Ein Aya – Lesson 24

Table of Contents

• The story of Hezekiah, Isaiah, and prayer in the face of a decree
• Rabbi Kook’s interpretation: prophecy, temporal life, and eternal life
• The Talmud in Sabbath: eternal life versus temporal life, and Rashi’s explanation
• Rabbi Kook’s shift in the concept: two equally valid ways of looking
• Rules in Jewish law versus local decision-making: “we do not derive from general rules”
• Exceptions to halakhic ruling rules: Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, Abaye and Rava, and Maimonides
• Rulings in extreme situations and direct understanding of a situation
• The priority of the specific, “a transgression for its own sake,” and the casuistic structure of the Talmud
• Be fruitful and multiply after the destruction: Bava Batra and limiting the rules
• The boundaries of anarchy: responsibility, fear of Heaven, and comparison to conscientious objection
• The difference between Jewish law and secular law: the laws of bailees and the oath

Summary

General Overview

The lecture continues the story of Hezekiah and Isaiah, together with Rabbi Kook’s interpretation in Ein Ayah, section 138, and sets up the tension between prophecy and prayer through the concepts of “eternal life” and “temporal life.” Hezekiah justifies prayer even in the face of a prophetic decree, and Rabbi Kook explains that prophecy is faithful to the eternal process of cause and effect, whereas prayer operates on the present moment and can move a decree aside, and then be woven back into the unfolding of reality. From there, a broader position is developed regarding the Torah’s relation to rules: rules are a general perspective and a default setting, but decision-making in particular cases rests on a local understanding of the topic or the situation, to the point of deviating from the rules, similar to “a transgression for its own sake” and rulings in extreme situations, all with responsibility and fear of Heaven.

The story of Hezekiah, Isaiah, and prayer in the face of a decree

Hezekiah refrained from fulfilling the commandment to be fruitful and multiply because he saw through divine inspiration that an unworthy son would come from him—Manasseh. Isaiah answers him, “What business do you have with the secrets of the Merciful One?” and instructs him to do the commandment without making calculations about the future. Later, Hezekiah asks Isaiah, “Give me your daughter,” so that “perhaps my merit and your merit together will cause worthy children to come from me.” Isaiah tells him that a decree has already been issued against him. Hezekiah replies, “Son of Amoz, finish your prophecy and leave,” relying on the tradition that “even if a sharp sword rests upon a person’s neck, he should not refrain from mercy”—that is, from prayer.

Rabbi Kook’s interpretation: prophecy, temporal life, and eternal life

Rabbi Kook states that “the decree is fundamentally grounded according to the value of the chain of eternity,” meaning according to the chain of causes and effects in the course of reality. He adds that “the hand of God also grasps the course of the present in order to align it for good,” meaning that God also acts in the present moment in order to detach it from what follows necessarily from prior causes, and then “bind it back with them afterward” within the course of unfolding reality. He defines this as “the quality of prayer, which is called temporal life,” and explains Hezekiah’s response, “finish your prophecy and leave,” as the claim that prophecy is true from the perspective of eternity, but there is also a mode of governance of “temporal life,” in which prayer “also moves aside the decree that proceeds from the aspect of eternity.” About that it is said: “My times are in Your hand.”

The Talmud in Sabbath: eternal life versus temporal life, and Rashi’s explanation

The source for the expression “temporal life” appears in Sabbath 10a, where Rava sees Rav Hamnuna prolonging his prayer and says, “They are setting aside eternal life and engaging in temporal life.” The Talmud explains that Rav Hamnuna held that “the time for prayer is separate, and the time for Torah is separate.” Rashi explains that “eternal life” means Torah, while “prayer is a need of temporal life—for healing, peace, and sustenance.” From this, the speaker describes an approach in which prayer is understood as requesting needs, as opposed to Torah as an activity pursued for its own sake. In that same passage, there is also the story in which Rabbi Zeira applies to Rabbi Yirmiyah the verse, “If one turns away his ear from hearing Torah, even his prayer is an abomination,” when Rabbi Yirmiyah resists getting up to go pray in the middle of learning.

Rabbi Kook’s shift in the concept: two equally valid ways of looking

Rabbi Kook interprets “temporal life” not as a lower realm of needs, but as a way of viewing the present detached from the chain of causality, whereas “eternal life” is the comprehensive perspective of lawfulness, cause and effect, and Torah-prophecy. The speaker argues that according to Rabbi Kook there is no hierarchy here of higher and lower, but rather two modes of divine governance, and that specifically “temporal life” is capable of changing a moment that seems necessitated by its context and establishing a new reality. The speaker emphasizes that after the momentary change brought by prayer, that change is once again absorbed into the course of reality, and therefore prayer changes even the future that seemed required by causality.

Rules in Jewish law versus local decision-making: “we do not derive from general rules”

The speaker presents a qualified attitude toward rules of halakhic ruling and interpretation, and argues that the halakhic tradition prefers deciding from within the case rather than submitting to a rule. He cites from Kiddushin the principle, “we do not derive from general rules, even in a place where it says ‘except,’” in relation to women’s obligation in the Hakhel assembly, and emphasizes that this is said even when the rule is formulated in a precise way. He uses this to argue that there is no need to pile on explanations for exceptions, and that at times rules are only approximations and defaults.

Exceptions to halakhic ruling rules: Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, Abaye and Rava, and Maimonides

The speaker describes cases in which Amoraim rule like Beit Shammai even though “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel,” and even though it is said that “the words of Beit Shammai in the place of Beit Hillel are not Mishnah.” He suggests that someone with a well-founded position can choose that way even against a rule. He cites the rule that the Jewish law follows Rava except for the six cases signaled by the mnemonic Ya’al Kegam, and argues that Maimonides rules like Abaye in additional places as well. He explains this as reflecting the understanding that the rule is a recommendation for someone who has no internal decision of his own. He distinguishes between a rule of halakhic ruling and an explicit decision in the Talmud, and argues that the medieval authorities (Rishonim) can depart from rules when the local passage points in a different direction.

Rulings in extreme situations and direct understanding of a situation

The speaker brings an example from the Kovno Ghetto in the name of Davar Avraham, who instructed yeshiva students not to eat legumes on Passover despite the danger of starvation, on the grounds that in any case they would die, and if they gave themselves over in self-sacrifice, perhaps the Holy One, blessed be He, would have mercy on them. He argues that such a ruling does not stand up to an ordinary halakhic test, but stems from an unmediated understanding of the situation. He adds a discussion about women singing, and argues that the decision depends on understanding the situation and on whether the prohibition is meant to prevent erotic thoughts. He presents Rabbi Ovadia as an exception, someone who understood the cultural world. He connects this to the idea that a local decision can override the technical application of a rule when the halakhic decisor does not really inhabit the reality.

The priority of the specific, “a transgression for its own sake,” and the casuistic structure of the Talmud

The speaker compares the preference for the case over the rule to the principle of lex specialis, and argues that the specific norm overrides the general one. He presents “a transgression for its own sake” as referring to extreme situations in which an ordinary person understands what is right to do even without explicit halakhic permission, and brings Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite as an example of an act that was required at a particular moment. He argues that the very structure of the Talmud is casuistic and based more on cases than on rules, compares British law to German law, and cites from Bava Kamma the question, “What additional case does the common denominator come to include?” as proof that even when a rule appears, the Talmud treats it as a tool for adding a case and not as the main thing.

Be fruitful and multiply after the destruction: Bava Batra and limiting the rules

The speaker returns to the commandment to be fruitful and multiply, and presents from Bava Batra the words of Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha: “It would be proper for us to decree upon ourselves” not to eat meat and not to drink wine, but “we do not impose a decree upon the community unless most of the community can endure it.” He adds the sharp continuation: because of the decrees of the kingdom, “it would be proper for us to decree upon ourselves not to marry a woman and not to have children, and then the seed of Abraham would come to an end on its own.” Then comes the rationale: “Rather, leave Israel alone; it is better that they be unwitting than deliberate sinners.” He emphasizes that the second formulation presents a prohibition that is not stated publicly, so as not to turn the public into deliberate sinners, and from this he suggests that temporal life may override the obligation to be fruitful and multiply in an extreme historical reality.

The boundaries of anarchy: responsibility, fear of Heaven, and comparison to conscientious objection

A question is raised: how do you keep “temporal life” from becoming a license for everyone to rule for himself all the time? The speaker answers that the rules are the default, and deviation from them is justified only when it is completely clear that in this situation the rule should not be applied. He explains that the filter is fear of Heaven and the knowledge that the person stands before the judgment of the Holy One, blessed be He. He compares this to the way a legal system limits conscientious objection by means of a price the objector is prepared to pay. He distinguishes between a manifestly illegal order and conscientious objection, argues that there is moral value in the willingness to pay a price for deviating, and adds that in the world of Jewish law there is a “metaphysical backing” that prevents the system from collapsing even without practical punishment.

The difference between Jewish law and secular law: the laws of bailees and the oath

The speaker argues that it is hard to import halakhic norms into state law, and gives as an example the laws of bailees, in which the monetary ruling depends on an oath. He explains that in a secular system there is no binding equivalent to an oath in God’s name and to the religious dimension of deterrence, and therefore even a prosaic field like contract law receives in Jewish law a theological component that prevents direct transplantation. He concludes by saying that the tension between temporal life and eternal life returns even to conceptual Talmudic study itself, as a movement of running and returning between local decision and general rules, with only limited trust in rules even when they appear in the Talmud and in the halakhic decisors.

We’re at section 138 of Ein Ayah, which is really a continuation that obviously deals with the story of Hezekiah and Isaiah. In the meantime it’s even gone up on my website in the form of the previous lecture’s column. So let’s see. Just to remind ourselves: there there’s a discussion between Isaiah and Hezekiah about Hezekiah’s conduct—his refraining from procreation because of the concern that he saw through divine inspiration that a son unworthy of him would come from his loins, Manasseh. And then Isaiah says to him, “What have you to do with the hidden decrees of the Merciful One? You do what you are commanded, and don’t occupy yourself with forecasts about the future based on divine inspiration.” And we spoke a bit about the meaning of the give-and-take between them—what Isaiah argued, what Hezekiah accepted from that. But later in the story Hezekiah asks Isaiah—I’m reading now from the Talmudic text above on the page I shared—he said to him: “Give me your daughter. Give me your daughter as a wife. Perhaps my merit and your merit together will cause worthy children to come from me.” Meaning, our merits will combine and maybe after all a righteous son will come from me. He said to him: “A decree has already been issued against you.” In other words, it won’t help. So he said to him: “Son of Amotz, finish your prophecy and leave.” So Hezekiah sends Isaiah out of the room—that’s the accepted understanding—“I have received this tradition from my father’s father’s house: even if a sharp sword is resting on a person’s neck, he should not refrain from asking for mercy.” And then in fact he prays there, and in the end he merits additional years. The rest of the story we won’t deal with now.

Okay, so now Rav Kook writes about this as follows: “The decree is grounded primarily in the chain of eternity, where causes relate to their effects”—it probably should read “their effects,” meaning according to the course of reality. “But the hand of God, may He be blessed, also grasps the course of the present, to align it for the good apart from the ties of previous causes, and afterward bind it back together with them. And this is the virtue of prayer, which is called ‘temporary life.’ Therefore, when he told him, as a prophet, of the decree that extends from the power of prophecy, that there is in reality an eternal mode of governance parallel to it”—that’s what Isaiah says to Hezekiah—“Hezekiah said to him in reply: ‘Finish your prophecy and leave.’ The prophecy is true in terms of eternity alone, but there is also ‘temporary life,’ about which David said, ‘My times are in Your hand,’ and its power to help is prayer, which elevates a person in his present condition and also removes the decree that proceeds from eternity.”

All right. So I’ll explain a bit what he’s writing here. He’s really contrasting two forms of relating. One is prophecy—and we already spoke about the relation between king and prophet—but here it’s actually prophecy versus prayer. And he says that prophecy basically looks at reality from a perspective that sees chains of cause and effect, some course of a chain of links of cause and effect, a broad course of reality that basically dictates each time what is expected to happen according to the accepted rules.

That’s what he says: “The decree is grounded primarily…” The decree is what Isaiah said, that a decree had already been issued. “…in the chain of eternity, where causes relate to their effects according to the course of reality.” In other words, the decree expressed by Isaiah, who is a prophet, basically looks at cause-and-effect relations that govern reality through the ordinary laws. But “the hand of God, may He be blessed, also grasps the course of the present”—what does that mean? The moment. Not eternity in the ongoing unfolding, but the… moment, as it stands on its own. “To align it for the good apart from the ties of previous causes”—meaning, to take it and turn it into something better than what the preceding causes dictated. In other words, if we went strictly by cause-and-effect relations, there ought to be a problem, there ought to be something bad. But there is some mode of divine relation—“the hand of God, may He be blessed”—that touches the present moment and disconnects it from the unfolding of causes. “And afterward bind it back together with them.” That is, something happens, and then God replants it into the historical chain of causality. “And this is the virtue of prayer, which is called temporary life.” He means the Talmud in Shabbat—we’ll see it in a moment. Prayer is called “temporary life,” and Rav Kook says prayer is called “temporary life” because prayer is what is responsible for looking at the moment independently of causes and of cause-and-effect relations.

Therefore, when he told him, as a prophet, about the decree that extends from the power of prophecy—Isaiah gives him the prophetic perspective. The prophetic perspective says what is going to happen to him according to prophecy, according to the course of causes and effects—“that there is in reality an eternal mode of governance parallel to it,” meaning that in parallel to prophecy there is some kind of mode in which reality is conducted. Just as prophecy sees the process as a whole, reality is conducted from some comprehensive perspective: general laws, cause-and-effect relations. And then Hezekiah says to him: “Finish your prophecy and leave.” Why? “The prophecy is true in terms of eternity alone.” That means prophecy is true when you look from the eternal perspective, the long-term perspective, the perspective of cause-and-effect relations. “But there is also temporary life.” And there is a possibility of deviating from these cause-and-effect relations by means of prayer. That is why prayer is called “temporary life,” because prayer deals with the moment and detaches it from the cause-and-effect relations.

“About which David said: ‘My times are in Your hand.’” “My times,” meaning my moment, right? My moment is in Your hand, in the hand of the Holy One, blessed be He. By the power of prayer, the Holy One, blessed be He, can take this moment and do with it something contrary to what causes and effects dictate should be. “And its power to help is prayer, which elevates a person in his present condition”—that is, it takes him from his present state when he prays, lifts him out of causal influence, out of what the circumstances should have caused for him—and prayer takes him out of that and “also removes the decree that proceeds from eternity.” And therefore it removes the decree that cause-and-effect relations were about to bring upon us. The decrees here were that his son would turn out wicked and that he himself was about to die. Those decrees are what follows from cause-and-effect relations, and prayer can change that.

And that is what Hezekiah meant when he said that even if a sharp sword rests on a person’s neck, he should not refrain from asking for mercy. For “mercy,” as we remember—“he sought mercy”—in the Talmud “mercy” means prayer. “He should not refrain from asking for mercy” means he should not refrain from prayer, which of course brings mercy and can change the decree, the decree that had been pronounced by Isaiah.

Okay. Before I go a bit deeper into this—and by the way there’s a fascinating interpretation here—the source for these words is a Talmud in tractate Shabbat. The Talmud in tractate Shabbat 10a—we’ll try to look at it now. One second, I’m just muting so there won’t be interruptions. Okay.

Now I’m sharing the Talmud in tractate Shabbat 10a. The Talmud here discusses preparations for prayer—what the various amoraim used to do in preparing for prayer. In the course of that appears the following story, one of my favorites, even though it’s aggadah. Naturally it’s dear to me the way aggadot are dear to people, because it says what I think. Rava saw Rav Hamnuna prolonging his prayer. Rava saw Rav Hamnuna praying at length. He said: “They abandon eternal life and occupy themselves with temporary life.” Meaning: what are you busy with temporary life for? What is temporary life? Prayer. Go study. You’re neglecting Torah. You’re dragging out prayer. It’s just neglect of Torah. You abandon eternal life and occupy yourself with temporary life.

There’s a certain story—the Rogatchover, right? I once wrote an article on the figure of the rabbi, and there I suggested some thesis that contrary to what we usually think—that the rabbi provides a service to the community, which is of course true, not that it’s a false view—there’s also a kind of opposite perspective, and I think it’s very important not to ignore it: that the community basically exists for the rabbi, in order… and I mentioned this one of the previous times. In any case, in the background there I made an interesting comparison—actually I’d say amusing—between two rabbis who were in the city of Dvinsk: the Ohr Sameach and Meshekh Chokhmah, Rabbi Meir Simcha, and the Rogatchover. Meshekh Chokhmah had a pleasant countenance and was a people-person, asked everyone how they were, talked to people, showed interest, did what a rabbi is supposed to do in his community. And the Rogatchover—nobody saw him. He would come to prayer; if the cantor delayed even a little he’d say, “Nu, nu, nu, nu, nu, I have to get back to studying already, stop this neglect of Torah,” and then immediately rushed back. Didn’t answer anyone, ignored everybody, kind of an anti-social type. Okay, that’s just in our context.

The interesting point is that the Rogatchover was the rabbi of the Hasidim, and the Ohr Sameach was the rabbi of the Litvaks, the Misnagdim. And here, on this matter, I really admire the Rogatchover in this context, and I think Rava—again, not that the Ohr Sameach behaved improperly, of course—but there’s an aspect here that I think is very, very important. It’s not as lowly or worthy of condemnation as it may seem at first glance. But that’s in the article there.

In any event, here Rava basically does the same thing. He sees Rav Hamnuna extending prayer and rebukes him: “You abandon eternal life and occupy yourself with temporary life.” Go study. What are you bothering with prayer for? Prayer is for pietists, not for… we have to study. Fine, there is an obligation to pray—do it quickly and move on. And during the reader’s repetition too you can study a little so as not to neglect Torah there either. So yes, there’s a certain rebuke here. But this is the source Rav Kook means when he says that the Sages call prayer “temporary life.” What does that mean?

If you look at Rashi here—why prayer is called life—this is actually the straightforward interpretation. Rashi says: “Eternal life”—Torah. “Prayer”—it serves the needs of temporary life: for healing, peace, and sustenance. Prayer means requests. What do you need prayer for? Prayer is for healing, peace, sustenance. You ask the Holy One, blessed be He, for various needs of yours. Torah is something done for its own sake. It is service of God not because you need something, but service of God for its own sake. Therefore Torah is eternal life and prayer is temporary life. Don’t occupy yourself too much with prayer; you should engage in eternal life. You should serve for its own sake, not in order to gain various things.

By the way, it’s a very interesting outlook on prayer, even in this explanation—Rav Kook interprets it differently, by the way—but even in this explanation that Rashi offers here, which is the simple sense of the Talmud, notice how prayer is treated. There’s a kind of attitude here: okay, prayer is some necessary evil. There’s no choice, you have to ask the Holy One, blessed be He, for your needs. Do it quickly and get back to the things that really matter. That is, all the aura attached nowadays in philosophical-religious thought to prayer and how important it is—yes, there’s also in the Sages, “Would that one would pray all day long,” I’m not ignoring that of course—but nowadays prayer is turned into some central axis of divine service, a connection to the Holy One, blessed be He. Look what Rashi writes: prayer is a request for life, sustenance, healing. Okay, and then move on. Now we’re done; now we can engage in the things that really matter. That’s for people who aren’t serving for its own sake, people who have needs.

Okay, so that’s Rashi’s explanation, and this is the source of the phrase that prayer is “temporary life.” “And he held”—I’m returning now to the Talmud—“and he held” means Rav Hamnuna, who prolonged prayer—what did he hold? “A time for prayer is separate, and a time for Torah is separate.” What does that mean? Prayer does not come at the expense of Torah. You should pray properly and study Torah properly. Again this reminds me of a Hasidic story. Today I’m on the side of the Hasidim. There was Rabbi Yitzchak of Vorka. When he died, one of his students came to the court of Kotzk. Rabbi Yitzchak of Vorka was a colleague-disciple of the Kotzker Rebbe. So after he died, his student came to the court of Kotzk. They asked him: what was most important to your rebbe? A story I really love. What was the most important thing to your rebbe? After all, every rebbe has some particular thing, the point that is his in the world, his aspect in serving God. So he says—the answer… I think it’s a wonderful statement. It means: whatever you are doing now, you look at it as the most important thing in the world. If you’re always saying, “Okay, okay, finish what you need to do, we have to get to the really important things,” then nothing gets done properly. If you want to do things properly, don’t ask what is most important. What’s most important is what you’re doing right now.

Okay. In any case that’s apparently what Rav Hamnuna thought here: “A time for prayer is separate, and a time for Torah is separate.” When engaged in Torah, one is engaged in Torah, and when engaged in prayer, one is engaged in prayer. One is not considered—I mean, one does not come at the expense of the other—but this must be done properly and that must be done properly.

Okay, so there were pietists there too, not only Lithuanians. And then yes: Rabbi Yirmiyah was sitting before Rabbi Zeira and they were occupied with a legal discussion—that is, they were studying Torah. The time for prayer arrived—he needed, wanted, was about to pray—and Rabbi Yirmiyah was urging him. Rabbi Yirmiyah says to him, we need to get up and pray. Rabbi Zeira applied to him the verse: “He who turns away his ear from hearing Torah, even his prayer is an abomination.” Yes, that’s in Rava’s direction. Meaning, you’re leaving the lesson in order to pray? True, here in this specific case it can also fit with Rabbi Yirmiyah’s own statement, because what they were doing at that moment was studying Torah. So why are you now telling me to stop learning Torah in order to pray? What I’m doing at this moment is what’s important, right? Rabbi Yirmiyah, you yourself answered that earlier to Rava. Now I’m answering you in your own coin, just from the other side. Don’t turn prayer into the main thing either. Nothing is the main thing. What you’re doing now is the main thing.

Okay. But for our purposes this is just an interesting Talmudic passage worth knowing, especially for people who skip the aggadot like me. In any case, this Talmud is the source for what Rav Kook mentions—that prayer is called “temporary life.” It is contrasted with Torah, which is “eternal life.” All right? Torah is eternal life, prayer is temporary life.

Against that background it’s interesting to see the interpretation Rav Kook extracts here. Rav Kook basically claims that prayer is “temporary life” in an altogether different sense. Of course, because Rav Kook doesn’t see prayer as merely asking for needs, some necessary evil. For Rav Kook prayer is something very lofty, very significant, central to divine service. So Rav Kook basically shifts this term “temporary life,” said in relation to prayer, from the lower everyday plane of requesting needs—as opposed to Torah, which is dealing with eternity, lofty important things, service for its own sake, service of God for its own sake—and he says: no. Temporary life and eternal life are two modes of perspective, and both have a place. There is no “higher” and “lower” here, no more degraded and less degraded. They are two forms of perspective. Prayer is the perspective of temporary life.

What does that mean? It is the perspective on the moment as detached from the chain of circumstances in which it appears—from the causes, the effects, what came before, what will come after, what led to this moment. Looking at this moment detached from its context is what is called temporary life. When you deal with the hour, you are looking at the moment itself. And that is the essence of prayer. Eternal life, by the way—the contrast is to eternal life, which is Torah, and in our context basically prophecy. Yes, prophecy and Torah are basically engagement with laws, rules, understandings, development, what such circumstances or other circumstances cause. In other words, this is the perspective of large conceptual structures, seeing the moment within the context, and therefore it is called eternal life as opposed to temporary life.

And what Hezekiah is saying in our context to Isaiah is: when you come with your prophecies and tell me that a decree has been issued for me to die and for my son to be wicked, that is all within the ordinary course of causes and effects. That is true—this is prophecy and this is Torah, and these are ways of grasping reality according to the fixed laws, the regularity that governs it. Okay. But there is another mode of governance, and that governance is called prayer. And when you tell me, “A decree has been issued,” you are really telling me there is no room for prayer. So: “Finish your prophecy and leave.” “Finish your prophecy and leave,” probably in a double sense. There are places where prophecy ends. Meaning, it does not have the power it has elsewhere. Prophecy is the ability to understand the depth of reality, how things unfold out of present circumstances, how the expected future emerges from them, understanding causes and effects in depth. That is what is called prophecy. Prayer is something that can rise above these rules of cause and effect and change this moment even though the context requires that it contain one thing. Prayer—the perspective of temporary life—the moment can suddenly receive a different perspective, and something else will happen. The son will come out righteous; a decree of death will not be imposed on Hezekiah. After all, years were added to him at the end of this aggadah.

So prayer can transform this moment and cause it to become something other than what is expected because of previous circumstances. In that sense there is a perspective of temporary life that one could say, in a certain sense at least, is higher than eternal life. Not lower, as in the simple reading of the Talmud in Shabbat, but higher. It is something that overcomes this regularity, this causality, of rational and ideological understanding—what causes what. Rather, there is something that can detach you from what you deserve, from what is expected for you, and bring you to a completely different state.

Rav Kook also says something interesting: afterward this is replanted back into the circumstances. I’ll show it to you again perhaps so you can see. There’s a very interesting phrase—or not a full phrase, rather half a phrase—that Rav Kook adds there. I’m going back to it—look: “But the hand of God, may He be blessed, also grasps the course of the present, to align it for the good”—to bring it out for the good, as against the expectation that makes it bad—“apart from the ties of previous causes,” taking it out of the ties of previous causes, turning it good, “and afterward bind it back together with them.” That means after you take this thing, turn it good, you then replant it into history. Because in the final analysis, the moment when Hezekiah prayed and his decree was changed transformed many things. Fifteen years were added to him; in the end Manasseh repented, as is known; and things happened later on as well. Meaning, when the moment changes, it also projects onto the causal unfolding of what will happen in the future. It returns to the course of prophecy and Torah and rational understanding. After the moment has changed, now reality is different. Once reality is different, the laws of cause and effect will also make the future different.

In other words, in the end prayer changes prophecy too. It overcomes prophecy not only for the moment. Even the future that prophecy foresaw may change, because once this moment changes, then its offspring, which emerge from cause-and-effect connections, are also expected to change. Even though we return to the course of cause and effect, prayer applies to that moment—it is temporary life—but now, within the course of cause and effect, once the initial conditions are different, the function is different too, and the solution is different. Okay. So that is basically what Rav Kook says here.

I want to talk a bit about this idea. First of all, it really is a fascinating interpretation. A truly interesting perspective on this meaning of prayer as temporary life. And I want to talk a little about this issue beyond the question whether this is prayer and that is Torah; even in the sense of Torah, or in the sense of understanding, one can divide between two such forms of relation. And I say this precisely as someone whose natural inclination is toward Torah and prophecy, not prayer—even in Rav Kook’s sense. Not only in the sense of Rashi there in Shabbat, what we said, the lower sense, but even in Rav Kook’s sense. This perspective on reality in terms of temporary life—I want to contrast it with looking at reality, or at Torah, in terms of eternal life. These are two types of perspective.

Basically, you can see it in all sorts of contexts. For example, we have various rules in Jewish law—rules of legal decision, various rules, rules of interpretation, all sorts of rules that developed in various ways over the history of Jewish law. I think I already said here that the Sages—and I think the halakhic tradition in general—relate to rules with a great deal of reservation. It’s “respect it and suspect it.” Contrary perhaps to the view of many people who think that Jewish law is some collection of rules and we just need to apply them to particular cases, it seems that the halakhic tradition says roughly the opposite. Or in other words, it prefers temporary life over eternal life—this time note that I’m looking at temporary life and eternal life within Torah itself. There is also Torah that is in the category of temporary life and not eternal life, I mean in the sense Rav Kook gave those terms.

Take one example. The Talmud in tractate Kiddushin says that women are obligated in the Hakhel gathering. The Talmud asks: but that is a positive commandment dependent on time—why are women obligated? We learned that women are exempt from all positive time-bound commandments, and the Mishnah there says except for, I think, three exceptions. So the Talmud says there is also Hakhel; women are obligated in Hakhel too. So the Talmud says: “One does not derive from general rules, even where an exception is stated.” Meaning: don’t get too excited about rules. In short, don’t bring me rules—it doesn’t interest anyone. If this case stands against the rule, then it stands against the rule.

But notice: this is much stronger than just an exception to some rule. There is a rule formulated very precisely: all positive time-bound commandments—women are exempt, except A, B, and C. Now, if it had said just “all positive time-bound commandments, women are exempt,” and I found an exception, I’d say okay, generally speaking, but there are exceptions. But when it is formulated in a precise, exact way and says “all positive time-bound commandments, women are exempt, except A, B, and C,” well, then the exceptions have been counted. Now you find a fourth exception. That can’t be. If they counted the exceptions, apparently those are the exceptions and no others. It’s much harder, with a rule formulated this way, to bring an exception and say okay, so why make a big deal? But that is exactly what the Talmud says: “One does not derive from general rules,” general rules in the plural. We do not learn from rules even where an exception is explicitly stated. Even when the rule is phrased in the most exacting way possible, even then we do not make a fuss over the rules. If we found an exception, we found an exception. Don’t make a drama over every little thing. The rules are approximations; they aren’t treated as absolute.

Now this is an amazing point, because what it says, in effect, is that all the decision-rules and interpretive rules that we are so used to applying, raising difficulties from, and trying to see what to do with exceptional cases—maybe we really do not need to look for excuses for the exceptional cases at all. The rules are a rough approximation. If you don’t know something else, go with the rule. But if you do know, then you know.

There are places—and I’ve told students this in several places—where we see in certain sugyot, for example at the beginning of tractate Beitzah and elsewhere, that amoraim rule like Beit Shammai. How can that be? A heavenly voice came forth and said the law follows Beit Hillel, and the Talmud says about this that “the words of Beit Shammai in the place of Beit Hillel are not even Mishnah.” To the point that they say to Rabbi Tarfon—sorry, to Rabbi Yose there—that he almost forfeited his life because he acted according to Beit Shammai. Why? Because you transgressed the words of Beit Hillel. And one who acts according to Beit Shammai against Beit Hillel is deserving of death. Meaning, if there is a dispute decided in the most categorical way possible, and the minority opinion has been completely erased, that is the dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel. And even so, after the heavenly voice and after all the dialectics, there are amoraim in several sugyot who rule like Beit Shammai. How can that be? There is a rule. A heavenly voice declared it. The law follows Beit Hillel. And yes, the medieval authorities already explain why there we do heed the heavenly voice.

Another example, and this one has even sharper teeth. It’s much stronger than Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai. We know the rule that in disputes between Abaye and Rava, the law follows Rava except in six cases—Ya’al Kegam, the acronym for them. These are six sugyot in which there is a dispute between Abaye and Rava and we rule like Abaye. Other than those, the law follows Rava. In several places Maimonides rules like Abaye outside those six cases—for example in “Do not form factions,” for example in “If one acted, it does not take effect,” at least according to some of his commentators, and more. There are places where Maimonides rules like Abaye. And people wonder: how can that be? This is not one of the six cases, and in all the other cases the law follows Rava. So they create all sorts of sub-rules—that where Abaye and Rava disagree about the opinions of earlier Sages, maybe there too the law can follow Abaye. Where they came up with that, who knows. But they invent all sorts of tiny, idiosyncratic distinctions in order somehow to preserve the rule intact. The truth, in my opinion, is much simpler: these rules are recommendations, not directives.

What does that mean? If there is a dispute between Abaye and Rava and you have a clear opinion that Abaye is right—for all kinds of reasons, or just because from the Talmudic discussion or simple logic it seems to you that Abaye is right—then rule like Abaye. If you don’t have an opinion of your own, then you are supposed to rule like Rava, except for those six cases that were explicitly ruled like Abaye and where it is clear that we follow Abaye, because the Talmud itself ruled like Abaye. But in the other cases the Talmud says…

And the same with Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel. If you have an opinion and you think like Beit Shammai, then go like Beit Shammai. Someone who doesn’t have an opinion, someone looking for a tree to lean on—if he wants something to rely on, let him rely on Beit Hillel and not on Beit Shammai. But if you have your own opinion—not that you’re looking for someone to lean on—then go after what you think.

What does all this very anarchic attitude toward halakhic rules mean? It means that the rules are a kind of general perspective. But there may be a local situation where it seems to me incorrect to apply the rule, and I won’t go with the rule, even though the rule appears in the Talmud. I can’t disagree with the Talmud—the Talmud is binding. Right, because my assumption is that the Talmud itself, when it established a rule, established it subject to what the Talmud says in Kiddushin: that one does not derive from general rules, even where an exception is stated. That is how the Talmud’s rules must be understood. The Talmud itself tells us this. Consequently, the medieval authorities can permit themselves, where they have a clear position in another direction, to go against the Talmudic rule of decision. Again, not against an explicit ruling. An explicit ruling is not a rule; it is a concrete decision in a particular dispute. If the Talmud decided, then you cannot go against it. But if the Talmud did not decide and only set some rule, the rule is generally correct. This is the perspective of prophecy, of Torah as eternal life, the broad global outlook. But if locally it seems to me correct to deviate from that, then I am looking in terms of temporary life. I’m looking at the moment, or this particular sugya, and I think differently, so something else should be done here.

But are we giving Rava an a priori advantage? Again? Are we giving Rava an a priori advantage, that all places go like him—that there too there is some rule that we rule like Rava? Is that just arbitrary? I agree with everything except the “but” at the beginning. Why did you open the sentence with “but”? That’s exactly what I said. The law follows Rava—that’s the rule—except where you have a clear opinion like Abaye. No, because the rabbi says that in the case of Abaye, where we rule in Ya’al Kegam, we go like Abaye not because we had to violate the rule, but because that is the Talmud’s own position. No, no, I’m not talking about that. In Ya’al Kegam the Talmud itself ruled like Abaye; I’m not talking about that. The Talmud itself, which established the rule like Rava, also said that in Ya’al Kegam it’s Abaye. No problem there at all. We’re talking about the medieval authorities. We received from the Talmud a rule that the law follows Rava except for Ya’al Kegam. Now Maimonides comes and in additional cases outside Ya’al Kegam rules like Abaye. How does he allow himself such a thing? It’s against the Talmud. Okay?

Now, there are more places where you can see this; deviations from rules happen not infrequently. So I say: with all due respect to rules, my respect for them is limited. Rules are eternal life. There is something in the local perspective, on a particular sugya—if I was persuaded in the sugya, I’m inside the sugya, and I was persuaded that Abaye is right—I should rule like Abaye even though the global rule says the law follows Rava. So this too, I think, is some kind of perspective of temporary life versus eternal life, but this time within the world of Torah, not Torah versus prayer.

I’ll perhaps give more examples. There are… well, I can’t get into too much detail, but I wrote about this in several places, also in the trilogy, in the third volume, and in articles—that in extreme situations you are really supposed to decide according to your perception of the situation and not according to the formal rules of Jewish law. For example, halakhic rulings during the Holocaust. Very often there are rulings that are hard to reconcile with the formal rules of Jewish law. And I’m not talking now about deviating from the rules because of danger to life or something like that, which of course is itself part of the rules. I’m talking about situations where there were deviations—by the way, sometimes toward stringency. I once mentioned Avraham Dovber Shapira in the Kovno ghetto. They were in a state of severe starvation and mortal danger, and he instructed that yeshiva students should not eat legumes on Passover. Why? He said: in any case we are going to die of hunger, so at least if we try to sacrifice ourselves to the end, the Holy One, blessed be He, will have mercy and save them. If we try to survive by eating legumes, we don’t have enough legumes either; we will die of hunger either way. Does that reasoning stand up as a halakhic argument? In my opinion, no. No legal decisor in a normal situation would say such a thing. But on the other hand, he was there in the ghetto, and he understood the situation, he experienced it directly, and therefore he allowed himself to deviate from the rules and say that in this situation…

I’m deliberately bringing here an example of stringency. Of course there are also lenient examples; that’s the simpler case. In extreme circumstances decisors are lenient. But I’m saying—I’m bringing a stringent ruling that is also against the rules. Why? Because he understood that in this situation one must deviate from the rules. Here the rules don’t work. We are inside some catastrophe.

And I said this exists, by the way, also in situations that need not be extreme, but rather situations that are at least remote from the world of the decisor. For example—the example I brought both in the book and in an article—is women singing. Right? Where in general most decisors will tell you it is forbidden to go hear a female singer. Okay? Why? Because “a woman’s voice is nakedness,” women singing, and so forth. The claim I make is that I’m not entirely sure that this really is the correct halakhic ruling. First because—well, one has to discuss the sources, of course, and there are different interpretations here—but if this is not dependent on circumstances and it’s some categorical prohibition, then okay, a categorical prohibition doesn’t require understanding the situation. But if the prohibition is because there is a concern of arousing forbidden thoughts—desires and things of that sort—then it becomes very important to understand the situation.

Now, a decisor—certainly a Haredi one, but not only Haredi—I assume that at least many of them have not actually been to a concert by a female singer. They haven’t heard a woman sing. I assume that upright people, if they forbid it halakhically, probably they have not… except for Rabbi Ovadia, of course. What? Except for Rabbi Ovadia. He was into women singing. He was cultured, yes—a known lover of culture. In any case—and by the way Maimonides lived in Egypt; again, all these are wonderful examples of deviation from rules. Maimonides rules that it is forbidden to return to Egypt, and the Radbaz asks him: but you yourself lived in Egypt. And similarly, Rabbi Ovadia with “a woman’s voice is nakedness,” but Umm Kulthum is wonderful to listen to, very pleasant indeed.

In any case, what I want to say is that there are situations in which you do not experience the situation directly, you do not understand what it means, what its significance is, and you cannot issue a ruling about it. You will use rules in some very technical way, but that is eternal life. You look at the rules and derive from them some conclusion according to the unfolding, the cause and effect, the law and the case that follows from it. Here it’s not cause and effect but law and a particular case to which the law is applied. But this too is a kind of connection that one might call eternal life.

By contrast, I look at the situation and say: in this situation, in my opinion, there is no prohibition. I know the situation. It is clear to me that people come there because, I don’t know, this singer has wonderful vocal abilities; it’s a pleasure to hear from an artistic perspective. And I don’t come there for desires or forbidden thoughts and things of that kind. Therefore I argue that it is permitted. I don’t know exactly—one can check whether this fits the rules, doesn’t fit the rules—beyond the fact that perhaps one can even fit it into the rules. I’m saying beyond that, there is some perspective on the local situation. And the local situation sometimes overrides decision according to abstract rules. It’s somewhat related to lex specialis, maybe. I don’t remember if in this series I spoke—or maybe not in this series—about the priority of the specific. Yes, it’s a standard legal principle: the specific norm always overrides the general norm. There is a prohibition of murder, but there is an obligation to kill Sabbath desecrators. Which one prevails? From the standpoint of “do not murder,” it’s forbidden to kill them. From the standpoint of the obligation to kill Sabbath desecrators, there is an obligation to kill them. So why do we kill them? Because the specific obligation for this case overrides the general prohibition of murder. Why? Because the specific obligation speaks about this case. That is temporary life. The general obligation is some global perspective; who says it is right for this specific case? Eternal life is correct as a global perspective, in general, or as a default. If you don’t know otherwise, that’s the proper way to act. That’s simple logic, ordinary reason. But there are particular situations in which it is clear to you that in this moment, in this temporary life, one should act differently—not according to the rules.

So there is definitely room to prefer temporary life over eternal life. Another example of this is a transgression for the sake of Heaven. Yes, a transgression for the sake of Heaven—a very painful sugya. Decisors twist themselves into knots when they see this sugya. But in the plain meaning of the sugya—and on this too I wrote two articles in two parts, against the view that tries to push “a transgression for the sake of Heaven” out of the arena—some say this was only before the giving of the Torah, which is… and some argue that “a transgression for the sake of Heaven” is some sort of halakhic category. But “a transgression for the sake of Heaven” means exactly what it says. It means there are extreme situations in which a layperson—not a legal decisor—is in a situation and understands that this is what is right to do. Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, understood that she had to have relations with Sisera and kill him. Who permitted that for her? There is no halakhic permission. Forbidden sexual relations are never permitted in any form. Even danger to life does not permit them. Especially there, where there wasn’t even a direct immediate danger to life. But she understood that this was what had to be done now, in that specific moment. So she preferred temporary life over eternal life, and the Sages say: “A transgression for the sake of Heaven is greater than a commandment not for its own sake.” And what they are essentially telling us is that there are situations where it is permitted to commit transgressions if the moment is extreme and very clearly demands it to the best of your lay understanding. You do not even need to ask a legal decisor—or at least if you cannot ask one. Then decide on your own, and you may, or are even required to, decide in favor of temporary life against eternal life, against the general rule.

So there really is here a perspective that prefers the specific case over the general rule, which reflects ordinary logic, more general logic. I think in a certain sense the whole structure of the Talmud cries this out. Because the structure of the Talmud is really very strange. There are discussions—or most discussions—basically revolve around cases, not around rules. Rules are actually fairly rare in the Talmud. In the end we are talking about cases. So-and-so lent to so-and-so—what is the law in such a case? Then they begin to discuss it, and every now and then some rule somehow comes up. But in essence it arises only in the course of the discussion. One would have expected, ostensibly, that the canonical text on which all halakhic thought for generations is based would be built more systematically: give the series of halakhic rules in each subject, and from that I can derive the particular cases. But the Talmud doesn’t do that. It conducts give-and-take about cases: one thinks this, another thinks that. Occasionally some rule comes up, but no one really explains it, usually. And that’s it. No one makes a big deal of the rules, and one does not derive from general rules even where an exception is stated. Why build the text that way? Because I think the Talmud has great trust in legal thinking.

People are used to distinguishing between casuistic thinking, by cases, and positivistic thinking that goes top-down rather than bottom-up. Casuistry is bottom-up: I take the case, decide according to it, and from cases I may perhaps try to generate rules. Top-down means taking the rules and applying them deductively to particulars. British law, for example, is bottom-up; it is casuistic. German law is top-down—you could have guessed that too. It is top-down, a kind of construction where everything is legal science, some logical system in which there are rules and the judge merely has to apply the rules to the case. Hence that German mechanicality and mechanism, that mechanistic mode of thought.

That’s the dispute, really, and I think the Talmud is very distinctly casuistic. Even when rules arise there, they arise in the course of discussion, but all in all they do not occupy much volume or weight. A nice example of this appears at the beginning of tractate Bava Kamma, where the Mishnah says there are four primary categories of damages: the ox, the pit, the tooth, and the fire. And the Mishnah concludes: “The common denominator among them is that they are prone to cause damage, and their supervision is upon you, and when they do damage, the damager is obligated to pay compensation for the damage from the best of his land.” Then the Talmud on 6a asks: “What does the common denominator come to include?”

Now that is amazing if you look at it through these lenses. “What does the common denominator come to include?” means: why did they bring me the common denominator? What is it teaching? And then they bring there various cases that we derive from this sentence at the end of the Mishnah, “the common denominator.” But the question itself is fascinating: “What does the common denominator come to include?” Because the Mishnah says there are four primary categories of damages—ox, pit, tooth, fire—but there are lots of examples of damages. And in the end they say yes, but there is a general principle: anything that is your property and whose supervision is upon you—if it causes damage, you have to pay. If you were writing the Mishnah, what would seem redundant to you—the opening or the closing? To me, the opening. Give me the rule and leave me alone with the examples. Why do I care about ox, pit, tooth, fire? Anything that is your property and whose supervision is upon you—if it caused damage, you are liable to pay. That’s the rule, and everything else is details.

Now usually the Mishnah deals with details, as I said, and so does the Talmud. Once in a while the Mishnah does us a favor and also gives the rule—in Bava Kamma; I said once in a while, but it’s rare. It gives the rule. So instead of asking, okay, why did they bring the details? Who needs the rule? What do we learn from it? No—the Talmud asks: from that rule we learn some additional case not covered by the previous cases. The rule itself is not important at all. So even when a rule is finally brought, again there is a kind of kick at the rule, a contempt for it. I would say that the question is almost cynical. “The common denominator”—someone might think the common denominator is the most important thing in the Mishnah, and the Talmud laughs at him. Who needs the common denominator? You already gave the examples, no? Why do I need the rule? It’s as though the Talmud has much more trust in thinking through examples, analogical thinking, casuistic thinking, than in this German style of thought—through the rule and deriving the particular cases from it. And I think this too is what comes to expression in “one does not derive from general rules even where an exception is stated.” In other words, temporary life is in a certain sense stronger than eternal life.

Because, as Rav Kook says, in the end, after the hour changes through prayer and through God’s mercy, God goes back and gathers all these moments—each of which behaves autonomously and independently and does not recognize all the others—and weaves them back together to create a renewed chain of cause and effect. Eternal life is somehow built out of moments, one after another, and together they build eternal life. The world is the result of combining moments, not that the moments are specific expressions of rules called eternal life. Therefore the point is that this tension between temporary life and eternal life is not only between prayer and Torah, but also within Torah-thinking itself. I think there is an advantage to temporary life.

I do think, at least for us as human beings who cannot think without rules and analogies and comparisons and seeing in what way different cases can be generalized, that what is incumbent upon us is really to understand the local sugya very, very well, and afterward try to see what it says from a general perspective. Then try to generate a rule from it. But even to that rule relate with limited confidence. In the next sugya, learn it first locally. Then compare it to the rule and see: does it fit or not? If it doesn’t fit, that does not mean we should throw out the local understanding. It may be that the rule we generalized is not accurate. So try to formulate a more accurate rule, and so on. This back-and-forth between temporary life and eternal life seems to me to be the breathing of Torah study, or analytic study, yes—lomdus.

This is what Nachmanides says in the introduction to Milhamot Hashem: that the wisdom of our Torah is not like astronomy or mathematics, whose demonstrations are conclusive. Torah doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t work by proofs. There are no rules from which one can derive results deductively. It is not pure logic. There are rules, but the rules are a result of the particulars; the particulars are not a result of the rules. And after you have a rule, you return to the particulars and check and compare, then generate a new rule, and return again to the particulars. The whole business is built in a much more complex way.

We cannot think without rules—no. Every comparison of one case to another is because there is something similar in both. That similar thing is basically a kind of rule, of which these are two particular cases. You cannot think without rules. But one should not be enslaved to the rules. That, I think, is the lesson. And in that sense I very much identify with what Rav Kook says here—that temporary life overcomes eternal life. And ultimately temporary life is more important than eternal life, but in this sense: not prayer versus Torah, but within Torah study itself. One should not be captive to the rules, even if they are rules from the Talmud and from the great halakhic authorities. In the end, the way I understand the sugya locally carries decisive weight, or at least very important weight, in the halakhic conclusion. It is not just a simple application of rules to a particular situation.

Okay, actually—maybe just a few more minutes if you’ll allow me—there’s another nice example that takes us back to procreation, which is where we started, because the dispute between Hezekiah and Isaiah dealt with procreation. And regarding procreation, the rule was that one must engage in procreation, and whatever is expected is expected. And Hezekiah preferred the particularized approach, to deviate from the rule. Right? He says there—I, at the initial stage, I won’t engage in procreation because in this case, in my opinion, it is not right to engage in procreation. Isaiah asks him: “What have you to do with the hidden decrees of the Merciful One?” You have a rule. There is a commandment of procreation. I don’t care what you foresee and who your son will be and who that person’s son will be. There is a rule, and you are a particular case of that rule. You need to apply it, not think about what the situation is today and what my specific situation is, whether this rule applies to me or doesn’t apply to me. A rule, by definition, applies to everyone. That’s what Isaiah says, and that is the perspective of eternal life.

And Hezekiah already says at the initial stage, even before he corrected himself: that’s not true. I see what kind of person my son will turn out to be, and I am not willing to engage in procreation. A transgression for the sake of Heaven. I refrain from procreation even though there is an explicit commandment, and I have no permission not to do it. I have no halakhic permission not to do it. But in this situation, it seems right to me to refrain from procreation. Then Isaiah comes and argues with him. I said Hezekiah does not completely accept what Isaiah told him, but he does accept it partially. But notice, in a kind of fractal structure, a kind of reverse-upon-reverse: he accepts Isaiah’s words, but again with exceptions. Meaning, even after he accepted Isaiah, he didn’t accept him as a sweeping rule. He says to him: “Finish your prophecy and leave.” I’ll pray, and I’m relying on the fact that my prayer will change your prophecy.

And this recalls the discussion in the midrash, the argument between Amram and Miriam, where he separated from his wife. Right. And around procreation there really are more examples of this. And this is very interesting, because in our generation there is some obsession with procreation. The decisors after the Holocaust adopt crazy stringencies regarding procreation. They impose all sorts of absolute prohibitions on family planning, and the public statements are categorical, sweeping, hysterical statements that do not stand up to any halakhic test. It’s simply ridiculous from a halakhic standpoint. There is a terrible hysteria. But of course quietly, when you come ask the rabbi and present him with the case, you will get various permissions—at least from a great many decisors. Meaning, there is a difference between the global perspective, the perspective of eternal life, and the practical ruling of temporary life. In procreation this issue is very striking. In my view even their eternal life is incorrect, because the rules they present as binding rules are incorrect rules regarding procreation. But even if you formulate the rules that way, in temporary life it always looks different. The ruling for temporary life is different.

And in this context I’ll bring you a fascinating Talmudic passage, from several points of view. I won’t go into all of them. Again, aggadah, or half-aggadah. The Talmud at the end of the chapter Hazakah in tractate Bava Batra, really the sugya that concludes the chapter, says as follows: It was taught: Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha said, “From the day the Temple was destroyed, it would be right for us to decree upon ourselves not to eat meat and not to drink wine, but one does not decree a decree upon the community unless the majority of the community can endure it.” Yes, there are all the well-known questions: ostensibly it should be forbidden to eat meat and drink wine not only in the Nine Days but in general, and to hear song, music, and so forth. Why only in the Nine Days or during the Counting of the Omer and so on? This is a foundational Talmudic text on the issue.

“And from the day the wicked kingdom spread out over us, issuing evil and harsh decrees against us, nullifying Torah and commandments from us, and not allowing us to enter the week of the son”—and some say “the salvation of the son,” meaning redemption of the firstborn, circumcision, things like that—“it would be right for us to decree upon ourselves not to marry women and not to bear children, so that the seed of Abraham would come to an end on its own. This is what would have been proper. But leave Israel alone; it is better that they be unwitting than deliberate sinners.” And there the chapter ends.

Now there are several really interesting aspects here. First, notice the parallel between the two cases. The first case: “From the day the wicked kingdom spread over us with decrees, nullifying Torah and commandments from us, it would be right for us to decree upon ourselves not to marry women and not to bear children.” Again notice: procreation. “And thus the seed of Abraham would come to an end on its own.” Is there permission for this? There is a commandment of procreation. “What have you to do with the hidden decrees of the Merciful One?” There is a commandment of procreation. Why are you now entering into calculations—yes commandment, no commandment—you bring children. If they won’t be able to keep commandments, then they won’t be able to; what can you do? “What you are commanded to do, do.” What business have you with the hidden decrees of the Merciful One?

Here the Talmud does not say that. Here the Talmud says that in fact this is what would have been proper to do. It would have been proper here to abstain from procreation, “but leave Israel alone; it is better they be unwitting than deliberate sinners.” Notice: this is not like what they said above, that one does not decree upon the community a decree it cannot endure. Here it is “better they be unwitting than deliberate sinners.” Do you know what the difference is? The difference is that “one does not decree a decree upon the community unless the community can endure it” means they wanted to decree it, and in the end said: since the public cannot endure it, they did not decree it. As long as they didn’t decree it, it is permitted.

But what does “better they be unwitting than deliberate sinners” mean? It is the opposite principle. It means: it is forbidden to engage in the commandment of procreation. Why don’t they tell me it’s forbidden? They leave me unwitting. It’s not that they did not decree a prohibition on procreation and therefore now there remains a commandment to engage in procreation because they didn’t decree otherwise. No—the opposite. There is a prohibition even now, though they did not decree it. They just do not reveal to me that it is forbidden, so as not to turn me from an unwitting sinner into a deliberate sinner. Or in other words: if I am a Torah scholar, I ought to understand on my own not to engage in procreation. It’s only to the unlearned, who don’t understand this, that they don’t say it, because they fear they won’t listen to us and then we will turn them into deliberate sinners instead of unwitting ones.

That means this prohibition exists even though they did not decree it. How can that be? If they enact a decree, fine—I understand: the Sages uproot a Torah law through passive nonperformance when the hour requires it. But here it isn’t a decree. They are saying this is a Torah-level law. Here it is proper not to engage in procreation. They just don’t say it to people so they won’t be deliberate sinners but remain unwitting. Where does that come from? Where did we ever find such a qualification, that there is no commandment of procreation if we can’t allow our children to fulfill commandments? “And the seed of Abraham would come to an end on its own”? This is not about an individual person. It means eliminating the people of Israel. That was actually not just a preliminary thought. That is what they should really have done there in practice.

Once when I wrote this, I even noted in a footnote in the book, so that you understand that today all of us are descendants of the ignoramuses of that generation. None of us has pedigree. Because if someone was a Torah scholar in that generation, he would know that it was forbidden to have children, and so he did not have them. Which means that those who were left to have children—those who weren’t told that there is now a rule not to have children—the “unwitting ones” are the ignorant masses, and not exactly great saints either, since we also know they wouldn’t listen to us. Okay? And we are all their descendants. Because those who didn’t have children didn’t have children, so they have no descendants. That means everyone alive today is only the child of those who were ignoramuses and not great saints in that generation. So that takes a bit of the wind out of all our notions of pedigree.

But for our purposes: what does this say? Again, notice, regarding procreation, once again there is some qualification on the general law of the obligation to be fruitful and multiply. And it is a very fundamental obligation: “He did not create it for chaos; He formed it to be inhabited.” The world was created only for procreation. The Sages greatly magnify this obligation of procreation. And nevertheless, the Sages of that generation, without bringing any explicit reason or source or anything of that sort, it is obvious to them that in this situation one ought to bring the seed of Abraham to an end—not to engage in procreation. Without any source. Again the same point: temporary life is stronger than eternal life. The eternal-life consideration in procreation is: “What the Merciful One has imposed upon him…” You need to engage in procreation. No. The temporary-life consideration is stronger. The temporary-life consideration says: I am living this situation. Remember? Like in the Holocaust, like in all the examples I brought earlier. Whoever lives the situation and understands what it means must decide according to what he understands. Put the rules aside. We’ll generate the rules later.

After you decide this case, by the way—and that’s what I also did regarding the Holocaust in that article on rulings during the Holocaust—after I said it is an exceptional case and one must decide according to the understanding of the person who lived the situation, not via the rules, I then brought it back into the rules and said that from there I learn that the rules need to be changed. And now we have gained a new rule. That is exactly what Rav Kook said: I take the moment and plant it back into eternal life. In other words, the particular case that I decided against the rule, on second thought I now return to Jewish law, and it becomes part of Jewish law. Suddenly the rules now look different. New rules are generated.

Of course, the person after me will again make a local ruling against the new rules and create further rules, and that is how Jewish law actually progresses—through the movement between rules and particulars. So that from our perspective today, for example, one could say that there is some kind of rule that where it is clear that descendants will not be able to keep commandments, what is proper is to bring the people of Israel to an end—not to engage in procreation. An interesting question how this connects to all the sugyot about what is means and what is end—life versus commandments, all sorts of things like that—but that really takes us farther from what we are dealing with here.

So I’ll stop here. Whoever wants to comment or ask. If we go by temporary life, then really I can say about everything in my life, every moment in my life is temporary life. I’ll always say that I’m deciding for myself according to what seems right to me at that moment, and I’ll never feel bound by rules. So where do I stop here? That is exactly the tension I’m talking about. There are rules. So why did they put in these rules? Because the default is the rules. But where it is absolutely clear to you that in this specific situation it is not right to apply the rule, then yes—that’s exactly what I’m arguing—this anarchic claim is correct. You must decide against the rules.

Now of course your fear of Heaven is supposed to bring you to do this only where it is very, very clear to you that this is what must be done. How was Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, supposed to make that decision? Did she know the whole Talmud? Meaning there has to be here something of “the heart knows whether for uprightness or crookedness.” Ultimately one stands before God’s judgment; we are all supposed to stand before His judgment. So one has to know that sometimes that is indeed what He expects from us.

By the way, this is completely parallel to the legal concept of conscientious objection. The meta-legal idea, really, of conscientious objection. And say, an obviously illegal order and conscientious objection are not exactly the same thing. An obviously illegal order is a case where someone receives an order, and if I carry it out, I am a criminal. I’ll be judged for carrying out the order because the order is manifestly illegal. The one who gave it gave it without authority, against basic moral and other principles. But conscientious objection is another matter. Conscientious objection is when, say, they tell me to evacuate a settlement, and my conscience revolts against it. I’m unwilling to do such a thing; it directly contradicts my conscience, so I refuse. In legal thought, legitimacy is given to such refusal.

Legitimacy does not mean you won’t be judged for it. You will be judged for it, because the order was lawful. But we recognize the legitimacy of the fact that every person has a value system; it’s not only the law that stands before your eyes. A person also has a value system, and the law ought to respect a person’s value system, and where it is extreme enough, understand that he has the right to violate the law. What does “the right” mean? To violate the law and then answer for it. And why must he answer for it? Not because he really deserves punishment, but because requiring him to answer for it is our way of making sure that a person does this only in a sufficiently extreme situation, one for which he is prepared to pay a price. That is exactly the filter that helps us ensure that what Azriel said earlier won’t happen—that everyone will just do whatever he wants and say “this is conscientious objection,” here I disagree and therefore I won’t obey the law. No. If you are willing to pay a price, to go to jail for your refusal, then we recognize that you are a conscientious objector. It won’t be considered a moral stain or—I don’t know exactly how jurists define it—because you will still receive punishment. But there is legitimacy for such a move.

Not only legitimacy. I think I would expect a person to take such a step, not just grant legitimacy after the fact. A person ought to refuse where his conscience does not allow him to obey the order. He ought to refuse. It’s not merely that there is legitimacy to refuse. Someone who doesn’t refuse—I despise him. Refuse and take the punishment. Accept the punishment upon yourself, because we don’t want to dismantle the system. It’s only where you are prepared to pay the price. All right?

Therefore objectors who take the punishment upon themselves—that is, who accept the punishment involved in that objection—are, in my opinion, people worthy of great respect from every side. Is it impossible to extend that and say that in Jewish law too he will bear the payment? Meaning, even if he deviates from the rules of Jewish law according to his own view—say, before Heaven, or with regard to financial obligations or things like that—will he still be liable even though he had to act that way? In principle one could say that, but I very much doubt a religious court would punish such a person. And the reason is that unlike an ordinary legal system, in the religious world there is also the Holy One, blessed be He. And as was mentioned here earlier, “the heart knows whether for uprightness or crookedness.” Meaning, the Holy One, blessed be He, can always judge you. In the end your fate is in His hands. That is the halakhic conception.

Okay? Therefore a person knows he cannot fool the Holy One, blessed be He. He can perhaps sell stories to the court. Today, for example, there are no punishments administered by courts at all. Fine? And still Jewish law functions; it hasn’t fallen apart. It’s not that everyone just transgresses freely and nothing interests them. Okay? Meaning, unlike a legal system, which has to solve its own problems and therefore must impose punishments or else it will collapse, the religious system has a kind of metaphysical backing.

By the way, this is one of the explanations in an article I wrote on the relation between halakhah and law. I said that this is one of the big differences between a legal system and the halakhic system, and therefore it is very difficult to import norms from halakhah into the legal system. For example, there I brought the laws of bailees. The laws of bailees seem about as prosaic as it gets. Why not adopt the halakhic laws of bailees into the Israeli legal system? What’s the problem? It’s a legal matter. There’s nothing religious here. Everything is fine. You need to set some laws of bailees, so set them. Of course as a default—if they made some contract, then they can stipulate differently. But if they did not make a contract, then judge according to Torah law. Why not? And the answer is that this is absurd, because part of the laws of bailees is the oath. The bailee cannot exempt himself without swearing that he did not misuse the object and so on. Right? So what are you going to do now in a secular court—he’ll swear in God’s name with candles and all the halakhic terrors about taking an oath? Even in the laws of bailees, in the most prosaic area there is—contract law. Two people made a contract, that’s all. Immediately it reaches the Holy One, blessed be He, with oaths and warnings and all these things, and only then do you issue the financial ruling. So you see that in the halakhic system there is another aspect that does not exist in the legal system, and one has to be very, very careful when transferring norms from the halakhic system into the legal system. That is why I oppose integrating halakhic norms into the Israeli law books. This is a very good example of that.

The case here, the distinction the rabbi made here between the legal system where he is liable for the forbidden act he did, and halakhah where there would not be—that really… thank you very much. Anyone else? Okay, so we’ll stop here. Good night. Good night.