Topics in Halakhic Thought – Lecture 21

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[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I’ll mention the well-known Rosh in Bava Metzia 90. The Rosh writes there that although we generally do not derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse, in a place where the reason is completely clear, we do derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse. Meaning, there always has to be some kind of doubt in order for us not to derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse, but if the reason is clear, then we do derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse. In the Rosh’s rulings on Bava Metzia 90, there is a responsum of the Rosh, and I’ll quote it for you here from the collection. Rule 2, section 8: “It is not comparable to something prohibited by formal count, which has no permission except through a religious court greater than it in wisdom and number, because since the reason for the prohibition is known, if the reason is nullified, the prohibition is automatically nullified.” Exactly what he writes about deriving Jewish law from the reason for a verse regarding Torah-level prohibitions, he writes the same thing regarding rabbinic law. He is basically saying that if the reason for the prohibition is known, then if the reason is nullified, the prohibition is nullified. And you don’t need a religious court greater in wisdom and number for a rabbinic prohibition. A rabbinic prohibition established by formal count requires another count to permit it. And in the rabbinic case, it requires another count that is greater in wisdom and number. The Rosh says that is when the reason is not fully clear. But if the reason is clear and known, then if the reason is nullified, the prohibition never applies; the prohibition falls away automatically.

Let me give you an example. The Talmud says there is a prohibition against reading on the Sabbath by candlelight. It is a rabbinic prohibition, lest one tilt the lamp. Because it could happen that you tilt the lamp and then you come to extinguishing or lighting. Now, as is well known, the Talmud in the second chapter of tractate Shabbat brings the story of Rabbi Yishmael, who said: I will read and I will not tilt. I’ll read by candlelight and I’m not worried; I won’t come to tilt the lamp, so I have no need to be concerned about this. Then he read, and suddenly he noticed that he was already stretching out his hand, he was about to tilt the lamp almost absentmindedly. In one version it says that he actually tilted it. There are two versions of the story. Then he said: How great are the words of my colleagues, that it was forbidden; I should not have violated the words of my colleagues. How great are the words of my colleagues, who said: one may not read by candlelight lest he tilt it. That’s the story.

There is a book called Chazut Kashot, which goes through unresolved difficulties raised by Rabbi Akiva Eiger one after another and resolves them. There is such a book on Rabbi Akiva Eiger’s questions on the Talmud, another on his questions in his novellae on the Mishnah, and another on his responsa. It came out once as three books in one volume. In any case, in Chazut Kashot, which I think deals with his questions on the Talmud, at the end of tractate Beitzah he discusses the question he deals with there about betrothal on the Sabbath, and in general there is some question of Rabbi Akiva Eiger there. In the course of his answer, Chazut Kashot brings this story of Rabbi Yishmael. And he asks a question. He says: suppose Rabbi Yishmael had been right, and in fact he had managed to read by candlelight and would not have come to tilt it. There still is a prohibition against reading by candlelight. What does it matter that you’re now calculating whether you personally will or won’t come to the concern on account of which they were concerned? If I know I’ll be careful not to eat actual meat and milk together, am I then allowed to eat poultry with milk? No problem, the prohibition on poultry with milk is because of meat and milk. And I know I won’t come to eat meat and milk; I’ve put two armed guards next to me, okay, to make sure I don’t come to eat meat and milk. Am I exempt from the prohibition of eating poultry with milk? Obviously not. That prohibition is a general prohibition, and not every person can come and tell himself, okay, I’ve made my own calculation; in my case the concern doesn’t exist, therefore I’m exempt. There is a prohibition, and that prohibition obligates you regardless.

Now notice carefully that Rabbi Yishmael too, even when he retracted, the Talmud says why he retracted: because he saw that he had simply been mistaken in his assessment of reality. The fact is, he did almost come—or actually came—to tilt the lamp. But that implies that if he had not come to that point, if he had been correct in his assessment that in his case the concern did not exist, that he would not come to tilt the lamp, then his position would have remained intact. So if that’s the case, then he really would have allowed himself to violate a rabbinic prohibition? The prohibition of reading by candlelight. Everything about his retraction, or his self-rebuke, was only because it turned out that he had overestimated himself. He does not say: I made a Jewish law mistake. He says: I made a mistake in evaluating reality. I thought I would not come to tilt it, and it turns out that I could come to tilt it. I was wrong in my assessment of reality. But suppose I had not been wrong in my assessment of reality; I know I will not come to tilt it—would I now be permitted to read by candlelight? Seemingly not. So why does Rabbi Yishmael make it depend on the fact that he was mistaken in his assessment of reality, that it turned out he might indeed come to tilt it? He should have said: What are you talking about? There is a rabbinic prohibition, and one does not violate a rabbinic prohibition. You see that Rabbi Yishmael holds that in a case where the reason for the ordinance does not apply, the ordinance is nullified.

Now I don’t understand. After all, there are rules: for a rabbinic prohibition you need a religious court to cancel the ordinance even if the reason has lapsed. According to Maimonides, you need a religious court greater in wisdom and number; according to the Raavad, if the reason has lapsed you still need a religious court, but not one greater in wisdom. And Rabbi Yishmael simply allowed himself to do this? He didn’t convene the great court, sit there, and have the great court determine that the ordinance was being changed. He decided that in his own case the concern didn’t apply, and therefore he read by candlelight. How can one do such a thing? An ordinance remains valid until it is canceled according to the rules of cancellation.

So I once saw someone who wanted to argue that this depends on the wording. In the Mishnah it appears one way, in the baraita it appears another way. The wording in the baraita is: “One may not read by candlelight lest he tilt it.” What does that mean? It means that the reason for the ordinance is described in the body of the ordinance. I can say: one may not read by candlelight, period. Then I ask myself: why did the sages forbid reading by candlelight? Ah, apparently out of concern lest I come to tilt the lamp. So there I am interpreting what the motivation or reason was for the sages issuing that decree. That is one kind of case. There the rules of cancellation apply. To cancel it, even if the reason has changed—in my case there is no such concern—still, no matter what, you need a religious court greater in wisdom and number to change that law.

But here, the reason for the ordinance is written into the wording of the ordinance: one may not read by candlelight lest he tilt it. This is not left to my interpretation; rather, the one who formulated the ordinance inserted the rationale, the explanation, into the wording of the ordinance itself. Why did he do that? In most ordinances it doesn’t appear. In the prohibition against eating poultry with milk, it does not say why it was forbidden. It is an interpretation; the medieval authorities (Rishonim) understand it as lest one come to eat meat with milk. But that does not appear in the wording of the ordinance: “One may not eat poultry with milk lest he come to eat meat with milk.” No. It says simply that it is forbidden to eat poultry with milk. So why did they write here: one may not read by candlelight lest he tilt it?

Those whom I saw—I no longer remember who it was—say that when the sages inserted the reason for the ordinance into the formulation of the ordinance, they intended to hint to me, or show me, that here I am allowed to make the kind of judgment Rabbi Yishmael made: that if with respect to the reason it does not apply, or under certain circumstances the reason does not apply, then I can nullify this prohibition. When do I need to change the ordinance itself? When I am the one deciding what the reason is, and it is not written in the wording of the ordinance. Then who says I’m right? Maybe that’s not the reason. So you need a religious court greater in wisdom and number to perform that interpretive act, to understand what the ordinance was meant for. But in a case where the legislators themselves tell me what the ordinance was, why their ordinance was enacted, then I don’t need to do any interpretation; they themselves said it. So from my perspective, that is like saying that for anyone for whom this concern does not exist, they never enacted the prohibition in the first place; we never decreed that it would be forbidden for him. Therefore, in such cases I am allowed to change it.

So here, for example, is a case in which I can change Jewish law without the constraints of the authority question, without needing a religious court greater in wisdom and number. When? When I know clearly the reason for the ordinance, or especially when the reason for the ordinance is written explicitly in the wording of the ordinance. And here I know that many quote in the name of the Vilna Gaon—I haven’t seen it inside, but people always quote it in his name—the view of hidden reasons. I assume some of you at least know this. The Vilna Gaon argues that even if the sages explained their ordinance or decree with one reason, there may be all sorts of other hidden reasons. And therefore we are basically forbidden to interpret the ordinance in light of the reason, even if the reason is stated explicitly. Because perhaps there are other hidden reasons.

The same thing, by the way, is also said about Torah law. There too, you don’t know—who knows—even if there is a reason. For example, we do not derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse. For Torah law we do not derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse; that is explicit in the Talmud, in the dispute between Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Yehuda, and the ruling is that we do not derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse. But there are places where the Torah itself writes the reason. For example: “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” That is in the Mishnah in tractate Sanhedrin 21. So what does that mean? A king is forbidden to multiply wives, and the verse itself explains the reason for this prohibition: so that they not turn his heart away. So here, we are not deriving Jewish law from the reason for a verse in the sense that we are interpreting what the reason for the commandment in the verse is. The verse itself tells us what the reason is. So seemingly there, surely we ought to derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse, or at least we are allowed to. What is the problem? There is no concern at all that we might be confused or mistaken. The verse itself tells us what the reason is. Here too there are those who want to say in the name of the Vilna Gaon: yes, but there are other hidden reasons, and therefore you cannot interpret the verse according to the reasons that appear in it.

Now, to me this sounds very dubious, this reasoning. It sounds very dubious because suppose even that there is a possibility that there are hidden reasons. But there is also a possibility that there aren’t. Maybe yes, maybe no; I don’t know. Now I have one reason that is revealed, that I know, that makes sense, that I know is correct—and if it is written in the Torah, then all the more so, the Torah itself says that this is the reason. Now the possibility is that perhaps there are additional hidden reasons. But uncertainty does not override certainty. Why assume that there are other hidden reasons? If there are, and someone shows me that there are, fine, I accept it. But if I do not know that there are, then merely because of the possibility that there may be hidden reasons, I am not going to follow the obvious reason that I know? There is no logic in that. There is simply no logic in that, in my opinion. So why do anything else? Okay?

Nowhere do we do such things. Uncertainty does not override certainty. I know that there is one reason that is clear, and there is doubt whether there are other reasons. Maybe yes, maybe no. The burden of proof is on you. Especially in light of what I said in the first lecture on the subject of change: you have to remember that every step we take has a price. Change has a price, and not changing also has a price. Not changing has a price no less than changing. For example, we talked about accepting women as witnesses. So if I make a change and accept women as witnesses, and I was wrong, that has a price: I extract money unjustly, it is theft, whatever; I also violate the prohibition against accepting women’s testimony, and so on. But on the other hand, there is also a loss if I do not accept women as witnesses—if I remain conservative when in truth it is permissible to accept them. Then I am not issuing a truthful judgment; I have valid testimony and I do not accept it. There is a price in every direction. It is not as though one option—not changing—is playing it safe, whereas changing, who knows, has costs so it’s not worth it. Not changing is not playing it safe. I say that is wrong. There is no such thing as playing it safe. There are costs to not changing too, not only to changing. There are costs on both sides.

And therefore I say there is nothing safe here. So if there is nothing safe, then I ask myself: I have a reason that I know. And you tell me: yes, but maybe there are all sorts of other reasons. Maybe yes, maybe no—what am I supposed to do with all these maybes? Any reasonable argument I make, one can say: yes, true, but maybe it’s not true. Maybe. Fine. But if it sounds reasonable to me, then as far as I’m concerned that is what is correct. Could I be wrong? Yes. But bring proof, and then I’ll accept it. The burden of proof is on you, not on me. And what I’m sure of is that I’m right. But if I have a reasonable argument, I have no reason to fear that perhaps it is not correct. It’s the same with an a fortiori argument: I made an a fortiori argument—maybe there is a refutation? What do you mean, maybe there is a refutation? If there is a refutation, bring it. If there is no refutation, then there is a reasonable argument here and I accept it. That does not mean there are no refutations to a fortiori arguments, or that it is impossible that the a fortiori argument I made has one. It is possible. But my assumption is that so long as the a fortiori argument makes sense, I work with it. The burden of proof is on the one who wants to refute it to present a refutation. If he presents one, fine, I’ll accept it. But so long as he hasn’t, he cannot demand that I not use a reasonable argument because maybe there is a refutation, or because maybe there are other arguments. Maybe? That doesn’t interest me. You can’t work with maybe. “You can’t buy groceries with maybe.”

So that is the first mechanism for change, and it says that if the reason for the ordinance is clear—or at least if it is written explicitly in the ordinance—then one can change it. And there is no limitation of constraints. Now it is true that in most ordinances this is not the case; in most ordinances the reason is not written into the ordinance, so the Rosh’s responsum won’t help me there. Or rather—not the Rosh’s responsum—the later authorities I mentioned who resolve Rabbi Akiva Eiger’s difficulty, that won’t help me there, because they are talking about a case where the reason for the ordinance is written explicitly, and that is a very small minority of cases. But the wording of the Rosh’s responsum is broader: any place where the reason for the ordinance is clear. And in fact there are many cases where it is clear. The medieval authorities (Rishonim) already discuss it and explain the reason for the ordinance.

Now suppose there is a clear reason, agreed upon and known: poultry with milk. Everyone agrees that the prohibition is lest one come to eat meat with milk, even though that reason is not written in the body of the ordinance. And everyone agrees that this is the reason. According to the Rosh’s responsum, even in such a case one can change it. That already opens a much wider gate for change.

Another example: some wanted to argue that when the reason is nullified globally—that is, it can no longer come back—then the law itself falls away even without changing the ordinance. I could bring sources for this, but there is no point reading sources for every single thing. I’m summarizing channels for you here so that you can see there are routes that bypass authority. It is simply not true that you cannot change laws or ordinances. There are situations in which the legislators originally enacted them in such a way that they could be canceled—for example, when they fixed the reason for the ordinance in the body of the ordinance. Or other situations, for example when the ordinance was enacted from the outset for a fixed period of time.

Yes, the Talmud brings this regarding “Be ready for three days; do not approach a woman,” there at Mount Sinai. And afterward the Torah says that the Holy One, blessed be He, told Moses to say to them, “Return to your tents.” Meaning: you may return to marital relations with your wives. Now the ordinance from the outset had been not to approach a woman for three days, so the Talmud asks: after three days, why does the Torah need to say “Return to your tents,” as if to permit the previous ordinance, the previous decree? It shouldn’t be necessary. If from the outset it was only for three days, then it lapses. There is a dispute there, Rashi and Tosafot and so on. Some want to say that this is indeed correct, and that the three days were not the three days of the ordinance but three days related to something else. But in truth, when an ordinance is only for a fixed time, it expires; when the time passes, the ordinance is nullified. So that is another possibility for an ordinance.

I’ll remind you of the ban of Rabbeinu Gershom, which we discussed last time, which was enacted for one thousand years. After a thousand years it lapses. There is no need to convene a religious court or perform any formal act of cancellation.

There are situations in which ordinances were not enacted by formal count; this was not in the Sanhedrin and does not appear in the Talmud, not from the law of the Talmud. These are later things. In such cases, again, the whole set of rules for canceling ordinances does not apply at all, because this is not really an ordinance in the first place. The rules for canceling ordinances are said about valid ordinances—how can they be changed? There are rules. But if the ordinance was not enacted in the Sanhedrin, then it does not bind me to begin with, and there is no need to cancel it. It does not bind me.

Suppose the Rashba decided on a new ordinance, that in his opinion it would be proper to forbid something. So what? In his opinion it would be proper. That doesn’t mean it is forbidden. Even if he is right—and not because I disagree with him. I agree with him; it would be proper to forbid it. So what? So long as it did not pass through the great court, it is not binding. Therefore there is no need to use mechanisms to change it, because the ordinance is not valid to begin with. So all the things we are talking about, where authority blocks change, are only where we want to change a law that itself was established in the Sanhedrin. But if a law was not established in the Sanhedrin, then all the rules about changing ordinances are irrelevant.

A great many laws were not established in the Sanhedrin. More than that: there are laws that were established in the Sanhedrin, but we interpret them through medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim). How should we relate to that? I don’t know. The medieval and later authorities produce an interpretation of a certain law established in the Sanhedrin, or in the Talmud, which we said has a status like the Sanhedrin. Okay? So who established that law—the medieval interpreters, or the Talmud, or the Sanhedrin? I don’t know. Because the Sanhedrin established something, but if I disagree with the medieval authorities who interpreted that something, then I am disagreeing not with the original legislators, not with the Sanhedrin, but with the medieval authorities. And medieval authorities I am allowed to disagree with. The medieval authorities have no formal authority; they are not the Sanhedrin. Therefore a great many laws—actually the overwhelming majority of the laws we have—are not laws enacted in the Sanhedrin, and not laws from the law of the Talmud in the straightforward sense. They depend on disputes, interpretations, and exegesis. And therefore there is no principled barrier to changing them.

Another thing: I once wrote a column that caused an uproar about what is called, in the strangest possible way, “the decree against legumes on Passover.” Yes? It really is a decree—but not a decree in the sense of rabbinic decrees. It is a decree in the sense of the decrees of the massacres of 1648–49. In other words, it is a decree because it is extremely burdensome and has no reason or logic whatsoever. What happens there is this: I argued in my column—you can find the argument on my website, I think it’s the seventh column or something like that—that the phrase “the decree against legumes” is nonsense. This is not a decree against legumes. It is concern about legumes.

Suppose, for example, that people began not eating legumes because they were concerned that crumbs of leaven might appear among the legumes, a wheat grain or something, and it would fall into water and become leaven. Therefore they were careful not to eat legumes. Fine. Now the question is whether I need to continue this, or whether I can cancel it because I have no such concern. Then they tell me: what do you mean? You need a religious court greater in wisdom and number. Which, of course, is nonsense. Why is it nonsense? Because the law of legumes is, by definition, later than the Talmud. In the Talmud itself it says explicitly that the view of Rabbi Yohanan ben Nuri is to forbid rice on Passover as well. But the Jewish law does not follow him. It says explicitly in the Talmud that the Jewish law does not follow him. The Talmud explicitly permits legumes. Therefore it is obvious that if there is anything here, it arose long, long after the Talmud, many centuries after the Talmud. So if that is the case, it has no authority to begin with; there is no need to change anything at all.

But leave that aside. Let’s go with you and say it has authority, that it arose in the Talmud. Okay? But what arose in the Talmud? In my view this thing is not an ordinance and not a decree; it is a concern. You know the joke about the Rebbe of Gur. The Rebbe of Gur goes to light Hanukkah candles. Suddenly he sees a broom standing there next to the menorah. He says to his attendant: take that broom away from here. So the attendant asks him why. The Rebbe says: because if the broom stays there, then next year all the Hasidim will light the menorah with a broom placed beside them. That’s what the Rebbe did this year. Fine. So the attendant understood and took away the broom. What happened from the next year onward? All the Hasidim, before lighting Hanukkah candles, put down a broom, removed it, and then lit the candles.

This sad joke is a joke about us, not about Gur Hasidim. This is what we do at every turn. This is what happens with the “decree” of legumes, with the “decree” in quotation marks. Think of another situation. There is a pit in the road. There is a law of “Take great care of your lives,” right? So what do I do? I go around the pit because I don’t want it to endanger my life. Okay? You know what? Let’s say the sages of the town established that you need to go around the pit, if you like. Obviously nonsense. We go around it because it is dangerous. Okay? The pit was repaired. Now do I have to keep going around it because, until they change the ordinance, I am basically supposed to keep driving in zigzags around that spot, even though there is no pit there anymore? That is nonsense. Why? Because there was never an ordinance to drive in a zigzag around the pit. There was concern. If I fall into the pit, something will happen to me, so I go around it. It is not a prohibition; it is a concern. What does that have to do with prohibition? When the concern exists, I am concerned about it; when it does not exist, I am not concerned about it.

With a prohibition, you can say that even if the reason has lapsed, perhaps you still need a great and important religious court and a count in order to change the prohibition, because it is a prohibition; it was established as a halakhic prohibition. But this is not a halakhic prohibition; it is concern. The moment there is concern, I am concerned. When there is no concern, I am not concerned. I do not need to continue being concerned when there is no concern. If in some place there was a traffic light that was broken, and after they repaired it, the light turns green, am I allowed to go on green? I don’t know—before, people used to stop there anyway because it was always red, and now they fixed it. Fine. But do we not change things even if the reason has lapsed? What is all this nonsense? Before we didn’t go because we didn’t know; now we do know. It’s green. You can go.

Now legumes: to forbid them is nonsense. Why would you forbid them? All you can say is: I have a concern that among the grains of legumes a grain of wheat, or something, one of the five species of grain, got mixed in. So I have a concern about leaven. Fine. That has to be checked. Where there is concern, of course one should be stringent. Where there is no concern, let them eat grapes and be satisfied—let them eat lentils and be satisfied, not grapes and be satisfied—meaning, eat legumes and be healthy. What is the problem? If the concern does not exist, then it is concern, not prohibition.

Twenty years ago I started eating legumes—Ashkenazi to the highest standard, I confess and am ashamed; not that I’m Ashkenazi, that I eat legumes, I confess and am ashamed. The point is that we are dealing here with concern, not prohibition. There is no reason in the world to observe this. And this prohibition of legumes is so absurd that today almost everything you do in the supermarket before Passover is just checking whether the thing is legumes or not. There is no need to check whether it is kosher for Passover; everything is kosher for Passover. What is sold as kosher for Passover is kosher for Passover. The only thing people check is whether it is legumes or not legumes. That is all that remains. In other words, our whole food-related pre-Passover activity revolves around legumes, and this whole business is complete nonsense from beginning to end, emptiness and striving after wind.

Now people explain to me with all sorts of arguments: no, not at all, we found a grain of wheat, don’t ask, in rice—terrible, awful—this concern still exists today. Interesting that this concern still exists today only for Ashkenazim. The Sephardim, who never had the custom of forbidding legumes, are not told: wait, don’t eat legumes, there is concern about leaven here. Why not? Because it’s nonsense, just empty talk. People cannot defend this absurd thesis, so they start telling me, no, no, this concern still exists today. If this concern still exists today, then we need to check what legumes we are talking about. There may be some legumes in which wheat got mixed in, and others in which it did not. But that has nothing to do with what was supposedly included in the “decree of legumes” in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Today we should check where there is concern and where there isn’t. If there is concern, then yes indeed one should be stringent. But what does that have to do with the category of legumes?

Then there are all sorts of distinctions: green legumes and non-green legumes, legumes that existed in their time and legumes that did not exist in their time. What kind of nonsense is that? If you are talking to me about concern that among the legumes there is wheat, then let’s look. Let’s hold a bag of rice and examine it. If rice presents a concern, then don’t eat rice. If lentils do not present a concern, then I’ll eat lentils. Every item on its own merits, because it is concern, not prohibition. But all these definitions that are taken according to various halakhic categories treat this as a prohibition, not as concern. Everything included in the legumes of the thirteenth century is still forbidden today, and anything derived from it is forbidden, and even its indirect secondary transfer is forbidden too, and all sorts of hysterical prohibitions of that kind. It is all nonsense, a kind of apologetics by people who understand that they are in a ridiculous situation, making a mockery of the whole halakhic world, and who have no real way of defending it—so they explain: no, no, there is concern here; I myself saw a lot of wheat grains; they bring you studies and all sorts of things like that. Interesting that the Sephardim are not persuaded by all these studies. Whoever eats legumes goes on eating legumes. What—they are not sensitive to the prohibition of leaven? There is a prohibition of leaven here, there is wheat in the rice, heaven forbid! What is this? And how does the whole public go on buying it? I simply cannot understand it.

Another reason, it seems to me, is that here, even if this whole story had any so-called “decree of legumes” in it—which of course it never did, because that never existed—the decree of legumes would have to rest on something established by formal count. Who were the sages, what religious court, that prohibited legumes? Does anyone know of a session of a religious court that prohibited it? Not the Sanhedrin. And then we determined that legumes are forbidden. Where are they? There is no documentation of any such thing. Without a religious court establishing it, how did a prohibition come into being? Like when today people say there is a prohibition against riding bicycles lest you come to repair them—nonsense in tomato juice. You cannot invent prohibitions. You can say it is proper not to ride bicycles because there is concern that you may come to repair them. But the fact that you think it is proper does not turn it into something forbidden. For something to become forbidden, it has to be said in the great court that has authority over it, that can determine a prohibition. There is no rabbinic prohibition without someone establishing that rabbinic prohibition. The fact that it seems that way to you—so what if it seems that way to you? So it seems that way. So what? You can say it is not proper, one should be careful, very good. But that is concern, not prohibition. If there is concern that you may come to repair it, then indeed it is proper to be careful. But you cannot tell me that there is a prohibition. There is no prohibition. So long as it was not established by an authorized religious court, there is no prohibition.

And the last thing about legumes: it causes so much damage, it makes such a mockery of the whole halakhic world, it simply turns us into a laughingstock and a joke. This issue of legumes, even among ourselves—I’m not even talking about in the eyes of those outside the halakhic world—I feel embarrassed by this prohibition. I feel idiotic. We are literally behaving just like the Rebbe of Gur’s broom. Every year on Passover, we all move the Rebbe of Gur’s broom. Everyone who does this—not everyone, but everyone who does this—is moving the Rebbe of Gur’s broom every Passover. That is what we are doing. It is embarrassing.

Now, why do I say this? Because where something really causes damage, there is also the mechanism of annulment. See how many mechanisms I can show you just regarding legumes. You can use all the mechanisms to change it—except that of course no mechanisms are needed. It is not forbidden to begin with, so there is no need for mechanisms. Even if you accept this invention that we are dealing with a prohibition, there are still mechanisms that would deal with this prohibition even if there were a prohibition here. And there isn’t—but even if there were. So this is, for example, a clear illustration of some kind of instinctive resistance to change in Jewish law that has no basis whatsoever. It simply, really, makes a mockery of the whole thing.

[Speaker C] How does the Rabbi relate to the binding force of custom? After all, the Rema, in many places on the Shulchan Arukh, adds: “and the custom is,” among us they practice this and that.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, so I’m saying: custom does have force, because the Talmud says, “Do not forsake the teaching of your mother.” Custom has force. But this is not custom; it is concern. But why is it not custom? No, what do you mean? It is concern. The fact that people treat it as custom—that is a foolish custom. A custom where the Talmud explicitly says it is permitted? What custom is that? To practice against the Talmud? You can say there was concern, perfectly fine. I am not forbidding legumes; I am concerned there may be leaven there. But concern is when there is concern there is concern, and when there isn’t, there isn’t. They call it custom in order, once again, to get around the difficulty of defending the thesis that it can’t be changed. So no, it is the decree of legumes and the custom of legumes and its foundation is in the holy mountains, and every year it moves the eternity-within-splendor two centimeters to the right, and therefore no one may touch this sacred thing. It is sheer nonsense and absurdity from beginning to end.

Now, there is another situation, for example: what happens when the sages did not forbid the thing itself, but rather the reason? Let me take an example that is probably not correct. Suppose the sages forbade eating poultry with milk lest one come to eat meat with milk, okay? Now the question is: what did they forbid? Did they forbid eating poultry with milk, or did they forbid eating anything that might lead you to actual meat with milk? In their time that happened to be poultry with milk, but in our time maybe it would also include soy with milk? The question here is whether, when I have a reason for an ordinance, what was forbidden? Was the reason forbidden, or was the ordinance forbidden?

The same question, by the way, arises in Torah law, where there is a verse like “He shall not multiply wives for himself, lest his heart turn away.” One can discuss whether the Torah prohibited multiplying wives out of concern that the king’s heart would turn away, or whether the Torah prohibited doing things that turn his heart away. Multiplying wives is only the practical example of an act that can lead to turning the heart away, and there are other such acts too, and all of them were forbidden because what is prohibited is the reason, not the thing itself. If so, I could say, for example, that if a king today takes many wives, on the contrary, it would increase his fear of Heaven, and therefore a king today would have no prohibition at all against multiplying wives—the thing Solomon did. He would, however, be forbidden to multiply horses, because horses would turn his heart away, he would occupy himself all the time with his property, and then in fact, since what is prohibited is turning the heart away, the prohibition is not multiplying wives. Multiplying wives is only the manner in which the Torah says you can come to the turning away of the heart. So in such a case, one has to examine each case on its own merits: if today something else leads to turning the heart away, then that something else would be the issue.

Let me give you an example of something I was asked on my website a day or two ago, about wearing sandals on the Ninth of Av. Okay? Sandals that are not made of leather, but in fact are much more comfortable and pleasant and no less respectable than leather sandals—Teva Naot and all those things. What about that? Permitted or forbidden on the Ninth of Av? What was forbidden was leather footwear. And here the question arises—and there is no prohibition unless it was actually prohibited. You cannot now prohibit something anew, even if it seems to you that it should be prohibited. Either it was prohibited in an authorized place, in the Talmud or the Sanhedrin, or there is no prohibition. You cannot prohibit things just because it seems right to you.

So here it is one of two things. If I understand that they forbade leather sandals, and the rationale was that this gives pleasure or something like that, then we do not derive Jewish law from the reason for a verse—even in a rabbinic prohibition. And then Teva Naot would be permitted. If we understand that they did not really forbid leather sandals at all; what they forbade was comfortable and respectable sandals, which in their time happened to be leather sandals, that is something else. Then one would also have to forbid today’s Teva Naot. You see the warm-clothing example. This is exactly the reasoning of the Bigdei Cham. Okay? In such a place I am not really changing anything; I am simply applying the same law that tells me not to wear respectable and comfortable sandals, except that under today’s circumstances that means not leather sandals but Teva Naot sandals. So that is not change. On the contrary, it is the correct application of the law established by the ancient religious court. Someone who continues to walk around in Teva Naot while forbidding leather sandals is violating the law. He is the one changing it, not me. Because the law did not say to wear warm clothing; it did not obligate warm clothing. It obligated clothing suited to the weather, as I said in previous sessions. Okay? Who said such a thing is change?

Another example: Jewish law—this is a Torah-level law—forbids eating animals with fatal defects, non-kosher due to mortal defects. Now there is a list in the sages, a list of such fatal defects in the sages. What happens if today we know that one of those listed defects is not actually fatal? But there is something else, another disease or defect in animals, that I know is fatal, that the animal will die within twelve months. Am I changing the laws of fatal defects? That depends. In Maimonides, by the way, there is a difference between fatal defects in humans and fatal defects in animals on this issue, but I’m speaking on the conceptual level. It depends.

If I hold that the prohibition on eating is not about the sages’ list of defects, but rather the prohibition is to eat an animal that has such a defect as would cause it to die within twelve months, then if I know today of something else, or if something else exists today, that too would be forbidden to the same extent. If I know that there is a defect listed by the sages that in fact does not cause the animal to die within twelve months, then it would be permitted. That is not a change of the law at all. The law did not forbid this list of defects; the law forbade any animal that will die within twelve months. So now one must determine which animal dies within twelve months. That is one possibility.

A second possibility: no, the law prohibited this list of fatal defects; the reason was that it thought these are the things that would cause the animal to die within twelve months. But that is only the reason for the prohibition; the prohibition is on this list of fatal defects. It is very difficult, of course—every rabbinic decree and every Torah prohibition can, of course, be interpreted one way or the other. It is very hard to prove whether the prohibition is the rationale, or whether the prohibition is the halakhic definition itself and the rationale is only the reason for the prohibition. You can say it this way and you can say it that way. But the fact is that the medieval authorities (Rishonim) often make precisely these kinds of considerations. They use this kind of consideration to change laws.

All right, let’s take a three-minute break. We’ve already passed the halfway point of the lecture, and we’ll come back afterward. We see here that truth sometimes needs help from above in order to reveal itself in a world full of falsehood and cynicism. And that is our task: to see the true face in every

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] thing. There may be one more final remark on this issue. In the argument in favor of change

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] There’s generally some assumption that the factual circumstances will change. Like what I talked about regarding qualifying women as witnesses and so on—the claim is that the factual circumstances have changed, and therefore the argument arises that women should be accepted as witnesses. Or, the nature of the gentiles has changed, and therefore one should relate to gentiles differently. That’s a relatively easy case. Why? Because here this is basically what’s called a change in human nature, a change in reality itself. What happens when the norms change, or the standards change? For example, today it’s accepted to relate to women in an equal way, or at least a more equal way. Now that’s not a factual change; it’s a value change. The question is whether that kind of change too can serve as a basis for arguing in favor of changing Jewish law. That’s much more far-reaching. Because the whole discussion I opened with, with the swimsuits, and the claim there was that the conservative change, as I called it, is not really a change. It’s a continuation of those same halakhic values and norms of the Torah under the new circumstances that have arisen. So I’m continuing the same norm. It’s just that under the new circumstances, the application of the norms has to be carried out differently, because the circumstances today are different. But when I’m talking about a value change, with a value change the situation is completely different. So in what sense am I continuing anything? What am I doing—making up a new Torah? Say, equality for women—I believe in equality for women. Now suppose there are non-equal Jewish laws. Okay, let’s say there are non-equal Jewish laws. Now the question is what I do with that. Can I say, okay, but today equality for women is a very, very important value, the situation has changed, and therefore Jewish law should be changed? You understand that the logic I’ve been talking about until now is not relevant to this. Because all the logic I’ve talked about until now is a logic that points to applying the same value, the same norm, under different factual circumstances. And therefore different conduct is required. Here I’m saying to change the norm itself. Now what does that mean? After all, I serve the Holy One, blessed be He, not the spirit blowing around me, the value-laden spirit blowing around me. So what possible justification could there be for this kind of change?

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Now here it gets delicate. Because in principle—meaning, there are situations in which this value change indirectly leads to a legitimate halakhic argument. Let’s say that since today women’s status is different, and the accepted way of relating to them is more equal, then depriving them of something today hurts them much more than it hurt women in the past. And now someone might come and say: what people did in the past was because the injury was small, but today the injury is great, and therefore today one should not do it. You understand that here I am indeed relying on a change that is a normative value change, not a factual change—but the argument for changing Jewish law does not rely only on that. Rather, that value change created a factual change. Because now a woman is hurt more by what I do. Now that’s already a factual change. In the past a woman was hurt less; today she is hurt more. So true, this halakhic change—this halakhic or value change, sorry, this factual one—is rooted in a value change, but the logic of change in Jewish law does not rely on the value change. I’m not claiming one should relate to a woman differently because it’s very important to relate to her equally. That’s an argument for a value change. I’m saying no, no, no—it’s not important at all to relate to her equally. Jewish law is unequal and that’s excellent; we have to be chauvinists. But what? I want to argue that since women today are in fact more hurt by this—true, that’s because of the value change, but bottom line, factually they are more hurt by it—then a factual change has occurred here. Once a factual change has occurred, then that can indeed serve as a basis for halakhic change. Therefore I’m not talking about that type of argument; that belongs to the previous logic, factual change. I don’t care that this factual change is the result of other things. Bottom line, a factual change occurred here.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I’m talking about a case where I want to change the halakhic value, period. Not apply it differently, not that a change in values projects onto a change in facts, but the change is a value change. I believe in equality for women, and therefore Jewish laws established on a non-equal basis should be abolished. The question is whether there is room for such an argument. That already sounds very, very far-reaching, even if you accept everything I’ve said until now. A lot of people will say that even what I said until now is very, very far-reaching, but it seems to me that when you listen to the arguments, you see that it’s not far-reaching at all—it’s obvious and called for. But this really is far-reaching. Whom do we serve? The values current in contemporary Europe? We serve the Holy One, blessed be He. If there is a non-equal value in the Torah—meaning, the Torah does not advocate equality—then in whose name am I changing Jewish law? How can I change Jewish law in the name of equality? What religious status does the value of equality have when the Torah itself tells me not to be equal? As far as I’m concerned, there is no room for such a principle, no room for such a proposal for change.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] But even here it’s not so glatt—why? Or not a clear case. Why? Because how do I know the Torah is not egalitarian? If I’m talking about laws explicitly written in the Torah, that’s one discussion. If I’m talking about laws that are either rabbinic laws, or interpretation, or rabbinic exposition of the Torah done by the Sages—here it becomes more delicate. Because the Sages clearly expounded the Torah in light of the value-world in which they lived. And if I now want to change that because I live in a different value-world, I’m not changing the values of the Torah; I’m changing Jewish law as it was established according to the values that existed in the world of the Sages. Who says that can’t be done? I’ll give you an example, an example we already discussed: qualifying women as witnesses. The fact that a woman is disqualified from testimony is not written anywhere in the Torah. It’s a Torah-level law, but it’s not written anywhere in the Torah. Where do they learn it from? It’s a Talmudic passage in tractate Shevuot. They derive it from “And the two men who have the dispute shall stand before the Lord”—men and not women. I already talked about how this is a very dubious derivation, problematic in many respects; on the face of it, it’s really absurd. But that’s how the Talmud interprets it. Now precisely because the derivation is so dubious, as I talked about then, suspicion arises—or this is at least a hint—that when the Sages disqualified women from testimony, they didn’t just take the verse and make a derivation from it and that was that, as a tabula rasa, a blank slate. They had an interest in disqualifying women from testimony—not an interest in the sense of self-interest. They genuinely thought a woman should be disqualified from testimony for their own reasons. Never mind what they were at the moment—say, the consideration of “all glorious is the king’s daughter within,” or never mind, “women are light-minded,” whatever you want. That’s not the point right now. But they had some consideration, and they inserted it into Jewish law through the derivation. That basically means the derivation is not self-standing. This derivation is based on a value assumption. But that value assumption does not originate in the Torah; it originates with the Sages. The Sage who made this derivation relied on a value conception that he had. Now if my conception is different from his conception, why can’t I change it? I’m not talking right now about the question of authority. If it was established in the Talmud, then there’s the issue of authority, and whether it needs a court greater in wisdom and number or not, doesn’t matter. But all the rules of change apply here. I’m talking now about the principled question. Setting aside the issue of authority—I’m the Sanhedrin now, I have the authority—but I still want to do the right thing. So here there is a very important point: in a place where the value that I want to change—and again, I want to change the value, not to apply the same one differently—in a place where the change of the value, or the value I want to change, is a value of the Sages, not a value of the Torah, I do not see holiness in that. The Sages have no authority in the value sphere.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] When the Sages determine that these are the right values, I can decline to accept that. Why? They have no authority in the realm of values. More than that, I assume that their values too were influenced by the environment in which they lived and functioned, and by the period in which they lived and functioned. Today the time is different, and different values prevail here now—values that I also identify with, not only because they prevail; I genuinely identify with them. But I know that my identification is, among other things, because I live within this period, within my people I dwell. But that is true of the Sages as well. They too identified with those values because they lived in the place and time in which they lived. Now if that is so, I see no reason not to make a value change as well—not only a factual change, or not only the application required by a factual change. Say I learn some value from an aggadic passage in the Talmud, not from a halakhic section, from aggadah. Am I obligated to conduct my life according to that value? I claim not. The Talmud has authority in the laws it establishes, but the authority was given to it where it was given, and if authority was not given to it, then no. If the Talmud had taken that value, translated it into Jewish law, and established a halakhic prohibition or halakhic commandment, that would be something else, because it has authority for its halakhic determinations. But where the Talmud says one should be humble, and I think in fact one should be arrogant—that’s what I think, okay?—so long as they didn’t establish it as Jewish law, it does not obligate me. The values the Sages state are not values that obligate me. I accepted their halakhic rulings, not their value-world. Of course I do accept the value-world of the Torah, but I don’t know what the value-world of the Torah is unless I interpret the Torah. But the fact that the Sages thought that a certain thing has value or lacks value—that is their thought; it does not make it a value of the Torah. Therefore here, although a value change really does look like something that’s already Reform, something that can no longer fit into an Orthodox conceptual or halakhic framework faithful to Jewish law, I think even that is not accurate. A value change also has a place.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay, and with that I’m basically finishing—but I’m finishing this segment about change in Jewish law. But I want to leverage this last point to open the next topic. And I want to talk about the relation between norms and facts. I was just talking about that now, right? Factual change and halakhic change. We’ll see that this is basically a kind of translation of what I just did, what I just analyzed. Let’s look at a Talmudic passage through the lens of halakhic change, still kind of within the realm of halakhic change, even though I’ve moved to a new topic—I’m connecting the two topics. There’s a passage in tractate Bava Batra 5a. The Talmud establishes there a presumption that a person does not repay within the allotted time. Right? Say I sue someone over a loan I gave him, and he says, “I repaid it.” So if he says—let’s say the loan was given for 30 days, and I sue him after 50 days, and he says, “I repaid you a week ago,” then he’s believed. Why is he believed? Because the time of repayment has passed, and the one seeking to extract payment—that’s me, I want him to pay me—the burden of proof is on the claimant. Okay, so he is believed. What happens if he claims “I repaid”—if I sue him not after 50 days but after 20 days? He says to me, “I repaid you a week ago.” The Talmud says he is not believed. Why is he not believed? Because if he had the money for 30 days, it’s not reasonable that he would repay after two weeks. A person who has the money for 30 days keeps it as long as he can keep it. People do not repay debts before they have to do so. And therefore, if he claims he repaid within the time, he is not believed, because there is a presumption that a person does not—does not repay within the allotted time. Of course this is not an absolute presumption. If he proves that he repaid, we’ll accept it; it’s not an absurd claim. But the burden of proof is on him. And if he wants to claim that he repaid within the time, that is an unreasonable claim, so the burden of proof is on him. Okay? That’s what the Talmud says. Now let’s assume that in our period a situation suddenly arises where people do repay within the allotted time, for all kinds of reasons. For example, after all, today people lend with interest. They call it a sale permit for business investment and so on, all the devices and legal fictions—but bottom line, we lend and borrow with interest, at least from the bank. Okay? If someone took a mortgage from the bank and suddenly received a large inheritance, it is definitely reasonable.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I think there’s a siren here. I’m not sure, but I think so.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Just one second.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] A siren, right?

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Okay friends, I’m stopping here. We’re actually going to stop completely, because you have to stay in the safe room for ten minutes. All the best. If there’s a siren where you are, pay attention, go in as well. Goodbye, see you next week.

[Rabbi Michael Abraham] In a place where the custom is to do labor on Passover eves until noon, they may do so; in a place where the custom is not to do labor, they may not do so. One who goes from a place where they do labor to a place where they do not, or from a place where they do not to a place where they do, they impose upon him the stringencies of the place he left and the stringencies of the place he went to. And a person should not deviate because of dispute. The Mishnah in the chapter “In a Place Where They Customarily,” in tractate Pesachim, 50a, deals with the laws of customs. The Talmud opens by clarifying the basis of local custom. Why are there really differences between places? After all, the Torah is one! Rather, there are matters that Jewish law left to communal custom. On Passover eve, strictly speaking, it is permitted to do labor until noon. From noon onward it is forbidden, because that is the time of the Passover offering. But there were places that adopted a stringency for themselves and did not do labor the entire day. A person who moves from place to place must be careful not to create dispute. If he comes from a place where the custom is to be lenient to a place where the custom is to be stringent, he must be stringent like them in public so that he should not appear to separate himself from the community. If he comes from a place where they are stringent to a place where they are lenient, he still keeps his own stringency, because he accepted upon himself the custom of his original place, but he does it privately so that he should not appear to be acting superior to the people of the new place. This is the great rule of “a person should not deviate because of dispute.” Peace is the vessel that holds blessing for Israel, and preserving local customs and the unity of the community is a supreme value in the service of God. Have a good week, everyone. We are at the threshold of the month of Adar. “When Adar enters, we increase joy.” What is the meaning of this joy? Joy is the remedy for Amalek. Amalek is doubt. “Who happened upon you on the way”—he is the one who cools things off. He takes the heat of holiness and tries to turn it into something ordinary, something random. The war against Amalek is the war for certainty of faith. On Purim we discover that everything is under individual providence, even when it looks like chance. Therefore we increase joy, because joy stems from the knowledge that the Holy One, blessed be He, is always with us. May we merit a good and blessed month. We must cling to the traits of our forefather Abraham, open our homes and our hearts to every person, and understand that every small act of kindness we do below effects tremendous actions in the higher worlds. Later in the Torah portion we see the greatest test of our forefather Abraham, the binding of Isaac. After all the years in which he spread the trait of kindness, the Holy One, blessed be He, asks him to offer up his only son as a burnt offering. This is service of God at the level of absolute self-sacrifice. Abraham does not hesitate; he rises early in the morning—“And Abraham arose early in the morning”—and hastens to fulfill the will of the Creator. Here the wondrous combination of the trait of kindness and the trait of awe is revealed. The angel says to him, “Now I know that you are a God-fearing man.” Our Sages explain that the tenth trial seals the entire course of Abraham’s life. In the portion about Sodom too we see the power of Abraham’s prayer. He stands before the Lord and asks for mercy on the wicked: “Perhaps there are fifty righteous people within the city.” He teaches us that a Jew must pray for everyone, even for those who seem very far away. The Torah tells us about Sarah’s laughter when she heard the tidings, and about the great miracle of Isaac’s birth at the age of one hundred. This teaches that nothing is impossible for the Lord. Everything can change in a single moment if only we believe. The service of God of Abraham and Sarah established the Jewish people, and each of us carries within us this heritage of kindness, faith, and self-sacrifice. Some say that women’s obligation is only to hear and not to read, and therefore they cannot discharge men’s obligation. On this matter, the Rema in section 689 cites the opinion of the BaHaG and writes that the custom is that a woman does not discharge men’s obligation. He further adds that women recite the blessing “to hear the reading of the Megillah” and not “concerning the reading of the Megillah,” in order to satisfy all opinions that their obligation is hearing. On the other hand, the Shulchan Arukh ruled that a woman can discharge men’s obligation, but in practice we are stringent. A similar law applies to a minor who has reached the age of education. Although a minor is obligated in commandments on the rabbinic level, he cannot discharge the obligation of an adult, whose obligation in the Megillah is also rabbinic. The reason is that the minor’s obligation stems from the law of education, and this is considered a double rabbinic level, and therefore he is not considered obligated in relation to the adult. All these rules of “one who hears is like one who answers” depend on the one making the blessing being obligated in the commandment at least on the same level as the one hearing. If the one making the blessing is a minor or a deaf person or an incompetent person, who are not legally obligated, they cannot discharge the obligation of the public. Likewise, intention is required. The one making the blessing must intend to discharge the listeners, and the listeners must intend to fulfill their obligation. For blessings over enjoyment, the rule is that a person does not discharge his fellow’s obligation unless he himself is benefiting, because with these blessings the principle of mutual responsibility does not apply in the same way as with blessings over commandments. An exception to this is the sanctification of the day, where one can discharge others’ obligation in the blessing over the wine even without tasting, because the blessing is part of the commandment of kiddush. In the end, the foundation of all blessings is that all Israel are responsible for one another, and that is what enables us to discharge one another’s obligations in commandments. One should know that according to the Mishnah Berurah in section 682, if a person forgot “For the miracles” and remembered before saying “Blessed are You, Lord, Your name is goodness and to You it is fitting to give thanks,” he goes back and says “For the miracles.” But if he already said “Blessed are You, Lord,” he completes the blessing and does not go back. The same applies in Grace after Meals: if he forgot “For the miracles,” he does not go back, but he can say it in the Harachaman section: “May the Merciful One perform for us miracles and wonders just as You performed for our forefathers.” That is the law. The reason is that “For the miracles” is thanksgiving for the miracle, and it is not part of the body of the blessing in a way that prevents fulfillment. This is unlike “Accept and strengthen us” on the Sabbath or “May there rise and come” on a Jewish holiday, where the mention is required by strict law because the meal is obligatory. On Hanukkah and Purim, the meal is optional or a commandment, but not absolutely obligatory like on the Sabbath, and therefore if one forgot, he does not go back. And this is the basic rule that appears in the Talmud and the legal authorities: wherever there is an obligation to eat bread, such as on the Sabbath and festivals, mention of the occasion in Grace after Meals is indispensable. But in a place where there is no obligation to eat bread, such as on Rosh Chodesh and on Hanukkah and Purim, the omission does not invalidate the blessing after the fact. Regarding prayer, the law depends on the additional offering. Every day that has an additional offering, mention of the day in prayer is indispensable, because it is a day of added holiness and a change in the order of prayer. Therefore on the Sabbath and on Rosh Chodesh one repeats, but on Hanukkah and Purim, which have no additional offering, one does not repeat. Very good. Now, gentlemen, the Talmud in tractate Berakhot 5a says: A person should always incite the good inclination against the evil inclination, as it is said, “Tremble and do not sin.” If he overcomes it, good; and if not, let him engage in Torah, as it is said, “Speak in your hearts.” If he overcomes it, good; and if not, let him recite the Shema, as it is said, “Upon your beds.” If he overcomes it, good; and if not, let him remind himself of the day of death, as it is said, “And be still, selah.” The commentators ask: why does the Talmud state it in this order? Why not tell a person right away: remind yourself that one day you will die, and then you won’t sin? After all, that’s the most effective. Rather, the Torah wants a person to defeat the evil inclination through the power of Torah and the power of holiness. The day of death is only when there is no other choice. The Holy One, blessed be He, desires life; He wants us to use our life-forces in order to overcome. And that is the meaning of “When you go out to war against your enemies”—to go out to war with the evil inclination מתוך a movement of life, through action, through study. “And the Lord your God will deliver him into your hand”—then victory is assured. May God help us all merit to stand in trials and win this war with joy and gladness of heart. With heavenly assistance, today we will study the Talmud in tractate Sanhedrin 91a. The Talmud there discusses resurrection of the dead from the Torah. The Caesar said to Rabban Gamliel: You say that the dead live again; but they are dust, and does dust live? His daughter said to him: Leave him, and I will answer him. We have two craftsmen in our city, one fashions from water and one from clay—which of them is superior? He said to her: The one who fashions from water. She said to him: If one can fashion from water, then from clay all the more so. So we see that the matter is an a fortiori argument: can one who created from water not create from dust? This is the foundation of belief in the resurrection of the dead.