Rabbi Gedalia Nadel’s Thought – Genesis – Lecture 2

Table of Contents

• The distinction between history and parable and figurative language in interpreting Genesis
• Maimonidean allegorists and the Rashba’s response
• Giving up the factual dimension in faith: “Did it happen or not?”
• Educative myth, historical truth, and the boundary marked by the revelation at Sinai
• Spiritual intuitions, charisma, and the need for a concrete anchor
• The Binding of Isaac as an image for the epistemic problem of illusion
• Guide of the Perplexed, “the wisdom of the Torah in truth,” and criticism of the yeshiva world
• The impossible, the necessary, and the possible: logic versus physics and scientific uncertainty
• Omnipotence, nonsense, and the impossibility of logical contradictions
• The perplexed: double commitment to reason and tradition, and the solution of parable
• Rabbi Shimon Shkop and the authority of reason as halakhically binding
• “The unity of opposites” as a critique of lazy solutions
• The development of science: Newton, Einstein, Kant, and space-time
• Maimonides on the sages and the science of their time, and the danger of dogmatic education
• Faith, psychology, “this is Judaism,” and Rabbi Kook on faith that is like heresy
• The Book of Knowledge, Foundations of the Torah, and the tension between Aristotelian metaphysics and Jewish law
• Rules for deciding between plain meaning and parable: the limits of language and caution against cheapening things
• Longevity in Genesis: plain meaning that compels, and the question of intention in telling factual narratives

Summary

General Overview

The text places the distinction between Torah verses understood literally and verses that function by way of parable and figurative language at the center of understanding Scripture, and connects that to the purpose of Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed and to the predicament of someone committed both to reason and to tradition. It describes an extreme allegorical tendency among Yedaya Penini and his group, and sets against it the question of the importance of historical truth, comparing this to educative myths in Zionism, up to the boundary point where undermining the revelation at Sinai undermines commitment to the Torah itself. It develops a discussion of what counts as necessary, impossible, and possible; of the distinction between logic and physics; and of uncertainty in science. It presents Maimonides’ position regarding changing scientific knowledge and the fact that the sages relied in scientific matters on the knowledge of their own time. It criticizes, on the one hand, the tendency to solve every difficulty by saying “it’s a parable,” and on the other hand, solutions based on “the unity of opposites,” and emphasizes that deciding when to interpret as parable and when as plain meaning is an intellectual judgment also constrained by the rules of language.

The distinction between history and parable and figurative language in interpreting Genesis

Rabbi Gedalia presents a complex relationship between descriptions of historical facts and verses that are parable or figurative expression, and suggests that sometimes true facts are written in order to teach a lesson and not in order simply to report what happened for its own sake. He links to Maimonides’ first aim in the Guide of the Perplexed the distinction between literal meaning and parable and figurative language, and illustrates this by noting that the book opens by clarifying concepts like “seeing,” which can have an intellectual-metaphorical meaning as opposed to seeing with the eyes. He defines the opening chapters as tools that help one decide whether to read verses literally or metaphorically, and then later to deal with parables themselves.

Maimonidean allegorists and the Rashba’s response

The text attributes to Yedaya Penini, a student of Baal HaHashlama, the leadership of a group of allegorists who relied on Maimonides and took him one step further. It gives the example that Maimonides interpreted the “night vision” with the angels אצל Abraham as a dream, whereas the allegorists claimed that Abraham and Sarah are matter and form. It notes that this is known mainly through the Rashba’s references to it, and suggests that the Rashba’s outrage stemmed from the fact that the allegorists intended to deny the historical reality itself and not merely add an ideational layer. It emphasizes that we do not really know how far they went or how much of the factual dimension they gave up.

Giving up the factual dimension in faith: “Did it happen or not?”

The text presents Rabbi Amit Kula’s book, Did It Happen or Not?, as an attempt to give up the factual dimension in faith altogether and to present a legitimate Jewish faith without a factual foundation, to the point of not committing oneself to Abraham and Sarah, to Moses our teacher, or even to the giving of the Torah. It describes the author as writing in an apologetic tone and out of a desire to show that such a possibility exists, but concludes that a person does not write a book like that if the idea is totally foreign to him. It explains that the motivation is a constant confrontation with biblical criticism, archaeology, and historical arguments, and that the goal is more to restore peace of mind than to arrive at exact historical clarification. It notes a principled sympathy with the tendency up to a certain point.

Educative myth, historical truth, and the boundary marked by the revelation at Sinai

The text asks why the Rashba attacked Yedaya Penini so sharply, and raises the possibility that an educative myth is a legitimate device even without historical truth, if the real commitment is to the educational message. It illustrates this through the debate about Trumpeldor and the saying “It is good to die for our country,” and argues that one can shatter Zionist myths and still remain an ardent Zionist, even though in practice there are almost no such figures. It points to an agreement on both sides of the divide that historical truth matters because it gives some sort of validation to the ideology, even though in principle the two can be separated. It presents the revelation at Sinai as the stopping point: if the giving of the Torah is also a myth, then there is no reason to prefer this myth over other mythologies, and commitment to the whole system collapses.

Spiritual intuitions, charisma, and the need for a concrete anchor

The text examines the possibility that commitment might come from moral or spiritual intuitions, but argues that he has no intuitions that obligate concrete commandments such as redeeming a firstborn donkey. He cites, in Rabbi Kula’s name, the possibility of charismatic people, “those who know the knowledge of the Most High,” who understand what the Holy One, blessed be He, wants even without a defined historical event, but asks how one could know that they are really such people. He says that only an event like the giving of the Torah, in which the Holy One, blessed be He, reveals Himself and says, “I am the Lord your God,” is the sort of thing that could have convinced him, and he emphasizes that the “pyrotechnics” are just a means of indicating that something is happening, even if they need not be understood literally. He suggests that descriptions of thunder and lightning may be metaphorical descriptions of some indication, and admits that he has no way of knowing exactly what the indications were.

The Binding of Isaac as an image for the epistemic problem of illusion

The text uses the critique of Abraham at the binding to clarify that without a direct experience of divine speech there is no way to claim that it was an illusion, and compares this to a blind man casting doubt on seeing a clock. It argues that when a person experiences something in an immediate way, it is clear to him that it is true even if philosophers have raised the possibility of illusion. It applies the analogy to the revelation at Sinai and argues that the question “How do you know?” rests on the testimony of those who were there, but the assumption is that there were concrete indications that were supposed to convince those present.

Guide of the Perplexed, “the wisdom of the Torah in truth,” and criticism of the yeshiva world

The text returns to Rabbi Gedalia and presents the Guide of the Perplexed as devoted to distinguishing between parable and figurative expression and things meant literally, and quotes Maimonides’ language in the introduction that the book deals with “the wisdom of the Torah in truth.” It brings a criticism according to which in yeshivot people engage in intricate pilpul in Jewish law and in Maimonides, but do not take seriously what Maimonides himself defined as the true wisdom of the Torah in the Book of Knowledge and in the Guide of the Perplexed. It responds to this criticism by saying that one is not obligated to accept Maimonides’ ranking of importance, and presents a social perception according to which “Maimonides means the Mishneh Torah,” whereas “the Guide of the Perplexed is someone else.” Against that it sets the possibility that even the study of halakhic pilpul can count as “the wisdom of the Torah in truth” according to a different tradition, and refuses any sharp division between greater and lesser.

The impossible, the necessary, and the possible: logic versus physics and scientific uncertainty

The text explains that Maimonides addresses the book to thinkers who have learned “the wisdom of knowing reality” and know how to distinguish between the necessary, the impossible, and the possible, and suggests that he may be referring to what is physically necessary, impossible, or possible, rather than logically so. It argues that this distinction is problematic, because in science there is no absolute certainty, and illustrates that processes that seem physically impossible may still be possible with a vanishingly small probability according to quantum theory. It distinguishes between mathematical-logical certainty and science, which rests on observations open to error, and presents the historical shift from realism to empiricism as a sharpening of the distinction between philosophy/logic and science. It also mentions that Nachmanides says there is no wisdom of the Torah like the wisdom of “astronomy and mathematics, whose demonstrations are conclusive,” and stresses that understanding physics as a domain of necessity comparable to logic is an ancient conception not accepted in modern thought.

Omnipotence, nonsense, and the impossibility of logical contradictions

The text describes Maimonides’ distinction that the Holy One, blessed be He, can deviate from the laws of physics but not from the laws of logic and mathematics, and notes that the Rashba repeats this as well in the responsa, part 4. It explains that a “round triangle” is not a limitation on omnipotence but simply a meaningless expression, just as the question about a ball that can penetrate every wall versus a wall that can stop every ball collapses because one of the assumptions refers to nothing real. It connects this to a rejection of solutions that try to live with logical contradictions, and presents the claim that a logical contradiction is just nonsense and not content that can be believed.

The perplexed: double commitment to reason and tradition, and the solution of parable

The text defines the “perplexed” person as someone committed both to the principles of rationality and to tradition, who encounters verses that, if understood literally, are impossible according to reason. It formulates the dilemma as impossible to solve by one-sided surrender: you cannot “throw reason away,” and you cannot say that the Torah “is not true,” because the wisdom of the Torah and its truth are not divisible. It presents Maimonides’ approach as apologetic in the sense of a double subordination that demands reconciliation, and gives an example from Eight Chapters, where Maimonides is not willing to dismiss a dispute between philosophers and the sages by saying “the philosophers are mistaken,” but instead demands reconciliation between “two truths.” It states that one of the main ways to reconcile them is to interpret certain places in the Torah as parable and figurative expression when the plain meaning creates an impossibility.

Rabbi Shimon Shkop and the authority of reason as halakhically binding

The text cites the opening of Sha’arei Yosher by Rabbi Shimon Shkop as arguing that reason obligates no less than a verse, and that there are legal principles that precede the Torah’s formulations. It illustrates this through the need to define the laws of ownership in order to understand “You shall not steal,” and through the discussion of stealing from a gentile, where even approaches that do not base the prohibition on an explicit command still obligate it by virtue of legal ownership. It quotes the question, “And perhaps you’ll say: if the Torah didn’t command it, why should I be obligated?” and the answer, “And what the Torah did command—why should I be obligated in that?” It concludes that commitment to the Torah itself rests on reason, and therefore one cannot solve a conflict between reason and tradition as though they were two alien sources. In the end, he argues, this is a contradiction between different uses of reason, and that requires treatment, not repression.

“The unity of opposites” as a critique of lazy solutions

The text cites, in the name of Rudolf Otto in his book on holiness, the statement that “the unity of opposites is the lazy man’s solution,” and connects this to an approach that assigns contradictions a solution “beyond reason.” It argues that the idea of the unity of opposites is Christian, attributing it to Nicholas of Cusa in the fifteenth century, and notes that the medieval authorities (Rishonim) strongly opposed belief in logical contradictions. It briefly discusses Maimonides’ question about divine foreknowledge and human freedom, and presents the position that “My thoughts are not your thoughts” is not permission to accept a contradiction but a claim that the contradiction is not logical, only a misunderstanding. At the same time, it also presents a position that prefers to give up one of the two sides.

The development of science: Newton, Einstein, Kant, and space-time

The text says that even in knowing the necessary, impossible, and possible from the side of reason, one can make mistakes, and illustrates this through the shift from Newtonian mechanics to Einstein’s theory of relativity. It states that a human being has no absolute knowledge regarding anything in the material world, and presents the claim that the only certain cognition is the cognition of space and time as necessary tools for knowing the world, attributing this to Kant and noting that there is debate even about the nature of space and time. It presents a criticism of Kant in light of Einstein, and describes the revolution in which space, time, and even logic themselves become objects of inquiry rather than “transparent” features of consciousness. It suggests that one cannot peel away all the cognitive “glasses” without being left with no tools of perception, and raises the possibility that logic is the most basic system of all, while also noting that logic is empty of worldly content.

Maimonides on the sages and the science of their time, and the danger of dogmatic education

The text states that there are scientific things Maimonides thought were true which we now know were mistaken, and that Maimonides himself would have admitted this. It cites Maimonides’ remarks about the sages—that the sciences were not developed in their time, and that what they said in scientific matters was not a tradition from the prophets but according to what was known in their generations. It stresses that the combination of these two components is the main point: both that science has changed, and that the sages’ source of knowledge in these areas was human and historical, not prophetic. It mentions the letter of Rabbi Abraham son of Maimonides printed at the beginning of Ein Yaakov and the passage in tractate Pesachim about the celestial sphere and the constellations, and formulates the lesson as: one has a duty to accept the truth from whoever says it, even if it comes from the sages of the nations. It argues that authority does not depend on being incapable of error, comparing this to legislation by the Knesset, and points out that an education claiming that the sages “knew everything” creates a crisis of faith when a person later discovers scientific mistakes, sometimes even driving him into anti-religious positions of the “Da’at Emet” and Yaron Yadan kind.

Faith, psychology, “this is Judaism,” and Rabbi Kook on faith that is like heresy

The text argues that many people are unwilling to change their “picture of faith,” so that the God or tradition they reject is what they learned in the cheder, and even the offer of a reasonable alternative is perceived by them as heresy. It cites the claim that “this is Judaism” as it is perceived today, and counters that this is a pathology of Judaism, especially at the level of theology and the assumptions that accompany commandment observance. It brings Rabbi Kook’s phrase about “a faith that is like heresy, and a heresy that is like faith” in relation to the fear of Heaven of the Old Yishuv, with its “narrow and gloomy heavens,” and cites Maimonides’ elephant analogy, according to which someone who says an elephant has wings is not mistaken about an elephant at all; he is talking about a dove. It distinguishes between “certain” and “correct,” and emphasizes that commandment observance is a broad common denominator, while the dispute concerns theology and interpretation.

The Book of Knowledge, Foundations of the Torah, and the tension between Aristotelian metaphysics and Jewish law

The text notes that Maimonides opens the laws of Foundations of the Torah with four chapters of Aristotelian physics and metaphysics, including angels, separate intellects, and spheres, and wonders why these were inserted into a book of Jewish law. It explains that in Maimonides’ view these were basic metaphysical truths and a binding worldview, even though in principle he seemingly admitted the possibility of change. It states that from his own perspective studying those chapters is “neglect of Torah study,” because they are “Aristotelian nonsense,” and emphasizes that Maimonides took them from Aristotle, not from prophecy. It concludes, as a general conception, that the theological system is supposed to fit the scientific worldview, because there is no interpretation without logic and reason, and Jewish law too is the product of interpretation and the use of reason.

Rules for deciding between plain meaning and parable: the limits of language and caution against cheapening things

The text states that Maimonides’ solution to perplexity is that there are things in the Torah whose simple sense is not their true meaning and which must be understood through parable and figurative expression, but it emphasizes that the distinction is not always easy and that there is a gray area. It offers a rule: the decision is intellectual; if the reason to interpret as parable is compelling, then one interprets it as parable, and if not, there is no reason to remove the text from its plain meaning. It presents the firm view that “there is never a need to decide between the authority of reason and the authority of the Torah,” and clarifies that there is a difference between not understanding and contradiction, and that one cannot live with a logical contradiction. It adds that language is flexible but governed by rules, that figurative expression and parables have a fitting style in the holy tongue, and that you cannot say about just anything that it is a parable, because that cheapens things by turning interpretation into too easy a solution.

Longevity in Genesis: plain meaning that compels, and the question of intention in telling factual narratives

The text gives an explicit example: when the Torah describes that Adam lived one hundred and thirty years and begot Seth, and afterward lived another eight hundred years and begot sons and daughters, and all his days were nine hundred and thirty years, there is no doubt that these are to be taken literally, and one cannot dress them up as figurative style or poetry. It points to a gap between plain meaning as fact and the question of intention: even if it is not a parable, one still has to ask why the Torah chooses to tell certain facts and not others, especially when it says only “and he begot sons and daughters” without detail. He says that this is an introduction to the interpretation of the book of Genesis, and that in the interpretation itself he addresses these points. He also cites Maimonides’ statement that in many places Scripture adds details so that the story will be complete and not fragmented. He closes with a demand to search for the general intention that teaches us to be moral people, and with a quotation from Maimonides that he does not claim his book removes every doubt, only most doubts and the greatest of them, and that it is impossible to complete every topic and interpret every parable fully in writing.

In Rabbi Gedaliah’s introduction to his commentary on Genesis, he talks a bit about the relation between verses in the Torah that deal with the description of historical facts and verses in the Torah that deal with parable and figurative language. Sometimes, he said, there are real historical facts, but they basically come to teach us not what happened, but some lesson through what happened. I think we’re at letter Gimel, if I remember correctly, on page 78. And he says like this: the distinction between things taken literally and things that are in the way of parable and figurative language—this is the first purpose for which Maimonides composed his Guide of the Perplexed. The book opens with what it means to “see”—that you can see with the eyes of the intellect, which is a kind of metaphor, and you can see with your eyes—so all the opening chapters are really dealing with these kinds of distinctions, meant to help us in reading verses. Should we read the verses literally, or read them in some metaphorical way? And later on it already gets into full-fledged parables. I assume I mentioned that Yedaiah Penini, the student of the author of HaHashlamah, led some group of allegorists who relied on Maimonides and took him one step further. Maimonides describes some things in the Torah as parables—for example, in the night vision with the angels who came to Abraham, he says it was a dream—and they basically took it one step further and claimed that Abraham and Sarah altogether are matter and form. Now, I don’t know the material in the original, only the Rashba’s reference to it, but I assume he wouldn’t have objected if they had said there really were an Abraham and Sarah, and besides that this is also some expression or representation of matter and form, of the philosophical distinction between matter and form. Fine, those are ideas. I assume that if he attacked them, then apparently they meant to say that there were no Abraham and Sarah, but rather Abraham and Sarah are a metaphorical description of ideas in general; this is not history, these are not facts. And I don’t know exactly how far they went and what they gave up on. I think I already talked about this a little.

There’s a book by Rabbi Amit Kula of Alon Shevut called Havaya O Lo Haya—“Did It Happen or Not?” And in that book he tries to give up entirely on the factual dimension in faith. Meaning, he tries to present a picture of legitimate Jewish faith with no factual foundation at all. That is, without committing to anything—to empty it completely of any factual assumption: not about Abraham and Sarah, not Moses our teacher, not even the giving of the Torah. Meaning, nothing. Now, he says all this, of course, in an apologetic tone and only to show that it’s possible, not that he himself is really there, and so on. Fine. But I assume people don’t write a book like that—and we’re somewhat friends—unless it’s not entirely foreign to them. In other words, it’s pretty clear that this is at least an option that I think he probably seriously considers too, let’s say. I don’t know exactly whether he has conclusions and where he stands, but why is he bothered by this? Because he taught students, and the students ask questions. Meaning, you’re always in confrontation with biblical criticism, with archaeology, with historical arguments, yes? So he says: let’s see whether this should bother us at all. Basically, his goal is to restore peace of mind. Not to solve the problem, but once you understand that really it doesn’t matter right now whether they’re right or not—some things maybe they’re right about, some things not; after all this isn’t exact science—but if you can get to a state where none of it is historical, then what difference does it make to me? So why should I care? Then I can be much more whole, much calmer; whether it was this way or that way. I think his goal is tranquility, not historical clarification. I think he also writes that, though I don’t remember anymore; I read it a long time ago.

I told him that on the principled level I identify with this quite a bit, and I think we talked about that—I do remember that we talked about it. Why did the Rashba attack Yedaiah Penini so strongly? Why was it so important to him that there be historical truth in these things? We know that an educational myth is a legitimate tool. What’s the problem if I understand that the events were only a myth and not historical truth, but they have some educational purpose, some message? If I’m committed to the message, then what difference does it make whether there once was an Abraham and Sarah or not? We talked about Trumpeldor—“It is good to die for our country”—the debate with the so-called New Historians, which somehow always gets connected to post-Zionism, though there shouldn’t be any connection. You can shatter all the Zionist myths and still be an enthusiastic Zionist. What does the historical truth have to do with whether there was a Trumpeldor or there wasn’t, with the question of whether I educate people to die for our country? I can educate to die for our country and present Trumpeldor as an educational myth, not as historical truth. So I myself can be a New Historian and an enthusiastic Zionist; there’s no contradiction between the two. You almost won’t find such a person. Uri Milstein is a bit of an unusual creature in that respect—though not on Trumpeldor, on other things. But almost, almost there are no such things. Meaning, there’s some agreement on both sides of the divide in this struggle that there’s some importance to historical truth in relation to the question of which ideas or ideologies I support. And we talked about this: there’s some projection, some influence of the historical events, and this in some way validates the ideology too, even though in principle there shouldn’t be any connection. And that’s why the revelation at Sinai really did happen. Exactly. So that’s the end point of what I said back then to Amit Kula: I go with him almost all the way. Meaning, I have no problem at all with Abraham and Sarah not having existed, and all that—what difference does it make? If it’s an educational myth and that’s what the Holy One, blessed be He, wants us to grow by or build ourselves by, then fine, we’ll build ourselves by it even if it didn’t happen. Why does it matter whether it did or didn’t happen? The Rashba, I say again, issued a ban over this, but I don’t understand why it’s so important—until the point of the revelation at Sinai. Because there, if the revelation at Sinai also didn’t happen, then why should I relate to this whole myth at all? Meaning, if the Holy One, blessed be He, gives me a Torah and in it He writes all sorts of myths, okay fine, then He wants to educate me in light of the myths. But if His giving me the Torah is also a myth, then why should I relate to this at all? I can also relate to Greek mythology or Akkadian mythology. Meaning, why should I educate myself or others or my children specifically in light of this myth and not in light of other myths, if at all? I would prefer no myths.

It can be like your moral intuitions—so you have intuitions, and the revelation at Sinai is one of them. How do you have them? I don’t know; you have the capacity to see the truth of these things even without being told explicitly, and therefore it’s binding because you know it’s true. But then I don’t need the revelation at Sinai; I know it’s true. So I’m saying: without the revelation at Sinai, that’s exactly the point according to the position of “without the revelation at Sinai.” No, I understand, but I don’t see it—I don’t have intuitions like that. Then you’re obligated because you think you’re obligated. Someone who thinks it’s self-evidently true—obviously you’re right. The question is whether there’s anyone like that. What, does someone really think it’s self-evidently true that one must redeem a firstborn donkey? No. That sounds unreasonable to me. If someone comes and says, “Listen, this is as obvious to me as that murder is forbidden,” fine, then obviously he’ll be obligated to it just as he is obligated to morality. It’s just hard for me to believe there’s someone like that, let’s say. And even if there is, he’s a shining minority, an exceptional minority. I don’t assume most people were endowed with such developed intuitions. So that’s why I say: unless this comes to me in some sense from above, in some form…

Now, he said—Rabbi Kula—that maybe it comes through the intuitions of charismatic people, meaning people who can understand, “those who know the mind of the Most High,” those who know how to understand what the Holy One, blessed be He, wants even without the defined historical event in which the Holy One brings the Torah down below. I only ask: how do I know they’re such charismatic people and that they know? I feel that without this direct, concrete transfer, intuition is simpler. What? To feel intuitively that they’re charismatic. Maybe. Since I’ve never met anyone like that, maybe I just haven’t—perhaps there are such people and I never met them, or there are such people and I met them and didn’t feel it, but I’m emotionally numb regarding spiritual charisma, apparently. So maybe. I don’t know. In short, it didn’t convince me. Meaning, I think that without that anchor it’s very hard to see how to be obligated to this system. Though again, if someone tells me, “Listen, I have spiritual intuitions that work directly with the Holy One, blessed be He,” okay—what can I say to him?

What exactly do you include in “the revelation at Sinai” when you say that? Some form in which the Torah, or this basic information, passes from above to below. I’m not talking about the pyrotechnics, as I said; that’s not… So how is that different from what the rabbi said earlier about other people? That’s why I say: no, it’s not different at all. If you really think there are such people to whom information passes from above, and you’re convinced that’s so, then indeed, yes, that’s also a way. I just don’t see how one becomes convinced of that; I don’t know such a phenomenon. How can you be convinced—meaning, what event could convince you? The giving of the Torah: that the Holy One, blessed be He, reveals Himself and says, “I am the Lord your God.” That’s it, that’s what I mean. That He revealed Himself to the whole people, or to Moses our teacher? To the whole people, to Moses our teacher—it doesn’t matter. The pyrotechnics in that sense are secondary. No, it’s not the same thing, because the surrounding pyrotechnics in that sense aren’t required and don’t have to be exactly as described—but they’re a means. You see that something is happening here. So the fact that Moses our teacher goes up into the thick cloud and in the end only he speaks with the Holy One, blessed be He—even the first two commandments, after all, were said to everyone. Only the rest were said to Moses our teacher. So there were all sorts of indications; it wasn’t for nothing. So the pyrotechnics are required? No, again I say, the pyrotechnics are a means. No, but from my perspective it could also be some other means. So I don’t know if that was the exact thing. But that’s the sort of thing that could have convinced me. To tell you it was exactly this and not otherwise—I’m not at all sure, and certainly not with rabbinic midrashim, because it’s clear that those are midrashim.

So if the pyrotechnics come down, then apparently… They don’t come down. I’m saying again: there are things—it could be that they were there and it could be that they weren’t. I’m not committed to their having been there. What is needed is some indication that something is passing through here. Whether it was by means of the pyrotechnics described in the verses, or whether that pyrotechnics is a metaphor for what I’m talking about—for a state in which people understand that something is happening here. They describe it in terms of thunder and lightning and the whole world falling silent and so on, but it could be figurative description. It describes that there was some indication that something was happening here. I don’t know how to say what those indications were.

We also once talked about that criticism of Abraham our forefather at the binding of Isaac: why didn’t he raise the possibility that maybe something was deceiving him? After all, it contradicts everything that the Holy One Himself had told him earlier, and his own moral intuitions. So why didn’t he take into account that maybe something was just deceiving him? And I said that’s a foolish question. Because as long as I haven’t been in a situation where I encounter the Holy One, blessed be He, and He speaks to me, I have no way to claim that it can also be interpreted as deception. It’s like—I think I gave this example—like I see the clock here. Someone blind is sitting next to me and says, “Who told you that what you see is true?” What am I supposed to tell him? I have nothing to tell him. But I see. He says, “Right, but maybe it’s deception?” After all, there were philosophers who raised that possibility, right? And everyone throws them down the stairs. Why? I have no explanation. But when I experience it, it’s clear to me that it’s true. Meaning, I don’t know, I can’t explain to anyone why it’s so, but it’s so. And again, really maybe it’s all deception, but practically speaking I don’t think that. Meaning, I think that if I experience it, it’s probably true. So when Abraham our forefather encounters the Holy One, blessed be He, then the Holy One speaks to him and he understands that the Holy One is speaking to him. I wasn’t in such a situation, so in that sense I’m like the blind man. I can ask him, “Tell me, maybe it was deception?” And maybe he’ll have nothing to say to me except, “Listen, I was there—it wasn’t deception.” That’s it. You didn’t experience it, so you’re blind.

Fine, but regarding Abraham our forefather, I’m prepared anyway to accept that it need not be so. No, I only brought it as a parable. I understand, yes, yes—but I’m only bringing it as a parable for the revelation at Sinai. At the revelation at Sinai I’m no longer prepared to accept that it didn’t happen. So Arik asks: how do you know? After all, there were people there; even if everyone heard, you weren’t there, only they were. So how do you know? That too is a kind of spiritual charisma of the sort he was speaking about. I told him that there it was probably really some more concrete, more clear-cut sort of thing. And again I say: maybe spiritual charisma too could have convinced me, if I had encountered it or if I were open to it. What’s the point? That it was many people? So not only did He reveal Himself to them, but… I have no idea what the point is. I have no idea—that’s what I’m saying; it doesn’t interest me either. I only know that there were such indications there. What were the indications? I don’t know, because I wasn’t there. But the claim is that whoever was there ought to have been convinced. How was he convinced? I don’t know. It’s described in the Torah in a certain way, in the Sages in a somewhat broader way. I have no idea whether that’s description or parable or whatever. But what that basically seems to be saying, as far as I understand it, is that there were indications there that something was happening. What were the indications? How exactly is it experienced? I have no idea. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been there.

Okay, so that’s parable and figurative language. We’re back now—back to Rabbi Gedaliah’s words. So the Guide of the Perplexed is basically devoted mainly to the distinction between parable and figurative language and things taken literally. In the introduction to the book, Maimonides says that the matters he deals with in his book are “the true wisdom of the Torah.” The truly true wisdom of the Torah, so to speak. And that really does invite a remark about yeshivas, because in yeshivas they don’t learn Bible at all. So these things—how to interpret Scripture, whether literally or not literally—that’s for preachers and spiritual supervisors, if you want to doze off a little. So he says: in yeshivas they engage in fine distinctions on every Jewish law in Maimonides, and rightly so. But the things Maimonides says are “the true wisdom of the Torah,” included in Sefer HaMadda and the Guide of the Perplexed—they aren’t taken seriously at all. I’m reading him, yes. “This is insolence toward Maimonides.” That’s the criticism. I understand it, but I don’t agree with it. So Maimonides thought that—so what? Do I owe something to Maimonides? He thought this was the true wisdom of the Torah, okay, and I think not. No, no—but the reason they didn’t include it in yeshivas… Maimonides is… yes, okay. No, but we already talked about this once: when one says there’s an internal contradiction there. But we talked once—“Maimonides” is a book, not a person. “Maimonides” means the Mishneh Torah, not a person. And the Guide of the Perplexed? Well yes, the Guide of the Perplexed is somebody else. There’s the Guide of the Perplexed and there’s Maimonides; those are two things. We’re talking about books, not the person. The person—what difference does that make? The person is a parable, a myth.

When you say, “I don’t accept that,” you need to accept something else. When you say, “I don’t accept that,” you need to accept something else, or… No—who said this is “the true wisdom of the Torah”? The true wisdom of the Torah is whether the study of the Ketzot on hashta demeshale’ach means that an agent is an extended hand or a transfer of legal power. Why not? Who said the great things are specifically all the biblical interpretations and philosophy and all that? I don’t know. My tradition doesn’t teach me something else. I don’t buy it. Again—not in the opposite direction either. I’m exaggerating, of course; I’m presenting the other side just so it too will be present. I don’t know. Sometimes this is great, sometimes that is great. Maybe it depends on the person. I don’t think you can classify here what is great and what is small. When he says, “This teaching is beautiful and that teaching is not beautiful,” I’m not going to classify what is more important and what less important. It’s just that Maimonides belittled the “small matter,” the intricacies of legal debate, right? Also the Sages—he brings the Sages. He still took the trouble, though. Yes, but he writes why he took the trouble. He took the trouble to spare us from occupying ourselves with that, so that we could occupy ourselves with the really important things. So we’ll know Jewish law and won’t need to engage in too much hair-splitting over Talmudic topics, and we’ll have time to deal with the truly important things. So what happened, of course? In the yeshivas, they engage in hair-splitting in Maimonides. Yes, of course. You won’t defeat them. Maimonides says—the yeshivas, why “them”? Maimonides says the book was not composed for those occupied only with Talmud, but for those who contemplate—though I think it wasn’t composed for those occupied with Talmud at all—but for those who studied also the sciences of knowing reality, and they know how to distinguish between the necessary, the impossible, and the possible.

Here’s a point that will come back later too, so I’ll note something. “The necessary, the impossible, and the possible” is basically an Aristotelian expression, which Maimonides also uses. The necessary, the impossible, and the possible—yes, that which must be, that which cannot be, and the contingent. Contradiction and tautology, basically. Now, these distinctions lie in the field of logic. Meaning: there are necessary arguments, paradoxical arguments—that is, contradictions—and possible arguments. They might be true and they might not be true. I think this has nothing to do with “the wisdom of knowing reality.” Maimonides says that those who studied the wisdom of knowing reality understand the difference between the impossible, the possible, and the necessary. He probably means—and following him, Rabbi Gedaliah probably means too—physical impossibility, physical necessity, and physical possibility, not logical. Because he’s talking about the study of reality; the study of logic isn’t connected to reality. So he probably means that.

Now, here there’s room to ask whether there really is such a thing as physical impossibility. Today we already know that there is almost no such thing. Every process that is physically impossible is really possible, only with a very, very tiny probability. That’s what quantum theory says, okay? There is basically almost nothing that is physically impossible. And even aside from the findings of modern physics, from the philosophical standpoint I say: physics cannot determine anything with certainty. There is no certainty in science; certainty exists in mathematics. There’s no certainty in science. Therefore “impossible,” “necessary,” and “possible” are not such good terms.

But there’s no “possible” in logic. What? Of course there is. Premises—that’s not logic. No, the premise that all humans are mortal allows that one of them has two legs. That’s not contradicted by the premises, and it’s not required by the premises; it is made possible in light of the premises. That is a logical possibility. That’s what’s called a contingent argument. It’s an argument that is possible. You can accept it and you can reject it. Logic doesn’t say it’s true; logic only says it’s possible. Meaning, that it is neither necessary nor impossible. Meaning, that it is not impossible. Yes, meaning that it is neither necessary nor impossible. No, also not impossible and also not necessary, because otherwise it wouldn’t be possible. Okay? That’s a logical classification; it has nothing to do with reality. Fine? Now, in reality you have to check whether there are humans with two legs or not—that’s a question of observation, okay? That’s what science deals with. So therefore—we know from Nachmanides too, in his introduction to Milchamot—that he writes that the wisdom of our Torah is not like the wisdom of astronomy and mathematics, “whose demonstrations are conclusive.” Astronomy means astronomy, yes—but basically physics in his language. And mathematics is mathematics, “whose demonstrations are conclusive,” meaning that there there are necessary, certain proofs. Now in astronomy there are no certain proofs, unlike mathematics. In mathematics there are; in physics there are not. Doesn’t tekhunah mean geometry? No, not exactly. Tekhunah means astronomy. What does “their demonstrations” mean? Their proofs. A demonstration is a proof.

In the Guide he writes that we are compelled to believe the Greeks, or something like that. Maybe. In any case, I’m saying: clearly, Nachmanides—and Maimonides too, I think, in some sense, even though Maimonides makes these distinctions—understood physics as something necessary like logic. Either that, or from the other side: logic is a branch of science. They did not distinguish between philosophy and science. That distinction—as sharply as we take it today—is a modern distinction, a distinction of the modern era. Okay? We moved from realism to empiricism. In the sixteenth century empiricism began, and then this distinction crystallized or became sharper: science deals with observation, and philosophy or logic deal with inferences, with thought. And observations are always exposed to error. You can err, and certainly the generalizations you make on the basis of observations can always be mistaken.

Was he referring to the laws of physics, or physics itself? The laws of physics. Meaning, the laws or physics? I have the impression that he means that in physics, if you describe a given situation, then necessarily, given that those are the data, the result will be obvious. That’s a law. No, that’s when I state the law—but I don’t know the laws completely. What I think he means is that in physics, if there’s A and B, then C is necessary if there are no other conditions. Meaning, not because we don’t define the laws completely. Meaning, when you define gravitation and make a generalization from it… No, I’m talking about laws that are really true. Completely. Are they necessary? Who said? Why not? Who said there are such laws in physics at all, that are completely true? That’s an assumption that physics makes and we try to strive toward such laws—it’s a methodological assumption. Do you know that in the end you’ll arrive at universal laws that describe everything correctly? That’s a methodological assumption, a very strong intuition of ours from daily experience—that the sun always rises in the east, that whenever you do some action its result is such-and-such. No, I understand, but from there to necessity the distance is great. Okay, but that’s what I’m saying: impossible, necessary, and required—when one applies that to the world of science rather than the world of logic, it has to be taken with a grain of salt.

We talked about the ability of the Holy One, blessed be He, to deviate from the laws of physics versus His ability to deviate from the laws of logic and mathematics. Maimonides makes this distinction, and Nachmanides says that He has the first ability but not the second. And the Rashba too repeats this in his responsa, part 4. Why? Not because the Holy One, blessed be He, is not omnipotent, but because deviating from the laws of logic is just nonsense—there is no such thing. The Holy One, blessed be He, cannot make a round triangle. There is no such thing as a round triangle. We talked about this, yes? And now I remember that we did discuss it—with the bullet that penetrates every wall meeting a wall that stops every bullet, so what happens? Yes? And the answer is that either there is no wall that stops every bullet, or there is no bullet that penetrates every wall. So there’s nothing to say about what happens when it meets it. Same thing when I’m asked whether the Holy One can make a round triangle: the answer is that I don’t understand the question. What is a round triangle? If it’s a triangle, it’s not round; if it’s round, it’s not a triangle. So it’s not that the Holy One is not omnipotent because He is subject to the laws of logic and cannot deviate from them. Deviating from the laws of logic is just words, simply nonsense. It’s not that it cannot be done; there is no such thing. The laws of logic are not a boundary such that there is something beyond them. There is nothing beyond them. It’s simply that. Okay, so that’s why I say that necessity—and today we are much more aware of this; he’ll talk about it later—but we are much more aware that what is called “necessity” in the context of physics should be taken with a grain of salt. Nothing is necessary. Things can change, we can discover new things, and even if we don’t discover them, who says what we think is true? Right? This isn’t logic.

So the book was composed not for those occupied only with Talmud, but for thinkers who know the difference between the impossible, the necessary, and the possible. These find in the Torah things that, if understood literally, are impossible according to reason, and therefore they are in great perplexity. On the one hand, they are convinced of the truth of what… in many places is clear to them. And which of them should they abandon? Should they cast reason behind their backs? That cannot be a satisfactory solution. Should they say that what is written here in the Torah is not true? That too cannot be accepted, for the wisdom of the Torah and its truth are not divisible. These are the perplexed for whom the book is intended. Therefore Maimonides from the outset comes here with an apologetic approach—apologetic in the real sense of the word. Apologetics in the sense that I am not prepared to give up my principles of thought for the sake of faith in tradition, and I’m also not prepared to give up tradition for the sake of principles of thought. It must… so if that’s the case, it must be reconciled; it cannot fail to be reconciled.

Maimonides describes their perplexity vividly and movingly, with heartfelt pain. True, he writes prose and not poetry, and still his words are read with deep feeling. Yes, he comes back to this from time to time; we’ve already seen such expressions.

A note here on that issue: really, here there is a starting point that certainly characterizes Maimonides. I once brought this up—I think I brought it in the Eight Chapters. I think in chapter 6, Maimonides talks there about what the philosophers said. Maimonides raises a difficulty: the philosophers said that greater is the one who… sorry, greater is the one who… what does he call it? Masters his inclination, as opposed to… I don’t remember what he calls the second type—the naturally moral person, versus someone who overcomes his inclinations and, in the name of morality, overcomes them. Fine? So the philosophers claim that the naturally moral person is more perfect, because he has no evil inclination; he is much more complete. And the Sages say: one should not say, “I do not desire to eat pork,” but rather, “I do desire it, but what can I do? My Father in Heaven decreed this upon me.” Meaning, it is better—or more correct—to be a servant of God through self-overcoming than to be a servant of God… what Rabbi Kook called, yes, he returned to “the conqueror and the upright”: do you conquer your nature in order to do God’s will, or on the contrary, are you supposed to internalize it and do it naturally?

Now these questions in Maimonides are well known: these are rational commandments, these are supra-rational commandments, all familiar things. But what is most interesting to me in this text is the very posing of the question in this chapter—the posing of the question. What’s the difficulty? The philosophers said one thing and the Sages said another. Fine, so here’s another place where the philosophers were mistaken—what’s the problem? No, Maimonides doesn’t assume that. Meaning, if the philosophers said this and the Sages said that, then we have here two truths, and I’m not prepared to give up either one. I’m committed to both—not because they said it; Maimonides himself thinks so, of course. So I’m not willing to give up either side. Fine—then if so, we have to reconcile them. Exactly the description he gives here. Meaning, the whole Guide of the Perplexed and the entire discussion of these ideas is directed solely to people who are committed to both horns of the dilemma: both to the rational, philosophical, intellectual side and to the faithful, traditional side. Once you’re committed to both sides, then you’re in a dilemma; now you have to solve the problems. Two other groups solve them much more easily: either they give up the faith because it contradicts reason, or they give up reason because it contradicts faith, and then they’re not in conflict. But the Guide of the Perplexed—the perplexed one… who is the perplexed one? Those two are not perplexed. Who is the perplexed one? The perplexed one is that same person who has both sides, is committed to both of them, but there is some contradiction here, something here… and he knows what is necessary, impossible, and possible—that is, he understands that some things are impossible, and yet that’s what the Torah says, or that’s what our tradition says. So what does one do?

Now, by the way, one of the outlets Maimonides finds is to explain things by way of parable and figurative language, because taken literally they are impossible—they are impossible things. That’s one of the solutions he offers to the perplexity he speaks about, for those perplexed people to whom he writes the book. If you are committed both to principles of rationality and to principles of tradition, you have to reconcile them. How do you reconcile them? You say: in the tradition there are certain things that are parable; they are not literal. Therefore you don’t need to assume that it really happened, because it really is impossible that it should happen. Okay? I’m just linking this to the previous paragraph, where he said that the Guide of the Perplexed is basically devoted mainly to distinguishing between parable and figurative language and simplistic description—and that’s the idea of the appeal to the perplexed. You have to offer this kind of solution in order to give an answer to the perplexed.

And really in this connection—I think I also talked about this once—it’s worth bringing what Rabbi Shimon Shkop writes at the beginning of Sha’arei Yosher, where he talks there about the theory of laws. We may have talked about this in previous years; I don’t remember anymore. There he basically says, on the basis of various difficulties—it’s a Jewish law discussion but meta-halakhic—that from all sorts of questions it becomes completely clear that what reason says is binding exactly like a verse. A verse. And then he asks—yes, one of his topics there in Sha’arei Yosher—he says there are legal principles that precede what is written in the Torah, and even though they are not written in the Torah they are binding, in the sense that from the Torah’s perspective it is obvious that we are obligated to them. Yes, the Torah says, “Do not steal,” but in order to define you as a thief one must define the laws of property. Where does the Torah define the laws of property? It doesn’t. One could say that it is implicit in the command “Do not steal,” so we understand… yes, but it’s not defined anywhere. What is theft? What is ownership? Who becomes owner of what? The Torah only said, “Do not steal,” so we understand that the laws of property apply. But where do you get them? Why are the laws of property accepted? Ah, that’s exactly the point. No, but that’s only because “Do not steal” was said. If it hadn’t been said… But once “Do not steal” was said, that means the Torah assumes an obligation that precedes the command. Not necessarily an obligation; maybe it assumes only an existing system, and when it says “Do not steal,” I understand that that system must function. So it gives it endorsement, but without “Do not steal” I wouldn’t be obligated to it.

Rabbi Shimon argues not so. Rabbi Shimon argues that it comes first. And one indication, for example, is that… he says that stealing from a gentile—his indications are from the Talmud; that’s a somewhat different discussion—but he says that regarding stealing from a gentile there’s a dispute whether it is forbidden by Torah law or not forbidden by Torah law. He says that according to everyone it is forbidden by Torah law. Even according to the one who says that it is not forbidden by Torah law as a command, it is forbidden by Torah law as a legal principle, because a gentile has ownership. And if gentiles own property, it is forbidden for you to steal from them. Now there it is no longer anchored in a prohibition, because “Do not steal” does not apply there according to those opinions that stealing from a gentile is not forbidden by Torah law. Okay? And nevertheless he says, fine, but if legal reasoning determines that they have ownership, then you may not take it. What do you mean? So there is here a stronger statement than merely deriving it from “Do not steal,” and what lies behind it is exactly this conception.

And he asks—he himself says this explicitly—he says there: perhaps you will say, “If the Torah did not command it, why should I be obligated?” And like a good Jew he answers that too with a question, and says: and if the Torah did command it, why should I be obligated? So it commanded, so what? Why should I be obligated? Because my reason tells me that if the Torah commands, then I am obligated. Very good—my reason also tells me this. The very mouth that forbade is the mouth that permitted. Meaning, if you are already taking reason, then take it all the way. Okay, so here too it’s the same. When your reason reaches some scientific conclusion or philosophical conclusion, you are not supposed to give it up because there is a tradition that says otherwise, because to the tradition too you are obligated by reason. So perhaps reject the obligation to tradition? There is here a contradiction between reason and reason, not between faith and reason. That is exactly the point. You have to solve it; there’s no other way. You have to deal with it. Okay.

This is against Rudolf Otto. In his book The Idea of the Holy, in the English edition, in the introduction, he writes there that “the unity of opposites” is the lazy man’s solution. Meaning, an approach that is very common today following Rabbi Kook: if you want to deal with contradictions, you say “the unity of opposites,” faith is above reason, or all sorts of things of that sort. I don’t know. I don’t understand that sentence at all. But this is taken from Hasidism and from all sorts of… they imported these Christian ideas into our world. But the idea in its basis is Christian: Nicholas of Cusa in the fifteenth century wrote a book called The Unity of Opposites. It’s a Christian idea. The medieval authorities almost all—almost all—come out strongly against this. There is no such thing. You can’t believe in logical contradictions. If it’s a logical contradiction, I don’t believe in it, and even if I said I believe in it, I don’t believe in it, because a logical contradiction is nonsense. So therefore, when you say “the unity of opposites,” that’s the solution of a lazy person. If you don’t want to get to the bottom of the issue and solve the problem, to show that there is no contradiction here, you say “the unity of opposites.” You roll your eyes, it looks terribly deep and terribly religious and everything is wonderful. But you’re talking nonsense. You’re lazy. Meaning, look into the topic and understand why there is no contradiction here. If there is a contradiction, there’s no choice—you draw the conclusions. Either this is not true or that is not true; that’s all. There is no such thing as both being true despite there being a contradiction between them.

Like Maimonides said about foreknowledge and free choice—he also uses the solution… No, no, no. In the plain sense of Maimonides, he said “it is beyond this.” That’s one of the reasons I think that’s not what Maimonides means, even though it really does seem so from the plain wording. Yes, it could be that Maimonides also thinks that foreknowledge and free choice are not a logical contradiction. Yes, but he doesn’t answer; he says that it’s… Why? He addresses it. Right. He says that God’s knowledge is not like our knowledge. Meaning, there is some solution to it even though you don’t understand it. It’s not a logical contradiction. It’s a lack of understanding, not a contradiction. That’s really the claim. In other words, the unity of opposites? I don’t think so, by the way. I think it is a contradiction and therefore one side has to be given up. To say “My thoughts are not your thoughts” is not to say “the unity of opposites”; it is to raise it one level up. But there’s a question what he means, and therefore I’m not inclined to think that’s what he says. Ah, okay. I say that he means there is no foreknowledge, that’s all. There is only free choice; there is no foreknowledge.

Okay, so in section D: one must understand that in knowing the necessary, the impossible, and the possible from the side of reason, one can make mistakes. So here we already see he is not talking about logic; he’s talking about science. Okay? So it’s not certain. Human knowledge develops, and there are things that were once considered true and later were disproved. For example, for hundreds of years people were sure that Newton’s laws of mechanics were the laws according to which the whole material world operates. His proofs were convincing; according to simple laws he explained the whole motion of the stars, and sometimes one could predict in advance on the basis of these laws that in a certain place there ought to be a star of a certain size that had not yet been discovered, and indeed a star of that size was discovered there. Meaning, there are predictions. That’s one of the indications that a scientific theory is true—if its predictions are confirmed or realized. But after hundreds of years, Einstein found that Newton’s laws are not valid at high velocities approaching the speed of light. Meaning, at low velocities the true laws take more or less the form of Newton’s laws. But at higher velocities that changes. It was necessary to reformulate the laws of mechanics so that they would also fit the new findings.

In general, a person has no absolute knowledge concerning anything in the material world. Here exactly is what I said before—he is aware of this. When he says necessary, impossible, and possible, he is talking about physics. And since that is so, he says necessary, impossible, and possible with reservations. Necessary, impossible, and possible are not really—this is not logic, yes? It is not absolute—about anything in the material world. The only certain knowledge is knowledge of space and time. Here he moves to Kant, of course, because the concepts of space and time are the two necessary tools by which a person knows the world. And even regarding the essence of space and time themselves there is dispute, as we will discuss later. Kant basically argued that all our cognitions are conditioned cognitions. But space and time are transcendental categories, meaning they are conditions of knowledge; they are not part of knowledge itself, they are conditions for knowledge. They are necessary. Meaning that there can be no change there; that is imposed on us. It is not exposed to change and the usual uncertainty that accompanies science. And many already argued against Kant, following Einstein and many things that shattered the accepted concepts of space and time that had prevailed until then, that he was mistaken here. Meaning, it’s not true. Space and time too are the kinds of things we grasp, and like everything else that can undergo changes and we can learn that it is not exactly what we once thought. And therefore it’s not clear that Kant is right on this point, or actually it’s fairly clear that he isn’t.

But here, when he says that apart from space and time everything is non-absolute, yes, that is basically drawn from Kant. Or, to formulate it in a somewhat less committed way: I think it’s true, though I’m not entirely sure, that there are some forms of thought or basic forms of perception that really are conditions for everything we think or perceive, and they really probably cannot change. It could be that space and time are not part of them. Maybe once we suddenly succeeded in conceptualizing space and time—after all, when you grow up, Einstein said that his ability to challenge the concepts of space and time was because he matured late, he once said. Why? Because usually we pass through Einstein’s perplexities at age two, okay? And by age three or four we’ve matured, we’re used to it, we already understand: this is space and time, and move on. They had already become fixed in us. Exactly. Now he went through these perplexities at age sixteen, or I don’t know, much later. At that stage he already had a mind, he already had the tools, he could already try to think about it. It was no longer something one could tell him, “Okay, okay, get used to it, that’s how it is, end of story.” You could have said that, but apparently he was independent enough not to buy it. And so he made these changes. Meaning, there are states in which this view of space and time—this Kantian view of space and time—is basically a childish view. Humanity was in a childish state then, before Einstein. Yes, we were all children, basically. We thought—no one even felt there was such a thing as space and time. What is space and time? It’s obvious; it’s not… It’s like how easy it is to think there is no such thing as air. Air is simply what you call it when there’s nothing there. Until you realize that air too is something. Now understand: to realize that space—not the air, but the space in which there is air—is itself also something, that’s a very difficult level of abstraction. We’ve gotten somewhat used to it because we’re dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants. Meaning, there are some smart people who already opened the way—the ether and all sorts of things, yes exactly—there are smart people who already broke the path, otherwise I don’t think we would so easily have noticed it. And the moment you understand that space and time are themselves some kind of objects, which you can now look at, investigate, examine whether they are such or such—that is an intellectual revolution.

But the question is whether in the end there isn’t something that will always accompany us. After all, in the end we always use something inside us in order to grasp what is outside us. You can’t grasp something without tools. So seemingly there is—I think—some system of tools that probably does have to accompany us. Maybe it’s only logic; I don’t know. Maybe. Though I think there has to be something beyond logic, because logic is empty. Meaning, logic says nothing about the world. It’s like… think about logic itself. What did Aristotle do in the Organon? Until Aristotle, people also made logical arguments, I’m sure. They also understood that if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. They knew that before Aristotle too. So what did he do? Aristotle was the first to understand that the laws of logic can constitute an object, something that can be studied. That one can formulate them, define them, investigate them. Until then they treated it as something transparent. Meaning: yes, obviously—nobody noticed that they were using logical rules. Now Aristotle was the first to put on the table: friends, there is here some system of rules, and I can even write them down, formulate them. That’s a tremendous intellectual revolution. He didn’t really innovate anything for anyone in the sense of revealing some form of thought they didn’t know before. Logic hardly helped anyone anywhere, I think, until the computer—except perhaps in very, very specific questions where formal logical notation can help. But generally everyone understands more or less; people think logically. It’s not some great Torah; we are born with it, we have that capacity. But Aristotle’s revolution wasn’t that he taught us to think. Aristotle’s revolution was that he turned thinking into an object that we think about. Meaning, he took thinking out of us and placed it on the table. Now we look at it, at that object.

Exactly like space and time—what Einstein later did, or really it began with Kant. Except that Kant still saw it as our glasses, but he already understood that there is something here. Meaning, he defined space and time as something—he just thought that that something was imposed on us, that they are glasses we wear, not something we can get rid of. And Einstein took one more step and said: okay, if it’s something, then let’s take the glasses off for a moment. We can put them on the table and see—try to look without glasses, or try to look at the glasses themselves, to see what they look like. How do I see my glasses? By definition I see them without glasses, right? So the same thing here. But for that I need to understand that I’m wearing glasses. If I don’t realize I’m wearing glasses, I’ll never look at the glasses; I just see through them. They’re not something whose existence I notice at all. Okay, so these processes of abstraction are very interesting. I have no idea what there is at the end. I mean, I think—it seems to me, though maybe that too is a kind of mental fixation—that there must somehow be some system that is indeed the most basic one, meaning one that isn’t changed. I can peel off more glasses and more glasses and put everything on the table and look with what remains. But if I peel off everything, I won’t see the table. So in the end there has to be something through which I grasp the other things, and that, apparently, it seems to me, I cannot get rid of. But I don’t know. Maybe we have some capacity—I don’t know exactly. It’s hard to think about.

Also regarding certain things that Maimonides thought were scientifically true, we know today that he was mistaken. And he certainly would have admitted this to us. And so Maimonides also wrote about the Sages: that the instructional sciences were not so developed in their day, and they did not speak of them as a tradition received from the prophets, but according to what was known in their generations. And there are things in which the knowledge has changed. When reality proves that a certain scientific assertion is incorrect, there is a necessity to change that assertion. Intellectual conviction according to the knowledge and data of a person, wherever he stands, is forced upon a person.

There are a few things here I might note. First of all, Maimonides says two things here about the Sages, not just one. Important point—pay attention. One thing he says is that the sciences were not developed in their day. Fine, that the science advances is no great innovation. The greater innovation of Maimonides is the theological innovation—or I don’t know whether to call it theology, but many people would call it a theological innovation—that when the Sages spoke on these matters, they were not drawing from the revelation at Sinai or from some tradition or from the prophets, but rather from the knowledge that surrounded them. Now the combination of these two things together—and only the combination of both together; each one alone won’t help—if you tell a believer only the first assumption, that science once wasn’t developed, he would agree. Fine. But the Sages knew everything. The Greeks didn’t know, the scientists didn’t know, but the Sages knew everything from prophecy, from who knows where. So it’s not enough to say that science then wasn’t developed. He adds another assumption: that the Sages too drew their information in these matters from the environment, from scientific tools, from observation, from the surrounding world—it doesn’t matter—like each of us learns about the world. And this was not some kind of knowledge over which they have authority. That is really the point.

There is an essay by Rabbi Abraham son of Maimonides that is printed at the beginning of Ein Yaakov. They print there several essays about aggadah, and one of them is a letter of Rabbi Abraham son of Maimonides, where he expands this. He brings it in the name of his father, elaborates more, and discusses those chapters in the Guide of the Perplexed. He cites a passage in tractate Pesachim where the Talmud brings a dispute whether the sphere moves and the constellations remain fixed, or the sphere remains fixed and the constellations move. Yes—what happens in the heavens: whether the earth revolves or the sun revolves. In our terms, basically. It speaks there about the stars and not the sun, but never mind—the principle is the same principle. Then the sages of the nations of the world said one thing, and the sages of Israel said another, and the sages of Israel went back and admitted to the sages of the nations of the world because they had some sort of proof. Why are the waters of springs warm in the morning? If the waters of springs are warm in the morning, that means the sun passes below and heats them—because apparently, in fact, it passes beneath the earth and not above the heavenly dome, as the Sages thought. The proof is not really a proof, of course, and the debate is a foolish debate. But one thing, yes—one thing one does learn from this, and this is what Maimonides and his son say. They say that one learns from here that one must admit the truth and accept the truth from whoever says it. Meaning, if wicked gentiles say something scientifically correct and we come to the conclusion that they are right and we were wrong, then one need not insist and say that the Sages are prophets and had divine spirit and all that. One should say: friends, we were wrong. Right, that is the truth, and that’s all.

He says explicitly regarding his interpretation at the end of part 2, I think, that if in the future the science of astronomy changes, then he will change his interpretation. Yes, and so on. Meaning, that is the lesson of that passage according to Rabbi Abraham son of Maimonides, and also what Maimonides writes in the Guide. In his father’s name, Rabbi Abraham says that the whole sugya there does not come to teach us who is fixed and who revolves; that interests nobody. It comes to teach us that one must accept the truth from whoever says it. And therefore he continues there and writes that we are not bound, because of the greatness of Torah scholars, to accept their authority in every field that is not Jewish law—the field in which they have some authority. And by the way, as I’ve said more than once, even in Jewish law their authority is not because they are necessarily right. They can err in Jewish law. They were human beings just like me and you, and the Sages too can err in Jewish law, and certainly the medieval authorities and the later authorities—certainly. So what? But they have authority. The Knesset too can make a mistake when it legislates a law, but that’s the law. And there too one need not make metaphysics out of authority or mystify it. Authority is not authority as the result of absolute, total knowledge, with no possibility of error. Authority is because we accepted upon ourselves that this is the constitution and this is what binds us, and therefore it has authority. That’s all. I’m sure there are quite a few mistakes there even in Jewish law. Fine—so what? I’m not excited by that at all.

By the way, one of the problematic things in dogmatic education is that in the end, when people encounter the facts and their minds open up a bit, they lose their faith. So then it looks more religious, more pious—yes, “the Sages were always right and there is no mistake in the Talmud and they knew all modern physics, they knew everything, including quantum theory and the science of the airplane.” Yes, some guy from Jerusalem wrote that the Sages surely could have built an airplane; they just decided they didn’t want to build it, I don’t know exactly what. Fine, an airplane, yes. The question, of course, is why they didn’t heal all the sick people—that’s a matter of saving life, that’s a Torah commandment. Meaning, they should have healed all the sick. So the claim is that this kind of education can preserve people who are willing to keep buying these tall tales over time. It preserves better than open education. But its risk is: what happens when people stop buying those stories? Then you discover what are called the “Da’at Emet pamphlets”—if any of you have encountered them—by Yaron Yadan, who was some kollel head in Kfar Hasidim, a penitent, and at some point he understood that it was all nonsense, took his whole family and fled Kfar Hasidim by night, became anti-religious, and publishes pamphlets to show that it’s all nonsense, and so on.

Now it’s very funny to read those pamphlets. Here and there there are also good questions, and they are definitely worth thought. But most of it is based on foolish religious education that he received. And when he discovers a scientific error in the Sages, he rejoices over it like someone finding great spoils: “Look what nonsense they’re saying.” What a novelty. Of course there are many scientific errors among the Sages. Who claimed that the Sages cannot make scientific mistakes? Dogmatic education. What? Many people claimed it. No, of course. Who claimed? I mean, the one who claimed it thinks in a broken way. His rabbis claimed it. Yes. And here you see the risk in a way of thinking, or in a philosophy or ideology, that was set up in order to prevent risks—to prevent confrontation. No, the Sages were always right, and if we don’t understand then apparently the mistake is ours. In the end what happens is: you have to close the person off so that he won’t encounter what really happens outside, and then there’s no problem. You can preserve him inside some sort of bubble detached from reality. But once he encounters things, and he’s basically a straight-thinking guy, he says: listen, how much of these tall tales can one eat? This business doesn’t work. There are so many errors in the Talmud. Of course there are. I can give you a list from here to no end. I’m talking about science right now. I assume there are also mistakes there in Jewish law, but that’s hard to know because I have no facts against which I can cross-check it.

But the problem arose because he became perplexed. Meaning, he became perplexed in the terms of the Guide of the Perplexed, of Maimonides, because he was committed to two sides: to the tradition as he had learned it in the religious context, and to science as he learned it in the scientific context—and then a contradiction arose. But he doesn’t understand that the tradition to which he was committed is not the correct tradition. Here he should have given up the tradition—but not in the sense of abandoning commitment to Torah and commandments. Rather, giving up the principles. Why not? Because I think that the principles that caused him to arrive at this problem are incorrect principles. So why reach the conclusion that the system is wrong? You simply interpreted it incorrectly. Exactly. I didn’t understand? But that is presumably the very faith he arrived at. Fine, that’s how he arrived at that faith—granted. So he needs to abandon it. But I’m saying: if that is not an unavoidable necessity… I’ve told this before, I think, that I often speak with people who have questions. I often speak with all kinds of people who have questions. And when I try to make these kinds of intellectual revolutions with them, they say, “Fine, you’re a heretic.” The God they don’t believe in is only the God they learned about in cheder. Nothing will help. They will come to the conclusion that they don’t believe in Him. You tell them: friends, this is not the right God. I’ll show you—there’s another God who is very logical, not exposed to any of the attacks you’re making here. That may be true, but there is no such God. I know what God is: the God I don’t believe in is only what the kindergarten teacher told me. That’s it. And “God” here is of course a metaphor. I’m talking about the Sages, the Torah, the whole relation, great rabbis who don’t err, and all these things—the whole package deal that you have to accept and can’t subject to critical thought.

He’s somewhat right. He says: that’s Judaism. You come with something else that may be the right thing, but Judaism is a collection of so many things… Maybe. But look around you today. Fine, so there are lots of foolish people—what does that mean? They are the group that represents Judaism. Fine, so I disagree with them. But why should I think because of that that there is no God? No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that this is what is called Judaism today. So then I’m not Jewish either. I have no problem with that, but I’m still committed to Jewish law. Call Judaism whatever you want. But I’m saying: you don’t have to abandon commitment to God because there are many foolish people in His camp, as in anything else. Maybe it’s not commitment; maybe that’s the greatest faith. What? That they specifically don’t believe in that God. Yes, that’s what Rabbi Kook says. I told you that Rabbi Kook says there is a faith that is like heresy, and a heresy that is like faith. He wrote this when he came to the Land of Israel and saw the people of the old yishuv in Jerusalem, and he said: they have very great fear of Heaven, but the heavens are so constricted and gloomy—and those are not the right heavens. Meaning, they are very God-fearing, but it’s not the right Heaven. So that faith is a faith that is like heresy, because to whom are you clinging so devoutly? Not to the right God. So you are actually a heretic. Whereas one who denies that kind of faith is the greatest believer, because he denies it because that really is not the right God. He believes in the right God; therefore he is unwilling to accept a faith that presents him with an incorrect God, and so he is a believing heretic.

I think I told you: when I was in Bnei Akiva there was a known joke that among the Mizrachi types there in the center there was tremendous fear of Heaven, only what kind of Heaven they feared there wasn’t clear. Then when I told that to a friend of mine who studied with me in the hesder yeshiva in Yerucham, he died laughing; he was stunned. He said to me, “Do you know the source of that line?” I said no. He said, “It’s Rabbi Kook.” When Rabbi Kook came to the Land of Israel, he saw the old yishuv—the Haredim of that time—and that’s what he said about them. Was that said about Haredim generally? He does in fact have comments about… There weren’t Haredim then. Not in this version, not in this type… You can see in them many positive things and still say that they have constricted and gloomy heavens and not the right heavens.

This is Maimonides’ elephant parable. Maimonides says: if someone tells you that an elephant has wings, is he mistaken? He isn’t mistaken. He simply isn’t talking about an elephant. That’s all. He is probably talking about a dove. The fact that he calls it an elephant—fine, that’s just a word. There are mistakes such that once you make them, it’s not really a mistake at all—you’re simply not talking about the right object. It’s a defining component of the object you’re talking about. So if you think that defining component doesn’t exist, then you simply aren’t talking about the right object. That’s all. You’re not mistaken; you’re simply not naming it correctly. It’s the same principle.

They preserve the same framework you preserve, they do everything you do—I don’t know, it looks as though their way is much safer than the way we… I said safer and correct are two different things. No, I mean, if they’re doing the same thing, then we too are not sure we are doing what is correct. Not sure. But the question is what is correct. I have the impression that what he said before—“they are Judaism.” In some sense I… hold that impression? Yes, but… Absolutely not. In my eyes that is a pathology of Judaism. It was never… not the… but the commandments they keep, and then they keep it closed off. If we were… I’m not talking about commandment observance. Commandment observance is something accepted by everyone. Some are more lax, some less, but that’s clear. I’m talking about the theology that accompanies commandment observance. The assumptions, the worldviews that accompany commandment observance. And there, in my eyes, that is a pathology; it is absolutely not Judaism. But fine, you know—that’s my opinion.

But if a person—lots of people believe because they were educated that way. So if you break what he was educated into, then he no longer has a reason to believe. No, I understand. Fine. The question is whether that’s psychology or philosophy. I understand. Fine. And still I make this claim. I still think there is reason to believe. Many people who believe, believe because of psychology, not because of philosophy. On that too I’m not sure I agree. Fine, but these two assumptions together are probably consistent. I don’t agree with either of them.

In any case, yes—Maimonides at the beginning of Sefer HaMadda devotes, I think, four chapters, at the beginning of the laws of the foundations of the Torah, to Aristotelian physics and metaphysics—with angels and separate intellects and spheres. I don’t know exactly; I never read it. I glance at it from time to time. I always asked myself why he put that into his book of Jewish law. So from Maimonides’ point of view those were basic metaphysical truths. For him it was like a solid fact. Even though he writes that if things change and so on, he probably didn’t really take seriously the possibility that it would change. He said in principle it can change. But you see all along the way that his attitude to Aristotle is like that of his whole environment: a kind of thing taken as absolute truth in many respects. And therefore he basically wrote it there, because this too is part of the truths about the world that don’t change—metaphysics, physics, all of it. This is the correct, binding picture of the world. It needs to be learned as part of the halakhic book. In my eyes, learning those chapters is one big waste of Torah study, because it is clear that it is not true, and that’s all. So what if Maimonides printed it inside his book? How can you know it isn’t true before you read it? What? I skimmed enough to see why I don’t need to read it. Meaning, I didn’t read it, I didn’t study it as I study other passages in Maimonides. You know, other passages in Maimonides you study, you don’t just read. I looked more or less at what’s written there; I didn’t go through it thoroughly, didn’t study it, because there’s no need to study it. It’s just Aristotelian nonsense. That’s not…

I’m only saying that Maimonides inserted there, into his halakhic code, four chapters of physical and metaphysical principles—which in those days were not so sharply distinguished—as though this were obvious, part of the Torah’s eternal truths in his view. Okay? But this changes; it did change, and there is no reason to accept it. Maimonides too did not derive this from prophecy; he derived it from Aristotle. Did they change? Did they change? What? The separate intellects? Yes—our conceptions of them. They didn’t change; they never existed. Only our conceptions changed, in the sense that today we understand that what people once conceived was incorrect. Fine. I don’t think… in the Guide of the Perplexed it is quite clear that the intention there is really an example suited to the reality of his time: that a person’s theological worldview needs to fit his scientific, physical worldview. Okay. Meaning, even though it can change. Fine. I’m saying: in my next sentence—I don’t know whether this is Maimonides’ intention—but for me, what one can learn from there is exactly that. That if you have a scientific worldview—and it doesn’t matter that it is not Maimonides’ worldview at all—it ought to be compatible with your traditional worldview, because we cannot split our intellect in two. Even our traditional worldview is based on our intellect. Even our interpretation of the Torah is based on our reason. Is there anything in the Torah that is free of interpretation? There is nothing in the world free of interpretation, and that interpretation draws entirely from our mode of thought. If we throw away our mode of thought, we can throw Maimonides and the Shulchan Arukh into the trash too. I mean Maimonides of the Mishneh Torah. Meaning, Jewish law too is a product of interpretation, of using our reasoning and our intellect—and obviously we cannot cast that aside.

Okay. The solution Maimonides gives to the perplexity mentioned above—that there are things in the Torah whose plain meaning is not their actual meaning, but one must understand them by way of parable and figurative language—that’s what I said before: this is the perplexity-solving answer. The problem is that it is not always easy to distinguish. What do I mean? Sometimes you can see that something is a parable, and sometimes not, and sometimes it’s a gray area. You don’t know whether this thing is a parable or not. Sometimes the parable is obvious, and it is called for to understand it that way. When the Sages talk about—it’s in the Sages, not Torah—but when the Sages talk about, I don’t know, the bar yokhani bird that lays an egg that sinks whole cities, yes, or all sorts of things of that kind, the tales of Rabbah bar bar Hannah—then it’s quite clear that they are not intending to describe events literally; rather, it is a parable. That’s completely clear. And Maimonides in the introduction writes that there are three groups regarding the interpretation of the aggadot of the Sages. One of them is the group of the wicked, who interpret all the aggadot literally and therefore basically say it’s all nonsense and the Sages were foolish. Then there is the group of the simpletons—if I remember correctly how he calls them—who want to accept everything literally, because if the Sages say it then it must be true and we should throw our own intellect into the trash, not the Sages. Two sides of the same coin. And the group of the wise—that’s the group that says: we understand that this is only a parable. The Sages did not intend to give factual description here. Let’s understand what they did want to say, what ideas they wanted to convey. We spoke earlier about educational myths.

So sometimes the parable is obvious and clearly calls to be understood that way, and sometimes the matter is doubtful. The decision on this is intellectual. Is the thing because of which we think it is a parable compelling? If so, we will interpret the text as a parable; if not, we have no reason to remove it from its literal meaning. There is never a need to decide between the authority of reason and the authority of the Torah. That is a strong statement. Meaning: I am never willing, says Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, to put myself into a conflict that requires me to choose between the authority of reason and the authority of the Torah. There is no such case. In other words, one must always reconcile. You can remain with “this requires further study,” but you can’t say “this is nonsense because here it says otherwise.” Well, that’s a very far-reaching statement, and I think one has to take it in a somewhat less sharp form than how he presents it. Meaning, there are weights here; it’s not all or nothing. Obviously, if there is something very strong on the traditional side, and from the standpoint of logic maybe one could also interpret it differently, okay, then I can indeed give up on my own reasoning. I don’t know—there are misunderstandings, not contradictions. Logical contradictions are out of the question. One cannot live with a logical contradiction. We’re not talking about that kind of surrender.

But a surrender of the sort of putting on tefillin even though I don’t understand why one has to put on tefillin—fine. There are many things I don’t understand; that isn’t a contradiction. I don’t understand—so what? But the Torah says put on tefillin. So here I don’t think Rabbi Yehuda Halevi means that every single thing you don’t understand, there’s some switch. It’s just another consideration in rational decisions. It’s part of rational decision-making. Fine, clear—but even this statement itself, that I never create a conflict, is itself also a rational judgment. Obviously. There is a difference between “I don’t understand” and “I understand that it is not so.” Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. When it’s a contradiction, then I understand that it’s not so—that it’s a contradiction. Exactly. And if I don’t understand, fine, then I don’t understand. But beyond that, not only is it a matter of “I don’t understand”; there should be some explanation through which I will understand. Therefore I should also look for it. True, if I haven’t found it—not always do I find it—fine, so what happened? Then I’ll put on tefillin without understanding. I don’t think Rabbi Yehuda Halevi means to say that if you don’t understand why one puts on tefillin, then don’t put them on. No, he doesn’t say that. Right. He says: I’m not willing to give up one side for the sake of the other. I am willing to say that there are situations where I don’t understand—not that I give up and think reason should be thrown away, but that apparently I’m not smart enough and I don’t understand. Okay, then one has to investigate further, and maybe I’ll succeed and maybe not. You can still fly on a plane even if you don’t understand the principles of aerodynamics.

Let us emphasize again: on the one hand, language is completely free. Into a linguistic expression one can insert different meanings, even a thing and its opposite—for example according to the tone of the statement. We saw this a bit in the introduction to his previous section: according to the tone of the statement, under what circumstances the words were said, to whom they were said, and so on. For obviously there is a difference between someone writing poetry and someone entering a shop to buy pickled herring. And coming to teach something. But on the other hand, language has rules, and every content that we want to insert into the words of the Torah has to fit the rules of language and the ways of language. Even figurative speech and parables have an appropriate style in the holy tongue, and not everything can be said to be a parable. And on this he says there is a certain cheapening in this technique: no problem, every problem I have—fine, it’s a parable. Meaning, that too is too easy. Don’t… you’re not supposed to give up on the Torah very easily either when reason stands against it. First you need to see carefully whether surrender is even required.

For example, he says: if the Torah says that a person lived one hundred and thirty years and begot Seth, and after begetting Seth he lived another eight hundred years and begot sons and daughters, and all his days were nine hundred and thirty years—there is no doubt that these are only things in their literal sense, according to their plain verbal meaning. This is not the style of metaphor or poetry. Here we are limited to the literal interpretation. Why? Because it does not look like a parable. It’s very tempting to say it’s a parable, because this is the sort of thing that is seemingly impossible. A person living nine hundred and fifty years doesn’t fit so well with what we know about biology, okay? But on the other hand he says: in the Torah there is no option to say this is a parable. It’s written as historical description. It doesn’t smell like a parable, it doesn’t look like a parable. So one also has to be intellectually honest. And now one has to check: okay, so what do we do? The problem, of course, is if you find a solution. If you find a solution, fine. If you don’t find a solution, what do you do? I don’t know—you’ll have to think. Maybe the biology—you need to think that perhaps it’s not necessary; perhaps under different circumstances a person can live longer; maybe things changed over the course of history; I don’t know. Or maybe after all it is a parable, despite the fact that you didn’t think it was. I’m saying: nothing here is all or nothing. He is only setting a direction, a tendency.

And it also depends on how strong the thing is that stands against it. Meaning, the level has to match the level of difficulty of the thing. Right, right. But Methuselah is the brand name for age 950. No, there it’s obviously literal. Yes, if Methuselah never existed, then why discuss how long he lived if he never existed? Yes, no—I’m talking about the thesis he comes to defend. Never mind. But the thesis he comes to defend is a faith thesis saying that none of this happened. Let’s set that aside… yes, exactly. So here he says—and in a certain sense he’s right—we move into parables a bit too quickly. By the way, Kabbalah reads everything as… all of it is basically some kind of parable for spiritual matters. But obviously that is the secret level, and there is also the plain sense. And in the plain sense it really does look like literal interpretation.

In the space between the literal meaning of a story and the figurative mode, there is room for much thought. What does the Torah intend by telling these facts specifically? Surely not everything was told. When it says, “and he begot sons and daughters,” and tells us nothing at all about those sons and daughters, we know that in what the Torah did tell there is a certain intention. But all this is just an introduction to the interpretation of Genesis. He addresses these points in his commentary on the verses, and therefore there is no need to look for the solutions right now. For the moment he is only laying out the direction, the principles.

However, Maimonides says in the introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed that sometimes Scripture adds details that are not in themselves important, in order that the story be complete and not broken up. Not that those details have a lesson in themselves. You can’t tell one detail that has meaning and then skip to another detail without saying how we got from here to there. Meaning, when you tell the story it needs to be whole. And the things need to be written in a readable and beautiful way. One has to find the general intention of the matter, and from that we should ultimately learn to be moral people. Sometimes by way of negation—that we should not be like those about whom the story is told—and of course that is equivalent to teaching by way of affirmation. And again, he assumes here that these are moral rules. It’s not clear whether he means morality specifically or behavioral guidance. I already spoke about that too in his first introduction: it seems to me that he does somewhat hold, like Rabbi Kook in this respect, that the whole Torah ultimately has moral aims. In the end everything is reduced to morality. I’m not inclined to think so. But for me it’s not important, so I would translate the word “morality” here as “behavioral guidance”—whether morality or Jewish law or whatever, within that whole range.

Maimonides further wrote in the introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed that he does not claim to say that his book removes every doubt for whoever understands it. But it removes most doubts, and the greatest among them. Likewise, the intelligent reader should not ask of him that when he mentions one matter among matters, he should complete it fully, or that he should explain everything stated in a given parable. For that is something impossible to do—even orally, all the more so in writing. Now of course all this is an introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed; it’s an introduction to the book. So he brings this in Maimonides’ name, and he means to say: in my book too, don’t think I’m going to explain every detail. Understand that I’m talking about the principles, the larger things. Clearly there are still details that need explanation; you can’t explain everything. Okay? Just see whether in general this is convincing to you. That is, whether what I said gives some picture that provides an answer to the difficulties we are usually used to encountering when we read Genesis. As for the details, fine, one has to discuss the details. He can’t go into all those details here. Okay.