judaism is capitalism, and socialists say Judaism is socialism. Because Judaism is neither this nor that. Judaism tells you: do what is right. Now everyone will decide what is right in his own eyes. So leave Judaism out of it, do what is right in your own eyes and that’s it. Why use it as a spade to dig with? It’s unnecessary. Okay, but that really is only in parentheses. The claim I do want to make is that there is some sort of centrality, I think, or essentiality, in Jewish law. Meaning, it seems to me that anything beyond Jewish law cannot be called Judaism. Anything beyond Jewish law. There is no such thing as Judaism other than Jewish law. There is no such thing as Jewish values, there is no such thing as Jewish morality—we talked about this last semester. There is no such thing as Jewish morality. There is morality, right and wrong. The Torah expects us to behave morally—“and you shall do what is right and good.” But there is not the Torah’s morality and some other morality. There is correct morality. It obligates all human beings, not only Jews. Morality. Jewish law does not. Jewish law obligates only Jews and not all human beings. Therefore what is defined as Judaism is only the legal aspects, in my view. And therefore I say: all this I’m saying only to explain why I’m going to focus here on legal derash. I deal with Jewish law. I don’t deal with other things for many reasons, some of which I’ve listed here. Okay. In legal derash we know that there are several ways of relating to verses. Legal derash is basically a certain way of reading the verses. A midrashic way. There are other ways of reading the verses. There is peshat, there is sod, there is remez—a discussion whether that too is a form of reading the verses. Pardes, right? By the way, that acronym Pardes has no source in the Sages; it’s a later invention. But no matter—the approach certainly exists, that there are several parallel ways of relating to the verses: peshat, remez, derash, and sod, with within each of them also several forms of relation. What is the relationship between these forms of relation? So I began with saying that there are parallels between derash and peshat, but sometimes there are contradictions too, like in “an eye for an eye.” How are we to understand the relationship between these planes? So the claim I want to make is that basically this is a parallel and independent system, and one can read the Torah through each of these prisms independently. One can read the Torah on the plane of peshat and then the result will be one thing. On the plane of derash the result will be something else—sometimes contradictory, sometimes not. Remez, sod, all these things. One can read the Torah in each of these planes in parallel, and each of these interpretations is true. What do you do when there are contradictions? Then you have to decide. But on the principled level, each of these interpretations is true. Different correct interpretations of the same verse. That’s my claim. When people say that the Torah has seventy facets, that’s what they mean. Seventy facets, all of them facets of the Torah, all of them correct interpretations. But there are derashot, say, that we wouldn’t accept. The rabbi himself said there are derashot that are… You’re talking about legal derash, not aggadic derash. Leave aggadah aside. I’m talking about Jewish law. No—how do I know to distinguish? Let’s deal with Jewish law. Say, just as an example… A midrash that says Abraham was in the fiery furnace, I don’t know, that’s aggadic midrash. It doesn’t affect Jewish law. No, but also, for example, “an eye for an eye” meaning monetary compensation. That’s legal derash. Yes, but I mean, why? Why what? Why? I didn’t understand the question. What do you mean, why? Why is that different from Abraham in the fiery furnace? Meaning, it’s something not anchored in the verses. No, it is anchored. There is “under” and “under,” a gezerah shavah, and from that they learn that “an eye for an eye” means money. They bring some gezerah shavah, a hermeneutical principle. Meaning, use of the legal hermeneutical principles from the verse… brings you to a conclusion different from what is written in the peshat of the verse. Now the question is: they contradict one another, so what do we do? We’ll discuss it. But this is use of a different toolbox, and it leads me to conclusions just as the peshat-oriented toolbox leads me to conclusions. Okay? Now I want to clarify a little more what I mean when I speak about parallelism between planes of explanation and planes of relation. Look, in this context several examples come to mind that may clarify the point. Say the famous myth about Newton, sitting under the tree and an apple falls on his head. And then, yes, Newton’s eureka—he found gravity. Meaning, he reached the conclusion that the earth pulls the apple to itself and therefore the apple fell. The question that comes up in this context is: what was wrong for Newton with the explanation that this was actually a punishment from the Holy One, blessed be He, for some sin he committed? Newton was a devout Christian. Yes, so basically this was a punishment he received for a sin he committed. Why did he need to arrive at a physical explanation, the force of gravity and all kinds of things like that? What’s wrong with the theological explanation? So the claim that appears obvious is that Newton, as a believing Christian, presumably accepted the theological explanation—not that he said it was incorrect. But in parallel he asks what the physical explanation is. There is an explanation on the theological plane and an explanation on the physical plane. On the theological plane, the apple fell on my head because yesterday I didn’t turn the other cheek. I deserve punishment, so an apple fell on my head. That’s the theological explanation. Besides that, he says—and this doesn’t negate it—there also needs to be a physical explanation: how did it happen? It happened by means of the force of gravity. These are two parallel explanations, one on the theological plane, one on the physical plane. We see that apparently there are two different explanations here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t accept both in parallel. They exist on different planes, in different spheres of inquiry. We can arrive at a different explanation. There is a physical explanation and there is a theological explanation. Okay? Likewise regarding miracles. When we speak about miracles, we say the Holy One, blessed be He, performed a miracle because, I don’t know, He split the sea. Fine. He had to split the sea in order to save the Jewish people from the Egyptians. That’s the theological explanation. But we can still ask how He did it. So He brought a strong east wind that split the sea, and so on. That’s the physical explanation of how this happened. We have a physical explanation and a theological explanation in parallel. Even though they’re two different explanations, we’re prepared to accept both. There is a nice literary example of this. Do you know Oscar Wilde’s story The Happy Prince? A well-known children’s story, everyone knows it. The Little Prince or The Happy Prince? The Happy Prince. The Little Prince is not Oscar Wilde, that’s Saint-Exupéry. The Happy Prince is Oscar Wilde, yes, with his heartbreaking stories. About a statue of a prince all made of gold and precious stones on a high pedestal inside the palace. This was a prince who once lived in the palace, and he died, and then they made a statue in his memory. And while he was alive inside the palace, the walls hid from him all the suffering in the city around him. And when he stood on the high pedestal above the walls, he saw all the miserable people around and wanted to help them, and so on. He can’t, because he’s a statue, he can’t move. A children’s story. At some point a swallow arrives. It’s not exactly just a children’s story. It is a children’s story, yes, but you can find meanings and interpretations in it. But it is a children’s story. Certainly not for very small children. It has vowels, yes. So then. A swallow came whose companions had already flown to Egypt. It was winter in cold Europe. Oscar Wilde is British, right? So it was winter and her companions had flown to Egypt, and she was delayed, and she got stuck in Europe, and she spent the night on the prince’s statue. Then, I’m guessing, he kept telling her to take a jewel and bring it to a poor person? Exactly. So the prince’s tears fell—he cried over all the suffering he suddenly saw. While he was alive he didn’t see it, right? This is of course a parable about aristocrats who don’t see all the suffering around them, and suddenly it is revealed to them. And then he starts sending the swallow on missions. My gold leaves, my eyes, my sword, the sheath of the sword made of precious stones, and so on. And she distributes it all to the city’s poor. And at some point the winter naturally grows harsher, day after day, and at some point the swallow already understands—it isn’t for nothing that swallows migrate to Egypt. They can’t survive the European winter. And she feels that she is about to die. And there is this heartbreaking scene near the end of the book where she parts from the prince. She says goodbye and goes off to die—not because she flies away, she can no longer fly. She no longer even has the strength to distribute the money to the poor around. And then she dies. And then he writes there: and a dull cracking sound was heard from within the prince’s body; his leaden heart split in two. Oh, how terrible the cold was. Meaning, why did the leaden heart split? Because he grieved over the death of the swallow, from sorrow? Or because the material could not withstand the changes in temperature? The cold split the lead in two. So that’s the physical explanation, and the emotional explanation, if you like. And of course it’s a book, but what it is coming to say is that even when the leaden heart split from grief over the swallow, there is some natural physical mechanism that explains how that happens on the physical plane. And the additional example of this duality of planes is someone becoming religious again, or someone leaving religion. Okay? So the secular society he joins says: well, at last he understood the nonsense and discovered the truth. They say he made the correct philosophical decision, left his nonsense and moved to… What do religious people say? He wanted to permit forbidden sexual relations for himself, therefore he left. Meaning, the secular people are philosophers and the religious people are psychologists. Right? He wanted to permit sexual immorality to himself. What about someone who returns in repentance? The opposite. The secular people are psychologists, of course—what crisis happened to him, why did he do this? They are psychologists. And the religious people are philosophers, meaning: at last he discovered the truth. Right? Who is correct? Both are correct. If you look on the philosophical plane, then the justifications for the step he took are justifications—you can agree or disagree, but he has some justifications for the step he took. If you look on the psychological plane, the psychologist’s language isn’t interested in justifications. In the psychologist’s language the question is what caused him to do it, and there you’ll find psychological explanations. If there is a psychological explanation, does that mean there is no philosophical explanation, or vice versa? No. On the philosophical plane there is an explanation that hangs on philosophical questions or philosophical arguments, and on the psychological plane there are psychological explanations. We are all human beings, and we are all motivated both by philosophical considerations and by psychological considerations. Right? Therefore it is completely obvious that we basically choose the plane that is convenient for us. Both planes are correct. But if I’m religious, then someone who joined me is of course a philosopher, because he discovered the truth—he thinks that’s the truth. And someone who leaves me, then there I become a psychologist. Why? Because it is more convenient for me to address it on the psychological plane. If I examine the philosophical arguments, that will put me in distress. Philosophical arguments require me too to examine my own path. And the same is true of the secularists. Meaning, we basically choose the plane of relation that is comfortable for us. Whereas the truth is, if we really want to take this seriously, then clearly both planes are correct. On the psychological plane, that’s his own personal matter and not my business, and on the philosophical plane one should examine his arguments and see what I answer or don’t answer directly, and not flee to the psychological plane and say okay, this is psychology, he had a crisis, therefore he did it. That is very comfortable for me, of course, but it is not intellectually honest. Okay? Meaning, there are two explanatory planes here, and the truth is that both exist, both are correct, and one does not exclude the other. Okay? So this is a set of examples showing you that many times we have arguments about what the correct explanation is, under the assumption in those arguments that if one explanation is correct then the other is not, and vice versa. But on many planes of life, when we examine it, we’ll see that two explanations can both be correct. But that isn’t trivial. I actually just had a question about this, and that will connect it to our topic. So my question is whether we received the conclusions of derash and the conclusions of peshat at the same time. I think not. And that raises the following question. When I approach the peshat and I see “an eye for an eye,” I have some additional baggage that pushes me to look for some derash-based interpretation that prevents me from fulfilling the command as written. Why—why is that connected to the timeline? And if it happened together, then what? The baggage caused it together with the peshat, caused the derash. No, because then maybe not. It could be that I received various commandments where I know that, say, this has… meaning, it has to be fulfilled in a certain way and in addition it also has another context. I don’t understand. The timeline doesn’t seem relevant to me here. Why? The question is that I may have different kinds of baggage that lead me to the midrashic interpretation. But that can happen simultaneously with the peshat interpretation. I don’t see why the timeline matters. No, is derash basically some attempt to come and fulfill the peshat in a way that seems more suitable to us? No, it’s not fulfilling the peshat. It is drawing out from the peshat, it is another interpretation besides the peshat. Yes, but it isn’t completely alien to it. Meaning there is some conceptual limitation a lot of the time. What do you mean conceptual? “An eye for an eye”—to gouge out an eye or to pay money—those are contradictory interpretations. The question is whether to gouge out the eye or to pay the money. Yes, but let’s say that in both cases, for the sake of argument, you… In both cases it’s compensation for what you did to him. Fine, true. So what? That’s it. Meaning there is a large similarity between them. Fine, certainly. Where does the difference between them come from? Let’s say, just like that, if someone comes and tells me to gouge out his eye, okay? He gouged out your eye, gouge out his eye. I also might not accept that. Then the Torah commands me something specific. And now the question is whether I… We’re returning to the question irrespective of motivations. Returning to the question of which interpretation is true. Could it be that both are true in parallel? After all, all the analogies I’m bringing here are ultimately meant to say that on the plane of derash and peshat—or sod as well, if you like—each of them can be correct, and you do not necessarily have to choose which one is correct and which is not. Sometimes, on different planes of relation, we arrive at different explanations, and it may be that all of them are correct. One need not choose who is yes and who is no. In a moment we’ll see what to do with contradictions. But first of all, on the principled level—that’s exactly where I’m heading. Okay? Yes, but if one is the cause of the other. Not the cause of the other; they are two parallel planes. Right, so did we receive them at exactly the same time? Why not? Why does the timeline matter here? Maybe yes, maybe no—but why is it important? I have two toolboxes. The peshat toolbox brought me to one conclusion; the derash toolbox brings me to another conclusion. Whether I do this simultaneously or a moment later, what difference does it make? These are two toolboxes leading me to different conclusions. It does matter. Why? Because if I receive some command and it seems wrong or strange to me, and therefore I now make an effort, and with the help of my general baggage—which caused me to reject the original command in the Torah. Not reject. I’m claiming both are correct. I don’t reject the first. Both interpretations are correct. Yes, but in practice, say… So what if there are contradictions? “An eye for an eye” in practice isn’t right. I said contradictions are a very special and very rare case, and I said we’ll get to that. Okay? Cases where there are contradictions. For now I’m talking about the fundamental conception. So now I want to argue that the picture I described is too pastoral. It’s comfortable for us, but it doesn’t really hold water. Let’s go back for a moment to Newton, okay, with the apple falling on his head. If the scientific explanation is really correct, then the theological explanation is not correct. You can’t live with both. That’s an illusion. Why? If the scientific explanation is… meaning that gravity brought the apple down onto my head, then it has nothing to do with my sins. Gravity brought the apple down on my head. Why? Because here is an important point. When I talk about an explanation—how do we conceptually define what an explanation is? It is common among philosophers to say that explanation means finding a sufficient condition for what is explained. Finding a sufficient condition for the thing explained. Meaning a certain theory can constitute an explanation of some phenomenon if the theory gives me a sufficient condition for the occurrence of that phenomenon. Not a necessary condition—a sufficient condition. You know there’s a necessary condition, a sufficient condition, and a necessary and sufficient condition. What exactly is the difference? A sufficient condition. A condition such that if, say, A is a sufficient condition for B, then the occurrence of A is enough to say that B also occurred. But not necessary. C could also, without A, cause B to occur. It doesn’t have to be that A occurred. But if A occurred, B will occur. It’s enough that A occur for B to happen. That’s called a sufficient condition. A necessary condition is a condition such that it cannot be that B occurred unless A had previously occurred. That doesn’t mean A is sufficient, because if A occurred that still doesn’t mean B will occur—it may be that something else is also needed. But it cannot be that if B occurred, A was not there in the background. Even though A alone may not suffice. That’s called a sufficient condition—sufficient but not necessary. A necessary and sufficient condition is one that fulfills both things. Meaning, if A happened then certainly B happened, and if B happened then certainly A happened first. Understood? A implies B—in logic, if you know that—then A is a sufficient condition, sorry, it is a necessary condition. Not sufficient. In implication, material implication. If A implies B, that’s necessary? That’s necessary, yes. That means it cannot be—it cannot be B without A. Sorry, that’s a sufficient condition. It cannot be A without B. Meaning, if there was A then there will necessarily be B. When A implies B, then there couldn’t be—according to the truth table, you know truth tables a little? So A implies B, the truth table is all ones except when A is one and B is zero. Right? Okay, in the material sense of implication, material implication. Now we got to okay. Okay, so never mind, that’s philosophy, doesn’t matter. So the claim is that there cannot be A without B. That’s sufficiency, not necessity. The relation from B to A, by the way, is necessity. The relation from A to B is sufficiency. Never mind. In any case, for our purposes, that’s a necessary condition and a sufficient condition. Now there is a debate among philosophers: when I speak about A being the cause of B, what do I mean? Do I mean that A is a sufficient condition for B, or that A is a necessary and sufficient condition for B? But there is no philosophical view according to which A is merely a necessary condition for B. That is not a cause. A cause must be sufficient—either necessary and sufficient, or sufficient. But a merely necessary condition that is not sufficient cannot be a cause according to any view. Like, say, if there is fire, it’s not enough to have combustible material, you also need a spark. Say if there is fire, then the spark was already there, then there was already a spark. There can’t be fire without… Okay. I mean, say, if there are clouds, there won’t necessarily be rain. Right? There are clouds without rain. So clouds are not a sufficient condition for rain. But they are a necessary condition. Meaning, without clouds there won’t be rain. Or in other words, if I see rain then clearly there are clouds in the background. If there were no clouds there would be no rain. So clouds are a necessary condition for rain but not a sufficient one. But rain is a sufficient condition for clouds, though not a necessary one. Because if there was rain then clearly there were clouds. But if there were clouds, not necessarily. Yes, if there was rain then clearly—but if there were clouds there wasn’t necessarily rain. Are clouds a sufficient condition for rain? Clouds are a necessary condition for rain. And rain is a sufficient condition for clouds. There can be clouds without rain. And if there was rain, then clearly there are clouds. Okay? Now the dispute among philosophers—but for our purposes, a cause must be at least a sufficient condition or a necessary and sufficient one. That’s a dispute among philosophers. Okay. We’ll talk about it a lot, but we won’t go into it here. It’s a sufficient condition. Now what does it mean that it is a sufficient condition? That given the cause, the effect must occur. It’s enough for you to tell me that the cause existed for me to say that the effect necessarily occurred too. Right? Now let’s say Newton sat under the tree and there was an apple above him whose weight was such that gravitationally the branch couldn’t hold it. Meaning the pull would detach the apple from the tree. Then that apple would fall on Newton whether Newton sinned or whether Newton didn’t sin, because that’s the law of physics. Meaning, if I assume that the physical explanation is correct—it’s an explanation—that means gravity gives me a sufficient condition to explain what happened. Right? But if it is a sufficient condition, that means that once Newton sat there, no matter what the degree of his sins, the apple would fall on his head. And similarly, if I claim that the theological explanation is sufficient, what does that mean? That if he sinned, there must be an apple falling on his head, regardless of whether gravity is strong enough or not, because otherwise it’s not a sufficient condition. Yes, but for that it doesn’t have to happen now. Doesn’t matter. Then it is not the theological explanation that is a sufficient condition. If it is a sufficient condition, it means that if a sinner sits under this tree, an apple should fall on his head. Okay? Now if I believe in the scientific explanation, in gravity, then it won’t fall on his head if gravity doesn’t dictate that. So that means there cannot be two explanations for the same phenomenon, because the concept of explanation requires that the explanation be a sufficient condition for the result. And there cannot be two sufficient conditions. Okay? How to explain this? So how can we explain it after all? One might say—let me explain it using the third example, the person who becomes religious or leaves religion. We said there that someone who changes worldview, returns in repentance or leaves religion, can be interpreted on the psychological plane and on the philosophical plane. Right? What is the relation between these two explanations? There too we have the same problem. Why? Because if the philosophical explanation is sufficient, then that means he has a philosophical justification for the change in his worldview. Explanation, justification—that means that the philosophical argument is sufficient to explain the change in worldview. Right? So what happens if he reached that philosophical conclusion but did not undergo a psychological crisis? He would still change his worldview. Otherwise the philosophical explanation is not an explanation. Right? It has to be sufficient. And the same with the psychological explanation. If you say psychology is the explanation, that means the psychological circumstances are sufficient to explain his step. That means that if he had a crisis with his girlfriend, he would leave religion, because that’s what an explanation means. If you tell me that not necessarily, then that means psychology is not an explanation. So you cannot live with a philosophical and psychological explanation in parallel. And yet we do live with it, and it is true. We do in fact understand that one can explain this on the psychological plane and on the philosophical plane. That’s the paradox, right? A paradox always says: find the mistake in the business. If the result cannot be true. Could one say that one leads to the other? Or that they are connected? Of course. You’re actually saying that neither of these things is an explanation by itself. The explanation is the combination of both. And the sufficient condition that fully explains the result is psychology plus philosophy. Neither one of them offers an explanation in the sense I defined earlier, namely as a sufficient condition. Only the combination of the two is a sufficient condition. The crisis, say, causes him to search for his way, to examine his way, and then the examination yields the philosophical results that it yields. Okay? But you need both components together in order to create an explanation—an explanation in the sense I defined earlier, namely that it is a sufficient condition for the thing explained. Okay? And each one by itself is not an explanation. Because it cannot be that each one by itself is an explanation. There cannot be two parallel explanations both of which are correct and independent. It can’t be. Otherwise they’re not explanations. Okay? Therefore when we live in a situation where we have two parallel explanations on two parallel planes and I accept both, that can’t really be right. Either neither of them is an explanation, or the combination of them is the explanation, but it cannot be that each one stands on its own. And on the philosophical-psychological plane we understand this very well. The psychology causes a person to reconsider, to search, to weigh his path, and then he uses his philosophical tools and arrives at his conclusions. Yes, but also the reverse—a person who understood that his philosophy is incorrect can enter a crisis. Yes, could be. Doesn’t matter. I’m using this in a very schematic way, of course. A human being is more complex than I’m describing here, but schematically I can understand how these two things combine and together create an explanation. Okay? What happens with Newton and the apple? There it’s already more complicated, right? Because there, what does it mean “both of them”? That I need both theology and physics together to explain the apple’s falling on Newton’s head? Meaning each one alone is not enough? Are you claiming that if Newton sat under the tree and gravity should have made the apple fall, but according to theological considerations he does not deserve an apple to fall on his head, then the Holy One, blessed be He, will stop the apple? He won’t let physics operate? That doesn’t sound plausible. He’d stop him from sitting under… That’s not… Yes, but that won’t help either, because his walking to the tree is also a physical process. It’s not… it’s the result of currents in the brain or whatever, and there too you can ask the same question, take one step back and ask: then why did those currents occur? So that won’t solve the problem, it’ll just push it back one step. Okay, and therefore the problem here is a hard problem. Meaning, how can it be that I accept these two explanations, and here they don’t combine? Here I believe in both, each one by itself, as a complete explanation, as a sufficient condition. How can that be? That can happen only in one situation. Only when there is full correspondence between the results of the theological explanation and the results of the physical explanation. Somehow it comes out that theology always runs parallel to physics and vice versa. Meaning, it always leads me to the same results. For some strange reason, but that’s how it comes out, even though these are two different explanations. Let me perhaps give you a few examples so you can see why it’s not quite as strange as it sounds at first glance. You know coordinate systems in mathematics a bit? Say there’s an x-y coordinate system, okay? I have a point. That point can be described in a Cartesian coordinate system—what its x component is and what its y component is. It can be described in a polar coordinate system—what its angle relative to the x-axis is and what its distance from the origin is. Two equivalent forms of description. Now I can describe that point in these two languages, and both descriptions are correct. Each one in itself is correct. Right? There’s no problem. Even though they use completely different language, the descriptions will look totally different when you describe in polar language and in Cartesian language, but they’re equivalent. And I can explain this way and I can explain that way. What does that mean? It means there is some sort of correlation, correspondence, between these two explanations, these two forms of relation. And therefore basically anything I say in this language can be translated into the other language—it’s just translation between languages. Now, if I understand that physics and theology are basically just translations into two different languages of one another, then it may be that the theological explanation and the physical explanation can each by themselves be explanations. Without their combining, but each one by itself. Why? Because they are not really two explanations—it’s the same explanation just formulated in different languages, like when I explain physics in Hebrew and explain it in English. No one would be surprised that everything is fine: one can describe physics in Hebrew and one can describe it in English, and both descriptions are correct. Why? Because it’s the same description, just translated into a different language. Now, if I see theology and physics as translations into different languages of the same explanation, then it may be that each of them is an exhaustive explanation. Then I don’t need to assume that the combination of them gives me the explanation. Rather, each of them is an explanation—except these are not different explanations; it’s the same explanation. But notice, this too is complicated. This too can appear in one of two forms. I call it global correspondence and local correspondence. What do I mean? Local correspondence is like what I described before with the coordinate systems. I can show you for every Cartesian description how to translate it into polar and vice versa—that’s a dictionary. I can show you every Cartesian principle and how it appears in polar language and vice versa. The square root of x squared plus y squared is the distance from the origin. The arctangent of y divided by x is the angle. And vice versa—there are conversion rules that move me from the grammar of this language to the grammar of that language. So there is clear translation. Therefore it is clear that what I describe in this language will also be correct in that language. Okay? That is local correspondence, where every principle in this language can be translated into that language. But that, what I call local correspondence, is easy to understand—it’s like translation from Hebrew to English. It’s not very significant. But—please. Another question, rabbi. I have a question, just regarding the theological plane and the physical plane. Yes. The theological plane assumes a personality that acts according to its will and judges the world according to its will—a will. Whereas the physical plane, as far as I know, is a deterministic system with fixed laws. That’s it, there’s no place for personality there. Exactly. So we have a difficulty. Right—now I’m getting precisely to that point. But on the principled level, one moment—on the principled level, there is no problem. You argued that there cannot be correspondence here, and I’m about to get to that. There can be another kind of correspondence. I’ll give you an example. Have you read Hofstadter’s book Gödel, Escher, Bach? A book that won the Pulitzer Prize; he’s a physicist. Right. More praise. A wonderful book. It was even translated into Hebrew. I read that book when it was in English—I broke my teeth on it, I’m not so good in English—but it’s worth it, a very beautiful book. Gödel, Escher, Bach. Not on physics—logic, Gödel’s theorems, and the analogy to music and painting. Gödel, Escher, Bach—that’s the analogy among the three. Gödel is a mathematician, Escher is a painter, and Bach, yes, a composer. I heard something about it, that it’s also about relations, something with relations, right? It’s the same relations? He claims that logic appears in the same way and paradoxes appear in the same way, and he demonstrates number theory through all these things. It’s basically a certain introduction to computability, computer science, number theory, and things like that, but for the general public. It’s also written in an amusing way. A wonderful book. By whom? Hofstadter. Douglas Hofstadter. In any case, there he brings a puzzle. Look at a system that has three letters: M, I, and U. Okay? A language that has three letters. Now I want to define a set of words in that language, the dictionary of that language. I say the words are defined by a set of rules. For example, these are the grammatical rules. Okay? For example, rules for constructing words—it’s not exactly grammar but you can call it a kind of grammar, a generative grammar. Generative means productive. You take, say, a starting word: MI is a legal word. Okay? Now I say: a word ending in I, you can duplicate it, for example. Then MIMI is also a legal word. And so on. That generates many words. Now you can say: anywhere there are two consecutive I’s, you can delete them. If there are three consecutive I’s, replace them with U. Doesn’t matter, all sorts of things like that. So you define rules for generating words, which is why it’s called a generative grammar. You generate the words out of the letters. You get a set of words, even infinitely many words, whatever, you have a collection—there, I think he gives four rules. And then he asks a riddle: is the word MU legal in the language? MI is legal, and you have four grammatical rules. Prove or refute the claim that MU is a legal word in the language. Okay? Hard question. Not simple at all. It’s not clear how one can systematically prove such a thing. Now what he does is say: let’s now make a conversion and say, for example, M is three, I is one, and U is zero. Translate this into digits. It doesn’t matter, these are letters. Okay? Now basically MI, we start from the initial word MI. MI is thirty-one. Three and then one. Thirty-one. Now every generative rule can now be translated into mathematics. For example: every word ending in I can be doubled. What does that mean? You take thirty-one, multiply it by one hundred, and add thirty-one. You get 3131. Three thousand one hundred thirty-one. Right? So all the grammatical rules can be translated into arithmetic rules. Okay? No problem. And now if you use the arithmetic rules, you can prove easily that MU is not a legal word in the language. It’s not a legal word. It isn’t a legal word. In mathematics, with mathematical tools. And I started with a typographical kind of riddle—how do you handle this? How can you prove that MU is not a word, or is a word, in the language? It has to be creative. When you transfer it to mathematics, one can show that with mathematical tools one can prove that MU—MU is of course the number thirty—you start from thirty-one, and thirty will not emerge in the language. Okay? Now let’s take this example and look for a moment at the language he created there. He created some kind of language. This language has a set of words. He defined that set of words through MI and four rules. Is it absurd that there might be another language, a language starting from MIUU, say, with fifteen other rules that are not these four rules, but the results would be exactly the same? The same set of words that is legal in this language—there’s no reason in principle that this couldn’t happen. It could happen, right? A system of rules brings me to a set of words, but there could be another system of rules that brings me to exactly the same set of words. Right? But does there have to be a connection between the rules? No, not necessarily. It’s most convenient if I prove a relation between the words. Mathematicians will want to show a relation between the rules, because that way they’ll prove that the languages are equivalent. But on the principled level, that isn’t necessary. It only makes the proof easier. It’s not necessary. It could be that by chance it comes out to be exactly the same set of words. Okay? What does that mean? Assuming there is no correspondence between the rules, none whatsoever—you won’t be able to map the rules onto each other as I did in the Cartesian and polar coordinate systems, right? There is no mapping between the rules, but there is still a correspondence between the languages. That’s what I call global correspondence. Or for our purposes, if the Holy One, blessed be He, manages to create a situation in which the physical system of laws produces a set of legal and illegal events. An object with mass can’t float in the air, right? Because that contradicts the law of gravity. Okay? Meaning, there are events that are legal and events that are not legal. Think of them as words, legal words in the language and illegal words in the language. There could be another system of rules altogether, not our system of laws, that would generate the same set of legal and illegal events. By God’s interests. Whom to punish, whom not to punish, whom to save, whom not to save, never mind, all sorts of considerations of His. And it could be that it would yield exactly the same set of phenomena as the physical system. Theoretically. Even though there is no mapping there, no physical law corresponds to a certain theological agenda and the second physical law corresponds to another theological agenda. There is no such mapping between the rules. But there can be two sets of rules that are independent, where by chance all the legal and illegal situations are identical under both systems of rules. That’s what I call global correlation, not local. The correlation is not created locally, between law and law, but globally there is a correlation. This may explain two systems of explanation that are independent. There is no translation, they are not translations of one another like Hebrew and English, but still everything that happens in the world can be explained by this and by that in parallel. Theoretically that can happen. But in practice it almost never will happen. Or I think never. I don’t know if never, but it almost can’t happen. Why? Think for example about what you asked earlier. Think, for example, about a human being, who after all has free choice. Let’s at least assume that; that’s what I think. A person has free choice. Now clearly the laws of physics are deterministic. Whatever they may be, they are deterministic. Okay? If so, then there cannot be a correlation between that system and what will happen here. Because what happens here depends on my choice. I will decide whether this happens or that happens. Now God’s theology is a function that is supposed to fit the laws of nature, so it cannot fit everything I do. There almost cannot be such a correspondence. Think, by the way, of the correspondence in the Cartesian and polar systems—it also breaks down. Do you know where it breaks down? At the origin. Right? At the origin. Why? Because at the origin, in the x-y system, the Cartesian system, it’s one point: x equals zero, y equals zero. In the polar system it is a whole line. A whole line? Yes, r equals zero with every theta. Right? When the radius is zero, the angle doesn’t matter. Meaning all angles whatsoever with radius zero are the origin. In other words, what in Cartesian coordinates is one point maps to a whole line in the r-theta plane. The line is r equals zero and all thetas. In fact the whole theta axis maps to the origin in the x-y system. By the way, this creates all kinds of topological defects and interesting mathematical phenomena that I once dealt with. Suppose we got it. No, you can understand it easily. Leave the mathematical terminology aside, but you understand that when x equals zero and y equals zero, theta is undefined. Right? The angle doesn’t matter. r equals zero, the distance from the origin is zero. The angle doesn’t matter. Meaning infinitely many angles, as long as r equals zero, all map to the point x equals zero, y equals zero. This is what in mathematics is called topological defects, but never mind. What does that mean for our purposes? For example, I claim that global correspondence usually breaks at certain points where this system of laws does not manage to match that system of laws. If the correspondence were local, this couldn’t happen, because everything that happens here is just translated and an analogue happens there too. But if there is no correspondence between the systems of laws, there will usually be points where the correspondence breaks. Those points are called, in one context, a scriptural decree, and in another context, a miracle. When we look at the correspondence between physics and theology, the places where the correspondence breaks are what is called a miracle. What is a miracle? A miracle is an event that has no explanation on the scientific, physical plane, but is done for theological reasons. The Holy One, blessed be He, does it because He has His own reasons why He does it. What does that mean? It means there are certain places where nature cannot carry out what God, for His own reasons, wants carried out, and so He has to intervene. So He freezes nature and performs a miracle, and there is no natural explanation for it, no explanation according to the laws of nature. This is exactly where the correlation between the theological system and the physical system breaks down. The physical system cannot explain why the theological system—or carry out what the theological system would want carried out. So here it breaks down. There is a theological explanation; there is no explanation in physics. Okay? There is an explanation only in one of the two systems. That’s also a scriptural decree. What is a scriptural decree? When I return to… my claim, after all, is that the relation of Pardes—peshat, remez, derash, and sod—is really different planes whose relation is one of global correspondence. Global correspondence, global. Meaning every peshat explanation can explain the whole Torah; a derash explanation can explain the whole Torah in another way; an explanation in sod, in Kabbalah say, can explain the whole Torah. Since the correspondence is global, I expect there will be places where there is a break. Those places are usually called scriptural decrees. What is a scriptural decree? A scriptural decree is a place where we have no explanation on the way of peshat, on the peshat level. So why is the law such and such? Apparently because of reasons of sod. Right? The law has to be this way, but peshat cannot explain why the law is this way. So why do we nonetheless apply the law this way? Because the Holy One, blessed be He, has reasons why the law should be this way—let’s call it a scriptural decree, reasons of sod. But those reasons cannot be translated into peshat considerations, and therefore we have no peshat explanation for this law. That is what’s called a scriptural decree. But isn’t that exactly the opposite? What? Didn’t we previously speak about the same conclusions that we reach from different planes? I said: except for those points where the correspondence breaks, that’s exactly the point. Because the correspondence that generally exists is global correspondence, I expect there to be certain points where it cannot be maintained—it will break. Yes, but doesn’t that happen in everything on these planes? Say peshat and derash… No, just as it happens only at the origin, as in the example I gave you—it happens at certain points. And at those points they are called scriptural decrees, or miracles in the context of correspondence with the laws of nature. Say if we take “You shall fear the Lord your God,” then “et” includes Torah scholars—that’s two different things. No, but in principle on the way of peshat too, you can explain that one should revere Torah scholars. Even by way of peshat? Yes, just not from this verse. It would come from logic, or another verse, or I don’t know what. Derash derives it from here, but there is global correspondence between them. In the end, the law does not contradict the peshat. The mismatch arises in those places where there is a contradiction, like “an eye for an eye.” There it breaks. I have no explanation on the way of peshat, but there derash steps in and says: nevertheless this is the law. There are other considerations, and there is no correspondence—it breaks. And the concept of scriptural decree is lack of correspondence between peshat and sod. Those points are correspondence between peshat and derash, lack of correspondence. What is called a scriptural decree is lack of correspondence between peshat and sod. Usually, everything you explain in peshat can be explained in sod and vice versa. There are certain points where you have an explanation in sod but there cannot be an explanation in peshat. That’s called a scriptural decree. And what I basically want to claim—and here I’m concluding this general introduction—is that the relationship between the explanatory planes of Torah, Pardes, is a relationship of global correspondence. Therefore there are places where this correspondence breaks down, where it cannot exist. By the way, there are people who think a miracle shows God’s power, but a miracle of course shows His weakness, not His power. When a miracle shows… that He did not succeed in creating a deterministic system of laws that would do everything He wants done. He has to intervene in the very system He Himself created and freeze it for a moment so that what really needs to happen will happen. That actually points to a lack of ability, not an excess of ability. Now, it’s not a lack of ability, because it’s impossible to do this, so never mind. But it just shows you a possible implication of this way of looking at things. Okay? So my claim—and with this I’m ending this introduction—is that the relation between peshat and derash is basically a relation of correspondence, and sod too and everything else. It is a relation of global correspondence. These are parallel systems of relation, all of which can be true simultaneously and independently. There is no simple correspondence between this and that, and therefore sometimes there really will be a break, in rare cases. Only at the origin, as in the example I gave earlier. At certain points there will be a break. I don’t know if this is connected, but suddenly this discrepancy jumped into my head from Leibniz—that two things that cannot have all the same characteristics and still be different things. How is that connected here? I think he’s wrong, but how is it connected here? It’s connected here in the sense that if these two things were really exactly the same, if they had exactly the same thing, then they would be the same thing itself. Why is that relevant here? I think he’s wrong, but how is it connected here? It’s connected here in the sense that if they, these two things, were really exactly the same, they’d have exactly the same thing, and then they’d be one thing itself and not two. The same characteristics. If they had exactly the same characteristics, then they would be one thing and not two. No, also in the sense of substance, let’s call it an existing substance and its phenomena. I mean, the identity of indiscernibles says that if there is identity on the plane of phenomena, then there is identity in ontology. That it is the very same thing itself, the same substance itself, not just two identical substances. He says there is no such thing as two identical substances. Two completely identical substances are one substance, not two. So in the sense that if there is some certain difference whatsoever, there must also be some difference in the phenomena. Absolute identity cannot exist. Anyway, that’s just an analogy that came to me. It’s a kind of analogy, but there I think he’s simply wrong. Okay. But as an analogy one can accept it. Fine, we’ll stop here. The issue obviously comes up: why really was there a need—why was global correspondence created instead of finding only, say, if peshat alone had given us this. It’s impossible. What I’m saying is, this supposedly points to God’s weakness. My claim is that this isn’t weakness. There are tasks that are impossible, so He can’t make a square triangle either. A triangle is not round and a circle is not triangular. So that’s not weakness. It’s an impossibility. It’s impossible to create a rigid deterministic system that matches free systems. It simply cannot yield exactly the same results. Where in philosophy, why was there a necessity from the standpoint of… I’m saying, this necessity is logical. Like “an eye for an eye,” as I said at the beginning—why not write… No, there I’ll explain. No, I’ll explain that there. I understand that that’s not the only one there is, meaning… I’ll explain it there, yes. Each one has to explain why it could not have been done in any other way except through peshat and derash. Right. Specifically in the relation between peshat and derash there are better explanations than in the relation between peshat and sod. The relation between peshat and sod sort of says that the considerations of sod do not run parallel to the considerations of peshat. There is no way to express them in a peshat form. But derash and peshat—I can offer explanations there too. Yes, we’ll get to that. Okay, we’ll stop here. Thank you very much. Thank you very much. And regarding free choice, rabbi? Yes.