Commandments and Their Enumeration – Lesson 17

Table of Contents

• The fifth root and the eighth root in Maimonides: reason-verses and negations
• The initial assumption that the reason itself is the prohibition
• Bava Metzia: a widow, collateral, and whether we derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse
• Criticism of the slippery slope argument and of skepticism about the reason
• The example of legumes: reason, enactment, and the difference between a concern and a decree
• Women as witnesses: the reason of the verse as an obstacle to halakhic change, and the price of saying “maybe there’s another reason”
• Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon: intention versus action, and an explanation that doesn’t really explain
• Sanhedrin and Bava Metzia: reversal of positions and the Talmud’s solution—when the reason is written in the verse
• Maimonides, Nachmanides, and the first tanna: whose view is the Jewish law in “he shall not multiply wives”
• Maimonides’ ruling: the Jewish law follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda
• Why the first tanna does not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse even when the reason is written explicitly
• The distinction between Torah-level law and rabbinic law: when the reason is written into the enactment

Summary

General overview

The text presents Maimonides’ fifth root concerning the rule that reason-verses are not counted among the commandments, even when they are phrased as prohibitions, and shows that this is not trivial, because one might have thought that the reason is the very essence of the prohibition itself. It brings the dispute between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon in Bava Metzia regarding a widow as a model for the question of do we derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse, and whether one may draw legal conclusions from the reason. It then raises a difficulty from the Mishnah in Sanhedrin on “he shall not multiply wives,” where the positions seem to be reversed. Out of these passages it presents a reading of Maimonides according to which he rules like the first tanna against both Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon, and explains that the reason we do not derive Jewish law from the reason in Torah-level law is not uncertainty about the reason, but rather close attention to the Torah’s wording and the assumption that its formulation is perfect. Finally, it proposes a distinction between Torah-level law and rabbinic law: in rabbinic law, when the reason is written into the enactment itself, there is room to derive Jewish law from the reason of the text, and it brings support for this from the passage about not reading by candlelight lest one tilt the lamp.

The fifth root and the eighth root in Maimonides: reason-verses and negations

In the fifth root, Maimonides establishes that reason-verses are not counted as commandments in their own right, such as “He shall not multiply wives for himself, and his heart shall not turn aside,” or “You shall not take ransom for the life of a murderer,” or “You shall not pollute the land,” because the second verse gives the reason for the first command. In the eighth root, Maimonides distinguishes between the word “not” when it functions as a command and when it functions as a negation, such as “she shall not go out as the slaves go out,” whose purpose is to negate a legal status rather than command a prohibited act. The text applies this distinction to reason-verses as well, and concludes that “and his heart shall not turn aside” is not an independent instruction but a description/negation within the reason for the prohibition against multiplying wives.

The initial assumption that the reason itself is the prohibition

The text suggests a possible way to understand the issue: that the essence of the prohibition is the reason itself. In practice, what is forbidden to the king is the “turning aside of the heart,” and multiplying wives is only a route that may lead to that. The text points to a practical difference in the case of many righteous wives who would not turn his heart aside; according to this understanding, there would be room to permit it. The text concludes that the novelty in the fifth root is not that one should count both the reason and the command, but that one must reject the possibility of counting only the reason, and establish that only the command is counted.

Bava Metzia: a widow, collateral, and whether we derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse

The Mishnah in Bava Metzia establishes that with a widow, whether poor or rich, one may not take a pledge from her, because of the verse “You shall not take a widow’s garment as collateral.” The baraita attributes this to Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Shimon distinguishes between cases, ruling that from a rich widow one may take collateral, but from a poor widow one may not, because you are obligated to return it to her, and in doing so you give her a bad reputation among her neighbors. The Talmud defines the dispute as a question of whether we derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse: Rabbi Shimon draws a legal conclusion from the purpose, whereas Rabbi Yehuda does not draw legal conclusions from the reason even if he accepts it as reasonable.

Criticism of the slippery slope argument and of skepticism about the reason

The text rejects the explanation that we do not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse out of concern for a slippery slope, because the proper solution would be to define the correct distinction within the law rather than create an overly broad Torah-level prohibition, and to leave “we do not differentiate” for rabbinic enactments. The text also rejects the explanation that we do not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse because we do not know the true reason, and argues that a general skepticism of “maybe you’re mistaken” makes interpretation of any law impossible. The text claims that clinging to the fear of some hidden reason at the expense of the sensible reason also causes practical and halakhic distortions.

The example of legumes: reason, enactment, and the difference between a concern and a decree

The text describes a personal column against the prohibition of legumes on Passover and argues that this is an attachment to a custom even when the reason no longer exists, similar to the story about the rebbe of Gur and the broom near the Hanukkah lamp. The text presents the principled answer, “when the reason is nullified, the enactment is not nullified,” together with the discussion about a religious court greater in wisdom and number, but argues that in the case of legumes we are not dealing with an authorized enactment but with a local historical concern. The text compares this to driving around a pothole that has already been repaired, and says that when the danger is gone there is no reason to keep “detouring,” because no enactment was created—only caution in response to a concern.

Women as witnesses: the reason of the verse as an obstacle to halakhic change, and the price of saying “maybe there’s another reason”

The text presents the Reform claim to validate women as witnesses on the basis of the assumption that the reason for their disqualification was the old social and educational reality, which no longer exists today, and from that they infer a change in the law. The text describes the conservative response—“who says that’s the reason?”—and replies that this skeptical claim is not balanced when no alternative reason is offered, while clinging to the old law creates costs of injustice in situations where only women’s testimony is available. The text ties this directly to the dispute about do we derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse and to the question whether one may draw halakhic conclusions from the reason.

Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon: intention versus action, and an explanation that doesn’t really explain

The text suggests attributing to Rabbi Shimon a focus on intentions and to Rabbi Yehuda a focus on actions, and brings examples from the Sabbath laws regarding an unintended act and labor not needed for its own sake, as well as the aggadic passage in Shabbat 33 about praising the Romans and their motives. The text argues that even this consistent attribution still does not provide a real principled explanation for why we do not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse, because it merely describes methodological consistency without explaining why that method is correct. The text compares this to the discussion of “we do not administer punishments on the basis of logical inference,” and distinguishes between a source for a law and a substantive explanation of the law.

Sanhedrin and Bava Metzia: reversal of positions and the Talmud’s solution—when the reason is written in the verse

The text cites the Mishnah in Sanhedrin: “He shall not multiply wives for himself—only up to eighteen. Rabbi Yehuda says: he may have many, provided that they do not turn his heart aside. Rabbi Shimon says: even one wife who turns his heart aside—he may not marry her. If so, why does the verse say ‘he shall not multiply wives’? Even like Abigail.” The Talmud resolves the contradiction with Bava Metzia and establishes that according to Rabbi Yehuda, one does not derive Jewish law from the reason when the reason is inferred by logic, but when the reason is explicit in the verse—like “and his heart shall not turn aside”—then he does derive it and draw a legal conclusion from it. Rabbi Shimon, who holds that in general we do derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse, explains that when the Torah also wrote “and his heart shall not turn aside,” that introduces an additional prohibition and not merely a reason.

Maimonides, Nachmanides, and the first tanna: whose view is the Jewish law in “he shall not multiply wives”

In the fifth root, Maimonides treats reason-verses as reasons only, even when the Torah itself wrote them explicitly, such as “so that you do not bring the land to sin,” “so that the land not become immoral,” “do not defile yourselves through them and become defiled by them,” and “you shall not defile the land.” In his glosses to the fifth root, Nachmanides argues that when the Torah writes a reason, it is introducing a law, and he brings proof from the dispute between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon regarding “he shall not multiply wives for himself” and “and his heart shall not turn aside,” which in his view gives “and his heart shall not turn aside” independent halakhic significance. The text presents a sharp difficulty against Maimonides, because his understanding—that the reason is neither counted nor used to define the boundaries of the prohibition—seems, at first glance, to fit neither Rabbi Yehuda nor Rabbi Shimon.

Maimonides’ ruling: the Jewish law follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda

In Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings chapter 3, halakhah 2, Maimonides rules that the king may not multiply wives beyond eighteen, and if he adds even one more he receives lashes, divorces her, and marries another in her place—without distinguishing between righteous and wicked women. In his commentary on the Mishnah, Maimonides writes that the Jewish law follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda, and the text explains this by saying that Maimonides reads the Mishnah in Sanhedrin as containing three opinions, where “He shall not multiply wives for himself—only up to eighteen” is the view of the first tanna. The text concludes that Maimonides rules like the first tanna, and in that way his approach in the fifth root is consistent: even when the reason is written in the Torah, it is not counted and the prohibition is not narrowed on that basis.

Why the first tanna does not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse even when the reason is written explicitly

The text rejects the explanation of “hidden reasons” and defines it as an illogical mysticism that does not allow the Torah to communicate a clear reason. Instead, the text proposes that the reason we do not derive Jewish law from the reason of the verse in Torah-level law is the assumption of precision and perfection in the Torah’s language, such that deriving the reason in a way that narrows the formulation creates an implied claim that the Torah was not phrased precisely. The text explains that according to the first tanna, the reason “and his heart shall not turn aside” is indeed correct, but its meaning is not “wicked women will lead him astray.” Rather, the point is that multiplying wives in itself diverts the king’s heart from his proper responsibilities, and therefore even many righteous wives turn the heart aside, while the plain meaning remains precise.

The distinction between Torah-level law and rabbinic law: when the reason is written into the enactment

The text suggests that in rabbinic law, when the reason is written explicitly in the enactment itself, there is room to derive Jewish law from the reason of the text, because the formulation of the Sages is a human formulation and need not be perfect in the way the Torah’s formulation is. The text cites the Mishnah in Shabbat, “one may not read by the light of a lamp,” and the baraita, “one may not read by the light of a lamp lest he tilt it,” and shows that the Talmud permits it in certain situations in line with the reason, such as when there are two people, where it is permitted. The text brings the story of Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha, who said, “I will read and I will not tilt it,” then read and sought to tilt it, or read and tilted it, and wrote in his notebook: “I, Yishmael ben Elisha, read and tilted a lamp on the Sabbath; when the Temple is rebuilt I will bring a fat sin-offering.” It explains that his retraction concerned his assessment of reality about himself, not the basic principle of following the reason when it is explicit in a rabbinic enactment. The text quotes the book Severe Visions, which resolves Rabbi Akiva Eiger’s unresolved difficulty, and formulates that this rule fits the distinction between the perfect language of Torah-level law and the practical flexibility of rabbinic law when the reason is written explicitly.

Last time we started discussing Maimonides’ fifth root, where he talks about the rule that we do not count explanatory verses among the tally of the commandments. For example: “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away,” or “You shall not accept ransom for the life of a murderer,” and “You shall not defile the land.” So the second verse comes to give the reason for the instruction in the first verse, and therefore it should not be seen as a commandment in its own right. Even though the explanatory verse contains the key wording usually associated with prohibitions—words like “beware,” “lest,” “do not”—those formulations are usually formulations of a prohibition, but in our case, because this is a reason, we do not count them. I brought what Maimonides says in the eighth root, where he also talks about verses that contain the word “do not,” but there the word “do not” is what he calls a negation, not a command. For example, when you say, “She shall not go out as the slaves go out”—that’s Maimonides’ example there—you are negating the law of emancipation through injury to limbs for a Hebrew maidservant, not commanding someone not to do something. The word “do not” serves two meanings; we talked about that last time. The same thing applies to explanatory verses. When it says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away,” “lest his heart turn away” is not an instruction. It’s not: you are forbidden to let your heart turn away. Rather, it is the reason why the king should not multiply wives. He should not multiply wives because that may lead him to turn away in heart. So here too, the word “not” is not a command-word, but a descriptive or negating word, and therefore it is not a commandment.

Now, in fact, I said that Maimonides’ words here, which look simple on their face, are not really so simple. Because there was another possibility here. Let’s put it this way: suppose we look at “he shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” Even if I understand that the prohibition is against multiplying wives, and the reason is so that his heart not turn away, when I ask myself what exactly the nature of the prohibition is—what is forbidden to the king? The king is forbidden to multiply wives. Why? So that his heart not turn away. Then in essence what has been forbidden to the king is the turning away of the heart, not multiplying wives. Multiplying wives is just the thing that may bring him to that turning away of the heart, right? So really the prohibition is on the turning away of the heart, not on multiplying wives. Multiplying wives is only the manner in which you can get there. A practical difference would be a case where I do multiply wives, but they will not turn my heart away—righteous women. They will not turn my heart away, so maybe really that should be allowed. If you look at it that way, then when we see the verse “he shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away,” logic would suggest that the prohibition is “lest his heart turn away,” not “he shall not multiply wives for himself.” Precisely what Maimonides defines as the reason is really the prohibition, and “he shall not multiply wives” is just the practical expression—meaning, how you arrive at the turning away of the heart, by multiplying wives. But that is not the point. The point is not multiplying wives. If multiplying wives did not bring about the turning away of the heart, then go ahead and do it. So it doesn’t matter, okay?

On that view, if I really take the reason seriously, then in essence the prohibition is the reason, not the prohibition. What the verse of prohibition gives is only an example, but the real prohibition is the reason. That’s why Maimonides’ words here are not trivial. When he says that we do not count the explanatory verse, that comes to exclude a plausible initial assumption. But that initial assumption would not be to count both the explanatory verse and the command-verse, but only the explanatory verse. Maimonides says no: we count only the command, not only the reason. Okay?

So here we need to understand: now we see why this novelty is needed, but what exactly does it mean? Why indeed? Before we get into that, I gave an introduction from the Talmudic passage in Bava Metzia. The Mishnah there says: a widow, whether she is poor or rich—wait, let me get a bit of this straight—whether she is poor or rich, one does not take a pledge from her, as it says, “You shall not take in pledge a widow’s garment.” Fine? So the Mishnah says that when we lend money to a widow, we do not take collateral from her. The Gemara says: our Rabbis taught: a widow, whether poor or rich, one does not take a pledge from her; these are the words of Rabbi Yehuda. Rabbi Shimon says: from a rich widow one may take a pledge; from a poor widow one may not, because you are obligated to return it to her, and you thereby give her a bad name among her neighbors.

So the first opinion—Rabbi Yehuda, really—says that from a widow, whether poor or rich, you do not take a pledge. It was not said only about a poor widow but also about a rich widow. Rabbi Shimon says no: only about a poor widow; from a rich widow you may take a pledge. Why? Because with a poor widow, since she has no other garment, you have to return to her the covering or the night-clothing. At night you have to return that garment to her so she’ll have something—a pillow, a covering, a pillowcase, something—so that she can sleep. So you come at night to visit her, and people will start gossiping about the two of you. And since that’s the case, the Torah says: don’t take the pledge at all, so that you won’t have to return it at night. Therefore the prohibition, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” was said only about a poor widow. A rich widow—you don’t have to return it to her at night, so that problem doesn’t exist, and you may take collateral. Rabbi Yehuda says no, whether poor or rich, one does not take a pledge from them; it says, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge.”

So the Gemara explains that the dispute between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon is about the question whether we derive the reason of the verse. What does that mean? Rabbi Shimon sees the verse “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” and learns from it that apparently the Torah does not want you to cause people to gossip about her. Since that is the case, it applies only to a poor widow. With a rich widow the issue does not exist. So he does what today is called purposive interpretation. He takes the law, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” and says: wait, what is this law trying to say? Why? Why not take collateral from a widow? You lent her money—why can’t I take collateral? Ah, apparently because you give her a bad name among her neighbors. Ah, if so, then that applies only to a poor widow, not a rich widow. And then he decides, as a Jewish law ruling, that this law exists only with a poor widow and not with a rich widow. Meaning, he takes the purpose of this command, of this prohibition, interprets it, and applies it in such a way that he draws Jewish-law conclusions from it.

Rabbi Yehuda says: no, we do not derive the reason of the verse. We do not interpret the reason of the prohibition—or in other words, we do not do purposive interpretation. If the Torah says, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” then we do not take a pledge from a widow, whether she is poor or rich.

Now why, really? At first glance, who sounds more reasonable, Rabbi Shimon or Rabbi Yehuda? Rabbi Shimon, right? If you tell me that the reason for the prohibition “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge” is so that you not give her a bad name among her neighbors, then logic says it should apply only to a poor widow. What sense would it make to apply it to a rich widow?

Now Rabbi Yehuda, who disagrees, needs explanation. Because you might have said that he disagrees about the reason itself—that he doesn’t think that’s the reason—but that is not plausible, because the Gemara says Rabbi Yehuda does not derive the reason of the verse. Not that in this specific case he thinks the reason is different. No. In principle he has a basic view that we do not derive the reason of the verse; we do not do purposive interpretations. There is a general question here about how I look at the commandments of the Torah, not a local argument over why the Torah forbade taking a widow’s garment in pledge. Therefore, for purposes of the discussion, we can assume that Rabbi Yehuda agrees with Rabbi Shimon’s reason, with Rabbi Shimon’s interpretation—that the reason is so as not to give her a bad name among her neighbors—and still says: you cannot use that for purposive interpretation. Meaning, you cannot derive Jewish-law conclusions from it.

I’ll put it even more sharply: as a practical Jewish law ruling, we follow Rabbi Yehuda, that we do not derive the reason of the verse. But commentators on the Torah are constantly busy interpreting commandments. Don’t they know that the Jewish law ruling follows Rabbi Yehuda, that we do not derive the reason of the verse? No. To derive the reason of the verse is not to engage in interpretation of the commandments and their reasons. You can do that all you want if it interests you. The dispute between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon is whether I can draw a halakhic conclusion from that. Once I conclude that this is the reason for the commandment, can I then apply that and derive Jewish-law conclusions from it—that it applies only to a poor widow and not a rich one? Rabbi Yehuda says: I agree with your interpretation; as an interpreter of the Torah, I’m with you. I too think it is so as not to give her a bad name among her neighbors. But I do not draw Jewish-law conclusions from that. The prohibition remains in place for both a poor widow and a rich widow. Why? Because the reason is not written explicitly in the Torah. In a moment we’ll see what happens when it is.

That’s the dispute. The question is: what’s the idea here? You know, I once wrote an angry column on my website about legumes, legumes on Passover. I said it’s utter nonsense, and may this thing disappear and pass from the world. A few years ago I already decided I was done with this silliness, practically too. It always bothered me, but I thought the time had come to make it practical as well. And the claim there was basically a kind of deriving the reason of the verse. What do I mean? Why were legumes forbidden? Because there was some concern—who knows what—that grains of leaven might get mixed in, and therefore you could come to eat leaven, or it could get confused with leaven, things of that sort. If so, then in a place where that concern doesn’t exist, there’s no reason not to eat legumes.

I brought there the famous story about the Rebbe of Gur, that before he lights Hanukkah candles he says to his attendant: do you see that broom? Get it out of here. He asks him why. He says: because if that broom stays here, from next year on all the Hasidim will light Hanukkah candles with a broom standing next to the menorah—because that’s what the Rebbe did. Fine. So the attendant takes the broom and removes it. What happened the next year? Everybody put a broom there, then moved it aside, and then lit Hanukkah candles. Our attachment to the prohibition of legumes when there is no longer any broom in the area—meaning, there is no concern of leaven—is very similar to the behavior of those Hasidim. In essence, we act the same way even though the reason that led to that conduct no longer exists.

So after I wrote that, people said: what are you talking about? Of course the reason still exists. Every year all these articles come out saying, what do you mean, I found lots of wheat kernels in rice. Everyone suddenly remembers that they found wheat kernels in rice before Passover. For some reason, I was not privileged to encounter these findings. But if that’s so, then I don’t understand all these hair-splittings about green legumes and non-green legumes, and legumes that existed in medieval times and legumes that didn’t, and legume oil. Just look: if there is concern about grains, then fine, be careful about that. If there isn’t concern, then don’t. What are all these halakhic subtleties about whether this is supposedly included in the decree of legumes or not included in the decree of legumes? There is no such thing as a decree of legumes. It’s nonsense.

In short, all these things are nonsense. But there, of course, one could make a principled argument saying that even where the reason has lapsed—yes, even if the reason has lapsed, the enactment or decree has not lapsed. That appears in the Gemara. It’s a dispute of Maimonides and the Raavad whether, in order to cancel it, you need a religious court greater in wisdom and number or not, but that you need a court is clear. So one could argue: your interpretation is right; true, legumes were because of concern about stumbling into leaven; and true, today that concern doesn’t exist; but still, we do not derive the reason of the verse. It’s really the same move. We won’t draw Jewish-law conclusions from it. And why? Because when the reason lapses, the enactment does not lapse. And they always quote the Vilna Gaon, that there are hidden reasons we don’t know, and all those things. Fine, we’ll get to that in a moment.

As for legumes, that’s nonsense. Why? Because there is no such thing as a decree of legumes or an enactment of legumes. What is this silliness? The legumes issue was a concern, not a decree. In their time there was some concern, and therefore they were careful not to eat legumes because they didn’t want to stumble into leaven. Was there some Sanhedrin there that established a prohibition? A prohibition on legumes? This started in the Middle Ages. What Sanhedrin? What nonsense. There was no authorized institution there that could prohibit something, because since the Talmud there has been no such institution. You can say: look, I am worried that I may stumble into leaven, so I’ll be careful, I won’t eat legumes. But where the concern is gone, there is no such concern anymore, so what’s the problem? Where there was a formal enactment or decree, then you can tell me: I do not derive the reason of the verse. Even if the reason has lapsed, the enactment remains, because the one who decreed it was the Sanhedrin, and to cancel it you need another Sanhedrin—something established by count requires another count to permit it. But here no one established anything. It isn’t law.

Think about it. Suppose I’m driving on a road, and on the road there is some dangerous pothole. So what do I do? I drive around the pothole so I won’t fall into it. Okay. Now the city repairs the pothole. Do I need to keep driving around the pothole because, after all, when the reason lapses the enactment does not lapse? Meaning, do I need to continue—and “you shall live by them,” one must be very careful about life, right?—so therefore even though in fact there is no pothole, I should continue, like the Hasidim of the Rebbe of Gur, to drive around this non-pothole, because that’s how my fathers did it, because that’s how it was always done? Does that sound reasonable? No. Why not? What about “when the reason lapses the enactment does not lapse”? Because this is not an enactment; it’s a concern. No one said you have to drive in a semicircle in this area of the road. What they said is that you need to be careful not to enter danger. So if there is no danger, there is no need to be careful. It’s not an enactment; it’s a concern. When the concern turns into an enactment—again, the reason for the enactment is the concern, but if the Sages fixed it as an enactment—then now we can begin discussing what happens when the concern ends. But if there was no institution that turned it into an enactment, then it remains just a concern, and where there is concern there is, and where there isn’t, there isn’t. Okay.

But what happens when it is indeed established as Jewish law? Whether a rabbinic decree or a Torah law. In such a case… what? It’s always because of the reason. Something that was established was established for some reason. So what happens in a case where the reason has lapsed? The accepted rule is that we do not change the interpretation. Not in a rabbinic enactment, and not in a Torah law. In a rabbinic enactment it is called “when the reason lapses, the enactment does not lapse.” In a Torah law it is called “we do not derive the reason of the verse.” We do not derive the reason of the verse. That is a dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda, but as a practical Jewish law ruling we follow Rabbi Yehuda. The question is really why. Why not? If the whole issue is the reason, then once the reason is gone, why continue with it? What’s the idea?

One possible explanation that first comes to mind is a slippery slope concern. What do I mean? The Gemara in Sanhedrin—which we’ll see later, Sanhedrin 21a—says that King Solomon multiplied wives because he said, “I will multiply and my heart will not turn away.” “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” Solomon said, I will multiply wives and my heart will not turn away, and we know what happened in the end. Therefore, leave it alone: we do not derive the reason of the verse. Meaning, you do not multiply wives, irrespective of the reason that his heart may turn away. But that is a problematic explanation. First, because slippery slope is always a problematic kind of reasoning. There is act A, which is permitted, but if you do it you might come to do act B, which is forbidden. So let’s forbid A as well. Okay? That’s the slippery slope consideration.

Now what does that really mean? It means that an act that is currently definitely permitted, I forbid because perhaps in the future I may come to do a forbidden act. I mortgage the present because of some uncertain future. Maybe something will happen in the future, and therefore I set rules for the present. That is problematic. There can be place for it if the concern is very serious and highly probable. Then you can say, fine, I will forbid the permitted. But clearly the burden of proof is on the one who wants to use a slippery slope argument, not on the one who doesn’t.

Beyond that, what does this consideration really say? That this law is in fact the correct law: it applies only to a poor widow and not to a rich widow. But because I am afraid that you will come to a situation where you will also take a pledge from a poor widow, I say don’t take a pledge from any widow. Okay? So I say: that might be a reason not to reveal that this is the reason for the law, but why not establish the Jewish law accordingly? Why not? Let’s rule that from a poor widow one does not take a pledge, and from a rich widow one may. Then from the outset that’s what the law will say, and people won’t get confused. From a poor widow they won’t take one; from a rich widow they will. If you don’t establish a distinction between poor and rich, then if someone on his own concludes that with a rich widow it should be allowed, maybe in the next stage he’ll also take a pledge from a poor widow. But if you, the Sanhedrin, establish that no, it applies only to a poor widow and not to a rich widow, then what’s the problem? Just as it is permitted to separate food from waste but forbidden to separate waste from food—that’s Torah law. The Sages can later decree and say: we forbid even separating food from waste. But that is no reason not to state the correct Torah law. More than that, decrees of this type, or “no distinction” decrees of this kind, are the role of the Sages, not of the Torah. In Torah law, if it is permitted, then it is permitted. If it was said only regarding a poor widow, then that’s all. Or the Sages can say: because of a slippery slope, we also prohibit a rich widow. But then it would be rabbinic law. Rabbi Yehuda, however, wants to claim that on the Torah level it is forbidden also with a rich widow, because we do not derive the reason of the verse. It is not plausible that this is because of a slippery slope issue.

So slippery slope is not a convincing explanation. Which leaves us with the question once again: why does Rabbi Yehuda say that we do not derive the reason of the verse?

The standard explanation is that we cannot always know the correct reason. Who says you are right? Who says the prohibition on taking a widow’s garment in pledge is really because you give her a bad name among her neighbors? Maybe there is another reason; who knows what the Torah had in mind. Now this is an explanation that appears in the medieval authorities and is the accepted explanation, but to my mind it is completely implausible, for two reasons. First, anywhere that I interpret some law, whether a Torah law or a rabbinic law, one can always say, yes, but maybe you’re wrong. Skepticism—that is the nature of a skeptical challenge. Whatever you say, someone says yes, but maybe not, maybe the opposite; prove it. You can’t go grocery shopping with that. If we take skeptical challenges seriously, then it becomes impossible to interpret anything at all. Not only purposive interpretation—any interpretation. You can’t interpret anything. Who knows, maybe you’re wrong.

An uncertain doubt does not dislodge what is established. What does that mean? If I have a reasonable interpretation, you cannot just say to me, yes, but maybe not, maybe that’s not the right interpretation. An uncertain doubt does not dislodge what is established. A judge has only what his eyes can see. I understand this to be the interpretation, and for me that is the interpretation. Could I be wrong? Sure, I can’t be certain I’m right. But on the other hand, that’s what it seems to me. A judge has only what his eyes can see. If you want to claim I’m wrong, bring an argument; don’t just say maybe not. If you have a good reason why I’m wrong, fine. But this claim of maybe not is not an argument.

And there is an even stronger problem here. We have two options. Suppose we are discussing whether to forbid taking collateral also from a rich widow. We have two options: either like Rabbi Shimon—not to forbid it, meaning to forbid it only for a poor widow but not for a rich widow—or like Rabbi Yehuda, to forbid even a rich widow. Now suppose the explanation is that maybe Rabbi Shimon’s reason is not the correct one, because maybe there is some other reason we have not identified. But maybe it is correct. Is there no possibility that Rabbi Shimon’s reason is indeed correct? It is the logical reason. Rabbi Yehuda does not offer another reason. This is the plausible reason. Even according to Rabbi Yehuda, this is the plausible reason. He says: okay, maybe it isn’t the correct reason after all; maybe there is another one. But even you agree this is the plausible one.

Now I ask: so you want to forbid me from taking collateral from a rich widow. Why? Because maybe there is some other reason that also applies to a rich widow. But maybe not. Maybe this really is the right reason. Not only maybe—it is even more plausible, as we said. It is the most plausible reason. So you have some skeptical concern that maybe there is another reason, and on the other hand this is the plausible reason. If this is the plausible reason, then you are in effect telling me: don’t lend money to a rich widow. Because if I can’t take collateral, why should I lend her money? Or alternatively, I’ll lend her money and not take collateral, and I put myself at risk that she won’t return the money. I’m not taking collateral just to abuse her. I’m taking collateral in order to ensure that she returns the money. So you’re hurting me. On what basis? On the basis that maybe this very reasonable reason—which even you agree is reasonable—is not correct? My assumption is that it is correct; a judge has only what his eyes can see. But more than that: even if you are uncertain, why, out of uncertainty, not use the reasonable reason and instead assume that there is some hidden other reason that we don’t know? Does that sound more plausible? Won’t that also lead to Jewish-law mistakes? Of course it will. So if you can’t know which of the two paths is right—even if you are only in doubt—then go with the path you do understand. In any case you may arrive at a mistake; at least do what you understand.

This reminds me of another discussion, but the logic is similar. Think for a moment about changes in Jewish law. The Reform propose changes in Jewish law. Fine? For example, they want to validate women as witnesses. In the Gemara it says women are invalid as witnesses; the Reform want to validate women as witnesses. Why? They say that when the Torah disqualified women as witnesses—you understand that this too is really deriving the reason of the verse—what are they saying? The Torah disqualifies women as witnesses, or the Sages in the Gemara say women are disqualified as witnesses. Why are they disqualified? Because in those times women were at home, they were not educated, they were not involved in the economy or social life, so they did not really understand reality and it was hard to rely on their testimony. Today that is not the case. Today women are fully knowledgeable, and there is no problem relying on their testimony, and therefore women can be validated as witnesses.

So that is an argument for changing Jewish law, to validate women as witnesses. What will the conservative say? Who told you that’s the reason the Torah disqualified women? That it was because they were uneducated or did not know the market and so on? Maybe there is another reason. Right? That’s what the conservative will usually say. So I answer him: and who told you it isn’t? Who told you that’s not the right reason? You ask me who told me it’s the right reason; I ask you: did anyone tell you it isn’t? I am offering you a logical reason, and you agree it’s logical. You say yes, but I’m not sure; maybe there’s another reason. Okay, maybe yes, maybe no. As long as you haven’t brought me that other reason, a judge has only what his eyes can see, and if this is the reasonable reason, then I go with it.

More than that, what are you proposing? To disqualify women as witnesses because maybe there is some other reason that still applies to women today? And what will happen as a result? The Agatha Christie story, “Murder at the Mikveh.” Do you know the story? Of course it never happened, but it could have happened. What do I mean? Somebody wants to murder a woman—no problem, go to the women’s mikveh and murder her in front of all Israel. Because in a women’s mikveh there are only women, all of whom are disqualified as witnesses. You can murder her in front of everyone and walk out acquitted. Now if you tell me that disqualifying women as witnesses is the safe course, there are costs to that approach. The cost is that there will not be true justice. Where all you have is women’s testimony, you simply won’t get just judgment. And why? Because maybe the reason to validate women today is not correct—maybe there is another reason that disqualifies women? Maybe, but maybe not. Why do I need to worry that maybe my reason isn’t correct when I have a very logical one, but when you say, okay, but maybe there is some other hidden reason that I don’t even know what it is—you don’t need to worry that maybe that is wrong? Only I do? There is no logic in that.

Now understand that all these proposals for halakhic change are based on deriving the reason of the verse. What am I saying? I derive the reason of the law, prohibition or commandment, and then I say: today the reason does not exist, or under such-and-such circumstances the reason does not exist, and therefore I propose changing the law. Which is exactly what happened in the example I gave about validating women as witnesses. And then people say to me: no, no, we do not derive the reason of the verse. Why? Because maybe this reason is not correct, maybe there is another reason. And maybe there is? Right, exactly—what kind of plague is this? Anything I say, you can always say yes, but maybe you’re wrong. Fine. If logic says so, and you too agree that it is logical, then as long as you don’t bring me an argument showing it is not logical, I go with “a judge has only what his eyes can see.”

So I think the standard explanation—that we do not derive the reason of the verse because we are not sure that the reason we arrived at is the correct one—is a very, very implausible explanation.

Some wanted to connect the dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda about deriving the reason of the verse to a more general approach of these two tanna’im. In a number of Talmudic passages we find that Rabbi Shimon pays attention to a person’s intentions, while Rabbi Yehuda looks only at the action, the practical side. For example, can we think of a case? A dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda where Rabbi Shimon follows thoughts, reasons, intentions, while Rabbi Yehuda follows the act. There are examples in the laws of the Sabbath, right? Two very famous disputes between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda: an unintended act, and labor not needed for its own sake. If someone drags a bench and a furrow is made, Rabbi Shimon exempts him for the furrow on the Sabbath, because yes, you plowed the ground on the Sabbath, but I dragged the bench because I wanted to move it from place to place, not to plow. That is called an unintended act. Rabbi Shimon exempts, even though you plowed on the Sabbath. Rabbi Yehuda obligates. Why? Because Rabbi Shimon follows the person’s intentions, and his intention was not to plow. Rabbi Yehuda says: in the end, in practice, you plowed; I don’t care what your intentions were.

Or labor not needed for its own sake: someone who digs a hole but needs only the dirt. I dig a hole in the ground, but I don’t need the hole; I need the dirt that comes out of it. According to Rabbi Shimon he is exempt, and according to Rabbi Yehuda he is liable. Again why? Because Rabbi Yehuda says: in the end you dug a pit; why should I care what you wanted it for? Okay? So in both cases we see that Rabbi Yehuda sticks to the practical facts, the objective reality. He doesn’t enter into motives, reasons, intentions—those are subjective matters. And perhaps the same is true here. It says, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” so that’s what it says. Therefore, one does not take a widow’s garment in pledge, whether she is poor or rich—that’s what it says. Rabbi Shimon says: wait, wait, let’s see what the Torah means, not just what it writes. So this fits his general method, that he follows intentions.

There is a nice aggadic example too, a famous Gemara in tractate Shabbat, 33b. Rabbi Yehuda, Rabbi Yosei, and Rabbi Shimon were sitting, and Yehuda ben Gerim was sitting with them. Rabbi Yehuda opened and said: how beautiful are the deeds of this nation—meaning the Romans. They established marketplaces, bridges, bathhouses. Look how they develop the state, how many good things they do: marketplaces, bridges, bathhouses, good roads, proper streets, public infrastructure. Rabbi Yosei was silent. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai answered and said: everything they established, they established only for their own benefit. They established marketplaces to place prostitutes in them, bathhouses to pamper themselves, bridges to collect tolls. What is Rabbi Shimon saying? True, they did nice things, but there is no reason to appreciate it. Everything they did was for themselves. Yehuda ben Gerim went and reported their words, and they were heard by the government. They said: Yehuda, who praised, shall be elevated; Yosei, who was silent, shall go into exile in Tzippori; Shimon, who criticized, shall be executed. And then Rabbi Shimon flees to the cave with his son, and the story continues. That’s how the famous story of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai in the cave begins.

What is the argument there? Rabbi Yehuda says: if the Romans did good deeds, it is proper to recognize their good and praise them. They did good things for all of us. Rabbi Shimon says no. Everything depends on their intentions and motivations. If they did it for themselves, why should I recognize their good or praise them for it? Again, what do we see? Rabbi Shimon follows intentions, reasons, meanings; Rabbi Yehuda follows what was done in practice. What was actually done is what counts. And in a very consistent way throughout, Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon seem to each follow their characteristic approach: Rabbi Yehuda follows what happens in practice, the facts, and Rabbi Shimon follows motivations or intentions.

Does that sound like a plausible explanation of the dispute about deriving the reason of the verse? It’s not an explanation at all. Before even asking whether it is plausible or not, there is no explanation here. All you’re saying is that he follows his own approach—he follows actions and the other follows intentions—but why does he follow actions, and why does the other follow intentions? How is that relevant? It reminds me of another rule: one does not administer punishment based on an inference. We talked about that when I discussed the second root. If we learn prohibition B by a kal va-chomer from prohibition A, then the punishment imposed on prohibition A is not imposed on prohibition B. One does not administer punishment based on an inference, “inference” here meaning a fortiori reasoning. Why not? Why really not?

Here too there is an explanation: maybe there is a refutation of the kal va-chomer. Similar to what we saw here—maybe you didn’t understand correctly; perhaps there is a refutation. Why, then, do we use the kal va-chomer for the prohibition but not for the punishment? Because punishment is apparently something very irreversible. A prohibition—fine, be stringent. But punishment is irreversible, and I need certainty in order to punish. If there is a concern that maybe I am wrong, I do not want to punish. That is one explanation. A second explanation is that the punishment on the lighter case, on A, is too light. It is not enough to punish the more severe case, B. Therefore I cannot transfer the punishment from the lighter to the more severe. If I punish the severe case with the lighter punishment, perhaps that is insufficient, and therefore we do not administer punishment. That is a second explanation. A third explanation is that it is a scriptural decree. It is a scriptural decree learned from the verse “his father’s daughter and his mother’s daughter.” “His father’s daughter and his mother’s daughter” need not be written, because if she is his father’s and mother’s daughter in particular, then she is obviously also his father’s daughter. Someone who is fully his sister, from his father and mother, is certainly also his sister from his father. So once you wrote “his sister from his father,” you don’t need also to write “his sister from his father and mother.” Rather, it teaches you that one does not administer punishment based on an inference. That’s how people explain in Atvan De’oraita and elsewhere that we really have three views about this rule. But in truth there are only two, not three. The third is not a view. It’s a source. I have a source from “his father’s daughter and his mother’s daughter” that one does not administer punishment based on an inference. Why not? That’s what the first two explanations try to explain. So this is not three views; it is two views and a source. The source gives me the rule, and I have two ways to explain it.

The same thing here. Showing me that Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon follow their general approaches is maybe parallel to a source. It tells me that they indeed have some principled method here. But it does not explain what that method is. Why doesn’t Rabbi Yehuda go after the reason? Logic says to go with the reason. If this is the reason, why depart from it? Or in other words: why not say that the prohibition is really the reason and not the prohibition? The prohibition is to give a widow a bad name among her neighbors—that is the prohibition. Taking collateral is merely the way by which one can arrive at that prohibition. Likewise “he shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”: logic says the prohibition is not “he shall not multiply wives”; the prohibition is “lest his heart turn away.” It’s just that by multiplying wives he may come to that turning away. That is the practical example of how you get there, but the prohibition is the reason, not the formal prohibition. The same here.

So in short, we are still left with the problem: why, according to Rabbi Yehuda, do we not derive the reason of the verse?

Now the Gemara there later in Bava Metzia, on “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge”—I remind you: it said there in the Gemara, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” whether poor or rich, that is Rabbi Yehuda; and only poor and not rich, that is Rabbi Shimon. And we explained that their dispute is whether one derives the reason of the verse. The Gemara later brings the Mishnah from Sanhedrin that says: “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” but only up to eighteen. Poor king—he can’t have more than eighteen wives, they limit him, okay? Rabbi Yehuda says: he may multiply wives for himself, provided they do not turn his heart away. Rabbi Shimon says: even one wife who turns his heart away, he may not marry her. If so, why does the verse say, “He shall not multiply wives for himself”? Even women like Abigail.

So what is the dispute? Rabbi Yehuda says: “He shall not multiply wives,” but righteous women, yes he can, because they do not turn his heart away. “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” If I multiply righteous women who do not turn my heart away, there is no prohibition. He is deriving the reason of the verse, basically, right? Which means: why not multiply wives? So that the heart not turn away. Fine, but if I can multiply women who won’t turn my heart away, then there is no problem, no prohibition. Remember? It is exactly like poor widow and rich widow. Rabbi Shimon says: no—even if one wicked woman turns his heart away, don’t marry her. More than eighteen, you are forbidden to take even if they are righteous, even women like Abigail.

What is difficult here? The Gemara asks from here against what we saw earlier. What is difficult? That the positions are reversed. Rabbi Yehuda is the one here who derives the reason of the verse, and Rabbi Shimon is the one who does not derive the reason of the verse. Earlier we saw the opposite. Right? What did Rabbi Shimon say earlier? “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge”—only for a poor widow, only where the reason applies; where it does not apply, no. Rabbi Yehuda says also for a rich widow; it doesn’t matter, I’m not interested in the reason. What do we have here? The opposite. Rabbi Yehuda says only where the reason applies: it is forbidden to multiply wives only if they turn his heart away. If they don’t, then multiply them. Meaning Rabbi Yehuda here goes with the reason. Rabbi Shimon says no, absolutely not: multiplying wives—even righteous ones who do not turn the heart away—don’t multiply wives. So they switch positions.

The Gemara explains like this: actually, Rabbi Yehuda does not derive the reason of the verse, as we saw at the beginning of the Gemara with “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge.” He does not derive the reason of the verse. But here it is different, because the verse itself spells it out: “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” Why should he not multiply wives? Because his heart might turn away. What is Rabbi Yehuda saying? There, with “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” how do we know that the reason is because you end up giving her a bad name among her neighbors? How did we derive that reason? By logic, right? We ask ourselves: why not take a widow’s garment in pledge? Why from any borrower can I take collateral, but not from a widow? Apparently because you give her a bad name among her neighbors. So it’s only our own reasoning. Rabbi Yehuda says: no, no, reasoning alone isn’t enough. I do not derive the reason of the verse when the reason comes merely from logic. But how do we know that the reason for the king not multiplying wives is the turning away of the heart? Because it says so in the Torah: “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” In that case, says Rabbi Yehuda, why should he not multiply wives? Because his heart might turn away. If the Torah itself tells me that is the reason, then if so, only women who turn the heart away are forbidden. But if there are righteous women, then multiply them; there is no problem. The Torah itself says so.

And Rabbi Shimon? Since generally we do derive the reason of the verse, then the Merciful One should have written only “He shall not multiply,” and we would not need “lest his heart turn away,” because I would know on my own why he should not multiply wives—for fear that his heart turn away. So why did the Merciful One write “lest his heart turn away”? To teach that even one wife who turns his heart away, he may not marry her.

So Rabbi Shimon says like this: precisely because I usually do derive the reason of the verse. What does that mean? If it says, “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” and the Torah does not tell me the reason, but I can infer the reason by logic and draw Jewish-law conclusions from it—I derive the reason of the verse. So if I derive the reason of the verse, then I ask myself: why, with regard to the king, did the Torah bother writing the reason? What, here it didn’t trust me to understand on my own that this is the reason? Why with “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge” did it trust me, but with “He shall not multiply wives for himself” it did not trust me? Apparently here too it trusted me. So “lest his heart turn away” must be an additional prohibition. There are two prohibitions here. “He shall not multiply wives for himself” is one prohibition, and “lest his heart turn away” is the second. If so, then the reason for “he shall not multiply wives for himself” is not because of the turning away of the heart. The turning away of the heart is a separate issue, a separate prohibition. The prohibition against the heart turning away is another prohibition. Then what follows? Righteous women—may he marry them? According to Rabbi Shimon, may he marry more than eighteen righteous women? No. Why not? Because it says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself.” What, they don’t turn his heart away? What does that have to do with it? Turning away of the heart is a separate prohibition. It says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” and that’s all. So even more than eighteen is forbidden, regardless of what kind of women. And “lest his heart turn away” is a second prohibition. Another prohibition. A prohibition against the heart turning away. And there, even one wicked woman he may not marry. Not eighteen. Because she turns his heart away.

So what comes out is this: we have to distinguish between a situation where the Torah itself writes the reason, and a situation where the Torah writes a prohibition without the reason, and we can understand through our own interpretation what the reason is. In the case where the Torah does not write the reason, there is a dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda whether one derives the reason of the verse. Rabbi Shimon says yes: if logic supports it, that is the reason. Rabbi Yehuda says no. What happens where the Torah itself writes the reason, as in “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”? There the positions reverse. Why? Because Rabbi Yehuda, who ordinarily does not derive the reason of the verse, does so because you cannot know. But if the Torah itself writes the reason, then that is the reason. I have no doubt that this is the reason. So of course, if this is the reason, then one should derive the reason of the verse and draw the conclusions. The non-pothole example: I am not going to keep driving around a pothole when there is no pothole, right? I am not going to conduct myself by this law when I know its reason, and under circumstances where that reason clearly does not apply. That is Rabbi Yehuda. So why, when the Torah does not write the reason, do I still act as though the law applies even when the reason seems not to apply? Because I am not sure that that really is the reason.

Rabbi Shimon says no: if I conclude that this is the reason, then apparently this is the reason. Therefore, when the Torah does not write the reason, I derive it through logic. “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge”—only a poor widow, because the reason is so that you not give her a bad name among her neighbors. Ah, but then I see that there are places where the Torah does explicitly write the reason. If the Torah does write the reason, then as Rabbi Shimon I ask: why? It would have been enough to write the prohibition, and I would have inferred the reason on my own. Why in these specific cases does the Torah write the reason too? Rabbi Shimon says: apparently it’s not a reason—because I can understand the reason myself. Apparently it is not a reason but another prohibition. So “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away” are two prohibitions: one is “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” and the second is “lest his heart turn away.”

Now I want to remind you once again of Maimonides’ words in the fifth root. The fifth root says that it is not proper to count the reason for a commandment as a commandment in its own right. Maimonides says there are times when one might think perhaps this should be counted as a commandment, as in the verse, “Her first husband who sent her away may not take her again to be his wife… and you shall not bring sin upon the land.” The phrase “and you shall not bring sin upon the land” is a reason for the previous prohibition, as if to say: if you do this, you will increase corruption in the land. Likewise, “Do not profane your daughter by making her a prostitute, lest the land become prostituted.” And similarly, “Do not make yourselves impure through them and become impure through them,” after listing the species whose consumption is forbidden, it gives the reason and says: do not become impure by eating them. “You shall not take ransom for the life of a murderer,” and “you shall not defile the land.”

What do all these examples have in common? In all of them, the Torah itself writes the reason. In most prohibitions the Torah states, it does not write a reason, but here it does. The subject of discussion in this root is precisely those cases where the reason is explicitly written in the Torah. If the reason is not explicitly written, then we do not derive the reason of the verse, and therefore the prohibition is what is written in the Torah, while the reason is just a reason, for Torah commentators. But Maimonides says that where the reason is explicitly written in the Torah, one might have thought that we would count that reason itself as a prohibition. Maimonides says: even there, we do not count it. We count the commandment, not the reason. That is his novelty in the fifth root. The whole novelty of the fifth root applies to situations like “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”—the sort of case involving the king, where the Torah itself writes the reason. And Maimonides says in that root that what the Torah writes there is a reason, not a commandment that should be counted separately. The prohibition is “He shall not multiply wives for himself.”

Now Nachmanides asks against Maimonides from the Gemara we just saw. In his glosses to the fifth root, Nachmanides disputes Maimonides—we already saw this last time. He says that when the Torah writes explanatory verses, it comes to teach some law; it does not just write explanatory verses for no reason. In the matter over which they disagreed, “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”—the second prohibition is certainly the reason for the previous restriction on multiplying wives. Right? “He shall not multiply wives for himself” is the prohibition, and “lest his heart turn away” is the reason why it is forbidden to multiply wives. And even so, the Sages of Israel disagreed about it: Rabbi Yehuda derives from it, why should he not multiply wives? Because his heart might turn away. And he taught that he may multiply wives provided they do not turn his heart away, meaning that they should be verified as righteous. And Rabbi Shimon treats that phrase as an independent prohibition: even one wife who turns his heart away, he may not marry her. If so, why does it say, “He shall not multiply wives for himself”? Even women like Abigail. So behold, he made it into a prohibition in its own right for the purpose of permitting others.

What is difficult for Maimonides from this passage? Nachmanides doesn’t spell it out, but it should be clear. This passage is hard on Maimonides because what should Maimonides have done with the verse “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”? There is a prohibition on multiplying wives, right? The reason is “lest his heart turn away,” but that is irrelevant; the prohibition is multiplying wives. More than that: since the reason is irrelevant, we also do not derive it. Therefore what should have followed? It should be forbidden to multiply wives in any case—righteous, not righteous, not more than eighteen. And what about wicked wives? One wicked wife—permitted or forbidden? Permitted. Because the reason is just a reason; it doesn’t matter. There is no prohibition on taking a wicked wife. There is no prohibition on turning away of heart. The prohibition is only on multiplying wives. That is what should follow according to Maimonides, right? Does that fit Rabbi Shimon or Rabbi Yehuda? Neither. Neither of them.

What did Rabbi Yehuda say about “He shall not multiply wives for himself”? Look at the highlighted part: Rabbi Yehuda derives, why should he not multiply? Because of “lest his heart turn away.” And he taught that he may multiply wives provided they do not turn his heart away, that they are verified as righteous. According to Rabbi Yehuda, the king may take thirty righteous wives. Why? Since from his perspective the prohibition is “lest his heart turn away,” not “He shall not multiply wives for himself.” That was exactly the challenge I raised against Maimonides: if that really is the reason, and the Torah itself writes that reason, there is no concern here that you are mistaken. The Torah itself says that is the reason. If so, then really you should count only the reason. True, it’s only one prohibition, but the one prohibition you count should be not the formal prohibition but the reason. But Maimonides counts only the prohibition—or at least he should have counted only that; we’ll soon see what he actually does. So this passage flatly contradicts Maimonides’ position. Nachmanides attacks him and says: first of all, as a practical Jewish law ruling, we follow Rabbi Yehuda in the dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda. That is one thing. And second, here Rabbi Shimon is also against you, not just Rabbi Yehuda. You are following neither one.

Now look at something nice. Maimonides in Laws of Kings, chapter 3, law 2, writes: “He shall not multiply wives for himself.” By oral tradition they learned that he may take up to eighteen wives; wives and concubines together are all included in the number eighteen. If he adds one and marries her, he is flogged, and he must divorce one and may marry another in place of the one he divorced. What about righteous women? Wicked women? Nothing. Does that fit what I thought Maimonides should say according to the fifth root? Yes, completely. It is exactly what I would expect Maimonides to write in light of what he says in the fifth root, right? Because he says “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away”; “lest his heart turn away” is the reason, the prohibition is “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” and we do not derive the reason of the verse, therefore “He shall not multiply wives” no matter what kind—righteous or not, you cannot multiply wives. So Maimonides is consistent with his own method. The only problem is that this does not fit the Gemara, because it follows neither Rabbi Yehuda nor Rabbi Shimon.

Look at Maimonides in his Commentary on the Mishnah on that Mishnah in Sanhedrin. What does he write? “The Jewish law ruling does not follow Rabbi Shimon and does not follow Rabbi Yehuda.” Ah—then whom does it follow? Me! Maimonides says: the Jewish law ruling follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda—rather, me, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon. What is this? You are arguing with both tanna’im? Either you rule like Rabbi Shimon or like Rabbi Yehuda. As a practical Jewish law ruling, we follow Rabbi Yehuda. What does it mean to say the Jewish law ruling follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda? Then whom does it follow?

I remind you again: “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” but only up to eighteen. Rabbi Yehuda says: he may multiply wives for himself, provided they do not turn his heart away. Rabbi Shimon says: even one who turns his heart away, he may not marry. If so, why does the verse say, “He shall not multiply wives for himself”? Even women like Abigail. There is a dispute here between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon about “He shall not multiply wives for himself.” Maimonides rules like neither Rabbi Yehuda nor Rabbi Shimon. How can that be? Let’s see how.

I punctuate the Mishnah differently. “He shall not multiply wives for himself, but only up to eighteen”—that is the first tanna. Rabbi Yehuda says, second opinion: he may multiply wives for himself, provided they do not turn his heart away. Third opinion: Rabbi Shimon says, even one who turns his heart away, he may not marry; if so, why does the verse say, “He shall not multiply wives for himself”? Even women like Abigail. We understood—and Nachmanides understood the Mishnah this way too, and it’s a very natural reading—that the first clause is not an opinion. “He shall not multiply wives for himself, but only up to eighteen” is a heading. Then Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon dispute what this means—righteous women, not righteous women. It is a tannaitic dispute over the understanding of the law stated in the heading. Maimonides says no. It is not a heading; it is a first opinion. There are three tanna’im in the Mishnah, not two: the first tanna, Rabbi Yehuda, and then Rabbi Shimon. And now, of course, if he says the Jewish law ruling follows neither Rabbi Yehuda nor Rabbi Shimon, what does he mean? It follows the first tanna, the first opinion. And what does the first tanna say? “He shall not multiply wives for himself, but only up to eighteen.” No distinction between righteous or wicked, no qualifications. Don’t multiply beyond eighteen. Which is exactly the Jewish law ruling we saw in Maimonides.

So Maimonides really is proceeding consistently with his method in the fifth root: when there is an explanatory verse, still we do not derive the reason of the verse. We count the prohibition-verse and ignore the explanatory verse. And this follows neither Rabbi Shimon nor Rabbi Yehuda, but the first tanna. That’s how he rules in Jewish law. In fact, more than that: the dispute among the tanna’im in that Mishnah is really the dispute between Maimonides and Nachmanides. The first tanna is Maimonides; Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda are Nachmanides. Of course, Nachmanides does not recognize any first tanna there at all, so for him the whole Mishnah is on his side. But Maimonides says no, no—Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Shimon are with you, but I rule like the first tanna.

And what exactly is the dispute? What is the difference between Rabbi Yehuda and the first tanna? Rabbi Shimon is the father of the view that derives the reason of the verse. Right? Rabbi Shimon derives the reason of the verse. Therefore, where the Torah writes the reason, he sees two different prohibitions there. Rabbi Yehuda does not derive the reason of the verse. The first tanna also does not derive the reason of the verse, right? He says: “He shall not multiply wives for himself, but only up to eighteen.” He doesn’t get into whether they are righteous or not. So both Rabbi Yehuda and the first tanna do not derive the reason of the verse. So what is the difference? The difference is this: according to Rabbi Yehuda, if the Torah gives the reason, then there I do derive the reason of the verse. The only reason I didn’t derive it before was because the reason was not written; maybe it wasn’t right. But if the Torah itself writes the reason, then that is the correct reason, and therefore I do derive the reason of the verse when it is written. The first tanna says: even when the reason is written, I still do not derive the reason of the verse. Why?

Now with Rabbi Yehuda it is very tempting to explain, as one of the possibilities I rejected before, that the reason he ordinarily does not derive the reason of the verse is because it is not certain—who knows, maybe the reason is different. If the Torah itself writes it, then of course that is the correct reason. The Torah itself writes the reason, so the concern is gone; therefore there we derive the reason of the verse. And what does the first tanna hold? Apparently, that the reason we do not derive the reason of the verse is not because of concern that maybe we are mistaken. Because if that were the problem, then where the Torah itself says the reason, we should derive it. There is no concern there that we are mistaken. If he says we do not derive the reason of the verse even where the Torah says the reason, apparently the problem for him is not concern that perhaps it is not the right reason. We’ll soon see what it is instead.

Here I return for a moment to something I noted earlier. There is a similar rule in rabbinic law: if the reason lapses, the enactment does not lapse. It is well known in the name of the Vilna Gaon—I don’t know whether he actually wrote this, but people quote it in his name—that even when they tell you the reason, there are hidden reasons. There are additional reasons they did not tell you. Therefore, do not take this stated reason and draw Jewish-law conclusions from it. If so, that could also explain the first tanna. When the Torah says the reason, why there not derive the reason of the verse? There is no concern that the stated reason is wrong; the Torah itself says it. Yes, but maybe there are other reasons the Torah did not mention. But to me that is implausible. I have a clear reason that the Torah itself states. Why assume there are hidden other reasons that I cannot even think of, and the Torah did not state them, and it just confused me? And then draw Jewish-law conclusions from that which can lead me into error? There is no logic in that.

In short, the theory of hidden reasons is irrational mysticism, even though everyone quotes it. There is no logic in it. A judge has only what his eyes can see. If the Torah itself writes it, then all the more so. The Torah itself says this is the reason—why assume there are other reasons it did not write? Why? What is the Torah supposed to do in a case where there is only this one reason and no hidden reasons? It will still write that reason, and then I will still assume there are hidden reasons? Then the Torah has no way to tell me that this is the reason for the law, because I will always assume there are hidden reasons too. That makes no sense.

Therefore, I think we have to distinguish between rabbinic law and Torah law. In Torah law, the first tanna’s refusal to derive the reason of the verse, even when it is explicitly written in the Torah, is for a very simple reason. Not because there is concern that the reason is not correct. When we derive the reason of the verse, what does that really mean? Let’s speak about the king. The verse says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” One who derives the reason of the verse—what is he really supposed to do? Like Rabbi Yehuda, say that thirty righteous wives are permitted, right? But the Torah said “He shall not multiply wives for himself”; it did not say “He shall not multiply wives for himself who are wicked.” So there is a tension, a dissonance, between the reason and the wording of the law. If you assume like Rabbi Yehuda that it really refers only to wicked women and not righteous women, that means the Torah’s formulation is not precise. It should have said, “He shall not multiply wicked wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” The Torah says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” period. It does not enter into what kind of wives. My assumption is that the Torah’s wording is precise. And if it is precise, and the Torah says simply “wives,” then it means all wives. And if it says “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge” and does not distinguish between rich and poor, then it means every widow. Rabbi Yehuda agrees with that too when the reason is not written. But when the reason is written, he no longer agrees. The first tanna says: even when the reason is written, it still works this way.

Not because I fear the reason is wrong, but because it cannot be that the Torah formulated itself imprecisely. If I derive the reason of the verse, it comes out that the wording of the Torah’s prohibition is imprecise. That cannot be. The Holy One, blessed be He, does not write imprecisely. So then what? What does that mean? After all, it says, “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” So is that the reason or not? The Torah’s answer is: it is the reason. The first tanna will not deny that, and I do not accept hidden reasons. So then how do I read the passage? Explain to me how to read it now. “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” According to Rabbi Yehuda… according to the first tanna, “He shall not multiply wives for himself” even in this kind of case—no kind of wives. So then what is “lest his heart turn away”? How does he read the Torah? Is the reason not true? If the reason is true, then why is it forbidden to multiply righteous wives? Something here seems off.

We must say that the reason is true and the law is true. You just did not understand correctly what “turning away of the heart” means. That is what the first tanna says. What is Rabbi Yehuda basically saying? Rabbi Yehuda says the king may marry thirty righteous wives because they will not turn his heart away. The first tanna says no. The Torah tells you that even thirty righteous wives turn your heart away, because it says “He shall not multiply wives for himself” and makes no distinction between righteous and unrighteous, and “lest his heart turn away.” If I assume that the Torah says exactly what it means, then this means that multiplying wives turns the heart away irrespective of whether they are righteous or not. Why? Because you, Rabbi Yehuda, understand “turning away of the heart” to mean that these women will entice you to do evil because they are wicked. No. “Turning away of the heart” means that you will spend all your time dealing with your wives and not with the important matters with which a king should be occupied. That is called turning away of the heart. Someone who is always busy with his harem—even if the harem is entirely full of righteous women—that still counts as his heart turning away. It has nothing to do with whether they are righteous or wicked. And that is what the first tanna says.

The first tanna basically says: give the Torah credit. That is why he does not derive the reason of the verse. Whenever you derive the reason of the verse, what are you really saying? That the plain meaning is not correct, and I need to make a midrashic reading. What does the plain meaning say? “He shall not multiply wives.” No, that isn’t right—rather, “He shall not multiply wicked wives”; I make an interpretive move. Or “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge”—the text says every widow. No, that’s not right—I make an interpretive move: only a poor widow. The first tanna says: give the Torah credit. If the Torah wrote something, it means what it wrote. “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge” means every widow. “He shall not multiply wives for himself” means every woman.

So with “You shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge,” what does that mean if it means every widow? Apparently your reason is not the right one, the thing about a bad name among her neighbors. But where the reason is explicitly written in the Torah, as with “He shall not multiply wives for himself,” there certainly the reason is correct; the Torah itself wrote it. There the first tanna cannot say the reason is wrong. Rather, you interpreted the reason incorrectly. You think “turning away of the heart” means being seduced into evil by wicked women. No. “Lest his heart turn away” means he should not spend all his time with his women, because that is what it means for his heart to turn away. So now everything reads according to the plain meaning: “He shall not multiply wives for himself”—every wife. And the reason, “lest his heart turn away”—why? Because multiplying wives, even if they are righteous, turns his heart away. That is what the Torah says, plain and simple.

In other words, the first tanna, when he says we do not derive the reason of the verse, does not mean that the reason is not correct. Rather, even if the reason is correct, if there is a dissonance between it and the wording of the law in the Torah, that means you did not understand the reason correctly. Not that the reason is wrong—you misunderstood it. The reason is turning away of the heart; that is correct. But what is turning away of the heart? You did not understand it correctly. Turning away of the heart is essentially the very multiplication of wives, not because they are wicked.

Now if that is so, what would you expect in rabbinic law? It depends on how much credit you give the Sages. I would expect that in rabbinic law, if the reason is not written in the enactment, then we would not derive the reason of the verse, because maybe we didn’t understand the reason correctly. But if the reason is explicitly written in the enactment, then it is written, and perhaps the formulation of the enactment is not perfect—because this is not the Torah, not the Holy One, blessed be He; it is human beings. And there I would derive the reason of the verse where the reason is explicitly written in the enactment. Meaning: where the reason is explicitly written, when the reason lapses, the enactment lapses. Yes. That is my claim.

I now want to show you this. Look at the Mishnah in Shabbat 11a: “A tailor may not go out with his needle close to nightfall, lest he forget and go out; nor a scribe with his quill; nor may one inspect his garments; nor read by the light of a lamp.” Fine, it is forbidden to read on the Sabbath by lamplight. The Gemara there says, and there is a baraita on 12b: “One may not read by lamplight lest he tilt it.” When you read by lamplight, if the flame flickers a bit, you may come to adjust it. And when you adjust it, you may violate extinguishing or kindling on the Sabbath, and therefore they decreed not to read by lamplight on the Sabbath. Notice that in the baraita the reason already appears together with the enactment: “One may not read by lamplight lest he tilt it.” Usually when they say not to eat poultry with milk they do not write the reason. We understand that the reason is concern lest one come to eat meat with milk. It’s not written. Here, in the body of the enactment, the reason is also written.

It says there: “One may not read by lamplight.” Rava said: even if it is two stories high, and even if it is two saddle-heights, and even if there are ten houses one atop another. Even if the lamp is so high that you cannot reach it to tilt it, it is still forbidden. Later the Gemara says: one person may not read, but two may. Why? Because the second will watch him so he doesn’t tilt it. But there is a baraita saying not one and not two. Rabbi Elazar said: not difficult—here they are reading one subject, there two subjects. Rav Huna said: by a bonfire even ten people are forbidden. Never mind the details. There are situations where we do permit it. What is that? We are deriving the reason of the verse, right? In a place where the reason “lest he tilt it” does not apply, we permit reading. If someone is watching him, we permit reading. But when it is two stories high, no. There apparently we say no distinction, but here not. So without getting into that distinction now, the point is that in principle we are deriving the reason. Right? Where the concern does not exist, we permit reading by lamplight. That is not the normal case in rabbinic enactments.

The Gemara continues: Rava said: if he is an important person, it is permitted. If he is an important person, a Torah scholar, it is permitted. An objection was raised: “One may not read by lamplight lest he tilt it.” Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha said: I will read and I will not tilt it. Like King Solomon: I will multiply wives and my heart will not turn away. Once he read and sought to tilt it. He said: how great are the words of the Sages, who said one may not read by lamplight. Rabbi Natan says: he read and actually tilted it—not merely sought to tilt. And he wrote in his notebook: I, Yishmael ben Elisha, read and tilted a lamp on the Sabbath. When the Temple is rebuilt, I will bring a fat sin-offering.

What does “how great are the words of the Sages” mean? In the end the Sages were right. I thought I would not come to tilt it, but in truth even I almost tilted it, or definitely tilted it. So he did not retreat from the principled statement that where there is no concern of tilting, it is permitted to read. He just says: I estimated that in my case there was no concern; I was wrong in that estimate. Even in my case there was concern that I would tilt it. But one can still ask in principle: suppose you had been right, that there was no concern that you would tilt it. The Sages forbade reading by lamplight. So why should it matter now that you don’t think you will tilt it? It seems he understood that yes, we do derive the reason of the verse. He says: where there is no concern of tilting, it is permitted to read by lamplight. The whole prohibition on reading by lamplight is only because of concern of tilting; if there is no concern of tilting, then read. Therefore he said: good, then I’ll read. In the end it became clear he was wrong. But he was wrong in his assessment of reality regarding himself; it turned out that he did indeed seek to tilt it, or actually tilted it. But did he also retract from the underlying principle that in a rabbinic enactment I follow the reason, and where the reason does not exist I need not keep the enactment?

I didn’t bring it here, but there is a book called Chazut Kashot, which resolves all the “requires further thought” comments of Rabbi Akiva Eiger on the Talmud. One after another. It is in Otzar HaChochma. At the end of tractate Beitzah there is a “requires further thought” by Rabbi Akiva Eiger, and there in Chazut Kashot he indeed says that in rabbinic enactments, where the reason is written explicitly in the body of the enactment—as in the case of Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha—we do derive the reason of the verse. Where there is no concern of tilting, one may read by lamplight. And the proof is Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha. Did he retract? No. He retracted from his factual assessment, because he thought he would not tilt it and it turned out that he did. He did not retract from the basic point that if a situation truly arose in which there were no concern of tilting, then one may read by lamplight.

Why? Because that is the difference between rabbinic law and Torah law. In Torah law, my assumption is that the formulation is perfect. The Holy One, blessed be He, formulated it; it was written with divine inspiration, however you put it. So the wording is perfect. Therefore, if there is a dissonance between the prohibition-verse and the reason, apparently I did not understand properly, because everything there must be exact. In rabbinic law, this is a formulation by the Sages, a human formulation, and it could be that they did not formulate it in the most precise way. Therefore when they say, “One may not read by lamplight lest he tilt it,” that really means one may not read by lamplight only in places where there is concern of tilting, even though the wording of the prohibition itself does not explicitly limit itself to such places. The Sages did not formulate it with perfect precision, but it must accord with the reason, and therefore there we do derive the reason of the verse.

That fits very well with Maimonides and the first tanna in Sanhedrin: the reason I do not derive the reason of the verse is not because of concern that I did not understand the reason well, but rather because precisely if I did understand the reason well, then apparently I did not apply it correctly—because otherwise it would not contradict the wording of the prohibition. And therefore this applies only in Torah prohibitions. In rabbinic prohibitions, where I do not assume that the wording has to be perfect, there indeed I do derive the reason of the verse. Good, that’s enough for now.