Pluralism and Tolerance, Lesson 3
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Table of Contents
- Two readings of “These and these” and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”
- Pluralism versus tolerance
- The Sde Boker case and the clarification about persuasion and coercion
- Why utilitarian arguments don’t give “moral credit” to tolerance
- Tolerance requires monism and the categorical distinction between value and a conception of truth
- A value-based foundation for tolerance: respecting autonomy and stopping at “that’s just how it is”
- Openness and radius: the practical differences between tolerance and pluralism
- The limits of tolerance: harm and seriousness as criteria for legitimacy
- Returning to “These and these are the words of the living God” in a monistic reading
Summary
General Overview
The text proposes two readings of “These and these are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”: a pluralistic reading in which “these and these” is taken literally, and therefore “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” is understood as a technical need for uniformity; and a monistic reading in which there is one truth, and therefore “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” because they are closer to the truth thanks to a method of listening and weighing. From within the monistic reading, the text seeks to reinterpret “These and these are the words of the living God” not as recognition of two truths, but as a distinction between a legitimate mistake and an illegitimate mistake. To do this, it sharpens the difference between pluralism and tolerance, and argues that tolerance is a value-based stance of respecting the autonomy of the other even when he is mistaken, and that precisely this fits with monism and with practical boundaries of legitimacy.
Two readings of “These and these” and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”
The text presents a pluralistic reading in which “These and these are the words of the living God” is self-evident, and “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” is explained as a technical arrangement intended to create uniformity for practical reasons. The text interprets the Talmudic reason for the heavenly voice—that Beit Hillel were “gentle and humble” and that they cited the words of Beit Shammai before their own—as a technical-educational explanation for choosing a uniform line of ruling, and not as a decision about truth. The text presents a monistic reading that can be understood from the words of Rabbi Yosef Karo, according to which Beit Hillel was ruled to be followed because their method—seriously listening to the opposing position and only afterward forming their own view—brings one closer to the truth, even if Beit Shammai are sharper. The text states that in the monistic reading the reason for “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel” is clear, and what remains to be clarified is the meaning of “These and these are the words of the living God.”
Pluralism versus tolerance
The text defines pluralism as acceptance of a multiplicity of truths in which “both are right,” and defines tolerance as the stance of “you are mistaken, but legitimate,” meaning a mistake that is still within the game. The text distinguishes between an illegitimate mistake that lies outside the game and a legitimate mistake that lies inside the game. The text suggests that in “These and these are the words of the living God” one can understand that Beit Hillel are right and Beit Shammai are mistaken, but the mistake of Beit Shammai still deserves the title “the words of the living God” because it is legitimate.
The Sde Boker case and the clarification about persuasion and coercion
The text describes an incident in which kollel students from the Haredi community in Yeruham traveled to Sde Boker to study between the afternoon and evening prayers in a new synagogue in the Sde Boker Midrasha, and the residents of the Midrasha feared a “takeover,” formed an association, and went to the media. The text describes a meeting with representatives of the Midrasha and their claim that the Haredim were coming “to persuade” and bring people to repentance, as against the speaker’s response that persuasion between adults is legitimate, and that whoever does not want it simply does not come. The text describes how the discussion moved from practical questions to a conceptual clarification, including an attempt to understand whether the opposition was an argument of interests or a moral claim against coercion. The text also uses the statistical question of why “there isn’t a single religious person there” in the Midrasha, even though it presents itself as pluralistic, in order to undermine the rhetorical use of the terms pluralism and tolerance.
Why utilitarian arguments don’t give “moral credit” to tolerance
The text presents a series of possible reasons not to persuade or coerce, and rejects them as granting at most a practical consideration and not a moral value. The text rejects arguments based on fear of reciprocity (“if we coerce you, you’ll coerce us”), rejects an argument based on inefficiency (“in any case you won’t be persuaded”), and rejects an argument based on indifference (“we don’t care”) or lack of harm (“it doesn’t hurt”). The text argues that as long as refraining from intervention is based on profit and loss, this is not “elevated moral behavior” but utilitarianism, and therefore there is no basis for boasting of tolerance as moral superiority.
Tolerance requires monism and the categorical distinction between value and a conception of truth
The text states that in order for tolerance to have value, one must assume monism in which one side is right and the other mistaken, because only then is there moral significance to not coercing and not intervening despite the mistake. The text argues that if a person is a pluralist and thinks both sides are right, non-intervention is a trivial conclusion from his position and has no “moral novelty.” The text presents this as a categorical distinction: pluralism is a philosophical question about the structure of truth, whereas tolerance is a value-based moral question about how one ought to behave, and therefore identifying the two is mistaken. The text adds that “pluralism and tolerance” are not only not synonyms, but are opposite states in terms of their moral significance, and therefore “a tolerant person is always a monist.”
A value-based foundation for tolerance: respecting autonomy and stopping at “that’s just how it is”
The text argues that the only way out of the tangle is to base tolerance on value and not on interests, chiefly on respect for the autonomy of the other and on “the right to make mistakes” and even “the duty to make mistakes.” The text clarifies that respecting autonomy is not a utilitarian argument such as “there is no value in an act done under coercion,” but rather a value-based justification that distinguishes tolerance from self-interested non-intervention. The text argues that a value-based justification ultimately arrives at a stopping point that has no further utilitarian justification, and the final formulation is “that’s just how it is,” because every chain of “why” must end in a foundational value-assumption. The text brings an example from an article in TheMarker about “tribal” voting in order to argue that the assumption that only economic profit and loss is rational is mistaken, and that values too can be rational when a person is consistent with his own basic assumptions.
Openness and radius: the practical differences between tolerance and pluralism
The text argues that despite a behavioral similarity in that in both cases “one does not intervene,” there are significant practical differences between tolerance and pluralism. The text states that genuine openness—listening in order to learn and draw closer to the truth—belongs דווקא to monism, because it assumes the possibility of decision and approximation to the truth, and therefore there is reason to listen to the other person’s arguments. The text argues that in an essential pluralistic world there is no point in listening and rational discussion, because no argument has priority over another, and it brings the example of the television program Popolitika, where it is clear that “no one will persuade the other,” and therefore the discussion turns into a brawl. The text adds the idea that the argument from which one profits is an argument in which “you lost,” because then you learned that what you previously thought was not correct.
The limits of tolerance: harm and seriousness as criteria for legitimacy
The text argues that tolerance has a “radius” because it is the result of tension between values, and therefore it does not hold at any cost. The text proposes two central criteria for determining the radius: the degree of expected harm, and the level of seriousness of the position seeking recognition and respect. The text says that when the harm is extreme, many tolerant people will prevent the act and will not respect the “right to make mistakes,” whereas in essential pluralism there is no principled justification for intervention, at most an emotional or self-interested reaction. The text states that respect is not given to a position that was not built through serious work of listening, learning, and weighing, and presents this as the principle that “if you want respect, you have to earn it,” and as a claim against the Kinneret Covenant, which is perceived as “a license for ignorance.” The text argues that there is no intention of coercion or punishment toward one who did not do the work, but there is no willingness to sign onto respectful recognition of a position that stems from tribalism or from avoiding listening out of fear of being persuaded.
Returning to “These and these are the words of the living God” in a monistic reading
The text explains that at the heart of the monistic reading, “These and these are the words of the living God” distinguishes between two realms of error: a legitimate mistake within the game and an illegitimate mistake outside it. The text states that Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel lie within the legitimate circle because both “know how to learn” and both bring correct arguments, and therefore even their mistake can be called “the words of the living God,” even though the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because they are right. The text explains that usually in a halakhic dispute “both sides are right in terms of the arguments,” and the decision is about weighing the relative strength of different reasons, similar to the chocolate example in which “it’s tasty” and “it’s fattening” are both true, but the question is which consideration prevails. The text uses the idea of “forty-nine reasons to declare impure and forty-nine reasons to declare pure” in order to say that the dispute is about the weight of the reasons and not about their very correctness, and consequently “these and these” does not negate monism but testifies to the seriousness of the arguments and the legitimacy of the mistake. The text notes that “the Jewish law will follow Beit Shammai in the future to come” can be interpreted as a change in the relative weights in a more repaired world, and concludes that “These and these are the words of the living God” is a tolerant statement with boundaries, not a pluralistic statement without radius.
Full Transcript
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I suggested two possible interpretations of the Talmudic passage that speaks about “These and these are the words of the living God, but the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”: a monistic interpretation and a pluralistic interpretation. A monistic interpretation says that there is only one truth, and then it’s pretty clear why the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel, but you have to understand the meaning of “these and these are the words of the living God.” And if we read it in a pluralistic way, then it’s clear what “these and these are the words of the living God” means, but then you have to understand the meaning of “the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel.” I said that the simple reading is the pluralistic one: “these and these are the words of the living God,” and what they said—that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel—is a technical matter. Meaning, not because the truth is with them; the truth has two truths, or there is no truth, it doesn’t matter—pluralism. The fact that the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel is because you have to get to some bottom line in order to create uniformity for one technical reason or another, and according to this, the explanation the Talmud gives for the heavenly voice that ruled in accordance with Beit Hillel—because they were gentle and humble and they put the words of Beit Shammai before their own—that is basically the explanation, the technical explanation. Meaning, that’s why the ruling was given in accordance with them, for educational reasons. By contrast, in the monistic reading, which I said can be understood from the words of Rabbi Yosef Karo, he says that the Jewish law was ruled in accordance with Beit Hillel because putting the words of Beit Shammai before their own is a mode of operation that brings you closer to the truth. Meaning, even though you are less sharp—Beit Shammai were sharper—but since Beit Hillel worked with a more correct method, they seriously weighed the position of the other side and only afterward formulated their own position, therefore they are closer to the truth and so the Jewish law follows them. That’s a monistic reading. So it’s clear why the Jewish law follows them, the reason the Talmud gives is clear. What remains—and that’s what I want to talk about today—is: so what is the meaning of “these and these are the words of the living God”? If the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel because the truth is with them, then the second half of the heavenly voice is clear, but the first half is not clear. So what is “these and these are the words of the living God”? It seems to me that I already said this too: one has to distinguish here between two concepts that seem similar, but they are not similar—pluralism and tolerance. Meaning, pluralism is a situation in which I accept a plurality of truths, meaning both are right. Tolerance means: you are mistaken, but legitimate. Meaning, it is a mistake that belongs on the field; I don’t throw you out of the game. You are legitimate, but it is still a mistake. In this conception there are basically two kinds of mistake. One mistake is an illegitimate mistake that is outside the game, and a legitimate mistake that is inside the game. And when they say, “These and these are the words of the living God,” the intention is that Beit Hillel are right, Beit Shammai are mistaken, but the mistake of Beit Shammai still deserves to be called the words of the living God because it is legitimate, it is inside the game. That is basically the explanation in broad terms. Now I’ll try to clarify a bit more, first of all, the concepts of tolerance and pluralism, and afterward come back and insert this into the Talmudic passage.
Okay, so when one comes to distinguish between tolerance and pluralism, I want to begin with defining the concept of tolerance. From that, the relation to pluralism will also become clear. The penny dropped for me for the first time in a discussion I took part in at Sde Boker. I lived in Yeruham, I taught there in the hesder yeshiva, and we were part of the Haredi community in Yeruham. The children studied in the institutions and so on. One day some of the guys from the Haredi community came to me and said, listen, there’s a problem in Sde Boker. Every afternoon, between the afternoon and evening prayers, a group of kollel students from the Haredi community in Yeruham went out to study in some new synagogue in the Midrasha—it’s not the kibbutz; there’s Sde Boker Midrasha there, that’s the branch of Ben-Gurion University a little south of the kibbutz—and they went to study there between the afternoon and evening prayers and came back. There was some kind of transport, a minibus or I don’t know exactly what, and they came back. At some point the people there got into a real panic—the people in Sde Boker Midrasha—that the Haredim were coming and would settle there and close our streets and throw us out of here and so on. They set up an association, went to the media, there was a huge uproar. So they asked me to go speak with their committee, some three professors representing the residents of the Midrasha; they also lived there and worked there. Fine. So I came one Saturday night to speak with these people. There was no one to talk to. They came to issue an ultimatum, like either you get out or I don’t know what, I don’t remember anymore what they said they would do.
Anyway, after a week or two a situation developed where it was possible to have a broader meeting, not only with the action committee but with some group from among the people living there. And then there was a fascinating conversation, really—it was a very interesting conversation—and that’s where the penny dropped for me. So when I got there I said to them, what? Why? What’s actually the problem? Why are you demanding that these guys stop coming? So they said, look, we’re not coming to persuade you, I don’t know what, not to light Sabbath candles. Listen, you’re coming here to persuade us, to bring us to repentance, and all kinds of things like that. So I said to them, basically—first of all, regarding claims about persuasion, I’m not sure this is exactly the chronological order, but this is more or less what happened—claims about persuasion I simply cannot understand. Meaning, suppose I want to come here to persuade you to return to religious observance. That’s what I want to do. What’s the problem? Meaning, I raise arguments; listen, either you’ll be persuaded or you won’t be persuaded. What is illegitimate about coming and persuading? I’m not talking about taking your little child and brainwashing him or something. You’re an adult, I’m an adult—let’s talk. If I persuade you, excellent; if not, then not. We’ll part in peace. Persuasion is forbidden? What is wrong with persuading?
And then I said to them, you know what, let’s go further. I come to coerce you into returning to religious observance. Not persuade—coerce. Let’s now try to examine what exactly the problem is here. And we moved to a discussion that wasn’t practical, but more an attempt to clarify the conceptual issue. Then I asked them, okay, so why shouldn’t I come? Listen, if you coerce, we’ll also come to you and coerce you not to do all kinds of things you believe in. Then at some point I said to them: are you speaking in the name of the value of tolerance, or are you trying to persuade me not to coerce you? If you’re trying to persuade me not to coerce you, then leave it to me—I’ll make my own calculations of interest as best I can. If you’re trying to persuade me that I’m doing something wrong by coming to coerce you, then explain to me what’s wrong with it. Or in other words, at some point I basically said—I tried to ask them, and we returned to the plane of persuasion, but never mind—I said to them, let’s treat persuasion as coercion, because the very fact that there’s a discussion about persuasion—I simply can’t understand what the problem is with persuading. Whoever doesn’t want to, after all, also doesn’t come. It’s not that they’re going door to door and bothering people. There’s a synagogue there. Whoever doesn’t want to come doesn’t come. Whoever comes there is someone who wants to come. And by the way, there wasn’t anyone there from the Midrasha staff; there was some mechanic and there was some mechanic and a doctor. Both were traditional, not religious. They initiated it because they wanted somebody there to kind of give them some instruction. And whoever gets there and wants to, and hears it, and he’s an adult—what’s the problem? And if not, then not; whoever doesn’t want to of course also doesn’t come. Why does this bother you? I mean, I don’t understand this whole thing.
And I said, tell me, if I wanted to come, how do you explain the fact that there isn’t a single religious person in Sde Boker Midrasha? Not a single religious person—in the whole Midrasha. There are hundreds of resident families there. Not one religious person. They said, what do you mean? This is a pluralistic place, everyone who comes—meaning there are no restrictions at all on… I said, this is very interesting statistics. Meaning, there are no restrictions, nothing at all, but there isn’t a single religious person there. There are two traditional people, and both of them are not university faculty members; one is a mechanic, some sort of maintenance guy, I don’t know, and the doctor, who is just there in some rented apartment or something like that. How do you explain this? If I wanted to come, could I join and live here? They said, certainly, what kind of question is that—provided you meet the academic criteria, and so on. I said, I don’t know, I studied a little statistics, and it still seems a bit strange to me that among hundreds of families, when the whole thing is free, the percentage of religious people in the population is a little, little below—I don’t know—a tenth of a percent, something like that. There’s a bit more than that. Where are they? I said, do you really want to tell me you’d accept me? You know very well that you wouldn’t accept me. So how can you talk all the time in the name of pluralism and tolerance? What is this, a private place? It isn’t a private place, it’s a public place. Meaning, someone who works at the university and belongs to that field, or I don’t know—there are some of the university’s departments there—he lives there, or can live there. He doesn’t have to, but he can. So how does it happen that there’s nobody there? It’s a little strange. Well, there are committees, and of course anyone who meets the criteria is accepted. Of course, the people who meet the criteria never wear a kippah. In the name of tolerance and pluralism.
But afterward we went back to the discussion, and then I said to them: so try to explain to me why you don’t come to coerce—or persuade, never mind—persuade me to light candles. And look, a very interesting phenomenon happened, because all kinds of explanations started coming up as to why they don’t come. And at some point I suddenly realized that I disagreed with all of them for the same reason. And then I understood that there was something fundamental here, not just some argument about one kind of manners or another. So let me try to demonstrate this a little.
Now, suppose we think about how a person would explain why he doesn’t come to persuade me to light Sabbath candles. So he says—one explanation, I mentioned it before—because at the next stage you’ll come persuade me, I don’t know, not to drive on the Sabbath. Okay. So why don’t you—meaning, you’re saying you don’t come because you’re afraid. But if you don’t come because you’re afraid, I don’t think you deserve any moral credit for that. After all, you present yourselves as moral people—open, tolerant, pluralistic—and I’m not. Meaning, I—as a representative, again, I think I belonged to the group, but never mind—and I’m not. Meaning, you deserve some kind of moral appreciation for your noble behavior, but you’re doing it out of fear. That’s not because of moral behavior. You don’t come to me because you’re afraid I’ll come to you. Your utilitarian calculation says it isn’t worthwhile to come; my utilitarian calculation says that I do want to come. If it’s a utilitarian consideration, then it’s not a moral argument, right? You don’t deserve moral appreciation for making a utilitarian calculation.
So there’s another argument that says: fine, if we came, it wouldn’t help anyway; you wouldn’t be persuaded. Fine, that too is not a particularly elevated moral consideration; it’s simply a practical one. If you can’t succeed, you don’t do it. So I say, okay, but I estimate that maybe I can succeed, and therefore I do come to persuade you to return to religious observance. So in what sense is your behavior more moral than mine? You have that practical consideration, and I have a different practical consideration. As long as this is the level we’re on, again, we don’t arrive at the judgment that someone is behaving better morally than someone else. It has gone back to being practical considerations.
Others say: we don’t have the strength for that. Others say: we don’t care—do what you want, do your nonsense, maybe you’re even right, and we’ll go on doing our thing, what do you want? Fine, but I do care about you. So who is more moral between us? The one who cares that the other person behave correctly, or the one who doesn’t care about the other? So how can you demand moral credit for not caring about me? That sounds a bit strange to me. So someone else says, okay, but what do I care—light Sabbath candles, it doesn’t hurt anything. Again: and if you don’t care because it doesn’t hurt, and therefore you don’t come persuade me, what do you want from me? I come to you because I think you’re harming yourself, others, everyone; that’s why I come. So the fact that what I do causes no harm, the things I do are not harmful—that is again a practical consideration. You don’t come because it’s a waste of time dealing with something that has no benefit, so you don’t come. So why do you think you’re more moral? Meaning, why are this pluralism or this tolerance in your eyes more moral than the fact that I do come and try to persuade you or something like that? On the contrary, from every point of view it seems that I’m acting in a far more logical and moral way than you.
And then after several—and there were more attempts—and also who says the truth is with us or with you, and pluralism, and all sorts of things of that kind. And yes, maybe I should clarify this point too, because I think that was actually the first point that came up there. Yes, we are not sure; nobody can be sure that the truth is with him. Maybe you’re right, maybe we’re right, therefore we don’t come to coerce you. Because there, really, if you’re not sure—fine—then come try to persuade me. Either you’ll succeed or you won’t succeed; maybe you’ll be persuaded, God forbid—that can happen too. So I say: if you’re not sure, that’s no reason for anything. Or no, there is no truth at all—not that I’m not sure; there is no such thing as right and wrong. These are beliefs and opinions, everyone does what he wants, “the righteous shall live by his faith.” So I say, fine, but if that’s really what you think, then again there is no moral novelty at all in the fact that you don’t come to persuade me or coerce me. If you think I’m right just like you are, then obviously you won’t come persuade me and coerce me, because I’m right just like you. Meaning—and then suddenly I caught it, and in the end, after the whole discussion, I suddenly understood that I was pushing away all these arguments in the same way. I disagreed with them in the same way. So I’ll begin with the pluralistic argument. Meaning, when you start by saying that you don’t come to coerce—now let’s talk for a moment about coercion—I don’t come to coerce the other person because maybe he is right, maybe I am right, I’m a pluralist. Meaning, we are both equally right, so by what right can I coerce him? Fine, but if that’s
[Speaker F] really the case, then
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] There really’s no point in coming and coercing. Meaning, there’s value in the fact that you don’t come and force someone only if you think you’re right and the other person is wrong, and even so you don’t come and force him, right? If you don’t think he’s wrong, then why would you come? It’s just illogical. The value of tolerance, right? So here we already have a first interesting conclusion: for tolerance to have value, you must not be a pluralist. Because if you’re a pluralist, you think both sides are right, so the fact that you’re tolerant toward the other side, that you don’t coerce him, don’t interfere in his life, deserves no appreciation at all. You simply think he’s right just like you are; that’s no great achievement. When do you deserve appreciation? When you’re not a pluralist but a monist, when you think the truth is with you and the other person is mistaken, and even so you give him his living space, you don’t interfere in his life. Okay? Then you deserve some appreciation for moral behavior; you’re tolerant. Okay? So this is a phenomenon, this is a first result that’s very interesting: pluralism and tolerance are not just not synonymous, they’re opposite situations. A pluralist cannot be tolerant. Not just that he isn’t always tolerant or that it’s not exactly the same as tolerance. Someone who is a pluralist, by definition, is not tolerant. He can’t be. A tolerant person is always a monist. We once talked about—what was it, how did I mention it once—the famous joke: what’s the difference between a gentile and a complete gentile? A gentile is a gentile; a complete gentile is only a Jew, right? Have you ever heard of a gentile being called a complete gentile? Only a Jew is called a complete gentile. Meaning, only someone who is a monist can be tolerant. Someone who is a pluralist, who thinks everyone is right, then the fact that he doesn’t interfere in someone else’s life is a trivial conclusion from his philosophical position. Maybe I’ll formulate it differently. The question of pluralism and monism is a philosophical question. It’s not a moral question. The question is whether philosophically you think there is one truth or a plurality of truths. Plural means multiple. So that’s a philosophical question. Okay. The question of tolerance, or the term tolerance, belongs to the field of values. It belongs to the moral field: are you tolerant or not tolerant? Right? So in fact this identification between tolerance and pluralism is mistaken already at the categorical level. It’s not an accidental matter that the tolerant person and the pluralist are not the same thing. Tolerance belongs to the moral world; pluralism belongs to the philosophical world. These are two completely different things. The question of how you see the world is a factual question, meaning whether there is a plurality of truths or one truth. The question of how you behave is the moral question. There is no possibility of identifying these two things. Now, as I said before, here specifically regarding tolerance and pluralism, you immediately see that they really can’t be identical. Meaning, in a place where you are a pluralist, there is no value to your tolerance. You can be tolerant—there’s just no value to it. Yes. By tolerance I mean behavior that has value, meaning behavior that deserves moral credit. So in a place where you are a pluralist, it has no meaning; you can’t be tolerant. That’s a first conclusion. Fine, so if that’s the case, we’ve reached a first conclusion: a tolerant person must be a monist. A tolerant person must believe that the truth is with him and that the other person is mistaken. Part two. Okay, so if I think I’m right and the other person is wrong, why don’t I interfere in his life? Why don’t I coerce him? I’m not sure—maybe there are two values. There’s the value that the views you believe are really the truth, but there’s also the value of peace, and of not having friction within the public. Okay, we’re going exactly in that direction. I’m just saying the reverse can’t be. Meaning, if I don’t think I’m right—meaning if I’m a pluralist—then there is no value at all in my not interfering. Obviously. Now as for the reverse, I’m heading exactly in that direction, but we still need to clarify it a bit more. So let’s do it step by step; in the end I’ll reach a similar formulation. I don’t know if it will be exactly the same formulation, but a similar one. So basically I’m saying: fine, in order to be tolerant, in order for my tolerance to have value, I have to be a monist. I have to believe that I’m right and the other person is wrong, because without that there is no value in my not interfering in someone else’s life. Fine, but if I think I’m right and he’s wrong, then why really not interfere? Why really not bring him to act correctly? So now there are all kinds of arguments. A first argument, for example: look, if I do it to you, you’ll do it to me. But if that’s why you do it, then it’s just a calculation of profit and loss. You don’t deserve moral credit for that, right? So if, for example, I’m not afraid that you’ll do it to me, fine, then I will do it. What’s the problem? There’s no—listen—that’s not where you’ll get moral credit from. Meaning, these are utility calculations. Okay. So in order to get moral credit, it’s not enough that I be a monist; I also have to not be afraid of what will happen as a result of what I do, right? Fine. But if I think I’m right and you’re wrong, and I’m not afraid that you’ll do to me what I’m doing to you, then really, why not do it? Fine, so a second or third explanation: in any case I won’t succeed, you won’t listen to me, what good will it do? Fine, again, if you don’t do it because you think it won’t be useful, and therefore you don’t come to persuade me or coerce me, then again that is not a basis for moral appreciation. You don’t do it because there’s no point in doing it; you’d just be wasting time. Fine, I don’t waste time either. That’s obvious. It’s not a moral question, it’s a practical one, right? Okay. So we have to assume that my intervention in the other person’s life can also help, right? Or sorry—it… I’m not afraid of the reactions, yes? And it can help. Notice where we’ve gotten so far. In order to be tolerant, I have to think that the truth is with me and he is mistaken, meaning I have to be a monist. Second, I have to be able to influence him, meaning that he might accept it, that there’s a possibility he’ll accept it. Third, I’m not afraid that he’ll hit back at me. Now another argument: look, but why should I care what you do at all? What do I care? Do whatever you want. Fine, but we already said this too: that’s not a basis for moral appreciation, that you don’t care about the other person. Rather what? A tolerant person also has to care about the other person, okay? Otherwise there’s no meaning to his being tolerant. Fine, but I care about you in important things—but candle lighting, what harm does that do? Meaning, do what you want, even though I care about you. Again, but if that’s the case, then once more it’s not a basis for moral appreciation. Fine—if I’m doing silly things and you don’t interfere, so what, for that I’m supposed to appreciate you? Meaning, in insignificant matters you don’t intervene—that’s not tolerance; again it’s a practical consideration. Meaning, it turns out—and now look—that every argument you bring will be rejected in the same way, and then something very strange comes out: that in order to be tolerant, you must not be logical. Because if you have a reason for why you do it, then you don’t deserve appreciation, because you’re doing it because of the reason. So it turns out that on the one hand, in order to be tolerant and receive appreciation, there must be no reason for your not intervening. Meaning, it has to be that you think you’re right and he’s wrong, you think you can influence him, you think his act is harmful, you care about him, and you have the ability to influence him, meaning he will accept it. All this has to hold. That’s true of every value. Right, every value—if you have a logical reason, then it’s not a value. Okay, this tension I’m describing here can be made with respect to every value in the world, certainly. But in the end the question arises: okay, so there’s no logical explanation for why I don’t interfere; all the reasons actually say to interfere. He’s mistaken, the action is harmful, I care about him, and I have the ability to change it. So really, why not interfere? Meaning, there are all the reasons to interfere, which means there must not be a logical reason not to interfere, because otherwise my tolerance has no value. But if there is no logical reason not to interfere, then why indeed don’t I interfere? What’s the logic of being tolerant? Fine, there’s some kind of knot here, and then suddenly I realized that I’m actually rejecting all the arguments on the same basis. These aren’t different things; it’s not a different argument each time. Rather, every time a logical argument is raised, I say: wait a second, but if you have a logical argument, you don’t deserve appreciation for it. Where is the concept that says, “You shall remain outside,” that not in every place are you allowed to enter? I’m asking why. What do you mean, where is the concept? That concept is tolerance. And now I’m asking why really not? But the concept of “you shall remain outside”—a concept that, true, is said about someone who owes you money—you can talk about many subjects. The question is whether it doesn’t belong here too. It does belong, but why? I’m asking about the concept itself. The concept is descriptive, not an argument; it’s a description. Someone is doing something wrong, and nevertheless you don’t interfere, right? That’s basically what you’re describing. That’s the description of tolerant behavior. Now I’m just asking what the basis for it is. Why really act that way? That’s not an argument, after all; it only describes the behavior. Maybe intervening clashes with another value? Okay, that connects to what Dani—right?—what Dani said before. In a moment I’ll get to that formulation. Basically the only way out of this knot is to offer an explanation of a different kind for why not to intervene. Meaning, not an explanation that concerns interests, but an explanation—there are other explanations too, by the way, and I’ll reject all of them in the same way, so there’s no point going over every aspect. The only way out, I’m saying on the logical level—the only way that can solve such a problem—is to ground tolerance on a value basis, not on the basis of interest calculations, results, or simply calculations of profit, utility, and loss. Okay, so if for example I think that for the sake of, I don’t know, the value of peace, as you said earlier, or—your wording was a bit different, and I actually tend more to think this way—the wording of respect for the other person’s autonomy, okay? And I really do think you’re mistaken, and I have a chance to succeed, and the mistake is harmful, and I care. About you, all that is true. And still I think you have the right—or even the duty, not only the right—to behave the way you think, and I need to respect that, even though you’re mistaken and it’s a harmful mistake, all of that is true. And that is what I have to respect: the value of autonomy. Someone else will say maybe it’s the value of peace, meaning not to fight, and various things. But even with the value of peace you have to be careful what you mean. Does the value of peace mean that just as if I hit you, you’ll hit me back, so we’re back to… Exactly—then we’re back again to a utilitarian consideration. If we’re talking about the fact that I see value in a situation where we are not fighting, then we can begin speaking in that language. Okay. In any event, however the formulation goes, the only way out that can explain the meaning of tolerant behavior, the moral meaning that we give it, is really to place it on some value basis, not on the basis of a utilitarian calculation or a self-interested calculation. And that means that, for example—I adopt the autonomy formulation because I think it really belongs there, but again, on the logical level you can definitely say otherwise—I respect your autonomy, your right to be mistaken. Meaning, it’s your right to accept. Now here too one has to be very subtle, because even this itself can be said in several shades. Meaning, one could say, for example, that coercion has no value, because if you do it under compulsion, then what value is there in what you do? Say I force you to light Sabbath candles. Fine? Lighting Sabbath candles under coercion—does such an act have value? Very doubtful. So if someone says that an act done under coercion simply has no value, that is not a moral consideration; it’s a practical one. There’s no point in coercing you because I won’t succeed. I won’t succeed not because you won’t light candles, but because the candle lighting… I’m talking about it perhaps having value. But I respect your right to be mistaken. Basically I respect your autonomy, in that you are supposed to decide how you behave. Why is this different from all the other reasons I raised earlier? Why is there no such knot here as I described before? Because a reason of this sort is not a reason of profit-and-loss calculations but a value reason. Meaning, I do this because I believe in a certain value, not because I have a calculation of what I’ll gain or lose if I do or don’t do it. But if you build the value of autonomy, it presupposes that the person is mistaken. If he were doing something that was clearly harmful to him, would you also respect the autonomy? So what you’re saying is that maybe there will be a limit to autonomy. Meaning, now we have to start weighing what the level of harm is from the mistaken act… Not what is right. In principle, if I know why to set a limit, why does autonomy have value if it harms one’s own autonomy? There’s the idea that you want to help… Now we’re back again. Now we can conduct the exact same discussion about the value of autonomy instead of the value of tolerance. And with the value of autonomy, every time I explain to you in answer to that “why,” if I explain to you a reason that is a profit-and-loss calculation, then respect for the other person’s autonomy is no longer a value. But if the only possibility is to tell you: listen, because I have such a value—to respect the other person’s autonomy. That’s it. I don’t have—I don’t know how to explain it to you in other terms. It has to stop at a value reason. It cannot stop at a profit-and-loss reason. Now here the question always arises: wait a second, okay, but why do you do it? The answer is: that’s just how it is. And in every value question, in the end, at bottom, we will always have to stop at “that’s just how it is.” Because a reason that depends on facts or on profit-and-loss calculations cannot… uproot the value. Yes, exactly. There’s an example I remembered—wait a second—an example I remembered. There was an article now after the elections in TheMarker. Someone wrote there that people accuse the voters from the periphery, Mizrahim, and all sorts of things, of tribal, irrational voting. Why? Because Bibi screws them over all the time, and nevertheless he gets higher support there. Fine? So he wrote: I don’t understand—the stronger socioeconomic groups aren’t more rational. Bibi helps them all the time, and they’re against him. Why is that rational? Meaning, both sides are behaving in a completely tribal way. And it’s an interesting argument, and even a nice one, but there’s a mistake in it, and the mistake is the same mistake as those whom he attacks. Because both assume that the only rational consideration is a profit-and-loss consideration, meaning the economic consideration: what will be best for my sector or my income decile or whatever it may be. And then again, if it will be good for me, I’m in favor; if bad for me, I’m against. But that’s rational behavior. But maybe both sides are rational, even though they act against their economic interest, because they have other things that matter to them. For these people, what matters is, I don’t know, not to be cosmopolitan and universal but to be more traditional, Jewish, I don’t know, national—it doesn’t matter, each one and his reasons. And for the others, the opposite: it matters more to be universal, even at the cost of their economic class being harmed a bit. What’s irrational about that? Meaning, there’s some assumption there, of the writer and of those he criticizes—both together—an assumption that only economic calculation is rational; values are not rational. Okay, but then it looks irrational, and then children catch on that “that’s just how it is” is not an answer. Yes, exactly, but “that’s just how it is” is of course the only possible answer, and that’s what they don’t understand—and sometimes their parents don’t understand either. “That’s just how it is” is the only possible answer, because whenever you ask why, why, why, why—in the end, okay, there is something fundamental there about which you will have to say “that’s just how it is.” Because that’s true. There is no answer. You can’t keep going all the way down forever, right? In the end there will always be some “that’s just how it is.” No, and the other side says there are no values. Yes, exactly. So I’m saying: where the parent does speak in terms of values, then when you attack him with the question why why why, either you’re saying there are no values—but if you want to justify a value, there is no other justification except “that’s just how it is.” Yes, clearly. Those who present values as if there are none, that it’s irrational, that it’s tribal, it doesn’t matter, all kinds of arguments of that sort—basically that’s the conclusion they draw from what I described here. Fine, you can ask them: every person has values; there is no person with no values. Fine, I’m saying theoretically, some person could come and have no values at all. Why do you believe in values? Yes, obviously, but I’m saying, suppose some alien came along: I have no values, a hypothetical creature, whatever, fine. He’s consistent with himself, no problem. But anyone who already has values will always stop at “that’s just how it is.” There is no better answer than that. And that’s perfectly fine, by the way; that’s a completely rational answer. Because rationality is never the question of how you choose your basic assumptions. Rationality is always the question of whether you act correctly in order to achieve your basic assumptions. If you are consistent with your basic assumptions—that’s how you can measure a person’s rationality. How can you judge basic assumptions? It’s hard to judge that, or at least in terms of rationality. In any case, back to our matter: when I want to justify some value, in the end I arrive at “that’s just how it is.” And if I justify the value of tolerance—I think that in tolerance I still have an argument, and at the next stage I’ll stop with “that’s just how it is.” Tolerance is based on respect for the other person’s autonomy. Again, maybe peace—I’m choosing this path—but respect for the other person’s autonomy. And that differs from all the previous explanations because this explanation is a value explanation, not an explanation of what I’ll gain or lose, or whether there is or isn’t any point in intervening. I don’t really agree, because again, autonomy is only as long as it doesn’t cost me something. When you light candles, what do I care? But the moment your autonomy affects me, I’m not willing to accept it. Again, I want, I want, I want to distinguish between two things. I did not claim that autonomy is correct. I claimed that someone who is tolerant is based on the value of autonomy, on respect for the other person’s autonomy. That’s the basis for the value of tolerance. Only on condition that it doesn’t affect me. The moment you say that I can’t drive on the Sabbath, you have no autonomy. No, under no condition—no. I’ll answer that in a moment. I claim not so. I claim not so. Tolerance is based on respect for the other person’s autonomy. That is the basis for tolerance. You can say: fine, I don’t accept tolerance or autonomy. Fine, no problem; I didn’t say it’s correct. What I said is that it’s the only possible basis for someone who advocates tolerance. You can say: fine, I don’t advocate tolerance because I don’t accept it; I don’t accept the autonomy of the other person if it harms me. Okay, because again, understand: if it means I respect the other person’s autonomy only if it doesn’t harm me, that isn’t called respecting the other person’s autonomy. We’re back to the previous discussion. It means that all you’re doing is profit-and-loss calculations. Therefore I’m saying: if you are tolerant—no, I’m not preaching tolerance at the moment, meaning everyone can decide whatever he wants about whether he is tolerant or not. But if someone says, “I am tolerant,” the only possible basis for that is respect for the other person’s autonomy. Now you can say: fine, I don’t accept respect for the other person’s autonomy, therefore I’m not tolerant. Okay. I have no problem with that. At the moment I’ve only described what tolerance is. The question whether to be tolerant or not is each person’s decision. Okay? So therefore I’m not arguing—I am arguing, but no, what I said earlier doesn’t argue with what you said now. You can argue about it later, but what I described earlier was simply a description: what tolerance is. Tolerance means respect for the other person’s autonomy. You can now be tolerant, if you do accept it, or not, but that is tolerance. Or to be tolerant up to a certain limit. Yes, and that’s exactly where I’ll get in a moment, because that already connects to what you raised here earlier. There is a practical or behavioral similarity between tolerance and pluralism, and that’s what I think is very confusing in this discussion. Because in both cases we don’t interfere in the other person’s life; in both cases we sort of treat him respectfully, respect his position, and so on. But on the philosophical level there is a vast abyss between these two things. Meaning, pluralism assumes the other person is as right as I am; tolerance assumes that I am right and he is mistaken, but I respect his right to be mistaken. Not only his right to be mistaken; in my opinion also his duty to be mistaken, as I’ll discuss later. Meaning, I think he should behave in accordance with what he thinks, even at the price of being mistaken. Meaning, it’s a duty, not only a right. And therefore there is a philosophical difference here, even though on the practical plane it appears in a rather similar form. In both cases I do my thing and I don’t interfere in the other person’s life even if he does the opposite, he acts differently. And that is why people get so confused between these two concepts, tolerance and pluralism, because on the practical level they appear in very similar forms. But what I now want to argue is the next step: that there is still also a difference on the practical plane between tolerance and pluralism. Meaning, it’s not only a philosophical distinction. There are practical consequences here. If you are tolerant or pluralist, it will look different on two planes. One plane is openness, and the second plane is radius. I’ll start with openness. If you are a pluralist, then basically not only can you not be tolerant, you also can’t be open. Openness means listening—what the House of Hillel did, that they put the words of the House of Shammai before their own, listened to their reasoning, and only then formed a position. In a pluralist world there is no point in doing that, because in any case you never arrive at truth. There is no truth, everyone is right, everyone is wrong; you don’t need to listen to him or not listen to him—he’s right just like you. Meaning, you don’t assume you have the ability to decide right and wrong, truth and falsehood, because everyone is right. In such a situation there is no point in listening and reasoning and maybe learning something from him. What will you learn from him? After all, from the outset you know that everyone is right and everyone is wrong, and there is no—you cannot get closer to the truth in any way. A pluralist would say there is more than one truth. Okay, so I’m talking about substantive pluralism. Substantive pluralism means that every coherent argument is equivalent to any other coherent argument. You cannot decide between two coherent conceptions. Fine? Postmodernism, or substantive pluralism. Later we’ll get to intermediate models. Right now I’m making a typological treatment. On the typological level I’m saying: the pluralist type is someone who, philosophically, is not willing to accept the superiority of one discourse over another, or of one argument over another. If someone is inconsistent, I don’t know how to deal with that. My assumption is that this should be a consistent position; otherwise do whatever you want. Okay, but the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai are in the same field, as you say. Wait—we said that’s the question of radius. I’ll get to all of that, believe me, I’ll get to everything. I know all the comments. So the question of radius that I mentioned earlier—in just a moment. So the first implication of the difference between a tolerant person and a pluralist: what does the tolerant person say, basically? There is one truth; I am right and you are wrong, but I respect your right to be mistaken. But more than that: if you really are a monist, then you believe in your ability to get closer to the truth. Maybe you can never be sure that the truth is with you, but you do have some way of getting closer to the truth. This is not some world in which everyone who throws something into the air is equally right. If that’s so, then it’s very worthwhile to listen to everyone else and hear whether maybe you can learn something from them. You’re not necessarily right to begin with. Listen to the other arguments, weigh them, reach a conclusion. In the end you will conclude who is right and who is wrong—you are a monist. But on the contrary, precisely because you are a monist, because you think you’re right and he’s wrong, precisely for that reason it is more worthwhile to hear him out. To listen to him carefully. Again, what the House of Hillel did with the House of Shammai: they put the words of the House of Shammai before their own, and only then drew the conclusion. In contrast, if from the outset you don’t believe in the ability to get closer to the truth, in a substantive way, categorically—you’re a substantive pluralist. In such a situation there is nothing to listen to; everyone is equally right. It’s all the same; it has no significance. There is, yes, that phenomenon of “Popolitika”—I think that program no longer exists, right? I just remember years ago when there was that program on TV, people criticized it for the panel’s lack of manners, because it had Tommy Lapid and Shelly Yachimovich and I don’t remember who else was there—Eichler, yes, right. So they criticized them because there was some lack of manners there, and they were just mocking instead of discussing the substance. And my feeling was that there was a lack of manners there, but the lack of manners was a symptom, not the problem. The basic problem was that it was clear to everyone there that no one was going to persuade anyone else. That was basically the assumption. All that remained was to wrestle, exchange jokes, see who would be wittier, who would defeat the other with sharper speech. Why? Because it was clear that no one was going to leave the studio persuaded, or having heard something new from the other side. That was obvious; that was the basic assumption. It is impossible to be persuaded. The pluralist assumption stood there at the basis of the lack of manners. That basic assumption that says: there is no point in really listening to your arguments; I know it all already; you’re right like me and I’m right; it’s all tribal. Yes, we talked about that already. The way you were born is what you think, and the way I was born is what I think; neither of us will persuade the other; it is impossible to persuade the other. It’s all a matter of constructions and discourse and narratives—yes, and all those funny words. And because of that there is no point in rational discussion and listening and drawing conclusions, so you can tell jokes. So at the base of the lack of manners there sat a philosophical outlook, a pluralist outlook. Not necessarily. It could be that each one was simply so convinced of his own opinion that he laughed at the others. Yes, it could be. I think there’s something beyond that. You’re convinced of your opinion, and you also know that that conviction is because you were born into this tribe, and he too—you know that he is no less convinced of his opinion because he was born into another tribe. And so you are really only taking one more step from what you said. Right, I’m sure in the psychological sense, but if you ask me in self-reflection, where does that confidence come from? Well, I’m a sober person. I know: because I was born in this place, or into this society or this kind of home, and he was born into another home, so he is confident in a different way. So in the end you reach the point that a person is the pattern of his native landscape. There is no point in arguing at all. We cannot persuade or be persuaded. And even if we persuade or are persuaded, it has no meaning because fine, within the patterns that are inside me I was persuaded—okay. Tomorrow morning someone else will persuade me otherwise. The persuasion has no significance. I do not believe in my ability to get closer to any truth. There is no truth in the classical sense, in the sense of “this is true and its opposite is not true.” So therefore openness, it seems to me, is a first implication. Someone who listens seriously to the other person, not out of politeness so as to let him speak, but in order genuinely to try and learn something from him—that person is a monist, not a pluralist. And then he can also be tolerant; he can also not be. A monist can also be intolerant. But a tolerant person cannot be someone who is not a monist. Fine, this dependence goes only one way. Therefore openness is one implication. What I once mentioned, that thing to the guys in Yeruham, when I studied there in the yeshiva—that the argument from which you gained something is an argument in which you lost. Because if you won the argument, then what you thought at the outset is also what you leave with, so what did you learn? You learned nothing new. An argument in which you lost is an argument in which you came with one position and they convinced you that you were mistaken. You learned something new; meaning, you learned that what you thought in the morning was wrong, so in the evening you are wiser than you were in the morning. Therefore one should not recoil from losing arguments; on the contrary. I told them: admittedly, maintain proper conduct between people, meaning let other people lose sometimes too, not only you. Don’t insist that only you lose arguments all the time. But still, basically, the arguments from which we benefit are arguments in which we lost. The story of Reish Lakish and Rabbi Yohanan is the opposite. And Rabbi Yohanan said: I was right, and I learned that you, my student, had all kinds of arguments and so on. I’m not sure—why do you assume Rabbi Yohanan thought he was always right? In the sense—no, it doesn’t say that there. He missed Bar Elazar, “I say something and he only agrees with me all the time,” right. With you I have to defend, and then I have to defend, and maybe sometimes also be persuaded that I’m wrong. You took it one step further; it’s not written in the Talmud. It could be that Rabbi Yohanan said the opposite: I wanted that antithesis because maybe indeed sometimes I was persuaded. Why not? I don’t know. It doesn’t say in the Talmud. But you asked questions and I answered with 24 answers, and I answered, and maybe he answered you back again from the answers, and you can continue the argument further. It doesn’t say there how the argument ended. Fine. In any event, what I’m saying is that the value of openness, or open behavior, actually characterizes monists—although tolerant pluralists often pride themselves on openness. That’s not openness; it’s just: I have no reason to listen to you, do what you want, I’m very polite because in any case there’s no point talking. Again, that’s a practical duplication of openness, but it isn’t really openness. It only looks like openness. Not real openness. You won’t go to the ends of the earth to hear new views or new arguments, because in any case there’s no point. The genuine monist has a value in hearing many arguments, because then the formation of his position will be more correct—again, like the House of Hillel: after they heard the House of Shammai, weighed their arguments, they came to a more correct conclusion. So I have an interest in hearing your argument, a value interest, yes, in order to arrive at a more correct conclusion. So openness is one practical consequence. The second practical consequence, and I think it’s even more interesting, is radius. Tolerance and pluralism are both basically behavior in which I don’t interfere in the other person’s life. But as was noted here earlier on the side—and I intentionally postponed it because now I’m getting to that discussion—it’s obvious that this will not happen at any price. Meaning, I don’t know, it’s obvious to me. Say I think of myself as tolerant. Meaning, I think I am tolerant. A tolerant monist, okay? Now, obviously, if I have the opport—say my child is, I don’t know, about to become addicted to hard drugs, and I have the ability to prevent it, and of course I care about him, then I will try to stop him, even by force if I have the ability to do that. Where’s your tolerance? So if I really respect his right to make a mistake out of a pluralist outlook, meaning that basically he isn’t mistaken—this isn’t respecting his right to make a mistake; there is no right and wrong—from a pluralist outlook, then indeed there is no way to justify such intervention. Maybe he’s right, maybe I’m right, because substantively it’s impossible to decide who is right and who is wrong. But tolerance is based on my thinking that you are mistaken. Only I respect your right to be mistaken, and therefore I don’t intervene. Here there is already room for different weights. It depends how mistaken you are. It depends whether this mistake is extremely far-reaching. It depends what damages it brings. Because there are situations in which my concern for you not to be mistaken stands opposite my desire to respect your right to be mistaken. And now, I don’t know, if the damage is very great, then that will prevail. If the damage is small enough, then this will prevail. So I adopt your suggestion, but only partially. Meaning, I say that tolerance generally will not be implemented in every situation. Meaning, I won’t be tolerant at any price. But not that I’m claiming—wait a second—not that I’m claiming that whenever there is a price, then I’m not tolerant. That’s why I didn’t agree with the earlier formulation. Rather, I’m saying there is some tension between the damages and my concern for you, on the one hand, and the desire to respect your right to be mistaken and determine your path in life, on the other. Since my non-interference in the other person’s life is the result of a consideration that has two sides, whenever there are two sides there is always some point at which there is a boundary: when this side is stronger and when that side is stronger. And therefore a certain radius is created, up to which I am tolerant. Beyond that I am no longer tolerant. That’s where the big argument is, at least post-Foucault, over someone who is mentally ill, someone mentally ill. Can you take him and put him in a hospital by force? There’s a huge legal and philosophical dispute over that. Very good, that really is a good example of this issue. Again, both sides place the radius where they understand it. I have no clear criteria for where the radius passes, but its very existence… That’s always when there’s a clash between two values. Exactly. Meaning, tolerance never stands in a vacuum. Tolerance is always against all sorts of other things. After all, I explained earlier: when does my tolerance have value? When I think you are mistaken, and your mistake is harmful, and I care about you, and I can prevent the harm—then for heaven’s sake, why not intervene? Because I respect your right to be mistaken. So you see that it is always a matter of tension, because sometimes I will not respect your right to be mistaken if that mistake is very harmful to you, or to me, or to others—it doesn’t matter—then no. So there is an element of judgment here. In contrast, pluralism does not arise from tension between two values. Pluralism is nothing—who cares, do what you want, everyone is right. In such a situation I do not expect there to be a radius. But there still is—although these are two different planes—there is such a thing, meaning your behavior can be driven by philosophical values but also by emotions. And if your son says, “I’m going now to use hard drugs,” then because of emotion— No, so I don’t accept the assumption that it’s because of emotion. I think it’s a logical consideration that I’m not willing to allow it, a moral consideration, not an emotion. Even if you are a pluralist? No. If you are a pluralist, okay, then it will only be emotions. So I don’t judge emotions; I judge what you do on the rational level. We all have emotions. A pluralist too can have a radius for utilitarian reasons—he harms me. Yes, so again that’s a utilitarian radius. Fine, because you’re afraid, so therefore no, fine. In such places, obviously. But I’m saying on the principled level: if I see that there is a certain radius to tolerance—up to here I’m tolerant, beyond here I’m not—that is a very strong indication that what we are dealing with here is not pluralism but tolerance, tolerant monism. Okay? Because there is some radius. Now, the radius itself—you can propose two criteria, and with this I’ll finish, two criteria that determine this radius. One criterion is the criterion of harm: the intensity of the expected harm. If it’s an act that can lead to enormous harm, I assume that if some fool came to press the red button and release, I don’t know what, nuclear bombs, presumably most tolerant people—if they could—would not let him do it. Why not? Because there is a limit to the harm that we are willing to tolerate in the name of tolerance. So what determines the radius, or how tolerant I will be, is first the degree of harm. Meaning, if strong harm is expected here, set against respecting the value of the other person’s autonomy, then I stop my tolerance. And the second reason, and I think it’s an important one and worth paying attention to, is the reason of seriousness. Since I believe in the existence of truth and I only respect your right to be mistaken, I respect your right to be mistaken where you deserve respect. But if you don’t deserve respect, I won’t respect it. For example, if I have a small child who thinks differently from me and behaves differently from me, without great harm, small harm—but since he’s still a little child and he still can’t really form a position of his own, then I won’t respect his position, or I’ll respect it less. I respect the position of an adult who has weighed things, checked, and reached a conclusion different from mine—I respect that. But I don’t respect a position that was just formed and that you don’t know how to decide about; that’s not a position. I respect positions, not mere whims. Now in the same way, with a child, fine, there I assume we’d always agree. But what happens in a situation where we’re dealing with an adult, not a child? And I claim that he didn’t hear my arguments. If he were to hear my arguments, I would persuade him. Do I have to respect the fact that he behaves differently? I claim not. Respect has to be earned. Meaning, if you pay the price and do what’s needed in order to form a position, and in the end you hear my arguments, you learn, you think, and in the end you arrive at a position different from mine—I will respect that. But if you want me to respect your position without your doing the work necessary to form a different position, I do not respect that. That is not serious; it’s not a position. There was once a group that came to Yeruham from the Hartman Institute that was working on issues of pluralism and all these matters—it was around the Kinneret Covenant. It was a covenant between religious and secular Jews who wanted to sign on mutual respect and all sorts of things of that kind. So they asked me to speak with them, and I told them that in my life I would never sign such a covenant. I won’t sign such a covenant because it is basically permission for ignorance. Respect ignorance? I don’t respect ignorant people. Meaning, if a person comes and hears my arguments, and I hear his—obviously, I’m not the only wise person on the globe. Rather, we hear each other’s arguments, think, and reach different conclusions—I’ll sign with him any covenant of mutual respect he wants. But the Kinneret Covenant did not demand that people pay the price for the respect they wanted. It wanted everyone to respect what the other person thinks. I don’t respect that. In my opinion, ninety-five percent of the population are idiots. I don’t respect idiots. By idiots I don’t mean that they lack intelligence, not in that sense. I mean that they didn’t invest thought in their path. They are tribal; we talked about that earlier. And not specifically Mizrahim. And I do not respect such a position. There’s nothing I can do. I’m not the government, and I don’t intend to put anyone in jail for not hearing my considerations. But to sign with him on a covenant saying that I respect his ignorance, or the fact that he didn’t do the work and didn’t seriously examine his path—I don’t respect that. I don’t want to sign that. Jojo is stubborn. It could be that the stubborn person is unwilling to listen. No, but I’m saying—I think there’s also idiocy here. Because why are you afraid? Because maybe you’ll be persuaded? But if you’re persuaded, that means it really is the truth. So who loses from your not listening? You do. Because in the end, if you persuade me then you have no problem with me, right? So I’m the one who gets persuaded, not you. So what are you afraid of? That I’ll persuade you? But fool, if I persuade you, that’s a sign that right now you’re living in error. So you’re stubborn and remain with your error and don’t want to listen to me, just because of the fear that maybe it will turn out that you’re mistaken. Not because maybe it will turn out that you’re right. So what—you insist on your errors? And I’m supposed to respect that? Meaning, to give people permission to remain in their ignorance and determine their path without thinking and without listening and without weighing the other side—I don’t sign a covenant of respect with people like that. Again, I’m saying: I’m not in favor of putting them in jail for that. I think coercion too has limits. But I definitely am not willing to sign with them on mutual respect. Respect has to be worked for. Meaning, if you hear the arguments—hear me and I’ll hear you—let’s sit around a round table, listen, and also be willing to be persuaded where we are persuaded, and in the end we arrive at different positions—no problem. “These and those are the words of the living God,” and here I return to the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel. The House of Shammai and the House of Hillel—I asked what the meaning is of “these and those are the words of the living God” when we read it in a monistic way: that Jewish law follows the House of Hillel because they are right. The answer is that when the House of Shammai stated their position, they didn’t just throw out a position without thinking and without having basic knowledge in the field—yes, they too were Jews who knew how to learn. So what does it mean? It means that this is within the legitimate range; it’s worth listening to; it’s a serious position. In the end the House of Hillel listened and came to a different conclusion. In such a situation, Jewish law follows the House of Hillel on the one hand, but “these and those are the words of the living God” means both the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel. Christians—no, I don’t remember, Christians are a bad example. Secular Jews, fine? Secular Jews—in my personal view, I’m talking about those who did not arrive there through examination. Those who did arrive there through examination—we talked about that in previous times. But there are those who did not arrive there through examination. I will not respect their position. I will not say about that too that “these are also the words of the living God.” They are not. Because that error is outside the radius of tolerance. And religious Jews who did not examine their position—the same thing. If I were secular, I would not relate to that with tolerance either, obviously. Right, it’s completely symmetrical; there is no preference here. In other words, what I basically want to argue is this, and from here maybe I’ll continue next time: in the monistic reading, “these and those are the words of the living God” actually distinguishes between two domains of error. There is legitimate error and illegitimate error. Jewish law follows the House of Hillel because they are right, and if they are right, then in the monistic reading the House of Shammai is mistaken. But the error of the House of Shammai lies within the legitimate domain, and that is the meaning of “these and those are the words of the living God.” If there are forty-nine reasons for impurity and forty-nine reasons for purity—that is already the next stage, but maybe I’ll say it in just one sentence to close at least the section we did. Usually when there is a dispute between sages in some halakhic field, but this is also true of disputes between wise people in other fields, both sides are right in terms of the arguments. Meaning, the arguments of both sides are correct arguments. The dispute is not over whether someone’s argument is correct or not correct. I almost can’t imagine a dispute in which someone raises an argument and says: your argument is incorrect. All I can say is: there is another argument that leads in the opposite direction, and I think that argument has more weight than this one. Or this one has more weight than that one. Yes, the classic example of chocolate: one says not to eat it because it’s fattening, and the other says to eat it because it’s tasty. Who is right? Obviously the one who says it’s tasty—but in terms of the arguments, both sides are right. After all, nobody is speaking nonsense. Obviously it’s fattening, and obviously it’s tasty. So “these and those are the words of the living God” means: you’re not speaking nonsense; your arguments are correct. That doesn’t mean there is no dispute and no right and wrong, because in weighing things you now have to decide whether considerations of taste override considerations of health or vice versa. And—wait a second—and in that dispute there really is a dispute. The one who says not to eat claims that health overrides taste, and he does not claim that “it’s not unhealthy”—that would be an incorrect description of his position. He claims: it’s unhealthy but tasty, and the fact that it’s unhealthy overrides the fact that it’s tasty. And the one who says it’s tasty says: no, pleasure overrides health. And in that dispute, that is a real dispute, and here there is only one right side. So “these and those are the words of the living God” does not contradict monism. “These and those are the words of the living God” only means that both sides who bring arguments are bringing correct arguments. No one here is speaking nonsense, neither the House of Shammai nor the House of Hillel. But that does not mean they are both right. It only means that both are within the legitimate boundary and both know what they are talking about; they are not little children. What do you do with “but in the future to come, Jewish law will follow the House of Shammai”? Again, that’s an obscure tradition that I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with, but it can also be understood in a way that really in the future to come the various weights of the reasons will be different. Say that the House of Shammai takes less account, perhaps, of the circumstances of this world, and in the world to come it will be such a perfect world that this world will not interfere with observing the Torah as it truly should be observed, for example. So that doesn’t have to contradict what I said up to now. What is the mistake of the House of Shammai? In the weighing. After all, there are forty-nine reasons for impurity and forty-nine reasons for purity; all three hundred reasons are correct. After all, no one there is an ignoramus, neither the House of Shammai nor the House of Hillel; both know how to learn. So when one says that the creeping thing is impure and the other says that the creeping thing is pure—I just gave an example—then one brings one hundred and fifty reasons this way and the other brings one hundred and fifty reasons that way. All the reasons are correct; no one disputes that all three hundred reasons are correct. The dispute is over which one hundred and fifty carry more weight. Now those who are inside the legitimate circle are the people who give reasonable reasons, only there is a dispute over the weight. Toward them one is inside the radius of tolerance. Their error is an error because I am a monist, but their error is a legitimate error because, fine, they think differently, they weigh the arguments differently. But someone who never learned at all, he is a little child, or he didn’t examine things, and he gives incorrect reasons—not considerations—he simply doesn’t know what he is talking about. That is outside; that is illegitimate error. Therefore when people say “these and those are the words of the living God,” they are speaking about these and those within the legitimate circle, and it is not correct to understand that as applying to every position everywhere. There are positions that are outside the circle; they are not even in the game. There there is no legitimate attitude. And that is precisely the indication that “these and those are the words of the living God” is a tolerant statement, not a pluralist one. Because only because it is a tolerant statement can there be some radius up to which the tolerance extends and no further.