Pluralism and Tolerance, Lecture 5

Table of Contents

• Two readings of “These and these” and the ruling of a heavenly voice
• Tolerance versus pluralism and “one who errs in judgment”
• The Ritva in Sukkah, causing someone to stumble, and “do not place a stumbling block”
• Stringencies, Rabbi Soloveitchik, and the difficulty of deciding
• Brisk, analysis, pluralism, and the spirit of the age
• Tradition versus independent decision-making and an explanation for the breakdown of tradition
• “A tour of approaches,” choosing a rabbi, and blind faith
• Harmonism: Gittin, “he found a fly” and “he found a hair,” and 150 reasons
• Two levels in halakhic ruling: pluralism in the reasoning and monism in the decision
• The radius of tolerance and “error in judgment” as a mechanism of legitimacy
• Truth, correctness, and the logic of contradiction
• The boundaries of the game: Conservatism, who is a Jew, and conversion
• Autonomy and authority in halakhic ruling: Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz and the Shakh
• Critique of doubt due to great authorities and of the supremacy of custom
• Who is entitled to decide: a rabbi, the “great sages of the generation,” and continuation of the discussion

Summary

General Overview

The text presents two readings of “These and these” in Eruvin: a pluralistic reading and a monistic-tolerant reading in which a heavenly voice rules in accordance with Beit Hillel because they were gentle and humble. From that, a halakhic conception is built that distinguishes between one truth in the bottom line and a space of valid reasons. The speaker argues that Jewish law is not pluralistic but tolerant. He bases this on the concept of “one who errs in judgment” and on a close reading of the Ritva in Sukkah, and develops a “harmonistic” model in which there is pluralism on the level of reasons and monism on the level of decision, while that monism itself remains tolerant toward legitimate error. Later, he connects the difficulty of reaching decisions to the rise of analytical ability in the Torah world, especially in Brisk, and to the spirit of the age. He concludes by presenting a position on autonomy in halakhic ruling: one does not follow the majority or authority when a person is not in doubt, citing a sharp passage from the Shakh, and criticizing the concept of doubt due to great authorities and the transformation of custom into a deciding mechanism when the Jewish law is not “weakly held.”

Two readings of “These and these” and the ruling of a heavenly voice

The speaker presents two ways of reading the passage of “These and these” in Eruvin: pluralism versus tolerant monism. He describes the heavenly voice that says the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel, and the Talmud explains this because they were gentle and humble. He states that the discussion proceeds from the tolerant reading, not from the pluralistic one.

Tolerance versus pluralism and “one who errs in judgment”

The speaker defines tolerance as a position in which someone who rules differently can still be legitimate and yet mistaken, as opposed to pluralism in which “legitimate” becomes “correct.” He brings an indication for this from the distinction in the Talmud between “one who errs in judgment” and “one who errs in an explicit Mishnah,” and argues that even when there is no clear authoritative source that decides the matter, there is still room to say that the reasoning is mistaken. He notes that the Talmud and many halakhic decisors interpret “one who errs in judgment” as someone who departs from “the accepted sugya,” meaning what is commonly ruled in the observant community, but argues that other halakhic decisors insist that this is an error in the reasoning itself and not merely a deviation from what is conventional. He presents “the accepted sugya” as an indication that the reasoning is not correct, not as a decisive definition, so that the dispute between lines of reasoning does not become impossible to resolve.

The Ritva in Sukkah, causing someone to stumble, and “do not place a stumbling block”

The speaker cites the Ritva in Sukkah about Rav Nachman seating Rav Huna and Rav Chisda in a sukkah that was invalid according to their view, and infers that this is permitted if they are informed. He argues that pluralism would forbid this even with prior notice because of “do not place a stumbling block” toward someone who is bound by his own view, whereas monism can permit it, even without notice, because the other person is mistaken. He clarifies that monism is not a claim of certainty but of the existence of one truth, and distinguishes between truth and certainty while emphasizing that there is no full certainty. He explains that someone who acts in accordance with his halakhic position acts according to what seems true to him until he is shown to be mistaken. Therefore, if he permits something for himself, he can also cause someone else to do so after informing him, and if it turns out he was mistaken, then this is an unintentional error and not a deliberate transgression.

Stringencies, Rabbi Soloveitchik, and the difficulty of deciding

The speaker describes a situation in which a God-fearing person is stringent because he is not sure that his lenient ruling is the truth, and notes that here he agrees with Rabbi Ovadia Yosef that this has nothing to do with certainty but rather with the question of what counts as true in his eyes. He presents Rabbi Soloveitchik as stringent, and argues that one can say “he is mistaken” within a framework of confidence levels rather than absolute certainty. He also describes the Chazon Ish as someone willing to be lenient “when I am sure,” and interprets “sure” as high confidence, not one hundred percent certainty.

Brisk, analysis, pluralism, and the spirit of the age

The speaker argues that the Brisker scholars are stringent not only out of fear of Heaven but because their high analytical ability undermines the ability to decide, since one can construct a coherent structure both for the Rashba and for Maimonides, and then it becomes hard to say who is right. He explains that when one identifies consistency in different approaches, one is tempted toward pluralism, where “everyone is right according to his own method,” and he connects this to broader philosophical processes of postmodernism and the spirit of the age in which “there is no simple truth.” He argues that the Talmud itself sometimes does not decide, but in practice Jewish law requires a decision, and he presents a dispute as to whether the problem is the absence of judicial frameworks or the analytical change itself. He says that Maimonides and the Rosh were able to decide more easily because they did not operate in the same analytical mode as Rabbi Chaim and his students, and adds that analytical ability can disrupt the “sense of smell in the fingertips” needed for halakhic ruling.

Tradition versus independent decision-making and an explanation for the breakdown of tradition

The speaker rejects a solution based on “I have a tradition, so I don’t enter the dispute,” and asks why precisely in Brisk the traditional approach broke down. He explains that the change stems from the zeitgeist of the twentieth century, which sharpened the attitude that “everyone is right,” and led this pattern to penetrate the study hall even without conscious awareness of its origins. He states that he is against “the method of tradition” and also against Brisk, and argues that one must decide independently and not in order to satisfy every possible approach.

“A tour of approaches,” choosing a rabbi, and blind faith

The speaker says that someone who is incapable or does not study should not rule for himself, just as someone who is not a doctor does not take medication on his own authority. He suggests that the public chooses a rabbi “who seems suitable,” and that this is a separate question—how to choose. He notes that he tries to expose his children to a range of possibilities so they can choose for themselves. He describes how a “tour of yeshivas” is usually conducted within a narrow range, and that very few yeshivas truly present the full variety.

Harmonism: Gittin, “he found a fly” and “he found a hair,” and 150 reasons

The speaker argues that there is no escaping “harmonism” as the only consistent solution that accepts “These and these” because that is a Talmudic statement. He bases this on the Talmud in Gittin regarding the concubine in Gibeah: “he found a fly” versus “he found a hair,” where the truth includes both, and the anger results from their combination. He presents this as the only explanation in which the Talmud itself explains what “These and these” means: each side grasps part of the truth, not the whole of it. He connects this to the Talmudic statement about 150 reasons to declare the creeping thing pure and 150 reasons to declare it impure, and to Rabbenu Tam’s question, “What use are these empty dialectics to us?” He cites the Maharal, who explains that even when the Torah decides, there are still valid reasons on the other side. He illustrates this with chocolate: tasty and fattening are both valid considerations, but in the bottom line a decision still has to be made about which matters more.

Two levels in halakhic ruling: pluralism in the reasoning and monism in the decision

The speaker formulates a two-story structure of halakhic ruling: on the first level, one surveys reasons in every direction, and on the second level, one decides in the bottom line which outweighs which. He says that on the level of reasons, “These and these” is pluralism, because there is no contradiction between valid reasons, but on the level of decision there is one truth, and therefore it is monistic. He adds that this monism is not inflexible but rather “tolerant monism,” which recognizes legitimate error when the reasons are valid but the balancing is mistaken.

The radius of tolerance and “error in judgment” as a mechanism of legitimacy

The speaker argues that for the pluralist “there is no radius,” but tolerance has boundaries, and those boundaries depend on whether the reasons being offered are valid reasons. He defines “judgment” as the weighting between reasons, and states that “error in judgment” is an incorrect balancing of valid reasons and is therefore legitimate. He says that someone who offers a reason that is “not correct” or “not in the game” is outside the bounds, and there there is neither pluralism nor tolerance. He expands this to “meta-reasons” and scales of value as well: as long as there is a reason within the world of Torah scholars, the reason itself is not nonsense; the dispute is about the weight assigned to it.

Truth, correctness, and the logic of contradiction

The speaker insists that saying “I am right” logically entails “you are mistaken” when the issue is “X” versus “not X,” and presents this as a critique of substantive pluralism that refuses to bear the concept of error. He brings up the Garbuz affair as a parable for how society is unwilling to hear a sharp value judgment, and argues that this is part of a mechanism that tries to neuter the expression of a position. He criticizes the postmodern use of words like “correct” and “truth” while emptying them of content, and argues that this is an ambiguity created by careless use of concepts.

The boundaries of the game: Conservatism, who is a Jew, and conversion

The speaker maps out a framework in which there are “valid reasons,” “a correct decision in weighting,” “an incorrect but legitimate decision in weighting,” and “positions outside the game” that are based on invalid reasons. He notes that disagreement over the boundaries of the map itself is unavoidable, and connects this to questions of Conservatism and “who is a Jew.” He says that legitimate error is like Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, who “did not refrain from marrying each other,” but if in his eyes someone is a gentile, he will not marry him. He states that in conversion the role of the religious court is constitutive, and if an authorized religious court ruled and acted with its best judgment, then the outcome is a Jew even if, in his opinion, the court erred. He supports this with arguments from the Talmud about the absence of a sacrifice nowadays and from Tosafot in Gittin about acting as their agents. He compares this to monetary law, where a rabbinic acquisition is effective because “what the court declares ownerless is ownerless,” and argues that this principle applies especially to conversion, monetary law, and personal status.

Autonomy and authority in halakhic ruling: Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz and the Shakh

The speaker now presents the claim that there is an obligation to act in accordance with what a person thinks, and that this should be respected even if, in his opinion, the other person is mistaken. He brings a story about Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz, who explains to a Christian priest that “follow the majority” applies only when there is doubt, like a piece of meat found in the street, not when “I know the truth.” He reads a passage from the Shakh in section 66, subsection 126, where the Shakh states that Maimonides’ opinion is primary and compelling in the Talmud even against “the opinion of many very numerous halakhic decisors,” and that “it is obvious that we do not follow the majority of halakhic decisors where it appears clearly in the Talmud before our eyes that the minority are right.” He explains that following the majority of halakhic decisors or the authority of the medieval authorities is a rule for deciding in a situation of doubt, and if there is no doubt there is no need for that rule, though in opposition to everyone else, intellectual humility requires reexamining one’s confidence.

Critique of doubt due to great authorities and of the supremacy of custom

The speaker presents the division between factual doubt and legal doubt, and defines doubt due to great authorities as a situation in which the doubt arises from the multiplicity of opinions among halakhic decisors. He denies the validity of the concept of doubt due to great authorities and argues that if one has an independent position, there is no place “to force myself into doubt” just because great opinions exist. He applies this to customs as well and cites the principle, “If the Jewish law is weakly held in your hand, follow the custom,” interpreting it to mean that custom decides where there is no clear knowledge. He argues that custom “has become a monster” from which it is hard to free oneself, and declares that if he thinks like the Mechaber and not like the Rema, he should act in accordance with his own position, whereas customs are maintained within the framework of “do not forsake your mother’s teaching” so long as they do not stand against a clear halakhic position.

Who is entitled to decide: a rabbi, the “great sages of the generation,” and continuation of the discussion

The speaker clarifies that he is not claiming that every person who does not understand Jewish law should do whatever he thinks, but rather that one who is qualified can decide and should act according to his own decision. He distinguishes between asking a rabbi and self-ruling by someone who is not a Torah scholar, and sets up a debate with the position that “not every rabbi can issue rulings” and that questions must be submitted to the “great sages of the generation.” He concludes by saying that he will continue defining who may decide, after already laying down the principle of halakhic autonomy in a situation where one has a position and not a doubt.

Just to get back into the context: I spoke about two ways of reading the passage of “these and those” there in Eruvin. I said there’s a pluralistic reading and a tolerant monistic reading, with a heavenly voice that says the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel, and the Talmud explains that it is because they were gentle in spirit. I’m not going to repeat all that again; those are two modes of reading. Following the tolerant reading, last time I elaborated on it a bit more. We defined what tolerance actually is, how it differs from pluralism, and I brought two indications that Jewish law is not pluralistic but tolerant. One of them is the Talmudic expression about someone who errs in judgment as opposed to someone who errs in an explicit Mishnah. You see that even something that is only a matter of judgment—where there is no clear authoritative source saying I’m wrong—still counts as an error in judgment. Meaning, someone whose judgment is incorrect may be legitimate, but he is mistaken. It’s not that if he fits all the sources then what’s the problem—he’s legitimate, so he’s correct, he’s “correct-ish.” So that expression—and I noted that usually the Talmud itself, and following it many halakhic decisors, explain that “one who errs in judgment” does not mean someone who states a line of reasoning different from others, but someone who says something different from the accepted sugya, the generally prevailing passage. And “the generally prevailing passage” means what is customarily ruled throughout the observant community. If so, one might hesitate a bit whether this really means what I spoke about before—that is, someone who gave an incorrect reasoning, and I say that even though it’s a reasoning and in terms of sources he manages fine, it is still called an error in judgment. And since he is mistaken, he is simply not right like I am; he is mistaken, but legitimate because this is a matter of judgment. So I claim that this is tolerance and not pluralism. In the Talmud itself, I’m saying, since the criterion is the generally prevailing sugya—that is, what has become widespread in the world—then one could say: fine, here you are called mistaken because Jewish law has effectively been decided, because the public acts differently, and custom—“if you do not know, fairest among women, go forth in the footsteps of the flock”—so custom is what actually determined the Jewish law ruling here, and therefore this is called an error. But not that there can really be error in judgment itself. So I can show—and I won’t bring the sources here—that quite a few halakhic decisors insist that “one who errs in judgment” means someone who states an incorrect reasoning, not someone for whom the generally prevailing sugya is different, in the sense that people in the world simply do not practice that way. Therefore what I want to claim is that the generally prevailing sugya is an indication, not a definition. If in the world people do not practice that way, that is an indication that your reasoning is incorrect. But essentially, someone who errs in judgment is someone who states an incorrect reasoning. Not someone who goes against what is accepted in the world; rather, what is accepted in the world is an indication that your reasoning is incorrect. Otherwise what do we have here—a dispute between lines of reasoning. Who will determine what is the correct reasoning and what is not? So they bring this indication, but the basic idea is that there can also be error in reasoning. That’s one source. And the second source was the Ritva in Sukkah—which I mentioned at the end of last time—where Rav Nahman sat Rav Huna and Rav Hisda in a sukkah that was invalid according to their own view. And in the end the Ritva infers from there that although if I think something is permitted I may cause my friend to stumble in it, even though he thinks it is forbidden, I have to inform him. And I asked: with what meta-halakhic conception does that fit? Under pluralism, it would be forbidden for him to do so even if he informed them, because he violates “do not place a stumbling block,” since according to them what they think obligates them, and according to me what I think obligates me. So how could I possibly be allowed to cause them to stumble over something that according to them is forbidden? Here pluralism comes out more stringent. If I’m a monist, then it would be permitted even without informing them—that they think differently, so what, they’re mistaken. But that’s problematic, because a monist says that there is one truth, which doesn’t mean that I know the truth, but that there is a truth. I’m 95 percent sure that I arrived at the truth; 5 percent, maybe I’m mistaken. So how can I cause someone to stumble? There’s a 5 percent chance he’s right. I already said that truth and certainty are not synonyms. When I speak about truth I am never speaking about certainty; there is no certainty about anything. So how can I cause someone to stumble? There’s 5 percent that he’s right. And there’s 95 percent that he isn’t; we follow the majority. What do you mean? How can I make myself stumble? There’s 5 percent that I’m wrong—so how do I eat it? There are those who say: from my perspective, if it’s 95 percent, that’s what I think. True, I can always be mistaken, but if that’s what I think, then for me that is the truth until it is proved to me that I’m wrong. And if that is the truth, then what’s the problem? Then there is no causing someone else to stumble here. A halakhic decisor may often permit doing this, and someone who is especially God-fearing or whatever may choose to be stringent. That means he isn’t really certain that his lenient ruling is the truth. Again, I have no quarrel with someone who wants to be stringent with himself; according to Jewish law it is permitted. I have many arguments with Rabbi Ovadia; on this specific point I completely agree with him. Since in the end I also think it’s not certain. I’m not talking about certainty—I’m repeating this again. I’m talking about what I think is the truth. If you aren’t too excessively humble, then you should always assume that you may be mistaken. Obviously. But so long as no one has shown me I’m mistaken, this is my halakhic position. The moment this is my halakhic position, then for me this is the truth until I’m proven wrong. Now, if I can eat this piece of meat and not worry about the five or ten percent chance that maybe I’m mistaken, then I can also cause someone else to stumble in it. Because that’s what I think. If I’m wrong, fine—mistakes happen, what can you do. What is this second calculation supposed to be? This is what I think the truth is. Again, no one violated anything here. In the end, I did what was correct; that’s what I thought. I transgressed under compulsion—whatever—or unintentionally. But this is what I was allowed to do. If we wait for certainty, we’ll be stringent about everything. I spoke about this exactly with Rabbi Soloveitchik—you know that he is stringent about this. So he knows, and I know that he is wrong—what can I do? He is wrong with 95 percent, and maybe I’m wrong, that’s also 5 percent, okay—but this is my halakhic position. So if I allow myself to act this way, I see no reason not to make him stumble in it. It’s like someone putting on tefillin without wanting to get involved in the dispute between Rashi and Rabbenu Tam. Yes. No, in that case it’s not exactly the same thing. It parallels putting on both pairs of tefillin, what he’s suggesting. It’s not exactly that, because he wants to say: fulfill everyone’s view. Don’t cause him to stumble in this matter and then everything is fine—no. Again, the Hazon Ish writes—and there are many cases where he writes various reasons for leniency in a topic, and then when you see the ruling it suddenly comes out stringent or something. And he explains it. But he has leniencies. He says: if I were one hundred percent sure that it’s lenient, I’d be prepared to be lenient against everyone. His one hundred percent is never one hundred percent. No, it’s 95 percent, but at the end of the story he writes… I don’t accept your numerical translation. There is no one hundred percent. When he says “when I am sure,” he means sure in the sense of high percentages—that’s called sure. You can never be absolutely sure. I assume he wasn’t such a haughty man, and he understood that human beings are sometimes mistaken. There’s no way out of that. If you wait for certainty, then from your perspective nothing will ever be true. No, you know, one of the problems here is—maybe one day we should do some kind of eulogy for Rabbi Lichtenstein. I spoke about this last week; I explained why the Briskers are stringent. People think the Briskers are stringent because of fear of Heaven; maybe that’s true, maybe it’s even OCD. But I think there’s a substantive reason why they’re stringent. They’re stringent because they don’t have the ability to decide. Because once you have a very high analytical ability, you lose the ability to decide. Because suppose I explain the Rashba and Maimonides. So the Rashba understands that something is a law in the object, and Maimonides understands that something is a law in the person. Then I build a whole structure that explains the Rashba, I build a whole structure that explains Maimonides, I explain all the sources according to each of them—so everything is wonderful, everyone is consistent. Fine—so who is right? “These and those are the words of the living God.” Right. Meaning, at a certain point, since the analytical ability improved so much following the contribution of Rabbi Chaim and his students, we lost the ability to decide. Because each one fits his own approach, so what are you going to do? Who is right? And that is basically a little bit of what lies behind what you said. Because there is always the possibility, and the other side is consistent. Very few people you’ll catch in some silly mistake. I mean, fine, maybe a few isolated individuals, but not halakhic conceptions. These are not stupid mistakes. It’s not something where you’ll bring an explicit Mishnah and throw them down the stairs. That usually doesn’t happen. Rather, he’ll interpret the Mishnah this way, and you’ll interpret it that way, only in your opinion your interpretation is more correct. So we are always in this kind of situation where maybe the other side is right. And the question is whether, because of this, we have lost the ability to decide. Because maybe he’s right and maybe I am? I argue no. The fact that maybe he is right does not remove what is certain—where “certain” does not mean one hundred percent, but rather reasonable confidence in what I’m saying. A doubt in Jewish law is fifty-fifty; that’s a doubt. In Jewish law, if it’s sixty-forty, that’s not a doubt—we follow the majority. There’s a story about Rabbi Lichtenstein: once someone asked him some question and he ruled leniently, permitted. The student asked: but Rabbi Soloveitchik is stringent. It’s exactly the same thing—it’s what this story expresses. You don’t want to hear arguments, because for every argument you can raise ten arguments against it. So you can’t decide. Why did he send the question to Rabbi Simcha Zelig? He sent it to him because he couldn’t decide. It wasn’t because of some tendency toward stringency; it wasn’t only that fear-of-Heaven impulse that says I want to satisfy all views. He lacked the ability to decide; he couldn’t. Sometimes he did decide, yes, but there’s a story that says exactly this. There was some case there, some question; he didn’t want to decide, so he sent a telegram to Rabbi Yitzchak Elchanan: tell me whether it’s permitted or forbidden, but don’t tell me the reason. The same story? Of course—same story. He told it about Rabbi Simcha Zelig. I had also known it about Rabbi Yitzchak Elchanan, but never mind—also about Rabbi Simcha Zelig. The one who actually ruled in Brisk, even though Rabbi Chaim received the salary and was the city rabbi, the one who actually issued halakhic rulings in Brisk was Rabbi Simcha Zelig, the judge. Meaning, Rabbi Chaim sent the halakhic questions to him. So fine, there’s an interesting question here, but yes. Are you claiming that analytical ability harms the ability to decide? Yes. It seems to me that if you take, for example, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, I think his analytical ability—or his profound knowledge of all the methods—is… No, knowledge of methods is not analytical ability. Analytical ability means something else: the ability to analyze each approach, understand what it rests on, and set up a structure that justifies it. I think it’s a problem in halakhic method. There are people who have a method, and there are people who because of sheer knowledge… Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I don’t think it’s only that. I don’t think it’s only that. This is basically everything we know today—pluralism, postmodernity, and so on—it’s also based on this. Once the world improved its philosophical and logical abilities, and people understood that there are no simple truths and no utterly foolish errors—at least not in central conceptions—there are no central conceptions that are absolute nonsense. That just doesn’t happen. So once that’s the case, you understand; you do an analysis and say: look, he starts from these assumptions, those are his starting points, he draws conclusions from them, and he has a totally consistent position. And the second person also has a totally consistent position. And since you are such a good logician, you can no longer decide, and you become a pluralist. Everyone is right; each one is right according to his own method, according to his assumptions. To do that you need analytical ability. Once this analytical ability developed, we lost the ability to decide. This isn’t only in Jewish law; Jewish law here reflects a process taking place in the whole world. I think what is missing now is a method of decision, what is called a norm. But this exists already in the Talmud too. We couldn’t say to Rabbi Chaim that many disputes in the Talmud reflect different consistent halakhic methods, and yet the Talmud doesn’t rule—the Talmud does decide. No, no, the Talmud doesn’t decide. In most sugyot the Talmud does not decide. Fine, but the law is derived by majority in a way that doesn’t invalidate the analytical method, but says okay, that’s true, we simply decided otherwise. So what prevents us from doing that? Not analytical ability, but the fact that we don’t have judicial frameworks that determine it. I’m claiming that that is exactly what prevents us, yes: analytical ability. In other words, what the Rosh and Maimonides were able to decide was because their analytical ability was less developed than ours. Therefore—what do you mean? He is right, so the Jewish law follows him, that’s all. I don’t have to step into the other person’s shoes, try to understand him on his own terms, build some structure explaining him, because then in the end I’ll lose the ability to decide. So in what sense is he not right? He is completely consistent. What—he has his own structure just as I have mine. Again, every social, halakhic, human phenomenon is complex. I’m only saying there is also this aspect. So stringency and the inability to decide stem, among other things, from this—from the improvement in analytical ability. You see? Yes. How to ask the question now? You went in the direction we mentioned earlier—that instinct cannot be the method in this whole story of pluralism, because then if everyone has his own method and is right, you can’t cause him to stumble. Now it seems to me that even in the broader halakhic framework, there’s what you said: there aren’t many stupid foolishnesses, everything is consistent. So what is the difference between saying: okay, he is wrong because for me I see ninety-five percent, but from his side he may be doing something consistent? Certainly he’s doing something consistent—consistent but mistaken. But we said—okay then. When the Briskers do the analysis, one of them— They don’t move on to “but mistaken.” They only do the—they only understand each one on his own terms, and they are incapable of doing the next step and saying: okay, they are consistent but mistaken. I got out of that because I thought the issue wasn’t with the process itself, but simply that you need to decide one way or the other, just practically. No, in practice you can decide stringently. What’s the problem? Decide stringently. In most cases, if you decide stringently, you’ll satisfy all views. Maybe the Brisker issue is psychological—that because they see the whole picture, they say I can’t decide, not because… So I said, that’s what was suggested here. I’m saying that maybe it’s also that, but it seems to me that this issue is there too. You can’t ignore the most essential characteristic of Brisk. The most essential characteristic of Brisk is analysis. So from your perspective, if a Brisker looks at the sugya and understands both sides, and doesn’t decide—is he not a pluralist, or is he a pluralist? No, he is a pluralist. A pluralist. Meaning, Brisk is pluralism. That is exactly Brisk. That’s where this conception, I think, arose—or at least was sharpened—that “these and those are the words of the living God” means everyone is right, and therefore one must take all views into account, because after all we are not capable enough to formulate our own position. So in practice, for yourself, you can say okay, I’m right but— No, they don’t even say that. Even for me, no—I’m stringent even with myself, not only with others. I understand the worldview where a person goes and says: okay, both are right, but I must and need to choose one even though the other is also right, yes? So they’re not implementing pluralism because the conception is that we… Why not? That is the implementation of pluralism. But that’s for one person; on the other hand, when you look at the other person, it’s not clear to me how they understand saying that okay— No, not to malign. If I look at pluralism, then under pluralism I really would not cause the other person to stumble in something that according to him is forbidden. We are not extreme pluralists because of my own practice, because I decide one way or the other. But no—I really decide. Not just from my side. That is the truth even for me; I think he too should act that way. But he doesn’t think so—what can you do, he is mistaken. Not “for him it isn’t an error”—he is mistaken. But that’s what he thinks, so I need to respect what he thinks. That is the third alternative that I still haven’t mentioned. That is tolerant monism. Maybe this comparison depends on technology or something, because it bothers me a bit to hear about Maimonides as though he was weak. What can I do—that’s what I think. If it bothers you to hear it, what can I do? Read and look: do you see in Maimonides any analysis like Rabbi Chaim’s? I wouldn’t locate his analytical ability there. Try comparing Maimonides with Rabbi Chaim or Rabbi Akiva Eiger—is there any comparison at all? He doesn’t deal with that. He doesn’t deal with it—maybe he had some hidden analytical ability, I don’t know, but you don’t see anything like that. Maybe he only wanted to decide, and the Briskers don’t want the role of deciding? I’m not trying to accuse Maimonides. Maybe he was a hidden analytical genius—but hidden means hidden, you don’t see it. Maybe. I have no idea. But you don’t see it. Maimonides raises arguments that any average Brisker could refute with ten counter-arguments without any problem at all. The difficulties raised by the medieval authorities stay unresolved, and every young kollel student in Brisk today—or really anywhere by now—would answer them in ten different ways. And in my opinion some of the medieval authorities really didn’t think of those ways, because they truly had less analytical ability. That’s my personal opinion. One can say they did all these analyses quietly, revealed none of it to us, and rejected it. They were hidden analytical geniuses. You can always say that. I don’t know what to say to such a claim. Maybe—but I don’t think so. It doesn’t show up in their conduct. By the way, that doesn’t mean they weren’t more correct. They were more correct. Because analytical ability distorts. Analytical ability enables me to understand each one on his own terms; I analyze him and understand him, and then I lose the ability to understand what is right and what is not right, what is just and what is not—your nose in your fingertips. In order to issue a ruling, we need to set up some structure that explains all the medieval authorities. The Rosh says: it seems to me that this is forbidden, and that’s it. Wait, but Brisk is something else. After all, there are methods in Jewish law, simple methods, and disputes over fundamental principles within methods. So if a person holds from his forefathers a certain method, a certain set of assumptions—what in Brisk is a dispute, for him is not, because I received from my father that this is how it is. But I’m asking you: why in Brisk did it become a dispute? Because they received nothing! Why didn’t they receive anything? Where was the break? I’m not ruling it out; I’m not even addressing that. I have a tradition, and on the basis of tradition I develop all of Jewish law. You’re moving the question one step back. I’m asking why Brisk has no tradition. They always speak in the name of tradition, but in truth they are lacking tradition. So why, why was tradition interrupted specifically there? It was interrupted philosophically, not because they didn’t have tradition. Rabbi Soloveitchik—Rabbi Chaim received from the Beit HaLevi. Meaning, he did have a tradition, and he rebelled against it. Why did he rebel? Because his analytical ability was so strong that he understood that the other side is just as right as he is. So what if I was born into the Beit HaLevi family—so what if I was born there? On the fundamental points in halakhic methods there isn’t “right” and “analysis”; there is tradition. These are like axioms. It’s as if you’re starting from different geometries with different sets of axioms. Everything you’re saying is true, but I said it doesn’t help, because you’re only pushing the question one step back. Now I’ll ask why that traditional conception broke in Brisk. Why didn’t they too simply continue: yes, we have a tradition, and this is how we act. The tradition simply didn’t reach them; there was a blockage in the mechanisms of decision and ruling. Why? What? There’s no Sanhedrin, no religious court. And in Brisk there was a Sanhedrin? In the nineteenth century there was a Sanhedrin? And in the twelfth century? Also not. Right, so why there did they decide? And there they continued each one with his own. Right, so why not in Brisk? Again, that won’t help. I’m saying that at some point a change occurred. That change is what I’m explaining. You can push it back one more step, and then I’ll ask you why that thing changed. At the root, it seems to me, it’s the zeitgeist—the spirit of the age. In the twentieth century the zeitgeist was that there is no truth, everyone is right, this analytical ability, and in the end it entered the study hall too, even though of course they weren’t aware of it. Do you think the traditional method is the correct one? No, I didn’t say that at all. On the contrary: I’m not in favor of the traditional method, and not in favor of Brisk either. I think one has to decide independently. Not because of tradition, and not in order to satisfy all views. You have to decide independently. So today we’ll talk about that. I hope you’re here. Yes, Stepanchik—what you said, because what you’re saying is: what happens with 90 percent of the population who don’t have the ability? No, so I said they should get themselves a rabbi. They don’t have this kind of analytical ability, and then 90 percent, who need blind faith, meaning they need to choose a rabbi, or according to their family tradition— What can you do? They shouldn’t understand anything that’s going on? What can you do? They don’t have to—if they study, they’ll understand. If they didn’t study, then what can you do? Should they not study and still issue rulings? That’s not serious. Would you take medicine as someone who isn’t a doctor? I don’t know—maybe the medicine—but someone who isn’t a doctor, would he just take medicine because he decides to, because he doesn’t want not to understand anything? You go to an expert and the expert gives you medicine. But if I want to study this Brisker learning and all that, most of the population can’t understand it. What can you do? Most of the population also doesn’t study medicine, so they go to an expert and the expert tells them what needs to be done. How do they choose? I don’t know—they choose the rabbi who seems right to them. That’s already another question. So why go by blind faith according to his father, like tradition? Again, I don’t agree with that, so I can’t defend it. We don’t educate children by saying, good morning, now we’re going on a tour—Chabad, Haredim, this rabbi, that rabbi—and then choose. I don’t know. I think that is what should be done. If you don’t do that, then explain your… Why should I explain it? But it contradicts what you’re saying, because you’re saying those at the top choose by intellectual decision, and those at the bottom choose by tradition. No, not by tradition. That’s what happens. I’m claiming that’s not what should happen. What should happen? Choose a rabbi. Now how do you choose a rabbi? You choose whoever seems suitable to you, whoever speaks your language. But we don’t expose our children to all the rabbis, to all the methods. Fine—so should I explain what you do? I didn’t understand. If you don’t do it, then explain why not. I don’t know. I do try to do that. I don’t know. That doesn’t mean I sat and learned with my children all the Torah worldviews. I made some selection, but the children know everything and choose for themselves; each one chooses for himself what he chooses, each one of them really looks different. Fine, true. I’m saying: okay, I know people don’t do that, but I can’t defend something I don’t agree with. And what about the yeshiva tours they do in… Yes, to some degree they do it. Maybe not a “yeshiva tour” in the Lithuanian yeshiva sense, but they do yeshiva tours. Almost no yeshiva—except for a few rare ones—really opens things up and does an actual yeshiva tour across the whole range, the whole spectrum. Most yeshivot do a tour where they go to Ponevezh, Hebron, I don’t know what, a few yeshivot of basically the same type. Okay, so that’s where we got to last time. Fine, that’s where we got to last time. I need to move on too, so I just want to sketch the picture and explain where we’re going next. So the picture that emerges right now regarding halakhic decision-making is, I think, more or less the following. I’ll try to summarize. We started from the fact that with regard to the rule itself—“these and those are the words of the living God”—you can’t apply “these and those are the words of the living God” to itself. There are different interpretations of the rule “these and those are the words of the living God”: pluralism, tolerantism—tolerance, pluralism, tolerant monism, and intolerant monism. Now, there are three methods of interpreting “these and those are the words of the living God.” What do we do with those three methods? Do we also apply “these and those are the words of the living God” to them? That can’t be, I said, because it’s not consistent. Intolerant monism can’t explain “these and those.” What? Intolerant monism can’t explain it. No, why not? “These and those are the words of the living God” could mean that they’re both good Jews, or something like that. Or what? Harmonism was mentioned. Right, so I’m saying that in the end I think there’s no escape from harmonism. There’s no escape because it is the only method that is consistent, and consistent while also accepting “these and those”—because after all, it’s in the Talmud. So I’m saying I think harmonism… Now what does harmonism mean here? I’m going to apply harmonism itself; I want to show that it is consistent. What does it mean that it is consistent? That I apply harmonism to the question of “these and those” itself. How do I do that? Meaning, the claim is basically more or less the following. In tractate Gittin, when the Talmud brings “these and those are the words of the living God” about the topic of the concubine in Gibeah, it says there that one says he found a fly, another says he found a hair. And Elijah says there to Rabbi Yonatan: he found a fly and did not object; he found a hair and objected—or the other way around, I no longer remember. Fine? What does that mean? That each one basically grasped a certain facet of the truth. Right, that is the only place where the Talmud really explains what “these and those are the words of the living God” means. It appears in two places, and in one of them they also explain what it means. That is the passage in Gittin. And there we have the explanation. Let’s see what it says: that both of them basically grasped part of the truth. There was both a fly and a hair there, and the joining of the fly and the hair together led to the objection. Meaning, he objected after both of these things happened together. And so this basically means that “these and those are the words of the living God” means that what each one said was true, but not the whole truth. Because the truth is made up of both sides. And I think I mentioned the Talmud that says that when someone comes to the Sanhedrin, he must be able to give 150 reasons to declare a creeping thing pure and 150 reasons to declare it impure. And Rabbenu Tam asks there: what do we need these futile dialectics for? The Torah says a creeping thing is impure—what is there to debate by giving reasons to declare it pure? So the Maharal explains there that it is very important to understand that even when the Torah says the creeping thing is impure, there are still 150 reasons to declare it pure. Why? Because in the end, the reasons on both sides are valid reasons. In the bottom line you have to make a decision. In the bottom line you have to understand which reasons weigh more, yes? What overrides what. But both sets of reasons are correct. I think I gave the chocolate example, right? You eat it because it tastes good; in favor of eating it because it tastes good, and against eating it because it makes you fat. So who is right? They are both right. It both tastes good and makes you fat. The only question is: in the bottom line, I need to decide what I prefer—taste over health, or health over taste? So in the bottom line there is only one right answer. But on the level of reasons—after all, we are talking about Torah scholars. No one here is stupid. So when Torah scholars raise reasons, the reasons are always correct. I can’t imagine a reason that a halakhic decisor or anyone else raises that is simply incorrect. Whenever I disagree with him, it is because there are other reasons against it, some inner logic—after all, it’s obvious, he isn’t talking nonsense. Rather, I think there are other reasons because of which one should be stringent, and they override the reason to permit. Meaning that when there is a dispute between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel, where one forbids and the other permits, I don’t think the dispute is on the level of reasons. Beit Shammai can bring 150 reasons in one direction and Beit Hillel can bring 150 reasons in the other direction, and in fact all 300 reasons are correct. So where is the dispute? In the question of how to weigh them, right? Which reasons are more significant, carry more weight. And that’s what leads to the ruling. And here there really is only one truth. By the way, it depends on time and place. Fine—that’s not important to me right now; I’m not even getting into it. But at this point in time and place, that’s the situation. And these 150 reasons—isn’t that the beginning of the analytical move? What? These 150 reasons—isn’t that the beginning of the analytical move? Yes, definitely. But you said it began in Brisk, so… No, no. It’s like saying logic began with Aristotle. Aristotle was the one who conceptualized it. But people made logical arguments before him too. People said that if A equals B and B equals C, then A is like C. They just didn’t understand that there was a rule there. Right? So here too: there were analyses before Brisk, obviously, but they were the ones who… built the toolbox. Or really Rabbi Chaim built the toolbox, conceptualized it, defined it, and in effect greatly strengthened it or sharpened it. Now obviously people always did analysis. There are reasons this way and reasons that way. But what they don’t do in Brisk is in the end say which side weighs more. Decision—that’s exactly the point. They remain with 150 reasons this way and 150 reasons that way. Why? Because they don’t succeed, I think—that’s part of the reason—they don’t succeed in saying which carries more weight. Or they’re not interested. What? Either not interested or not able; you can argue about that. So what is the meaning of this structure? The meaning of this structure is that halakhic ruling is built in two levels. First: survey all the reasons in all directions. Second: make a decision in the bottom line. And in the bottom line you need to decide what overrides what. On the level of reasons, “these and those are the words of the living God” in the pluralistic sense. Everyone is right, because the reasons really are correct, and there is no contradiction there at all; it contradicts nothing. The fact that chocolate is unhealthy doesn’t contradict the fact that it also tastes good. Right? There’s no contradiction; on the level of reasons it doesn’t contradict. There are reasons this way and reasons that way, and everyone is right; it contradicts nothing. So no problem—there I’m willing to be a pluralist because it’s not a contradiction. But in the bottom line—what should be done—there there is only one truth. There I am a monist. And that is precisely harmonism. I created harmony between monism and pluralism. What kind of harmony? He found a fly and did not object; he found a hair and objected. Meaning that in fact the truth is the combination of both things. There is pluralism on the level of reasons, and monism on the level of the bottom line. And together that creates harmony between the two approaches, the pluralistic and the monistic, with regard to this very issue. And the monist doesn’t agree with that? What? The monist doesn’t agree with that? The monist, I think, usually doesn’t even recognize the reasons on the other side. Usually. Sometimes yes. Again, these are generalizations. But like someone said here earlier: I know that it’s forbidden, and anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Meaning, yes. How do you integrate the idea of okay, “these and those are the words of the living God,” such that there can be two traditions, one tradition and another, or that he’s a different person and from his standpoint… Dispute. How can there be a dispute where one is right and one is wrong? What do you mean? No, I’m saying that it’s right for you and I’m right for me. No, it depends. There are certain questions that may indeed depend on the person. No problem; I’m not ruling that out. It could be. But on the principled level, when there is a dispute in the bottom line—not in the reasons—then one is right and one is wrong. Except that even within this monism that relates to the bottom line, I’m making the tolerant claim. Meaning, I’m saying that this monism is not uncompromising monism, but tolerant monism. Which means that if Beit Shammai think differently in the bottom line from me, a member of Beit Hillel, as long as the reasons they rely on are valid reasons, reasons that I too agree are valid, only we disagree over how much weight each reason carries, then they are within the legitimate range. It’s an error, but a legitimate error. And once the error is a legitimate error, then they are supposed to do what they think, and therefore when I cause them to stumble in it I need to notify them, but I may allow them to act as they think. And that completes the picture. Meaning, there is pluralism in the reasons, there is monism in the decision, but even the monism in the decision is tolerant monism. What does the tolerance depend on? On whether you are operating within the range of valid reasons. Someone who brings some reason from who-knows-where, which is simply wrong, which totally contradicts tradition, which is not part of the game—I’m not going to say: fine, you’re right too. No. There the error is in the reasons as well. Therefore, I’m saying there is a radius of tolerance, because a pluralist has no radius—we talked about that. Here there is some radius of tolerance, and one of the parameters that defines that radius is the question of what reasons you raise in favor of your mistaken position. If those reasons are valid reasons and only the weighting is different, then you are “one who errs in judgment.” You weigh incorrectly; that is called judgment. Judgment is weighing reasons against one another. And that brings me back to what I said before, error in judgment. Error in judgment is a situation in which you weigh incorrectly, but the reasons you are weighing are valid reasons. So that is legitimate. So act as you think. When the Talmud says they saw Beit Hillel act according to Beit Shammai, is that about reasons or about the error? No, about the weighting. Yes. You’re talking about judgment. Now within judgment there are basically two components—there can be two components. One is reasons for why I weigh things this way, okay? Meaning, if I weigh this against that, then I have a reason why I weigh it that way. No, I wasn’t talking about that stage. What? I wasn’t talking about that stage. That stage is still the stage of reasons, where no one is talking nonsense. But there you can no longer be a pluralist, because you prefer one weighing… No, I’ll explain. I’ll be a pluralist there too. I’ll also be a pluralist there. Because I will basically say that the reasons why you weigh this way and why he weighs differently are valid. Neither of you is talking nonsense. Yet I still think these reasons are more important than those reasons even regarding how to weigh. Even the reasons for how I do the weighing—I need to weigh them against each other. What you’re saying is: this is more correct than that. But that’s on the level of meta-reasons, not on the level of reasons. No problem. I’m willing to go pretty far back with you. I stop only at that point where reasons are no longer being given. At the stage where no reasons are being offered anymore, I have a plain sense of what weighs more and what weighs less. A plain sense. Halakhic intuition. Exactly—and that is what everything stands on. So in the end that’s what I’m saying. Right, right. And there you say: I’m right in intuition and you are wrong in intuition. Correct. And I have no reasons; I can’t bring you reasons. It’s simply that I know this is more important than that. No, you can come and say on the basis of a scale of values or axioms. So again, you’re taking me back to reasons. But then regarding those reasons, if he doesn’t agree—if he agrees, no problem. But if he doesn’t agree, then I’ll do the same analysis. A scale of values for me is an axiom. Right. And he doesn’t accept it. He doesn’t accept it. Fine, so I’ll speak about that. No, I’m a pluralist there too. Because the claim—the reason he raises—is a scale of values. Your scale of values is not correct. No, no, he raises a different scale of values from mine. Assuming he’s a Torah scholar, he’s not talking nonsense there either. Also on that level, as long as you give reasons. But he is mistaken. No, he is mistaken in the weighting. He is right in the reason. There is room to say—I’ll formulate it hypothetically—suppose for one moment that there is a good reason to prefer the Sabbath over saving life, okay? And someone else says, what do you mean, on my scale of values saving life is above the Sabbath. I don’t have to say one is right and one is wrong. You’re right that there are reasons why the Sabbath is more important than saving life, but there are also opposite reasons and in my view they carry more weight. But then in the end you are mistaken. In the ruling. But your reason is correct. You are mistaken in that there is another reason that overrides it. That’s what I’m saying. Even here I would do the same analysis. Because if you are a Torah scholar, then you… My assumption is that you’re not talking nonsense. You’re not talking nonsense. As long as you raise a reason, that reason is probably valid. The question is how much it weighs. Even in priority relations one can discuss considerations this way and that. Yes, obviously. You know, perhaps we mentioned—I don’t remember if I ever brought this up—suicide bombers. Once I said, and people got very upset, that I greatly admire them. I greatly admire them because they are willing to give their lives for the idea or the goal they believe in. And on the other hand I think they should be killed and thrown to the dogs and not taken back from there. Two different things. Now, which of the reasons is correct? I think both are correct. I have to make a practical ruling in the bottom line about what to do. It could be both; you can kill them and honor them. Yes, in that case, true, true. In that case that’s really true. I won’t give them a medal for that honor and leave them alive. But yes, you can honor and kill. Give them tea and prepare them an honorable place in Gehenna. Yes, that works very well here. A combination of interests, yes. That’s Schwarzkopf, you know. They want to get to the virgins up above, and our job is to make sure they get there as quickly as possible. If there are two halakhic decisors, one wants whatever can be lenient, and the other wants to be stringent—is that reasons or weighting? Weighting, of course it’s weighting. Being lenient or stringent is exactly a question of weighting. It’s a question of how significant this is relative to needs or constraints. Now one day we’ll analyze… But that same decisor usually wants to be lenient. Fine, okay. Fine, that’s weighting. I’ll say that the concept of leniency and stringency is a fascinating one, and one day I’ll give a lecture on it. It’s really not a simple concept. What exactly counts as lenient and what counts as stringent. That’s really what he’s saying. It’s not all that clear what is a reason and what is a weight. Weight means: I think this carries more weight than that. I didn’t make a claim against you. You’re not supposed to be convinced by that. I think this way and you think differently. But if I raise a reason and explain why the Sabbath weighs less or why saving life weighs more than the Sabbath—because “profane one Sabbath for him so that he may keep many Sabbaths”—that is, for example, a reason in favor of a weighting relation, what weighs more than what: saving life or the Sabbath. And if someone says that going to kollel to deal with weighting alongside… That’s a reason, not weighting. Right, and in that reason he is right. There is something to be said for going to kollel. On the other hand, this is a very serious prohibition, and therefore I can disagree with him and say: fine, but still I am not lenient. But the very fact that one should go to kollel or take people into account—in that he is completely right. That is exactly the point. Meaning, the moment he raises a reason, he will always be right. But that doesn’t mean I’ll agree with him in the bottom line. In the bottom line I can say: okay, this reason is valid, but there are opposing reasons that are stronger. A short question. First of all, regarding legitimacy. I think that when people say “these and those,” it’s because, first of all, as you say, there is no dispute about facts. The dispute can’t be about reality. Rather, each one grasps the… There are disputes about reality. Of course there are. No, in this case. After all, there is no dispute; both were there. But the one who said it was a hair—because from his perspective that was the reason for the objection, and so on. And what really was the reason for the objection? I don’t need to know. I say “these and those are the words of the living God”; no one is mistaken. It’s a bit the opposite of what you’re saying. Both are right in the weighting they assign. This one gave more weight to the hair and this one gave more weight to the fly. Both are true; both reasons are valid, exactly as you say. But then you’re going back to the pluralistic reading. But I go back—one follows. Afterward you say: this one weighted it this way, this one weighted it that way, I think this is the correct weighting and therefore you are mistaken. What does “correct” mean? You say he errs. You say so. And I don’t understand why you say that. I didn’t understand. What does it mean to say this is correct—doesn’t that mean that the other is not correct? I don’t say that what I’m doing—you yourself say that according to your gut feeling you do the weighting. Once I’ve weighted it, why do I need to say your weighting is incorrect? It’s not a need. If I say this is correct, then I’ve said the other one isn’t correct. That’s logic. If I said that the co-wife of the daughter is permitted in my opinion—that that is correct—then to say that the co-wife of the daughter is forbidden is incorrect. That’s logic, no? My ruling is to permit her. A ruling. Fine. I’m asking: so is that the correct ruling? I don’t know in heaven. I don’t know what’s in heaven. It’s the correct ruling. In my opinion, yes. You said yes? Then you’re a pluralist. That’s why I say one of two things: either you’re a pluralist and even at the level of rulings you don’t accept truth and falsehood. Fine, that’s a consistent reading. I don’t agree with it, but I presented it. I said one can also read it in a pluralistic way. Because one has to be right, does that necessarily mean the second is in error? Is that what you’re saying? Of course. Not because one has to—there’s no “has to.” If in fact one is right, then automatically the second is wrong. It’s like always—it’s like that story about Garbuz. Do you remember what Garbuz said before the elections? About people who kiss amulets and prostrate themselves on graves? Everyone pounced on him—what a racist, what this, what that. No, amulets. He wasn’t talking about mezuzot. That’s implanted collective memory. He talked about amulets, not mezuzot. I think he was one hundred percent right. And the crazy attack on him was exactly part of that same essential pluralism that is unwilling to accept the statement “I’m right,” and therefore also the statement “you are wrong.” Because clearly, if I can’t say that you are wrong, then I also can’t say that I am right. Because to say that I am right is to say that you are wrong—that’s logic. So people live under the illusion that I can say I’m right without saying that you are wrong. There is no such thing. If I say X and you say not-X, then when I said that X is true, I said that not-X is false. That’s simple logic. There’s no game like that. So either you say everyone is right—that’s the pluralism I spoke about before—or you say: true, a person says this is his opinion, he is allowed to say his opinion. Today this pluralism is trying to castrate every possibility of expressing a position. The moment you say something seems right to you and something else doesn’t, immediately you get hit over the head that this is condescension, this is that, this is here, this is there. I said I think this is correct, that’s all. And automatically I said that someone who says otherwise is mistaken. What is the problem with that? This non-truth is so basic to the whole network of pluralism. It says both X is true and not-X is true, but that’s not logical. Fine, there’s a difference between “correct” and “truth.” People say both are not correct; there’s no such thing as “correct” that way. It’s not. You touched exactly on it: there is “correct” and there is “truth.” It’s correct for me. Fine, that’s equivocation. They’re using the same term, and obviously it isn’t the same thing, which is why it’s a shame they use the same word. That is exactly the point. The postmodern trick is to take the concepts of right, truth, and proper—all the words that used to be used—empty them of content, and continue using those same words. I say this is correct, sure—without saying that what you’re saying is incorrect. Which means that your “correct” is not what was classically called correct. So leave it alone—use another word. What I’m doing is one thing and what you’re doing is another. Why confuse me with the old terms that have clear meanings? That is exactly the point. It’s part of that same vagueness created by careless use of concepts. All right? The question is whether I am right and you are wrong, or we are both right. It’s not enough to say that I am right. Okay. That’s the story of the rebbetzin, no? Ah yes—you’re right, and you too. Fine. So in short, we’re really not managing to move forward. Still, I want at least to begin the next section a little. So that is the picture in broad terms, at least as I understand how Jewish law functions. To summarize: the reasons are valid reasons in all directions, as long as they are within the cast of Torah scholars, people who know what they’re talking about—then the reasons are valid reasons. Someone who raises invalid reasons is outside the game; toward him there is neither pluralism nor tolerance. In the bottom line there is weighting, and in weighting only one is right and the other is wrong—but even among errors, and this is what I call tolerant monism—even among errors there are legitimate errors and illegitimate errors. Legitimate errors are errors founded on valid reasons, but an incorrect weighting of valid reasons. And if the basis is valid reasons and you weigh them differently than I do, since there is no way to prove it—after all, I weigh this way and you weigh that way, and this is no longer reasons—then okay, from your perspective you’re right, that’s how you see it, that’s how you should act. Meaning, that is tolerant monism. But that is on the level of the bottom line. So in practice, when Conservatism brings someone to synagogue by car, it is mistaken. It depends whether you think that’s inside the game or not. I really think it isn’t. I think he is mistaken. Personally. You can argue about that too; you can also argue about the boundaries. There are disputes about everything. I’m only trying to say that everyone needs to draw his own map. But I think the map ought to look like this: what are the valid reasons in all directions, what is the correct decision in terms of weighting, what is an incorrect decision but only in weighting—meaning still legitimate—and what is a decision based on reasons that are not in the game, which is already illegitimate. For each person, that map itself may be different. Not “may be”—it’s pretty obvious that the map itself will be different for him. Fine, so we have a dispute about the map too. Where you placed it, “who is a Jew” also enters this. If someone errs, can’t I rely on the core Jewish-definition of his system? I didn’t understand. I want to marry my daughter to a Jewish man. If he is making an illegitimate mistake? A legitimate mistake? Then there’s no problem. This is Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel—they did not refrain from marrying one another. But as you say, in my absolute truth—I mean, he is legitimate but mistaken—he might be a gentile in my eyes. No, again, are you talking about mistaken or gentile? If he’s a gentile, then of course I won’t marry him. What do you mean? From his perspective—not from my perspective. In my eyes he’s a gentile. If in my eyes he’s a gentile, I don’t marry him. What do you mean? Obviously not. But if he thinks differently from me on the halakhic level, then fine. The question of Jew or not depends on religious courts, each one according to its method. Correct. No, and even there the question is whether I disagree with them on the substantive level, or whether I disagree while saying this is a legitimate error and your weighting is legitimate. A legitimate error. He mistakenly but legitimately thinks he is Jewish, but I think he is a gentile. No, no. If he underwent conversion—and this is my personal view—if he underwent conversion in a qualified religious court that exercised its best judgment, then not only is it permissible to marry him, he is Jewish, even though I think that court erred. He is Jewish. This is where things get complicated. Why? You say there is one truth: if I’m right then you’re wrong. No, because the religious court decided to act otherwise. The role of the religious court is constitutive in Judaism. If the court determined that he is Jewish, that is what makes him Jewish, even if I think not. There is a ruling here—in conversion, because that is the law in conversion. This law too, I think—that the religious court determines it. The sages say: what, today there is no sprinkling of blood, so how do we convert? Israel entered the covenant by three things: circumcision, immersion, and blood application. Circumcision, immersion, and sacrifice. Today there is no sacrifice. The Talmud already asks that: so how do we convert? Some say that the sacrifice is not indispensable. But the Talmud, I think, brings possibilities here; it brings a verse that one can always convert, that there is such a law that it must always be possible to convert. By the way, this is also Tosafot in Gittin who says that one needs ordained judges for a conversion court; today we have no ordained judges, so we judge by virtue of their agency. So how does the conversion work? Agency is a rabbinic law. How does this gentile become Jewish? What, he is Jewish on the rabbinic level and a gentile on the Torah level? There’s no such thing. So that can’t be. So what does Tosafot say? That agency works even for this. Why? Because with conversion specifically, and this is exactly the point, you can’t say that if according to this view he’s wrong then he’s a gentile. It’s like monetary law. Why does a rabbinic acquisition work on the Torah level according to most views? Because if the rabbis decided that this money is yours, you can’t say that on the rabbinic level it is yours and on the Torah level it is not yours. So what do they say? “A court’s declaration of ownerlessness is ownerlessness.” That’s a ruling. No, but that itself is a halakhic principle. What creates the conversion is itself a halakhic principle saying that here, if there is a view that proceeds consistently according to its own method, then its result is valid. But this isn’t said about pork. It is said about monetary law, it is said about conversion, and apparently also about personal status, marriage and divorce, because whoever marries does so subject to the rabbis. Only in those places. And here too we have a dispute. I agree with him on the basic conception regarding conversion as it is done today—that in my opinion this whole form of conversion is outrageous—but I do not agree that because of that everything is voided, certainly not across the board. You have no proof whether a person really intended it or didn’t intend it; you cancel all those conversions and say the judges are wicked? They aren’t wicked. They do what they think is right. I think they are mistaken. That is exactly the point: if it is a legitimate error, then they are not wicked. If they are not wicked, then they are valid judges. If they are valid judges, then the product is Jewish. That’s it—I can’t cancel it. Even though I think they’re not acting correctly. Okay? Fine. I really have time only to begin. I now want to speak a bit about the point we’ve reached, and with this I’ll finish the current series, the current segment—and that is autonomy and authority in Jewish law. Because what I basically said is that a person is obligated to act according to what he thinks, and I need to respect that obligation even if he is mistaken. Even if I think he is mistaken. Okay? So I want to bring some evidence for this, because that statement might sound problematic. I want to bring evidence and show that the halakhic decisors also think this way, even though today it’s a bit blurred and people don’t really stand on it. And maybe I’ll begin with a story, yes, about Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz. The priest came to him—all the good stories are about Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz—the ones that happened and the ones that didn’t. And he said to him: why don’t you follow us? After all, we are the majority, and it says in the Torah, “follow the majority”? The Christians, yes—they are the majority. So Rabbi Yonatan said to him: I follow the majority when I am in doubt. If I am not in doubt, I do not follow the majority. Meaning, if I find a piece of meat with a kashrut seal, with a certified kosher stamp, lying in the street, and most shops in that city sell non-kosher meat, then what is the law regarding that piece? Do we follow the majority? Of course not. If I know the truth, I don’t follow the majority. I follow the majority when I have a piece whose status I don’t know what to do with. Meaning, if I’m in doubt, then I follow the majority. That’s a simple halakhic rule. People think it’s a joke, but it isn’t a joke; he said it completely seriously. Meaning, there is a law to follow the majority where you do not know. But if you know, then there is no following the majority. I’ll just say in advance where this is going. I’ll read you a passage from the Shakh in section 66, subsection 126. The Shakh writes: “And the first opinion is primary.” The halakhic issue itself doesn’t matter right now, the discussion itself, but indeed yes, this is a quotation from the Shulchan Arukh: “and the first opinion is primary.” The Shakh says: this is indeed the view of many very great halakhic decisors, and especially the Rosh in responsum 94, who wrote that one should not rule like Maimonides but rather like Tosafot, who brought known proofs for their position. And Beit Yosef himself ruled later, in section 311, not like Maimonides, and so too he ruled in Shulchan Arukh at the beginning of section 95 anonymously. But what can I do, since in my humble opinion the words of Maimonides are primary and compelled by the Talmud, and the proofs of Tosafot and of the decisors who attacked him are, in my humble opinion, not proofs, as I will explain. “And it is obvious that we do not follow the majority of decisors in a place where it appears plainly from the Talmud that the minority is correct.” We do not follow the majority of decisors when I know from the Talmud that the law follows the minority. Why not? What happened to “follow the majority”? The law of following the majority applies when I am in doubt. But if I am not in doubt, why should I follow the majority of decisors? Okay? So I think there is a very strong statement here by the Shakh. “Especially since the decisors did not rule thus except by virtue of their proofs, and once the matter is overturned, the whole structure falls.” He says there is a place where the decisors say: this seems right to me. This is a well-known yeshiva saying, by the way. I didn’t know its source was in the Shakh until I saw this Shakh. In yeshivot they say that if the Rosh brings proofs for his view, then okay—you can argue. Is the proof good, not good, can one bring counter-proofs? Fine. But if the Rosh says “it seems to me,” then it’s a waste of time. “It seems to me” means that the whole picture, everything I learned, tells me this is right. I’m not relying on this proof or that proof; I have no doubt. When I bring proofs, it means I myself have no position, but I have proofs, so I bring them and say: look, that shows that this is the Jewish law. If you have no position, then against your proofs I can bring two counter-proofs for every proof, and I’m not impressed. Okay? That is exactly what the Shakh is saying here. Therefore on two levels he says the same thing. The rule to follow the majority, or to follow the medieval authorities, or to follow the important decisors, applies when I am in doubt. If I am not in doubt, I have no need of the rules for deciding cases of doubt. Following precedents like the medieval authorities, or following the majority among halakhic decisors—those are rules for deciding doubtful cases. But in order to use rules for deciding doubtful cases, I need to be in doubt. If I am not in doubt, why should I use those rules? That’s basically what he is saying. Even if it is against everyone? Yes, in principle yes. Except that there, where it is against everyone, a sense of humility requires you to think very carefully whether you are really… Whether your own position stands on its own. Exactly. Since that itself says your confidence may be a little overblown. Fine—take that into account too. But on the principled level, you are the one who has to… It’s a little difficult; there he’s speaking about the plain meaning of the Talmud. Regarding the plain meaning of the Talmud, it’s not the same story as finding some piece in the street, where that’s a question of majority and so on. Here he is consistent that if he understands the simple meaning of the Talmud to be such and such, then he thinks he is in a position where he can… No, but even if he agrees that the Rosh has higher authority than he does. It’s not a question of majority because… No, no—majority, I didn’t say majority. I didn’t say majority. That’s why I said there are two questions here. One is about majority—that’s the first part of the Shakh, where the majority of decisors rule one way and nevertheless he rules otherwise. There is a question of authority, not of majority. I am prepared to disagree with medieval authorities when I know the truth is with me. I’m only arguing that both these statements are based on the same foundation: that reliance on the authority of medieval scholars, or following the majority—which are two different principles—are both principles of ruling in cases of doubt. That’s what the Shakh says. And if I am not in doubt, then I do not use rules for deciding doubts. Neither relying on authority nor following the majority. Those are two different rules for deciding doubtful situations. What he is saying is that in order to use rules for deciding doubt, I need actually to be in doubt. Today I’ll explain what all this is aimed at. Today it is accepted that if there is a dispute among medieval authorities, that is what people call a “doubt among the great authorities.” There is factual doubt, legal doubt, and doubt among the great authorities. What’s the difference? Factual doubt is when I don’t know the facts. I don’t know whether this piece is kosher or not kosher. Obviously it is either pig or cow; I just don’t know. I lack the information. That’s factual doubt. Legal doubt is when it’s a halakhic dispute—for example, the Rashba and Maimonides disagree, and I am facing this, and there are two views in Jewish law. It has nothing to do with the facts; it’s in the law. What is the binding law under these circumstances? The third kind of doubt—really the third—is halakhic doubt: I don’t know whether the law is this way or that way, not whether the facts are this way or that way. Fine? The third type is that the Rashba says this and Maimonides says that. What is the difference between doubt among the great authorities and legal doubt? Both are legal doubts, and still there are different rules for them among those who formulate such rules. There are differences. “Doubt among the great authorities” is when the doubt arises because there are opinions among the decisors. Legal doubt is when I myself do not know the law; I am uncertain about this law. Meaning that “doubt among the great authorities” is essentially defined as a state where I myself am not in doubt; I have a position. But there are important medieval authorities or important decisors—doesn’t matter—the Rashba this way and Maimonides that way, so that is called “doubt among the great authorities.” I want to deny the whole concept of “doubt among the great authorities.” There is no such thing. Because if I am not in doubt, then the great authorities have no authority. That is what the Shakh writes here. So I go with what I think. Following Maimonides, Rashba, the Rosh, and the great halakhic decisors is a rule for situations of doubt. “If you do not know, fairest among women, go forth in the footsteps of the flock.” But if I do know, then I do not go in the footsteps of the flock. Only if I do not know—if I am in doubt. Now if the Rashba says this and Maimonides says that, and I have my own position, why should I force myself into doubt? I’m not in doubt. Where does your own position come from? Isn’t it from the rabbi or your tradition? What? No—from my own reasoning, my own learning. Yes. But since I said that this position sounds problematic, I am devoting the next segment to giving it proofs, bringing proofs from the medieval authorities—which of course is self-contradictory. Because I know I don’t need to bring proofs from the medieval authorities, since I think this is right. But I know that others do need proofs, so I bring proofs too. So how can such a ruling be right? And this is a Sephardic ruling; I’m Ashkenazi, I can’t… Of course you can. That’s what you should do. We can’t break tradition. If you want me to explain what you think, then after the lesson. But if you want me to explain what I think, then let me say it. I’m saying that this is what you should do. Whatever you think—that’s all. If you think differently from what they… I’m not supposed to explain… Of course you can. If you think it’s permitted to eat legumes on Passover, then you can eat legumes on Passover, that’s all. And if you think it’s permitted to sort on the Sabbath, then you can sort on the Sabbath. If that’s what you think, then that’s what you should do. And customs are exactly the same issue. Custom is something for a situation of doubt. If the law is shaky in your hand, the Talmud says, then follow custom. Meaning: if you don’t know, then follow custom. But if I do know? Then why should I force myself into doubt just because there are opinions or customs? Why? I’ll explain what she means. There’s a view of rabbis, very much, say—like I heard Rabbi Schechter—he said not every rabbi can issue rulings, there is something very important there; one needs to go according to the leading sages of the generation, and a regular rabbi just can’t say… So on that principle itself I don’t accept the opinion of the leading sages of the generation. On this very principle—that one has to go to the leading sages of the generation with such questions. But I’ll get to that later. I’ll get to it. Right now I’m not speaking about who can decide. That’s a topic I’ll need later on. Right now I’m speaking about a rabbi, not an ordinary person. When I said you can decide, I meant your rabbi can decide. Meaning: you should choose yourself a rabbi—unless you are a Torah scholar, in which case you can decide on your own. But if you’re not, then you choose yourself a rabbi and he decides, and then I’ll talk to him, not to you. I’m talking about someone who is capable of deciding. Okay? My remarks are directed to him. I’m not trying to claim that everyone who doesn’t understand Jewish law should just do what he thinks; that’s not serious. It’s like taking medicine based on your own judgment when you don’t even know the reality, the facts, the accumulated knowledge. I’m talking about someone who is qualified, someone who really can decide. And later I’ll try to define more exactly what that is or who that is—it’s not only the leading sages of the generation. Yes. There was something I wanted to say—is it possible for something to move from Jewish law to custom, and then it’s only the force of custom? I didn’t understand. Like legumes. Maybe it started as law, and now the law says because there isn’t in it… So I’m saying: in a place where there is no issue of legumes, there is no such halakhic problem—no obligation to eat, no prohibition to eat—and there is a custom not to eat legumes. Fine. Maybe you can follow the custom. But if you think it is harmful, if you think there is a problem with it, then do what you think. Customs have significance—“do not forsake the teaching of your mother”—where it does not stand against my own halakhic position. As long as it stands against my own halakhic position, then what is some other custom to me? If I think like the Mechaber and not like the Rema, then I need to act like the Mechaber and not like the Rema—including desecrating the Sabbath, including everything. That’s what I think. I follow customs where the law is shaky in my hand. Not always. Custom has become a monster; it’s already impossible to free oneself from it. Fine—we’ll continue this next time.