Analytical Talmudic Thinking – Lesson 2
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Table of Contents
- Analytic learning, Jewish law, and conceptualizing forms of thought
- An encyclopedia of reasoning and the problem of classification
- Different conceptual systems: R. Chaim, the Rogatchover, and mathematics as a metaphor
- Ponevezh and Slabodka: patterning, creativity, and training a Torah scholar
- Imitating Rav Shmuel Rozovsky as a Ponevezh ideal
- Autonomy in halakhic ruling versus sticking to precedents
- Doubts, “a doubt among great authorities,” and following the majority when there is only doubt
- First-order and second-order halakhic ruling and the connection to analytic learning
- R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach and how an analytically minded decisor uses the Talmud
- Autonomy in learning versus autonomy in halakhic ruling
- Maimonides, interpretive methods, and lack of synchronization as an expression of precedent-based ruling
- Monism, pluralism, and the Ritva in Sukkah as a basis for autonomous monism
- “Placing a stumbling block before one who can see” and the obligation to respect autonomy
- Summary of the conclusions and the claim: “it comes from reason”
Summary
General Overview
The text presents analytic learning as a system of formal modes of thought that can be applied to different halakhic contents, and it sets up a principled tension between conceptual study and halakhic ruling, between institutional patterns and creativity, and between halakhic truth and the value of the decisor’s autonomy. It argues that first-order halakhic ruling is a direct continuation of conceptual analysis, that deciding Jewish law should not primarily be done by counting precedents, and that there is binding value in ruling according to one’s best personal understanding even when there is a significant chance of being mistaken in comparison to greater authorities. This is illustrated through the pilpul method, the differences between Ponevezh and Slabodka, and especially through passages in Eruvin and Sukkah and the Ritva, leading to a conception of autonomous monism: one halakhic truth alongside an obligation to act according to one’s own determination.
Analytic learning, Jewish law, and conceptualizing forms of thought
Analytic learning is distinguished from halakhic ruling, and the question is raised whether analytic learning is a means for ruling Jewish law or an end in itself, against the backdrop of the aspiration to arrive at the legal conclusion of the discussion. The relation between theory and practice parallels the relation between science and technology: one can see theory as a tool for practical application, or practical cases as ramifications through which one clarifies general laws and theoretical understandings. Aristotle is described as someone who conceptualized an existing logic rather than inventing it, and in the same way analytic learning is understood as the conceptualization of patterns that had already appeared earlier; the Pnei Yehoshua is presented as containing early signs of analytic distinctions in the later style of Volozhin and R. Chaim. The pilpul method in Eastern Europe in the fifteenth century is described as emphasizing sharpness and at times being accused of having less truth, but at its core it is analysis of the foundations of the Talmudic passages, and it even developed fixed names for distinctions and patterns of resolving difficulties, such as “Ravensburger” and “Regensburger.”
An encyclopedia of reasoning and the problem of classification
The idea is presented of an encyclopedia for conceptual analysis, or an encyclopedia of lines of reasoning, as opposed to a Talmudic encyclopedia that classifies by topics alphabetically. The central problem is not only identifying types of reasoning but classifying and making them accessible, because there is no natural “coordinate system” that would let the reader search for a needed line of reasoning on the basis of a difficulty without already knowing its name. Artificial intelligence is described as something that can return an answer to a difficulty but is not structured in terms of concepts and does not classify kinds of questions and answers or point to parallels and applications. The conclusion is that conceptualizing and developing methods of analysis do not proceed algorithmically but creatively, and that the “finding” of a form of thought sometimes happens “when one’s mind is elsewhere,” like the rabbinic statement about finding a lost object.
Different conceptual systems: R. Chaim, the Rogatchover, and mathematics as a metaphor
Differences are presented between the conceptual systems of various study halls and individuals. With R. Chaim one finds concepts like object and person, sign and cause, fulfillment and discharge of obligation, and two legal categories; whereas with the Rogatchover the system rests on Guide for the Perplexed terminology such as mode, cause, essence, and at times a division into three legal categories. These systems are understood as different descriptive forms in which there is no “more correct” and “less correct,” similar to describing a point in mathematics in Cartesian or polar coordinates and choosing whichever coordinate system is more convenient for the form being studied. The example of Zen is presented as the ability to learn “the same thing” through different media, just as different conceptual systems allow a different encounter with the same field of analysis.
Ponevezh and Slabodka: patterning, creativity, and training a Torah scholar
Analytic learning is described as elusive on the one hand, yet also as having patterns that became fixed in the yeshivot, and a distinction is drawn between Ponevezh and Slabodka in Bnei Brak. Ponevezh is described as patterned and fast, with organized structures that let one anticipate the course of the lecture and the practical ramifications, and this is used to explain why so many yeshiva heads emerge from the Ponevezh stream. Slabodka is described as independent, non-patterned learning in a style reminiscent of the Chazon Ish, a world in which either one genuinely creates or nothing comes out at all, and therefore it “produces” fewer yeshiva heads. An educational conclusion is proposed: start with the patterns of Ponevezh in order to build an orderly foundation, and then move to Slabodka in order to add a personal layer, similar to the claim that one must first master the multiplication table and only afterward “teach how to think,” and like the idea in art that one breaks genre rules from within a framework, not without a framework.
Imitating Rav Shmuel Rozovsky as a Ponevezh ideal
An anecdote is brought about a lecturer who studied under Rav Shmuel Rozovsky, whose lectures on a given tractate were identical to what was later printed in “Shiurei Rav Shmuel.” The lecturer was especially happy because he had not learned that tractate with Rav Shmuel at all, and he saw this as proof that he had internalized the ways of thinking to the point of producing the same lectures on passages he had never heard from him. This is presented as the essence of the “Ponevezh utopia” of optimal imitation, but it is argued that this should be only a first stage before breaking through to unique creativity.
Autonomy in halakhic ruling versus sticking to precedents
A constant tension is presented in halakhic ruling between sticking to precedents in order to minimize error and the intrinsic value of autonomous ruling according to one’s best understanding. The Talmud in Eruvin, which says that the law was not ruled in accordance with Rabbi Meir “because his colleagues could not grasp the depth of his reasoning,” is presented as proof that the value of autonomy overrides the likelihood of reaching the truth through greater authority. The Maharal, in Netiv HaTorah chapter 15 in Netivot Olam, is presented as engaging at length in polemic against the Shulchan Arukh, which ruled in precedent-based fashion according to the majority among the Rosh, Rif, and Maimonides, and he states that before the Holy One, blessed be He, one who rules according to what seems correct to him, even if he is mistaken, is preferable to one who rules from books, even if he is right. From here it is argued that there is truth and falsehood in halakhic ruling, yet the duty of personal decision remains primary.
Doubts, “a doubt among great authorities,” and following the majority when there is only doubt
The distinction between doubt about facts and doubt about law is presented as the basis for applying the laws of doubt, and the idea of “a doubt among great authorities” as an independent category of doubt is rejected. It is argued that a dispute between Maimonides and Rashba does not itself create doubt; it does so only if the learner himself remains in doubt after analysis, and then he applies the rule that a Torah-level doubt is treated stringently and a rabbinic-level doubt leniently. A joke about Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz and a priest is brought to emphasize that one follows the majority only when one is in doubt, similar to a piece of meat in a city where most butcher shops are non-kosher or kosher; but there is no “commandment to be in doubt” when there is a decisive sign such as a high-standard kosher seal.
First-order and second-order halakhic ruling and the connection to analytic learning
A distinction is drawn between first-order halakhic ruling, meaning ruling out of direct study of the passage and arriving at an independent conclusion, and second-order ruling, meaning collecting decisors and deciding according to majority or precedential weight. It is argued that in practice every decisor combines the two types in different proportions, and Rabbi Ovadia is presented as one who sometimes adopts a style of collecting opinions but in fact pushes toward a halakhic direction of his own. A connection is drawn between first-order ruling and analytic learning, and between second-order ruling and less direct clarification of the Talmudic passage, and criticism is directed at the yeshiva dichotomy of “conceptual analysis” versus “practical Jewish law” as though these were two separate forms of study. It is argued that conceptual study ought to end in a conclusion that is the Jewish law, and that analytic learning is a halakhic tool rather than a detached field.
R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach and how an analytically minded decisor uses the Talmud
R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach is described as a first-order, analytically minded decisor who derives halakhic rulings from the initial assumption of Tosafot in Bava Kamma even when the question at hand concerns the laws of the Sabbath. He explains that already while studying Tosafot he identifies possible implications for future questions, and those connections are “recorded” for him, so he does not search all over the Talmud again when a question arises. This is presented as illustrating that indexing by forms of thought rather than by topics is what allows a natural transition from a distant Talmudic passage to a practical issue.
Autonomy in learning versus autonomy in halakhic ruling
It is argued that people allow themselves autonomy in conceptual study but do not apply it in halakhic ruling, because in practice they “rely on the Mishnah Berurah” for practical Jewish law. This approach is said to undermine the meaning of arriving at the legal conclusion of the discussion and to undermine responsibility in proposing lines of reasoning, because when there is no intention of implementing the conclusion of one’s learning, there is no pressure to clarify what is plausible and correct, but only what “can be said.” Applying autonomy in halakhic ruling is presented as something that also demands seriousness in analysis, because the conceptual conclusion is what will actually be done.
Maimonides, interpretive methods, and lack of synchronization as an expression of precedent-based ruling
It is said that when tannaim disagree because of a difference between the interpretive methods of the school of Rabbi Ishmael—general and particular—and those of the school of Rabbi Akiva—amplification and limitation—Maimonides sometimes rules one way and sometimes the other, without consistency on the level of interpretive method even though he is consistent in halakhic content. This is presented as an example of the fact that Maimonides does not always synchronize his rulings according to one descriptive system of interpretation, illustrating an aspect of second-order ruling that does not require programmatic consistency in the interpretive method.
Monism, pluralism, and the Ritva in Sukkah as a basis for autonomous monism
A distinction is presented between halakhic pluralism—”these and those are the words of the living God”—and halakhic monism, which holds that there is one truth, and a practical halakhic ramification is chosen: whether one may cause another person to stumble into an act that according to him is forbidden and according to me is permitted. The Talmud in Sukkah 10b is cited, where Rav Nachman hosted Rav Huna and Rav Chisda in a sukkah whose decorations were four handbreadths below the roofing: according to his view it was permitted and according to theirs it was forbidden, and they sat and ate there on the claim that one engaged in a commandment is exempt from the sukkah. The Ritva infers that some say there is no issue of “do not place a stumbling block” when the one serving food relies on his own view even though he knows his fellow forbids it, but he limits this and says that the leniency applies only when the prohibition is recognizable to the other person so that he can avoid it if he wants, whereas when it is not recognizable it is forbidden. He brings support from the passage, “Far be it from the descendants of Abba bar Abba to feed him something he does not hold to be permitted,” in the chapter Kol HaBasar.
“Placing a stumbling block before one who can see” and the obligation to respect autonomy
It is explained that the Ritva’s distinction between recognizable and unrecognizable does not fit the ordinary model of “do not place a stumbling block,” because even someone who knows he is a nazirite and knows that this is wine is still being caused to stumble whenever the situation is one of “the two sides of the river,” as in Avodah Zarah. The explanation offered is that the Ritva changes the expression to “placing a stumbling block before one who can see” in order to hint that the issue here is not only causing a prohibition, but violating the autonomy of the other decisor, since even one who is mistaken must act according to his own decision. A model of “autonomous monism” is presented, in which there is one truth but there also exists an obligation of autonomy that overrides the value of truth. Therefore one may cause his fellow to act against his own view only when the matter is apparent and he can choose, but not when he does not know, because then autonomous choice is taken away from him. It is presented that three approaches yield three results: pluralism forbids whether he knows or does not know, non-autonomous monism permits whether he knows or does not know, and autonomous monism permits when it is recognizable and forbids when it is not recognizable.
Summary of the conclusions and the claim: “it comes from reason”
The text concludes that analytic learning and conceptual analysis are not separate from Jewish law, and that first-order halakhic ruling is the natural completion of conceptual study in a halakhic conclusion. The text states that there is value in autonomous halakhic ruling that leads to implementing one’s personal conclusion rather than relying externally on a mechanism that bypasses intellectual responsibility. The text ends with the question, “Where does this autonomous value come from?” and the answer, “It comes from reason.”
Full Transcript
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay. Last time we talked a bit about the concept of analytic learning in general. I spoke about the importance of analytic learning as opposed to Jewish law, whether analytic learning is a means in order to issue a halakhic ruling in certain situations or whether it is an end in itself, the distinction between analytic learning and halakhic ruling, because the goal is to arrive at the legal conclusion of the discussion. We talked a bit about what Maimonides meant—in other words, whether the analytic learning, R. Chaim, yes, the things that the later authorities or the yeshivot explain in Maimonides, whether that is really what Maimonides intended or not really what he intended. The purpose of learning. We talked about the relation between science and technology, yes, between theory as a means in order to apply it to practical cases—that’s the halakhic perspective—or the reverse, practical cases as practical ramifications through which we can clarify or reach conclusions about what the general theoretical laws are, what the analytic understandings are, which is more the scientific perspective as opposed to the technological one, or the analytic one as opposed to the halakhic one. I spoke a bit about the toolbox of logic, how Aristotle in fact did not invent logic but conceptualized it, though it already existed beforehand. The same is true of analytic learning. I once gave there—there was some conference here on the Pnei Yehoshua—and I gave a lecture in which I tried to show that there are early signs of analytic modes of thought in the Pnei Yehoshua. By analytic I mean in the style of the modern yeshivot, from Volozhin and R. Chaim onward, whereas the Pnei Yehoshua was of course much earlier, among the early precursors of the later authorities. And I showed several examples in which you can see actual distinctions that could have appeared in R. Chaim also appearing in the Pnei Yehoshua, which is really parallel to what we saw with Aristotle: even if someone comes and conceptualizes some form of thought or certain ideas, usually he doesn’t invent them. Usually they already existed before, and he is simply the one who puts the focus on them or identifies them and sees that we are dealing here with some general ideas that are worth paying attention to.
I think I didn’t mention the pilpul method that existed in Eastern Europe, Central and Eastern Europe, around the fifteenth century. Yes, roughly in the course of the fifteenth century there was what was called the pilpul method. It was heavily attacked because it was a method that placed a very, very strong emphasis on sharpness and less on truth, and therefore to this day the term pilpul is used by many critics of a study method or analytic method who say, “That’s pilpul.” Pilpul meaning: it’s not correct. But originally pilpul is not necessarily incorrect learning. Pilpul is analytic study—in other words, an attempt to understand the foundations, the underlying structures behind the Talmudic passages, behind the statements of medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim), and so on. In the pilpul method there was a very interesting point, and it’s not well known because today nobody really studies these things anymore, but whoever looks in Maharshal and a few later authorities can still see remnants of this. He comes to some passage and says: there’s a difficulty from here to there, a contradiction, a question. Then he says, fine, that’s a Ravensburger. We’ve said it, and he moves on to the next passage. What is a Ravensburger? In other words, they had names for certain kinds of distinctions. A certain type of question has a fixed pattern by which I can resolve it. In other words, if you look at it from this angle, then you’ll see it this way; if you look from that angle, you’ll see it that way; and in fact you can resolve a whole group of difficulties here in the same way. That really resembles Aristotle’s conceptualization. In other words, you have a collection of tools that are formal structures. You can fill them with a lot of different contents, but that doesn’t change the form. The basic form operates in exactly the same way in all passages. In one passage it deals with ritual impurity and purity, in another with damages, in another with something else—it doesn’t matter—but the form of thought is one form of thought. As I said with Aristotle, if every X is Y and A is X, the conclusion is A is Y. Now what A is, what X is, and what Y is—fill in whatever you want. It can be frog, elephant, and wings; it can be Moshe, human beings, and his table. It can be whatever you want. No matter what you put in there, you still get a pattern of argument, a valid argument, because the pattern is valid.
So once I have some general pattern, some general pattern, I suddenly notice that the pattern itself is some kind of subject for analysis. Now one can deal with logic, not with tables, chairs, benches, and wings—which one can study in biology, and that in law, and that in physics, and that in whatever context—but in all those places the same patterns appear. And once I understand that, the patterns themselves suddenly become the topic. So let’s formulate the patterns, classify the patterns, see why they are correct or where they are correct, and we’ll be able to deal with the patterns themselves. They themselves become a subject for study. And in that sense, that’s roughly what I’m trying to do here. In other words, to take the forms of conceptual thought that usually are not the subject—they themselves are not the subject of study. I use them in order to resolve a passage, to answer a difficulty, to explain some passage or something like that, and I want to deal with the forms of thought themselves, not with their applications. Not to use those forms of thought in different contexts. It’s very interesting, because someone once asked—do you know the book series Otzar Mefarshei HaTalmud? Green books that collect a great many later authorities page by page, according to the folio pages. One of the editors of that project once approached me and said he was looking for ideas for what to do next. So I told him that I have an old dream to make, just as there is a Talmudic encyclopedia—you know it, I assume—I want to make an encyclopedia for conceptual analysis, an encyclopedia of reasoning. Not of topics. In a Talmudic encyclopedia, you have a topic, and they gather the relevant material on that topic: Maimonides, medieval authorities, later authorities, and so on. I want to make an encyclopedia of forms of thought, of types of reasoning, and that is not connected to topics at all. The same type of reasoning can appear in 100,000 different topics, but it’s the same pattern. Exactly to do that conceptualization I spoke about before.
Now the hardest problem in such a thing is not identifying the types of reasoning, although that’s not easy either, but okay—you go through a huge amount of literature and try to distill what kinds of reasoning we encounter there. In principle such work can be done. The question is how to classify them. Now when we deal with—when we take a topic—think about a Talmudic encyclopedia. In the Talmudic encyclopedia it classifies concepts alphabetically. If you’re looking for material on binyan av, you go to the Talmudic encyclopedia under b, i, n, y, yes? You search alphabetically, you find the entry “binyan av,” and you read it. But now I’m sitting with a certain difficulty, and I want to look in the encyclopedia of reasoning for a line of reasoning that will help me resolve this difficulty. Let’s say there is such an encyclopedia. Okay, now how do I open it? By what do I search for the reasoning I need? I don’t have a natural name for it, so how do I define it? In other words, the person editing the encyclopedia, after identifying all those lines of reasoning, has to give each one some sensible name. But not only that. In order for me to be able to use that encyclopedia, I actually need to know the name in advance in order to know where to open it. In other words, to search—what am I searching for? I don’t know what I’m searching for. I have a certain difficulty and I’m looking for some type of reasoning that might help me resolve it. I don’t know what that reasoning is called; I don’t know what that reasoning is. I’m searching. Artificial intelligence?
[Speaker B] What? Artificial intelligence.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Maybe yes. Back then it didn’t exist yet. But maybe it could help a bit, yes, but even so I still don’t see how I would search. In other words, it’s still not clear to me how I would search. With artificial intelligence it won’t be formalized. One of the special things about artificial intelligence is that it doesn’t work with concepts. When you give it a difficulty, it will give you the answer. It won’t tell you: this answer is of such-and-such a type, and it appears in these and these places and can be used here. It doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t even understand what type of question and what type of answer this is. It simply, out of its training, will give you whatever answer it gives to that difficulty. Okay? So I’m asking a conceptual question. After all, this isn’t a practical question because I’m not actually going to make that encyclopedia. I’m trying to show you the significance of conceptualizing ways of thinking. Conceptualizing ways of thinking is a complicated story. A complicated story because you don’t actually have a natural coordinate system, alphabetical order or something like that, as you do in other contexts of classification. In ordinary encyclopedias there isn’t much problem of how to classify. In ordinary encyclopedias, fine, I’m looking for material on a certain topic, I know what the topic is, I know how to spell it, I go to the encyclopedia alphabetically and find the topic I need. But here… I don’t know. I’m looking for forms of thought. So what—how do you classify that? How do you define it? How do you name each such form of thought? And how do you name it in such a way that even the reader who doesn’t know will understand where to look? In other words, that’s a problem which on the theoretical level seems to me—I don’t know whether it is unsolvable, but it is very, very difficult. I can’t even see a direction for how such a thing could possibly be done. A hard theoretical problem, not a practical one.
This basically means that conceptualizing methods of analysis or forms of thought is something that apparently is not really done algorithmically. It is done in a more creative way. In other words, it seems to you that here this form of thought or this mode of approach would be useful. I can’t give myself some systematic account: okay, what form of thought will I need here, let me search and classify among the existing forms and use what comes out. Rather it’s some kind of thing that either jumps out or it doesn’t jump out, like finding something that comes to a person when his mind is elsewhere, as the Sages say. So here too it’s the same. And indeed we find that analytic conceptualizations vary from person to person and from study hall to study hall. In the pilpul method, as I said, it went by names of places. There was a Ravensburger and a Regensburger and all sorts of—there are quite a few names of that sort. There are books, by the way, on the pilpul method, for anyone interested, by Yoel Rappel for example and others. But for instance with Rav Chaim, the concepts are more familiar because the yeshivot use them: object and person, sign and cause, fulfillment and discharge of obligation, all kinds of very general distinctions that can be applied in a great many contexts. Two legal categories—there are all sorts of these methods of Rav Chaim. By contrast, with the Rogatchover, for example, he worked with a completely different method—I’m speaking about a completely different conceptual system. The Rogatchover’s conceptual system was drawn from Guide for the Perplexed. In other words, he analyzed the Talmudic passages in terms drawn from Guide for the Perplexed: mode, cause, essence, all sorts of things from ancient philosophy. More than that, he usually—or at least often—divided a passage into three legal categories, not two legal categories like Rav Chaim. That’s how it worked אצל him. And so on. In other words, every analyst, or every study hall, basically uses a different system, because there’s nothing here that is objective truth. It’s a coordinate system. You use the coordinate system that is convenient for you, yes? Think about mathematics. If you want to describe a coordinate system in mathematics, you want to describe this point, all right? This point can be described either in Cartesian form, where this is the x-component and this is the y-component—
[Speaker C] And you can also describe it in polar form, right? This is r and this is theta, okay?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] With the angle and the radius. Which description is more correct? Neither is more correct; both are correct. You can choose whichever is more convenient for you. Sometimes, by the way, one person will find this more convenient and someone else will specifically find the second description more convenient, okay? You can also of course shift the coordinate system, rotate it. There are infinitely many descriptions of points on a two-dimensional plane and infinitely many different coordinate systems, any one of which can be used. There are sometimes situations where the form being discussed dictates the right coordinate system. If I want to describe a circle, then it’s much easier for me to describe it in polar form: r equals r, yes? Or r greater than r—well, r equals r and all thetas. A little familiar? Do you know this idea a bit? In mathematics you want to describe a set of points. What describes this set of points? They are all at the same distance from here; the distance is r, and the difference is in the angles. If I want to describe this set of points, then what do I say? r is equal to r for all of them, it’s some number, and any theta whatever. Okay? Sometimes if I wanted to describe it in Cartesian form it would be more complicated: x squared plus y squared equals r squared. At every point on the circle x squared—yes, the Pythagorean theorem, right?
[Speaker C] That’s y, sorry, that’s x, so x squared plus y squared equals r squared.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Right, at every point they fulfill it. Okay, so there are two forms of description, both are correct. One is more convenient when I’m talking about circles, another will be more convenient when I’m talking about something else. It doesn’t really matter. But these are forms of description. In that sense, conceptual Talmudic analysis, or the different analytical methods, are also forms of description. And there are study halls that are comfortable using this, and study halls that are comfortable using that. I think I spoke about Zen last time, right? I mentioned it. That you can learn it through all kinds of media—flower arrangement, target shooting, archery, things like that—and really you’re learning the same thing. Because the different media can be seen as some kind of coordinate system. And overall it’s just a form through which I encounter the thing, and sometimes it’s convenient for me to encounter it this way, and convenient for me to encounter it that way, depending on how I’m built, what my tendencies are, and so on. That’s why conceptual analysis is a very, very elusive subject. Very elusive. Meaning, it’s some kind of… but that’s one side of it. On the other hand, the fact is that when you look at the style of learning in the yeshivas today, there really are certain patterns that have become fixed. Meaning, they’re considered—I don’t know whether to call them more correct—but they’re the common ones, the accepted ones. There are also differences in the degree of squareness, so to speak. Yes, I was in Bnei Brak for quite a few years, and there were two major yeshivas there over those years—still today, but there are two major yeshivas there, Ponevezh and Slabodka. And I saw that there’s a difference between those two yeshivas, two central differences. One difference: almost all the roshei yeshiva of various yeshivas come out of the Ponevezh stream, not Slabodka. And the second difference is that the Slabodka style of learning is more independent, while the Ponevezh style is more patterned. Yes, I studied in a yeshiva from the Ponevezh school, so at a certain point I decided to go to the Kollel Chazon Ish, which is more in the Ponevezh-Slabodka school. So they told me, listen, you won’t manage with them, you won’t understand anything there, it’s a completely different world. It really made me laugh—fine, two frogs living in a puddle and thinking they’re on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean. How big could the difference be? And I got there and it really was another world; I didn’t manage with it. I didn’t manage with it. It’s not… you see there a study group working on a Talmudic passage—maybe it’s like this, and maybe you could also say it like that. All the patterning I was used to, yes, founded by Rabbi Shmuel Rozovsky—he’s really the one who established Ponevezh-style analysis in our time, some sort of combination of Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Chaim of Brisk, Rabbi Shimon Shkop and Rabbi Chaim of Brisk—that wasn’t there. It’s more similar to the Chazon Ish, for those who know; the Chazon Ish’s book is basically built that way. I always had trouble getting along with it. It’s some kind of flow of thoughts, not patterned, not with a terribly orderly structure. For years, when I lived in Bnei Brak, I would go hear lectures from roshei yeshiva during bein hazmanim, on the festivals, on intermediate days of the holidays; they would give lectures in regional or neighborhood synagogues and the like. And at a certain point I got to the stage where, when the lecture started, I could tell you how it would end. I told you, most roshei yeshiva are from Ponevezh. Ponevezh is patterned. So he tells me the first difficulty on whatever Talmudic passage he’s going to discuss, and I already know what the practical ramification will be, and who disagrees, and what he’ll say afterward. I know more or less how it’s going to roll on. Now, you can be more talented and less talented there too, but overall it’s a very, very orderly pattern, and once you get used to this thing, you immediately carry it forward. Meaning, there aren’t many surprises in lectures of that kind. In contrast, the Slabodka style of learning is this very unpatterned thing—this way seems possible, but maybe that way, a bit more, a bit less, not defined, not sharp, not with two clear options, we’ll see later. And it really was pretty hard to get along with, and I think that’s when I understood the connection between the two differences I described before. Meaning, if in Ponevezh they learn in a more patterned way, then it’s obvious why almost all the roshei yeshiva come out of there. Any average person can eventually become a rosh yeshiva if he applies himself properly to his Torah study. Fine, there’s a level, talent matters too, but overall you’re basically learning to repeat the same patterns in every Talmudic passage, and you’ll give a general lecture on every passage if you do it long enough. If you’re in Slabodka, then if you’re the Chazon Ish, you come out the Chazon Ish, and if you’re not the Chazon Ish, then you come out nothing. Because you’re built on your own feet, meaning you’re not using fixed patterns. Either you really know how to create things, or you don’t know how to create things, and most don’t. So it really looks more like that. And therefore indeed almost no roshei yeshiva come out of Slabodka. They come mainly, mainly from Ponevezh. And in Ponevezh, for example, you can say a lecture, and there are things they’re not willing to hear. You say something—no, no, it just doesn’t fit into their patterns at all. “You don’t say it like that”—that’s a very common expression there. “You don’t say it like that, that’s not how you say it.” There are types of things that just don’t fit into the patterns, don’t fit into the orderly structures they’re used to. And therefore everything there also runs very much on speed. Meaning, if you’re sharp, you react quickly. During the lecture people immediately ask and respond; there’s a sort of competition over speed because everything is so patterned. If you’re skilled, then boom, boom. You don’t need to weigh things; you already know how it goes. Meaning, you do it very quickly. Just in parentheses, I’ll say that my takeaway was that the right path for building conceptual analysis, or building a world of learning properly, is to start in Ponevezh and finish in Slabodka. Meaning, Slabodka’s mistake is that they start and finish in Slabodka, and Ponevezh’s mistake is the same thing—that they start and finish in Ponevezh. You need to start in Ponevezh and finish in Slabodka. Meaning, you begin your analytical education with patterns that have already passed through the tradition of the generations, that people have already shaved on, so to speak, that wise people have already built, that have lots of experience behind them, and we know how to work with them. But you shouldn’t get stuck there. Meaning, that builds your foundation. On top of that, add your own dimension. How you say things, not how people are accustomed to say things—but at stage two. If you start right away with how you say things, then that’s how it will look too, and it won’t be worth much. We once subscribed to Haaretz, we were subscribers. There was a period there when various mathematics lecturers would write letters to the editor saying they couldn’t solve the homework their third-grade child brought home from school. Because the homework consisted of these kind of thought questions, and you never know exactly what they want, and it’s not defined. First teach the third-grade child the multiplication table so he really masters it, let him solve simple equations, and so on. First build for him the patterned, clear, orderly things. After that, teach him to think. To start immediately by teaching him to think—that’s a recipe for failure. Meaning, it’s a mistake, even though there’s such a tendency. It’s not correct. After you build your Ponevezh well, you can move to Slabodka. But first of all you need to build some framework based on the accumulated experience of generations. Yes, wise people sat over this matter; don’t reinvent the wheel. Meaning, the whole business has already been built. There’s already a discipline. After that, on top of it, you can add your layer, your added value that wasn’t there before. If you build it from scratch—Gershom Scholem once wrote in Devarim B’Go, he has a book by that name—he brings there from Agnon’s Book of Deeds, he brings a story about some mystic, doesn’t matter, where someone describes hearing things from him and says: all these things sounded to me like things I myself had always been saying, but this was the first time I’d heard them. Meaning, a significant mystic—Gershom Scholem dealt with mysticism, he was a scholar of mysticism—says a significant mystic is a mystic who says things, not in the scientific sense but things that come from within him, but when people hear him they all recognize that it’s also inside them. Then he’s a significant mystic. If you say things that come from within you and so on, but to everyone it seems like some bizarre thing and none of them understands what you want from their life, then you’re not a significant mystic. Meaning, you need to understand that there are general patterns within which you can give your subjective added value, but not replace the structures. Yes, in art too you can break the rules of the genre, but it’s not a good idea to smash them completely, because then it’ll be impossible to interpret your work. Meaning, your work can be interpreted if you create within a set of defined genre rules, and here and there you bend them a little, you break through them a little, you show some unique mode of your own. But if you’re not working within genre rules at all, we have no way to relate to what you’re saying. There’s no framework within which I can grasp what you’re saying. Okay? In that sense, conceptual analysis too is some kind of framework within which you can create something independent, but you need to understand within what framework you’re working. There’s some framework within which you can also create something independent. If the framework isn’t there, you also can’t create something independent. Independent means different from the accepted norm, but if there is no accepted norm, then what does independent mean? Yes, so why not every day be the Sabbath? As was said, if every day were the Sabbath, it wouldn’t be the Sabbath. The Sabbath is only when there are six weekdays of labor and the seventh day is the Sabbath. Okay? So you need a framework; even in order to break a framework you need frameworks. Meaning, you can’t replace the framework with something rebellious. You can’t break through unless there’s a framework that you’re breaking through. So in that sense, conceptual analysis really is some sort of framework, a framework of thought. Good. Now I want to go in—after we have the framework, but there’s still also some dimension of… maybe before that, a nice example of this matter. My shiur teacher was from Ponevezh; he studied under Rabbi Shmuel Rozovsky. I missed Rabbi Shmuel by a year or two; he died in ’77. So I studied with this teacher for several years, and at a certain point—I remember this as being on tractate Sukkah, though later I saw it couldn’t have been tractate Sukkah, never mind, I’ll tell it as tractate Sukkah—we were studying tractate Sukkah with him, hearing lectures, and to be honest these were lectures that were hard work: hard work to understand the lecture, follow it, review it, and so on. At a certain point, the lectures of Rabbi Shmuel began to be published. You know the books? There are Novellae of Rabbi Shmuel and Lectures of Rabbi Shmuel. Novellae of Rabbi Shmuel are the general lectures of Rabbi Shmuel Rozovsky, and Lectures of Rabbi Shmuel are the daily lectures following the order of the page. Okay? So the series of books that later came to be called Lectures of Rabbi Shmuel started coming out. These were the daily lectures. Now, we looked in the book—the first book that came out was on the tractate we were studying, Sukkah for the sake of the discussion, though it couldn’t have been Sukkah because the first book wasn’t Sukkah; there is no Lectures of Rabbi Shmuel on Sukkah. I don’t know why I remember it as Sukkah; maybe it was Beitzah or something else. On the tractate we were studying. And we saw that the lectures we were hearing were simply identical to what appeared there in the book; it was embarrassing. Exactly the same thing. He was simply copying the lectures of Rabbi Shmuel, whom he had studied under. Now, we didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t pleasant to catch the shiur teacher red-handed basically copying everything from Rabbi Shmuel and not doing anything of his own. At a certain point I gathered courage and approached him. I said to him, listen, Rabbi, do you know that the Lectures of Rabbi Shmuel books have started coming out now? He said, what? Really? I hadn’t heard, I didn’t know. I said to him, one came out on the tractate we’re studying. He said, oh really? I said to him—you know, I was uncomfortable—I said, your lectures are really, really exactly the same as what’s written there. So he was astonished to hear this, astonished and very happy. He told me, I’ll tell you: I didn’t study this tractate under Rabbi Shmuel. I did not study this tractate under him. He had never heard a lecture of Rabbi Shmuel on this tractate. And the lectures he gave were copies of Rabbi Shmuel’s lectures, passage after passage. Which is exactly the expression of the Ponevezh outlook. He was thrilled. He was thrilled because he had fully internalized Rabbi Shmuel’s ways of thinking, and he was simply giving exactly the same lectures on passages he had never heard from him. Which is exactly the essence of the Ponevezh utopia. It’s every Ponevezh student’s dream: how to imitate Rabbi Shmuel optimally. In my eyes that’s not a dream at all; that’s stage one. Meaning, you need to get to that stage and then break onward, and then try to produce something uniquely your own. But I think that expresses this point very well. Good. Now I really want to talk about autonomy in halakhic ruling and in learning. Here too, I spoke about conceptual analysis and about the question of ruling versus learning, and now I want to talk a bit about autonomy in ruling versus learning. And I spoke about patterning versus creativity, but autonomy is a related issue. When we… maybe I’ll start with autonomy in halakhic ruling. There’s always some question or tension when we issue a halakhic ruling: to what extent should we cling to precedents, and to what extent should we rule independently? And the rationale for clinging to precedents is very sensible. Meaning, you have the greatest decisors, and you want to stick to precedents, so the chance that you’ll make a mistake is smaller. Right? Meaning, they are great Torah scholars, so if you stick to them you’ll probably make fewer mistakes. Why not do that? Because there is value in autonomous halakhic ruling. There is value in autonomy. It’s a value. Meaning, when I issue a halakhic ruling, I’m supposed to do it according to my best understanding. An example of this: the Talmud in Eruvin says that they didn’t rule like Rabbi Meir because his colleagues could not reach the depth of his mind. He was such a genius, so sharp, that they simply couldn’t keep up with him. Now, if that’s really so, then I would expect the Jewish law always to follow Rabbi Meir. Because whoever disagrees with him apparently didn’t understand him. He has no chance. Meaning, clearly Rabbi Meir is right. Why is this fact a reason not to rule like Rabbi Meir? Suppose I have a dispute with Rabbi Meir. We don’t rule like Rabbi Meir because people don’t understand what he wants. He tells them this is forbidden. But why is it forbidden? Where does it come from? What are your proofs? What? I don’t know—they don’t understand. But he’s right; we don’t understand because he’s a genius. Because we’re too small to understand. Well then, isn’t that a reason to rule like him? The Talmud says no. They didn’t rule like Rabbi Meir because his colleagues could not reach the depth of his mind. What’s the idea here? The idea is that when I issue a halakhic ruling, I’m supposed to rule according to my own best understanding. And if I rule like Rabbi Meir, I may perhaps be closer to the truth. There’s a higher chance I’ll be close to the truth because he’s wiser. But then I’m not ruling according to how I understand things. And the value of autonomy says that I’m supposed to rule according to what seems right to me in the Talmudic passage. Not what seems right to me in general, but how I understand from the passage what the Jewish law ought to be. And that is no less important than the value of truth. Because there’s really a tension here. If you want to rule according to the truth, you should rule like Rabbi Meir. If you want to rule autonomously, you’re supposed to rule according to what seems right to you. But what seems right to you has a high chance of not being the truth if you disagree with Rabbi Meir. And nevertheless, from this Talmudic passage it seems to me that this is what emerges: that the value of autonomy overrides the value of truth. You need to rule according to what seems right to you, not according to the truth. What do you mean, not according to the truth? You have to strive for the truth as much as you can. But in the final analysis, suppose your position comes out not like Rabbi Meir—if you ask me myself what the likelihood is that the truth is with me, small. Most likely Rabbi Meir is right. And still they tell me: rule according to what you think, even though most likely that’s not the truth. Because that is the autonomous ruling from your standpoint. You’re supposed to rule according to what you think. There’s a Maharal who elaborates on this in Netiv HaTorah, chapter 15 in Netivot Olam, as part of his polemic against the Shulchan Arukh, because the Shulchan Arukh ruled precedentially. The Shulchan Arukh ruled by adhering to precedents. He even writes in the introduction that he followed three great decisors—the Rosh, the Rif, and Maimonides—and ruled by majority. Once there was a majority among the three of them, that’s how he ruled Jewish law. And this stirred controversy; the Maharshal came out against him, and the Maharal too, and the Maharal’s brother wrote a book about it, Vikuach Be’er Mayim Chayim, on this matter of not ruling precedentially because there is a value of autonomy. A person should rule according to what he thinks, irrespective of precedents. And even though those three were the three pillars of halakhic instruction, those three decisors, and they were the greatest decisors, I’m still supposed to rule according to what seems right to me. Even though that probably isn’t the truth—if the Rif, the Rosh, and Maimonides think otherwise, then what I’m saying is probably not correct. But that’s what I think, and therefore I’m supposed to rule that way. So that’s what he discusses there. He says that someone who rules otherwise is like a sorcerer. He writes there that in the eyes of the Holy One, blessed be He, someone who rules Jewish law according to what seems right to him, even if he is mistaken, is preferable to someone who rules from books, even if he is correct. And this is not because there’s no truth and falsehood in halakhic ruling. There is. After all, he speaks there about being mistaken and being correct in halakhic ruling. He doesn’t want to claim that there’s no such thing as correct and mistaken in halakhic ruling, that anything goes. It’s not pluralism. Rather, it is the value of autonomy that overrides the value of truth. It’s more important that you rule according to your analysis of the Talmudic passage and what seems right to you than that you rule the truth. Whereas when you analyze the passage, you are seeking the truth from your point of view. You want to know what the truth is. But if you disagree with the greatest decisors, then probably, even though you strove for truth, you didn’t arrive at it. Fine—but if that’s your conclusion, then go with it. That’s the meaning of the value of autonomy. Therefore, for example, when it comes to the laws of doubt, we know that there is a doubt in law and a doubt in facts. A doubt in law is a doubt about the law. I don’t know whether the law is this way or that way. A doubt in facts is that I don’t know what the facts are. Because I can discuss the question whether this meat is pork or beef. I don’t know—I simply don’t know the reality. That’s a doubt in facts. Or I can discuss some halakhic issue and ask myself: the facts are known to me; I just don’t know what the Jewish law is for such a reality. That’s a doubt in law. There is a third kind of doubt in the halakhic literature called a doubt of the authorities, sfeika derabvata, a doubt of our rabbis. A doubt of our rabbis means, for example, that there is a dispute between Maimonides and the Rashba on a certain issue. That too is a doubt. The question is whether the Jewish law follows Maimonides or the Rashba. So that is called a doubt of the authorities. I argue that there is no such thing as a doubt of the authorities. Why? Suppose there is a dispute between Maimonides and the Rashba. Okay? I study the passage and arrive at some conclusion. If my conclusion is like Maimonides, then I should act like Maimonides. If my conclusion is like the Rashba, I should act like the Rashba. If I’m in doubt, then I act according to the laws of doubt: Torah-level doubt is treated stringently, rabbinic-level doubt leniently, the laws of doubt. But even when I act according to the laws of doubt, I’m not doing it because Maimonides and the Rashba disagree, but because I myself am in doubt. And that doubt is either a doubt in the facts or a doubt in the law. But there is no such thing as a doubt of the authorities. A doubt of the authorities would mean that because there is a dispute among the decisors, therefore I activate the laws of doubt here. I’m not supposed to activate the laws of doubt because there is a dispute among the decisors, unless I myself am in doubt. But then I activate the laws of doubt because I am in doubt, not because Maimonides and the Rashba disagree. Okay? So this is basically an ordinary doubt. There is no special doubt called a doubt of the authorities. Right now I’m speaking about someone who, of course, is fit for this. Not that just anyone should decide whatever he wants and do what he thinks. That’s not serious. But yes, if someone is fit for this, has already reached the level of halakhic instruction and knows how to learn, then he doesn’t need to be Moses our teacher, and he doesn’t need to be Rabbi Ovadia, nor anyone else. He needs to be himself. But once you’ve already reached the point of issuing rulings, you’re supposed to rule according to what you think, even if you’re not the greatest decisor. Okay? I’m speaking about someone who is fit for this, obviously, not just anyone. So that’s basically the value of autonomy. I wrote an article about this, and I brought there—I opened the article with a well-known joke which, like all jokes, is told about Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz. A priest came to him and said: why don’t you follow us, the Christians? We’re the majority. It says, “follow the majority.” We’re the majority. Why don’t you follow us? So Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz said to him: you follow the majority when I’m in doubt; then I follow the majority. If I’m not in doubt, why should I follow the majority? Good, that’s not really a joke. Think about a piece of meat. I find a piece of meat thrown in the marketplace. There are laws of doubt. What do the laws of doubt say? If most of the shops in the city are kosher, I may assume the piece is kosher, because it came from most of the shops. If most of the shops in the city sell non-kosher meat, then I should assume the piece is non-kosher and not eat it. Okay? What happens if I found on the ground in the city a piece of meat with a premium kosher seal on it, and most of the shops in the city sell non-kosher meat? Do I need to follow the majority? No. Why not? Because I’m not in doubt. If I’m in doubt, I follow the majority, but there’s no commandment to be in doubt. If I’m in doubt, there are rules about what to do in the laws of doubt. But if I’m not in doubt, there is no commandment to be in doubt. The same thing when there’s a dispute between Maimonides and the Rashba. If I myself am in doubt, then I’m in doubt and I’ll act according to the laws of doubt. But if I’m not in doubt, then why should I care that Maimonides and the Rashba disagreed? My opinion is like Maimonides, so I go like Maimonides, because that’s what I think. There is no commandment to be in doubt. Doubt is a state; if you’re in it, you’re in it, and you need to know how to deal with it. But if you’re not there, then you’re not. And somehow today, for decisors and for people generally, if there are different opinions among the decisors, that itself is taken to be a state of doubt. And then you have to discuss the laws of doubt. Why exactly? The laws of doubt are intended for someone who is in doubt, but if you’re not in doubt, then no. The fact that the decisors disagree doesn’t mean I am in doubt. I’m in doubt if I’m in doubt. Okay? So therefore, as I said before, there is the value of autonomy in halakhic ruling. What does autonomy in halakhic ruling mean? It basically means that when I approach a halakhic issue, a halakhic question, I don’t discuss it by collecting precedents and counting them, and deciding where the majority of decisors goes on this question. Independent halakhic ruling means that I study the passage, arrive at my own conclusions, and that is the Jewish law that I apply. That is called independent halakhic ruling. I also look at the precedents, I read the decisors, the medieval authorities, the later authorities, everything is perfectly fine, in order to understand all the sides, to weigh all the possibilities. But in the final analysis I reach my own conclusion, and that’s what I’m supposed to do in practice. I once had a friend who lived in Pardes Hanna. And he was in charge of questions concerning scribal matters—tefillin, mezuzot, and Torah scrolls—on behalf of Mishmeret Sta”m, which is the central body for scribal matters in Bnei Brak. So he was the respondent for Mishmeret Sta”m in Pardes Hanna. He told me, listen, there’s a question that has come back to me quite a few times, and I went to ask Rabbi Wosner and Rabbi Nissim Karelitz. And I know Rabbi Wosner forbids it and Rabbi Nissim Karelitz permits it. And I’ve already asked them several times. Now this question has come before me again. What am I supposed to do? The moment I decide whom to ask, I’ve determined what the answer will be. I already know what each of them thinks. So what am I supposed to do? It reminded me of the last two Supreme Court petitions. The last two Supreme Court cases—the reasonableness case and the incapacity case. The reasonableness case was eight against seven; the incapacity case was six against five. But the distribution of opinions wasn’t surprising at all. The distribution of opinions—every conservative was against annulling the law, and every non-conservative was in favor of annulling the law. Or in other words, once you determined the composition of the court, you determined the result. There was no point in conducting the discussion. Just give me the panel and I’ll tell you the result. No need to wait for what they publish. It was one-to-one; there was no question there at all. There was a very clear definition of who was conservative and who wasn’t conservative, and you saw exactly: the seven conservatives objected and the eight non-conservatives were in favor. In the second issue, five conservatives objected, six non-conservatives were in favor, and that’s all, and that’s how the decision was reached. Meaning, there are situations where the moment you determine who will judge it, you’ve essentially determined the answer. So here too, the same thing. So I told him—he asked me, so what should I do, ask Rabbi Nissim or Rabbi Wosner? So I said, ask neither of them. Study the Talmudic issue, reach your own conclusion, and do what you think. And if you don’t have a position, if you’re in doubt, use the laws of doubt; there are laws of doubt. Even then, you don’t need to ask Rabbi Nissim or Rabbi Wosner. There are laws of doubt: Torah-level doubt stringently, rabbinic-level doubt leniently. Everything is fine; there are laws of doubt. People have this assumption that the moment there’s some dispute among decisors, that immediately places me in a state of doubt. I’m basically in a state of doubt and need to behave according to the laws of doubt. And against that I argue: no. There is a value of autonomy, and basically you’re supposed to rule according to what you think. In other contexts I call this first-order halakhic ruling and second-order halakhic ruling. Second-order halakhic ruling means I collect decisors and decide by majority opinion or something like that. First-order halakhic ruling is to enter the Talmudic issue, understand what it says, and rule Jewish law according to what emerges for me—not according to other decisors, but simply by studying the passage myself and being a decisor myself, not collecting the words of other decisors. So you can call it first-order halakhic ruling and second-order halakhic ruling. Among the decisors themselves, of course, there are both kinds. In practice every decisor has a bit of first-order and a bit of second-order in him; there are differences in dosage. Rabbi Ovadia, for example—many people think he was a second-order decisor. That he basically collected opinions and went by the majority of opinions. That’s an illusion; it’s not true. He presented things that way, but he certainly knew where he was aiming, and he had a position of his own, and usually he ruled according to his own position. He gathered decisors this way and that and presented it in the form of such-and-such decisors and such-and-such decisors, and that he decides this way or that way, but in the final analysis it seems he had his own halakhic direction. Meaning, he decided according to what really seemed right to him. So what appears on the surface is not always the reality itself. In general this is true: every decisor somehow moves on this axis between the more precedential method and the more autonomous method, and each one is positioned closer to here or closer to there, and each one has his own outlook. First-order decisors, who rule on their own, are generally analytical decisors. They study the Talmudic issue, analyze it, and ultimately reach a conclusion, and that’s how they rule. Second-order decisors are less analytical decisors. They don’t clarify the issue and reach a conclusion, but rather gather other people who clarified the issue and reached conclusions, and they rule according to the opinions of those others. And thus this dichotomy somehow arose between decisors and analysts. I also spoke about this a little last time. Between decisors and analysts. Decisors are basically people who gather opinions, and analysts are those who clarify the Talmudic issue. And many times in yeshivas they engage in conceptual analysis most of the day, and when they want to know the practical Jewish law then they learn half an hour a day of the Mishnah Berurah, practical Jewish law. But that is a conceptual mistake, in my view. To study Jewish law means… these are not two different kinds of study. One should study the passage in depth, study the conceptual analysis, analyze the passage, and ultimately arrive at conclusions—and those conclusions are the laws. So I also studied Jewish law, not just analysis. There is no separate study of Jewish law and study of analysis. The analytical study ends with a conclusion, and that conclusion is itself the Jewish law. And that’s how first-order halakhic decisors rule. I once heard from that same shiur teacher I mentioned earlier—he studied in Kol Torah under Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach. And he said that Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, if a halakhic question came before him, he would rule—aside from being a rosh yeshiva, he was an analytical decisor, a first-order decisor. And when a question came to him, he would suddenly surprise them by taking some initial assumption from a question in the laws of the Sabbath, some initial assumption in a Tosafot in Bava Kamma, and deriving the conclusion from it. They asked him how he gets to that Tosafot, how he even remembers it, how does that happen? So he said it doesn’t work that way at all. He said: when I studied that Tosafot in Bava Kamma, I already understood there that from that initial assumption in the Tosafot there emerges some implication for halakhic questions of this kind, and it’s written there for me on the side, next to that Tosafot, of course not necessarily in pen but written in my head, next to that Tosafot, that from here there is evidence for such-and-such a principle. And that’s how I study all the Talmudic passages—with the Tosafot, the medieval authorities, the later authorities—that’s how I study them. Now, when a question of that kind comes before me, I don’t search, I don’t run through the whole Talmud to look for where there’s an answer to this question. I already know; I already have the references. I know that in this Tosafot, in that initial assumption, I can derive an answer or evidence for a question of this and that kind, and that’s how I get to the Tosafot in Bava Kamma. That’s how an analytical decisor studies the issue. He studies the issue, and already when you study it you can understand what types of halakhic questions you’ll be able to find an answer for there. And then, when such a question comes before you, you immediately reach that passage. But this isn’t a passage that deals specifically with the law you were asked about, a question in the laws of cooking on the Sabbath. There is no systematic way—we spoke about indexing conceptual analysis, indexing modes of reasoning—there is no systematic way to understand how I get from a question in the laws of the Sabbath to a Tosafot in Bava Kamma, to the initial assumption of a Tosafot in Bava Kamma. In terms of subject matter, this is not the subject I was asked about. In terms of the mode of thought, it’s there. If I’m looking for evidence for a certain mode of thought, it’s there. So that is exactly what I said before about indexing by modes of thought, by reasoning, and not by subject matter. And therefore what this means, basically, is that the meaning of autonomy appears both in halakhic ruling and in learning. I want to learn autonomously, and the conclusion of the learning that I learned is also my ruling, and that is already ruling autonomously. Meaning, usually when people study a Talmudic passage in depth, they allow themselves autonomous learning. They study the medieval authorities and later authorities, and in the end they also have their own opinions. They can challenge one opinion and answer for another, propose their own path in the passage. To learn autonomously is overall something fairly accepted. But it is totally detached from how you rule. Precisely because of this. He says, okay, in learning I can say whatever I want; in halakhic ruling I go to the Mishnah Berurah and know what I need to do in practice. You don’t take risks; even if I’m wrong in learning, not terrible—in practical Jewish law I rely on the Mishnah Berurah, okay? But that is exactly not what it means to draw the Talmudic discussion to a halakhic conclusion. To draw the Talmudic discussion to a halakhic conclusion means to finish your analytical study with a halakhic conclusion—that is what it means. And therefore, on the one hand, if that is your conclusion in the passage, that is also what you’re supposed to implement in practice, and not go to the Mishnah Berurah to know what needs to be done in practice. I’ll study the Mishnah Berurah as part of studying the passage, but after I’m done, ultimately I will do what I think. And second, if that is really what I’m saying, then when I study, the lines of reasoning I raise are not lines of reasoning I just pull out irresponsibly because in any case it doesn’t matter, since I’m not actually going to desecrate the Sabbath on the basis of this. I can say whatever I want, and therefore people say irresponsible lines of reasoning. You can say it this way and you can say it that way, anything can be said, language can bear anything. But you don’t really weigh seriously what is reasonable in your eyes—not what can be said or what can remain internally consistent. Anything can remain consistent if you try hard enough. But the question is what is correct, what is plausible. And that is usually what people do not weigh. And why? Because the conclusion of the passage is not what they will actually do in practice. What they will actually do in practice is what’s written in the Mishnah Berurah. So why should I care? I have no responsibility when I raise lines of reasoning in the passage; I raise whatever lines of reasoning I feel like. But if I’m going to desecrate the Sabbath on that basis… There is a very nice example of the value of autonomy; maybe I’ll bring two examples. One example: in many places in the Talmud there is a dispute regarding methods of interpretation. In the school of Rabbi Yishmael they interpreted by general and specific rules. That’s what the Talmud in Shevuot says. The intention is: general, specific, and general; general and specific; specific and general—these are interpretive principles from the school of Rabbi Yishmael. In the school of Rabbi Akiva there were parallel principles, but they were called inclusion and exclusion, exclusion and inclusion, inclusion and exclusion and inclusion, instead of general and specific and general. Okay. And the results are somewhat different. These are different forms of interpretation. Sometimes we have disputes among Tannaim in the Talmud that stem from the fact that one Tanna interprets according to the method of Rabbi Yishmael, from the school of Rabbi Yishmael, and another Tanna is from the school of Rabbi Akiva. He interprets according to Rabbi Akiva’s method. And therefore they arrive at different conclusions. Now when you check Maimonides, you see that in some of these passages he rules like the Tanna who interpreted by inclusion and exclusion, from the school of Rabbi Akiva, and in other passages he rules like the school of Rabbi Yishmael, the Tanna who rules like Rabbi Yishmael, who interprets by general and specific rules. Now that isn’t consistent. Decide: do we interpret by general and specific or by inclusion and exclusion? This is a dispute among Tannaim. What do you hold in this dispute? Maimonides does not bother to synchronize his rulings on the plane of methods of interpretation. If you check the content of the ruling, it’s consistent with his other rulings. But if you check what form of interpretation it’s based on, there Maimonides does not preserve consistency. There are rulings based on inclusion and exclusion, and rulings based on general and specific. That basically means there is some kind of second-order halakhic ruling here. You rule on the basis of what the sages say; you don’t check the technical consistency of what you ruled. That’s one example I wanted to bring. Another example: there is a Ritva in tractate Sukkah. Maybe a short introduction: there is a dispute over the question of halakhic truth. There is a pluralistic view that says there are many halakhic truths—“these and those are the words of the living God.” There is a monistic view that says that in every halakhic question there is one truth. And if there is a dispute, then one side is right and the other is wrong. So what does “these and those” mean? Doesn’t matter, it can be explained, but that’s not… yes, so this is called halakhic monism and that is called halakhic pluralism. The question is whether there is one truth or a plurality of truths. Now when I want to check whether the Jewish law is really pluralistic or monistic, what the correct view is—usually when people ask this kind of question, they go to the literature of meta-halakhic thought. But I don’t like that literature because there people say things without responsibility; it isn’t halakhic literature. So I prefer to resolve even such philosophical questions from actual halakhic passages. Let’s see how Jewish law is ruled in questions like these. Now, how can I find a halakhic passage that will help me decide between pluralism and monism? Anyone have an idea? Think of a halakhic question for which there would be a difference depending on whether you’re a pluralist or a monist. A practical halakhic ramification of the dispute between the pluralist and the monist, and based on that maybe I can decide the dispute. Let’s check in that practical ramification how people rule. No idea? Look, let’s consider a case like this. Suppose I think that a certain act X is permitted, and you think it is forbidden. Fine? Am I allowed to cause you to stumble with that act? Why?
[Speaker C] You think it’s permitted and I think it’s
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] forbidden. In my opinion, I didn’t cause you to stumble into a prohibition.
[Speaker C] No, yes, because… so what?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] You’re mistaken. Because you’re mistaken, should that mean I’m not allowed to let you do things that are permitted? What does that have to do with me?
[Speaker E] If you’re harming me? Why?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Then I ask your forgiveness. The question is whether it’s forbidden, not whether I’m hurting you.
[Speaker E] No, it’s also an interpersonal issue.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Leave aside the problem of interpersonal obligations; I’m talking about the halakhic question: is this permitted or forbidden? Seemingly, this is a practical difference between pluralism and monism. If I’m a monist, and I think there is one halakhic truth, and I think this act is permitted, then if you think it’s forbidden—so what? Then you’re mistaken. There is no reason for me not to cause you to stumble. I’m causing you to stumble in an act that is permitted, to the best of my understanding. As long as I rule that it’s permitted, then I conduct myself as though this act is a permitted act. Why not? What’s the problem? Why should I be concerned about your view? You should be concerned about your own view. As far as “do not place a stumbling block” is concerned, I act according to how I understand things, because I’m a monist. And if I’m right and you think otherwise, then you’re wrong. But if I’m a pluralist—a pluralist basically says that each person has his own truth, that there are many halakhic truths—then if that’s so, you’re supposed to act the way you think, and I’m supposed to act the way I think. When I cause you to stumble in something that according to your view is forbidden, then I’ve caused you to stumble in a prohibition, because I too agree that you’re supposed to be stringent about it, if I’m a pluralist. So here is a practical difference; that’s the practical difference, really. So if we can find a halakhic ruling about such a case, we can decide whether Jewish law is monistic or pluralistic, right? Good. Now there is such an example. There is a Talmudic passage in tractate Sukkah, page 10b. The Talmud discusses a dispute over whether one may sit under sukkah decorations when they are four handbreadths away from the roofing. When the decorations are four handbreadths away from the roofing—say, forty centimeters—then they are no longer part of the roofing; they are really something else. And if you sit under them, you are not sitting under the roofing. If they are attached to the roofing, then they are subordinate to it, and you are effectively sitting under the roofing. But if they are separate from it, then they are not subordinate to it, and if you sit under them, then you have not sat in the sukkah; you sat under invalid roofing, because those decorations are invalid roofing—I’m talking about decorations of that kind, decorations that count as invalid roofing. So the Amoraim disputed this. Rav Nachman holds that it is permitted to sit under such decorations, while Rav Huna and Rav Chisda hold that it is not; it is forbidden. The Talmud tells us that Rav Huna and Rav Chisda came during the intermediate days of Sukkot to be guests in the house of the Exilarch, where, of course, the one running things there was Rav Nachman. He was the leading sage of the generation; he was the chief rabbi, so he sat in the Exilarch’s house. So he hosted them in his sukkah. Now his sukkah, according to his own view of course, was built in such a way that the decorations were four handbreadths away from the roofing. He said to them, friends, you’re invited to my sukkah, come sit here, eat, everything is fine. Rav Huna and Rav Chisda held that it is forbidden to sit under such decorations. And that was that—they sat there and ate with a good appetite, everything was fine. Rav Nachman asked them: did your master make you retract your teaching? Meaning: what, did you change your position? After all, you disagree with me; you hold that it is forbidden to sit in such a sukkah, so how are you sitting and eating here? Now there’s no escaping the fact that they must have been dying of laughter there, and they said to him: we are occupied with a commandment, and one who is occupied with a commandment is exempt from the sukkah. We are involved in redeeming captives. We are exempt from the sukkah, and that’s why we sat there. But in principle, if we had been obligated in sukkah, it would have been forbidden for us to sit there, and we would not have sat there either. That’s how they answered him. So the Ritva there asks: fine, they gave him a wonderful answer—but what did he think? After all, he seated them there under those decorations, and he didn’t know they were exempt from sukkah; he thought they were obligated in sukkah. How did he allow himself to seat them under those decorations when he knew that according to their view it was forbidden to eat in such a place on Sukkot? They are eating outside the sukkah. How did he allow himself to make them stumble? You see that this is exactly our case, right? He allowed himself to make them stumble in an act that according to him was permitted and according to them was forbidden. The Ritva says: we see that a person is permitted to cause his fellow to stumble in something that according to his own view is permitted, even though according to the other person’s view it is forbidden. What does that mean? That the Ritva is a monist, right? Not only the Ritva—he infers it from the Talmud; the Ritva only infers it, but really it is written in the Talmud itself. Rav Nachman caused Rav Huna and Rav Chisda to stumble in something that according to him was permitted and according to them was forbidden. We see from here, from the Talmud, clear evidence in favor of monism, right? Because if pluralism—okay? But the picture is not so simple; it’s more complex. Here. So the Ritva there on that passage says as follows: Rav Chisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna—listen, it doesn’t matter, I’m not going to read it on the board, you can listen. ‘He lodged them there,’ and so on. Explanation: and even though Rav Nachman still did not know that they had retracted from their teaching—meaning, he still did not know that they had explanations for why they were sitting there—he thought they held it was forbidden, and nevertheless he seated them there. ‘He lodged them according to his own understanding,’ he lodged them in that sukkah according to his own view, ‘and was not concerned that it was a self-imposed prohibition for them, and that they were sitting in an invalid sukkah and making blessings there improperly, and that this was like placing a stumbling block before one who can see.’ Yes, the man placed a stumbling block before one who can see. Rav Huna and Rav Chisda were Torah scholars, and Rav Nachman was not concerned about that. He is causing them to stumble in a prohibition. That’s forbidden; that’s “do not place a stumbling block.” How can that be? So the Ritva says as follows: some say that from here we learn—that from here we learn, meaning, that one who feeds his fellow something that is permitted to him according to the feeder’s view, there is no issue of “do not place a stumbling block,” even though he knows that for his fellow it is forbidden according to his fellow’s view. And his fellow is qualified to issue rulings—Rav Huna and Rav Chisda were Amoraim; these weren’t just people who didn’t know how to learn. They had another position; they thought it was forbidden to sit there. Yes, and the one feeding was also fit to issue rulings, and he relies on his own opinion to feed himself and others according to his own view. That’s what some say. In other words, there are those who learn from this passage that a person is in fact permitted to cause his fellow to stumble in such a situation. In other words: monism. Okay? The Ritva says: but it seems to me that here specifically it is because the prohibition is evident to his fellow, and if he does not agree, he should not eat. But where it is not evident to his fellow—not so. What does that mean? In our case we are dealing with a situation that everyone can see. They could see that the decorations were distant from the roofing. If they chose to sit there, that’s their problem. I didn’t cause them to stumble in anything; they saw the situation and decided what to do. Only afterward does Rav Nachman ask them, tell me, did you change your minds? What happened? Why did you decide to sit? But there is no causing to stumble here, because they themselves chose to sit there; if they hadn’t wanted to, they wouldn’t have sat there. This is something evident. It’s not like I give you something to eat and don’t tell you what’s in it—that’s causing you to stumble. You don’t know what’s there. But here, anyone who looks can see that the decorations are four handbreadths away from the roofing. What’s the problem? That isn’t called causing someone to stumble. And we say there: ‘Far be it from the descendants of Abba bar Abba to feed him something he does not hold by’—in the chapter Kol HaBasar. The Talmud in Chullin 111 actually brings just such a case, and there indeed we see that I cannot feed someone—when he doesn’t know—something that according to his own view is forbidden. If he knows, then yes. Okay, so he has proof from the Talmud in Chullin. Now this is a very interesting point. Why? Because basically the Ritva is throwing out the baby with the bathwater. Fine—so if that’s the case, then there is no novelty here at all. You didn’t cause them to stumble in anything, so what’s the problem? Before, there was a novelty here. The novelty was that this is monism and not pluralism. Now you’re telling me what? Simply that you didn’t cause them to stumble, so this is not monism or pluralism or anything; they simply did what they decided. How is that connected to me? So what is the novelty? But no, there is a big novelty. Because the Talmud in tractate Avodah Zarah discusses what is called “do not place a stumbling block before the blind.” One of the examples the Talmud gives is someone who hands a cup of wine to a nazirite. Right? Let’s say we are standing on opposite sides of a river. We are standing on two sides of a river, and on the other side stands a nazirite, who is forbidden to drink wine, and he asks me for a cup of wine; he wants to drink. Now since we are on two sides of the river, he cannot get the cup himself, because if he could get it himself, then this would not be called causing him to stumble—at least not on the Torah level. It is probably rabbinically prohibited as assisting, but there is no Torah prohibition in handing him the cup if he could take it himself anyway. That is why the Talmud frames it as being on two sides of the river: he can’t take it by himself. I have to hand it to him. When I hand him this cup of wine, I have caused him to stumble under “do not place a stumbling block.” Now we are not talking there about a case where the nazirite didn’t know it was wine, or forgot that he was a nazirite, or didn’t know that a nazirite is forbidden to drink wine. He knew everything. He wants to commit a prohibition, and I hand him that cup, and I have violated “do not place a stumbling block.” Now why have I violated “do not place a stumbling block”? I gave him the cup—he could have spilled it out; I didn’t force him to drink. He decided to drink the cup; he knew it was wine, he knew he was a nazirite, he knew it was forbidden for him to drink the wine, and he nevertheless decided to drink it. Why is that “placing a stumbling block”? The Talmud says that this is called “placing a stumbling block” when it is a case of two sides of the river, because “placing a stumbling block” does not mean only that you cause someone to violate a prohibition when he doesn’t know. That is one possibility, when he is acting inadvertently; but even when he acts intentionally, you still violate “do not place a stumbling block.” When? If without you he would not have been able to commit the transgression. Two sides of the river: without your help he could not have committed the transgression. But it’s not that he didn’t want to commit it; he wanted to commit it and he knew it was a transgression, and it is still called that you caused him to stumble. And they say there: why is this called causing him to stumble? Because every person, with respect to a transgression he wants to commit, is in a kind of blindness; otherwise he would not want to commit the transgression. Fine, but halakhically he is acting intentionally, not inadvertently. He decided to commit this transgression, and nevertheless such a thing is called causing someone to stumble. A fact: I handed him the cup, and I violated “do not place a stumbling block.” Why? He decided to drink; he could have poured it out. The fact that he decides to drink it is his own decision, so why is that called causing him to stumble? Because if without me he could not have committed the transgression, that is called that I caused him to stumble. I return to our case. Rav Nachman tells Rav Huna and Rav Chisda to sit under these decorations, which are far from the roofing. Now true, they see everything; they see that the decorations are far from the roofing, and they sit there. So what? Because they decided, I didn’t violate “do not place a stumbling block”? Of course I did, because without me they could not have committed this transgression. So what if they decided to commit the transgression? That does not exempt me from being considered one who causes his fellow to stumble in a transgression; I am still causing him to stumble. What, even without him they couldn’t have committed that transgression because it’s his sukkah?
[Speaker D] No, they can’t, because it’s his sukkah; otherwise it would be theft. They need his permission.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] So that means that the fact that they knew there were decorations far from the roofing solved no problem at all. What problem did you solve? So they know—so what? Then you didn’t cause them to stumble? It is still called causing them to stumble, even if they decide to do the prohibition, because without you they could not have done the prohibition. That is enough for it to count as causing them to stumble. So what good does the Ritva do when he says here that we are dealing with a case where they didn’t know—that they did know, sorry. It follows from here that if they don’t know, then it is forbidden; but if they do know, then it is permitted. Either way, how does that work? If such a thing is called causing someone to stumble, then it is forbidden whether they know or don’t know. If such a thing is not called causing someone to stumble, then again it is permitted whether they know or don’t know. How can the Ritva create a situation where there is a difference between whether they know and whether they do not know? What difference does it make? If you’re a monist, then this isn’t causing someone to stumble at all, because it is permitted. I hold that it is permitted, so why should I care that he thinks it is forbidden? So it is not causing someone to stumble at all. Then whether they are acting inadvertently or intentionally, I have committed no prohibition if I’m a monist. If I’m a pluralist, then I am causing them to stumble, because according to their view it is forbidden, so there is “do not place a stumbling block” here. But that is true whether they know it is forbidden or whether they do not know, because even if they know, there is still causing to stumble. So if there is “do not place a stumbling block” here, then it applies even if they know. If there is no “do not place a stumbling block” here, then there is none even if they do not know. So how can the Ritva distinguish between a case where they know and a case where they do not know? That is the question. A very difficult question, and I think the root of the matter is one word we read earlier. He says: Rav Nachman was not concerned that it was like a prohibited object for them, that they were sitting in an invalid sukkah and making blessings there improperly, ‘and that it was like placing a stumbling block before one who can see.’ What is that? Where did he get this expression, placing a stumbling block before one who can see? The Torah says, “do not place a stumbling block before the blind.” What is ‘placing a stumbling block before one who can see’? The Ritva did not get confused here. He is changing the wording of the verse for some reason. I think this is the reason: he is hinting to us that this is not the ordinary concept of “do not place a stumbling block,” not the regular concept, because the ordinary concept exists whether the person is blind or sighted, whether he knows or doesn’t know. Here this is a different kind of “placing a stumbling block,” and with respect to that there is a difference between whether you can see and whether you can’t see, between whether you see that there is a prohibition here and whether you do not see. Why? Because the Ritva, in principle, was a monist, because otherwise it would be forbidden to give it to them even if they know. So why does he qualify it and say that it is permitted to give it to them only when they know? Because he was a tolerant monist. There are two kinds of monists. A pluralist is someone who thinks there are multiple truths. A monist is someone who thinks there is one truth. Whoever says one thing is right; whoever says otherwise is wrong. A tolerant monist—or, if you like, an autonomous monist—is a monist who says: there is only one truth, but there is also a value of autonomy. And even if you are mistaken and think about Jewish law incorrectly, I am a monist, and if you think differently from me then in my view you are wrong—but it is still your duty to act the way you think. There is an obligation to act autonomously, and I have to allow you that. So if I cause you to stumble in a way such that you do not know these decorations are far from the roofing, that is not okay. Why? I’m a monist—what’s the problem? I did not cause you to stumble in a prohibition; I caused you to stumble in a lack of autonomy. I did not respect your autonomy. You are supposed to act the way you think—not because you are right; that would be pluralism, as though what you think is true just like what I think. No—I’m a monist. What I think is the truth; what you think is a mistake. But there is still a value of autonomy, that each person is supposed to act the way he thinks, even if he is mistaken. We said that the value of autonomy overrides the value of truth. Okay? And that is what I am supposed to respect: their autonomy. So if I say to them: listen, friends, you see this is far from the roofing, there is a problem here; now decide what you want to do. There is no “do not place a stumbling block” here, because I’m a monist. So I didn’t cause them to stumble in a prohibition, because according to my view it isn’t forbidden. And I also didn’t prevent their autonomous decision, because I showed them: listen, there is a problem here, now decide. Whatever you decide, I respect whatever you want to do. So there is here neither a problem of causing a prohibition nor a problem of harming autonomy; therefore it is permitted. But if I do not reveal to them that the decorations are far from the roofing, and they do not see it—or I cause them to stumble in a prohibition that cannot be seen, that is not evident—in such a case there is no causing of a prohibition, because I’m a monist, but there is harm to autonomy. Therefore it is forbidden to do that. Because you are supposed to act the way you think, and I caused you to act the way I think and not the way you think. That is harm to autonomy. That, says the Ritva, is forbidden. In my opinion, that is the only way to understand the Ritva. If so, then with this Ritva—we were looking for a passage that would decide between monism and pluralism. And we found one. Here is a practical difference: causing someone to stumble in something that according to his own view is forbidden and according to my view is permitted. Am I allowed to cause him to stumble? The practical difference was that if I’m a monist, I’m allowed to cause him to stumble; if I’m a pluralist, I’m forbidden. By the way, this means that sometimes pluralism is the stringent view. Pluralism is not always the more lenient approach. In this case, pluralism means specifically a halakhic stringency. I am forbidden to cause the other person to stumble if I’m a pluralist; I am allowed to cause him to stumble if I’m a monist. Okay? Usually people think pluralists are lenient. Not necessarily; it depends on the question. But it turns out the picture is more complicated. In fact there are three approaches. There is pluralism, there is non-autonomous monism, and there is autonomous monism. Autonomous monism means: I believe in one halakhic truth. If I think X, then X is the truth, and whoever says Y is mistaken. But at the same time I also believe in the value of autonomy. And if you think Y, then you must act in the way of Y, and not do X—even though X is the truth. There is an obligation of autonomy, and I have to respect that. And there is a practical difference among these three approaches in this particular case; each approach yields a different halakhic ruling. According to the pluralist, it is forbidden to cause him to stumble whether he knows or does not know. Forbidden—because you are causing him to stumble in a prohibition according to his own view. And if it is a prohibition according to his view, then even if he knows, it is still causing him to stumble, as we saw in tractate Avodah Zarah. The fact that he knows does not mean you did not cause him to stumble. That is if I’m a pluralist. If I’m a non-autonomous monist—there is one truth, and if I think it is permitted then it is permitted; the fact that you think it is forbidden is your problem—therefore I can cause you to stumble whether you know or do not know. The pluralist is forbidden to cause stumbling whether the other person knows or not; the monist is allowed to cause stumbling whether he knows or not; and the autonomous monist says it is permitted—
[Speaker B] So this passage really is a meta-halakhic litmus test. Tell me your meta-halakhic position and I’ll tell you what your answer to this passage will be. Three positions, and each gives a different halakhic answer. So here, we found the passage that will resolve the question for us. And what comes out? By the way, these are Talmudic passages. The Ritva only infers it, but these are passages in the Talmud. If you combine the Talmud in Chullin with the Talmud here, then this passage here seems to yield a monistic view that it is permitted to cause someone to stumble. But then the Talmud in Chullin says that it is forbidden. Therefore the answer is: it depends on whether they know. If they know, then it is permitted; if they do not know, then it is forbidden. In the straightforward reading, when you combine the two passages or compare the two passages, that is the answer that emerges. Now once that answer emerges, it means that we have proven from the Talmud autonomous monism: that there is one halakhic truth, but on the other hand there is also an obligation on a person to act according to what he thinks, even if that is not the truth. Just as we saw there with Rabbi Meir in Eruvin, that the law was not ruled in accordance with him because they could not fully grasp his reasoning. The value of autonomy overrides the value of truth. And this combination is the only one that can explain these two passages in Chullin and Sukkah: that it is permitted to cause someone to stumble in something he thinks is forbidden and I think is permitted. It is permitted to cause him to stumble if he knows; it is forbidden to cause him to stumble if he does not know. The only way to explain that is autonomous monism. And that is basically a proof for the value of autonomy. The value of autonomy—yes, that value, the obligation to issue your own ruling, the right and even the obligation to rule according to what you think, even if it is not the truth. And of course, as I said earlier, I’m talking about someone who is actually qualified. Not just anyone should do this casually, because that would be irresponsible; it would not be serious. But if someone is actually qualified, then he is supposed to do what he thinks. Okay. The truth is, there’s no point in starting the next section now, so I’ll stop here. So basically I’ve finished the introductions. Okay, and if I summarize for a moment where we’ve gotten: I distinguished between study and ruling. I said that first-order ruling is really supposed to be a continuation of study, and therefore the analytical learning—the conceptual analysis, what people call iyun—is part of halakhic ruling; it is not independent. It’s not that Jewish law you learn from the Mishnah Berurah and analysis you learn in conceptual study. No. The conclusion of the conceptual analysis, the bottom line of the conceptual analysis—that is the halakhah. That’s how one learns Jewish law. Okay? Therefore first-order ruling means that the ruling itself has to be analytic. That is the first conclusion. The second conclusion is that there is value in autonomous ruling: when you analyze a passage, you need to arrive at your own conclusion, not the conclusion of the Mishnah Berurah, and that conclusion is what you have to implement. Okay? That is really the point. There is a value of autonomy—or in other words, when you do your own conceptual analysis, not the fixed Ponevezh patterns, right?—your own analysis, in the end you come to how you understand the passage on top of the frameworks that you learned at the initial stage. The conclusion you reach is the halakhah that you need to rule. That is what you need to do. Okay? And therefore conceptual analysis is also a halakhic tool, not just an academic or conceptual tool. In the end, the conceptual analysis is supposed to lead you also to halakhic ruling, and not just to some analysis detached from what I will actually do in practice. Fine, let’s stop here. Where does the value of autonomy come from? What? Where does the value of autonomy come from? It comes from reason.