Disputes – Lesson 4
This transcript was produced automatically using artificial intelligence. There may be inaccuracies in the transcribed content and in speaker identification.
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Table of Contents
- The development of dispute and the Rabbi Eliezer–Rabbi Yehoshua–Rabbi Akiva dialectic
- The laws of cucumbers as a model for Rabbi Akiva’s synthesis
- Hermeneutic principles, tradition, and reasoning: gezerah shavah and Nachmanides and his students
- Disputes in a law given to Moses at Sinai: Maimonides versus Chavot Yair
- A two-stage structure of midrashic derivation and the interpreter’s decision
- “These and those” in Eruvin: a heavenly voice, “it is not in heaven,” and the difficulty of decision
- The apparent contradiction between “these and those” and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” and the Ritva
- A pluralistic reading versus a monistic reading, and halakhic ruling as the bottom line
- The Sanhedrin, uniformity, and authority to overturn: Rabbi Kook, Maimonides, and the Raavad
- A monistic explanation: Rabbi Yosef Karo and the reasoning of “gentle in spirit”
- A story from Midreshet Sde Boker and the distinction between pluralism and tolerance
- Tolerance as autonomy, persuasion versus coercion, and the limits of tolerance
Summary
General Overview
The text presents a dialectical account of the development of dispute in Jewish law after Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel and the Yavneh revolution, positioning Rabbi Eliezer as a symbol of authoritarianism and of tradition preceding reasoning, Rabbi Yehoshua as a symbol of a Torah of give-and-take and reasoning, and Rabbi Akiva as a synthesis that accepts information from tradition but demands justification and reasoning, thereby establishing the ethos of the Oral Torah. The text connects this to the hermeneutic principles and to the ongoing dependence on the interpreter’s reasoning even within traditionalist frameworks like gezerah shavah, and continues to analyze “these and those” in Eruvin through two readings—pluralistic and monistic—and the questions of decision and truth. It then develops a distinction between pluralism, tolerance, and openness through a personal story from Midreshet Sde Boker, and defines tolerance as a value-based stance in a world that recognizes error and truth but refrains from coercion out of respect for autonomy, with limits determined by the severity of the harm and by seriousness and expertise.
The development of dispute and the Rabbi Eliezer–Rabbi Yehoshua–Rabbi Akiva dialectic
The text describes the revolution of the first and second generations of Yavneh as a choice to address the phenomenon of dispute not in an authoritarian and forceful way but specifically in a “democratic” way. The text proposes a dialectical structure in which Rabbi Eliezer represents authoritarianism and traditionalism, “everything he received from his teacher,” and the imposition of discipline in which “information precedes reasoning,” while Rabbi Yehoshua represents the centrality of reasoning and a Torah of give-and-take. The text places Rabbi Akiva, a student of both, as the synthesis from which point onward the basic ethos is a combination of tradition with a strong status for reasoning, to the point where “reasoning critiques tradition” and at times “they throw out a tradition because it doesn’t fit the reasoning.”
The laws of cucumbers as a model for Rabbi Akiva’s synthesis
The text describes an example in which Rabbi Akiva learned the “laws of cucumbers” from Rabbi Eliezer but cites them in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua, and the Talmud says that he learned them from Rabbi Eliezer “but did not accept it until Rabbi Yehoshua explained it to me.” The text interprets this as a model in which the tradition and the information are received from Rabbi Eliezer, but the rationale and explanation are received from Rabbi Yehoshua, with no dispute about the law itself but about giving a reason. The text connects this to Maimonides’ image of veering to the opposite extreme in order to reach the middle path, and presents Rabbi Yehoshua as the pendulum that swings to one side so that the balance can ultimately be realized in Rabbi Akiva’s middle line.
Hermeneutic principles, tradition, and reasoning: gezerah shavah and Nachmanides and his students
The text argues that the structure of the Oral Torah is not a “hollow pipe” and that in all the hermeneutic principles, including gezerah shavah, which is “the most tradition-bound principle,” the interpreter’s reasoning is always involved. The text brings a distinction that appears in the Talmud: among the hermeneutic principles there are principles that a person may not derive on his own, such as gezerah shavah, as opposed to kal va-chomer, which a person may derive on his own, and regarding the other principles there is a dispute among the medieval authorities (Rishonim).
The text cites Nachmanides and his students—the Ritva, the Ra’ah, and others—who argue that even where gezerah shavah requires receiving it from one’s teacher, this does not mean that it comes “as is.” Rather, tradition provides only partial assistance: sometimes it says that the law was learned through gezerah shavah without specifying the verses, and sometimes it marks which verses are to be compared without saying what to do with that. The text explains that according to this claim, “the law that we derive from that gezerah shavah is something we produce,” and identifies this as a solution to the problem that a derivation that merely “supports” an existing law becomes pointless, and that it is hard to explain how disputes can exist regarding gezerah shavah if everything is transmitted as one complete package.
Disputes in a law given to Moses at Sinai: Maimonides versus Chavot Yair
The text presents Maimonides’ assumption that something given at Sinai, and especially “a law given to Moses at Sinai,” “never fell into dispute.” The text cites the responsa Chavot Yair, siman 192, where he goes through the laws given to Moses at Sinai throughout the Talmud and shows that there are “dozens” that did become subject to dispute; some of the cases he manages to reconcile with Maimonides and some he does not. The text states that this claim is “hard to accept in its plain sense,” and uses it mainly to reinforce the argument that even in very tradition-heavy areas there is room for human and rational involvement.
A two-stage structure of midrashic derivation and the interpreter’s decision
The text argues that every derivation based on a hermeneutic principle is built in two stages: the principle provides a “scriptural trigger,” but it does not determine what should actually be learned. The text demonstrates this with gezerah shavah, where the same word in two verses requires comparison, but one still has to ask “with respect to what” to derive something, and why we do not apply gezerah shavah “to everything,” bringing concepts like “derive from it and from it, but leave it in its own place” to describe learning according to context and plausibility. In this way, the text presents the textual hermeneutic principles as frameworks that define a radius of extension and formal direction, but the content of the extension and the standard by which it is made as the interpreter’s own decision.
“These and those” in Eruvin: a heavenly voice, “it is not in heaven,” and the difficulty of decision
The text presents the Talmud in Eruvin: Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai disputed for two years and did not reach a decision; then a heavenly voice came forth and said, “These and those are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” and the Talmud explains that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because they were “gentle in spirit” and presented the words of Beit Shammai before their own. The text explains that the need for a heavenly voice stems from the fact that the dispute could not be decided through the regular halakhic rules, because the dispute concerned the very criterion of majority rule—qualitative majority versus quantitative majority—and therefore every vote simply reproduced the dispute itself. The text argues that this explains why they listened to the heavenly voice and did not apply the rule “it is not in heaven,” because “it is not in heaven” excludes transcendent tools only when an internal halakhic path of decision exists.
The apparent contradiction between “these and those” and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” and the Ritva
The text identifies an internal difficulty in the heavenly voice’s statement: “These and those are the words of the living God” sounds as though both sides are right, but “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” reduces things to a single truth; in addition, the very claim that two opposites are both correct is seen as problematic. The text cites the Ritva in Eruvin, who gives “an explanation by way of esoteric meaning,” which he does not spell out, and “an explanation by way of the plain meaning,” according to which the Torah was given over to the sages to decide between the sides.
A pluralistic reading versus a monistic reading, and halakhic ruling as the bottom line
The text presents two main readings. It describes a pluralistic reading according to which “these and those” means a multiplicity of truths, or the absence of one single halakhic truth, and the ruling like Beit Hillel is not because they are true but because there is a need to set a uniform bottom line in order to live practically, somewhat like an arbitrary or agreed-upon decision.
The text compares this to the law of “whoever is stronger prevails,” through the Rosh, who refuses to interpret that law as the court’s withdrawal and instead presents it as a binding decision made out of the obligation to decide even when there is no strong basis for decision, including his added comment in a responsum that the considerations are not decisive but are “better than simply drawing lots.” From this, the text explains why after one person seizes the object, “the other can no longer come back and fight him over it,” because this is a ruling. The text uses this structure to describe the possibility that ruling like Beit Hillel is a practical decision that does not necessarily reflect truth.
The Sanhedrin, uniformity, and authority to overturn: Rabbi Kook, Maimonides, and the Raavad
The text expresses anxiety about the “dream” that the Sanhedrin will restore uniformity and solve disputes and unresolved cases across the board, and describes an ideal in which the Sanhedrin decides only when difference actually creates a practical problem, especially in public questions, and not when one can live with a multiplicity of practices. The text quotes Rabbi Kook in Nevukhei HaDor, who says that the Sanhedrin can even overturn the assumption that “we do not dispute the Talmud,” and can even reopen methodological questions such as whether one may derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse, presenting the status of the Talmud as an “artifact” of the absence of a Sanhedrin.
The text discusses the laws of rebellious elders in Maimonides, according to which in Torah-level laws, a later religious court can overturn an earlier court without needing to be greater in wisdom and number, whereas in enactments and decrees it must be “greater than it in wisdom and number.” The text cites the Raavad’s gloss against Maimonides through the case of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, who annulled an enactment after the destruction of the Temple, and interprets the Raavad as assuming the decline of the generations, such that a later court is “presumably smaller,” which turns the rule into something like “a law for the messianic future.”
A monistic explanation: Rabbi Yosef Karo and the reasoning of “gentle in spirit”
The text presents a monistic possibility according to which there is one halakhic truth: the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because they are right, and the challenge is how to explain “these and those.” The text quotes Rabbi Yosef Karo in his rules of Talmudic interpretation and brings an explanation according to which the reasoning “because they were gentle and humble and presented the words of Beit Shammai first” is not an educational reward but an epistemic criterion: someone who seriously weighs his opponents’ claims before formulating his own position “has a better chance of reaching the truth.” The text presents this as a monistic reading that explains the reasoning itself as connected to truth and not only to behavior.
A story from Midreshet Sde Boker and the distinction between pluralism and tolerance
The text tells of a confrontation at Midreshet Sde Boker following bringing kollel students from Yeruham for prayer and study in a new synagogue, and of the anxious reaction of local people who saw this as “religionization” and an attempt “to take over.” The text describes attempts at dialogue that began with ultimatums and continued into a broader discussion, from which a conceptual distinction is built.
The text rejects various reasons for non-intervention as a basis for “moral credit,” such as pluralism of the type “everyone has his own truth,” lack of any chance to persuade, indifference (“what do I care?”), or a utilitarian fear of backlash, and reaches the conclusion that as long as non-intervention rests on interest or cost-benefit calculation, it is not tolerance. The text presents as a problem the conclusion that if tolerance requires refraining from intervention precisely when all the “reasonable” reasons justify intervening, then “a tolerant person means an idiot,” and describes this as the moment when “the penny dropped” and a reformulation became necessary.
Tolerance as autonomy, persuasion versus coercion, and the limits of tolerance
The text defines tolerance as a stance within a monistic world in which error and truth exist, where a person thinks the other is mistaken and the mistake is harmful and there is an ability to intervene, yet refrains from coercion out of respect for the other’s autonomy to choose his path after being exposed to arguments. The text distinguishes between persuasion and coercion, presenting persuasion as legitimate and even obligatory—“you shall surely rebuke”—while the moral prohibition is against coercion even when one has power and authority.
The text states that pluralism and tolerance are not synonyms and are even opposites, because pluralism in itself removes the value tension that constitutes tolerance. The text also proposes a practical distinction: in a monistic world there is room for genuine openness to listen to opposing claims in order to get closer to the truth, whereas in a pluralistic world listening becomes mere politeness, without belief in the significance of being persuaded, and it connects this to the method of Beit Hillel, who presented the words of Beit Shammai first.
The text states that tolerance has a “radius” that is not infinite, because it is always a tension between respect for autonomy and preventing harm, and in severe or irreversible mistakes intolerance may be justified. The text adds that the radius also depends on the question “how serious is he” and whether he deserves respect, tying this to maturity and expertise, so that the position of a child or of someone who does not understand the field does not require equal respect. The text closes by saying that he will return to “these and those” after one more summary “next time,” and sets the continuation as applying these distinctions to the sugya.
Full Transcript
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] We were in the topic of
[Speaker B] dispute.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] And I spoke a bit about the formation of dispute. I spoke about the events that happen at the height of this process, basically after the dispute of Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, the revolution of the first and second generation of Yavneh, where they basically decide to deal with the phenomenon of dispute in a different way—not in an authoritarian and forceful way, but specifically in a democratic way. And at the end of this process, basically, I think at least—and again, I’m saying, it’s a somewhat shaky basis to build an entire structure on—but it seems to me almost compelled to say that there’s a kind of dialectical structure here: Rabbi Eliezer represents authoritarianism, traditionalism, meaning everything he received from his teacher and the imposition of discipline; information comes before reasoning. And opposite him, Rabbi Yehoshua, who is basically his colleague and counterpart, represents the view that reasoning is central—a Torah of give-and-take and not a Torah of mere tradition. And the synthesis is Rabbi Akiva, who is actually a student of both of them. We saw how he learned the laws of cucumbers there, and he cites it in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua even though he actually learned it from Rabbi Eliezer. And the Talmud there says—we saw this at the end of last time—that he learned it from Rabbi Eliezer but did not accept it until Rabbi Yehoshua explained it to me. Meaning, Rabbi Yehoshua explained it to me. And that exactly reflects this synthesis: Rabbi Akiva gets the tradition, the information, from Rabbi Eliezer. But if you ask Rabbi Eliezer why this is true, what the reasoning is—Rabbi Eliezer isn’t willing to tell you, doesn’t explain. That’s the truth. Why should it matter why it’s true? This is what there is, this is what has to be done, pass it on to the next generation. What’s all this “why” and reasons and arguments and things like that? So he goes to Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Yehoshua explains it. There’s no disagreement—meaning Rabbi Yehoshua also apparently agrees with Rabbi Eliezer’s laws—but he explains them. And Rabbi Akiva, who is a student of both of them, is really the father of the Oral Torah; everything is according to Rabbi Akiva. That’s what I heard. So I think that in the end, despite the fact that—as Maimonides says—in order to reach the middle path you sometimes have to veer toward the opposite extreme, so if there is some excessive traditionalism, then Rabbi Yehoshua takes the pendulum all the way to the other side so that in the end things balance out, and the middle line, the balanced line, the middle path—that is Rabbi Akiva. And that’s why, from Rabbi Akiva onward, the basic ethos is of course a combination of the two things. Meaning, there is some tradition, obviously. Torah begins with tradition. We’re not inventing things. We don’t act just because this is what seems right to me or seems right to someone else. Clearly, at the base there is tradition. But on the other hand, reasoning has a very strong status. It is not the conception of a hollow pipe that existed until that period. Reasoning critiques tradition. Sometimes people throw out a tradition because it doesn’t fit the reasoning. There is some delicate combination, not easy to define, between reasoning and tradition. Among the hermeneutic principles, there are principles that a person may not derive on his own—gezerah shavah. Kal va-chomer, a person may derive on his own. All the other principles—there’s a dispute among the medieval authorities (Rishonim) whether a person may derive them on his own or not. Meaning, there is some kind of combination between—by the way, Nachmanides says, and this is also an interesting point, maybe I mentioned it, I don’t remember anymore—Nachmanides and his students after him too, the Ritva and all of them, the Ra’ah, say that even though it says in the Talmud that a gezerah shavah a person may not derive on his own unless he received it from his teacher, that doesn’t mean it comes as is. Even gezerah shavah, which is the one principle where it’s clear that a person may not derive it on his own—it has to come by tradition—Nachmanides and his students say that can’t be taken literally. Meaning, it’s not that you receive the whole package—the law plus the gezerah shavah plus the verse—and just pass it on as is. Rather, they receive some kind of assistance from tradition. Meaning, tradition says that this law was learned from a gezerah shavah, but it doesn’t say which gezerah shavah, from which verse, we derive it. Or it says these two verses have to be compared—there is a gezerah shavah between them—but it doesn’t say what to do with it. The law that we derive from that gezerah shavah, that is something we do. That’s what Nachmanides argues. Meaning that in effect gezerah shavah itself also is not transmitted as is, because otherwise the principle has no meaning—it’s not a principle at all. Exactly—that’s what we discussed about creative derivations and merely supportive derivations. We talked about that once. I said that if the derivation is really just supportive, then it’s a bit pointless. What’s the point of doing it? You already know what the law is, so why should I care whether it comes from this gezerah shavah here or that gezerah shavah there—what difference does it make? If this were a tradition of that sort, that a person may not derive on his own unless he received it from his teacher, then it wouldn’t be reasonable for there to be disputes in gezerah shavah. Although to me that’s not such a strong argument, because disputes can arise because we missed something, because things got corrupted. Tradition is transmitted orally, and as things get corrupted. That’s also Maimonides’ assumption regarding a law given to Moses at Sinai—that no dispute ever arose about it. And anything given at Sinai, no dispute ever arose about it. And Chavot Yair, in section 192 in the responsa Chavot Yair, goes through all the laws given to Moses at Sinai in the Talmud and shows that there are dozens of them about which disputes did arise. It’s a question—some of them he somehow manages to reconcile with Maimonides, some not. That statement is hard to accept in its plain sense. But what I wanted to show there was basically the same synthesis we saw in Rabbi Akiva: that even gezerah shavah, which is the most tradition-bound principle—that is, the principle you do not make on your own, only receive from your teacher—even there, Nachmanides says it doesn’t really work that way. The human being is always involved in these matters. We also once talked about the hermeneutic principles, and I said that every derivation that relies on such a principle is built in two stages. Stage one: the hermeneutic principle basically just gives the scriptural trigger. For example, gezerah shavah—so it tells you: you have two verses, the same word appears in both verses, so that means: make a gezerah shavah. But the principle doesn’t tell you what to derive from the gezerah shavah. Meaning, we compare a slave to a woman, say, “to her” “to her”—a gezerah shavah, slave and woman. Fine. In what respect? What are we comparing? That you can work a woman the way you work a slave? No, the sages don’t make that gezerah shavah. So why not? It’s a gezerah shavah. In principle, by the way, there is no half-gezerah shavah and no half-hekesh. In principle, when there is a gezerah shavah, you should apply it to everything. But it is completely clear that they did not apply the gezerah shavah to everything. It’s “derive from it and from it, but leave it in its own place.” Meaning, you learn from one to the other, but according to the context and what it is reasonable to learn and things of that sort. Meaning, in the end, the principle—and if you go through all the principles you’ll see—the principle, all it does, or at least the textual principles, I’m not talking about kal va-chomer and binyan av, but the other principles are principles that tell you what the scriptural trigger for the derivation is. But after that, the interpreter has to come and decide what to do with it. A general term and a specific term tell you that you have to expand beyond the specific examples brought in the verse—you have to expand. And the various principles tell you how far to expand: there is general-specific-general, there is general-specific, specific-general—each of those is a different radius of expansion. But in what respect do you expand? In what context? According to what standard do you expand? That is all the interpreter’s decision. And therefore in all the principles, including gezerah shavah, which is the principle that is supposedly transmitted by tradition, the interpreter’s reasoning is always involved. And that expresses exactly this point—that it is naïve to think that you can build the Oral Torah through a tradition of a hollow pipe. Meaning, that the sages who transmit, the sages who take part in this process, have no part in it, that they do not affect the material being transmitted, the content being transmitted. It doesn’t work like that. Then at the end of last time I moved on to discuss a bit the topic of “these and those.” In the context of this issue—and we talked about it once already when we spoke about quantity and quality, so at least I spoke about part of this issue. But here I want to connect it to the topic of dispute. So I began with the Talmud in Eruvin. The Talmud there says that Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai disputed for two years and did not manage to reach a decision until a heavenly voice came forth and said: “These and those are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” And afterward the Talmud explains why the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel: because they were gentle in spirit and would present the words of Beit Shammai before their own. So the first part is to understand why a heavenly voice was needed. Why was a heavenly voice needed, and why did they listen to the heavenly voice? After all, “it is not in heaven.” So my answer to both those questions is one and the same, at least in my view. Tosafot offers several answers, but it seems that the simplest answer is not the ones brought there, but rather that the dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel could not be decided by the regular rules of Jewish law. Meaning, when they say to me “it is not in heaven,” what they are basically saying is: don’t resort to transcendent tools where you have halakhic tools for deciding the law. But in the dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, when the dispute was over which majority is determinative—whether the qualitative majority or the quantitative majority—then there is no alternative by which this dispute can be decided through halakhic tools.
[Speaker B] Because when we make
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] a vote and decide that we want to determine by majority who is right, over that very vote the dispute will arise again—okay, majority of wisdom or majority of numbers. And so, within the framework of the rules of Jewish law, we’re stuck. And therefore there was a need for a heavenly voice, because it was impossible to decide it with the rules of Jewish law, and that’s also why they listened to the heavenly voice and did not say “it is not in heaven,” because the rule “it is not in heaven” says: don’t resort to a heavenly voice; you have rules of decision within Jewish law. But when you are stuck with the rules of decision within Jewish law, and you can’t decide, that’s why the heavenly voice came forth, and there yes, you do follow the heavenly voice. In any case, that explains why they needed the heavenly voice and why they followed it. But now I want to talk about the content of what the heavenly voice itself said. So the heavenly voice says two things: “These and those are the words of the living God, and the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” Two things. Now the question is, what is the relation between these two things? And seemingly there is a contradiction. “These and those are the words of the living God” means that both are right, both are the words of the living God, and if these are the words of the living God, then that’s presumably the truth. Meaning, what the Holy One, blessed be He, says is presumably the truth. And on the other hand they say, “and the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” so Beit Hillel is the truth and Beit Shammai is not. There’s some contradiction here between these two parts of the heavenly voice’s statement.
[Speaker B] There’s also a contradiction even without saying “and the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” Just “these and those are the words of the living
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] God,” both are right against each other? Exactly. So at the end of last time,
[Speaker C] the fact that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel isn’t an added difficulty, because in practice we follow Beit Hillel, but on the level of the dialectic, these and those.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Fine, so that’s already one possible way to resolve it; I’ll get to that in a moment. Now at the end of last time I brought the Ritva there in Eruvin, the famous Ritva, who indeed asked exactly the question that Shmuel raised here. Beyond the contradiction between the two parts of the heavenly voice’s statement, between “these and those are the words of the living God” and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” the very statement “these and those are the words of the living God” is itself problematic. How can it be that both sides are right? Like that man’s wife: you’re right and you’re right and you’re right too. So everyone is right? What does that mean, everyone is right? If he is right, then the other is wrong. They are saying two opposite things. X and not-X cannot both be true at the same time. So fine, he says there is an explanation by way of esoteric meaning and an explanation by way of the plain meaning. And by way of esoteric meaning he doesn’t say what it is, and by way of plain meaning he says that the Torah gave it over to the sages, for the sages to decide between the sides. I’ll explain that a bit more later. In principle, this statement of the heavenly voice can be read in two ways, two readings. One reading is a pluralistic reading. A pluralistic reading says: “These and those are the words of the living God”—both are right. There is a multiplicity of truths; there is no single halakhic truth. And then of course one has to understand what it means that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel. If both are right, then what is the significance of the law? There is also a monistic reading. Monism means one truth, as opposed to pluralism. And the monistic reading can explain very well why the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel, but it gets stuck on the first part. So what does “these and those are the words of the living God” mean? So I’ll start with the pluralistic reading. In the pluralistic reading, what is basically being said is that there is a multiplicity of truths—“these and those are the words of the living God”—and therefore the fact that the law is fixed like Beit Hillel is not because the truth is like Beit Hillel.
[Speaker B] What—I don’t understand the phrase “a multiplicity of truths.”
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, neither do I.
[Speaker B] What is a multiplicity of truths? X and not-X is a multiplicity of truths?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes. The claim is that there is no truth. That’s really the claim behind it. There is no truth. Meaning, whatever you think—if you act according to the rules—that’s perfectly fine from My perspective. That’s basically the claim.
[Speaker B] What does it mean, there is no truth?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Is this wall white or black? That’s physics. But in Jewish law, it’s not vis-à-vis reality; in Jewish law it’s a norm. And now the norm is: the Holy One, blessed be He, says, I don’t care whether you behave this way and I don’t care whether you behave that way, as long as according to your reasoning and through your accounting within the rules of Jewish law, that’s what came out for you, then from My perspective that’s perfectly fine. I’ll put it in an extreme way—I didn’t even intend anything specific in advance. Not that I’m giving legitimacy even if you miss what I think. And if you want a radical formulation, I didn’t intend anything specific at all. I intended that people should go with these rules. Whatever comes out for you is perfectly fine from My perspective. Okay? So what does “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” mean according to the pluralistic reading? It means: well, we have to decide somehow, so let’s establish a bottom line—not because they are right, but because in the end we somehow need to determine what we do in practice.
[Speaker B] So that’s why the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] And the reasoning could perhaps even be with no reasoning at all, I don’t know—draw lots. In principle you could even draw lots. There is a responsum of the Rosh—it reminds me—the responsum of the Rosh talks about “whoever is stronger prevails.” Actually this begins with the Rosh at the beginning of Bava Metzia and in the third chapter of Bava Batra, where there in the third chapter of Bava Batra there is the law of that boat. Meaning, there is some boat floating there on the river, and two people each claim that the boat is his, and the Talmud rules there: whoever is stronger prevails. Fight it out. Whoever is the bigger thug, whoever wins the boat—it’s his. So the medieval authorities (Rishonim) there wonder: what do you mean, fight it out? A religious court is supposed to decide the law. What do you mean, fight it out? So the Rosh wants to argue there that there are reasons to think that “whoever is stronger prevails” will actually bring the truth to light. Because the one to whom it belongs will exert himself more strongly, will fight harder. And if one knows that the other is right, then he also won’t fight so hard, because he’ll be afraid that the other will bring evidence, and then what’s the point of all the fighting? He’ll bring evidence and then the court will take it away from him. He brings all kinds of reasons there for why basically— But in the responsum, and the Rosh in the responsum also repeats those things but adds another layer, and there you can see that he doesn’t really mean to say that there is some decisive proof here, that these are really the proofs because of which we know clearly that the one who won is truly right. Rather, the Rosh prefaces it by saying that the religious court has an obligation to decide in some way. So he says, fine, these considerations really aren’t all that great, not so strong, but it’s better than simply drawing lots. So if you’ve got fifty-two percent in favor of this one and forty-eight percent in favor of that one, okay, then at least we gained two percent. And it’s not that I’m really deciding that it belongs to him, but since I have to decide somehow, and I’m not allowed to leave the case hanging just like that, then I say okay, let’s have a contest, and whoever wins, wins. Therefore one of the practical ramifications—the later authorities (Acharonim) say this is a practical ramification, not necessarily that it has to be this way, but they say that the Rosh, for example, also says that after you have won, the other one cannot go on fighting with you and take it back from you.
[Speaker B] The fight is over? Yes.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Which is exactly consistent with his position, because the Rosh argues that we do not—the simple conception of “whoever is stronger prevails” is basically: go home. The court doesn’t intervene. I have nothing to say about this. Keep fighting, do what you want. You came to me—I don’t have data, I don’t know how to answer you. And that is very logical, by the way. He has no data. What do you want the judge to say? I don’t have it. You say this and you say that—fine, you’re right and you’re right and my wife is right, everybody is right—so what do you want me to do? Okay? So I go home; that’s withdrawal, “whoever is stronger prevails.” But the Rosh says there is no such thing—you cannot withdraw. You have to make decisions. Because if we understand this as withdrawal, then obviously you can keep fighting. The court went home. Now the fact that Reuven won because he hit Shimon and took the boat—later Shimon brings his friends, beats Reuven back, and takes the boat back. No problem. The court said nothing. We remain in a legal fight according to the law of the jungle, meaning the state of nature, yes, of Hobbes. Meaning, the court said nothing, so there’s no reason to stop this after someone took it—because to stop it would already mean that the court did say something. The Rosh, consistently with his position, writes—he doesn’t say this explicitly follows from there, but he rules that way, and it is brought in the Shulchan Arukh—that after someone seizes it, the other cannot come back and fight him. Which of course is very reasonable, or at least it is very plausible, that this follows from his position, that basically the goal is indeed to rule. True, you are using considerations that are not very strong, but in the absence of something better, at least you do this. I often argue about this with Menachem, who is a judge. So I always ask him, why don’t they allow the use of a polygraph in cases of harassment and rape and things of that sort? True, the polygraph isn’t reliable—it gets it wrong in forty percent of cases—but in sixty percent it’s right. Meaning, if you go without it, then it’s fifty-fifty, because usually the problem in such cases is one word against another. You don’t have objective evidence, you have one word against another. Now one word against another—so let’s say you have a fifty percent chance of being right. Take the polygraph, now you have sixty percent.
[Speaker B] Right, but sixty percent isn’t enough to convict. What? Sixty percent isn’t enough to convict. I understand, but in the end—also you’re not allowed to use a polygraph, it’s not admissible even in civil court, so even fifty-one percent isn’t enough.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Oh really? That I didn’t know. That really is strange, no?
[Speaker B] In civil court you can’t use it?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] But that’s strange—why? It really doesn’t make sense.
[Speaker B] The view that dominates is that they want the judge to be the one who decides. There too there’s no possibility of cross-examination, also not.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Cross-examining a person is better than a polygraph, I’m telling you, first of all.
[Speaker B] So for our purposes, what the Rosh
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] is basically saying here is that this contest is just a way to define a little better the chance of hitting the truth—not that this is truly a decisive ruling—and since the court has to cut the matter one way or another, then at least it cuts it this way. So it cuts with sixty percent instead of fifty percent; that’s also something. But it did cut. Meaning, after someone wins, the other cannot come back and seize it, because this is a ruling of the court. “Whoever is stronger prevails” is not withdrawal; “whoever is stronger prevails” is a ruling, according to the Rosh. Okay, why am I saying this? Because basically this is exactly the pluralistic interpretation of the heavenly voice’s words. The pluralistic interpretation basically says that both sides are right because there is no truth. It reminds me of Zehava Galon—there’s some speech of hers that we always die laughing over at home; it’s a standing joke in our house. It was some debate she had with Bennett. She says: Bennett says there’s no occupation because the Hebrew Bible (Tanakh) told him so, and this one says there isn’t this because that one told him so. It’s amazing, just an amazing speech. You ignore the facts because the Hebrew Bible (Tanakh) told you—and with this too.
[Speaker C] Okay, in any case, there is no occupation because there is no occupation.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I didn’t say I agree with her, but I liked the way she presented it. Fine. In any case, some of the things are occupation—just not with regard to the Palestinians. The Golan Heights is occupation, meaning with regard to the Palestinians it wasn’t occupation; it was occupation from Jordan, not from the Palestinians. Fine, never mind, that’s another issue. I’m coming back to us: this is the pluralistic reading. The pluralistic reading basically says that “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”—the pluralistic reading fits with “these and those.” “The Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” means that halakhic ruling does not reflect truth; halakhic ruling reflects a bottom line. And I spoke about this one of the last times, maybe even in this context, I don’t remember, about how this dream people have—that when the Sanhedrin and ordination return and all that, then the Sanhedrin will decide—I spoke about this in connection with Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, where they closed all the open questions—that the Sanhedrin will decide the questions that are now under dispute and there will be uniformity in conduct, the law will be clear and everything will be fine, the Torah won’t be like two Torahs—in my eyes this is an apocalypse. I’m anxious that this is what will happen in the end. I’m Haredi on this issue. Because the Sanhedrin should not do that. The Sanhedrin should let everyone do what he thinks—except in those places where different behaviors really create a problem, and then it will decide. Certainly in public questions—for example, if the Sanhedrin has to decide whether to sign a peace agreement or take some political step, I don’t know what—then obviously not everyone can do what he thinks, so some public decision has to be made. There the Sanhedrin will decide. Just an example, but of course also in halakhic questions: sometimes you need to determine something because you can’t function when everyone behaves differently. For example, if one person thinks a certain food is non-kosher and someone else thinks that food is kosher, they won’t be able to marry one another. One won’t be able to eat what the other serves him; they won’t be able to visit one another or something like that. So where there are such cases, the Sanhedrin will get involved and decide, and that will bind everyone. Legumes on Passover? Maybe legumes on Passover too, who knows, with a Sanhedrin. What about all the unresolved cases? Who will solve those? The Sanhedrin too. If the Sanhedrin can, it will solve the unresolved cases too—what’s the problem? Rabbi Kook writes—we learned this in Nevukhei HaDor—Rabbi Kook writes that the fact that we do not dispute the Talmud, that too is a decision the Sanhedrin can overturn. The Sanhedrin can overturn everything. After all, Maimonides writes that at least in Torah-level law, the Sanhedrin doesn’t even need to be greater in wisdom and number in order to overturn a decision of an earlier religious court. That requirement applies only to enactments and decrees; but if you are greater, then you still can. But in Torah-level law even that isn’t needed. And he adds something else too: even the fact that we do not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse—that you don’t interpret the law according to its rationale—that too the Sanhedrin can overturn. That too is a law from the Talmudic era; they rule like Rabbi Shimon that we do not derive law from the reason of the verse, and that itself the Sanhedrin can overturn. The Sanhedrin can overturn everything. The reason we don’t dispute the Talmud today is because the Talmud has the status of a Sanhedrin, de facto. Halakhically, we accepted upon ourselves the status of the Talmud as though it were the Sanhedrin. Fine. But if there is a real later Sanhedrin, it can overturn that. So all the sanctity of the Talmud that we are so used to is simply an artifact of the result of the fact that we have no Sanhedrin. That’s all, nothing more than that. The moment there is a Sanhedrin, we go back to the normal track. The Sanhedrin will decide, and if it decides to overturn the Talmud, it will overturn the Talmud.
[Speaker D] It sounds like in terms of laws and rules, at least on the individual level, most of the practiced laws are actually rabbinic laws, seemingly.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] It doesn’t matter; it can be greater in wisdom and in number. I once mentioned that there’s a really funny Raavad there. Maimonides says there in the Laws of Rebels, when he says that you can’t repeal an enactment even if its reason no longer applies, Maimonides says: only if the later religious court is greater in wisdom and in number. Even if the reason no longer applies… So the Raavad says: there’s a Talmudic text against him. It says that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai repealed the enactment of adorning the markets of Jerusalem with fruit, I think. After the destruction, there was no longer any point in adorning the markets of Jerusalem with fruit when people came up for the pilgrimage festivals, so they used to decorate, beautify the streets of Jerusalem in honor of the pilgrims, okay? Or for the first-fruits, maybe it was the pilgrims. Once the Temple was destroyed, there was no more pilgrimage, so there was no point, and Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai repealed it. And the Talmud talks about this in the context of repealing enactments. The Raavad says: you see that a later religious court can repeal the words of an earlier religious court. And he stops there. And I ask myself: what does he want from Maimonides? Fine, so it could be that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s court was greater than the earlier court. So what’s the problem? The Talmud says you can, you just need a greater court. The Raavad assumes as something self-evident that if you are a later court, then there is decline of the generations. If you are a later court, you are presumably smaller.
[Speaker B] What does it mean for there to be a greater religious court?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] And then of course he completely empties of content the statement that a religious court can repeal the words of a fellow religious court if it is greater than it in wisdom and number. Because by definition, if it’s later, then it is not greater in wisdom and number.
[Speaker E] Just because it’s later? We’re talking about Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] How does he know that? How did he determine that? I don’t know, maybe he has some sort of measuring device, but did he understand the point to mean that because it’s later it’s smaller?
[Speaker E] He doesn’t—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —say anything, he doesn’t explain, he doesn’t bother to explain; it just seems obvious to him. There’s no doubt that’s what he means. It seems obvious to him. And it is obvious. Why is it obvious? Because ask anyone today and he’ll tell you: a later religious court is obviously smaller. We’re the merest trace compared to the medieval authorities, right? It’s a simple conception that we are smaller than all those who came before us. So he assumed that too, that’s clear to me. And then he turned this Jewish law into some kind of theoretical law. Fine, there’s such a theoretical law, in the pathological case where there is some later religious court that nevertheless is greater.
[Speaker B] Maybe a heavenly voice will come out and say so.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, exactly. Then maybe it could repeal the words of… But this is law for the messianic era. It doesn’t happen.
[Speaker B] Or maybe he basically held that you simply can’t repeal an enactment.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, but the Talmud says you can, so he’s arguing with the Talmud. How does he override the Talmud? Is he greater than it in wisdom and number? The Talmud says yes, and he isn’t even a religious court.
[Speaker F] Wait, maybe—maybe the intention there is within the same generation? What? Like if this is the court of Haifa…
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, no, it’s not in the same generation. Clearly not. It’s across all generations.
[Speaker F] Why? At least from the language of the Talmud, a religious court in the same… like when can it…
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Are you talking about Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai? Yes. Or about this rule that you can’t repeal? About the rule. Well, the rule is about any future religious court, not just a court in the same generation. Once a religious court established an enactment, a future religious court cannot repeal it unless it is greater than it in wisdom and number.
[Speaker G] This rule applies whether it’s a religious court in the same generation or a later religious court, it doesn’t matter.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] It has to be greater—
[Speaker G] —in wisdom and in number.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Ah, you mean to say—
[Speaker G] —that according to the Raavad—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —this rule speaks only about a religious court in the same generation, which indeed could be greater in wisdom and number. Another religious court in the same generation… there is no other religious court in the same generation, because this is the Great Court. There is only one Great Court. That’s it. You might have thought to say that in other generations too there could be, that they could repeal in the case of some local court that existed and in general… no, but there isn’t. We’re talking only about the Great Court. We’re talking about the Great Court. Only the Great Court. This statement is only about the Great Court. Obviously. What, if a religious court made some enactment, what’s the issue with another religious court repealing it? What authority do they have over another court? Only an enactment that obligated the entire public, all of Israel. Maimonides says this explicitly; that is, you can read it at the beginning of the Laws of Rebels. How did I get to this? I mentioned this Raavad who assumes decline of the generations.
[Speaker H] But seemingly there are two concepts here. One concept is truth—these and those are both words of truth—and there is the ruling of the Sanhedrin, where it doesn’t matter whether it is the truth or not; that is its ruling.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Exactly. So the pluralistic reading basically says: “These and those are the words of the living God” does not mean both are right, or that there is no one who is right—however you want to put it, it doesn’t matter. Okay? And the Jewish law follows the House of Hillel. The halakhic ruling does not stem from the fact that the House of Hillel was right, but from the desire to reach some uniform bottom line so that people can live together, so they had to set some rule of thumb, so they said, fine, the House of Hillel—the Jewish law follows the House of Hillel. Okay? That is the pluralistic reading, fine, that one can live with. The monistic reading is already a bit harder. Because the monistic reading basically says that there is halakhic truth. And the Jewish law follows the House of Hillel because the House of Hillel was right. That is a monistic reading. Then the question arises: so what is the meaning of the first part of the heavenly voice, that “these and those are the words of the living God”? More than that—before I explain this, I’ll move further on in the Talmud. The Talmud there goes on to bring an explanation for why the heavenly voice actually ruled in accordance with the House of Hillel: because they were pleasant and humble, and they stated the words of the House of Shammai before their own. On the face of it, this looks like a reward for good behavior, right? They really behaved nicely, politely; they respect the House of Shammai.
[Speaker C] Meaning, they also knew and restrained themselves with respect to the words of their opponents, as opposed to…
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Wait, I’m getting to that in a second. That’s the second alternative. Then what comes out of this is that the ruling in accordance with the House of Hillel is actually the result of an educational consideration, not the result of who is right. On the contrary—the House of Shammai were greater sages, they were probably right, if there even is such a thing as being right. But in a pluralistic reading, in such a case there is no right and wrong, so since that’s the case, how do you issue a halakhic ruling? You issue a halakhic ruling on the basis of considerations that are not considerations of truth. So what, then? Let’s at least gain an educational benefit: we’ll educate the public that one should behave nicely. Okay, so we rule in accordance with the House of Hillel. What does the monist do with this? How does the monist read the Talmud’s reasoning? Here we have Rabbi Yosef Karo in the Rules of the Talmud, where implicitly—it’s not completely clear that this is what he said, but it seems to me that this is what he means to say. Later I saw this in one of the later authorities, maybe She’elat David; one of the later authorities actually says this explicitly: that the Jewish law follows the House of Hillel because they are right. It is not a reward for good behavior. Why are they right? Because someone who properly weighs the words of his opponent, and only afterwards formulates his own position,
[Speaker B] has—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —a better chance of arriving at the truth. Again, probabilistically; it’s not that anyone has one hundred percent certainty of the truth. But if you need to establish some rule of thumb—what comes closest, what has the highest chance of approaching the truth—the method of the House of Hillel is the best method, and it overrides even the superiority of the House of Shammai in intelligence, or in that they were sharper. They were more incisive, more brilliant, but the methodology of the House of Hillel brought them closer to the truth. That’s what Rabbi Yosef Karo says. Therefore it is clear, for example, that when Rabbi Yosef Karo read the Talmud, he read it in a monistic way.
[Speaker B] Because—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —even that reasoning, which on the face of it practically screams pluralism, he insists on explaining in a monistic way. And if that’s so, then the whole Talmudic passage now has to be understood in a monistic reading. So we said: I understand why the Jewish law follows the House of Hillel. I also understand the Talmud’s reasoning for why it follows the House of Hillel, because they are right. But now one question remains: so what does “these and those are the words of the living God” mean? Okay? So here we need to make some conceptual introduction. I spoke about this once—not here, I think, maybe in another context—about the concepts of tolerance versus pluralism. I want to define a few concepts here before we return to this Talmudic passage. This was the story that made the penny drop for me. I was in Yeruham, in the Haredi community; I lived there in the Haredi community. One day a few guys from there came to me and asked me to go to Sde Boker to speak there with some group; it’s a branch of Ben-Gurion University. Meaning, a sort of settlement there, what’s called the Midrasha, the Ben-Gurion Heritage Midrasha. The Midrasha… yes, Midreshet Sde Boker. They’re both called “the Midrasha,” depending on which one—like “the Rabbi.” Depends who’s speaking. One person, when he says “the Rabbi,” means Rabbi Soloveitchik; another person, when he says “the Rabbi,” means Rabbi Kook.
[Speaker B] There the Midrasha means Sde Boker, the Midrasha next to Ben-Gurion’s grave. The high-school yeshiva… what? A yeshiva by the grave.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] They built a yeshiva on his grave, exactly. So they asked me to go speak with them there, because what had happened was that some bus from the Haredi community in Yeruham took several kollel men to… a minibus, I don’t know what… to some new synagogue that had been built there, some donor had built a synagogue at the Midrasha in Sde Boker. And there basically weren’t any religious people there at all. There were two traditional Jews. In that entire settlement there were only two traditional Jews, and of course neither of them was on the university staff. One was a farm worker and the other was the doctor, who happened to be an alumnus of the yeshiva high school too. But he was the doctor, and the two of them were basically secular-traditional, meaning they had some sympathy. And they wanted to bring some guys to make a prayer quorum for afternoon and evening prayers and to study a bit between afternoon and evening prayers. So some guys came, they organized transportation, I think funding too and all that; they brought kollel men from Yeruham to study there every day. The people at the Sde Boker Midrasha went into hysterics. The Haredim are coming, they’re going to close our streets here, religious coercion, exactly. Close our streets here, take over our houses and all that. They had to—they formed an association and went off on jihad. They went to the press, there was apparently some noise, I don’t know exactly, wars, court cases, I don’t know exactly what, I don’t know how far it got, I didn’t even follow it very closely, but the guys told me a bit. In short, they asked me to go speak with the committee of that association from Midreshet Sde Boker, to try to reach some arrangement with them, because with the professors and so on there was some kind of reluctance, so you talk to them, you know the language. Fine, so I went to speak with them. There was no one to talk to; they came to deliver some kind of ultimatum—either you leave or we’ll, I don’t know, I don’t remember what. So I tried to talk, but there was no one to talk to. Two weeks later, I don’t even know how it rolled around, they told me: listen, there’s a broader group from the Midrasha who want to have some discussion and talk, not issue an ultimatum. Fine, so I went there, and that’s where the penny dropped for me that I’m now telling you about. So I got there, and they said to me: listen, we don’t come bother you in Yeruham in your Haredi neighborhood and so on, so why are you getting into our guts, coming here to mess with our heads and preach to us and make us religious? So I asked them: why indeed don’t you come? Why don’t you come? There was a silence, they had to think a bit, and then all sorts of explanations started coming up. And with every explanation that came up, I disagreed with it—that is, I said I disagreed. At some point I suddenly realized that I disagreed with all the explanations for the same reason. In other words, to my mind they all fell into the same fallacy. So I’ll explain how that goes, and this insight hit me in the middle of the conversation, so now I’m presenting it in a more complete way. So let’s say it began like this: we don’t come to you because each righteous person shall live by his faith, everyone—and we are pluralists, meaning everyone has his own truth, so why should we come and mess with your head? I said to them: look, if you’re pluralists, then obviously; I too, if I were a pluralist, wouldn’t come. In other words, if I’m right exactly like you are, then why on earth would you come persuade me not to do what I’m doing? But I’m not a pluralist, I’m a monist, I think I’m right and you’re wrong, so why shouldn’t I come? In other words, the fact that you don’t come stems from pluralism, but I’m not a pluralist. Or in another formulation: the fact that you don’t come does not earn you moral credit. You don’t come because there’s no point in coming. It’s not because you’re such righteous people who don’t want to come and do something bad. You’re not doing something for which, in your view, there is really no point, so what’s the big deal? But I think you’re making a mistake, and I come to try to prevent your mistake, so in my eyes that’s a noble act. In other words, if one of us is moral, it’s me. You’re fine, no problem, but you’re simply not doing something that according to your view makes no sense to do, which is perfectly fine, but it’s not a moral act; meaning you can’t ask to receive moral credit for that. Okay. Fine, then another claim came up: look, in any case we wouldn’t succeed in persuading you; after all, you’re a fanatic, you can’t talk to you. Fine, maybe, but then take the compliment that I actually think one can talk to you and you don’t think one can talk to me, and that’s why I come. Now more than that: the fact that you don’t come talk to me because I won’t be persuaded—again, you don’t deserve moral credit for that, you don’t come because there’s no point, why waste your time if in any event I won’t be persuaded, right? But I think I have a chance of persuading you, so I come to persuade you—what’s bad about that? Then another discussion came up. Look, if we were to come—
[Speaker C] The second argument only has force if they’re operating from a pluralistic approach; if they’re not operating from a pluralistic approach, what’s the point here?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] And this is like lawyers’ alternative pleading, you know: I say this, and alternatively I also say this, even though the alternative contradicts the previous claim. I’ll come back to that in a second. The third claim was: look, really, if you want to mess yourself up, do whatever you want. If you want to lead a foolish life, lead a foolish life. What do I care? Do whatever you want. To that I said: that I really don’t understand. You don’t care about me doing foolish things, and you don’t care? And that’s some moral distinction? I care that you are doing things that in my eyes are mistaken and foolish, and I want to persuade you to do what is right because I care about you. So who is moral? Are you moral or am I moral? Then they said: look, if we come bother you, then you’ll come impose on us and bother us. Again, fine, but you’re making a utilitarian calculation. You’re not coming because you don’t want to pay the price that maybe I’ll also come to you, so again you don’t deserve moral credit for that either. And so on; we continued with all kinds of such arguments, and at some point I suddenly understood that the logic was the same logic. It really unfolded that way, meaning I suddenly realized that I was rejecting all the arguments in exactly the same way. And what lies behind it is the following, and this is where I want to—that’s the penny that dropped. As long as you have a sensible explanation for why you don’t come to persuade or impose, right, then you don’t deserve moral credit for that. Obviously. There’s no sense in coming; why would you come? So if you think I’m—if you’re a pluralist, you don’t deserve moral credit; there’s no reason to come. If I’m as right as you are, why would you come? So you don’t deserve moral credit. If you don’t care about me, then certainly you don’t deserve moral credit. The fact that you don’t come is self-interested, right? You don’t deserve moral credit. If you think everyone should do his own nonsense, or each righteous person shall live by his faith, fine, then harm yourself as much as you want, perfectly fine. You don’t deserve moral credit for that either; there’s no point in coming. If you think I won’t be persuaded, there’s no point in coming—again it’s a rational consideration, there’s no point in coming because it won’t bear any fruit. Again, you don’t deserve moral credit. So what is really behind all these rejections? That every time there is a sensible explanation for why you don’t come, that isn’t tolerance. Right? That’s actually what I’m saying. But then something very strange happens here. In order to be considered tolerant, in order to deserve moral credit for your tolerance, exactly—no, all the reasons for not being tolerant have to be present. Meaning, first, you must not be a pluralist. If you are a pluralist, you cannot be tolerant, right? Because if you are a pluralist, then everyone is right, so of course you won’t come persuade or impose on someone else. So you have to be not a pluralist but a monist. You have to assume—and I didn’t say this either, but there are many other excuses I skipped, because the logic is this logic—you have to assume that my action is harmful. Even if I’m wrong, but if it isn’t harmful, then what do you care? It’s not harmful. You have to assume that my action is harmful and still not come. Meaning, basically you have to assume that I’m wrong and you’re right, you have to assume that my mistake is harmful, you have to assume that if you come you have a chance of influencing me, because otherwise again there’s no big deal in the fact that you didn’t come, right? You also have to assume that you’re not afraid that when you come, then I’ll come back at you, because if you’re afraid and that’s why you don’t come, again you’re not tolerant. Okay, so if you think I’m wrong, and you think my mistake is harmful, and you care about me, and you think you have a chance to change it, and you’re not afraid that if you come to change it I’ll retaliate and come bother you, all that is in place—so why the hell not come? Those are all reasons to come. Meaning there’s no reason not to come. Because if there is a reason—if there is a reason not to come—then you’re not tolerant. So when are you tolerant? Only when there is absolutely no reason not to come. So what, does tolerant mean idiot? Meaning, although all the reasons say to come, he still doesn’t come. So a tolerant person is not a moral person; a tolerant person is an idiot. Something is wrong here. I stopped there in the middle; after the penny dropped, I stopped there in the middle, because I understood that I was saying something self-contradictory. I thought I was winning that argument, but I realized I was losing. I realized it to myself, not… Because what I had basically said was that there is no such thing as tolerance. Now I consider myself tolerant too. Meaning, my assumption is that there is a value called tolerance; I too advocate the value of tolerance. I told them: on the contrary, you don’t advocate it, I advocate the value of tolerance. But when I suddenly understood this logic, I came to the conclusion that basically there is no such thing. Meaning, either I’m an idiot or I’m not tolerant. There’s no other possibility here.
[Speaker B] But all this stems from your starting point that the purpose of the encounter between the two groups is to influence one another, whereas tolerance means that the purpose of the encounter is to create an encounter, just an encounter, an exchange of views. That’s not tolerance, that’s just being nice to each other.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] That’s not tolerance. I’m talking about tolerance in contexts of value conflict. What does it mean to be tolerant? To be tolerant means—and this is my claim—to think that someone else is wrong according to my view, but to contain that. Meaning to accept it, to grant it legitimacy. Whether to meet or not meet—I’ll talk about that later—that, in my opinion, is more related to openness than to tolerance, but I’ll talk about that in a minute. This is tolerance. Whether people meet or don’t meet is another question; that’s already a nuance I’ll get to, but it’s a nuance. Tolerance is first of all: let’s say I have the ability to force you to behave the way I think you should, and I won’t force you because I’m tolerant. Even though I think you’re wrong and all the reasons are present for why I should, and I still won’t force you. Okay? I also said about this—I forgot to say—all this discussion seemed absurd to me because of the search for reasons not to come and change things. Persuade. After all, I’m not coming to impose. They weren’t even coming to persuade; that’s even worse. They just came to study there with those two guys who wanted a little Judaism there in the place.
[Speaker B] Right, that’s exactly what shows that the argument wasn’t to the point. No, no, no. They didn’t come to persuade, and they were afraid it would roll over into persuasion.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, but I’m saying: with all due respect to these terrible fears, which of course were baseless. What kollel fellow is going to come live in a place identified with lecturers from Ben-Gurion University? I mean, I asked them, by the way, afterwards. I asked them, by the way, tell me: if I want to come, if I work at Ben-Gurion University, I’m doing a doctorate in physics. Now I’m not your standard kollel fellow. Now I got accepted into the physics department at Ben-Gurion University, and I want to live in the Midrasha. It’s a public place, not a private thing. Okay? Will you accept me? Of course, just according to the criteria; meet the criteria. Somehow there isn’t a single religious person there. Fine, but of course they are pluralists and tolerant and accept everyone, except those they don’t want. Okay? So there’s some level of hypocrisy here. I told them: in my eyes this is outrageous. The fact that there isn’t a single religious person here is on you. It means you don’t really accept people according to criteria; don’t sell me stories. If you found out that I was coming to live there, you’d work behind the scenes to make sure I wouldn’t be accepted into the physics department. That’s obvious, because you don’t want religious people here. This isn’t a place…
[Speaker B] Maybe a religious person can’t live there because he doesn’t have the framework.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] What do you mean, he doesn’t have the framework? I do want to live there. I want to pray individually. I want to live there—what’s the problem? What, is it forbidden? You know what, I want to bring ten more lecturers, we’ll be ten, we’ll make a prayer quorum of ten. Is that okay? Everything okay? It’s a public place, not their private place—you need to understand that. It’s a public place. In other words, someone who works at Ben-Gurion University, in principle, can be there. There’s something here, some crazy reversal of perspective. As if they—the feeling, and I believed them, it was a sincere feeling—that they were tolerant and pluralistic and everything was wonderful, and only I was benighted and all that. But I say: look in the mirror a bit. There’s something here—you’re presenting a problematic picture. Then I told them: but let’s say I do come to persuade. They didn’t come there to persuade—let’s say I do come to persuade. What’s wrong with that? Adults, intelligent people, university lecturers. What, some kollel fellow who never finished second-grade math… he studied Talmud, okay, but he comes to persuade you to become religious, I don’t know, whatever, doesn’t matter. Okay, you don’t want to listen to him, don’t. You want to listen and not be persuaded. You want to listen and yes be persuaded. Adults—what, is persuasion forbidden? What’s wrong with persuasion? As far as I’m concerned, the discussion begins only with coercion, not persuasion. Persuasion—I’m not even willing to discuss it. If you want, I can’t force you to listen to me, so don’t come listen. Fine, no problem. You can make your own decisions however you want.
[Speaker C] But there are people from the settlement, from the neighborhood, who want them to come; they’re asking for it. That’s their right.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] That’s why I say yes, granted. But I’ll say more than that: even if I were trying—calling everyone, putting up notices all over the Midrasha, come, friends, there’s going to be a religious-inspiration talk, it’ll be an experience, they’ll hand out doughnuts. Fine? That’s it—not for children, for adults. Fine?
[Speaker B] And in the Haredi community in Yeruham, if people from the Midrasha came…
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] They wouldn’t be accepted, and they also don’t say they’re pluralists and they don’t say they’re tolerant. That’s the whole point. But they put their cards on the table.
[Speaker D] And they don’t say they’re pluralists.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] So now I’m saying: the fact that people rise up against your trying to persuade is itself outrageous. On the contrary, I told them: listen, why don’t you come to me? I meant it seriously, not as a rhetorical argument. You think I’m wrong, you have good arguments—I want to hear. Come, really, not for show. Come. If you persuade me, fine. I hope I’d be honest enough to admit it. I’m not sure, but I hope so. You’d want to persuade me—so no? An adult person—what’s the problem? What are you afraid of? This crazy fear—I go crazy from this fear. So I said: let’s talk about coercion. Not persuasion; leave persuasion aside. I’m talking about coercion. Explain to me why not come coerce you. So all the arguments you raised before are arguments that explain why there is no sense in coming and coercing you, but I say, wait a second—tolerance means not coming to coerce even though logic says yes to coming, because otherwise you deserve no credit for the matter. But if logic says yes to coercion, then why indeed not come coerce? If I think you’re wrong and I have the ability to influence things and I care about you and I’m not afraid you’ll do the same to me and your mistake is harmful—everything is in place. So why not prevent it? By coercion, I’m speaking now. Why not prevent it? Until in the end I understood—and this is what I say, this is an account I gave to myself—because I do regard myself as someone who advocates the value of tolerance. And then suddenly I said: wait, so now I don’t know how to explain this to myself. What is really going on here? In the end I understood that the value of tolerance is when I don’t come to coerce you because I respect your autonomy. How is this different from all the previous reasons? All the previous reasons that I rejected were reasons of interest. In other words: there’s no point in coming, it’s a waste of time, it won’t help, you’re as right as I am, so why come? It’s just that there’s no logic in coming, okay? They were not value-based reasons; they were instrumental reasons, a cold calculation whether it pays to come or doesn’t pay to come, whether it will yield results or not, whether it is needed or not. Reasons of that kind really cannot ground tolerance, okay? But value-based reasons—reasons that say: look, you are wrong, and I think your mistake is harmful, and I think I have the ability to affect you—not affect, to coerce; I’m talking about coercion. I have the ability, because with persuasion there is no justification not to come persuade. Everyone should persuade the other if he thinks the other is wrong, in my opinion. But, but, but coercion is a different matter. And with coercion I say: I think you are wrong, and your mistake is harmful, and I can change the matter, and I’m not afraid you’ll retaliate against me, and I care about you, and all that is true—and I still don’t come. Why don’t I come? Because I respect your autonomy. After I tried to persuade you and you weren’t persuaded, and we remained with a disagreement.
[Speaker B] Even persuasion can be: we won’t come persuade because I respect autonomy.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, that I don’t agree with. That’s not called respecting autonomy; that’s indifference. What? That’s indifference, not respecting autonomy. I fully respect autonomy, and I come persuade you.
[Speaker B] No, you’re not forcing him to listen to you.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Either you’ll be persuaded or you won’t be persuaded. I’m trying to make you aware of your mistake.
[Speaker B] Autonomy can also be that he—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —says, “I don’t want to hear at all.” There can be such a theory, but I don’t accept it. If I want to form an opinion, I want to hear everyone who has something to tell me about the matter. It doesn’t seem logical to me. But I say, fine, if you don’t want to hear, no problem. But is there something problematic in the fact that I try to come and persuade you—not force, try; if you want, if you don’t want, don’t come? On the contrary, there is something problematic in not doing that. “You shall surely rebuke your fellow,” “do not stand idly by your neighbor’s blood.” What does that mean? If you see someone making a mistake, you have to try to persuade him, to keep him from error. And if I tried to persuade him and didn’t succeed, and now I have the ability to coerce him—let’s say I’m the stronger one in the situation, and I have the ability to coerce him—and I don’t come. Why don’t I come? Because he heard my arguments and came to the conclusion that he doesn’t agree with me, and I respect his opinion. I respect his opinion even though I think he’s wrong and his mistake is harmful. Okay? Why? Because a person has to determine his own path. That—this value—is, in my eyes, the value of tolerance. In other words, the value of tolerance is based on a rationale, and it isn’t stupidity. It is based on a rationale, but not on a self-interested rationale. All the previous kinds of reasons were reasons of interest, a calculation of whether it pays to come or not, whether there’s a point in coming or not. Here I’m talking about a value-based rationale. I don’t come because I think it is your right to act differently if you think differently, even though you are wrong and even though this mistake is harmful. Okay? That is the meaning of tolerance. The result that comes out of this, basically, is that tolerance and pluralism are not only not synonymous—they are opposites. Meaning, wherever you are a pluralist, you cannot be tolerant. Because if you think the other person is as right as you are, then there is no reason to go persuade him to do something else or coerce him to do something else. In any case, tolerance has no meaning. Tolerance has meaning only in a monistic world. In a pluralistic world tolerance has no meaning. I’ll tell you more than that: even in the initial conceptual view, before the analysis, tolerance and pluralism belong to completely different conceptual worlds or semantic fields. Pluralism belongs to the semantic field of philosophy—the question of how many truths you think there are. If you think there is more than one truth, you are a pluralist. That is a philosophical position. It has nothing to do with morality at all. What do you really think—one truth or five truths? What does that have to do with morality? It’s a question of what you think, how many truths there are. That’s the question of pluralism or not-pluralism. The question of tolerance belongs to the semantic field of morality, of values. Meaning, if you are tolerant, then under certain circumstances you do not coerce the other person. Therefore tolerance and pluralism cannot be synonyms. They simply belong to different conceptual worlds. My claim is only that beyond that, not only are they different conceptual worlds, but in a certain sense there is even a tension between them. Because if my philosophical conception is pluralistic, then my moral conception cannot be tolerant.
[Speaker C] Seemingly it can be. If I’m a pluralist and he’s a monist, I want him to be a pluralist too, because it’s not true that there’s only one truth.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] So in that sense you are also a monist. You are a monist because you think there is an incorrect opinion. For me—again, monist of course doesn’t have to mean someone who says there is one correct opinion; it is enough that you think the other person is mistaken. If you think the other person is mistaken, then you are a monist. I don’t care in what. At this point, in this specific dispute between you, if you think he is mistaken, then you are a monist. You are a monist in the issue of pluralism versus monism. Okay, and when you conduct the argument… But because of this he needs—
[Speaker B] —to decide his own path and not me. I claim it’s not only violence that is the problem—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] —but beyond that, I think a person should decide his own path and I shouldn’t decide it for him. I can try to persuade him, I should try to persuade him, to show him the reasons—here—so that he’ll choose correctly. But I raised the reasons, I didn’t manage to persuade him, that’s his position. That’s his position.
[Speaker B] If it’s someone who is now in my house, or it’s my child, or something like that, where I have the authority to decide for him—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] A child is something else, not authority. Even if I had authority—if I were president, prime minister, and speaker of the Knesset, and I were all one hundred and twenty members of Knesset. Before the surgery, in terms of weight that would have worked; I was more or less the right weight. Okay? And I could now legislate the law to coerce everyone—I have the power—I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. I oppose coercion on the substantive level. Even if I have the power and the authority and according to law I can do it, I won’t do it. I oppose it; I would fight against anyone who did it. Not because the problem is violence; the problem is that a person has to decide his path for himself, and I should not decide it for him. With certain limitations, which I’ll talk about later. So the point is that tolerance can appear only within a monistic framework, meaning only within a monistic conceptual framework, not within a pluralistic conceptual framework. Now I’ll go one step further, and basically ask whether there is a distinction between pluralism and tolerance also on the practical plane. In other words, the distinction I just made is a distinction on the level of motives—why I act. Am I not interfering in your life because I am a pluralist, or am I not interfering in your life because I am tolerant? But practically, in actual behavior, we behave the same way. A pluralist and a tolerant person—that’s why all this confusion between pluralism and tolerance was created—because in practice it appears the same way; the behavioral phenomenology of these two types is very similar. It’s basically the same.
[Speaker C] There’s another possibility here: lazy. Why didn’t Reuven interfere in the other person’s way?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, so there are more—you can put a few more characters into this behavioral framework. Right now what interests me is the comparison between a pluralist and a tolerant person.
[Speaker C] Lazy, busy.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] A pluralist and a tolerant person—that, for me, is the comparison I’m making. There may well be many more motives for not intervening, I completely agree. Also discomfort—it’s not always laziness; sometimes it’s just, it feels awkward, why are you getting involved in his life? Again, that same feeling that coming to persuade someone is somehow not okay. It’s some notion that has sunk very deeply into our culture, and I don’t understand why. It simply doesn’t seem logical to me.
[Speaker B] Maybe it’s connected to the opposition to missionary activity in Judaism.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, but I’m entirely in favor of missionary activity.
[Speaker B] An ancient fear of missionary activity.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, I’m completely in favor of missionary activity. I think all kinds of missionary activity on earth should be permitted. Not for children, I’m saying—for people who already have a mind of their own. That’s all. Convince whoever you want of whatever you want. As long as you do it in normal, reasonable ways, not violently. You present arguments—how can you forbid someone from presenting arguments? To me that’s simply utterly absurd. Once on the website I wrote about Holocaust denial; maybe I also spoke about it here, that I oppose this law that forbids denying the Holocaust. That law is a scandal. Anyway, back to our topic: is there a behavioral difference between tolerance and pluralism? I think there is. The difference appears on two levels; you can point to a distinction. One difference concerns the question of openness, which I said I’d get to later. The pluralist—I’m talking right now about a kind of, let’s say, fictional figure; there isn’t really a true pluralist exactly as I’m defining him here—the pluralist is someone who says there are no truths, everyone is equally right. Okay? The pluralist isn’t supposed to display openness to other positions at all. Because the purpose of openness is to listen to more arguments in order to learn, maybe to help me clarify for myself what the truth is. Because if I’m not so arrogant and don’t think I’m the only wise person, but rather that there are other people who can raise interesting and useful arguments, then it’s very important to listen. But that’s only if I have some hope or belief that after I hear the arguments I’ll also be able to formulate a true position. A truer one. A truer one, yes. And then there’s reason to listen to all kinds of opinions, even opinions that are different and completely opposed to mine. One second, I just want to finish. Because it can teach me, help me formulate my own position. But that’s only, of course, if I’m a monist, if I believe that I can reach the truth or get closer to the truth. Certain knowledge—never. Really listen to other arguments. Otherwise it’s just politeness, but not really, because you won’t learn anything from them. At most it’ll change your position, but your previous position wasn’t right, and your current position also isn’t right—or they’re both right. It doesn’t matter. But you don’t have an essential belief in a person’s ability to reach the truth or come closer to the truth. So what’s the point of listening? This is one of the things I always remember from the days of Popolitika, when everyone got terribly upset about the panel’s lack of politeness. Tommy Lapid and Shelly Yachimovich and Eichler were there, about the panel’s lack of politeness. And to me it was obvious that it wasn’t a lack of politeness at all. It was some basic outlook that says: nobody is going to convince me. It was completely clear that this one came from that party and that one came from that party, and they were brawling with each other—none of them was going to change his position, right? That was obvious. They came to entertain us, they’re wrestlers. They came to entertain us. Nobody is going to convince the other, so what is it? They scuffle around, “let the boys play before us.” Now, that outlook comes out of pluralism. Because we look at it through pluralistic glasses. I’m saying this is a philosophical outlook, it’s not a question of—it’s not a matter of human perspective; it’s a philosophical outlook. A philosophical outlook says there’s no such thing as truth and right and wrong and arguments and being persuaded and all that. It’s all spins and schemes, there’s no such thing; people don’t believe in the possibility of persuasion. So what’s left? Just to wrestle and laugh at each other and come out sounding the smartest and sharpest and wittiest, because arguments don’t really have significance. But in a tolerant world, in a tolerant world I expect people to listen—not because of politeness. In a pluralistic world too they can be polite, but that’s just politeness. It’s not really genuine listening. In a monistic world I expect them to listen. Why? Who said you’re the greatest genius? There are other people who can present arguments you haven’t thought of, and maybe they’ll change your position. Why are you so sure that you know everything and that you’re the smartest one? Just being arrogant? Being a monist does not mean being arrogant—quite the opposite. And that’s Beit Hillel, who stated Beit Shammai’s view before their own; therefore Jewish law was ruled in accordance with them. In a monistic reading, Jewish law was ruled in accordance with them. Why? Because in order to reach the truth you believe in, you have to hear the positions of other people who think the opposite. Because only that way do you have a chance of getting closer to the truth. In other words, openness is a product of monism and not of tolerance, and not of pluralism, sorry. All these values that are perceived as synonyms are simply the exact opposite. Pluralism contradicts openness. Pluralism contradicts tolerance. Pluralism emasculates discourse.
[Speaker C] Doesn’t contradict openness?
[Speaker B] Openness has no meaning.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Right, it doesn’t allow it—there’s no such thing, it’s not defined in that context.
[Speaker C] I can be a pluralist and think there are many truths, but with regard to a specific claim, there’s one specific approach.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I said—I told you before—from my standpoint that’s called a monist. A monist is someone who thinks I’m right and you’re wrong. That’s a monist. I don’t care right now if there are three other people who are also right. Meaning, maybe there are many correct positions. But in principle, you’re willing to accept that there are also incorrect positions. For me that’s called a monist; I don’t care, maybe there are three truths. But if there’s one that isn’t truth, then for the purposes of this discussion you’re a monist.
[Speaker B] But then how do you explain “These and these are the words of the living God”?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] One second. So that’s one distinction. I see we’re already out of time; maybe we’ll continue this apparently. The first practical distinction between tolerance and pluralism—the first practical distinction is openness. Because from a tolerant person, or from a monist—not what has to do with the tolerant person, from a monist—I expect openness. From a pluralist I expect nothing. Maybe just that he be polite, but no more than that. Okay? That’s one difference. The second difference is the difference in the radius of tolerance. And that’s an important point. Essential pluralism, as I described it here, is basically supposed to accept every opinion. Every opinion—there’s no limit on the principled level. So I’m not talking about self-defense, because if someone comes and threatens me, I’m not going to say, don’t hurt him because it’s his right, he thinks he’s allowed to murder me. Fine, in principle you could bring it to a ridiculous level like that, but I’m not talking on those levels, okay? I’m talking not on the level of self-defense, but on the level of mutual coercion, meaning, okay?
[Speaker B] Why do you use the term “accept” and not “respect”? The pluralist respects every opinion.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, that’s not pluralism. He doesn’t respect it. He thinks the other person is right just like he is; both of us are equally right. Is that tolerance? Respect is when I think you’re wrong and nevertheless I respect your right to be wrong, because you decided and the responsibility is yours. But you’re wrong. Without that, what does respect even mean? If I think you’re right, that’s not respect; that’s my philosophical view that you’re right just like me. So the second difference is the difference regarding the radius of tolerance. The radius of—in a world of tolerance it’s never, almost never, infinite. Because tolerance is always a tension between two considerations. One consideration is this value of respecting the autonomy of the other person, that the other person should make his own decisions. But on the other hand, we already talked about the fact that the other person is mistaken, his mistake is harmful, I have the ability to prevent it, and I care about him. Now, when the mistakes are very serious, it’s very likely that I won’t be tolerant. If someone wants to commit suicide, someone who wants to become addicted to drugs and has this argument or that one, but I know he’ll cry over that moment for the rest of his life, then I won’t let him. If I can, I won’t let him become addicted to drugs. Why? Respect it, he wants to live that way. No—when the harm of that respect is so great, and I really care about you—after all, tolerance comes from caring about you—then I’ll intervene anyway. In other words, when there is—when I talk about tolerance, it’s always a tension between two considerations. On the one hand, respecting the autonomy of the other person; on the other hand, all the reasons say yes, intervene, right? Because I think I’m right and you’re wrong. Your mistake is harmful, I can prevent it, I care about you. All the reasons say yes, intervene—but I respect your right to be wrong. But when there’s tension between two things, then there’s always some boundary where the balance is found. Each person will place the boundary wherever he places it, that’s not the point, but there is some boundary where the balance is maintained. If the harm is enormous, then with all due respect to the value of tolerance, and if it’s irreversible, I won’t be tolerant. The pluralist, on the principled level—the pure pluralist has no boundary. Meaning, how do you know that you’re right and not that he’s right? After all, both of you are equally right. You can’t know on the principled level; that’s a principled claim. Tolerance is always a question of tension, and tension always balances out at some middle point. The second aspect—and here I’ll stop—but one aspect that determines the radius of tolerance is the aspect of cost. How much—what is the result, how severe are the consequences of his mistake, because in my view he’s mistaken. The second aspect is how serious he is. How much respect does he deserve? After all, I do this because I respect him. Does he deserve respect? That depends. If he’s a child, for example, then I won’t respect his decisions so much because I don’t think he’s yet capable of making decisions. So with my children I do impose things on them, at least to some extent. And in general children can’t participate in discourse as equals, because they’re not mature yet. Let them grow a bit, then we’ll hear their opinion and they’ll hear ours. Everything’s fine. In the meantime, do what you’re told until you grow up. Therefore, someone who is not entitled to respect—again, not necessarily through any fault of his own, because he’s small or because he’s not an expert. Bring me a position in a field he doesn’t understand at all. So what am I supposed to be, a pluralist? Tolerant? He thinks this way and Einstein thinks that way—is there a dispute between two great physicists? He understands nothing about physics, he hasn’t examined it, he hasn’t studied it—I’m not going to respect that. That makes sense. The same goes for the field of Jewish law. A person who hasn’t studied the passage, or who doesn’t have the capacity to study the passage because he doesn’t understand it, then I won’t respect his halakhic opinion. That has nothing to do with tolerance. Tolerance has a price. If you pay the price of tolerance, then you deserve tolerance. Because you deserve respect if you’ve paid the price. What is the price? The price is to grapple with the problem, to acquire skill, to become expert in the field, to think about it, to hear the considerations—and that too is part of the matter—of those who disagree with you and those who agree with you. If you’ve done all that and reached a different position from mine, no problem at all, I’m tolerant toward you. Even though I think you’re mistaken in my view, still I’m tolerant toward you. So both the cost determines the radius of tolerance and seriousness does too—that is, how much you really deserve that respect. If you don’t deserve that respect, then I don’t respect you. We’ll come back to “These and these” after I summarize this next time, and then.