Pluralism and Tolerance, Lecture 6

Table of Contents

• These and those, reasons and weighing
• Two circles of error and being qualified
• Types of errors: incorrect reasons versus incorrect weighing
• One who errs in an explicit Mishnah versus one who errs in judgment
• Halakhic truth versus autonomy in decision-making
• Derashot HaRan, “do not deviate,” and the rebellious elder
• The Maharal, ruling from the Talmud, and the value of learning that leads to practice
• Acceptance of the authority of earlier generations and the Kesef Mishneh on Maimonides
• Ordination, public recognition, and determining who is qualified
• Practical implication: “do not place a stumbling block” in a halakhic dispute
• Interpreting the case: “do not place a stumbling block” in autonomy, not in prohibition

Summary

General Overview

The text presents an approach according to which, in every halakhic question, there are valid reasons pointing in different directions, and the practical ruling depends on the relative weighing of those reasons rather than on dismissing some reasons as incorrect. It argues that “these and those are the words of the living God” was said on the level of the reasons, but on the level of practical decision one side is right and the other is mistaken, while distinguishing between legitimate and illegitimate error through the concept of being “bar hakhi” — qualified for this. Alongside the value of halakhic truth stands the value of the decisor’s autonomy to arrive at a conclusion from the Talmudic passage and act accordingly, and this is used to explain laws and situations in which the halakhic ruling reflects not only “what is correct” but also “what I understand to be correct.” In the end, a practical implication is brought regarding the law of “do not place a stumbling block” in a halakhic dispute, through an analysis of the Ritva in Sukkah and his distinction between a case where the eater is aware of the dispute and a case where he is not aware of it.

These and those, reasons and weighing

The text states that in every halakhic question there are reasons pointing in several directions, and all those reasons are entirely valid on the level of the underlying logic. The halakhic ruling does not stem from one reason being correct and another being mistaken, but from the relative weight assigned to different reasons, and the disagreements between sages are disagreements about that weighing. The claim is that “these and those are the words of the living God” refers to the level of reasons, but when it comes to practical ruling there is a correct weighing and an incorrect weighing, and therefore one side is right and the other is wrong. The familiar division used by Avi Sagi into pluralism, monism, and harmonism is presented as addressing different aspects, and in practice the picture is described as a kind of harmonism in which all the positions together create a more complex truth.

Two circles of error and being qualified

The text distinguishes between legitimate error and illegitimate error, and argues that there are halakhic positions considered legitimate even if they are mistaken, whereas positions outside the framework do not receive legitimacy. An example is brought: disputes between accepted halakhic decisors are viewed as legitimate, while positions that are not “appropriate to halakhah,” such as a Reform position, would be considered illegitimate error. The proposed criterion is being “bar hakhi,” so that the error of someone who is qualified is a legitimate error, whereas the error of someone who is not qualified may be illegitimate. The Rosh in chapter 4 of tractate Sanhedrin is cited as a source dealing with this distinction, together with the Talmudic language about “one who has reached the point of rendering rulings and does not render them” versus “one who has not reached the point of rendering rulings and does render them.”

Types of errors: incorrect reasons versus incorrect weighing

The text rejects an explanation that bases the distinction between someone qualified and someone unqualified merely on the probability of error, because that already assumes a concept of error and leaves open the question of which errors are permitted. The main distinction is presented as the difference between someone who brings incorrect reasons and someone who weighs correct reasons incorrectly. One stage in halakhic ruling is collecting the relevant reasons in all directions, under the assumption that they are valid, and a second stage is the weighing that leads to a practical ruling. Someone who is not qualified may rely on incorrect reasons, and therefore his mistake is not legitimate, whereas someone who is qualified errs, at most, only in the relative weight of valid reasons, and therefore his error is legitimate.

One who errs in an explicit Mishnah versus one who errs in judgment

The text connects this distinction to the concepts of “one who errs in an explicit Mishnah” and “one who errs in judgment” in monetary law, including practical ramifications for questions of reversing the ruling and whether the judges must pay. “One who errs in an explicit Mishnah” is defined as someone who rules against an authoritative and clear source — not necessarily a Mishnah in the narrow sense, but against a decisive source where the question is not open. “One who errs in judgment” is defined as someone who gives incorrect weight without openly contradicting an authoritative source, that is, an error in weighing between valid lines of reasoning. The text notes that in the Talmud in Sanhedrin this is sometimes described as an error in a place where there is no Mishnah against him, and there the criterion is “the general accepted Talmudic flow” as opposed to custom or the widespread acceptance of the law, but it argues that “the general accepted Talmudic flow” is an indication and not the definition, and that in the responsa literature the term is used in the broader sense of incorrect judgment even without a sharp criterion.

Halakhic truth versus autonomy in decision-making

The text asks why there is legitimacy for legitimate error, and suggests that halakhic decision-making is a combined product of two criteria: halakhic truth and what the decisor thinks is correct. The example of Rabbi Meir in Eruvin is brought to explain that the law is not ruled like him because “his colleagues could not get to the depth of his reasoning,” and from this it follows that halakhah is determined not only by truth but also by human beings’ understanding of the truth. The value of autonomy is presented as an obligation on someone who is qualified to act in accordance with what he understands, even if there are indications that someone greater than he is correct, whereas someone who is not qualified must submit to authority, because illegitimate error does not receive legitimacy. “Yiftach in his generation is like Samuel in his generation” is explained as a principle obligating the decisor to act according to what seems right to him, even though he is far lesser than Samuel.

Derashot HaRan, “do not deviate,” and the rebellious elder

The text brings the Derashot HaRan on “do not deviate” and his question how the rebellious elder can be required to listen to the Sanhedrin even when he “has reached the point of rendering rulings” and is convinced that they are mistaken, if that causes damage. The Ran is described as showing that submission to the Sanhedrin is an additional halakhic value, and therefore sometimes a person is commanded not to do what he perceives as the halakhic truth because of a consideration of authority and obedience, “even if they tell you about left that it is right and about right that it is left.” The example is used to illustrate the claim that halakhic decision is not derived only from halakhic truth but from truth together with additional considerations.

The Maharal, ruling from the Talmud, and the value of learning that leads to practice

The text quotes the Maharal in Netivot Olam, Netiv HaTorah chapter 15, who states that “it is more fitting and more correct that one should rule from the Talmud,” and even if “there is concern that he may not follow the path of truth,” the sage “is beloved by the blessed God when he rules according to what follows from his own intellect,” and “a judge has only what his eyes can see,” and he is preferable to one who rules from a code, “who walks like a blind man on the road.” The text interprets the Maharal as speaking about someone who is qualified, and emphasizes that a person is obligated “to bring the discussion to the conclusion of halakhah,” in the sense of learning analytically, forming a conclusion, and carrying it out in practice, rather than separating free analysis from practical observance according to books of rulings without understanding. “Great is study, for it leads to action” is explained as the value of connecting the world of ideas to the world of action through a process of understanding and implementation, and not merely of carrying out the correct result.

Acceptance of the authority of earlier generations and the Kesef Mishneh on Maimonides

The text returns to the question of whether it is possible to disagree with earlier generations, and brings the Kesef Mishneh on Maimonides at the beginning of Hilkhot Mamrim, according to which a religious court in any generation does not need to be greater in wisdom and number in order to disagree regarding Torah-level laws, and only with rabbinic laws does that condition apply. The Kesef Mishneh is asked why later Amoraim did not disagree with Tannaim, or why Amoraim did not dispute Tannaim, and he answers, “because they accepted it upon themselves,” and the text suggests understanding this as recognition that, in relation to the Tannaim, “we are no longer qualified,” and therefore there is no right to act autonomously against the accepted boundaries of authority. The text describes the difficulty that this can look like conformism, but presents the need for a conscious distinction between areas in which a person is qualified and areas in which he is not.

Ordination, public recognition, and determining who is qualified

The text distinguishes between the ancient ordination, which is identified with being qualified, and the ordination practiced today, which is defined as not determining qualification in itself. A rabbi can determine that his student is qualified, and the public decides in practice whether to accept rulings for the many, while for ruling for himself a person determines whether he is qualified, though humility is recommended. The process is described as amorphous and based on several factors, such as the public, one’s teachers, and a person’s own self-assessment, and it is said that “reality does its own work” and that there are no clear rules, even though that opens the door to problems.

Practical implication: “do not place a stumbling block” in a halakhic dispute

The text moves to a practical discussion of the law of “do not place a stumbling block” when there is a halakhic dispute between Reuven and Shimon — for example, a piece of meat that one sees as forbidden fat and the other as permitted fat — and asks whether one may feed the other something that is forbidden according to the eater’s position and permitted according to the feeder’s position, or vice versa. The Talmud in Sukkah 10a is cited, about a sukkah with decorations hanging four handbreadths below the roofing, where Rav Nachman permits sitting under the decorations and Rav Chisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna prohibit it, and it is described that Rav Nachman seated them in such a sukkah in the house of the Exilarch and they sat there. The Ritva learns from this that one who holds something to be permitted may feed it to another who thinks it is forbidden, but the Ritva limits this to a case where the matter is evident to the eater, and brings as counter-evidence the Talmud in Chullin 111b: “Far be it from the descendants of Abba bar Abba to feed me something I do not hold to be permitted,” so that if the eater is not aware of the situation, it is forbidden to feed it to him.

Interpreting the case: “do not place a stumbling block” in autonomy, not in prohibition

The text sharpens the point that according to Jewish law, “do not place a stumbling block” applies even when the sinner acts intentionally, as in the example of “handing a cup of wine to a Nazirite” when they are on opposite sides of the river, and therefore the Ritva’s leniency is novel when we are dealing with a halakhic dispute. It is argued that monism would lead to permitting the causing of error even when the eater is acting unintentionally, because the feeder acts according to what he perceives as the truth, while pluralism would lead to forbidding causing error in both situations because both sides are “equally right.” The Ritva’s distinction between a case where the eater knows and a case where he does not know is explained as fitting the picture of a combination of truth and autonomy: from the standpoint of truth, the feeder is not causing a prohibition according to his own view, but when a person is unaware of the dispute, he stumbles in that he is not acting according to his own understanding, and the text suggests that this is a different kind of “do not place a stumbling block,” perhaps rabbinic in nature, as later authorities discuss. The text mentions a book called Lifnei Iver, published by Simchat Torah, as a place where the sources are collected, and notes that on the opposite side of the question the picture does not decide between monism and pluralism in the same way it does in the direction discussed here.

Okay. Last time we talked about “these and those are the words of the living God,” about halakhic pluralism and pluralism in general, and the conclusion in the end was that in fact there is a structure according to which, in every halakhic question, there are reasons pointing in different directions. The basic assumption is that all the reasons for all the different directions are completely correct, and the halakhic ruling does not stem from the fact that some of the reasons are correct and some are not, but rather from the relative weights of the reasons. There are reasons that carry greater weight and other reasons whose weight is lighter, and the disputes among the sages are really about how to weigh the different reasons, and that is how one arrives at a ruling. And then, in general, I argued that “these and those are the words of the living God” was said on the level of the reasons: the reasons for both directions are correct, and they are completely correct—not eighty percent or ninety percent, but completely correct. But regarding the question of the ruling, of what one should actually do in practice—which is already also a result of the weighing—here one side is right and the other is wrong. Meaning, there is a correct weighing and there is an incorrect weighing. So really, the three approaches—people usually divide them up, or in Avi Sagi’s book where he divides into pluralism, monism, and harmonism—that is basically just a reference to different aspects of this picture, but in practice it is really harmonism, harmonism, where all the positions together create some more complex truth. In this context we also spoke about the two circles, or two radii, of errors. You claim that the whole mode of Judaism works according to the method you just described now? Yes, and I claim that anyone who disagrees with this is mistaken; he is not thinking within Judaism, and therefore he is not really thinking at all—not thinking within Judaism. It is a simple logical problem not to agree with this.

As part of this, I spoke about two circles of error. That is, there are positions that we will treat as a legitimate error, and there are positions that we will treat as an illegitimate error, an error that lies outside the framework. In the world around us we are familiar with such attitudes. For example, there are disputes within Jewish law, and then we usually say, “these and those are the words of the living God”—Rabbi Ovadia, Rabbi Elyashiv, Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu, whatever, every halakhic decisor, what he says is legitimate. But if someone proposes a position that does not fit Jewish law at all—say, a Reform position, some other kind of position, I don’t know exactly what—about that nobody will say “these and those are the words of the living God.” Rather, that will be an illegitimate error. This is what led us to the concept of bar hakhi. I just mentioned it quickly at the end. The claim was that the positions regarded as legitimate—even if mistaken, but legitimate—are positions put forward by a person or halakhic decisor who is a bar hakhi. And someone who is a bar hakhi, even if he says something I disagree with and I think he is wrong, certainly the error is a legitimate error. Someone who is not a bar hakhi can make errors that are also illegitimate errors. What is the difference between a bar hakhi and a non-bar hakhi? And this comes up in a number of places. The Rosh in tractate Sanhedrin, for example, in chapter 4, has a long passage dealing with these topics, and he too makes that distinction there between someone who is a bar hakhi and someone who is not a bar hakhi. Yes, the Talmud says: one who has reached the point of giving rulings and does not rule, or one who has not reached the point of giving rulings and does rule. “Has reached the point of giving rulings” means…

Why is there really a difference between a bar hakhi and a non-bar hakhi? First of all, the very fact that there is such a difference really means that there is halakhic truth, or alternatively that there is also halakhic error. Not every halakhic position is equally correct; there are positions that are not acceptable within Jewish law. So this obviously rejects essential pluralism. But why is the boundary drawn between a bar hakhi and a non-bar hakhi? Here this can be explained in two ways. One way is that someone who is not a bar hakhi has too great a chance of making a mistake. The probability of his error is too great, and that we are not prepared to allow. Someone who is a bar hakhi has a smaller chance of error. But that kind of explanation is not sufficient, because I am already assuming in advance that there is some concept that defines error and non-error on the one hand, and on the other hand that there are some people who are allowed to make mistakes. Meaning, even if they made a mistake, it would still be a legitimate position. So it’s not enough for me to talk only about the people—who is a bar hakhi and who is not—but I also have to talk about the kinds of errors. What kinds of errors should be called legitimate errors, and what kinds of errors are illegitimate?

Here I come to the second way, which I think is a continuation of the first way, of explaining the difference between a bar hakhi and a non-bar hakhi. Why is that a problem? It’s simple: there is the issue of who can issue a ruling, and there is the issue of what anyone can… what a person says… No, no. Those two issues are not necessarily connected, that is clear. But still I am saying that even the issue of who can or cannot issue a ruling says nothing about the positions themselves. Meaning, why is his position—if it is mistaken—still legitimate, while that other person’s position—if mistaken—is not legitimate? Examine the position itself. And once you examine the position itself, then what really is the criterion? Not the decisor, but what is the criterion that distinguishes between the positions, not between the decisors who state them?

So here, I may have mentioned this at the end of last time, I think the distinction, in the language I described earlier, is basically between someone who puts forward reasons that are not correct reasons, and someone who weighs incorrectly reasons that are in fact correct. We said before that there are two stages in issuing a ruling. There is one stage of gathering the reasons in all directions, the relevant reasons for prohibiting, permitting, declaring impure, declaring pure, and so on. And the assumption is that all those reasons are correct. After that comes the question of weighing them: how to assign weight to each of the reasons in order ultimately to arrive at the practical ruling of how one should act. Now, if there is someone who is not a bar hakhi, then it is possible that the reasons he took into account are not correct reasons at all. He simply raises reasons that are incorrect reasons. That is an illegitimate error, because he is relying on something incorrect. By contrast, what is a legitimate error, or someone who is a bar hakhi? The assumption is that someone who is a bar hakhi, even if he errs, errs in a legitimate way. What does legitimate mean? That the reasons among which he is operating, or which he is weighing, are reasons that are correct according to everyone. It is only with regard to the relative weight he gives those reasons that he may be mistaken. So he is not basing himself on a falsehood; he is basing himself on an incorrect weighting. But the lines of reasoning he is speaking about are valid lines of reasoning. Such a person, in fact, is someone who has reached the point of giving rulings. The reasons he gives are valid reasons; he knows the material. But it may be that his judgment, the weight he gives to each of the reasons in this case at least, was not the right weight, so he is mistaken. But he is mistaken in a way that is legitimate. Why? Because overall he is weighing correct reasons. So here we recognize the possibility, or the right, of a person—a halakhic decisor who is a bar hakhi—to weigh matters as he sees fit, so long as he is weighing correct reasons.

This leads us to the concepts I mentioned last time as well: one who errs in an explicit Mishnah and one who errs in judgment. The Talmud distinguishes in monetary law between judges who erred in judgment and judges who erred in an explicit Mishnah. This has practical implications for the question whether they must pay from their own pocket and so on, whether the ruling is reversed or not reversed. But what is the difference really between these two kinds of error? Someone who errs in an explicit Mishnah is someone who rules against an authoritative source—not necessarily literally a Mishnah; today it can be other things too. He rules against a clear, authoritative, established source. That means this is no longer an open question. That is called erring in an explicit Mishnah. What is erring in judgment? Someone who errs in judgment gives incorrect weight—“judgment” here is from the idea of weight—but he is not saying something blatantly false, not something that is simply necessarily wrong because it goes against a clear source. Rather, only the relative weight he gives to things may be wrong, and therefore it is called an error in judgment. The mind assigns weight to each of the arguments, and this person erred in the weight. Someone who errs in an explicit Mishnah is simply stating an incorrect reason, and that is against the Mishnah. Someone who errs in judgment is incorrectly weighing among reasons that are correct reasons.

I already mentioned that in the Talmud itself, when you look in Sanhedrin at the distinction between erring in judgment and erring in an explicit Mishnah, usually it is not presented that way. It is presented as: erring in judgment is something for which there is no Mishnah against it. So if there is no Mishnah against it, in what sense did he err? Why did he err? That is his opinion. If there is no authoritative source—no Mishnah, no Shulchan Arukh, no unequivocal source against him—and he says something different from what you think, in what sense is he mistaken? Why is what you say correct and what he says incorrect? So the Talmud says: where the general halakhic current does not follow him—he went against the generally accepted line. What is the generally accepted line? The intention is the prevalent practice in the world, or what became accepted as Jewish law, even if it was not formally decided in some explicit way. But the widespread practice is not like that. And then indeed the criterion is not what I said earlier; rather it is only: fine, since that is how it spread, we now practice that way as Jewish law, and someone who does not do so is mistaken—we call him someone who errs in judgment.

That of course just raises questions about the terminology. Why is this called erring in judgment? What does judgment have to do with it? You made a judgment that may be correct, but the world accepted otherwise. Fine, so why is that called erring in judgment? And in fact, when you examine the responsa literature of all kinds, you see that the term “erring in judgment” is used in a broader sense than what appears there in the Talmudic passage. That is, in several places—you can see examples of this in an article in HaMa’ayan; I bring several examples there in a note—erring in judgment really does mean someone whose judgment is not correct. It is only that in the Talmud, when they tried to find some criterion—how do you know? this sage says one thing, that sage says another—the generally accepted line is an indication. It is not the definition of someone who errs in judgment, namely someone who goes against the generally accepted line. Rather, the generally accepted line is an indication that can help us identify that here there is an error in judgment. But fundamentally the basic concept is error in judgment, not the generally accepted line. The generally accepted line is only a criterion.

So what is someone who errs in judgment? It is someone whose judgment is not correct. He is not against a Mishnah, not against the Talmud, not against the Shulchan Arukh, but his judgment is not correct. That is something very hard to define. So who will determine that this judgment is incorrect? It is not clear. I don’t know, but Jewish law says there is such a thing. That is, apparently if enough major halakhic decisors say that in this case a certain decisor erred, then this will be called an error in judgment. Even though we do not have any clear criterion—his reasoning stands against theirs, both sides fit all the authoritative sources, because otherwise it would be erring in an explicit Mishnah—and still this is called an error, an error in judgment. And then I return to what I said earlier: probably what is going on here is simply an error in the relative weight that the person, or the decisor, gave to the different reasons. And then it is clear that in such a situation you cannot point to a Mishnah and say that the weight he gives is incorrect. All the arguments he presents are valid arguments; they all have a source. Only the question of how to weigh them against one another is something that is basically given over to the reasoning of the decisor, and it may be that he made a mistake there—but even if he did, that is an error in judgment.

But behind this whole discussion stands the question: if there really is halakhic truth—as we began, that there is halakhic truth—and only one side is right while the other one who says otherwise is apparently mistaken, then why, if he is an authorized decisor, do we still say that he errs in a legitimate way? Why give a mistaken person the legitimacy to act according to what he understands? Like Rabbi Yosei, for whom they would eat poultry cooked with milk, things like that. Meaning, there is some measure of legitimacy for a decisor who is a bar hakhi to act according to what he understands even though perhaps we would decide that this is called an error. It is called a legitimate error. But it is still an error. And still, a legitimate error is different from an illegitimate error. A legitimate error—even if he acts in accordance with it—is legitimate. An illegitimate error—whoever acts in accordance with it is outside the boundary of legitimacy. What is the meaning of this notion of a legitimate error?

Behind all this lies a conception—which perhaps I already mentioned last time, I don’t remember—that halakhic decision is actually the combined product of two criteria, not one. One criterion is halakhic truth: what is correct. The second criterion is what I think is correct. And when I ask myself how I should act, the answer is not determined only by the question of what the truth is, what the halakhic truth is, but also by the question of what I understand the truth to say. An example—I don’t remember whether I mentioned this or not—the example of Rabbi Meir in tractate Eruvin, where the Talmud says that Jewish law was not ruled in accordance with him because his colleagues could not get to the bottom of his reasoning. So if he was such a great sage that his colleagues could not get to the bottom of his reasoning, then apparently we should have ruled like him everywhere. Even if we do not understand his reasons, the law should have followed him. He was the greatest of the generation; he presumably hits the truth in the clearest way, so even if we disagree with him, apparently the law should have followed him. But no. Since his colleagues could not get to the bottom of his reasoning, we do not rule like him. Why not? Because Jewish law is not determined only on the basis of the question of what the truth is, but also on the basis of the question of what I understand the truth to say.

And why? Because Jewish law is determined by two values. One value is the value of halakhic truth, and another value is the value of autonomy—that a person should do what he understands. And once I do not understand what Rabbi Meir is saying, even if it is clear to me that he is probably more right than I am, I still will not do what he says. Of course, that is only when I am a bar hakhi. Meaning, even if I am wrong, my error is a legitimate error. Because if I am someone who is not a bar hakhi, then the fact that I do not understand something a decisor says does not mean I can now do whatever I think. Why? Because there my error may be an error that lies in the illegitimate zone. The privilege of doing what I think, even if it is mistaken, is given only to someone whose error lies in the legitimate zone. Meaning, one may act on a legitimate error even though it is an error, and even though perhaps I have a way to get closer to the truth, I do not have to. Why? Because if I think this is what is correct, then even if Rabbi Meir, such a great genius, thinks otherwise, my obligation of autonomy—to act according to what I understand—says that I have to do what I understand.

Just a second. But if I am not a bar hakhi, if my errors may fall into the illegitimate zone, then there I have to listen to the decisor even if I do not understand what he says, because an illegitimate error is not legitimate. There is no legitimacy to act on it. Legitimacy exists only to act on an error that is a legitimate error. That is why it is called legitimate—because there is legitimacy to act in accordance with it even though it is an error. Yes, it is a kind of intermediate state. Exactly.

Maybe that means there is no truth and only autonomy? Just what I understand. That is exactly the claim with which I opened. That cannot be, because otherwise what is the difference between a bar hakhi and a non-bar hakhi? So then what difference would it make? You see there is such a concept as halakhic error. There is a range of considerations. There is a range of considerations that is correct, and there are considerations that are not correct. That is probably something you have to assume before the concept of a bar hakhi. But still there is a correct consideration and an incorrect consideration. There is the consideration that I understand and the consideration that I do not understand. I didn’t understand. You are saying there are correct considerations and incorrect considerations? There is a range of correct considerations—for example, this and this and this are all relevant. All of these are relevant considerations. And besides those, there are illegitimate considerations. And among all those, the question is how I understand the weight of each one. Of course it depends on that, but now the question is still, after you understand that, whether there is one truth here or whether there is no one truth in the matter at all. Here you see—and I think we will see all the way through—that there definitely is error on this plane. Meaning, whoever ruled differently made a mistake. We see it all the time in every introduction to a responsum, after speaking about the power of a decisor to rule as he understands—the Sema, the Igrot Moshe, all the introductions they always bring in these contexts—they still speak in terms of: how can you even be concerned, maybe I am mistaken? What do you mean maybe? Is that just etiquette? If I understood the reasons of that decisor—but the assumption is that I do understand; I simply weigh differently. If you did not understand, that would be a matter of judgment. So that means there is such a thing as error. Otherwise what are you worried about? What is the problem? You weigh this way, he weighs that way; you are not less right than he is, because if there is no truth in the weighting, then if you have these weights and he has other weights, what is the issue?

That decisor who issued his ruling is certainly aware of his own ruling. Correct. That is what I am saying. What does that prove? It proves that it is not true that the only criterion is truth. There is also an obligation to go according to what you think, and therefore he rules as he thinks. Even though sometimes he disagrees with the greatest halakhic decisors, and he says: okay, but this is how it appears to me, and this is what I have to do. “Yiftach in his generation is like Samuel in his generation”—that is really what this concept means. “Yiftach in his generation is like Samuel in his generation” does not mean that Yiftach is no less correct than Samuel. On the contrary—otherwise there would be no novelty in it. The whole novelty is that even though Yiftach is lesser than Samuel, if that is what appears to him, that is what he has to do. He does not have Samuel here now, and even if he did, if he did not understand him and he did not persuade him, he still perhaps would not have to listen to him.

So in effect there is a weighing of two factors that lead to Jewish law. One factor is: what is the halakhic truth? And the second factor is: what do I think? Now if I am a bar hakhi, then what I think—even if it is a mistake, even if I have outside indications that it is a mistake, for example Rabbi Meir the great genius says otherwise, and it is likely that I am the one who is mistaken and not he—still, since I am a bar hakhi, I have legitimacy to act according to what I understand. Even though it is an error, it is an error in judgment, a legitimate error, not an illegitimate one. Then we really see that what we have here is a weighing of two values.

An example of this, perhaps a borrowed example: in the homilies of Ran, when he speaks about “do not deviate,” he says that we obligate the rebellious elder to obey the Sanhedrin. Now a rebellious elder is someone who has reached the point of giving rulings—a bar hakhi in our language. So the author of Ran’s homilies asks: we know that every transgression harms a person in some way. There were those who wanted to say even physically, but say spiritually—it harms him in some way. Not necessarily to harm the person but perhaps someone else; as far as I remember, he assumes the harm is to the person himself. In any case he asks: how can it be that in the name of submission to the authority of the Sanhedrin we force a person to harm himself? We force a person to listen to the Sanhedrin, to hear what they say, we obligate him to accept what they say, even though he has reached the level of giving rulings, he is no less wise than they are, and he knows they are mistaken—he is sure they are mistaken. How can you obligate someone to do something that harms him?

And then he says: because of “do not deviate.” What? You do not have to go that far; he thinks it harms others. It does not matter—harming others is the same thing. How are we allowing—how are we obligating him—not to instruct others, when he is really preventing harm from them? It is the same thing. In public, that is another question. Fine, never mind, there are several situations where this question can be asked. In any event, he says there that not listening to the Sanhedrin is also a transgression—he has “do not deviate.” That too will harm him. So if we allow him to do what he understands, he will not be spared harm; he will have the harm that comes from violating “do not deviate.” Fine, leave aside for a moment the language of harm, but what does this really mean beneath the surface? What it means beneath the surface is that sometimes we tell a person: do not act in the way that is correct according to Jewish law because of other considerations, such as the authority of the Sanhedrin. And it is very important to preserve that authority even if it is mistaken—even if they tell you that left is right and right is left.

There is another example of harm in these matters, where they say that because of that problem of the authority of the Sanhedrin, we tell him not to do what he is doing so as not to cause harm—to avoid error, to avoid causing harm. Meaning, harm is a value prior to Jewish law in their view. So then we would tell him not to do what… I didn’t understand. We are really telling him that the value of the authority of the Sanhedrin means he should act against what he thinks is Jewish law so as not to harm others. No—who says? Maybe we would tell him… no, what does “we would tell him” mean? Maybe he is asking us, but we have no authority? If they recognize that what he does causes that harm to himself—meaning, the harm he causes himself is something that… You are saying that Ran’s very question already assumes a certain measure of legitimacy to error. I think differently from him, and nevertheless my assumption is that he should have done what he thinks were it not for the damage to the authority of the Sanhedrin. Exactly. I bring this as an example that sometimes the halakhic decision does not derive from the question of what the truth is. Because that elder really thinks that the truth is what he thinks. In his own eyes he is wiser than the Sanhedrin, or at least no less wise. He is convinced that this is right. And nevertheless we tell him: do not do it. Why? Because of an external consideration. It is an example of a case in which the halakhic decision is not necessarily the halakhic truth. The halakhic decision is the halakhic truth plus additional considerations.

Why? What the Sanhedrin determines is not also connected to everything you said here? Not necessarily. What do you mean? Here, for example, the rebellious elder thinks they are mistaken. What do you mean? No, but for others, regarding others, certainly it is not better than the Sanhedrin. I am asking about him, not about the others. If you were telling me, “listen to the Sanhedrin, not to the elder,” fine, I understand. But you are telling the elder: do not instruct that person. Why? He thinks that is the truth. He wants to prevent him from harm, because in his eyes that truth is the correct truth. What do you mean? But he thinks the truth is otherwise, so how could it be? So that is why God gave a special reason that he should not go out? If we had said this is the halakhic ruling because this is the law, that would have been correct. You can understand the Sanhedrin as merely revealing the truth, and essentially the moment you disagree with the Sanhedrin you are simply mistaken. But that is exactly what Ran says is not true. That is why I brought Ran; I did not invent this difficulty on my own. Ran says precisely that this is not so. This statement does not mean that you are necessarily mistaken because you disagree with the Sanhedrin.

And is it not at least more likely? No, not that either. No, not that either. Because if it were only more likely that he is mistaken, then Ran’s additional consideration would not be needed. One would just have to tell him: listen, presumably you are mistaken because the Sanhedrin is right—that’s all. But that is not Ran’s argument. Ran’s argument is that you need to do what the Sanhedrin thinks even though you may be right and they mistaken. Why? Because listening to the Sanhedrin is also a value—not just refraining from violating the Sabbath, or the dispute you have with the Sanhedrin, which is one issue. There is also the authority of the Sanhedrin, which is itself a halakhic value even if they are mistaken, even if they tell you that left is right.

But what is the logic, what is Ran’s argument based on? Why does he need it? That is what Ran says. Why does he need it? Because Ran grasps exactly the point I made earlier: it is not at all certain that the truth is on the side of the Sanhedrin. What, do we not find the offering for the public when the court errs? A court that made a mistake? Fine, but still it seems more plausible that the Sanhedrin is correct than… I am not at all sure—it depends who this elder is. What do you mean? Rabbi Akiva was the greatest sage of the generation and he was not on the Sanhedrin, so what then? He intercalated years outside the Land of Israel because they did not let him do it in the Land of Israel. He was not on the Sanhedrin. After all, at the end of tractate Makkot he says—yes, Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Akiva—“Had we been on the Sanhedrin, no person would ever have been executed.” They were not on the Sanhedrin. He was the son of converts. Was he not the son of converts? No? Don’t tell anyone, but it is forbidden. Fine.

So in fact the value of autonomy is a value that takes part in halakhic decision-making, not only the pursuit of truth itself. The decisor himself of course must strive to get as close to the truth as he can. But what he understands is the truth from his perspective. And if someone comes and says, “I am a greater sage, therefore know that the truth is probably with me,” and he may even be right about that, it does not matter. If I think otherwise, I have to act as I think—if I have reached the level of issuing rulings. Because the value of autonomy is not inferior to the value of truth.

And that is what the Maharal famously writes in Netivot Olam, Netiv HaTorah, chapter 15: “For it is more fitting and more proper that one should rule מתוך the Talmudic text, and even though there is reason to fear that he may not follow the path of truth and may not rule truly, so that the instruction would accord with the truth, nevertheless a sage has only what his own intellect gives him and understands from the Talmudic text. And when his insight and wisdom mislead him, even so he is beloved to the blessed God when he instructs according to what follows from his intellect; and the judge has only what his eyes see. And this is better than one who rules from a single code and does not know the reason for the matter at all, walking like a blind man on the road.”

Meaning, the Maharal is basically saying that a person who rules according to his own reasoning out of the Talmudic discussions, according to what he understands—even if he errs—is more beloved in the eyes of the Holy One, blessed be He, than someone who rules out of halakhic codes, even if he is correct. Do you hear that? Meaning, in the eyes of the Holy One, blessed be He, someone who desecrates the Sabbath in a way punishable by stoning is preferable—why? Because he thinks that is the right way to act on the Sabbath—than someone who is careful because it says in Shemirat Shabbat Kehilkhatah or in the Mishnah Berurah that it is forbidden to do that, even though he does not understand it, does not agree with it, does not understand their reason, but is careful not to desecrate the Sabbath. The Maharal says: the first person is preferable in the eyes of the Holy One, blessed be He.

Well, clearly, that is a qualification that certainly has to be inserted here. He does not write it, but it is obvious that this is what he means. Meaning, it is clear he is speaking about someone who is a bar hakhi. In other words: do not be afraid to issue a ruling. If this is what you think, and you are a bar hakhi, then you are actually obligated to rule as you understand, as your intellect tells you. That is what the Holy One, blessed be He, expects of you. That is exactly the value of autonomy. And not because you are greater than the Mishnah Berurah—no, you do not have to be greater than the Mishnah Berurah; it may be that the Mishnah Berurah is greater, and it is more likely that he is correct. And still, the Holy One, blessed be He, expects you to act according to what you understand. Not because of the value of truth—because if the value of truth were operating alone, you should do what the Mishnah Berurah says—but because in addition to the value of truth there is also the value of autonomy: that you must do what you think is right, act according to what you understand.

This is what is called bringing the Talmudic discussion to the point of practical Jewish law. In the end you are supposed to study the issue, reach some conclusion, and carry out that conclusion. And not the way we usually do it: we study the issue analytically, there we say whatever we want—this reasoning, that reasoning, disagree with Maimonides, with the Rashba, and with anyone else we feel like—and afterward when we study practical Jewish law we read the Mishnah Berurah and observe what is written there. That is not called bringing the Talmudic discussion to the point of practical Jewish law. Bringing the Talmudic discussion to the point of practical Jewish law means studying the issue analytically, reaching a conclusion with all the reasoning we discussed in the analysis, finally arriving at a conclusion—what is our conclusion in this issue—and then doing that, even if it is against the Mishnah Berurah, if one is a bar hakhi.

Can that mean disagreeing with medieval authorities (Rishonim) and with tannaim? So now the question—this we discussed—I already mentioned that Kesef Mishneh, who asks about Maimonides at the beginning of the laws of rebellious elders: Maimonides says that every court in every generation does not need to be greater in wisdom and number in order to disagree with previous courts in Torah-level laws; only in rabbinic laws is there a rule that it has to be greater in wisdom and number. So Kesef Mishneh asks: then why do we not disagree with the amoraim? Or why did the amoraim not disagree with the tannaim? He answers: because they accepted it upon themselves. That is all; it is only a matter of formality. It is a place that we accepted upon ourselves, fine. But within the area that falls under the framework we accepted, one need not be concerned that someone else is a greater sage. If I have a clear position on the matter and I am a bar hakhi, what is expected of me is to do what I think.

Why did we accept it upon ourselves? If I am not going by autonomy, by how I understand things, how is the fact that I accepted something upon myself legitimate at all? After all, the Holy One, blessed be He, expects me to act as I understand. So now the claim seems to me to be that “we accepted it upon ourselves” is basically a claim that says: with respect to tannaim, we are no longer bar hakhi. It is like a fence of non-bar hakhi. Someone who is not a bar hakhi has no right to act autonomously as he understands, right? The claim is that if you go against tannaim, then you are not a bar hakhi. At this point it starts to become a bit like conformism; you can say about anything that I am not a bar hakhi. You can say whatever you want, fine, but that is exactly the point. I think one really must be aware that there is an area with respect to which you are not a bar hakhi, and an area with respect to which you are. Whoever is aware of that distinction—where he draws the line, I do not know, each person will draw the line where he understands—but one must know that such a line exists, that there is such an area and such an area.

And as for “we accepted it upon ourselves,” it seems to me indeed—I think one could understand it simply as purely formal, which is how people generally read that Kesef Mishneh. In that case, yes, in principle one could disagree with whomever one likes; it is just that we accepted it upon ourselves. But I think that what is really written there is no, it is not entirely formal. There is something essential behind it, and it is exactly the same as someone who is not a bar hakhi. In other words, there is a certain level at which you say: on this field, I do not play.

And who determines the authority to supply the label bar hakhi? You. Regarding tannaim and amoraim? No, no, in our current discussion. Tannaim and amoraim and so on—that was a decision of the sages of that generation or those generations, who decided that from this point onward we are no longer in that category, we do not dispute earlier generations that preceded us. The end of the Rishonim, the end of the Geonim, the end of the amoraim, the end of the tannaim—doesn’t matter—those generations decided that. But now if a person simply asks himself whether he is a bar hakhi or not, he should answer himself as he understands. I don’t know. One possible criterion for that—I wrote about it in Meisharim I, where I discussed this a bit—is someone who returns to an issue after time has passed, and his conclusion in that issue is the same conclusion he had the previous time. Not in just one issue, but he already sees that this is a phenomenon—that things do not change dramatically when he comes back again to the same issues. What does that mean? It basically means that you have already… yes, you are not Moses our teacher, but you are already Zusha. Meaning, you are already yourself. That is all that is required of you. You do not have to be Moses our teacher; you can be smaller than Moses our teacher, but you have to be yourself in order to issue rulings. Meaning, your abilities and your mode of thinking need already to have come into actual expression. If that has already happened, and it is functioning well, you can issue rulings according to what you understand. That is called a bar hakhi.

It could be that even Maimonides sometimes reconsidered issues. Fine. I mean, obviously—did not amoraim and tannaim also reconsider various things? Certainly they did. That is only to their credit. I am just saying: when you see that the general pattern is like that. The fact that here and there you revise your view—fine, nothing happened. But I think that I myself remember many stages where I studied an issue, reached a conclusion, and it seemed utterly clear to me. Two years later I came back to that same issue and I could not understand why it had seemed so clear to me at all; it was really not clear—really the opposite. And this happened to me in quite a few issues. So the obvious conclusion from such a situation is that I was probably not yet formed. Once that generally no longer happens—even if sometimes it still does—if generally it no longer happens, that means I am already formed. In other words, my judgment is really my judgment. Of course a person can revise his view from time to time; nothing terrible has happened. On the contrary, one should know how to revise one’s view from time to time. But the general pattern does give you some indication. There is no sharp rule here; I do not know…

Why, for a person who strives to reach the truth, can the truth not serve as the thing? Because there is a value in doing what you think; the value of autonomy is also one of the halakhic values. What do you mean, why? What is there to ask “why” about values? You strive to reach the truth; you also have to strive to reach autonomy. But there is someone wiser than you. נכון, so then he is closer to the truth than you are, but you still have to preserve the value of autonomy. Why is it important what I think? For you, it is important what you think. If the assumption is that Rabbi Meir is wiser than I am… No, the point is that the goal of Jewish law is not only to do what is true, but there is also a goal—what today people call being rational. Rational means: do what, after exercising your own judgment, you conclude is correct, and then carry it out.

The value of Torah—yes, “Great is study, for it leads to action.” I think I mentioned this once. “Great is study, for it leads to action”—that is a self-contradictory sentence, right? Great is study because it leads to action. So action is the goal and study is the means; in what sense then is study great? Because it is a means to action, therefore it is great? So action is what is great; action is the goal and study is the means. Rather, the way to read it is: great is study that leads to action—that is what is great. Now what is study that leads to action? That is exactly the value of autonomy. Meaning, you study the issue, and the conclusion you derive from the Talmudic study is what you will actually do in practice—to translate those abstract ideas with which you engage when you learn into the practical plane, to do it with your hands and feet. And this connection between some abstract world and the practical world is the whole point of Torah. Bringing the Talmudic discussion to the point of practical Jewish law, or “great is study that leads to action,” is the connection between the abstract analyses we talk about when we study an issue—which can sometimes reach completely abstract lines of reasoning—and the translation of that into something practical. The connection between those worlds, that upper world and our practical world, that is the purpose here.

Now, if when you study that higher world you study in one way, but what you do in practice is whatever is written in the Mishnah Berurah, then that does not connect the world of ideas with the world of actions. And the value of Torah is not only to implement the right ideas, but that there should be a process at all of implementing ideas. Meaning, that you should have ideas for why something is right, and that should lead you to do it or not do it. That connection between that world and the world of action is the core of halakhic decision-making. Therefore it is no less important than what is true. Again, at least for someone who is a bar hakhi.

Is ordination not what makes someone a bar hakhi? What? Ordination. What ordination? Ordination… No, the ordination they used to have in the past, that made someone a bar hakhi; the ordination we have today is just nothing. It is not considered ordination; it is not considered what makes someone a bar hakhi. If your rabbi, who is… fine, if he tells you that you are a bar hakhi, then very good. So the definition of a bar hakhi is your rabbi. A rabbi who also… Whoever has a rabbi who ordained him, then yes, his rabbi can determine that he is a bar hakhi. Whoever does not have that—well, that’s it. So can everyone determine for himself whether he is a bar hakhi, or does his rabbi have to…? What does it even mean, a bar hakhi? In order to issue rulings to the public, the public will decide whether they accept your rulings or not. In order to issue rulings for yourself, you can decide whether you are a bar hakhi or not.

Maybe one should be modest and say… If you think of yourself as a bar hakhi—yes, but what can you do, when there is no other choice. Is it really only a matter of what the public decides? What? Issuing rulings to the public—is it only a matter of a free market, that if the public wants they take it? Are there no psychological criteria for someone to issue rulings, if he is off in his own spheres and completely unhinged in his norms? Fine, but who decides? What do you mean? He is a psychopath in his norms? Who decides whether someone has reached the point of giving rulings or not? Any person is entitled. If a community has accepted someone as a rabbi, and he understands himself to be worthy of it, to issue rulings to them, he can issue rulings to them. I do not think today, just in practice—what, do you think every rabbi today in every community got some ordination from someone? But say today, with the whole internet thing and the public being sure that every rabbi is like Rabbi Google, but say on matters that arouse resentment, where there was this dilemma whether a young rabbi is allowed to disagree with Rabbi Shapira—there it really is a genuine issue, because the public thinks everyone is equal, I don’t know. So to say it is a free market and that is all—is there not something more… The public thinks everyone is equal, but that Jew who issues a ruling against Rabbi Avraham Shapira also takes into account the fact that Rabbi Avraham Shapira may be a greater Torah scholar than he is, and still he thinks he wants to disagree with him. Legitimate.

Yes, but how does he know whether he is a Torah scholar worthy of dealing with such public matters? I don’t know—that he has indications either from his teachers or from himself. I do not know. There is no… You cannot draw a clear line here. It is not… I do not know how to set clear criteria in this matter. Fine, there is something that somehow comes into being through some combination of the public, his teachers, and himself. Once there is recognition, then he is fit to issue rulings—that’s… everyone works on different tracks. I do not think there are any clear rules here. What, every yeshiva head or every community rabbi—do you really think he received some formal permission to rule from someone? Absolutely not. That is not how it worked; it does not work that way. Reality does its thing. Meaning, the public. There are people who will tell you that this is divine spirit in the public, I do not know exactly what—maybe. But it is some weighing of many, many things. Fine, and because it is so amorphous and so inconclusive, it certainly opens the door to problematic things. What can you do? That is life. Life is not guava, as they say there somewhere.

Okay, now regarding autonomous ruling—this really leads us to the value of autonomy with regard to autonomous ruling. In that context, that is the article in Meisharim I; I will just refer you to read it. There I bring all sorts of sources on this issue, that a person is in fact obligated to rule according to what he himself understands, and not to show deference even to great Torah scholars. That at least was the accepted approach until a few hundred years ago. I do not know—today a somewhat different approach has taken over, but even so it should be taken with a grain of salt, it seems to me.

What I want to do in conclusion is really to discuss a practical halakhic implication. So let us talk about the law of “do not place a stumbling block” when there is a dispute in Jewish law. Meaning, here are Reuven and Shimon, and they have a halakhic dispute. Say, some piece of meat. One thinks it is forbidden fat, the other thinks it is permitted fat. The question is whether I am allowed to feed him, or he allowed to feed me, in terms of the laws of “do not place a stumbling block.” Am I allowed to feed someone something that is forbidden according to his view and permitted according to mine? Or the opposite: to feed him something permitted according to his view and forbidden according to mine. Is that considered “do not place a stumbling block”? Is it forbidden? Is it permitted? This is a kind of test case for the different conceptions I presented earlier regarding “these and those are the words of the living God,” and now I will sharpen it a bit more.

In tractate Sukkah 10a, the Talmud brings a dispute among amoraim about a sukkah decorated with ornaments hanging four handbreadths below the roofing. There is a dispute there, a dispute whether one may sit beneath those ornaments or not. Rav Nachman holds that one may sit beneath them, while Rav Chisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna prohibit it. And then it happened that Rav Chisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna came to the house of the Exilarch. And as stated, Rav Nachman was in charge there under the Exilarch, and he seated them in a sukkah decorated with ornaments hanging four handbreadths below the roofing—which according to their view was forbidden and according to his permitted. And they sat there. The Ritva, in his commentary there, learns from this that one who regards a certain thing as permitted may feed that thing to someone else who thinks it is forbidden. Do you hear? Meaning, if I think that thing is permitted, then I may feed that thing to someone else even though that other person thinks that this object is an object of prohibition.

But he brings a passage in tractate Chullin 111, where the Talmud says: “May the descendants of Abba bar Abba be spared from feeding me something I do not hold by.” Apparently explicitly against this. It cannot be that they would feed me something that I do not accept, something that I think is forbidden. Therefore he says that this is true: this permission that we find in tractate Sukkah is true only in a case where the matter is noticeable to the eater. The person knows that the ornaments here are hanging four handbreadths down, and then I say to him, “Please sit here; this is the sukkah I am offering you,” or “this is the place I am offering you in the sukkah.” He sees that the ornaments are hanging four handbreadths below the roofing. There, I am allowed to feed him. But if he does not know—he does not even notice that there are ornaments above—and I simply absentmindedly say to him, no, not absentmindedly on my part but because of his inattention, I say to him, “Please sit here,” that is forbidden. He learns that from the Talmud in Chullin.

Now there is something a little strange here, because seemingly this turns the whole picture upside down. If in fact he sees that there are ornaments hanging four handbreadths down, then what kind of “do not place a stumbling block” is relevant here at all? So what is the novelty here in the first place? Fine, if he decides to sit there, what does that have to do with me? He decided to sit there—he saw the situation, he knows the situation, let him decide. If he sits there, then apparently he thinks it is permitted, or he is a sinner, or whatever—but what does that have to do with me? If he is a sinner, then you are causing him to stumble. He is causing himself to stumble. He can decide whether to sit or not to sit; he decides to sit. “Do not place a stumbling block” normally is often present in a case where the sinner himself also violates it. Correct. So here one really has to pay close attention.

Take the example the Talmud gives in tractate Avodah Zarah in the discussion of “do not place a stumbling block”: handing a cup of wine to a nazirite. There the Talmud says that if they are on two sides of the river, then there is a Torah prohibition; if they are on one side of the river, then there is no Torah prohibition—perhaps a rabbinic prohibition of assistance, perhaps not, but no Torah prohibition. What is the case of two sides of the river? There is a cup of wine, a river, and a nazirite—like those riddles with the sheep and the cabbage. A cup of wine, a river, and a nazirite. The nazirite cannot reach the cup of wine because the river blocks him. What do I do? Apparently in Land of Israel terms, I hand him that cup of wine across the river, and then he can take it and drink. Now is the choice not in his hands whether to drink it or not? He decides to drink. I only brought him the cup. Now he can drink, or do whatever he wants. So why is that called “do not place a stumbling block”? If it is two sides of the river, it is a Torah-level prohibition of “do not place a stumbling block.” One has to remember carefully: the prohibition was not said only about a case where the other person is acting unintentionally. That is not true. The other person may be an outright intentional sinner, but if without me he could not have committed that transgression, then I violate “do not place a stumbling block” even though he knows it is a transgression and he is acting intentionally and he himself decided to do it—not I. That is called “do not place a stumbling block.”

If so, then according to the Ritva there is a novelty in tractate Sukkah: with regard to something that Reuven thinks is forbidden, I may feed Reuven that thing so long as he knows. Meaning, if he is acting unintentionally, then I may not. But if he is acting intentionally, then I may. In ordinary “do not place a stumbling block,” even if he is acting intentionally, it is forbidden. Meaning, there is nevertheless a difference between this case and a case of prohibition according to everyone, an agreed prohibition. Fine? So now if that is the case, let us return and ask ourselves what this means in terms of the legitimacy of the different positions.

If the conception were monistic—let’s start with monism—there is one truth, and I am convinced that ornaments hanging four handbreadths down pose no problem whatsoever. On the face of it, why should I not seat him there? I am seating him for the sake of something permitted. That is the truth to the best of my understanding; I am seating him for the sake of something permitted. So then it should be permitted for me to cause him to stumble even if he is acting unintentionally. Why? But then is there not a problem of falsehood? Fine, but not in terms of “do not place a stumbling block.” I am talking now about the category of “do not place a stumbling block,” not about “distance yourself from falsehood.” And is it not the other person’s self-imposed prohibition? What? Is that not his self-imposed prohibition? Fine. What is self-imposed prohibition? If I cause him to stumble in his own self-imposed prohibition, who says there is really any causing-to-stumble there? Not causing-to-stumble. His self-imposed prohibition means from his side he has to guard himself. And would that not fall under “do not place a stumbling block”? So I am saying: in the category of “do not place a stumbling block,” I have no idea. It may be that one could also say that with self-imposed prohibition there is no “do not place a stumbling block.” It is forbidden only to you, from your side, because of self-imposed prohibition—but for me to cause you to stumble in your self-imposed prohibition, I do not know if there is a prohibition. Who says there is? I do not know. The question is what exactly the category of self-imposed prohibition is. That is the dispute of the Ketzot and Mahari ben Lev. Fine, no, let us leave that aside for now.

So if the conception were really monistic—there is one halakhic truth—then in principle it should be permitted to cause him to stumble even if he is acting unintentionally, in terms of “do not place a stumbling block,” because that is the truth to the best of my understanding. To the best of my understanding there is no problem at all in sitting there. So that is it—what is the problem? The fact that he thinks differently—so he is mistaken. So what? If he does otherwise that may perhaps be a legitimate error, but am I supposed to worry about his errors? Why should I?

On the other hand, if the conception is pluralistic, then what? I am no more right than he is; we are both equally right. If he holds that it is forbidden, then what difference does it make that I hold that it is permitted? It should have been forbidden for me to cause him to stumble in both cases. So how can there be a situation like the Ritva describes, where I am allowed to cause him to stumble if he knows, but if he does not know then I am forbidden to cause him to stumble? It seems to me that this only works if we say what I said before, namely: there really is one halakhic truth, but on the other hand not only truth determines my conduct—there is also the duty to act as I understand, autonomy. Since there is one halakhic truth, and whoever says otherwise is mistaken, then fundamentally I can cause him to stumble in the prohibition—like monism, right? I can cause him to stumble because to the best of my understanding it is not a prohibition. So why, when he is acting unintentionally, is it forbidden? Because then I am making him stumble in autonomy, not in halakhic truth. He is not doing what he thinks is right, and that kind of causing-to-stumble is forbidden.

Because he is not only supposed to do what is objectively right. What is right, to the best of my understanding, is that it is permitted to sit beneath ornaments like these. That is what is right. But in terms of what one should do, not only what is right determines it; what you yourself think also matters. So if he himself is aware of it, then I gave it to him; in terms of truth there is no problem—I did not make him stumble in a prohibition—even if he is an intentional sinner, there is no problem here. And in terms of the possibility that I enabled him to do what he thinks—certainly I enabled him to do so. He knows what the situation is here, so I enabled him to act autonomously. That is why this was permitted.

Of course, to act autonomously when the matter is prohibited according to everyone—to cause someone to stumble in a prohibition prohibited according to everyone, if he knows, such as handing a cup of wine to a nazirite—that has nothing to do with this at all. That is simply enabling him to be a sinner. Fine? But to enable him to do something that, from the standpoint of his autonomous decision, he chooses to do—why is that “do not place a stumbling block”? He decides to do it, and he is allowed to do so even though it is not the truth, because he is allowed to act autonomously as he understands. Therefore I have not violated “do not place a stumbling block.”

But if he does not know—if he does not know—then he is not doing what he thinks is right. So I caused him to stumble not in a prohibition—there is no prohibition here, because the truth is with me, at least as I understand it—but I caused him to stumble in that he did not act according to what he understands. He is obligated to act according to what he understands, and in that I made him stumble. So on that there is “do not place a stumbling block.” By the way, the later authorities discuss here whether this particular “do not place a stumbling block” is rabbinic—the Ritva’s “do not place a stumbling block.” And why? Because indeed this is a somewhat different type of “do not place a stumbling block.” This is a case where one is not causing a person to stumble in a transgression, but in the duty to act autonomously, to act as you understand.

And if he is not a bar hakhi? What? And is that not the other person’s self-imposed prohibition? Fine. What is self-imposed prohibition? If I cause him to stumble in his self-imposed prohibition, who says there is really causing-to-stumble there? Not causing-to-stumble. His self-imposed prohibition means from his side he has to guard himself. And would that not fall under “do not place a stumbling block”? So I am saying: in the category of “do not place a stumbling block,” I have no idea. It may be that one could also say that with self-imposed prohibition there is no “do not place a stumbling block.” It is forbidden only to you, from your side, because of self-imposed prohibition—but for me to cause you to stumble in your self-imposed prohibition, I do not know if there is a prohibition. Who says there is? I do not know. The question is what exactly the category of self-imposed prohibition is. That is the dispute of the Ketzot and Mahari ben Lev. Fine, no, let us leave that aside for now. And if he is not a bar hakhi, then it may be that there is no prohibition at all? What? And if he is not a bar hakhi, then it may be that there is no prohibition at all? Here we are talking about amoraim. Yes, if he is not a bar hakhi, then it could be there is no prohibition at all. But wait—if he is not a bar hakhi, but there is a bar hakhi who prohibits it… then one can begin discussing it. One can begin discussing it then. If he is just not a bar hakhi and everybody permits it, then certainly that is significant. If I am right in this explanation, then yes, presumably. He is not a bar hakhi to determine that he is a bar hakhi. And that is not…

In any case, the point I want to sharpen here is that this intermediate state presented by the Ritva is a very good indication of the picture I described earlier. Because understand: this is neither monism nor pluralism. Monism should have permitted causing him to stumble in every case. And pluralism should have forbidden causing him to stumble—notice, here pluralism comes out more stringent—in both cases. A situation where we permit causing him to stumble when he knows, but do not permit it when he does not know, seems to me almost to demand the explanation I suggested earlier: from the interplay between truth and autonomy. And that is of course a novelty—that there is also a kind of “do not place a stumbling block” that causes someone to stumble not in a prohibition, but in non-autonomous behavior. And indeed later authorities say: perhaps that is only a rabbinic prohibition, a rabbinic “do not place a stumbling block.”

What about the opposite case? Where for him it is forbidden and for me it is permitted? The opposite: for me it is forbidden and for him it is permitted. Am I allowed to give him that thing to eat? There too there is a dispute. I no longer remember the details right now, but when I worked it out, it came out that that dispute would not help me. Meaning, there I can fend off both directions. I can fit it with both monism and pluralism. Again, work it out afterward as an exercise, because I would have to run through the details. But here I think this is a good proof. In this direction it is a good proof.

There is a book called Lifnei Iver published by Simchat Torah Press—you know it? He discusses these matters there, not in contexts of autonomy and such, but he brings the sources about causing someone to stumble in transgressions that according to me are a transgression and according to him are not, or the opposite, and he brings all the sources there. You can look there if you want. Fine.