Avi Sagi: Existentialism, Pluralism, and Identity : Existentialism, Pluralism, and Identity [1 ed.] 9789004280816, 9789004280809

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Avi Sagi

Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers Editor-in-Chief

Hava Tirosh-Samuelson, Arizona State University Editor

Aaron W. Hughes, University of Rochester

Volume 10

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/lcjp

Avi Sagi Existentialism, Pluralism, and Identity Edited by

Hava Tirosh-Samuelson and Aaron W. Hughes

Leiden • boston 2015

The series Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers was generously supported by the Baron Foundation. Cover illustration: Courtesy of the Shalom Hartman Institute Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Avi Sagi : existentialism, pluralism, and identity / edited by Hava Tirosh-Samuelson and Aaron W. Hughes.   pages cm. — (Library of contemporary Jewish philosophers, ISSN 2213-6010 ; volume 10)  Includes bibliographical references.  ISBN 978-90-04-28080-9 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-90-04-28081-6 (e-book)  1. Sagi, Abraham—Philosophy. 2. Jewish philosophy. 3. Philosophy—21st century.  I. Tirosh-Samuelson, Hava, 1950– editor. II. Hughes, Aaron W., 1968– editor.  B5800.A95 2015  181’.06—dc23 2014043016

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 2213-6010 ISBN 978-90-04-28080-9 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-28081-6 (e-book) This hardback is also published in paperback under ISBN 978-90-04-28082-3. Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff and Hotei ­Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents The Contributors .............................................................................................. vii Editors’ Introduction to the Series ............................................................. ix Avi Sagi: An Intellectual Portrait ................................................................ 1  Hava Tirosh-Samuelson The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem ................................................................. 33  Avi Sagi Natural Law and Halakhah: A Critical Analysis ..................................... 59  Avi Sagi Tikkun Olam: Between Utopian Idea and Socio-Historical Process ................................................................................. 103  Avi Sagi Justifying Interreligious Pluralism .............................................................. 123  Avi Sagi Interview with Avi Sagi .................................................................................. 151  Hava Tirosh-Samuelson Select Bibliography .......................................................................................... 185

The Contributors Hava Tirosh-Samuelson (Ph.D., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1978) is Irving and Miriam Lowe Professor of Modern Judaism, the Director of Jewish Studies, and Professor of History at Arizona State University in Tempe, Arizona. Her research focuses on Jewish intellectual history, Judaism and ecology, science and religion, and feminist theory. In addition to numerous articles and book chapters in academic journals and edited volumes, she is the author of the award-winning Between Worlds: The Life and Work of Rabbi David ben Judah Messer Leon (SUNY Press, 1991) and the author of Happiness in Premodern Judaism: Virtue, Knowledge, and Well-Being in Premodern Judaism (Hebrew Union College Press, 2003). She is also the editor of Judaism and Ecology: Created World and Revealed Word (Harvard University Press, 2002); Women and Gender in Jewish Philosophy (Indiana University Press, 2004); Judaism and the Phenomenon of Life: The Legacy of Hans Jonas (Brill, 2008); Building Better Humans? Refocusing the Debate on Transhumanism (Peter Lang, 2011); Hollywood’s Chosen People: The Jewish Experience in American Cinema (Wayne State University Press, 2012); and Jewish Philosophy for the Twenty-First Century (Brill, 2014). Professor Tirosh-Samuelson is the recipient of several large grants that have funded interdisciplinary research on religion, science, and technology. Aaron W. Hughes (Ph.D., Indiana University Bloomington, 2000) holds the Philip S. Bernstein Chair in Jewish Studies at the University of Rochester. Hughes was educated at the University of Alberta, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and Oxford University. He has taught at Miami University of Ohio, McMaster University, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the University of Calgary, and the University at Buffalo. He is the author of over fifty articles and ten books, and the editor of seven books. His book titles include Abrahamic Religions: On the Uses and Abuses of History (Oxford, 2012); Muslim Identities (Columbia, 2013); The Study of Judaism: Identity, Authenticity, Scholarship (SUNY, 2013); and Rethinking Jewish Philosophy: Beyond Particularism and Universalism (Oxford, 2014). He is also the Editor-in-Chief of Method and Theory in the Study of Religion.

Editors’ Introduction to THE Series It is customary to begin studies devoted to the topic of Jewish philosophy defining what exactly this term, concept, or even discipline is. We tend not to speak of Jewish mathematics, Jewish physics, or Jewish sociology, so why refer to something as “Jewish philosophy”? Indeed, this is the great paradox of Jewish philosophy. On the one hand it presumably names something that has to do with thinking, on the other it implies some sort of national, ethnic, or religious identity of those who engage in such activity. Is not philosophy just philosophy, regardless of who philosophizes? Why the need to append various racial, national, or religious adjectives to it?1 Jewish philosophy is indeed rooted in a paradox since it refers to philosophical activity carried out by those who call themselves Jews. As philosophy, this activity makes claims of universal validity, but as an activity by a well-defined group of people it is inherently particularistic. The question “What is Jewish philosophy?” therefore is inescapable, although over the centuries Jewish philosophers have given very different answers to it. For some, Jewish philosophy represents the relentless quest for truth. Although this truth itself may not be particularized, for such individuals, the use of the adjective “Jewish”—as a way to get at this truth—most decidedly is.2 The Bible, the Mishnah, the Talmud, and related Jewish texts and genres are seen to provide particular insights into the more universal claims provided by the universal and totalizing gaze of philosophy. The problem is that these texts are not philosophical on the surface; they must, on the contrary, be interpreted to bring their philosophical insights to light. Within this context exegesis risks becoming eisegesis. Yet others eschew the term “philosophy” and instead envisage themselves as working in a decidedly

1 Alexander Altmann once remarked: It would be futile to attempt a presentation of Judaism as a philosophical system, or to speak of Jewish philosophy in the same sense as one speaks of American, English, French, or German philosophy. Judaism is a religion, and the truths it teaches are religious truths. They spring from the source of religious experience, not from pure reason. See Alexander Altmann, “Judaism and World Philosophy,” in The Jews: Their History, Culture, and Religion, ed. Louis Finkelstein (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1949), vol. 2, 954. 2 In this regard, see Norbert M. Samuelson, Jewish Faith and Modern Science: On the Death and Rebirth of Jewish Philosophy (New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 2008), e.g., 10–12.

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Jewish key in order to articulate or clarify particular issues that have direct bearing on Jewish life and existence.3 Between these two perspectives or orientations, there exist several other related approaches to the topic of Jewish philosophy, which can and have included ethics,4 gender studies,5 multiculturalism,6 and postmodernism.7 Despite their differences in theory and method, what these approaches have in common is that they all represent the complex intersection of Judaism, variously defined, and a set of non-Jewish grids or lenses used to interpret this rich tradition. Framed somewhat differently, Jewish philosophy—whatever it is, however it is defined, or whether definition is even possible—represents the collision of particularistic demands and universal concerns. The universal, or that which is, in theory, open and accessible to all regardless of race, color, creed, or gender confronts the particular, or that which represents the sole concern of a specific group that, by nature or definition, is insular and specific-minded. Because it is concerned with a particular people, the Jews, and how to frame their traditions in a universal and universalizing light that is believed to conform to the dictates of reason, Jewish philosophy can never be about pure thinking, if indeed there ever can be such a phenomenon. Rather Jewish philosophy—from antiquity to the present—always seems to have had and, for the most part continues to have, rather specific and perhaps 3 See, e.g., Strauss’s claim about Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, perhaps one of the most important and successful works of something called Jewish philosophy ever written. He claims that one “begins to understand the Guide once one sees that it is not a philosophic book—a book written by a philosopher for philosophers—but a Jewish book: a book written by a Jew for Jews.” See Leo Strauss, “How to Begin to Study The Guide of the Perplexed,” in The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Shlomo Pines, 2 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), vol. 1, xiv. Modern iterations of this may be found, for example, in J. David Bleich, Bioethical Dilemmas: A Jewish Perspective, 2 vols. (vol. 1, New York: Ktav, 1998; vol. 2, New York: Targum Press, 2006). 4 See, e.g., David Novak, Natural Law in Judaism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Elliot Dorff, Love Your Neighbor and Yourself: A Jewish Approach to Modern Personal Ethics (New York: Jewish Publication Society of America, 2006). 5 E.g., the collection of essays in Women and Gender in Jewish Philosophy, ed. Hava Tirosh-Samuelson (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2004). 6 E.g., Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid a Clash of Civilizations (London: Continuum, 2003); Jonathan Sacks, To Heal a Fractured World: The Ethics of Responsibility (New York: Schocken, 2007). 7 E.g., Elliot R. Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being: Kabbalistic Hermeneutics and Poetic Imagination (New York: Fordham University Press, 2004); Elliot R. Wolfson, Open Secret: Postmessianic Messianism and the Mystical Revision of Menahem Mendel Schneerson (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009); Elliot R. Wolfson, A Dream Interpreted within a Dream: Oneiropoiesis  and the Prism of Imagination (New York: Zone Books, 2011).

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even practical concerns in mind. This usually translates into the notion that Judaism—at least the Judaism that Jewish philosophy seeks to articulate— is comprehensible to non-Jews and, framed in our contemporary context, that Judaism has a seat at the table, as it were, when it comes to pressing concerns in the realms of ethics and bioethics. Jewish philosophy, as should already be apparent, is not a disinterested subject matter. It is, on the contrary, heavily invested in matters of Jewish peoplehood and in articulating its aims and objectives. Because of this interest in concrete issues (e.g., ethics, bioethics, medical ethics, feminism) Jewish philosophy—especially contemporary Jewish philosophy—is often constructive as opposed to being simply reflective. Because of this, it would seem to resemble what is customarily called “theology” more than it does philosophy. If philosophy represents the critical and systematic approach to ascertain the truth of a proposition based on rational argumentation, theology is the systematic and rational study of religion and the articulation of the nature of religious truths. The difference between theology and philosophy resides in their object of study. If the latter has “truth,” however we may define this term, as its primary object of focus, the former is concerned with ascertaining religious dogma and belief. They would seem to be, in other words, mutually exclusive endeavors. What we are accustomed to call “Jewish philosophy,” then, is a paradox since it does not—indeed, cannot—engage in truth independent of religious claims. As such, it is unwilling to undo the major claims of Judaism (e.g., covenant, chosenness, revelation), even if it may occasionally redefine such claims.8 So although medieval Jewish thinkers may well gravitate toward the systematic thought of Aristotle and his Arab interpreters and although modern Jewish thinkers may be attracted to the thought of Kant and Heidegger, the ideas of such non-Jewish thinkers are always applied to Jewish ideas and values. Indeed, if they were not, those who engaged in such activities would largely cease to be Jewish philosophers and would instead become just philosophers who just happened to be Jewish (e.g., Henri Bergson, Edmund Husserl, and Karl Popper). Whether in its medieval or modern guise, Jewish philosophy has a tendency to be less philosophical simply for the sake of rational analysis and more constructive. Many of the volumes that appear in the Library of 8 A good example of what we have in mind here is the thought of Maimonides. Although he might well redefine the notion of prophecy, he never abnegates the concept. On Maimonides on prophecy, see Howard Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2001), 148–56.

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Contemporary Jewish Philosophers will bear this out. The truths of Judaism are upheld, albeit in often new and original ways. Although Jewish philosophy may well use non-Jewish ideas to articulate its claims, it never produces a vision that ends in the wholesale abandonment of Judaism.9 Even though critics of Jewish philosophy may well argue that philosophy introduces “foreign” wisdom into the heart of Judaism, those we call Jewish philosophers do not perceive themselves to be tainting Judaism, but perfecting it or teasing out its originary meaning.10 The result is that Jewish philosophy is an attempt to produce a particular type of Judaism—one that is in tune with certain principles of rationalism. This rationalism, from the vantage point of the nineteenth century and up to the present, is believed to show Judaism in its best light, as the synthesis or nexus between a Greek-inflected universalism and the particularism of the Jewish tradition. What is the status of philosophy among Jews in the modern period? Since their emancipation in the nineteenth century, Jews have gradually integrated into Western society and culture, including the academy. Ever since the academic study of Judaism began in the 1820s in Germany, Jewish philosophy has grown to become a distinctive academic discourse practiced by philosophers who now often hold positions in non-Jewish institutions of higher learning. The professionalization of Jewish philosophy has not been unproblematic, and Jewish philosophy has had to (and still has to) justify its legitimacy and validity. And even when Jewish philosophy is taught in Jewish institutions (for example, rabbinic seminaries or universities in Israel), it has to defend itself against those Jews who regard philosophy as alien to Judaism, or minimally, as secondary in importance to the inherently Jewish disciplines such as jurisprudence or exegesis. Jewish philosophy, in other words, must still confront the charge that it is not authentically Jewish. The institutional setting for the practice of Jewish philosophy has shaped Jewish philosophy as an academic discourse. But regardless of the setting,

9 This despite the claims of Yitzhak Baer who believed that philosophy had a negative influence on medieval Spanish Jews that made them more likely to convert to Christianity. See Israel Jacob Yuval, “Yitzhak Baer and the Search for Authentic Judaism,” in The Jewish Past Revisited: Reflections on Modern Jewish Historians, ed. David N. Myers and David B. Ruderman (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 77–87. 10 Indeed, Jewish philosophers in the medieval period did not even see themselves as introducing foreign ideas into Judaism. Instead they saw philosophical activity as a reclamation of their birthright since the Jews originally developed philosophy before the Greeks and others stole it from them.

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Jewish philosophy as an academic discourse is quite distinct from Jewish philosophy as constructive theology, even though the two may often be produced by the same person. Despite the lack of unanimity about the scope and methodology of Jewish philosophy, the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers insists that Jewish philosophy has thrived in the past half century in ways that will probably seem surprising to most readers. When asked who are the Jewish philosophers of the twentieth century, most would certainly mention the obvious: Franz Rosenzweig (d. 1929), Martin Buber (d. 1965), and Emmanuel Levinas (d. 1995). Some would also be able to name Abraham Joshua Heschel (d. 1972), Mordecai Kaplan (d. 1983), Joseph Soloveitchik (d. 1993), and Hans Jonas (d. 1993). There is no doubt that these thinkers have either reshaped the discourse of Western thought for Jews and nonJews or have inspired profound rethinking of modern Judaism. However, it is misleading to identify contemporary Jewish philosophy solely with these names, all of whom are now deceased. In recent years it has been customary for Jews to think that Jewish philosophy has lost its creative edge or that Jewish philosophy is somehow profoundly irrelevant to Jewish life. Several reasons have given rise to this perception, not the least of which is, ironically enough, the very success of Jewish Studies as an academic discipline. Especially after 1967, Jewish Studies has blossomed in secular universities especially in the North American Diaspora, and Jewish philosophers have expressed their ideas in academic venues that have remained largely inaccessible to the public at large. Moreover, the fact that Jewish philosophers have used technical language and a certain way of argumentation has made their thought increasingly incomprehensible and therefore irrelevant to the public at large. At the same time that the Jewish public has had little interest in professional philosophy, the practitioners of philosophy (especially in the Anglo American departments of philosophy) have denied the philosophical merits of Jewish philosophy as too religious or too particularistic and excluded it entirely. The result is that Jewish philosophy is now largely generated by scholars who teach in departments/programs of Jewish Studies, in departments of Religious Studies, or in Jewish denominational seminaries.11

11 See the comments in Aaron W. Hughes and Elliot R. Wolfson, “Introduction: Charting an Alternative Course for the Study of Jewish Philosophy,” in New Directions in Jewish Philosophy, ed. Aaron W. Hughes and Elliot R. Wolfson (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2010), 1–16.

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The purpose of the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers is not only to dispel misperceptions about Jewish philosophy but also to help nudge the practice of Jewish philosophy out of the ethereal heights of academe to the more practical concerns of living Jewish communities. To the public at large this project documents the diversity, creativity, and richness of Jewish philosophical and intellectual activity during the second half of the twentieth century, and early twenty-first century, showing how Jewish thinkers have engaged new topics, themes, and methodologies and raised new philosophical questions. Indeed, Jewish philosophers have been intimately engaged in trying to understand and interpret the momentous changes of the twentieth century for Jews. These have included the Holocaust, the renewal of Jewish political sovereignty, secularism, postmodernism, feminism, and environmentalism. As a result, the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers intentionally defines the scope of Jewish philosophy very broadly so as to engage and include theology, political theory, literary theory, intellectual history, ethics, and feminist theory, among other discourses. We believe that the overly stringent definition of “philosophy” has impoverished the practice of Jewish philosophy, obscuring the creativity and breadth of contemporary Jewish reflections. An accurate and forward looking view of Jewish philosophy must be inclusive. To practitioners of Jewish philosophy this project claims that Jewish philosophical activity cannot and should not remain limited to professional academic pursuits. Rather, Jewish philosophy must be engaged in life as lived in the present by both Jews and non-Jews. Jews are no longer a people apart, instead they are part of the world and they live in this world through conversation with other civilizations and cultures. Jewish philosophy speaks to Jews and to non-Jews, encouraging them to reflect on problems and take a stand on a myriad of issues of grave importance. Jewish philosophy, in other words, is not only alive and well today, it is also of the utmost relevance to Jews and non-Jews. The Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers is simultaneously a documentary and an educational project. As a documentary project, it intends to shape the legacy of outstanding thinkers for posterity, identifying their major philosophical ideas and making available their seminal essays, many of which are not easily accessible. A crucial aspect of this is the interview with the philosophers that functions, in many ways, as an oral history. The interview provides very personal comments by each philosopher as he or she reflects about a range of issues that have engaged them over the years. In this regard the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers

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simultaneously records Jewish philosophical activity and demonstrates its creativity both as a constructive discourse as well as an academic field. As an educational project, the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers is intended to stimulate discussion, reflection, and debate about the meaning of Jewish existence at the dawn of the twenty-first century. The individual volumes and the entire set are intended to be used in a variety of educational settings: college-level courses, programs for adult Jewish learning, rabbinic training, and interreligious dialogues. By engaging or confronting the ideas of these philosophers, we hope that Jews and non-Jews alike will be encouraged to ponder the past, present, and future of Jewish philosophy, reflect on the challenges to and complexities of Jewish existence, and articulate Jewish philosophical responses to these challenges. We hope that, taken as individual volumes and as a collection, the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers will inspire readers to ask philosophical, theological, ethical, and scientific questions that will enrich Jewish intellectual life for the remainder of the twenty-first century. All of the volumes in the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers have the same structure: an intellectual profile of the thinker, several seminal essays by the featured philosopher, an interview with him or her, and a select bibliography of 120 items, listing books, articles, book chapters, book reviews, and public addresses. As editors of the series we hope that the structure will encourage the reader to engage the volume through reflection, discussion, debate, and dialogue. As the love of wisdom, philosophy is inherently Jewish. Philosophy invites questions, cherishes debate and controversy, and ponders the meaning of life, especially Jewish life. We hope that the Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers will stimulate thinking and debate because it is our hope that the more Jews philosophize, the more they will make Judaism deeper, durable, and long-lasting. Finally, we invite readers to engage the thinkers featured in these volumes, to challenge and dispute them, so that Judaism will become ever stronger for future generations.

Avi Sagi: An Intellectual Portrait Hava Tirosh-Samuelson In a passage in his journal, Kierkegaard writes, “One must first learn to know himself before anything else,” and focusing on the meaning of the required self-knowledge, he adds, “What I really need is to get clear about what I must do [. . .]. What matters is to find a purpose [. . .], the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me, to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die.”1 This passage is the foundation of Sagi’s endeavor to interpret Kierkegaard’s oeuvre, which is perceived as a personal voyage in search of meaning within each seeker’s specific world. These determinations, mutatis mutandis, can be said to be true about Sagi himself, who is engaged in a voyage of consciousness and self-understanding within the concrete contexts of his existence—philosophy, literature, Halakhah, and real life as a committed Israeli Jew. A professor of philosophy at Bar-Ilan University and a senior fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, the most salient feature of Sagi’s oeuvre is the ongoing discourse between disparate texts—Sagi is an intertextual thinker. Intertextuality is the hallmark of Jewish religious tradition. In the context of fathoming the meaning of canonic texts believed to be divinely revealed, the author-commentator frames new ideas, sensibilities, and values that address the challenges of ever-changing life. By means of this dynamic, dialogical process, the past text continues to be present as new meanings are deciphered and applied to a new reality. Sagi epitomizes this Jewish intertextuality and its significance for the future of Jewish philosophy. Born, trained, and living in Israel, Sagi is a philosopher, literary critic, textual interpreter, critical theorist, public intellectual, and educator who has also written lucidly and eloquently on the challenges that face Israeli society: the growing divide between secularists I am extremely grateful to Batya Stein, the translator of Avi Sagi’s works into English, for her extensive and meticulous editing of an early version of this introduction, her constructive criticism, and her unfailing patience, which made an invaluable contribution to this essay. 1 Avi Sagi, Kierkegaard, Religion, and Existence: The Voyage of the Self, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), 7 (emphasis in original).

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and traditionalists, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the meaning of Judaism in a democratic-liberal state, and the place of religion in a postmodern, post-secular, and globalized world. Trained in continental philosophy along with excellent exposure to analytic philosophy, especially as it pertains to religion and ethics, his writing style is exceedingly clear and precise. Unlike analytic philosophers of the Anglo-American tradition, however, Sagi does not limit himself to the clarification of ordinary language. Instead, he seeks to understand other aspects of human existence—self, other, society, culture, history, religion, and politics. Dealing with the meaning of human existence through various strands of continental philosophy—existentialism, phenomenology, hermeneutics, critical theory, postmodernism, and post-structuralism— Sagi resists all labels because he insists on the freedom and responsibility of the individual. His point of departure is profoundly humanistic, starting with the socio-cultural human condition and paying close attention to subjective and immanent personal experience. His numerous monographs, edited volumes, essays, reviews, and articles in the daily press integrate philosophy, religion, theology, jurisprudence, psychology, art, literature, and politics, charting a new future for Jewish philosophy in the twenty-first century. Biography and Career Avi Sagi was born in Israel in 1953. Brought up in a home that sponsored the religious-Zionist ethos of responsibility for Jewish life in Israel, he attended the Netiv Meir high school yeshivah in Jerusalem, the flagship educational institution of “classic” religious Zionism at the time. He was also active in the Bnei Akiva youth movement, where he eventually came to play a key leadership role. No wonder, then, that he later chose to write the history of religious Zionism,2 and engage its leading thinkers. Neither his work nor his life can be reduced to the one cultural label of “religious Zionism,”3 but this

2 Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz, eds., A Hundred Years of Religious Zionism, 3 vols. (RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003) [Hebrew]. 3 Avi Sagi, “Requiem to Religious Zionism: A Testimony,” in Avi Sagi and Yedidia Z. Stern, Barefooted Homeland: Israeli Reflections (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2011) [Hebrew], 137–44. In this essay, Sagi deplores the changes in religious Zionism since 1967 and the transformation of Bnei Akiva from a pioneering, egalitarian, and modernist movement that interacted with other Zionist youth movements, into a messianic, insular, non-egalitarian, and authoritarian movement focused on the settlement of Greater Israel. For other critical remarks about religious Zionism, see also Avi Sagi, Tradition vs. Traditionalism: Contempo-

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movement’s influence on him is discernible in his commitment to Israel and his deep care for Israeli society. After completing his compulsory army service, Sagi studied at several yeshivot, deepening his rabbinic training before enrolling in the Department of Philosophy and Jewish Thought and the Department of Talmud at Bar-Ilan University (1975). Sagi’s academic training and entire career have been at Bar-Ilan University, where he graduated (summa cum laude) with a B.A. in Philosophy in 1979, an M.A. in Philosophy in 1980, and a Ph.D. in Philosophy in 1987. Several teachers shaped Sagi’s philosophical direction. Reuben Gilad (d. 1988), of Tel Aviv University, one of Nicolai von Hartmann’s last disciples, introduced Sagi to continental philosophy in general and to the philosophy of Martin Heidegger in particular; Eliane Amado-Levi Valensi (d. 2006), a French-Jewish philosopher and psychoanalyst, introduced him to the richness of continental philosophy, including the fusion of philosophy and psychoanalysis characteristic to this intellectual tradition, and Eliezer Goldman (d. 2002), an American Jewish philosopher, introduced him to Anglo-American analytic philosophy, especially pragmatism. Sagi is deeply immersed in the method, canonic texts, problems, and arguments of analytic philosophy, and his writings engage analytic philosophers from Ludwig Wittgenstein, through Peter Winch, and D. Z. Philips, to William Payne Alston, Alvin Plantinga, and Keith Ward, among others. One of Sagi’s earlier books, Religion and Morality,4 written with Daniel Statman, illustrates his indebtedness to the analytic tradition, especially in philosophy of religion and moral philosophy. This book considers “two fundamental issues [. . .]: the first is whether morality depends on religion and the second is the possibility of a conflict between them.”5 The critical exposition of various positions and arguments seeks “to reject both the thesis of dependence and the thesis of conflict as inadequate,”6 “reflecting the complexities and the tensions dominating the relations between morality and religion.”7 In a later book, Judaism: Between Religion and Morality, Sagi applied the analytic discourse to Judaism, arguing that the dominant strand in Jewish tradition, both halakhic and philosophic, rejected the heteronomous rary Perspectives in Jewish Thought, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2008), 47. 4 Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman, Religion and Morality, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995). 5 Ibid., 6. 6 Ibid., 159. 7 Ibid., 164.

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position and defended instead the autonomy of morality.8 But it was the existentialist-phenomenological tradition of continental philosophy that has enabled Sagi to address the question “how ought I to live my life?” Kierkegaard and Camus in particular, to whom Sagi devoted two separate studies,9 exemplify what Sagi calls “personal philosophy.” Sagi explains the “personal philosopher” as follows: The thinking of personal philosophers is a product of their contest with a personal problem, with a concrete life experience. Personal philosophers, unlike academic philosophers, are not concerned with theoretical questions, they do not analyze abstract concepts, and what moves them is a basic question posed by existence. Their philosophical efforts are an attempt to solve their anguish, to reach a new harmony and restore a balance disturbed by the problematic gnawing at their life. Personal thinkers abide by the ancient Greek injunction, “know thyself”: they return to themselves, to their life experience, seeking remedy for their anguish.10

The existentialist tradition shifted his understanding about the task and method of philosophy. Philosophizing is understood as an act of self-interpretation that, rather than abstract arguments, resorts to literary narrative and journal entries. Sagi’s works on Kierkegaard, on Camus and on the early Hebrew writer Joseph Chayim Brenner illustrate this integration of philosophy and literature.11 His more recent book on prayer in modern Hebrew literature and his philosophical-hermeneutical treatment of literary works as diverse as Genesis, the Israeli poets Yehuda Amihai and Zelda, the GermanJewish author Stefan Heym, and the Polish poet Czesław Miłosz,12 all point to a deep love of literature and to an interdisciplinary approach that is yet another unique feature of Sagi’s work as an interpreter of culture. In 1999, Sagi founded the Program for Hermeneutic and Cultural Studies at Bar-Ilan University and directed it for seventeen years.13 This innovative academic enterprise teaches continental philosophy (both French and

8 Avi Sagi, Judaism: Between Religion and Morality (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1998) [Hebrew]. 9 Kierkegaard, Religion, and Existence, and Albert Camus and the Philosophy of the Absurd, trans. Batya Stein (New York: Rodopi, 2002). 10 Ibid., 26. 11 Avi Sagi, To Be a Jew: Joseph Chayim Brenner as a Jewish Existentialist, trans. Batya Stein (London: Continuum, 2011). 12 See Avi Sagi, Prayer after “The Death of God”: A Phenomenological Study in Hebrew Literature (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press and Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2011) [Hebrew]; Avi Sagi, The Human Voyage to Meaning: A Philosophical-Hermeneutical Study of Literary Works (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2009) [Hebrew]. 13 Zeev Levi is another philosopher who introduced Israeli students of philosophy to the European hermeneutical tradition in Hebrew, but Levi, who taught for decades at the University of Haifa, did not create an academic program.

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German philosophical traditions) along with philosophy of language, sociology, critical studies, and anthropology, while highlighting the centrality of hermeneutics. The program has made an important contribution to the field of critical studies and has received international acclaim. Intimately familiar with the leading contributors to philosophical hermeneutics (such as Schleirmacher, Dilthey, Heidegger, Gadamer, and Ricoeur, among others), Sagi has shed light on the methodology of hermeneutics. Gadamer’s Truth and Method (1960) has been crucial to Sagi’s interpretative project. Gadamer’s theory of interpretation, the positive role he ascribes to prejudgment, and his understanding of the authority of texts, deeply influenced Sagi’s understanding of tradition. Questions such as whether tradition can be criticized and whether reflection can liberate tradition from its historical conditions have informed Sagi’s wrestling with the meaning of Jewish tradition for the Jewish believer, who not only stands in a constant relationship with a canon but also has to make practical decisions in the social sphere. Sagi endorses the notion of philosophy as praxis. The philosopher is not only an interpreter of past texts that constitute the fabric of culture but also a social and cultural critic who engages normative issues in ethics, politics, and law, analyzing discursive procedures for the justification of universal norms. In Israel, the discourse of cultural studies is relevant to the struggle between various Jewish cultures competing for the legitimacy and hegemony of their views about the meaning of being Jewish in a liberaldemocratic, secular state, beyond the day-to-day tensions between Jews and Palestinians clashing over territories and national visions. The Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, where Sagi has been a member of the faculty and a senior research fellow since 1982, has provided him a context for engaging in contemporary Jewish thought, the discourse on Israeli-Jewish identity, and the bridging of the secular-religious divide in Israeli education and in the army. Together with other philosophers, cultural interpreters, and critics from academia and from the Institute (Moshe Halbertal, Avidov Lipsker, Menachem Mautner, Ohad Nachtomy, Dov Schwartz, Ronen Shamir, and Zvi Zohar) Sagi has edited several volumes dealing with conceptual questions or engaging the most contested issues in Israel’s public sphere: pluralism in Judaism, multiculturalism in Israel, the future of religious Zionism, and the tension between Judaism and liberal democracy.14 As a public intellectual deeply concerned about the future

14 For example, see Avi Sagi, Moshe Halbertal, and David Kurzweil, eds., On Faith: Studies on the Concept of Faith and its History in Jewish Tradition (Jerusalem: Keter, 2007) [Hebrew]; Avi Sagi and Avidov Lipsker, eds., Twenty Four Readings in Aharon Appelfeld’s

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of the state of Israel and the ethical challenges it faces, Sagi is also the co-editor (with Yedidia Z. Stern) of the journal Democratic Culture, and coeditor (also with Yedidia Z. Stern) of the “Israeli Judaism” book series published by the Shalom Hartman Institute. His relentless and deeply compassionate engagement with the moral challenges that face Israel has recommended him to the IDF as a member of the steering committee that prepared the new IDF code of ethics. Sagi has demonstrated what it means to be a philosopher in the public sphere, a social critic for whom philosophy comes out of lived experience, and a cultural critic whose exposition of culture deepens our understanding of human life. Human Existence: The Dialectics of Self and Other As a textual interpreter, Sagi is a dialogical philosopher: he engages other thinkers by explicating their texts. He does so both as a historian of philosophy who describes the philosophical past and as a critical thinker who engages past philosophers to shape the present and chart the future. Sagi describes and justifies the dialogical method as follows: Dialogue is a valuable tool in fostering a disposition of openness and selfcriticism. It liberates us from intellectual narcissism and challenges accepted certainties, thereby contributing to deeper and more dynamic thinking.  Dialogue is impossible without a culture of attentiveness conveying a readiness to be open to the world of the other. Dialogue assumes active passivity, meaning a deliberate decision to adopt a passive stance in which the other, instead of the self, is often the protagonist. But dialogue is impossible unless the partners bring their full selves to it, including all the constitutive elements of their being: language, culture, memory, and so forth . . . The dialogical encounter is paradoxical: the partners to the dialogue make room for one another and enter into a disposition of attentiveness, but do not renounce their selves. Contrary to Buber’s view, a dialogue does not lead to a different ontological occurrence where “I” and “thou” transcend themselves; instead, the dialogue takes place from and within the parties’ being.15

Literary Work (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2011) [Hebrew]; Avi Sagi, Menachem Mautner, and Ronen Shamir, Multiculturalism in a Democratic and Jewish State: The Ariel Rosen-Zvi Memorial Volume (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1998) [Hebrew]; Avi Sagi and Ohad Nachtomy, eds., The Multicultural Challenge in Israel (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009); Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz, eds., Faith: Jewish Perspectives (Boston: Academic Press, 2013); Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, eds., A Judaism of Life: The World of Rabbi Haim David Halevi (Jerusalem and Ramat Gan: Shalom Hartman Institute and the Law Faculty of Bar Ilan University, 2007) [Hebrew]. 15 Sagi, Tradition vs. Traditionalism, 1.

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The dialogical method pertains not only to Sagi’s own dialogue with other authors but also to the imagined dialogue he constructs between authors who are usually treated separately, or whose relationships cannot be described as “influence” or “borrowing.” To read Sagi is to take part in ongoing philosophical symposia painstakingly sorting out ideas in order to approximate the truth—both the truth about what the text says and what it means for the interlocutors. The dialogical style is also biographically rooted, reflecting the give-and-take of halakhic discourse in the yeshivas where Sagi was trained. In sharp contrast to Leo Strauss, Sagi sees no conflict between “Athens” and “Jerusalem”: the two are complementary and their interplay is mutually beneficial. Put differently, Sagi engages Judaism as a well-trained philosopher and his philosophy is rooted in his own Jewish existence, as reflected in certain overarching themes identifiable in his oeuvre: the primacy of existence over essence, the absurd as the core of human existence, subjectivity as a process of self-making (or becoming), the ethical significance of the other, and the centrality of praxis in concrete human existence. These themes have shaped Sagi’s interpretation of Judaism, including his philosophy of Halakhah, as much as they frame his position on many disputed issues in Israeli public discourse. Sagi is intimately familiar with existentialist-phenomenological philosophy (Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Husserl, Heidegger, Jaspers, Sartre, Camus, Merleau-Ponty, Tillich, Buber, and Levinas) and the extensive scholarship about them. Besides the mentioned book-length studies on Kierkegaard and Camus, he has recently engaged Levinas in a collection of essays.16 A certain connection, and even a certain progression, is evident: the book on Kierkegaard, published in 2000, explains how one can be a religious existentialist, best exemplified by Kierkegaard himself. In Sagi’s reading, Kierkegaard’s existentialist philosophy has a religious meaning, and conversely, Kierkegaard’s understanding of religion has an existentialist dimension. The book on Camus, published in 2002, explains why the absurd, the core of human existence, need not result in paralysis but can lead to a life of action where the self exhibits love, compassion, and empathy. The third book, published in 2012, can be seen as a response to Levinas, where Sagi explains how to solve the inherent tension between self and other through what he calls the “ethics of inner retreat” (in Hebrew, etika shel hanesigah ha-penimit). If the first two books present Sagi as an interpreter of

16 Avi Sagi, Facing Others and Otherness: the Ethics of Inner Retreat (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2012) [Hebrew].

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existentialist-phenomenological tradition, the third highlights him as a phenomenological thinker whose independent philosophical position is rooted in halakhic tradition. The Dialectic of Existence and Religion Kierkegaard was the first European philosopher to be recognized as an “existentialist philosopher.” The precise origin of the term “existential” is still debated, but it seems to have meant a departure from and a critique of Hegel’s philosophy. Whereas for Hegel the spirit is realized in universality and particularistic existence is self-alienation, for Kierkegaard the concrete individual is primary. The concrete individual resists preconceived categories such as “human nature” and has no “essence” that can be summarized in ready-made labels and social roles. The focus on the individual means that philosophy does not consist of truth claims about the world or about God, but rather of an experiential, intensely personal, inward process of self-knowledge. Sagi analyzes the “voyage of the self” as a dialectic between existence and religion, “tracing the religious meaning within the existentialist analysis and the existentialist meaning within the religious perspective.”17 Sagi’s starting point is Kierkegaard’s claim that human existence is rooted in a contradiction, a conflict, a tension, or disharmony that Kierkegaard called “alienation” and other existentialist philosophers characterized as “anxiety” (Heidegger) or “absurd” (Camus). Human beings cannot escape the profound contradiction at the root of human existence, but when they accept alienation as the ultimate meaning of human life, they can make their own existence meaningful and comprehensible: “To understand alienation is to understand the structure of human existence, and alienation sets the goal of existence: to overcome it.”18 Kierkegaard offers a way to overcome the inherent conflict of human existence through religion, that is, through a personal relationship with God. God is the source of possibility and a “human being can only create possibility through the power of faith and by relating to God as its source.”19 In the relationship with God, individuals reach self-realization and the

17 Sagi, Kierkegaard, Religion and Existence, 1. 18 Ibid., 31. 19 Ibid., 36.

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synthesis they so desperately yearn for, “the synthesis between the finite and the infinite, between necessity and possibility, contingency and eternity.”20 From the Absurd to a Life of Action In his study of Camus, Sagi continues his exploration of existentialist tradition and expands into such issues as the meaning of human freedom, the responsibility to choose, philosophy as self-interpretation or selfexplication, and, above all, how existentialism leads to a life of action where human beings relate to others through love, compassion, and empathy. The book traces the development of Camus’s philosophy through his literary works, letters, and public exchanges, and Sagi notes, “the uniqueness of Camus’ philosophy is that it touches everyone. Its significance lies in its ability to awaken us, compelling us to reconsider the question of meaning in concrete human life, which we tend to neglect by transmuting it into others.”21 Sagi also points to Camus’s particular appeal in the Israeli context: “In Israeli society, which has long been contending with violence and conflict at levels of intensity unknown in Western societies, Camus’ thought has found paths to the hearts of young men and women thirsty for a human voice at once consoling and demanding.”22 Sagi indicates that, as was true of Kierkegaard, Camus’s point of departure for his existential philosophy is alienation, which he developed into the concept of the absurd. The absurd is a complex notion, not merely a variation of alienation but “an experience built on two contradictory elements, one positive and one negative—a negative experience of rift and separation, and a positive experience of yearning for harmony and unity.”23 Sagi clarifies that “the yearning for unity does not eliminate alienation, it intensifies it. The absurd thereby turns into a disharmonious experience constituted through two contrary elements, and is doomed to remain in this conflict of opposites.”24 Sagi views both Kierkegaard and Camus as personal philosophers who understand human life as an “act of self-explication” and struggle with the experience of their own existence. But going beyond Kierkegaard, and definitely unlike other thinkers in the existentialist tradition (especially Sartre and Heidegger), Camus “has no interest in the phenomenological 20 Ibid., 19. 21 Sagi, Albert Camus and the Philosophy of the Absurd, 2. 22 Ibid., 3. 23 Ibid., 23. 24 Ibid.

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explication of existence as an abstraction of his life.” Instead of dealing with the concept of “existence” Camus “deals with existence itself . . . His existentialism is an existentialism of action.”25 Sagi offers a beautiful analysis of the two main metaphors of existence in Camus’s works, the sea and the sun that, respectively, express the two poles of human existence—breakup or alienation, and yearning for the beyond. Expressed through his literary works, Camus’s philosophy is neither academic nor theoretical. Rather, as Sagi tells us, “his philosophy is a form of attentiveness: as lonely individuals, we listen to the voices rising from existence, to the questions it poses, and to the demand we are asked to translate into action in our lives.”26 Camus’s reflections on the other are suffused “with his love for humanity.”27 Human beings deserve respect not merely on account of an innate human rationality, as Kant taught, but because, unless we meet them with “love, compassion and empathy,” we cannot bear to live. The uniqueness of human individuality and concreteness is symbolized in the face, which Camus’s novels restore for the self and the other, making dialogue the only way to live and the only way to philosophize: “The future of the world is in dialogue; without it, the world will turn around and kill those who experience dialogue, as it killed Socrates.”28 Facing Others and Otherness In his recently published Facing Others and Otherness, a book dedicated to the memory of Eliane Amado-Levi Valensi, Sagi emerges as a philosopher whose ethics combines the phenomenological exposition of the dialectics of self and other with the distinctive insights of halakhic Judaism. The book seeks to offer a middle position between the ethics of duty (deontological ethics) articulated by Kant, and the contrasting “ethics of otherness” articulated most radically by Levinas. Whereas the former takes its point of departure from the acting subject, the latter begins with the “unconditional presence of the other”;29 whereas the former sees the subject as the active ethical agent, in the latter it is the other who is active, while the subject remains passive—“the I can either respond to or refuse the presence.”30 Sagi considers both Kant’s and Levinas’s approaches deficient: 25 Ibid., 29. 26 Ibid., 174. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid., 177. 29 Sagi, Facing Others and Otherness, 9. 30 Ibid., 10.

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Kant’s approach is overly abstract but unduly empowers the self, whereas Levinas’s ethics, which sees the other as the source of ethics, improperly empowers the other. Sagi offers an intermediate position “whereby the subject and the other are both active and passive.”31 This ethical theory, which he calls “the ethics of loyalty to the visible” (etikah shel ne’emaut lanire’eh), accommodates the sovereignty of the self as well as the presence of the other and resolves the tension between self and other because the self performs an act of retreat or self-withdrawal (tzimtzum) in order to allow the other to appear.32 In the ethics of self-withdrawal, the sovereign self “retreats inward, delays action, and positions himself in a stance of openness and attentiveness to the other,” requiring “alertness, self-criticism, and constant reflection.”33 Understood in these terms, ethical life is again an ongoing existential “voyage of the self.” The self avoids the danger of constructing the other within a general ethical rule, as Kantian philosophy demands, as well as the opposite danger of being conquered by the other, as Levinas’ philosophy entails. For the past three decades, Levinas’s philosophy of the other and otherness has dominated the discourse of both continental and contemporary Jewish philosophy.34 While non-Jewish scholars have tended to minimize Levinas’s Jewishness, Jewish scholars have correctly noted that his contribution to continental philosophy could not be understood apart from his Jewish roots.35 In fact, his major insight about the responsibility (ahrayut) 31 Ibid., 11. 32 The ethics of self-withdrawal or self-retreat clearly resonates with the Lurianic doctrine of tzimtzum, although Sagi makes no reference to it, perhaps because the dominant interpretation of Lurianic doctrine has been ontological and cosmological rather than psychological and ethical, which is the direction taken by Sagi. 33 Sagi, Facing Others and Otherness, 11–12. 34 A few examples from a very long list of Levinas’s specialists include: John Llewelyn, Emmanuel Levinas: The Genealogy of Ethics (London and New York: Routledge, 1995); Colin Davis, Levinas: An Introduction (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1996); Adriaan Theodor Peperzak, Beyond: The Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1997); B. C. Hutchens, Levinas: A Guide for the Perplexed (New York and London: Continuum, 2004). On the different reception of Levinas in the continent and in English-speaking countries, see Simon Critchley, “Introduction,” in The Cambridge Companion to Levinas, ed. Simon Critchley and Robert Bernasconi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1–32, esp. 1–6. 35 For example, Catherine Chalier, “The Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas and the Hebraic Tradition,” in Ethics as First Philosophy: The Significance of Emmanuel Levinas for Philosophy, Literature and Religion, ed. Adriaan T. Peperzak (New York and London: Routledge, 1993), 3–12; Claire E. Katz, Levinas, Judaism and the Feminine: The Silent Footsteps of Rebecca (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2003); Samuel Moyn, Origins of the Other: Emmanuel Levinas between Revelation and Ethics (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2005); Richard A. Cohen, “Emmanuel Levinas: Judaism and the Primacy of

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that the other (aher) imposes on the self derives from a Hebrew root. A student of Heidegger, Levinas continued phenomenological tradition when he turned the face of the other, meaning the way the other appears to the self, into the first object of ethics. The presence of the other’s face initiates the self’s moral response. The face of the other is the medium through which the transcendent is revealed; by encountering the face, we are able to go beyond the appearance of the other.36 In the second essay in this volume, Sagi explains why Levinas’s ethics is problematic and how it must be revised in order to be viable. Sagi challenges Levinas on two counts. First, Sagi claims that the other’s transcendence is only made possible by the self’s immanence, since only the self acknowledges and establishes this transcendence. In Husserl’s terms, this is an immanent transcendence. The primacy of the other, then, is phenomenologically and ethically problematic. Second, Sagi holds that, for Levinas, the face of the other is never concrete; it lacks the specificity and the particularity that arise from the physical, historical, and cultural contexts because Levinas thinks about the other, including God, as an abstract, remote entity. In Levinas’s philosophy, therefore, the other has no physical presence and is not visible. The other can be any other, not just this or that particular person. On these grounds, Sagi criticizes not only Levinas’s ethics but also his theology, since Levinas’s God, like the Protestant God, is remote and impersonal, whereas the “God of Abraham” is both transcendent and immanent. Precisely because the self, rather than the other, is primary, one can meaningfully pray without assuming, let alone proving, the existence of a transcendent God, the presumed object of prayer. Sagi explores the complex issues that shed light on the dynamics of religious life in his essay “Faith as Temptation,” where he argues: The faith constituted in the real, historical, cultural experience of the individual cannot be a return to the natural situation that preceded sin. Like every human disposition, it bears the tensions that characterize human life, and the confrontation with the ‘temptation of faith’ and with ‘faith as temptation’ is thus a situation typical of a sincere life of faith.37

the Ethical, in Cambridge Companion of Modern Jewish Philosophy, ed. Michael Morgan and Peter Eli Gordon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Michael Morgan, Discovering Levinas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 36 Sagi, Facing Others and Otherness, 83. 37 Avi Sagi, “Faith as Temptation,” in Faith: Jewish Perspectives, ed. Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2013), 122.

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Sagi’s “ethics of loyalty to the visible” offers a critical correction of Levinas. Loyalty, a concept he analyzes in detail in the first part of the essay, is always to a concrete and particular someone or something. Instead of erasing what is visible, Sagi explains why the correct ethical posture is always to the particular and specific individual who resists generalizations and labels that only schematize the other and deny the fullness of his/her sovereignty. After translating this concrete, particularistic ethics into the language of phenomenology and negotiating the differences between Sartre and Heidegger, Sagi specifies that his critique of Levinas is not only philosophical-analytical but also inspired by the halakhic ethic that commands compassion for the poor while taking into consideration the specific circumstances of the suffering person. The “ethics of loyalty to the visible” surmounts the problems in Levinas as well as offering a compelling fusion between the “ethics of justice” and the “ethics of compassion,” whose differences are explained in the first essay of the book. Again, the integration of both types of ethics comes forth in the halakhic tradition of laws of charitable giving (tzedaka), illustrating Halakhah’s capacity to balance the universal and the particular, the general and the concrete. Philosophy of Judaism: From Metaphysics to Praxis Sagi is a “Jewish philosopher” in several senses of the term: he engages Judaism philosophically using the conceptual categories of Western philosophy; he teases out the philosophical implications of Jewish religious beliefs and practices; he offers a systematic philosophy of Jewish religion, which he defines as a normative-performative system, and he applies his philosophy of Judaism to actual Jewish life, especially in Israel. To his philosophical interpretation of Judaism, Sagi brings analytic acumen, mastery of Western philosophy, command of the halakhic tradition (Talmudic, postTalmudic, modern, and contemporary), and knowledge of the history of Jewish philosophy (medieval, modern, and contemporary). His numerous essays and books offer a philosophy of Halakhah as well as a phenomenology and hermeneutics of the halakhic discourse. In both endeavors, he has demonstrated his commitment to the dialogical method, a capacity to isolate diverse positions within the multivocal discourse and relate them to one another, a didactic ability to explain complex ideas in an accessible manner, and a pragmatic desire to make academic discourse relevant to actual experience. Through the detailed analysis of a vast array of halakhic and philosophic issues, texts, and ideas, Sagi’s vision of Judaism emerges as

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inherently pluralistic, historically embedded and hence subject to development over time, and open-ended. Indebted to the phenomenological method, this interpretation emphasizes the retreat from metaphysics, the marginality of theology, the immanence of religious experience, openness, and attentiveness to the other both within and outside Judaism, and the centrality of praxis. Tradition versus Traditionalism Modernity entails a profound transformation in the human understanding of God, the world, and humankind. Secularization has led to a world empty of the divine presence, abandoning humanity to cope with “terror and alienation” and “feelings of dread and the absurd in modern existence.”38 How should a Jewish philosopher address these radical changes? Can Jewish religious tradition cope with them and, if so, how? Anchored in the “theological facts” of the past, can this tradition offer a bridge to the present and the future? Does Jewish religious tradition constitute a “form of life,” in Wittgenstein’s terms, able to cohere with or coexist with other “forms of life” resting on fundamentally different assumptions? Sagi’s dialogical interpretation of modern/postmodern Jewish philosophers addresses these questions by distinguishing tradition from traditionalism. For those who live within it, the tradition “has an a priori character, and constitutes the complex of meanings, insights, and practices of the traditional society; it is the glasses through which its members see the world.”39 Tradition encompasses a metaphysical and social Weltanschauung, has a normative aspect, and determines what legitimate authority is. Moreover, the “ethos, myths and norms of tradition shape individual and collective identity.”40 But in the modern world, many individuals no longer live within the tradition. For “outsiders,” these aspects of tradition have lost their meaning and have made the return to the past impossible. The “outsider” who has lost the initial innocence of tradition cannot simply return to a pre-reflective life. Furthermore, the return to the past is bound by “hermeneutical circularity,” best explained by Gadamer: since we are all shaped by what we received from the past, “we always stand within tradition” and “it is always part of us,”41 even as we try to determine our relationship to the past. 38 Sagi, Tradition vs. Traditionalism, 18. 39 Ibid., 6. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid., 7.

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Sagi argues that we can avoid hermeneutical circularity if we recognize the difference between tradition and traditionalism. Traditionalism represents our image of tradition. According to this image, a traditional culture is one ruled by closed, set, and rigid frameworks. These frameworks establish the complex of social arrangements, institutions, norms, ethos, memories and hopes of the people in the community . . . Traditionalism ascribes a dimension of holiness to the tradition and, on these grounds, will not permit its undermining or subversion in any way.42

The problem, as Zygmunt Bauman and Gadamer defined it, arises not from the true nature of tradition but from its false image as construed in traditionalism. Sagi does not deny the initial challenge that faces the modern/postmodern person in a return to tradition but he holds it is not impossible, precisely because tradition is a living, ever-changing, dynamic, flexible, open-ended, and immanent form of life. According to this logic, all modern/postmodern Jews stand within the tradition and, as Jews, experience the ceaseless “ ‘fusion of horizons’ between the present, and whatever comes from the past.”43 This starting point leads Sagi to the question of the border beyond which Jews are no longer part of Jewish tradition. Contrary to dichotomous positions drawing sharp lines between “inside” and “outside,” Sagi argues that membership in Jewish tradition cannot be determined a priori “since historical-cultural Judaism is interpreted within the process of diachronic discourse rather than outside it; ‘Judaism’ is not found ‘out there’ in a rigid history and culture, but unfolds progressively within the diachronic.”44 The cultural connection with the past plays a central role in the constitution of identity and culture. But this connection itself is largely determined by the present through the synchronic discourse, which encompasses contemporary and interpersonal values and ties. Jewish culture and identity, therefore, are a constant encounter between the present and the past, with Jewish identity marking the intersection point of synchronic and diachronic discourse.45

42 Ibid., 9. 43 Ibid., 11. 44 Avi Sagi, The Jewish-Israeli Voyage: Culture and Identity (Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2006), 230 [Hebrew]. 45 Ibid., 228–35.

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In Dialogue with Jewish Philosophers As a dialogical philosopher, Sagi has been in conversation with many thinkers and texts. In Jewish Religion after Theology and in Tradition vs. Traditionalism, he engages in a dialogue with four thinkers in particular: Joseph Dov Soloveitchik (d. 1993), Yeshayahu Leibowitz (d. 1994), Eliezer Goldman (d. 2002), and David Hartman (d. 2012). All but Soloveitchik he knew personally, and he dedicates Jewish Religion after Theology to the three “in deep appreciation of their contribution to my life.”46 Underlying the conversation with these thinkers is the ongoing dialogue with analytic philosophers—chief among them Ludwig Wittgenstein, to whom Sagi refers as the “latent hero”47 of this book. Soloveitchik confronted the meaning of modernity by adopting certain elements of existentialist-phenomenological tradition. In his earlier writings, phenomenology enabled Soloveitchik to acknowledge “religion as an independent realm,” emphasizing the “independence of the religious experience.”48 In his later works, as Sagi shows, Soloveitchik focuses on the human condition rather than on the individual religious experience. The homo religiosus experiences “an immanent human yearning,” a “deep need for God that, unsatisfied, dooms us to live in an estranged, alienated and absurd world.”49 Human reality is the context where “God’s transcendence is realized—humanity meets God in this world” and the context for this meeting is Halakhah: “Through Halakhah, then, human beings make room for God in the world.”50 Freely choosing to obey halakhic norms enables the individual to “bring holiness to the world” and reach full selfhood.51 Loyalty to Halakhah and a religious existential experience, then, are not mutually contradictory. Especially what Soloveitchik calls “topical Halakhah,” indicates that Halakhah pertains to concrete existence in the modern world. And yet, although his philosophy does address the “human plight of the modern individual,” it does not suggest a perspective on “the values of

46 Avi Sagi, Jewish Religion after Theology, trans. Batya Stein (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009), x. The essays in this book appeared first in A Challenge: Returning to Tradition (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2003) [Hebrew]. The Hebrew original includes a more detailed engagement with the views of these four thinkers, which were published separately in Sagi, Tradition vs. Traditionalism. 47 Ibid., ix. 48 Ibid., 23. 49 Ibid., 24. 50 Ibid., 25. 51 Ibid., 28.

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the modern world.”52 In Sagi’s assessment, Soloveitchik grappled with the conundrum of the modern, religiously observant Jew deeply and sincerely, but his response fluctuated between openness and rejection, acceptance and criticism. Critical of Soloveitchik’s treatment of philosophical sources, Sagi views his confrontation as somewhat lacking. With Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the philosopher-scientist, Sagi has conducted an extensive dialogue. Sagi presents Leibowitz as a thinker who effected a “Copernican revolution” within Judaism (a phrase commonly used to describe Kant’s endeavor in regard to Western philosophy), because he was the first to propose a view of Judaism as “a value-normative system rather than as a system of truth claims about the world, about God and about human reality.”53 This shift made Judaism a “normative religion whose only justification is a value decision—faith as a choice.”54 The ramifications are far-reaching. First, as a normative value system, Judaism is not based on the “actual state of affairs in the world,” be they historical events or metaphysical facts (namely, theological claims). Therefore, “the Sinai revelation . . . cannot serve as the basis for an obligation to obey God,”55 nor can any claim about the goodness or benevolence of God (i.e., theodicy). The justification of Judaism comes neither from history nor from metaphysics or theology, but only from the individual’s free decision to be loyal to the halakhic system. Second, Leibowitz’s understanding of Judaism supports “a radical theory of conflict values,” whereby “the conflict is not only genuine but is also the standard pattern in value action.”56 Because he discards “the rational elements from value discourse,” Leibowitz subjectivizes values and accommodates pluralism, even a strong version of pluralism, which appreciates the intrinsic value of alternative views. The believer’s commitment to the Torah and the commandments does not negate “the value of alternative world views,”57 making it possible to accept non-Orthodox interpretations of Judaism as valid. And third, like Wittgenstein, Leibowitz saw Judaism “as an ‘institutional’ phenomenon,” implying that “the religious world cannot be understood through its correspondence with reality. The world of religion is an internal pattern for organizing life, whose meaning is internal.”58 Ever the critical thinker, Sagi argues that Leibowitz’s theory was more 52 Ibid., 41. 53 Sagi, Jewish Religion after Theology, 46. 54 Ibid., 49. 55 Ibid., 51. 56 Ibid., 50. 57 Ibid., 53. 58 Ibid., 60.

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radical than Leibowitz the man, who remained within the bounds of an Orthodoxy that he had radically reinterpreted. Leibowitz was not a pluralist but, ironically enough, his radical fundamentalism opened up the option of pluralism in Judaism. Going beyond Soloveitchik and Leibowitz, Eliezer Goldman acknowledged the secular world and conceded the loss of certainty for the modern person. Goldman agrees with Leibowitz that the religious person’s choice to live a halakhic life does not depend on truth claims, nor is it the result of personal experience. What makes a Jew decide to be a Jew is not the fact of revelation but the interpretation of Judaism that views the entire halakhic system as “revealed,” namely, as legislated by God. Revelation is thus a “secondorder claim,” an interpretative judgment that is itself “an act of faith.”59 In Goldman’s view, Halakhah is “a system of norms perceived as divine law,”60 and pride of place is ascribed to the process of interpretation, which enables believers to bridge past and present. The human role in the interpretation of tradition and the communal nature of the process were the core of David Hartman’s view. For Hartman, the process of interpretation is inherently communal, dialogical, and open-ended, because the sacred text “has no final form. It always awaits the creative input of serious and committed students to add their voices to the unending discussion.”61 The communal interpretative process is a historical-sociological reality that creates “intergenerational dialogue” with a sense of “historical and cultural continuity” within which individuals find their “home.”62 This is a rather optimistic, life-affirming approach, which sees the world as “a human arena where human action instead of a metaphysical order determines religious value.”63 Like Leibowitz and Goldman, Hartman rejects the utopian streak in contemporary Judaism, especially in Zionist thought, offering instead the Sinai covenant as a “paradigm of halakhic hope.”64 Hartman affirms modernity and reinterprets religion in light of the modern stance, while offering a Jewish response to the modern sense of alienation by focusing on the concept of the covenant, the “linchpin of Hartman’s thought.”65

59 Sagi, Tradition vs. Traditionalism, 70. 60 Ibid., 70. 61 Ibid., 104. 62 Ibid., 106. 63 Ibid., 107. 64 Ibid., 108. 65 Ibid., 113.

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Halakhah: Philosophy, Phenomenology, and Hermeneutics Sagi views Judaism as a particular “form of life” or “language game,” in Wittgenstein’s terms. To understand the rules of the “game,” one must engage in a conceptual, phenomenological, and hermeneutical analysis of Halakhah, which Sagi addressed in book-length studies—Halakhic Loyalty, The Open Canon, Transforming Identity, and Circles of Jewish Identity66—as well as in many essays. These studies provide the conceptual framework and the textual evidence for a pluralistic, historically embedded, and communal understanding of Judaism, and offer a link between the halakhic discourse and the identity discourse within Judaism, showcasing Sagi as not only a philosopher but also an interpreter and a historian of halakhic discourse. In Halakhic Loyalty, the most recent of the three books, Sagi notes that the philosophy of Halakhah is still a relatively new discipline.67 Relying on phenomenological analysis, Sagi claims that the more appropriate label is “philosophy of Halakhot,” meaning a philosophy of specific halakhic genres or topics.68 The philosopher of Halakhah should abandon the temptation to generalize about Halakhah in abstract terms and offer instead a more modest analysis of certain themes, topics, or problems. The connecting thread is not the subject matter but the reflective and critical methodology that requires philosophers to apply the “hermeneutics of suspicion” to their inquiry as well as to the methodological assumptions of the halakhic discourse. Although Sagi resists generalizations about Halakhah, the studies collected in Halakhic Loyalty share more than a reflective and critical disposition and argue against the formalistic approach to Halakhah. Sagi argues that “to describe Halakhah as an autarchic, deductive system is inaccurate.”69 When trying to adjudicate the right thing to do, the halakhist takes into consideration external norms, with his reasoning providing the glue in the dialectical interplay between rules, authoritative texts, and 66 Avi Sagi, Halakhic Loyalty: Between Openness and Closure (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2012) [Hebrew]; Avi Sagi, The Open Canon: On the Meaning of Halakhic Discourse, trans. Batya Stein (London: Continuum, 2007); Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, Transforming Identity: The Ritual Transformation from Gentile to Jew: Structure and Meaning (London: Continuum, 2007); Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, Circles of Jewish Identity: A Study of Halakhic Literature (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2000) [Hebrew]. 67 Sagi, Halakhic Loyalty, 29 (my translation). 68 Along with Eliezer Goldman, Yohanan Silman, and Shalom Rosenberg, Sagi has founded the study of the philosophy of Halakhah as a distinctive discourse. 69 Sagi, Halakhic Loyalty, 134.

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institutional authority. In this deliberative process, as Eliezer Goldman argued, Halakhah and reality do not shape up as a dichotomy. Endorsing Goldman’s view, Sagi argues that the halakhic process demonstrates not only the presence of meta-halakhic norms in halakhic reasoning but also that Jews loyal to Halakhah necessarily live in several cultural and normative systems.70 Halakhic loyalty does not entail a denial of other frameworks wherein the believer lives and acts: “Membership in a halakhic community makes possible and even requires membership in other normative communities.”71 This position entails significant implications for life in Israel. Sagi shows that membership in several communities, each with its own set of moral obligations and related justifications, is both possible and desirable because it shows that human identity is dynamic and open rather than static and closed. A good example of Sagi’s phenomenology of Halakhah is The Open Canon, where Sagi attempts “to trace the contours of halakhic culture as seen by those who live and work within it.”72 This phenomenological approach to Halakhah offers a “description from within,” carefully listening to numerous halakhists in order to understand their consciousness. The culture of Halakhah that emerges in the book makes clear that halakhic discourse is inherently pluralistic. A monistic rendering of Halakhah allows for a plurality of voices but arranges them hierarchically, “reflecting their closeness to the truth.”73 By contrast, a pluralistic interpretation emphasizes, “all views are of equal value and no position is clearly preferable to another.”74 A variant of the pluralistic position, which Sagi calls “strong pluralism,” claims “all views in the spectrum are not only equal in value but also intrinsically valuable” that is, they have “unconditional value.”75 The halakhic discourse is inherently pluralistic not only because it accepted the views of Bet Hillel rather than Bet Shammai, but also because, when ruling in accord with Bet Hillel, “Bet Shammai’s approach is not ruled out as totally mistaken.”76 In this pluralistic outlook, “dispute” and “controversy” are seen “as the basic condition of Halakhah in line with its character as a system offering multiple opinions, and support for one view does not

70 Ibid., 167. 71 Ibid., 204. 72 Sagi, The Open Canon, 212. 73 Ibid., 69. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid., 106.

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imply dismissal of the rejected one.”77 Conflicting views are all regarded as “the words of God,” a phrase that does not refer to a “specific halakhic outcome” but to the halakhic endeavor as a whole, viewing it as “study in the pursuit of truth.”78 Offering a phenomenological analysis of dispute, Sagi explains the difference between “pluralism” and “tolerance” as well as the difference between “weak pluralism” and “strong pluralism,”79 concluding that Halakhah tends to favor the tolerant stance over a genuinely pluralistic one: “the culture of dispute is deeply entrenched in halakhic discourse,” which is a “process of constant confrontation between contesting views.” Sagi’s caveat, however, must also be noted: “We must remember that halakhic pluralism, ‘these and these,’ is only valid within the house of study. One should not demand, nor can one find, a transition from halakhic pluralism to an affirmation of extra-halakhic pluralism. ‘These and these’ is an internal principle of halakhic culture rather than an encompassing world view.”80 Sagi concludes his phenomenological-hermeneutical study saying: The fundamental assumption of halakhic tradition is that the Torah was given to human beings as actual, concrete entities. Differences between human beings, therefore, become a constitutive foundation of Halakhah. Multiplicity and diversity become the breath of life for halakhic culture. The fundamental problem for halakhic culture is not the legitimation of multiplicity, but the relationship between diversity and some form of unity. Halakhic tradition solves this problem by adopting a dialectic view.81

The same historical-phenomenological approach is demonstrated in Transforming Identity, a book Sagi wrote with Zvi Zohar, his colleague at Bar Ilan University and a senior fellow at the Hartman Institute, where together they co-founded the Center for the Study of Halakhah. Devoted to the “ritual process through which a Gentile becomes a Jew” (giyyur in Hebrew) the study explores how that process “provides a key to comprehending the meaning of Jewish identity as understood by rabbinic Judaism.”82 Through a close reading of rabbinic texts from antiquity to the present, the authors discern distinctive approaches to the process of giyyur and document the claim that Halakhah is a sociocultural process. The phenomenological

77 Ibid. 78 Ibid., 131. 79 Sagi, Jewish Religion after Theology, 26–33. 80 Sagi, The Open Canon, 188–89. 81 Ibid., 210–11. 82 Sagi and Zohar, Transforming Identity, 1.

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analysis traces the development and the differences between two main paradigms. According to one, “to be a Jew means to belong to a normativereligious community and giyyur is the process by which a non-Jew joins that community.”83 According to the other, “to be a Jew means to belong to a specific human kinship constituted by ties of birth. Appropriately, giyyur is the way by which a non-Jew is born into the Jewish kinship.”84 For most of the history of Halakhah, the second paradigm prevailed, and even halakhists who advocated the first paradigm “regarded giyyur as irrevocable and irreversible.” As a result, “membership in the (religious) community was effectively similar to membership in the Jewish kinship.”85 By the end of the nineteenth century, however, a radical change took place: halakhic scholars declared allegiance to the first paradigm, transforming its meaning from a formal act to an inner, subjective commitment. By the end of the twentieth century, this transformation led halakhists to undermine the first paradigm. Instead of seeing giyyur as an “unconditional transformation of identity,” they now declared it “to be an eternally contingent status, subject to revocation whenever a proselyte might fail to conform to expected religious behavior.”86 The result was a “radical devaluation of Jews lacking unconditional devotion to Halakhah,” and a growing intolerance toward nonnormative forms of Judaism. Since the authors are committed to the phenomenological method, they shy away from teasing out the implications of their study for contemporary life. And yet, the reader cannot fail to read the book as a critique of the current move to the right in Orthodox circles and of the refusal to accept the historical development of Halakhah. The historical approach undermines any essentialist, static, and self-enclosed understanding of Jewish identity, while showing how Jewish identity was constructed through an ever-changing halakhic discourse. Circles of Jewish Identity, another book by Sagi and Zohar, tackles the same question by focusing on the halakhic discourse bearing on the status of Jews who do not observe the Sabbath, a matter crucial to the definition of Jewish identity: is it ethnic or religious? Tracing the course of halakhic discourse from antiquity to the Emancipation and from the Emancipation to the present, the authors show how Jewish jurists have offered diverse

83 Ibid., 290. 84 Ibid. 85 Ibid. 86 Ibid.

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answers to this question, reflecting historical changes and cultural conventions. Sagi’s philosophy of Halakhah endorses a marked shift from metaphysics to praxis that is both substantive and methodological. Substantively, the primacy of praxis means that Judaism does not require metaphysical facts to ground it. Methodologically, this shift means that philosophy is not limited to the academic, speculative discourse of experts. Philosophers are called to take a stand on social, educational, political, and cultural issues to which they must bring analytic insight, historical perspective, and methodological clarity. Although they cannot solve problems, they can help the public discourse grasp these problems with greater accuracy and depth, eliminating pseudo-problems and unproductive inquiries. A Public Intellectual: The Philosopher in the Public Sphere Israel is an anomalous state. On the one hand, like other nation-states, Israel is a secular political entity, but on the other, religion and politics and even religion and state are not entirely distinct. Formally, Israel is a liberal democratic state, but also “one of the few democracies that have never adopted a formal constitution,” which means that it has no “binding statement of people’s aspirations for themselves as a nation.”87 Surrounded by nations that seek its destruction, Israel has been forced to defend itself through repeated wars. The Zionist goal to create a culturally homogeneous nationstate has not been attained, and Israel is a highly diverse, multiethnic, multireligious, and multicultural society. As a dialogical philosopher who recognizes the moral value of the other and the multicultural reality of Israel, Sagi calls for the development of “a new discourse” that will replace the “rights discourse” (siah zekhuyot) with an “identity discourse” (siah zehut). Unlike the rights discourse, which is monological and hierarchical, the identity discourse is dialogical and particularistic. The identity discourse does not erase the face of the other in the name of some abstract generalities about the universality of rights, but understands the other to be “a crucial contribution to shaping the identity of the self.”88 In such a dialogue, we both acknowledge “that the other 87 Hannah Lerner, “Constitutional Incrementalism and Material Entrenchment,” in The Multicultural Challenge in Israel, ed. Avi Sagi and Ohad Nachtomy (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 3. 88 Avi Sagi, “Society and Law in Israel: Between a Rights Discourse and an Identity Discourse,” in The Multicultural Challenge in Israel, 140.

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portrays a full and meaningful world,” and we appreciate the differences between others and ourselves, so that our own world becomes “clearer and sharper.”89 As Sagi explains, “in either case, dialogical discourse invariably acknowledges the intrinsic value of the other’s inner world, the importance of the encounter with the other for constituting and sharpening one’s own identity.”90 Should this discourse emerge in Israel, the challenges of multiculturalism will not be resolved by the courts, as is commonly done today, but in the dynamics of daily life, where individuals and groups learn to coexist in mutual respect despite their differences. In The Jewish-Israeli Voyage, a deeply personal book, Sagi considers the polarized and one-dimensional strategy adopted by both cosmopolitism and the denial of the other as responses to the challenges of multiculturalism. By contrast, he points to a multicultural identity with roots in Hegel and in existentialist tradition engaging in a dialogue with “significant others,” which emerges through these engagements and is not given a priori.91 A multicultural identity is thus an intermediate position, incorporating elements from the two others but submitting them to an interpretation process that reflects its dynamism and openness. Sagi then considers through this prism the widespread tripartite division in Israeli public discourse into “religious,” “traditional,” and “secular” to characterize Israeli society. These categories, according to Sagi, assume essentialist definitions based on certain specific practices adopted by different individuals. These definitions, however, overlook the fact that the practices used to identify people as belonging to one of these categories are not the sole constitutive element of their identity and these practices are themselves affected by other dimensions of their lives. Rather than the “confusing and misleading”92 binary categories of “religious” and “secular,” together with a residual category of “traditional,” what is needed are “mediating categories that cover the spectrum and the continuity.”93 This complex approach, which rejects dichotomous categories, is particularly relevant to a crucial question in postmodern reality, touching

89 Ibid., 144. 90 Ibid. 91 Sagi, The Jewish Israeli Voyage, 198. 92 Ibid., 207. While rejecting any “conspiracy theories,” Sagi hints at political interests that are invested in maintaining these rigid distinctions in Israel’s public discourse. Sagi’s critique of Israeli public discourse is expressed most poignantly in Sagi and Stern, Barefooted Homeland, a collection of the columns they originally published in the daily newspaper Haaretz. 93 Ibid., 206.

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on the place of the homeland. The term “homeland” seems to belong to some other era, one before the global village came into being. Now we can live comfortably anywhere, without connecting to one specific place called homeland. Does the notion of homeland still play any role in the search for a rounded identity or is it an archeological remnant of a past era? Despite the criticism of the homeland idea, Sagi holds that this is still a culturally and existentially significant concept, since human beings are not only embedded in a culture—they also need a homeland.94 Jean Améry (d. 1978), who fled Austria after the Nazi annexation, identified the homeland as bestowing a sense of security without which human beings cannot thrive. A homeland is the context for identity framing, the space where memory and culture are transmitted and where real human beings operate. In a postmodern, globalized world, many seem to dismiss the significance of homeland and pretend one can live anywhere, relating to all places, all people, and all ideas. But Sagi argues this postmodern conceit is usually endorsed by the sated, who are already living in a safe and secure homeland. Only those who were exiled from their homeland, like Améry, can be sensitive to its importance. Sagi shows that the Palestinians’ demands are no different from what Zionism attempted to accomplish when Jews returned to their ancestral homeland. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict will not be resolved by adopting a cosmopolitan, post-Zionist discourse but by appreciating more deeply how the yearning for homeland is constitutive of human existence. The emphasis on culture and praxis in Sagi’s approach is also manifest in the analysis of the new discourse on sexuality currently prevalent in Israel’s religious-Zionist community. The book offers an “inside” glance into the cultural and ethical implications of neglecting the praxis discourse and replacing it with a metaphysics and theology discourse. Sagi wrote Sexuality and the Body in the New Religious-Zionist Discourse95 with Yakir Englander, and the book offers an insightful analysis of attitudes toward human sexuality in this community as reflected in a new genre: online responsa. The authors assert that “religious Zionism epitomizes a

94 This paragraph is based on Avi Sagi, “Identity, Homeland and Cosmopolitanism,” published online at http://www.toravoda.org.il/node/85. Améry is discussed also in Sagi, To Be a Jew, 105–6, and further reflections on the meaning and significance of homeland can be found in Sagi, “My Homeland, Your Homeland,” in Sagi and Stern, Barefooted Homeland, 74–75, and “Praises of Place,” ibid., 67–71. 95 Yakir Englander and Avi Sagi, The New Religious-Zionist Discourse on the Body and Sexuality (Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2013) [Hebrew].

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multicultural existence”96 because its members choose to live simultaneously in several networks, each with different norms, ethos, and myths, unlike the ultra-Orthodox who, ostensibly, opt out of modernity. In the Internet discourse on sexuality, rabbis answer questions from anonymous individuals seeking guidance. The digital dialogue differs from the traditional halakhic genre of responsa literature in that the questioner and the responding rabbi function as actors and directors of their own digital self-representation and performance. Blurring the distinction between “private” and “public” spheres,97 the digital discourse enables rabbis of lesser status to accumulate “symbolic capital and acquire authority for themselves as respondents.”98 The Internet discourse thus functions as a virtual theater wherein the readers/spectators are active rather than passive, and readers and respondents all belong to one “community” reflecting on the meaning of the body and sexuality. Deeply indebted to Michel Foucault,99 this path-breaking study points to the transformation of the rabbi’s role in the halakhic discourse of religious Zionism into that of a pastor-psychologist, helping to cope with pain, guilt, regret, and shame. In their analysis, the authors expose the tension between the rabbinic authorities and their questioners as well as that between modernism and postmodernism. Their argument is that, in order to contend with contemporary reality, religious-Zionist halakhists could have “activated meta-halakhic considerations that would have led to halakhic results showing no conflict between Halakhah and concrete reality.”100 Instead, they chose to turn the halakhic discourse into a pastoral discourse, focusing on human redemption and on the essentialist dimension of human existence, without asking what the appropriate behavior is. As a result, the central question will not ask what norm applies to homosexual behavior but how to lead homosexuals and lesbians to their “true essence.” Halakhic normative discourse is by nature minor because it focuses on a specific reality and the norm that should apply. Instead, pastoral discourse tends to metaphysics and to concern with the essence of existence, ultimately leading to the negation of the real existence of homosexuals and lesbians. For the interpreter of culture, phenomenology is the best method because it “presupposes the existence of the datum that appears before us, which is 96 Ibid., 12. 97 Ibid., 20. 98 Ibid., 22. 99 Ibid., esp. pp. 44–74. 100 Ibid., 218.

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to be explicated.”101 Phenomenology is thus preferable because its adherence to facticity compels methodological restraint and because it acknowledges the givenness and primacy of concrete existence. Often, and in the wake of Heidegger, phenomenology and existentialism are intertwined, as in Sagi’s original study on prayer. This work focuses not only on the “possibility of prayer for one who has experienced the death of God,”102 but also on those who carry with them the “pain of prayer,” bearing the memory of prayer and praying even though God is no longer its object. The close reading of works by such Israeli poets as Avraham Shlonsky, Yitzhak Lamdan, Anda Amir, Haim Guri, Yehuda Amihai, Rivka Miriam, Meir Wieseltier, and many others, supports the claim that every one of us can be a “praying being” ( yesh mitpalel). In modern Hebrew literature, then, we find expression not only of the trauma of God’s death but also of the persistent “deep longing for the presence of that God who has disappeared.”103 The phenomenon of prayer cannot be explained as simply a relic of past religious practices, nor can it be reduced to strictly subjective psychological explanations about the existential meaning of prayer for the praying person. A “liminal phenomenon between the psychological and the ontological,”104 prayer is a real “existential possibility” as well as an “ontological challenge, and especially a critical, reflective moment that offers a new understanding of human existence.”105 The human proclivity for prayer is actualized in all cultures and in cultural forms such as poetry and music even after the death of God, so that prayer offers a “new fusion of religion and secularity”106 that undermines the conventional dichotomy between them. Sagi’s innovative perspective focuses on the meaning of prayer through the act of prayer rather than through its object—God. His phenomenological analysis reveals that the act of prayer is in no way contingent on God. Religious individuals do address God in their prayers because they already believe in God, but the primordiality of prayer is not constituted by the divine object. The analysis of the act of prayer shows that prayer is our standing vis-à-vis reality, vis-à-vis ourselves as hoping judges and critics. Prayer is the rejection of the given, of fate, of submission to natural

101 Sagi, Prayer after “The Death of God,” 90 (my translation). 102 Ibid., 73. 103 Ibid., 66. 104 Ibid., 79. 105 Ibid., 171. 106 Ibid., 172.

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reality, the constant self-transcendence of our existence. The phenomenon of prayer thus persists in different cultures, even in cultures without God. In Sagi’s expert treatment, phenomenology, literary criticism, psychology, cultural studies, and religious studies combine to offer a nuanced interpretation of the contemporary human condition, as evident in his book To Be a Jew: Joseph Chayim Brenner as a Jewish Existentialist. Brenner, a radical and compelling Zionist novelist and essayist, has been the subject of a vast research endeavor by specialists in modern Hebrew literature such as Boaz Arpali, Yitzhak Bacon, Menachem Brinker, Baruch Kurtzweil, Dan Miron, Hannah Naveh, Gershon Shaked, and others. Engaging their scholarship, Sagi reads Brenner’s novels and essays through a philosophical lens, seeking to show that “existentialism is the constitutive foundation of Brenner’s work,” serving to clarify “the meaning of Jewish existence.”107 As in his other works, rather than relying on the hermeneutical method to explain the structure of the novel or shed light on the characterization of the protagonists, Sagi uses it to explore the “affinity between existentialist philosophy and literature” and literature’s ability to do what philosophy cannot do— confront concrete existential questions. In Brenner’s existentialist understanding, “Jews are Jews not because Judaism is an abstract idea worth choosing, but because their Jewishness is a basic datum of their factual existence, similar to other factual data that is imposed on people.”108 For Brenner, to be a Jew means choosing the Jewish existence that people are “thrown” into against their will. This primary choice of Jewish existence is manifest in active identification with it, in the affirmation of Jewish fate, and in the readiness to act within it and for it. People committed to their existence as Jews share a common domain of action in the national endeavor, which will prevail for as long as individuals are willing to sustain it. In this interpretation, Zionism is a rebellion against a Judaism defined solely as the embodiment of Jewish culture. For Brenner, Zionism means participating and assuming responsibility for Jewish existence and fate, and requires Jews to undergo a profound sociocultural change while sustaining through literature their ties to the past. As Sagi explains, for Brenner, “to be a Jew . . . is, above all, a coerced fact . . . This primary fundamental fact, however, becomes the object of the person’s voluntary decision. I choose what I already am. This choice, for the choos-

107 Sagi, To Be a Jew, 10. 108 Ibid., 98.

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ing Jew, makes Jewish existence total.”109 Neither criticizing nor endorsing Brenner, Sagi enables the reader to grapple with the meaning of Jewish existence while exercising the freedom to choose how to be a Jew. In sum, the question that guides Sagi’s project is: what are humans as concrete creatures? How should they understand themselves and how should they shape their lives? Sagi attests he grew up in a home of Torah and Halakhah, where the background melody was one of study and praxis, without the accompaniment of metaphysical or theological speculation. The fundamental question was not the nature of God but the inquiry into value and culture: how does one build a proper world? The philosophy Sagi strives for is, in his terms, a “personal philosophy,” the realization of the old Socratic ideal: “Know Thyself,” which for him means actual knowledge, knowing thyself as you live in this world through constant dialogue with what surrounds you. Through this dialogue, Sagi came to trace the parameters of his research, of his philosophical, literary, and halakhic studies and his inquiry into the study of culture. Throughout, Sagi seeks the specific person and grapples with the question of human existence, which encompasses our hopes and expectations, the understanding of our modes of life, and our relationship with the other. Existence is more important than any speculation, except that reflection is the cornerstone of existence, giving rise to the paradox on which he quotes Kierkegaard: “Philosophy is perfectly right in saying that life must be understood backwards. But . . . it must be lived forwards.”110 The project of understanding humans ultimately consolidates into an ethical value stance. The protagonists of many of his books—Camus, Kierkegaard, Brenner—reach the conclusion that the purpose is to assume an ethical position in life. In some of his more recent works—Facing Others and Otherness or Prayer after “The Death of God”—Sagi offers a personal and philosophical account leading to empathy and compassion. These underpinnings enable a vantage point on the connection between all the realms he has touched upon and on his philosophical positions. The existentialist approach that invoking “authenticity” denies concrete existence is avoided by recourse to a rigorous phenomenological methodology and through the analytical power of his writing, which supported his critical perspective.

109 Ibid., 127–28. 110 Sagi, Kierkegaard, Religion, and Existence, 32.

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The study of Halakhah is a significant pursuit for Sagi, as someone who views Halakhah as his most obvious cultural construct. Halakhah is his language, and he consistently points out that this is the realm where the voice of the Jewish nation resonates in all its manifestations, the channel that sustained the ethos, the myth, the praxis, and the memory of generations of Jews until two hundred years ago. Relying on his share in this tradition, Sagi turns to the diachronic, but being a sovereign subject means opening up to the synchronic. Thus do culture and identity, in his view, emerge through the endless flux between these two time dimensions. Sagi endorses an ethical and a phenomenological stance simultaneously, since placing a concrete human being at the center compels attention and openness to his or her world. His respect for all varieties of human existence comes to the fore in his pluralistic position and particularly in his “strong pluralism,” which assumes that people and cultures realize themselves fully in the world they shape for themselves and find valuable, regardless of external criteria. Aware of the potential implications of this approach and in common with other theoreticians of pluralism, Sagi distinguishes the universality of morality from the particularistic value of culture and identity. The shift from metaphysics to praxis is the basic constant feature of Sagi’s thought. This shift, however, conveys yet another and deeper one— the movement towards the immanent and the concrete enabled by the phenomenological analysis, which avoids transcendence and abstraction. Reliance on this method, increasingly evident in his more recent writings—Facing Others and Otherness, “Faith as Temptation,” and Prayer after “The Death of God”—exposes the primordial foundation of human existence: the passion for self-transcendence. Religion is one potential option for realizing this passion, but the primordial element is the passion, which is also the key to the absurd of existence. In Judaism, the primordiality of this passion is embodied in Halakhah, which emphasizes the centrality of human beings while also consistently distancing them from transcendence. A human Halakhah as “God’s word” is the paradigm of the triumph of immanence, after God no longer has a share in its formulation—“it is not in Heaven.” The philosophy that Sagi presents and his interpretation of Judaism convey these aspects and elude all labeling—we remain open, yearning beings. His philosophy invites readers to think anew about questions of existence, in an encounter that brings together present and past to embark on a voyage in search for meaning.

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The Essays That Follow The four essays republished here afford a glimpse into the vast scope of Sagi’s philosophy, style, and interests, providing insights into the central issues that shape Sagi’s philosophical project.111 The first essay, “The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem,” illustrates Sagi’s special way of dealing with the themes of Jewish tradition. According to the perception that he has developed, tradition (including Jewish tradition) follows a dynamic course, representing an ongoing dialogue between past and present. This article, which examines the discourse between Scripture and later scholars, is founded on the premise that blotting out Amalek is a punishment that contradicts fundamental moral norms. By looking at various Jewish sources, the analysis seeks to reach “conclusions regarding the status of morality in Jewish tradition” (p. 34). The conclusion, which is worked out in much greater detail in his book Judaism: Between Religion and Morality is that “Jewish tradition acknowledges the autonomy of morality and assumes that divine commands abide by moral considerations” (p. 34). The second essay, “Natural Law and Halakhah: A Critical Analysis,” deals with the status of natural law in Jewish tradition, a crucial question in classic Jewish texts and in contemporary scholarly literature, as “part of an attempt to develop a comprehensive philosophical and sociological theory of the halakhic endeavor” (p. 102). The paper analyzes arguments that either support or refute natural law theory, and concludes that “the view supporting the doctrine of natural law in Judaism is not only better justified in logical terms but also represents more accurately the prevalent halakhic and philosophic trends” (p. 102). Moreover, “since specific approaches to natural law are correlated with specific perceptions of the halakhic ethos, it follows that the halakhic ethos underlying this view is also the preferred option, a very significant conclusion for the philosophy and sociology of Halakhah” (p. 102).

111 Following are the titles of the essays and their first publication venue: “The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem,” Harvard Theological Review 87 (1994): 323–46; “Natural Law and Halakhah: A Critical Analysis,” Jewish Law Annual 13 (2000): 149–95; “Justifying Interreligious Pluralism,” in Jewish Theology and World Religions, ed. Alon Goshen-Gottstein and Eugene Korn (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2012), 61–86; “Tikkun Olam: Between Utopian Idea and Socio-Historical Process,” in Jewish Religion after Theology (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 205–34.

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Avi Sagi: An Intellectual Portrait

The third essay, “Tikkun Olam: Between Utopian Idea and Socio-Historical Process,” is paradigmatic of Sagi’s cultural approach to philosophy. This approach enables him to appreciate the tension between the metaphysical and universal aspirations of philosophy on the one hand, and the historicity and hence particularity of culture on the other. Exploring the complexity of utopian thinking in Western philosophy, Sagi concludes the essay with an overview of the tikkun olam idea in Judaism, where it is viewed as a “socio-historical process” epitomized by the halakhic ethos of “molding and repairing the present world” (p. 116). In halakhic literature, tikkun olam is part of a “non-utopian ethos” that addresses injustice and wrongdoing through concrete acts in the social sphere rather than through a fantasy about a perfect reality that reorganizes the existing cosmos. Inspired by his dialogue with Leibowitz and Goldman, this essay illustrates Sagi’s shift of focus in Jewish philosophy from metaphysics to praxis. The fourth and last essay, “Justifying Interreligious Pluralism,” presents Sagi as a philosopher of religion whose nuanced analysis of pluralism (especially religious pluralism) can pave the way to a pluralistic understanding of Jewish existence, in which the Jewish religious believer lives simultaneously in communities with different value systems and affirms “a measure of deep commitment . . . towards both” (p. 149). Sagi advocates not just toleration but pluralism, even though he concedes that this endeavor “requires a religious revolution”: while it exacts “a heavy religious price, it is pluralism more than toleration that is compelling to contemporary Jewish living in a modern democratic world” (p. 150).

The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem* Avi Sagi The story of Amalek’s deed occurs twice in the Bible: in Exodus 17:8–16 and in Deuteronomy 25:17–19. The account in Exodus is quite succinct: “Then came Amalek and fought with Israel in Refidim” (Exodus 17:8); in contrast, the description in Deuteronomy paints a broader and more detailed picture: “Remember what Amalek did to thee by the way, when you were come out of Egypt: how he met thee by the way, and smote the hindmost of thee, all that were feeble in thy rear, when thou wast faint and weary; and he feared not God” (Deuteronomy 25:17–18). The Exodus version, although sparing in its description of the particulars, offers the more dramatic account of the war between Israel and Amalek. The Bible takes a harsh view of Amalek’s deed and, in Deuteronomy 25:19 an obligation is imposed on the people of Israel: “Thou shalt blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; thou shalt not forget.”1 In the Exodus version, it is claimed that even God takes part in this war: “I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under the Heaven” (Exodus 17:14), and the Lord will have war with them “from generation to generation” (Exodus 17:16). In later times, king Saul is instructed by Samuel to annihilate Amalek: “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass” (I Samuel 15:3). What exactly was Amalek’s wicked deed that he should deserve such severe punishment? How does the war with Amalek differ from all the other wars fought by the people of Israel after the Exodus, and why is God involved in this particular conflict? Finally, should not the slaying of women, children, and later generations be seen as a patently immoral act?

* This article was first published in Avi Sagi, “The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem,” Harvard Theological Review 87, no. 3 (1994): 323–345. Copyright © 1994 President and Fellows of Harvard College. Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press. 1 The name Amalek, while singular in Hebrew, can refer to both Amalek and his descendants. The biblical quotations in the article are from The Jerusalem Bible, ed. Harold Fish (Jerusalem: Koren, 1986).

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In this article I shall examine three questions. First, how does Jewish tra‑ dition cope with these issues, both at the level of textual interpretation and at the halakhic level? Second, what do these various approaches teach us about the status of the moral element in this tradition? Does Jewish tradi‑ tion support the notion of morality’s dependence on religion, does it view morality and religion as conflicting, or does it perhaps acknowledge the independence of the moral factor? Third, what is the relationship between the moral factor and the canonical text? Is the notion of an autonomous morality still relevant in the context of a canonical text? The central thesis of this paper is that an analysis of the sources deal‑ ing with the punishment of Amalek will enable us to reach conclusions regarding the status of morality in the Jewish tradition. These conclusions rest on two assumptions, which at times are made explicit and at times are accepted implicitly. First, it is not assumed that a normative conflict prevails between morality and religion, and no attempt is made to justify Amalek’s punishment in terms of this conflict. Second, it is not assumed that morality is dependent on religion, and no attempt is made to claim either that the punishment was morally justified because God commanded it or that God determines morality.2 God’s command is assumed to rely on moral reasons, and these moral reasons endow the command with moral value and determine its norma‑ tive, halakhic articulation. In other words, Jewish tradition acknowledges the autonomy of morality and assumes that divine commands abide by moral considerations. The sources chosen to demonstrate this thesis extend over a broad range, including exegetical and halakhic material. I have opted for a synchronic rather than a diachronic method, placing stronger emphasis on the con‑ tents of the views suggested than on their historical development. Let us consider biblical exegeses first. Main Trends in the Exegesis of the Biblical Text Exegeses of the Amalek story can be grouped in two broad categories. I refer to these categories as the realistic and the symbolic approaches.

2 On the concept of a normative conflict between religion and morality see Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman, Religion and Morality, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995), ch. 6. On the concept of morality’s dependence on God’s command see ch. 1 of the same book.

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Whereas the realistic approach focuses on the concrete, historical facts of the relationship between the two nations, the symbolic approach empha‑ sizes the metaphorical significance of these events. Notwithstanding these differences, all the exegeses strive to present the story as abiding by moral standards and refrain from suggesting that the punishment of Amalek can be justified by claiming that morality either depends on religion or con‑ flicts with it. The Realistic Approach In contending with the question of why Amalek’s deed merits such severe punishment, this approach remains within factual, concrete bounds. I shall discuss the two main conclusions of this approach: first, that Amalek transgressed the norms of just war; and, second, that Amalek rebelled against God. According to one point of view, Amalek transgressed every norm of a just war. The Amalekites had no justified reason for launching an attack, and they fought the war unfairly, ignoring the most fundamental rules of war conduct. Yitzhak Abrabanel (1437–1508) sided with this view and, touching on the verse immediately preceding the account of the events in Deuteronomy, pointed to a juxtaposition which he found interesting,: “For all that do such things, and all that do unrighteously, are an abomination to the Lord thy God” (Deuteronomy 25:16). Abrabanel believed that Amalek’s war against Israel was indeed such an abomination and that their punish‑ ment is meant to serve as a deterrent: “Everyone should thus keep away from iniquity, as he will be blotted out of the book of the living and not be written with the righteous.”3 Abrabanel pointed out that Amalek had no cause for going to war. The Amalekites were not defending territory, since “Israel would not be passing through their land and coming to fight against them when they [Amalek] declared war.”4 Nor was this an expansionist war of conquest, as “they [Israel] had no land that Amalek could conquer or covet.”5

3 Abrabanel, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 25:17. 4 Ibid. Two tannaim suggest this argument: “R. Judah the prince says: ‘Amalek had to make his way through five nations to come and wage war against Israel,’ . . . R. Nathan says: . . .’ He crossed four hundred parasangs to come and wage war against Israel’ ” (Mekh‑ ilta de‑Rabbi Ishmael, trans. Jacob Z. Lauterbach, 3 vols. [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1933], 2, Amalek, 1). 5 Abrabanel, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 25:17.

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Furthermore, even an unjustified war can be fought fairly, but Amalek also sinned on this count. First, they attacked Israel without warning, “like thieves in the night,”6 leaving them no time to prepare for war.7 Second, “because of their baseness, and the fear that they would lack the strength to fight Israel face to face . . . they waged war against the frail, who straggle behind the army . . . and that is why it is said ‘smote the hindmost of thee,’ because ‘hindmost’ [neheshalim] is the same as ‘weak’ [nehelashim].”8 The command to blot out Amalek is thus meant to convey resistance to any form of evil, and the harshness of the punishment is understood as a func‑ tion of the severity of the crime.9 Some exegetes rejected the notion that the punishment of the Amalekites was meant as revenge for their iniquity, and suggested that the harsh mea‑ sures against them were only justified because they had rebelled against God. Nahmanides offered this view: Now the reason for the punishment of Amalek, i.e., why punitive measures were meted out to him more than to all other nations is that when all the nations heard [of God’s visitation upon the Egyptians], they trembled. Phi‑ listia, Edom, and Moab and the inhabitants of Canaan melted away. . . . Ama‑ lek came from afar as if to make himself master over God.10

Since only religious considerations can be considered a legitimate justifica‑ tion for war, the war against Amalek becomes a test for every Jew: Who could restrain his own spirit and conquer human nature? . . . Whose heart will not burn with revenge and who would not want to destroy them [Amalek], but would only engage in it for the sake of God’s honor, and were it not for God’s command, would not wage war against them? This is almost beyond human nature. Prodigious merit is required to withstand this remarkable test.11

6 Ibid. 7 See also Ya’akov Zvi Mecklenburg, Ha‑Ktav ve‑ha‑Kabbalah (Jerusalem: ‘Am ‘Olam, 1969), on Exodus 17:8. 8 Abrabanel, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 25:17. 9 For a similar view see Yitzhak Arama, Akedat Yitshak (Israel: n.p., 1974), Exodus, 42, 87b. 10 Nahmanides, Commentary on the Torah, trans. Charles B. Chavel (New York: Shilo, 1973) on Exodus 17:16. See also Abrabanel, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 25:17. Abraham Sofer (1815–1871) (Sefer Ktav Sofer [Tel Aviv: Sinai, 1975] 110b), relying on Nahman‑ ides, expressed a similar view: “God did not command us to revenge and destroy Amalek, man and woman, infant and suckling, because they hurt us and afflicted us, but to uproot them from the world because they raised their hand against God, and God’s enemies will be extinguished.” 11 Ibid., 110b–111.

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Radical moral action, such as the punishment of Amalek, requires not only that the wrongdoer’s deed endanger a cardinal value, such as faith in God, but also that this value be the single motivation for the punishment. If the act of punishment does not abide by these two conditions, it becomes mor‑ ally despicable. Despite the differences between them then, these exegeses share one element, namely, the assumption that the radical war against Amalek is not a product of God’s arbitrary will. A divine command to obliterate Amalek is not sufficient to ensure that this act of punishment is morally justified; to be so, this punishment must rest on rational considerations. The question of whether moral obligations can be seen as contingent on God’s command is an ancient one. Philosophical tradition tends to credit Plato, in the Euthyphro, with its first formulation.12 Current philosophical discourse usually presents it in terms of the following dilemma: Is an act right (or wrong) because God commands it (or forbids) it, or does God com‑ mand (or forbid) an act because it is right (or wrong)?13 According to the first option—that an act is right or wrong because God commands or forbids it—moral obligations have no independent status and are conditioned by a divine command, which determines the moral value of an act. This approach, which in modern philosophy is referred to as “divine command morality,” is deeply rooted in Christian tradition and in contemporary philosophical thought.14 According to the second option— that God commands or forbids an act because it is right or wrong—God’s command does not determine the moral value of an act. Rather, God com‑ mands (or forbids) certain acts because of their intrinsic positive or nega‑ tive value. When the various approaches to the Amalek story are viewed in terms of this dilemma, it becomes apparent that Jewish tradition rejects the thesis that morality depends on religion—our first option above—and prefers to stress the gravity of Amalek’s deed in an attempt to justify the

12 Plato Euthyphro 9e. 13 In the formulation of this dilemma, I have related exclusively to the family of deon‑ tological concepts, such as “right” and “wrong.” In many other versions of this dilemma, however, it is also made to apply to the family of axiological concepts, such as “good” and “bad.” The terms of the dilemma are not relevant in the present context. For further analy‑ sis, see Sagi and Statman, Religion and Morality, 5–8. 14 See Janice M. Idziak, ed., Divine Command Morality: Historical and Contemporary Readings (New York: Edwin Mellen, 1979) and Paul Helm, ed., Divine Commands and Moral‑ ity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981). For a critical analysis of this thesis see Sagi and Statman, Religion and Morality, ch. 1.

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punishment. The very need to justify the harshness of Amalek’s punish‑ ment rests on the assumption that morality is autonomous; were moral‑ ity dependent on religion, no further justification than a divine command would be needed, even for a punishment calling for the slaying of women, children, and future generations. Indeed, I have claimed elsewhere that the thesis of morality’s dependence on religion is seldom suggested in Jewish sources, and nowhere in connection with the punishment of Amalek, although the context almost begs for it.15 In fact, not only is this thesis absent, but expressions of unease regarding the punishment of Amalek are a recurring feature in exegetical literature. The following homily appears in TB Yoma 22b: “And he strove in the valley” (I Samuel 15:5). R. Mani said: “Because of what happens ‘in the valley’: When the Holy One, blessed be he, said to Saul ‘Now go and smite Amalek’ he said: ‘If on account of one person the Torah said: Perform the ceremony of the heifer whose neck is to be broken, how much more [ought consideration to be given] to all these persons! And if human beings sinned, what has the cattle done, and if the adults have sinned, what have the children done?’ A heavenly voice came forth and said: ‘Be not righ‑ teous overmuch’ (Ecclesiastes 7:17). And when Saul said to Doeg: ‘Turn thou and fall upon the priests’ (I Samuel 22:18) a heavenly voice came forth and said: ‘Be not wicked overmuch’ (Ecclesiastes 7:17).”16

On the basis of a ritual pointing to the sanctity of individual life in bibli‑ cal tradition, the exegete wishes to infer, a fortiori, that inflicting grievous harm on many human beings must certainly be forbidden.17

15 See Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman, “The Dependence of Morality on Religion in Jewish Tradition” (in Hebrew), in Between Morality and Religion, ed. Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman (Ramat‑Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 1993). 16 As is known, the ritual of the broken‑necked heifer is performed when someone is found slain outside the city and the killer is unknown. See Deuteronomy 21:1–9. 17 Some sages objected to this inference: as Josiah Pinto (1565–1648) stated, “the broken necked heifer is meant for one who was slain from among the children of Israel, so how can it be extended to the Amalekites” (quoted in Ya’akov b. Shlomo Ibn Habib, Ein Ya’akov, 2 Yoma 22, s.v. vayarev ba-nahal). Notwithstanding several attempts to overcome this difficulty (see also the commentary of Hanokh b. Yosef Zondel, Anaf Yosef, on the margins of Ibn Habib, Ein Ya’akov 2. Yoma 22, s.v. vayarev ba-nahal), the fact remains that, at least for R. Mani, this ritual is concerned with the value of human life and not necessarily Jewish life. This approach concurs with that of R. Akiva, who stated “Beloved is man created in God’s image” (M. Avot 3:14); see also the commentary of Israel Lifschits (1782–1860) Tif’eret Israel M. Avot 3:14. This is also the view suggested in the homily in M. Sanhedrin 4:6: “For this reason was man created alone, to teach thee that whosoever destroys a single soul of Israel, Scripture imputes [guilt] to him as though he had destroyed a complete world; and whosoever preserves a single soul of Israel, Scripture ascribes [merit] to him as though he had preserved a complete world.”

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This homily, however, seems to rest on the classic logical fallacy of ad hominem arguments, focusing on Saul’s purported moral flaws: although Saul shied away from slaying Amalek, he never hesitated to smite the priests at Nob. How does this argument answer the problem? Does Saul’s suppos‑ edly sanctimonious and hypocritical behavior invalidate any possible infer‑ ence from the broken‑necked heifer? Here a protest against the severity of the punishment seems implicit, inspired by the Torah’s pervading vision: it is wrong to punish the innocent. This critical view of the realistic perception of Amalek’s punishment as essentially immoral is pervasive, and echoes of it are also found in mod‑ ern halakhic discourse. For instance, Abraham Bornstein (1839–1910), one of the best-known halakhists of his generation, wrote: “The seed of Amalek is punished for the sins of their fathers. But it is written: ‘Fathers shall not be put to death for children, neither shall children be put to death for fathers.’ ”18 As we shall see later, the recurring attempts of halakhists to restrict and mitigate the command to obliterate Amalek are motivated by considerations such as those expressed by Bornstein. Advocates of the realistic trend stress that the command to destroy Amalek, albeit a religious obligation and a morally justified injunction, is nevertheless flawed. Several halakhists believe that the command to read the Deuteronomy version of the Amalek story on the Sabbath preceding the Purim festival is meant to instill hatred for Amalek in the hearts of the children of Israel.19 If, however, as some halakhists claim, this reading is not merely a rabbinic injunction but also a biblical command,20 the question is why is it not, as is customary, preceded by a blessing. According to Ya‘akov Sofer (1867–1939): “We do not make a blessing over destruction, not even the destruction of the nations, as we see that the Holy One, blessed be He, In a detailed study concerned with different textual versions of this mishnah, Efraim E. Urbach (Me‑Olaman shel Hakhamim [Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988], 561–577) proved that the words “of Israel” appear in some sources but not in others. However, Urbach claims that “a complete reading of the mishnaic statement . . . leans toward the version excluding the word ‘Israel.’ ” Urbach assumes that the word “Israel” became part of the text because the mishnah deals with procedures for questioning witnesses to a murder, relevant only to Jews. Hence, “we must distinguish between a version attempting to teach a moral and the use [of this text] regarding procedures for questioning witnesses” (ibid.). 18 Avraham Bornstein, Avnei Netzer, part 1, Orah Hayyim (New York: Hevrat Netzer, 1954), 2.508. Bornstein rejected (2.508, unnumbered footnote) the possibility that the injunction forbidding the punishment of future generations applies only to “Israel and not to the nations” and cited evidence from halakhic sources “that this is also the practice of the nations.” 19 Maimonides, Book of Commandments, 189. 20 Shulkhan Arukh, Orah Hayyim, 685.7.

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said ‘The work of my hands is being drowned in the sea, and shall you chant hymns?’ ”21 This last quotation appears in a talmudic homily (TB Megilah 10b): after the crossing of the Red Sea “the ministering angels wanted to chant their hymns, but the Holy One, blessed be He, said, ‘The work of my hands is being drowned in the sea, and shall you chant hymns?’ ” The difference between the talmudic homily and its use in the present context, however, is significant: the talmudic source suggests that God rebuked an initiative of the angels, but the command to remember Amalek is a halakhic obliga‑ tion reflecting God’s will and requires no blessing. In other words, not every religious obligation necessarily expresses a moral good to which we should aspire, and therefore a religious obligation is not necessarily a criterion for what is morally right. Independent reasons, and not God’s command, determine what is morally good and worthy—an assumption that is shared by both advocates and critics of the realistic trend. The Symbolic Approach The wish to justify this severe punishment in moral terms may have helped to spur the development of the symbolic trend on the grounds that Amalek’s deed, however odious, could hardly be grounds for the indiscrimi‑ nate slaying of many who had no share in a heinous deed taking place at the dawn of Jewish history. Three trends are included in this category: the metaphysical, the conceptual, and the psychological. To differing degrees, all three disengage from the concrete, historical dimensions of the event, as well as from the literal perception of Amalek’s punishment in the bibli‑ cal text. Furthermore, all agree on a perception of the symbolic meaning of Amalek’s deed and subsequent punishment as representing a struggle between good (Israel) and evil (Amalek); that is, all view the text through an archetypal moral perspective. It seems plausible, therefore, that sup‑ porters of the symbolic trend are motivated by a moral urge, resting on the assumption that the punishment is morally right. Let us consider these trends in more detail. The metaphysical trend argues that Israel’s war against Amalek is the embodiment of a metaphysical struggle taking place in the divine world. Speaking of God’s war against Amalek, the Exodus version explains that it took place “because the Lord has sworn by his throne that the Lord 21 Ya’akov Sofer, Kaf ha‑Hayim (Jerusalem: n.p., 1928), 685.29.

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will have war with Amalek from generation to generation” (Exodus 17:16). Although the notion of a metaphysical war is not explicit here, God’s involvement in this relentless struggle and God’s oath to blot out Amalek enable the exegete to displace the struggle from the concrete to the physi‑ cal realm. Rabbinic literature already hints at this approach,22 but it is in the mythical text, the Zohar, that these incipient notions are taken to radi‑ cal extremes. The war on earth is described as a reflection of a war between the holy sefirot (“the divine realm”) and the forces of impurity, thus sug‑ gesting that the Exodus passage offers a dramatic portrayal of the divine world. The Zohar then fleshes out this parallel in great detail. When the people of Israel are blameless, they overcome everything, “but when Israel is found to be unworthy, she [the Shekhinah—divine presence] weakens My power above, and the power of severe judgment [the forces of impu‑ rity] predominates in the world.”23 According to the Zohar, in the state‑ ment found in Exodus 17:11, “and it came to pass, when Moses held up his hand, that Israel prevailed,” “Israel” alludes to “the Supernal Israel.”24 The Zohar seeks to reconcile the statement in Deuteronomy 25:19, “thou shalt blot out the remembrance of Amalek,” with Exodus 17:14, “I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek”: “Said R. Isaac: . . . The Holy One, blessed be He, said in effect: ‘Ye shall blot out his remembrance on earth, and I will blot out his remembrance on high.’ ”25 As Kabbalah spread, this approach became an integral aspect of exegeti‑ cal literature.26 The concrete war between Israel and Amalek thus came to symbolize a struggle in the divine world between the good, holy side—the people of Israel—and the bad, defiled side—Amalek. Like other kabbalis‑ tic writings, which tend to link events in the human and divine worlds, the Zohar assumes that the concrete war is important: through their actions, the people of Israel bring about the victory of holiness and good over impu‑ rity and evil. 22 See Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, trans. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein (Philadel‑ phia: Jewish Publication Society, 1975), 56. See also Menahem M. Kasher, Torah Shelemah, 37 vols. (New York: Schlesinger, n.d.), 14. 272.127. 23 The Zohar, trans. Harry Sperling and Maurice Simon, 5 vols. (London, Soncino, 1949), 3.205. 24 Ibid., 3.206. 25 Ibid., 3.207. 26 For instance, Yeshayahu Horowitz (1560–1630) categorically states (Shenei Luhot haBerith, 5 vols. [Jerusalem, She’arei Ziv, 1963], 2.89) that “Amalek is the impure body per se [the sefirot of impurity] and Samael is its minister.” See also Shim’on M. Mendel, Ba’al Shem Tov al Ha‑Torah, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: n.p., 1974/1975) 2.225.24, and Elimelekh Tzvi of Dinov, Benei Issachar, Adar 3a.

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The metaphysical trend thus shifts between the concrete and the divine planes. Whereas one pole—Amalek—shifts onto the metaphysical level, the other—the people of Israel—remains concrete. If Amalek stands for metaphysical evil and the people of Israel represent metaphysical good, any unjustified war, motivated by groundless hatred for the people of Israel, comes to symbolize the metaphysical struggle. The identity of the concrete Amalek may therefore vary and is in fact irrelevant, whereas the metaphysi‑ cal war between good and evil goes on unchanged, with the people of Israel always symbolizing the good. Mendel Piekarz has pointed to a tendency to equate anti-Semitism with Amalek. Many religious Jews during World War II, whether Zionists or ultra‑ orthodox anti‑Zionists, tended to view the Holocaust as a struggle “between Israel and Amalek.”27 For many Jews, any explanation of the abominations of the Holocaust could only be attempted in archetypal terms, such as an eternal war between good and evil. Many thinkers, including several hal‑ akhists, have extended this perception to the modern struggle for Jewish independence in the state of Israel.28 A unique feature of the metaphysical model is the view that the strug‑ gle between good and evil splits the whole of existence: acts such as those between Israel and Amalek are not merely human acts but are persistent reflections of independent metaphysical entities. The human struggle is embedded in a metaphysical one, and the metaphysical model may even support a dualistic approach to divinity as a way of sustaining a dynamic perception of evil.29 The punishment meted out to Amalek is thus not immoral: rather, it expresses the hope that good will prevail. The moral problem raised by the biblical story is solved by demonizing the concrete Amalek and, in the

27 Mendel Piekarz, Hasidut Polin bein Shtei Milhamot ha-Olam (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1990), 327. See also 278, 326. 28 See, for instance, Yitzhak Arieli’s claim (Midrash Ariel al ha-Torah [Jerusalem: Mosad Einayim la-Mishpat, 1992], 2.322–323) that Amalek is “essential evil . . . a defiled and cor‑ rupt race without even a glimmer of good,” whereas Israel is a “pure race.” Membership in the defiled race, however, is not determined by ethnic criteria: “Anyone who hates the people of Israel as such, belongs to the race of Amalek.” See also Yehudah Gershoni, “Beru‑ rei Halakhah be‑Inyianei ha-Sho’ah” in Emunah Ba‑Shoah (Jerusalem: Ministry of Educa‑ tion, 1980), 23; Joseph D. Soloveitchik, “Kol Dodi Dofek: It is the Voice of My Beloved That Knocketh,” in Theological and Halakhic Reflections on the Holocaust, ed. Bernhard Rosen‑ berg (New York: Ktav, 1992), 97–98. 29 On the dualistic approach to divinity in the Zohar see Fischel Lachower and Isaiah Tishby, eds., The Wisdom of the Zohar, trans. David Goldstein, 3 vols. (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 2.447–474.

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course of history, extending the concept of Amalek to include all the ene‑ mies of Israel. The metaphysical trend shares certain characteristics with the realistic approach. Both rely on autonomous moral reasons, independent of God’s command, and both presuppose that God’s commands do not conflict with morality. The realistic approach and the metaphysical trend endorse the second option in the dilemma discussed in the Euthyphro—that God commands (or forbids) an act because it is right (or wrong). They differ, however, in their justifications: whereas the realistic approach relies on Amalek’s deed, the metaphysical approach rests on symbolic grounds. Although the latter may seem detached from the realm of moral conscious‑ ness, it is precisely in this abstraction that the full power of moral consid‑ erations is revealed: inflicting such severe punishment can only be morally justified if Amalek is a demonic entity. Whereas the metaphysical trend views the concrete, historical war between Israel and Amalek as the embodiment of a struggle between two metaphysical forces, the conceptual trend views it as a contest between ideas. In this article I focus on one of these contests, namely, that of justice and morality versus armed might or naked power. The conceptual trend often uses exegeses discussed above in the context of the realistic trend and expands their scope, but while the realistic trend relies on these exegeses to justify the struggle against historical Amalek, the conceptual trend employs Amalek as merely one of several symbols in an ongoing struggle of ideas. The leading rabbinical figure supporting the conceptual trend is Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808–1888). Hirsch identifies Amalek with the sword striving for power. Sway and power, according to Amalekite ideas, “are not instruments of justice; rather, justice is the instrument of power and sway,” and power is “the exclusive criterion of human greatness and honor.”30 Hirsch described the contest as a struggle between “ ‘the sword’— requiring the sacrifice of all divine, human, spiritual, and moral values— and ‘the voice’—God’s voice calling out to human beings from beyond and from within themselves, the categorical imperative of the divine moral law.”31 These two options are polar points in the dialectic of human history. The sword is represented by the generation of the flood (Genesis 11:1–9), Nimrod, Esau, and all who glorify force and military might. The people of

30 Samson Raphael Hirsch, Be‑Ma‘agalei Shanah: Pirkey Iyun midei Hodesh be-Hodsho, 4 vols. (Bnei Berak: Netsah, 1966), 2.190. 31 Ibid., 2.191.

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Israel represent a different voice, “declaring the victory of unarmed moral power over armed material might is the very mission of Abraham’s fam‑ ily, which proclaims His divinity, may He be blessed, through the victory of justice in the world.32 This approach is also endorsed by a famous contemporary halakhist, Moshe Amiel (1883–1946), who viewed Amalek as the symbol of armed might. In Amiel’s view, a permanent war prevails between the sword and the book, and “one can only be built on the ruins of the other.”33 The moral problems entailed by the punishment of Amalek become even more critical in this approach: Can the sword, considered so worth‑ less, become the instrument for exterminating a real, concrete nation? Amiel, aware of these problems, concluded that “the view of Judaism is that the prosecution cannot turn into the defense, evil cannot be extirpated by evil means, terror cannot be eliminated from the world through the use of counter‑terror.”34 The war against Amalek is waged with the book— “Write this for a memorial in a book” (Exodus 17:14)—and the blotting out of Amalek is not meant as their physical destruction. Hirsch stresses this point in his exegesis of this verse: “ ‘I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek,’ not Amalek, but its remembrance and glory.”35 Amiel offered a similar interpretation, relying on a well-known talmu‑ dic homily on Psalms 104:35: “Sins will be consumed out of the earth, and the wicked will be no more.” Beruria, R. Meir’s wife, suggests that it is the sins, and not the sinners, that must be consumed.36 Although this homily had not been used previously in the context of the Israel-Amalek relation, Amiel relied on it to claim that the obligation to blot out the memory of Amalek should not be understood literally: Because . . . it is written “let sins be consumed out of the earth” and not “let the sinners” . . . And as for Amalek too, the Torah stresses mainly the

32 Ibid., 2.193. 33 Moshe A. Amiel, Drashot el Ami, 3 vols. (Tel‑Aviv: Va’ad le‑Hotsa’at Kitvei ha‑Rav Amiel, 1964), 3.132. Note that in order to establish the fact of Amalek’s aggressive milita‑ rism, Amiel relies on considerations similar to those endorsed by Abrabanel to show that Amalek had waged an unjust war (p. 133). In keeping with his symbolic interpretation, however, Amiel broadened the scope of the term to encompass the notion of military might in general. 34 Ibid., 3.132. 35 Samson Raphael Hirsch, Commentary on Exodus (Jerusalem: Breuer, 1964), 171 (Exo‑ dus 17:14) [Hebrew]. See also idem, Commentary on Deuteronomy (Jerusalem: Breuer, 1988), 323 (Deuteronomy 25:19) [Hebrew]. 36 TB Berakhot 10a. English translations of this verse read “the sinners,” probably follow‑ ing “the wicked.”

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“remembrance of Amalek,” when Amalek turns into a memory, a culture, a lofty ideal, a sublime notion. . . . It is this remembrance of Amalek that we are commanded to blot.37

An exegesis that transforms the explicit command to blot out Amalek and obliterate their memory might appear very daring. These two sages, however, would not have sacrificed the text on the altar of their moral understanding had they been unable to anchor their views in a legitimate halakhic tradition. Indeed, as I shall presently show, a tension prevails in halakhic literature between a literal and a moral approach, and the concep‑ tual trend rests on moral considerations. This view of the conflict as a contest between the sword and the voice, however, fails to answer the moral questions raised by Amalek’s punish‑ ment; in fact, it highlights the tension between the morality purportedly endorsed by Judaism and the brute force symbolized by the idea, rather than by the people, of Amalek. Whereas the two symbolic trends I have already examined share the view that Amalek represents a form of real evil, be it metaphysical or historical, a third trend shifts the focus onto the psychological realm. Medieval writ‑ ings had already equated Amalek with the evil instinct.38 This approach, however, attained fuller expression in hasidic tradition which, as Gershom Scholem has pointed out, is characterized by a shift from the theosophical to the psychological, and from the historical to the individual.39 The psychological trend questions the meaning of this inner drama. Here, the key word in the verse “Remember what Amalek did to thee” is “thee.” Hasidic exegesis claims that Amalek did something to you, that is, to human beings, who stray from the right path because of the evil instinct; therefore, “Amalek is the evil instinct, everyone’s enemy.”40 Because this 37 Amiel, Drashot el Ami, 143. 38 Abba Mari, who lived in Provence in the fourteenth century and banned the study of philosophy because of its alleged foundations on an allegorical interpretation of the Torah, mentions this understanding of Amalek as an example: “They left no verse unturned . . . made Abraham and Sarah into substance and form . . . and Amalek into the evil instinct.” Rashba [Solomon b. Avraham Aderet], She’elot u-Teshuvot ve-Sefer Minhat Kana’ot (Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook, 1990), 1.344. See also Jacob Spiegel, “Sha‘ar Reshit Hokhmah (Ha-Arokh) le‑Rabbi Shmu’el b. Meshulam” in Meir Benayahu, ed. Sefer ha-Zikaron le-ha-Rav Yitzhak Nissim (Jerusalem: Yad ha-Rav Nissim, 1985), 245. I am grateful to my colleague, Dr. Dov Schwartz, who pointed out these sources to me. 39 Gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New York: Schocken Books, 1974), 340–341. 40 See Yisra’el b. Shabetei Hapstein Kozienice, Avodat Yisra’el (Bnei Berak: n.p., 1973), 22b. Compare Elimelech of Lyzhansk, No‘am Elimelech al Hamishah Humshe Torah (New York: Schlesinger, 1942), 81.

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instinct is always lurking, we are commanded to remember that “even at the highest rung of holiness and purity, one should still beware of the lure of the evil instinct, Amalek.”41 The duty to blot out Amalek is thus the duty “to extirpate and destroy the source of evil and the evil instinct.”42 As the evil instinct cannot be obliterated, “’the Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation’ meaning that, in every generation and at every hour, this is the great war we fight all our days.”43 Unlike the conceptual trend, the psychological trend is not always moti‑ vated by moral considerations. Scholem’s characterization of Hasidism as entailing a shift from a theosophical and historical orientation to the individual points to the background of the development of the psychologi‑ cal approach within hasidic tradition. Similarly, the medieval tendency to identify Amalek with the evil instinct can be traced to a rejection of the allegorical exegeses of the Torah prevalent at the time.44 Nevertheless, the fact that the psychological trend contended with the question of evil and refused to identify it with a concrete people cannot be ignored. In other words, although supporters of this trend acknowledged the existence of radical human evil, they did not ascribe it to a specific his‑ torical entity; rather, they claimed that evil is in everyone at all times. The war to blot out Amalek is waged against this evil. Although the psychologi‑ cal trend did not mean to abrogate the obligation to blot out the historical Amalek, it made this obligation irrelevant, and thereby dismissed it from the moral agenda. In sum, all the exegetical trends we have considered contend with the moral problem raised by the punishment of Amalek. The realistic approach suggests that the punishment was justified in light of Amalek’s wickedness. The various trends grouped under the rubric of the symbolic approach endorse a different view. The metaphysical trend intensifies the Amalekite evil and transforms it into the demonic foundation of existence. The con‑ ceptual trend expands the concrete dimensions of the story and turns it 41 Zadok ha-Cohen of Lublin, Peri Tzadik (Lublin: n.p., 1907), 172. 42 Ibid. 43 Kozienice, Avodat Yisra’el, 22b. Although this approach is prominent in hasidic tradi‑ tion, it is clear that, on the one hand, its roots go back much further and, on the other, several of its contemporary supporters have no ties with Hasidism. One of the best known among the latter is Ya‘akov M. Harlap, Mei Marom (Jerusalem: Beit Zabul, 1972) 1. 79, who claims that evil is merely the will to power, to control and subdue. In order to lead a meaningful existence, individuals must restrain and balance this aspiration by curbing and limiting their passions and desires—no single desire should overtake all others. The obligation to blot out Amalek represents the yearning to eliminate the will to power. 44 See note 35 above.

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into a contest between ideas, whereas the psychological trend sees the story as a symbol of the existential human drama, a struggle against the evil inside us. All these trends agree on a characterization of Amalek as identi‑ cal with evil and thus justify total war against it. The reliance of Jewish exegetes on moral terms to explain the pun‑ ishment of Amalek implies that they reject both the thesis of morality’s dependence on religion and the thesis of a conflict between them. The punishment of Amalek, an act ostensibly contradicting all moral consid‑ erations, becomes a paradigm of moral behavior and of the power of the moral realm. This exegetical inversion indicates the commitment of Jewish tradition to the notion of moral autonomy. The Halakhic Attitudes to Amalek: The Dialectic Between the Literal and the Moral Trends Halakhah constitutes a crucial dimension of Jewish tradition. The pres‑ ent attempt to offer an exhaustive review of the sources dealing with the punishment of Amalek would thus be invalid without due consideration of the halakhic rulings on this subject. Two broad trends can be detected regarding halakhic attitudes to the Amalek story; I refer to the first as the literal trend and to the second as the moral trend. The literal trend adheres to the letter of the biblical text and reads the command to blot out Amalek as implying their utter physical destruction.45 Furthermore, in accordance with the biblical command, not only the Amalekites but also their memory and any object that might be associated with them must be destroyed, “so that their name might not be remembered by saying ‘this belongs to an Amalekite.’ ”46

45 Halakhic writings usually view the term “Amalek” in concrete terms and very rarely use it in a broader connotation that suggests nations in general. See, however, R. Yona’s remarks, quoted by Yosef Karo in his commentary on Ya‘akov b. Asher’s Arba‘ah Turim (Beit Yosef: Yoreh De‘ah, 155, s.v. hagahat ha‑mehaber; Soloveitchik, “Kol Dodi Dofek,” 102; and Gershoni, “Berurei Halakhah be‑Inyianei ha-Sho’ah,” 23–24. These references, as men‑ tioned, are quite unusual. 46 Avraham Danzig, Hayyei Adam, Hilkhot Megillah, 155a. The reference to the Amale‑ kite’s belongings alludes to R. Elazar of Modi‘im in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishma’el 2.160: “The Holy One, blessed be He, swore by the throne of His glory: I will not leave any off‑ spring or progeny of Amalek under the entire heaven, so that people will not be able to say: ‘This camel belongs to Amalek.’ ” See also Hayim Dov Chavel, ed., Sefer Ha‑Hinukh (Jerusa‑ lem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook, 1951/1952), 691.558; and Maimonides, The Commandments, trans. Charles B. Chavel (London/New York: Soncino, 1967), 203 (positive commandment 189).

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The obligation to obliterate Amalek’s seed obviously rules out the pos‑ sibility of accepting them as converts. Proof for this ban may be adduced from David’s behavior toward the Amalekite lad who informed him of Saul’s death: For it is said: “And David said unto the young man that told him: ‘Whence art thou?’ and he answered: ‘I am the son of an Amalekite stranger’ (II Samuel 1:13). At that moment David recalled what had been told to Moses our teacher—that if a person of any of the nations should come desiring to be converted to Judaism, Israel should receive him, but a person from the house of Amalek they should not receive. Immediately: “And David said unto him: ‘Thy blood be upon thy head: for thy mouth hath testified against thee’ ” (II Samuel 1:16).47

Amalekites, then, are not judged by their behavior, but by their member‑ ship in a specific ethnic group doomed to destruction; they can neither repent nor convert. As may be gathered from these halakhic sources, how‑ ever, the literal trend tends to justify the punishment of Amalek, as well as the obligation of remembrance, in terms of the severity of their deeds. Implicitly, then, these sources assume that morality is autonomous from God, although halakhic tradition, which purports to articulate the word of God, could be expected to develop the view that morality is either depen‑ dent on, or in conflict with, religion. As mentioned, however, not only did such views fail to develop, but evidence points to the presence of a trend seeking to reformulate halakhic norms so as to bring them in line with morality. The presence of a moral trend within the halakhic system merits special attention. Halakhah tends to refrain from symbolic interpretations, which could undermine the normative, practical implications of the canoni‑ cal text; instead, it strives to preserve the literal meaning. How, then, did this trend manage to “overcome” the text and harmonize it with moral demands? I have already pointed out hints of a sense of unease regarding Amalek’s punishment. Explicit objections to the punishment of Amalek on moral grounds, however, are not widespread in talmudic sources; in fact, quite the opposite is true. In TB Sanhedrin 20b, the obligation to destroy Amalek is defined as one of the three duties incumbent on Israel after conquering the land: “Three commandments were given to Israel when they entered the land; to appoint a king, to cut off the seed of Amalek, and to build them‑ selves the chosen house.” Only one talmudic source, in referring to Haman, 47 Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishma’el, 2.160–161.

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whom legend holds to be a descendant of Amalek, seems to restrict the scope of this obligation: “The descendants of Haman studied Torah in Bnei Berak (and they included R. Samuel b. Shilath).”48 According to this source, descendants of Amalek were not only accepted as converts, but also belonged to the cultural elite of the Jewish people and were counted among its most distinguished teachers.49 Nevertheless, this passage, which is basi‑ cally an aggadah (a non-halakhic text), can hardly be viewed as a match‑ ing counterpart to the specific and well-supported command to annihilate Amalek. Against this backdrop, indications of a moral trend in halakhic rul‑ ings are even more striking. Two versions of the moral trend appear in halakhic literature. One is the practical model, which eludes discussion of the moral consequences of Amalek’s destruction by turning it into a purely hypothetical issue. The other is the theoretical model endorsed by Maimonides and his commen‑ tators, who insist on contending with the moral dilemma and suggest a comprehensive solution. Several nineteenth century halakhists, assuming that biblical instruc‑ tions are clear, endorsed the practical model; they imposed an obligation to blot out the Amalekites, obviously precluding their acceptance as con‑ verts. At the same time, however, the halakhists claimed that this ruling could not be complied with in practice. They relied on a principle dating from tannaitic times in order to justify the impossibility of abiding by this command. M. Yaddaim 4:4 states that “Judah, an Ammonite proselyte,” was allowed to join the congregation despite the biblical injunction that “an Ammonite or a Moabite shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord” (Deuteronomy 23:4). R. Joshua allowed this, however, on the grounds that

48 TB Sanhedrin 96b. The addition in parentheses appears in several versions of the Talmud, such as Ya‘akov b. Shlomo Ibn Habib, Ein Ya‘akov 2. Yoma 22. Va-yarev ba-nahal. See also Raphael Nathan Rabinowitz, Dikdukei Soferim, Sanhedrin 96b. 49 Many sages were troubled by this apparent contradiction between this talmudic pas‑ sage and the passage from the Mekhilta and attempted to reconcile them. According to one approach, the mother of Haman’s children is an Amalekite but not the father, and the children are thus not considered Amalekites “as the nations go by [determine ances‑ try] the father” (See Yosef b. Yehudah Engel, Giliyonei Ha‑Shas, Gittin 57b, mibenei banav). This approach would make the talmudic story consistent with the ban on Amalekite con‑ verts. According to another approach, the ban is said to apply not to the conversion of Amalekites per se, but rather to their entering the congregation, meaning that they can be converted but they cannot marry Jews (Mesholam Rata, Kol Ha‑Mevaser, 2.42). These approaches conflict, however, and the sages viewed this as a halakhic dispute between the Mekhilta, which supports a literal trend, and the Talmud, which endorses a moral trend. See, for instance, Hayyim Yosef David Azzulai, Ayin Zokher (Lemberg: n.p., 1865), 3.82–85; Eliezer Yehudah Waldenberg, Tsits Eliezer, 15 vols. (Jerusalem: n.p., 1978) 13.71d.

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“long ago Senaherib, king of Assyria, came up and confused all the nations,” implying that these are not the original nations. His view concerning Ammon and Moab was accepted against R. Gamaliel’s objection.50 Although Amalek was not included in this ruling during the tannaitic period, halakhists siding with the practical model applied the “commin‑ gling” principle to Amalek too. Thus, for instance, Hayim Falaggi (1788–1896) wrote: “And one might say that they were allowed [to convert Haman’s chil‑ dren] because Senaherib came up [and confused the nations].”51 Hence, advocates of the practical model significantly broadened the scope of the principle of “commingled nations”; first, they extended it to include Amalek, while the tannaim had explicitly refrained from doing so; sec‑ ond, while the tannaim had used this principle to enable Ammonites and Moabites to join the congregation—namely, to marry Jews52—supporters of the practical model extended this ruling to attain exemption from the biblical injunction to obliterate Amalek. Although this appears to be a very bold conclusion, it is, in fact, dictated by the inner logic of the text. As the tannaitic principle is based on a “factual” claim—that of commingling—it irrevocably leads to the notion of allowing Amalekites not only to convert but to join the congregation. This analysis shows that halakhists, facing a tension between a canoni‑ cal text they recognize as compelling and their own beliefs, can resort to a transitional principle. Supporters of the practical model use an “empirical” fact cited in the sources—“the commingling of the nations”—as a vehicle for their moral intuitions. Aware of their limited ability to reinterpret the canonical text so as to make halakhic norms accord with their moral views, they rely on a fact that allows them to restrict the scope of a ruling about which they have moral reservations. In contrast, Maimonides, in an attempt to contend with the moral dilemma, suggested a broad, comprehensive approach. He stated that “all

50 The mishnah draws a distinction between allowing members of the “four nations”— Amon, Moab, Egypt, and Edom—to convert, and allowing them to enter the community, namely, to take a Jewish spouse. 51 Hayim Falaggi, Eynei Kol Hai (Izmir: n.p., 1888), Sanhedrin 96b. This approach was also supported by other halakhists. Thus, for instance, Yosef Babad (1800–1875), relying on this principle, viewed the obligation to blot out Amalek as completely hypothetical: “And now, we are no longer commanded [to blot out Amalek], because Senaherib has already come up and confused the whole world” (Yosef b. Moshe Babad, Minhat Hinukh, 2.213 [commandment 604]). See also Hayim Hirschensohn, Malki ba-Kodesh, 1.33; Avraham Karelitz, Hazon Ish al ha-Rambam (Bnei Berak: n.p., 1959) 842. 52 “Judah, the Ammonite proselyte” asks to “enter the community.” (Rata, Kol ha‑ Mevaser, 2.42).

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heathens, without exception, once they become proselytes . . . are regarded as Israelites in every respect . . . and they may enter the congregation of the Lord immediately . . . excepting the four nations” (my emphasis).53 This is only a general guideline, however, since—citing the tannaitic principle of commingled nations quoted above—Maimonides claimed that converts from the four nations can also enter the congregation.54 As for Amalekites, neither their conversion nor their inclusion in the community seems to pose any problem for Maimonides. Furthermore, he placed restrictions on the obligation to blot out Amalek. His approach regarding II Samuel 1:13–16 and the slaying of the Amalekite stranger differs from that adopted in the Mekhilta: It is a scriptural decree that the court shall not put a man to death or flog him on his own admission [of guilt]. This is done only on the evidence of two witnesses. It is true that Joshua condemned Ahan to death on the lat‑ ter’s admission, and that David ordered the execution of the Amalekite stranger on the latter’s admission. But those were emergency cases, or the death sentences pronounced in those instances were prescribed by the state law.55

Maimonides thus assumes that the only grounds for slaying the stranger were either “an emergency” or a “state law” and not, as assumed by the Mekhilta, the fact that he was an Amalekite. Both terms—“emergency” and “state law”—suggest that the killing deviated from standard halakhic norms. Whereas the Mekhilta had assumed that slaying the Amalekite stranger complied with the biblical injunction to destroy Amalek, Maimonides assumed that this killing, unless justified in terms of a legitimate principle, would be unacceptable.56 How, then, did Maimonides understand the obligation to destroy Amalek? It seems plausible that Maimonides took a different and severely restricted view of the commandment to blot out Amalek’s seed. An analysis of several other Maimonidean rulings is required to understand the extent of these restrictions. 53 Maimonides, Laws Concerning Forbidden Intercourse 12:17 in The Code of Maimonides, vol. 5: The Book of Holiness, trans. Louis I. Rabinowitz and Philip Grossman (New Haven/ London: Yale University Press, 1965), 84. 54 Ibid., 12.25 (p. 86). 55 Maimonides, Laws Concerning Sanhedrin 18:6 in The Code of Maimonides, vol. 14: The Book of Judges, trans. Abraham M. Hershman (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1949), 52. 56 Compare Hayim David Yosef Azzulai, Patah Einayim (Jerusalem: n.p., 1959), 2. 61, San‑ hedrin 96b, mibenei banav. In fact, Maimonides’ ruling is more consistent with the text in II Samuel 1:16, which states that David killed the Amalekite stranger because the latter had admitted to the killing of King Saul: “I have slain the Lord’s anointed.”

52

The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition In Laws Concerning Kings and Wars 6:1, Maimonides stated: No war is declared against any nation before peace offers are made to it. This obtains both in an optional war and a war for a religious cause, as it is said: “When thou drawest nigh unto a city to fight against it, then pro‑ claim peace unto it” (Deuteronomy 20:10). If the inhabitants make peace and accept the seven commandments enjoined upon the descendants of Noah none of them is slain, but they become tributary.

Before declaring an optional war—one not commanded by the Torah—as well as before declaring war for a religious cause—such as “the war against the seven nations, and that against Amalek”57—a peace offer must be made to the enemy. This offer should propose to renounce war if the enemy agrees to three conditions: to accept the Noahide commandments, pay trib‑ ute, and submit to servitude.58 The requirement that a peace offer be made even prior to waging a war for a religious cause would appear to deviate from an explicit biblical command to kill the Amalekites. Deuteronomy 20:10, which Maimonides quoted, concerns only optional wars, as is made clear further on: “Thus shalt thou do to all the cities which are very far off from thee, which are not of the cities of these nations. But of the cities of these peoples, which the Lord thy God gives thee for an inheritance, thou shalt save alive noth‑ ing that breathes” (Deuteronomy 20:15–16). The talmudic commentary on Deuteronomy, Sifre, explicitly states: “ ‘When thou drawest nigh unto a city’—Scripture speaks here of a non‑obligatory war.”59 Maimonides might enlist support for this ruling regarding war against the seven nations from biblical as well as rabbinic sources. Following the explicit injunction in Deuteronomy 20:15–16, Deuteronomy 20:18 explains the reasons for the cruel punishment inflicted on these nations: “that they teach you not to do after all their abominations, which they have done to their gods; so should you sin against the Lord your God.” The source of this exceptional treatment is thus a deep fear that these nations might lead the people of Israel to the gravest of sins—idolatry. Once these fears become groundless, however, the ruling requiring that “thou shalt save alive nothing that breathes” might be considered irrelevant. Indeed, in another homily, the Sifre explicitly states this conclusion: “ ‘That they shall not teach you to

57 Maimonides, Laws Concerning Kings and Wars 5:1 in The Book of Judges, 217. 58 Ibid., 6:1 (p. 220). 59 Sifre on Deuteronomy, trans. Reuven Hammer (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1986), 199, 217. Compare Rashi on Deuteronomy 20:10.

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do’—showing that if they repent they are not to be slain.”60 Furthermore, Deuteronomy 2:24–26 also suggests that a declaration of war must be pre‑ ceded by a peace offer, and Moses offers peace and does not slay Sihon, the Amorite king, although Sihon is king of a nation condemned to destruction.61 In accordance with this trend, talmudic literature also sug‑ gests that before embarking on the conquest of the land, Joshua offered the Canaanite nations three options: to make peace, leave the land, or wage war.62 All the biblical and the rabbinic sources that could be relied upon to endorse a more lenient view, however, consistently refer only to the Canaanite nations. No rabbinic source includes the Amalekites in this rul‑ ing, since the biblical instruction with regard to them is absolute: punish‑ ment is not justified in terms of suspicions concerning their potential bad influence in the future, but in terms of their past evil deeds. Maimonides’ revolutionary innovation was to include Amalek in the lenient policy, equating them with the seven nations: In a war waged against the seven nations or against Amalek, if they refuse to accept the terms of peace, none of them is spared, as it is said “But of the cities of these peoples . . . thou shalt save alive nothing that breathes” (Deuteronomy 20:16). So, too, with respect to Amalek, it is said: “Blot out the remembrance of Amalek” (Deuteronomy 25:19).63

The biblical injunction explicitly states that Israel is only expected to com‑ ply with the command to obliterate the remembrance of Amalek after set‑ tling in the land, rather than in the heat of the battle: “Therefore it shall be, when the Lord thy God has given thee rest from all thy enemies round about in the land which the Lord thy God gives thee for an inheritance to possess it, that thou shalt blot out the remembrance of Amalek” (Deuteronomy 25:19). Relying on the rabbinical exegesis which made the destruction of the seven nations contingent on their behavior, however, Maimonides concluded that the command to blot out Amalek should also be consid‑ ered contingent, and restricted it to the specific circumstances in which Amalek refused to accept a peace offer. Abraham of Posquieres (1120–1198), Maimonides’ well-known critic, objected to Maimonides’ restriction, argu‑ ing that “this [Maimonidean ruling] is a distortion.”64 60 Sifre on Deuteronomy, 202. 61 Compare Nahmanides, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 20:10. 62 PT Shevi‘it 6:5. See also Nahmanides, Commentary on the Torah on Deuteronomy 20:10. 63 Maimonides, Laws Concerning Kings and War 6:4. 64 Ra’avad (Avraham b. David) Hasagot Ha‑Ra’avad le-Mishneh Torah on Maimonides, Laws Concerning Kings and Wars 6:4.

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How did Maimonides justify this blatant deviation from the text? Bornstein suggested that Maimonides viewed Amalek’s plight as different from that of the seven nations. Bornstein then used this difference to justify a more lenient attitude toward Amalek:65 I believe they teach that the seven nations have themselves sinned and com‑ mitted all iniquities and become liable to die. And we would think that this means that repentance will not help . . . But Amalek are punished for the sins of their fathers. And we know that it is written “Fathers shall not die for children, nor shall children die for fathers.”66 . . . But if they have repented and accepted the seven [Noachic] commandments, this means they do not persist in their ancestor’s deeds, and should thus not be punished for their iniquities.67

According to Bornstein, Maimonides relied on two assumptions. First, that Amalek was punished because of a real event that took place in the past, and that this punishment was not meant as revenge; rather, its purpose was to prevent the occurrence of similar acts in the future. Second, he assumed that the Torah—the biblical text—as well as the rabbinic literature which refers to it make up a coherent legal system. If the Torah contains a gen‑ eral guideline forbidding the punishment of children for the sins of their fathers, then this instruction must also apply to Amalek. Resting on these two assumptions, Bornstein concluded that if the Amalekites no longer behaved like Amalekites and, moreover, clearly expressed this through their readiness to adopt the basic norms of the seven Noachic command‑ ments, as well as to pay tribute and enter into servitude, it would be wrong to kill them. Indeed, Maimonides assumed that the punishment of Amalek had a purpose:

65 Bornstein, Avnei Netzer: Orah Hayyim, 2.508. 66 As I pointed out above (n. 18), Bornstein showed the claim that this verse applies only to Israel and not to the nations to be inaccurate. 67 Bornstein, Avnei Netzer: Orah Hayyim, 2.508. This distinction relies on a rabbinic midrash attempting to reconcile the contradiction between two verses. One states, “Fathers shall not die for children, nor shall children die for fathers, but every man shall die for his own sin” (II Chronicles 25:4), and the other suggests a different scenario, one of “punishing the iniquity of the fathers on the children, and on the children’s children, to the third and to the fourth generation” (Exodus 34:7). The rabbis solved this contradiction by claiming that “the one verse [in Exodus] deals with children who continue in the same course as their fathers, and the other [in II Chronicles] with children who do not continue in the course of their fathers” (TB Berakhot 7a).

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The Book of Judges includes also the commandment to destroy the seed of Amalek for one particular group or tribe ought to be punished, just as one particular individual is punished, so that all tribes should be deterred and should not cooperate in doing evil. For they will say: lest be done to us what was done to the sons of such and such a man. Thus, even if there should grow up among them a wicked corrupt man who does not care about the wickedness of his soul and does not think of the wickedness of his action, he will not find a helper of his own tribe to help him in the wicked things whose realization he desires. Accordingly it was commanded that Amalek, who hastened to use the sword, should be exterminated by the sword.68

Furthermore, another general principle suggested by Maimonides states that “there is no vengeance in the commandments of the Torah, but com‑ passion, mercy and peace in the world,”69 illuminating his approach to punishment in general—the Torah does not crave vengeance, and punish‑ ment must have a purpose. To attain this purpose without resorting to pun‑ ishment is preferable, and if the Amalekites agree to the suggested peace terms, it would not be necessary to kill them. In other words, Maimonides’ moral interpretation is in accordance with the spirit of the Torah and its fundamental premises regarding human jus‑ tice, premises that should come into play in our behavior toward all human beings. It is on this basis that Maimonides radically restricted the ruling to destroy Amalek, seeing “neither obligation (nor merit) in eradicating or harming this nation without a moral justification.”70 Maimonides thus allowed the conversion of Amalekites and even per‑ mitted them to join the congregation of Israel. The command to destroy them utterly would only be relevant if they rejected an offer of peace.71 The war against Amalek is not waged on ethnic grounds but on ethical and cul‑ tural ones. In this sense, Maimonides also anticipated the symbolic trend in biblical exegesis which, although it was formulated in the nineteenth century, has roots in these halakhic rulings. Maimonides’ rulings represent a revolutionary change in the interpretation of the biblical command to punish Amalek, especially because the interpretation is based on moral principles rather than on an accepted textual source. In fact, the practical 68 Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Shlomo Pines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press: 1963), III:41., p. 566. 69 Maimonides, Laws Concerning the Sabbath 2:3 (my translation). 70 Gerald J. Blidstein, Ekronot Mediniyim be‑Mishnat ha‑Rambam (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 1983), 223. Although my analysis of Maimonides’ views differs from Blid‑ stein’s on several counts, I agree with his general approach as formulated in this quotation. 71 Compare Karelitz, Hazon Ish, 842; Waldenberg, Tsits Eliezer, 13.71d.

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model retracted from this radical approach and preferred to rely on prac‑ tical considerations. The practical model claims strict adherence to the canonical text but refrains from carrying out its instructions on practical grounds—because of the commingling of the nations, even the Amalekites may join the congregation. In contrast, the theoretical model, of which Maimonides was the paramount representative, restricts textual instruc‑ tions so as to reconcile them with basic moral assumptions. This attempt at accommodation shows that morality operates as an autonomous factor and, furthermore, points to an inverted relation of dependence, whereby religion depends on morality rather than morality on religion. God’s command, as well as the norms flowing from it, are now reinterpreted in this light. The Canonical Text and the Problem of Moral Exegesis This review of the moral trend in halakhic rulings and the symbolic trends in exegetical literature necessitates that we reexamine our attitude toward the Torah, the canonical text, since these trends would seem to undermine the preferred status of the canonical text and to favor ethical consider‑ ations instead of textual adherence. While all the trends discussed in this work recognize the Torah as a canonical text, they differ regarding the sta‑ tus accorded to morality in the exegesis of this text. Although the literal trend believes that an exegesis imputing new meanings to clear textual instructions is unjustified, it does not thereby imply that morality depends on religion. Instead, this trend accepts the assumption that God is morally perfect, an assumption prevalent in Jewish tradition, from which this trend concludes that Amalek’s punishment is morally justified. As mentioned above, the very need to justify God’s command suggests a rejection of the thesis that morality depends upon religion, which would make justifica‑ tions altogether redundant. In contrast, the moral and symbolic trends assume that the text should be interpreted and understood in accordance with moral assumptions. The process of exegesis does not undermine the canonical validity of the text; rather, it stresses our total commitment to it: If the text has no canonical status, why interpret it at all? Interpretation, instead of dismissing the text, serves to mediate between the text and moral approaches.72 72 For a further discussion of the mediating status of interpretation in Jewish tradi‑ tion, see Marvin Fox, “Judaism, Secularism and Textual Interpretation” in idem, ed.,

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The primary question, then, is whether the moral approach ultimately sacrifices the text on the altar of moral considerations. As we noted, how‑ ever, advocates of the moral approach rely not only on their moral intu‑ itions but also on textual sources, suggesting that this approach has roots in the canon, if not always in the biblical text. Amiel relied on a talmu‑ dic exegesis,73 while the claim that “every man shall die for his own sin” (Jeremiah 31:30), a prime justification of Maimonides’ rulings, is a bibli‑ cal verse. At every layer, then, canonical literature suggests more than one approach, and at times even suggests an approach that cannot easily be accommodated with a literal reading. The first premise of the moral trend is that the text must be interpreted coherently; neither the exegete nor the halakhist look at the text as an isolated unit, divorced from the broader context of the Torah and from rabbinic tradition.74 Moreover, if the basic assumption is that the Torah conveys the word of a good God, then a moral reading of the canonical text is not only a theoretical option but a religious obligation. The moral approach is preferred by its supporters on the grounds that a literal reading may at times cast doubts on the notion that God is a good God. Advocates of the literal trend take issue precisely with this point. Although they accept that the text is usually read within a broader context, they do not believe that the context—including an assumption of God’s goodness—can be used to change the text’s clear meaning. The context might be useful in instances of textual ambiguity, they argue, but the pun‑ ishment of Amalek is an explicit command and, therefore, we must assume that it is also morally correct. The difference between the moral and literal trends is not that one endorses a thesis claiming that morality depends on religion while the other endorses moral autonomy. Both trends argue that the Torah’s com‑ mands must accord with moral considerations, but whereas the literal trend strives to justify the text as is, the moral trend strives to reinterpret

Modern Jewish Ethics (Ohio: Ohio State University Press, 1975), 585–587; Avi Sagi, “Bein Peshat Li‑Drash,” Tarbiz 61 (1992) 3–28. 73 See above, 44–45. 74 Jonathan Sacks points out (“Creativity and Innovation in Halakhah,” in Moshe Sokol, ed., Rabbinic Authority and Personal Autonomy [Northvale, NJ: Aronson, 1992], 129) that this approach strongly resembles the Catholic emphasis on the ecclesia, in contrast with the Protestant tradition that emphasizes the text itself. This remark is correct in that the con‑ text of the Torah’s traditional exegesis also—and even primarily—includes rabbinic tradi‑ tion. We should not thereby conclude, however, that Protestant exegesis does not endorse principles of textual coherence and uniformity.

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the text in the light of moral assumptions. Echoes of this dispute can be detected not only in canonical talmudic texts; this is a polemic that, not surprisingly, continues to be relevant today. When believers are commit‑ ted to the canonical text as well as to their own moral understandings, this dialectic process is inevitable. While all approaches agree in assuming that the instructions of the Torah correspond with morality and that morality is independent of religion, they reflect different views of the relevance of moral consciousness to the interpretation of the text and to the norms compelled by it.

NATURAL LAW AND HALAKHAH: A CRITICAL ANALYSIS* Avi Sagi 1. Basic Assumptions The status of natural law in Judaism, and in the halakhic context in particu‑ lar, has long been a concern of scholars in the field of Jewish studies. Some categorically deny that Judaism could ever recognize a doctrine of natu‑ ral law. For instance, in his classic, often quoted study, Marvin Fox argues that “in Judaism there is no natural law doctrine, and in principle, there cannot be.”1 Other scholars, such as Harry A. Wolfson, point to a tradition stretching from rabbinic times to Maimonides, which recognizes the bind‑ ing power of natural law.2 This dispute has far‑reaching implications because, as will be shown below, different views of the status of natural law entail different percep‑ tions of the essence of Halakhah, and specific theories of Halakhah tend to be associated with specific views of natural law. For instance, Yeshayahu Leibowitz views Halakhah as a normative system exclusively concerned with the worship of God.3 This approach can hardly be reconciled with support for a natural law doctrine, which seems to have no bearing on wor‑ ship; in contrast, advocates of a different perception of Halakhah may take another view of the status of natural law. To some extent, then, the dis‑ pute concerning the status of natural law in Judaism operates as a mirror, reflecting underlying theories of Halakhah. Hence, attempts to examine

I thank Batya Stein for translating this article from Hebrew and for her valuable comments, and Eliezer Goldman, Moshe Halbertal, Menachem Lorberbaum, Abraham Melamed, Daniel Sinclair, Daniel Statman, and Zvi Zohar, whose comments contributed much to this paper. * This article was first published in Avi Sagi, “Natural Law and Halakhah: A Critical Analysis, Jewish Law Annual 13 (2000), 149–195.” Reprinted with permission. 1  Marvin Fox, “Maimonides and Aquinas on Natural Law,” Dine Israel 3 (1971), 5. 2  See Harry Austryn Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 182–185; 309–312. 3 For an analysis of Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s theory of Halakhah, see Avi Sagi, “R. Soloveitchik and Prof. Leibowitz as Theoreticians of Halakhah” (in Hebrew), Daat 29 (1992): 131–148.

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this question must also be concerned with those elements that are central to any theory of Halakhah. Discussions about natural law have traditionally hinged on the analysis of halakhic and philosophic texts. Although not surprising, since texts and their interpretation are the raw material of Judaism, this methodological approach may neglect critical analysis of the arguments per se. The parties to the controversy have tended to seek out texts that appear to support their view, shifting the focus from a rigorous consideration of the claims to an attempt to accumulate relevant sources. In contrast, the aim of this paper is to concentrate on the arguments explicitly or implicitly suggested in the sources, assess them on their own merits, and present them systematically. This approach, however, requires a more precise formulation of the problem and of two questions in particular: (1) what do we mean by “natu‑ ral law”? (2) Who is the subject bound by natural law? “Natural law” is a problematic concept, as it does not point to a specific legal theory but to a family of theories. Thus, for instance, Thomas Aquinas endorses a theory of natural law, but so does H. L. A. Hart, and they can hardly be said to resemble each other. Aquinas assumes that norms are valid because of their universal rationality, which is embedded in nature and conveys the rationality of God; hence, norms need not be justified through a legislative act.4 In contrast, Hart’s positivist theory of law assumes that only an act of legislation grants norms legitimacy. Yet even Hart adopts a “minimalist” version of natural law, arguing that all civilized societies must enforce a series of norms meant to assure their continuity. The legitimation of these norms, however, is predicated neither on nature nor on a necessary metaphysical order.5 Can we broach the question of natural law in Judaism while disregard‑ ing these differences between the various versions of the theory? Fox, for instance, examines the status of natural law only in reference to Aquinas. Even if, like Fox, we deny natural law any status in Judaism, we cannot assume that this conclusion extends to all versions of this doctrine, includ‑ ing, for example, that espoused by Hart. We might expect the definition

4 On Aquinas, see Carl J. Friedrich, The Philosophy of Law in Historical Perspective (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 42–50; H. McCoubrey, The Development of Naturalist Legal Theory (London: Croom Helm, 1987), 44–55; Lloyd L. Weinreb, Natural Law and Justice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 53–63. 5 See H. L. A. Hart, The Concept of Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964), 181–195.

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of natural law to be the first item raised when dealing with this topic but, surprisingly, little attention has been devoted to it so far.6 Given these circumstances, a decision to concentrate on one version of natural law must be duly justified. At the same time, exploration of sev‑ eral versions of this doctrine would require a discussion far exceeding the scope of this article. The question, then, is how, and whether, the status of natural law can be considered without a prior commitment to any particu‑ lar version. One way of avoiding these difficulties is to distinguish several levels of discussion of natural law: the normative, the meta-normative, and the theoretical. At the normative level is a unique set of laws, such as prohibi‑ tions against homicide, against inflicting wanton harm, and so forth, that have several features in common. The norms in this category may change over time, natural rights, for instance, being a late addition. I call this shared set of features—universality, rationality, autonomy—“meta-normative.7 These characteristics serve to define the norms included in the category of natural law, but are not derived from one specific theory of natural law. All theories of natural law, even when at odds on fundamental questions, agree on the meta‑normative character of this set of norms. To ignore these distinctions by assuming a single theory of natural law is thus unnecessary, and even misleading. The status of natural law in Judaism can be examined at the normative and meta‑normative levels, and the question we ask is: Does Judaism in gen‑ eral, and Halakhah in particular, acknowledge the status of autonomous, universally valid laws? At this stage, we are not committed to one particular theory of natural law. The theoretical discussion can only take place, if at all, at the stage of analyzing the various arguments for and against this doc‑ trine. Only then is there any point in considering which theory is supported by the argument in question. 6 Wolfson, Philo, vol. 2, 174–180, 309–314. David Novak also hints at the importance of this distinction. Arguing against both Fox and José Faur, who deny the validity of natural law, Novak objects to their underlying assumption that only one version of this theory is possible. See David Novak, “Natural Law, Halakhah and the Covenant,” Jewish Law Annual 7 (1987), 55. David Sinclair draws a distinction between a strong and a weak version of natural law, and claims that Halakhah would probably deny the independent validity of another legal system but could, nevertheless, “adopt a weaker version of natural law” such as that suggested by Hart. See Daniel Sinclair, “Defending the Lives of the Mortally Ill, the Embryo and the Non-Jew” (in Hebrew), in Human Rights in Judaism, ed. Giddy Frishtick (Jerusalem: Machon Sanhedrin, 1992), 37, n. 19. 7 For a description resembling this formal characterization see Richard Wollheim, “Natural Law,” Encyclopedia of Philosophy, vol. 5, 450; Weinreb, Natural Law and Justice, 2–3.

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The second of the two questions requiring more rigorous formulation concerns the subject bound by natural law. In principle, Judaism could argue that natural law applies only to Gentiles, and not to Jews, who abide by the Torah. Relying on the argument from God’s command, which claims that only God’s command determines right and wrong, we could assert that natural law is only relevant to Gentiles, who have not accepted divine com‑ mand. In other words, the universality ascribed to natural law applies to all human beings except Jews, who are guided by revelation.8 Moses Mendelssohn raises another argument, claiming that natural law pertains to Gentiles, as he finds it inconceivable that God would abandon the nations on whom “the light of the Torah does not shine . . . Would God’s anger lead Him, far be it from Him, to destroy His creatures and blot out their names for no fault of their own?”9 Formally then, his claim does not entail that natural law applies to Jews, on whom “the light of the Torah does shine.”10 The relation between the status of natural law and its scope of applica‑ tion is complex. If natural law pertains to Jews, the assumption that it also pertains to Gentiles appears plausible. If natural law pertains to Gentiles, however, extending it to Jews is contingent on the grounds justifying this claim. Furthermore, if we assume that natural law does not pertain to Gentiles, this usually implies that it is irrelevant to Jews too, as we can plau‑ sibly assume that Gentiles are more in need of a natural law than are Jews, who have the divine Torah. Hence, the scope of natural law must be deter‑ mined a priori—will the discussion concern Jews, Gentiles, or both? The present discussion is confined to Jews. Let us now turn to an analysis of the arguments for and against a doc‑ trine of natural law in Judaism.

8 Faur confines the argument from God’s command to Jews, arguing that the meaning of “right” and “wrong,” or “good” and “evil,” were determined for Jews at Sinai, and that only Jews are bound by the covenant. See José Faur, “Understanding the Covenant,” Tradition 9 (1968), 44–45. In a later work, Faur broadens the scope of his positivist approach and argues that Jewish tradition never granted any status to natural law, even regarding Gentiles. See José Faur, Studies in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1977), 63–64. 9 Moses Mendelssohn, Hebraische Schriften 3 (Gesammelte Schriften 16), (Berlin, 1929), 178. 10 This conclusion, however, contradicts Mendelssohn’s position that, even pertaining to Jews, the validity of natural law rests on rational autonomous knowledge rather on the Torah.

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2. Arguments against Natural Law i. The Argument from Revelation This argument claims that all halakhic norms, whatever their nature, are predicated on one source only—God’s command to Moses at Sinai. Fox argues that, on these grounds, Judaism rejects the doctrine of natural law as a matter of principle, thus precluding the development of theories of natural law.11 The following source is considered vital to this argument: Any person who accepts the seven commandments and observes them scru‑ pulously is one of the pious of the nations and has a share in the world to come. But [only] provided he accepts them and performs them because the Holy One, blessed be He, commanded them in the Torah and made it known through Moses, our teacher, that the children of Noah were commanded to observe them before the Torah was given. But if he performs them because of his reasoned decision, then he is not a resident alien (ger‑toshav) or one of the pious of the nations, but one of their wise men.12

Some scholars have inferred from this passage that Maimonides views obligations as predicated on God’s command rather than on rational knowledge.13 Although this passage pertains to Gentiles, it can nevertheless serve to support the argument concerning Jews: if Gentiles are enjoined to accept the Noahide commandments because they were issued by God then, a fortiori, Jews, who were chosen to receive the Torah, must abide by it, because it was commanded by God.

11  See Fox, “Maimonides and Aquinas.” Fox develops this thesis in several other works, such as “Law and Ethics in Modern Jewish Philosophy: The Case of Moses Mendelssohn,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 23 (1976), 1–3; “On the Rational Commandments in Saadia’s Philosophy: A Re‑Examination,” in Jewish Ethics: Theory and Practice, ed. Marvin Fox (Columbus: Ohio University Press, 1975), 174–187. See also I. Englard, Introduction to Legal Theory (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Yahalom, 1991), 66–67; idem, “The Interaction of Morality and Jewish Law,” The Jewish Law Annual 7 (1987), 121–123. See also Faur, Studies in Maimonides, and idem, “Understanding the Covenant.” 12 Maimonides, Code, Laws of Kings 8:11. I have relied on the manuscript version, which reads “but one of their wise men” (ela me-hakhmehem) rather than on the printed edition, “and not one of their wise men” (ve-lo mehakhmehem). For an analysis of this reading see Yaakov Levinger, Maimonides as Philosopher and Decisor (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1989), 21–23. 13 See Isadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah), (New York and London: Yale University Press, 1980), 454–455. For a summary of the literature on this view see Jacob I. Dienstag, “Natural Law in Maimonidean Thought and Scholarship,” Jewish Law Annual, 6 (1987), 64–77.

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NATURAL LAW AND HALAKHAH This argument relies on the following premises: 1) The divine commands handed down at revelation included all halakhic obligations. 2) Revelation is not a redundant act. 3) Revelation is the basis of all halakhic obligations.

Even if we accept this claim, however, we need not conclude that God is an arbitrary legislator, whose laws contradict morality and justice and preclude stable social arrangements. Advocates of this approach can still assume that, in Aristotelian terms, God is good and is a wise legislator. Some of His commands, like many norms in any legal system, will accord with morality. The key question, then, is whether Judaism assumes that the concept of mitzvah is co-extensive with the complex of halakhic obligation. Let us begin with the first premise. The view that the concept of mitzvah refers only to norms commanded at Sinai or to others directly derived from them was never considered a necessary assumption of Jewish philosophy. In fact, a broader perception of the concept of mitzvah that includes, on the one hand, norms resting on rational understanding and, on the other, foundations of faith such as justice and truth, is part of a well‑established tradition dating back to Saadia Gaon: And . . . the readers of this book [the Torah], must know that it is indeed exalted and precious . . . but they are nevertheless not allowed to think that He, may He be praised, has no claim on them except for what is written [in it], but must know He has two other demands from them . . . Rational proof, through which human beings know that all visible objects and all things that can be apprehended through the senses were created by the Eternal, who has no purpose . . . as well as the other foundations of faith, about which we learn from rational signs, and through such rational commandments as justice and honesty.14

As Levinger shows, Maimonides also suggests this view in the Guide II:48: Maimonides shows in this passage that, in biblical language, actions that human beings perform of their own will and choice may be called “com‑ mands,” namely, that God commanded them. Obviously then, the term “divine commands” can also refer to acts that human beings freely engage in by virtue of their own will and reasoning and without God’s miracu‑ lous intervention. Therefore, whatever was commanded by Moses, even if he alone decided on it, can be considered, in biblical language, a “divine

14 R. Saadia Gaon, Commentary on the Torah, Kapih trans. (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1963), 160.

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command,” since God is the First Cause of Moses’ birth and of his intel‑ lectual perfection.15

R. Moses Israel Hazzan states that the term “the judgments of the Lord” in the following verse includes the commands of the Torah, as well as norms derived through rational understanding: “The judgments of the Lord are true” (Psalms 19:10), whether it be the judg‑ ments of the Torah or the judgments of nature, that all shall be called “the judgments of the Lord” since they are all under His providence, all intrinsi‑ cally true . . . “and are righteous altogether” indeed, since there is no conflict between them.16

Similarly, concerning basic rational norms, R. Joseph Engel rejects any defense based on ignorance of a biblical prohibition: He need not know that the Torah has forbidden this, since murder is a ratio‑ nal prohibition . . . and we see a rational prohibition as equal to a biblical one, and knowledge of the rational prohibition is sufficient . . . only regard‑ ing revealed [shimi`yim] prohibitions, which are not compelled by an exter‑ nal sevarah, do we need to know that the Torah forbids them.17

These reflections are not merely speculative. Some halakhic norms are not derived from revelation but rest on a sevarah—autonomous human dis‑ cernment. R. Zvi Hirsch Heyyot formulates this notion: Many matters in Oral Law that have come down to us . . . only through sevarah and human discernment, have the power of a Torah ruling, as was said . . . “if you will, say it is a sevarah, and if you will, say it is from the Torah.” We have thus seen that matters apprehended through human reason and judgment are as valuable as if they had been learned from the Torah.18

15 See Levinger, Maimonides as Philosopher, 51. For a more detailed analysis see ibid., chapter 4, and Guide II:33. See also Avraham Melamed, ”Natural Law in Jewish Political Thought” (in Hebrew), Daat 17 (1986), 52–55; idem, “ ‘Mavo ba-‘inian hativ‘i’: Maimonides’ Attitude to Natural Law” (in Hebrew), lecture delivered at the Ninth Congress of Jewish Studies. I thank Dr. Melamed for providing me with the unpublished version of his lecture. 16 Moses Israel Hazzan, Responsa Kerakh shel Romi, #26. 17 Yosef Engel, Beit Ha‑Otsar, Part I (Pietrkov, 1928) 196. 18 Zvi Hirsch Heyyot, Mavo la-Talmud (Jerusalem: Divrei Hakhamim, 1958), 291. See also Menachem Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles, trans. Bernard Auerbach and Melvin J. Sykes, vol. 2 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publications Society, 1994), 987–1014. See also Avi Sagi, “A Philosophical Analysis of S’vara,” S’vara 2 (1991), 3–7; idem, “S’vara and the Concept of Torah,” S’vara, 2 (1992), 5–7. Some supporters of the argument from revelation are aware of the difficulties entailed by the view that sevarah is a legal source, and suggest explanations. Thus, for instance, Faur argues in his book that “the rabbinical sevarah is not parallel to natural reason in Roman jurisprudence and in scholastic philosophy, and

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Advocates of the argument from revelation claim that, although some norms are indeed predicated on human knowledge, they only become halakhically compelling due to divine command. Only the sages, or others like them, whose authority derives from divine command, are permitted to exercise their judgment. This claim would appear to justify the first prem‑ ise, namely, that all norms are ultimately grounded on an act of revelation. This objection raises questions concerning the meaning of the authority vested in halakhic institutions, an issue beyond the scope of this paper. Let us just say that, because of the status of the sevarah, the authority of the sages is hard to reconcile with a positivist account. In the following discus‑ sion, I rely on Richard de George’s distinction between epistemic and deon‑ tic authority.19 Epistemic authority rests on a specific body of knowledge that, in principle, is accessible to all. A further assumption is that those who recognize an epistemic authority themselves possess knowledge in the relevant field. This type of authority is epitomized by scientists: sci‑ entific knowledge is potentially open to all, and the authority of scientists is acknowledged by their peers, who are versed in the field. In contrast, deontic authority rests on the power to legislate and establish norms; in some legal theories, this authority is epitomized by legislators. Concerning rabbinic rulings based on sevarah,20 epistemic authority is thus the more suitable paradigm. The sages justify their decisions in terms of consider‑ ations potentially intelligible to all, rather than by virtue of their author‑ ity—“Does this matter depend on age? This matter depends on reason!”21

acts only as a rhetorical device” (Faur, Studies in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, 64). His arguments, however, are not persuasive. For further discussion of sevarah, see below. 19 See Richard T. De George, “Epistemic Authority,” in Authority: A Philosophical Analysis, ed. R. Baine Harris (University, AL: University of Alabama Press, 1976), 76–93; idem, The Nature and Limits of Authority (Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 1985), chs. 3–4. 20 This discussion is explicitly confined to sevarah, since rabbinic authority might operate differently in other halakhic domains. For further discussion see Avi Sagi, “It Is Not in Heaven”: Issues in the Philosophy of Halakhah (in Hebrew) (Ein Tsurim: Merkaz Yaakov Herzog, 1992), chs. 6, 8. See also idem, “Models of Authority and the Duty of Obedience in Halakhic Literature,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 20 (1995): 1–24. 21  TB Bava Bathra 142b. But if their authority is indeed epistemic, why obey the sages? De George rightly points out that epistemic authority is not “obeyed,” in the strict sense of the term, and lacks powers of enforcement. Is it then justified to claim that rabbinic authority in this case is indeed epistemic? These are serious matters, but beyond the scope of this paper; I hope to discuss them elsewhere. I can merely indicate here that, in the realm of sevarah, rabbinic authority does not endow norms with validity, but rather reflects the fact that the halakhic system, like all legal systems, is concerned with ensuring its own continuity and uniformity. Consequently, the authority enjoyed by the sages does not lead to a deontic model.

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In other words, rational knowledge rather than God’s command serves to justify norms in the realm of natural law.22 Both the theory and the praxis of Halakhah are thus compatible with a broad view of the concept of mitzvah, although other views, endorsing a different model of the meaning of Halakhah, can also be found. On the broad view, Halakhah is the complex of norms incumbent on Jews. These norms are “God’s word,” in the sense that some of them were commanded by God, and the rest reflect basic values God considers desirable, even if He did not actually command them. In contrast, the restrictive view equates the concept of mitzvah with the positive commands originating in revela‑ tion and the inferences that follow from them through an agreed process of interpretation. A theoretical analysis does not require that we choose between these views. I merely claim that the broader view relies on a long tradition and it would therefore be unjustified to dismiss it out of hand. Let us now consider whether the second premise is more successful in supporting the argument from revelation. This premise argues that God does nothing redundant. It follows that the norms of natural law are com‑ pelling solely because of their source in divine command. The assumption latent in this claim is that revelation has one purpose only—through this act, God teaches that these norms are exclusively predicated on His com‑ mands. But Saadia Gaon had already suggested that other reasons for rev‑ elation are also possible. Since he affirms natural law, Saadia Gaon asks why divine revelation is necessary at all.23 His answers to this question rest on the assumption that, while norms need not be justified in terms of God’s 22 Since rabbinic authority in the natural realm is only epistemic, the assumption that the obligation to obey corresponds to a specific model of authority would indicate that rabbinical instructions do not create an obligation of obedience, or no more than a prima facie obligation. Bahyah ibn Paquda indeed argues so explicitly, limiting the scope of the biblical injunction to obey instructions (Deuteronomy 17:8–11) to rulings that lack a rational source, for which one must “rely on one’s traditions.” Regarding “the duties of the heart,” however, which rest on rational grounds, “you should investigate them with your reason, understanding and judgment, till the truth becomes clear to you and false notions are dispelled.” See Duties of the Heart, translation Moses Hyamson (Jerusalem: Boys Town, 1962), 30–31. 23 See Saadia Gaon, Book of Beliefs and Opinions, Treatise III, ch. 3. The underlying assumptions here refute Fox’s interpretation of Saadia. According to Fox, Saadia does not support a doctrine of natural law and views rationality not as the basis of norms but as a conclusion that follows from them. But if Saadia hints that revelation might be redundant and that some norms are not predicated on a divine command, then Fox’s interpretation is implausible. Other statements by Saadia also indicate his explicit endorsement of the natural law doctrine. See n. 14 above. See his Commentary on Proverbs, Kapih edn., 241, as well as Eliezer Goldman, “R. Saadia Gaon’s Ethical Theory” (in Hebrew), Daat 2–3 (1978– 79); idem, “R. Saadia Gaon and the Torah va-Avodah Idea” (in Hebrew), Religious-Zionism

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command, human beings require God’s assistance to attain knowledge of these norms. In other words, revelation does not justify the norms and merely reflects the limitations of human knowledge. Hence, a distinction is required between two possible forms of dependence on God’s command— strong and weak dependence. Strong dependence assumes that norms depend on God’s command for their validity, whereas weak dependence argues that norms are independently valid but human beings, either perma‑ nently or temporarily, depend on God’s command for knowledge of them.24 Another assumption is also latent in this claim: that the meaning of God’s command is identical for all norms, implying that moral norms, like ritual norms, are only valid because of God’s command. This assumption is crucial to any attempt to refute the doctrine of natural law, but its necessity is not clear. Why not assume that God’s command determines the norms in some realms, while in others it discovers norms that do not depend on it for their validity? The possibility of a stratified normative system relies on a consideration dating back as far as Plato. In the Euthyphro, Plato is concerned with the relation between God’s command and the intrinsic validity of moral values, a question known as the Euthyphro dilemma.25 The fact that God’s com‑ mand is co-extensive with specific moral norms is not necessarily indica‑ tive of the relation between the command and the norms, and this is the question that Plato addresses: Is act x good because God commanded it? Or did God command act x because it is good? The first option denies the intrinsic validity of natural law, while the second assumes that some norms are, indeed, intrinsically valid, regardless of God’s command. If God is a good and perfect moral entity, His commands will be morally right, even if He has not commanded them directly. The argument from revelation assumes that the fact that God has commanded all the norms implies that this command is the only source of their validity. The Euthyphro dilemma, however, indicates that God’s command can function in different ways: it can determine good and evil, but can also merely discover them. Regarding the norms of natural law, a more plausible assumption is that God’s command reveals rather than determines them. This assumption

in Changing Times, ed. Yehezkel Cohen (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz ha-Dati–Ne’emanei Torah va-Avodah, 1989), 141–145. 24 On the distinction between these two types of dependence see Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman, Religion and Morality, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam–Atlanta, GA: Rodopi, 1995), Introduction (henceforth, Sagi and Statman 1995). 25 For a detailed analysis of the dilemma and a bibliography, see ibid.

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could explain why, through the ages, the rabbis have persistently endeav‑ ored to avoid conflicts between the commands of the Torah and rational judgment, a notion formulated by R. David ben Abi Zimra: “And the judg‑ ments of our Torah must accord with reason and sevarah.”26 This principle is groundless if norms are solely determined by God’s command, but per‑ fectly plausible if the norms of natural law imply that God’s commands reflect the activity of a good God discovering independent, intrinsically valuable norms.27 Autonomous reason, then, is not only independent of the Torah but actually determines its interpretation.28 Finally, I would like to comment on the Maimonidean ruling with which I opened this discussion. First, Maimonides is not concerned with the jus‑ tification of the Noahide commandments, but with the motivation that should guide the “righteous of the nations.” The subject of the ruling is not the status of the Noahide code, but the motivation of the person abiding by it. This is an important distinction: even if the justification of these norms is that they are intrinsically rational rather than derived from a divine source, anyone choosing to abide by them because they were commanded by God is considered one of the “righteous of the nations.” Furthermore, although Maimonides distinguishes “the righteous of the nations” from the wise, he

26 RaDBAZ, Responsa (1866), 1:52. 27 For further discussion of morality’s dependence on religion in Jewish tradition see Daniel Statman and Avi Sagi, “Morality’s Dependence on Religion in Jewish Tradition” (in Hebrew), in Between Religion and Ethics, ed. Daniel Statman and Avi Sagi (RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1993), 115–144 (henceforth Statman and Sagi 1993). The correspondence between R. Harlap and R. Hirschensohn is illuminating in this context. R. Harlap raises a question that parallels the Euthyphro dilemma: What is meant by the statement, “Its ways are pleasant?”: “Is it that, as such, the nature of these ways is pleasure, truth, peace, and calm, only we did not know this and God, may He be blessed, revealed this to us, or are pleasure and sweetness found in them only after we have been commanded, and we derive pleasure and joy from observance?” His answer to this dilemma is: “And I have proof from Yevamoth 15a, where the verse ‘its ways are pleasant’ changes the ruling. Were we to say that all the pleasure found in them is due to the command of God, may He be blessed, we would have to accept the [original] ruling, as it would also be inspired by the sublime pleasure and joy found in all the commandments. You must therefore [admit] that it is their nature that is pleasant and sweet.” R. Hirschensohn accepts R. Harlap’s analysis, submits further proof and states: “ ‘Its ways are pleasant’ is because of the ways in themselves, and the Torah will not command anything that contradicts reason. It tells us things our reason is too limited to understand, but not things that contradict reason, for whatever contradicts reason is folly” (Malki ba‑Kodesh, part 4, 159–162). 28 On this question see the revealing statement by R. Hazzan, Kerakh shel Romi, #8, 26, and idem, Nahala Le‑Israel (Rome, 1851), 16–17. See also Avi Sagi, “God’s Moral Traits in Halakhic Literature and the Status of Ethics in Halakhah” (in Hebrew), in Studies in Halakhah and Jewish Thought (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1994) (henceforth Sagi 1994).

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never claims the righteous are better. “Wisdom” is a highly honorable attri‑ bute in Maimonidean terminology, and we have no reason to assume that the “righteous of the nations” are in any way superior to the wise.29 The argument from revelation thus cannot serve to refute the doctrine of natu‑ ral law. ii. The Argument from Motivation The argument from motivation claims that “reliance on reason detracts from the religious significance of observance. Since the commandments were given in Heaven, searching for them in nature or reason is pointless.”30 Believers should not be motivated by autonomous rational knowledge but by heteronomy, namely, by an acknowledgment “of the external character of God’s commands.”31 This argument rests on three premises: 1. The divine commandments contain the norms of natural law. 2. The source of the commandments is the Sinai revelation. 3. The only reason for the commandments is God’s command.

Therefore, 4. Believers should act out of acceptance of the divine authority.

Since this argument clearly relies on the argument from revelation, which has already been refuted, it could already be dismissed at this stage. Nevertheless, it still merits consideration because it voices a basic religious intuition: that the proper motivation for believers is to take on “the yoke of the kingdom of Heaven.” Englard bases his claim on several sources, among them the following rabbinic saying: R. Elazar b. Azariyah says: Why should a man not say, I cannot wear clothes of mixed fibers, I cannot eat pork, I cannot have forbidden intercourse, but rather, I certainly can, but what shall I do that my Father in Heaven has so ordered me, as we are taught: “And I have separated you from the peoples,

29 For further discussion see Levinger, Maimonides as Philosopher, chs. 1 and 4; Sagi 1994, n. 27. These conclusions assume that the manuscript version is the correct one. But even according to the printed version, nothing in this passage suggests that Maimonides rejects natural law. A person who observes these norms merely because of “a rational decision” cannot be considered wise since, for Maimonides as for Aquinas, natural law, like rational law, is divine. 30 Englard, Introduction to Legal Theory, 67; idem, “Interaction,” 121–122. 31  Ibid., 121.

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that you should be mine.” He thus turns away from sin and takes upon him‑ self the yoke of the kingdom of Heaven.32

But even assuming that the only suitable motivation for believers is obe‑ dience, how does it follow that norms lack intrinsic validity? Logically, as I argued above, justification and motivation are separate issues, and the proper motivation for abiding by certain norms need not imply the justifi‑ cation of these norms. A preliminary question is whether, concerning the norms of natural law, submitting to divine authority is the appropriate motivation. In his intro‑ duction to Avot, Maimonides argues that this is a suitable motivation for the revealed [shim`iot] commandments, but not for the norms of natural law: “[As] the soul that craves for any of them and longs for it is a flawed soul, and [the] noble soul will not yearn at all for any of these evils, nor will it be pained when refraining from them.”33 Since all the norms mentioned by R. Elazar deal with ritual prohibitions, Maimonides concludes that R. Elazar’s homily is irrelevant to natural law. This distinction between different types of religious motivation could be justified on several ways. We could argue that moral norms are inher‑ ent in human existence, and precede religious norms “in character and time.” Observing these norms because of religious reasons would thus reflect a basic human flaw, which could make compliance with these norms meaningless.34 Moreover, if God is assumed to be a morally perfect entity, whose will is determined on independent grounds, why assume He would require the faithful to act immorally? The religious obligation of imitatio Dei requires believers to resemble God in their actions: just as God’s commandments convey the best of divine knowledge, so should the actions of human beings. Although this type of motivation is not logically necessary, it is still highly plausible in light of the imitatio Dei obligation.35 Supporters of the argument from motivation are thus entrapped—the required religious motivation cannot be the basis for further inferences because its scope is unclear, and because motivation says nothing about justification. Two options are now open to them. The first is to endorse an extreme positivist theory of the commandments: if God’s command 32 Sifra, Kedoshim on Leviticus 20:26. 33 Maimonides, Eight Chapters, ch. 6. 34 Kuzari, II:48. 35 See Robert M. Adams, “Autonomy and Theological Ethics,” Religious Studies 15 (1979), 191–194; Sagi and Statman 1995, ch. 7, section 3, and ch. 8.

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is the only reason for the norms, we can plausibly infer that it is also the appropriate motivation for the believer. This, indeed, is Englard’s view. The argument from motivation thus rests on the argument from revelation and lacks any independent justification; moreover, its reliance on unnecessary assumptions undermines it altogether. The second option open to supporters of this argument is to develop a theory of worship that is religiously acceptable and can supply the required motivation as well as undermine the doctrine of natural law. Englard, who endorses the argument from motivation, links this argument to a specific model of worship. This model presents religious life as theocentric, and God as the sole focus of life. The norms incumbent on believers should reflect this approach, the highest expression of faith being to relinquish all human values while submitting unconditionally to the divine will.36 Advocates of this model of religious life do admit that some halakhic norms are not theocentric, their purpose being, rather, to ensure the wel‑ fare of individuals and of society. These norms, however, as well as the prin‑ ciples from which they are derived, are considered means to an end rather than the ultimate goal of Halakhah,37 and the power of religious norms to override all other value systems is adduced in support of this view. The work of Yeshayahu Leibowitz has strongly influenced this model of worship. Leibowitz forcefully argues that not only is there a contradic‑ tion between religious life and human values, but that this contradiction is the very essence of Judaism. The sacrifice of Isaac epitomizes Judaism, and embodies the notion that “all human values are thrust aside before the love and fear of God.”38 Hence, the basis of halakhic norms is not a concern with human needs but the absolute obligation to worship God. Nevertheless, even if it does echo a religious intuition, this model cannot refute the doctrine of natural law. First, not only does this model assume a contradiction between religious life and human needs, it also endows this contradiction with religious value. This dual assumption, however, is nei‑ ther empirically nor conceptually necessary. Empirically, the philosophic and halakhic sources suggesting that human values openly contradict the commandments of the Torah are few. In the main, philosophy as well as

36 Englard, “Interaction,” 119–120. 37 Ibid., 123. 38 Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Yahadut, am yehudi umedinat Israel (Tel Aviv: Schocken, 1975), 23. For an analysis of Leibowitz’s position see Avi Sagi, “The Akedah: A Comparative Study of the Thought of Kierkegaard and Leibowitz” (in Hebrew), Daat 23 (1989), 121–134; idem, “Soloveitchik and Leibowitz as Theoreticians”; see also Sagi and Statman 1995, chs. 6–7.

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Halakhah tends to minimize these contradictions at both the theoretical and the practical levels. At the theoretical level, this is accomplished by offering moral justifications for any ostensible immoralities, the story of the sacrifice of Isaac being one of the most poignant illustrations of this ten‑ dency. No one reading the sources could fail to be impressed by the persis‑ tent attempt to explain this command. Philosophic writings are unwilling to admit that this command creates any contradiction between morality and religion, and invest considerable effort in attempting to eliminate it.39 At the practical level, halakhic thinkers take pains to reconcile halakhic norms with feelings of justice and fairness.40 This model of religious life is thus conceptually possible but unneces‑ sary. An alternative religious model could be suggested, arguing that no contradiction is possible between human understanding and religious commandments. Several thinkers have suggested this model, and particu‑ larly R. Moses Israel Hazzan. In his view, the assumption that “religion and reason are like two conflicting foes” is groundless, since “true religion and reason were given by one shepherd, and should therefore be in complete agreement.”41 On these grounds, he concludes that we must strive to inter‑ pret Halakhah in ways that accord with rationality.42 Furthermore, as already pointed out,43 analyzing the concept of worship without relating to the object of worship is methodologically implausible, as different perceptions of the divinity shape different types of worship. The concept of worship cannot be analyzed independently, disregard‑ ing the essence of the God worshipped.44 Believers experience a sense of commitment to God based on what they have been told concerning the nature of God and His will. Decisions as to the type of worship desirable thus depend on the nature of the commanding God. The argument from worship thus rests on either a specific perception of God or an attempt to describe worship while ignoring the essence of the God being worshipped. If it rests on the former, this model of worship embraces an image of God 39 Soloveitchik and Leibowitz seem to be the only scholars who relate to the sacrifice of Isaac as the expression of an insoluble contradiction. See my articles cited in the previous note, and also Sagi 1994. For an analysis of another example see Avi Sagi, “The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem,” Harvard Theological Review 87 (1994), 324–326. 40 See Eliezer Berkowitz, Halakhah: Its Power and Function (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1981), 115–117; Statman and Sagi 1993; Sagi 1994. 41  See Hazzan, Kerakh shel Romi, #8, #26. 42 Ibid., #27. 43 Sagi and Statman 1995, ch. 8. 44 cf. Ninian Smart, The Concept of Worship (London: MacMillan, 1972), 51.

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as small‑minded, as concerned only with His own affairs.45 But the claim that this is the image of God in Judaism is highly questionable; Judaism views God as merciful and gracious, and His virtues as the paradigm of moral behavior.46 Hence, this model can best be supported by relying on the latter. Leibowitz, who endorses this model of worship, assumes this premise explicitly, claiming that making positive statements about God is wrong. As mentioned, however, attempts to justify this description of worship are problematic, and this model of worship can hardly serve to refute the doc‑ trine of natural law. iii. The Argument from the Covenant Faur suggests this argument in “Understanding the Covenant,” and Elon formulates it as follows: “Even commandments and rulings required by reason and nature—jus naturale—have their source and binding effect in the covenant that Israel made with God.”47 This argument assumes that the covenant implies exclusivity, meaning that only the covenant can be the basis for justifying the norms it encompasses. However, it does not suggest a systematic theory of the covenant idea, showing why the assumption of exclusivity is necessary. The covenant idea, the foundation of this argu‑ ment, has been critiqued by Novak, and I do not discuss it here.48 Novak points out that the argument from the covenant presupposes that allu‑ sions to natural law refer to Cicero’s classic Roman version of natural law, which views both God and human beings as subject to norms defined as natural, implying that they are part of the metaphysical structure of reality. In contrast, the argument from the covenant argues that norms are legiti‑ mate because of the covenant rather than because of any natural order. A more moderate version claims that the norms of natural law are the fundamental rules of human culture. They do not originate in the

45 Although Kierkegaard appears to stress the contradiction between religion and morality, he was aware of the fact that a theocentric model of worship requires this conception of divinity. For an extensive analysis of Kierkegaard’s position see Avi Sagi, Kierkegaard, Religion, and Existence: The Voyage of the Self, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam– Atlanta, GA: Rodopi, 2000), chs. 8 and 9; idem, “The Suspension of the Ethical and the Religious Meaning of Ethics in Kierkegaard’s Thought,” Philosophy of Religion 32 (1992): 83–103. 46 On this point, see the extensive discussion in Sagi 1994. See also Hirschensohn, Malki ba‑Kodesh, Part I, 38. 47 Elon, Jewish Law, vol. 1, 234. 48 Novak, “Natural Law, Halakhah and the Covenant,” 54–62.

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metaphysical order of reality but in human knowledge and are a necessary condition for the organization of any human community. The covenant was agreed on by the organized Jewish community—the people of Israel— and God. It could thus be claimed that the covenant entails preconditions on both the divine and the human side, which sustain as well as reflect the justification of natural law. On the divine side, the assumption is that God does not make a covenant with irrational individuals, certainly not with a human mass lacking the basic attributes of a civilized human community. Several halakhic thinkers formulate this assumption. For instance, R. Nissim Gaon claims that God gave the Torah to Israel because Israel complied with the basic norms of natural law, while the other nations did not. The nations cannot defend this behavior by claiming that they were not commanded to live by these norms, as these norms “are binding on everyone from the day that God cre‑ ated human beings on earth.”49 A similar consideration applies to the human party to the covenant. What would be the meaning of creating a partnership with an unenlight‑ ened community? If the covenant reflects mutual agreement, we must assume that the human party can also evaluate it in the light of an indepen‑ dent system of values. In sum, a consideration of the covenant idea must include an analysis of the conditions that make the covenant meaningful. This analysis shows that the covenant assumes a number of preconditions, namely, that the community entering the covenant is a civilized commu‑ nity, and that the basic norms of its existence are independent of the cov‑ enant itself. Even if norms are only justified because of the covenant, the question still remains—what exactly does the covenant do? Whereas opponents of natural law will probably claim that the covenant, and only the cove‑ nant, makes these norms legitimate, supporters will argue that the norms included in the covenant can be grouped into two categories. The first includes norms that would be invalid without the covenant, the second, norms that are intrinsically valid, which the covenant merely reaffirms. The argument from the covenant is contingent on proving that only the cov‑ enant endows norms with validity and this proof in turn depends on the claim that the covenant is only valid because of God’s command. But this argument reintroduces, through the back door, the argument from revela‑ tion, already refuted. 49 Sefer ha-Mafteah, Preface; cf. Guide I:2.

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Finally, the argument from the covenant fails to contend with one critical question: why is the covenant binding? Advocates of this argument could claim that the only meaning of the covenant is the commitment to abide by its norms. To use John Searle’s terms, the covenant is an “institutional fact,” a fact that becomes constitutive of a certain type of behavior. Other examples of such facts are games, such as chess or football, which require a specific behavior.50 This answer, however, is questionable, as Searle’s position has been criti‑ cized on several counts.51 Conceptually, the fact that a “covenant” entails a commitment to keep specific norms cannot be grounds for imposing an obligation on the parties to the agreement. The parties must decide whether they wish to enter the covenant and accept its terms. The rabbis show some awareness of this when they argue regarding the Sinai cove‑ nant: “This entails a strong protest against the Torah.”52 In other words, the covenant is valid only because of the parties’ prior commitment to abide by it, rather than because it is a fact in itself.53 The obligation to abide by the covenant rests on a general moral consideration which, indeed, belongs to the domain of natural law—commitments must be kept. R. Hirschensohn’s remarks are interesting in this context: The people of Israel are bound by the Torah and the mitzvot not only because they have assumed this obligation through the covenant and through their oath . . . We are bound by the Torah and the mitzvot mainly because of our commitment . . . and the sages, the judges and the elders had no power [to impose the covenant] since, had this been the case, it would have been a decree rather than a case of willing acceptance.54

50 See John Searle, “How to Derive ‘Ought’ from ‘Is,’ ” in The Is/Ought Question: A Collection of Papers on the Central Problems in Moral Philosophy, ed. W. D. Hudson (London: Macmillan 1969), 120–134. 51  Most critiques appear in Hudson’s anthology. See, in particular, the contributions by Anthony Flew, J. E. McClellan and B. P. Komisar, and R. M. Hare. 52 TB Shabbat 88a. Rashi comments: “Should God call them to answer—Why did you not keep the commitment you took upon yourselves?—they could argue that they were coerced into acceptance.” 53 On this question, see also Daniel Statman, “Is There a Moral Obligation to Keep the Divine Covenant” in Summoning: Ideas of the Covenant and Literary Theory, ed. Ellen Spolsky (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 71–90. 54 See Hirschensohn, Malki ba-Kodesh, Part 3, 80. See also Hirschensohn, Eleh Divrei ha-Brit, Part 2 (Jerusalem: 1927), 36–39, 119 122, 168–174. Elsewhere, Hirschensohn writes: ”The obligation to abide by the covenant is predicated on a sevarah . . . and it was on the basis of this obligation that they committed themselves to abide by the Torah given to us at Sinai.” See J. D. Eisenstein, ed., Otsar Israel (in Hebrew) (New York: Hebrew Publishing Co., 1906), s.v. sevarah, vol. 7, 136.

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This general consideration, which points to a moral commitment as the basis of the covenant, pertains not only to the circumstances prevailing at the time the covenant was made but is also the basis for the commitment of later generations.55 The argument from the covenant, then, fails to refute the doctrine of natural law, and even seems to support it. iv. The Argument from Legal Monism This argument views Halakhah as a monistic system, meaning it does not recognize any other system as legally binding. In R. Herzog’s formulation: “Only the authorized sources of the Torah are acceptable to Halakhah, and no basis can be found in these sources for assuming a dual or parallel sys‑ tem of authority.”56 Two main reasons can be offered to sustain the notion of Halakhah as a monistic legal system. The first is the structural uniformity purportedly characterizing the halakhic system, as manifest in its principles, its rules, and the terms in which halakhic norms are formulated and interpreted.57 This structural uniformity reflects the fact that the common source of all halakhic norms is the written and oral law. On these grounds precisely, McCoubrey argued that Jewish law does not distinguish between natural and positivist law.58 Kelsen’s legal theory lends further credence to the view of Halakhah as a monistic system.59 Kelsen argues that every legal system features one basic formal principle that serves to justify every single norm within it. This principle is the basic norm—basic because it does not rely on any other, and because it serves as the foundation of all others. This formal

55 As shown below, Saadia Gaon and R. Simeon Skop explicitly formulate this notion. The Talmud touches on this: “Yet even so, they reaccepted it in the days” (TB Shabbat 88a). But this formulation merely indicates that a voluntary commitment to obey the covenant was required at that time, while the present argument suggests that this commitment should be constantly renewed. Aware of this problem, R. Hirschensohn suggests a way of reconciling the moral principle with the talmudic statement in his Eile Divrei ha-Brit. 56 R. Isaac H. Herzog, A Constitution for Israel According to the Torah (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1989), 2, 76. Compare Sinclair, “Defending the Lives,” 37, n. 19. Although R. Herzog refers in this passage to the law of kings rather than to natural law, the principle he suggests applies to both realms. 57 See Elon, Jewish Law, vol. 1, 151. See also Menachem Elon, ed., The Principles of Jewish Law (Jerusalem: Keter, 1975), 5. 58 See McCoubrey, Development of Naturalist Legal Theory, 12. 59 See Elon, Jewish Law, vol. 1, 232–234; Englard, “Interaction of Morality,” 155; idem, Introduction, ch. 5.

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principle means that each legal system is exclusive and independent of extrinsic factors. In formal terms then, a norm lacks legitimacy unless anchored in this basic principle. Religious advocates of this argument reject natural law on the grounds that the basic norm of Halakhah is “God’s command as found in the Torah.”60 The assumption of structural uniformity, however, is inaccurate. First, some of the basic principles pertaining to the “legal” realm, which regulates human relations, are irrelevant to the “religious” realm, which deals with ritual norms. Elon has pointed out these differences.61 Thus, for instance, the principle of freedom “to make conditions contrary to an express bibli‑ cal law,” and the principle of dina de‑malkhuta dina, apply to the legal realm but not to the ritual. R. Moses Israel Hazzan further assumed that, in the legal realm, unlike the ritual, the judge is authorized to deviate from hal‑ akhic principles and exercise independent judgment: And after clarifying the vast difference between the divine or spiritual laws, and the rational or political laws . . . any transgression against Heaven that cannot be rationally said to offend other people, such as forbidden inter‑ course, or forbidden foods, and so forth, which are brought before the judge to consider and punish the offenders . . . the judge sees whether the testimony is acceptable according to the Torah and according to the law books avail‑ able to him, passes sentence, condemns the guilty and acquits the innocent, all according to the law and the evidence he has carefully weighed, without in any way relying on the assessments of his own judgment . . . Meaning that, since the mitzvah itself is not derived through rational understanding, the judge is told to adjudicate this matter according to the laws of the Torah and not according to his own discernment, which cannot serve him . . . we have nothing in these matters but the Torah’s decrees . . . But regarding political matters, the opposite is the case. Since their whole substance is rational and necessary, such as robbery, and theft, and fraud, and torts, and damages, and so forth, and their very reason is to attain a political settlement, then it is in the power of a qualified and God‑fearing judge to pursue justice as it appears to him, even if it means that he and his sentence will contradict legal maxims, such as “the burden of proof is on the claimant.”62

R. Hazzan thus argues that these two realms are not inspired by the same principles, and that the differences between them reflect fundamental divergences. Whereas the “religious” system is exclusively determined by 60 Elon, Jewish Law, vol. 1, 232–233. 61  Ibid., vol. 1, 122–141. 62 Hazzan, Responsa Kerakh shel Romi, #17, #16. For discussion of the judge’s power to deviate from rules, see Sagi 1994.

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the divine command, the civil system tries to ensure the rational orga‑ nization of social life. Hence, whenever required for the attainment of its fundamental goals, the civil system leaves room for the exercise of human judgment.63 Another example is the justification advanced by R. Nissim Gerondi for the judicial authority of the king.64 R. Nissim claims that Halakhah is clearly a dual system, since it strives to attain two different goals. One goal is socio-political or, in R. Nissim’s terms, “ordering the polity,” while the other is religious, “endowing our nation with the divine abundance which clings to us . . . in defiance of any rational understanding.” The first goal is univer‑ sal, the second uniquely Jewish. Given his assumption about a dual system, R. Nissim concludes that the halakhic rulings incumbent on the judges and the Sanhedrin, who are charged with implementing the second aim, are not binding on the king who may, for instance, initiate judicial proceed‑ ings without forewarning. The king, who is charged with securing social jus‑ tice, can draw inspiration from the judicial systems of other nations, since “other nations, in some of their judgments and rulings, might be closer to a just political order than some of the rulings of the Torah.” R. Nissim thus acknowledges the essentially dual nature of the halakhic system, challeng‑ ing the notion that Halakhah has a single, religious aim. Institutions and principles geared to the attainment of human aims reflect rational consid‑ erations, while those in the religious realm are based on God’s command.65 63 I have quoted from Hazzan at length since, without his explanation, monists could argue that there is only one source of authority in all realms, even though different principles apply. This passage clarifies that, as I pointed out above, this is not merely a coincidence. 64 Derashot ha-Ran, Feldman edn. (Jerusalem, Machon Shalem, 1977), 11, 189–193. 65 Monists might reject this example on the grounds that “the law of kings” is an extra‑halakhic institution and therefore cannot be the basis for inferences pertaining to the halakhic realm. From their point of view, however, this may be a self‑defeating claim, since it suggests that Halakhah acknowledges a normative system operating independently. For a detailed analysis of R. Nissim’s position, see Menachem Lorberbaum, Politics and the Limits of Law in Jewish Mediaeval Thought: Maimonides and Rabbenu Nissim Gerondi (Ph.D. dissertation: Hebrew University, 1992), particularly ch. 5. Eliav Shochetman claimed in “Halakhic Recognition of the Laws of the State of Israel” (in Hebrew), Shenaton Hamishpat Haivri 16–17 (1990–1991), 433, that “the political ordering (tikkun) R. Nissim speaks of is not a political ordering according to human views, but according to the halakhic view.” This strange claim explicitly differs from the clear statement of R. Nissim that, at times, the political order of other nations is to be preferred to that of the people of Israel. In the passage quoted by Shochetman, R. Nissim merely argues that, since the king is not subject to the rule of the Torah, he could also stop others from complying. It is therefore incumbent on the king “to have a Torah scroll with him always,” to show that he does not intend to affront the Torah in any way, and will ensure obedience. No available evidence backs the claim that R. Nissim is suggesting that Halakhah determines the nature of

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The second claim in favor of legal monism, based on Kelsen’s theory, is no less problematic. This analysis does not focus on Kelsen’s theory but on the extent to which it provides an adequate description of Halakhah. Let us assume that God’s command as embodied in the Torah is, indeed, the basic norm of Halakhah. Do all halakhic norms then become valid because of this basic norm, or are there norms that derive their validity from a source unconditioned by Halakhah? This question returns the discussion to the conclusions of the argument from revelation. On the basis of that discussion, we could argue that halakhic norms are valid either because of God’s command or because of their inherent rationality, regardless of whether this validity rests on their rationality as such or is mediated by a legislative act. Once the halakhic system acknowledges its essential duality, it cannot endorse “a basic norm” as a self-evident notion. Consider, for instance, the halakhic principle of dina de‑malkhuta dina, which recognizes the validity of an alternative legal system. Supporters of Kelsen’s basic norm will obvi‑ ously argue that the validity of this principle is anchored in the halakhic system itself, while some halakhic sages have indeed attempted to legiti‑ mize this principle in halakhic terms.66 Others, however, have sought to rely on extra‑halakhic arguments. R. Samuel ben Meir (Ha-RaSHBaM), for instance, writes as follows: All taxes, excises, and levies imposed by kings within their realm are law, and all the king’s subjects voluntarily assume the obligation to obey the king’s laws and rules. Hence, these are laws, and whoever takes hold of another’s property in accord with the royal law of the land is not a thief.67

Thus, the principle of dina de‑malkhuta dina is valid because “all the king’s subjects,” Jews as well as Gentiles, have agreed to it, and their accord is obvi‑ ously not contingent on Halakhah. Might the supporters of legal monism on Kelsenian grounds reject R. Samuel b. Meir’s claim because it does not fit Kelsen’s theory? If their rejection rests only on Kelsen’s theory then, to some extent, this is a case of petitio principii: since validity depends on the basic norm, R. Samuel’s claim is unacceptable. If their claim, however, is that Kelsen’s theory is to be adopted due to considerations immanent

political organization, or that the exclusive aim of a proper political order is to abide by the Torah. 66 For an extensive discussion of these attempts see Shmuel Shiloh, Dina de‑malkhuta dina (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Institute for the Study of Hebrew Law, 1975), ch. 3. 67 TB Bava Bathra 54b, s.v. “And about what Samuel said.”

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in the halakhic system, then the onus is on them to prove that this is indeed the case. Several sages endorse the assumption that the legitimation of halakhic norms does not necessarily rely on one basic norm. Thus, for instance, R. Nissim Gaon writes: “As for the commandments that depend on reason and understanding, all are binding from the day that God created human beings, on them and on their children after them, forever and ever.”68 R. Samuel Glasner emphatically rejects legal monism: As for things that human beings find revolting and loathsome, even had the Torah not forbidden them, all those who would transgress are even more abominable than one violating an explicit biblical prohibition. Because transgressing on a matter that enlightened people find abominable, even if not explicitly forbidden by the Torah, is worse than breaching the laws of the Torah . . . since these [transgressors] can no longer be considered to have been created in His image.69

This and other sources in the same vein are not exceptional, confirming the implications mentioned of the discussion of the argument from revelation. The halakhic tradition supporting the legitimacy of sevarah accords with the view of Halakhah as a pluralistic system. R. Shimon Skop, who supports natural law,70 shows that the dual source of halakhic obligations entails a potential conflict. For instance, the Torah forbids charging interest, but R. Skop argues that this prohibition is only intended “as a mitzvah for its own sake”71 and, relying on several laws, acknowledges the lender’s right to charge interest. One of these laws is that betrothal payments can be made with monies received as interest. Had the money not been the lender’s property, he could not have betrothed a woman with it. Another example is the law stating that heirs to interest monies are not bound to return them “because . . . when collecting inter‑ est, they were fully entitled to them.”72 In other words, the legal fact that the lender owns the interest monies is not determined by the biblical injunctions, and even contradicts them. Human ownership of goods is not determined by the divine command: “Even if the divine command forbids 68 R. Nissim, Sefer ha-Mafteah 1b. See also below, in the section on the argument from silence. 69 Moshe Shmuel Glasner, Dor Revi‘i, Commentary on Hullin, Introduction, 26b. 70 A detailed analysis of his halakhic theory appears in Avi Sagi, “Religious Commandments and the Legal System: On the Halakhic Thought of R. Shimon Skop” (in Hebrew), Daat 35 (1994): 99–114 (henceforth Sagi 1994a). 71  She‘arei Yosher (New York, no date), II, 7. 72 Ibid., 9.

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both giving and taking [interest], we nevertheless believe that a debt exists, because mortgages and legal rights are not ruled by commandments and ritual proscriptions.”73 The fact that this contradiction is at all possible shows that God’s com‑ mand is not the basic norm of Halakhah, contrary to the assumption of legal monism. The system of legal rights and obligations used to regulate human relations is not the “laws of the Torah,” but “the agreement of rea‑ son and common sense.”74 In logical terms, to refute legal monism we need not demonstrate that the opposite is true, but merely need to show, as I have above, that a pluralistic theory is a perfectly reasonable option within Halakhah. Monists and pluralists do not disagree over the formal meaning of the notion of legitimacy, but over the meaning of the concept of Halakhah. Whereas monists ascribe this concept only to norms originating in God’s command, thus equating Halakhah with God’s command, pluralists apply it to the whole complex of norms binding on Jews, whether derived from God’s command or from natural law. Because they are religious, pluralists tend to ascribe religious meaning to natural law too, but stop short of reduc‑ ing it to the notion of God’s command. This line of argument was suggested above, in the claim that human knowledge is a gift from God. R. Glasner claims that the realm of natural law reflects the essence of human beings as creatures in God’s image. Hence, failing to abide by certain norms of natural law affronts the honor of God’s creatures, who were created in His image, and, indirectly, the honor of God. Monists seem to blur the distinction between descriptive and normative claims. From a descriptive point of view, Halakhah obviously accepts the fact of legal pluralism.75 The monistic argument is thus more plausible as a normative claim: even assuming that legal pluralism is a fact, it should not be turned into an ideal, for a number of reasons. First, monists could argue that pluralism is detrimental to the halakhic system and its institutions. Second, they could claim that pluralism undermines the religious mean‑ ing that should be ascribed to God’s command as the sole factor shaping Halakhah. These considerations, however, return the discussion to the question of the meaning of Halakhah and the exclusive role of God’s com‑ mand. Monism has little to contribute to this discussion, since the answers 73 Ibid., 8. 74 Ibid., I, 154–155. 75 Compare also Bernard S. Jackson, “Jewish Law or Jewish Laws,” Jewish Law Annual 8 (1987), 13–14, 24–30.

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to these questions cannot be found in a formal argument about legal valid‑ ity. The preceding description showed that God’s command was never perceived as the only source of Halakhah, nor were fears of subverting the halakhic system sufficiently powerful to generate a monistic approach, as uniformity was never its supreme or exclusive value.76 In sum, although legal monists must reject natural law, the evidence does not suggest that their formal considerations are at all relevant to the halakhic system, turn‑ ing this into an unproductive argument. v. The Argument from God’s Absolute Freedom Throughout history, religious thinkers have consistently relied on this argu‑ ment to support the notion that moral norms depend on God’s command. In this view, the notion that God should be compelled to order anything is inconceivable, as this would impair His freedom. Due to the infinite gap alleged to separate God from human beings, God cannot be subject to any kind of norm. This religious intuition, and its literary expressions, has been extensively analyzed elsewhere.77 The following passage from Luther illus‑ trates this approach: God is He for whose will no cause or ground may be laid down as its rule and standard; for nothing is on a level with it or above it, but it is itself the rule for all things. If any rule . . . or cause . . . existed for it, it could no longer be the will of God. What God wills is not right because He ought, or was bound, so to will; on the contrary, what takes place must be right because He so wills it.78

Faur raises a similar consideration: God in Jewish thought is an omnipotent being, categorically superior to any other being. There is nothing outside Him, or any necessitation emanating from His own being, that determines His behavior or that conditions Him. His freedom is categorical and absolute: His behavior and many activities could have been entirely different from what they are. They are what they are, simply, because God freely so willed. God is not conceived as a part of the universe, as the pagan divinities were . . . That is the reason why the notion of natural right is totally foreign to Jewish thought.79

76 For further discussion of this question, see Avi Sagi, “Halakhic Praxis and the Word of God: A Study of Two Models,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 1 (1992), 305–329. 77 Sagi and Statman 1995, Introduction. 78 Quoted in Janine Marie Idziak, ed., Divine Command Morality: Historical and Contemporary Readings (New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 1979), 95. 79 Faur, “Understanding the Covenant,” 39–41.

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This argument rests on the following premises: 1. Judaism views God as an entity unbound by any norm and operating with absolute freedom. 2. The concept of freedom implies purposeless activity, reflecting only arbitrary will.

On the basis of these premises, we conclude that: 3. God’s commands reflect only His will,

and therefore: 4. Natural law must be rejected.

Both the premises and the conclusions of this argument, however, are highly questionable. First, Judaism does not view God as an entity unbound by any norm; in fact, as I show elsewhere, halakhic norms are often assumed to follow from the moral perfection of God.80 Thus, for instance, sages may rely on the claim “far be it from God to commit evil” to justify their rulings.81 Were God not subject to any norm, on what grounds could we assume He would not command acts defined as evil? The application of moral criteria to God’s command thus entails the assumption that God’s actions are not informed by totally arbitrary considerations. This example, and many others, shows that Faur’s “categorical” formu‑ lation is groundless. The portrayal of God as an arbitrary agent conflicts with the prevailing view in Judaism, which, from its inception, has empha‑ sized God’s moral character. Abraham, at the very beginning of the bibli‑ cal saga, argues before God in the name of justice—“Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right” (Genesis 18:25), even when acknowledging the infinite gap that separates God from him—“I who am but dust and ashes” (Genesis 18:27). Were it not for God’s justice and perfection, moreover, the problem of theodicy would not have emerged. Only the perceived dishar‑ mony between the assumption of God’s goodness and the evil of the world gives rise to this problem, which would be meaningless were God to abide solely by His arbitrary will.

80 Sagi 1994. 81  See, for instance, R. Meir Halevi (RaMaH), “RaMaH’s Letter to the Scholars of Lunel” (in Hebrew), in Sanhedri Gedolah, Masekhet Sanhedrin, ed. Y. Halevy Lifschitz, (Jerusalem: Harry Fischel Institute, 1968), 186; R. David Pardo, Responsa Mikhtam Le-David, Hoshen Mishpat, 17; R. Levy ben Habib, Responsa Meharalbah, 147; R. Judah Asad, Responsa Yehuda Ya‘aleh, Part 2, 187.

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In fact, the thesis that morality depends on God is rarely voiced in Judaism, unlike Christianity and Islam.82 Seldom do we find theologi‑ cal formulations such as that suggested by Faur, which is more typical of Protestant Christianity. Judaism tends to see God as a “legal personality, as it were, enjoying rights, bound by obligations, obeying His own laws,”83 a description fitting the perception that God is good, and His command‑ ments reflect His goodness.84 The second premise is also problematic. Faur presents a definition of divine freedom as the only one possible: God’s freedom is assumed to imply purposeless activity, except for God’s own arbitrary will. If God is motivated by His will, however, we could argue that His will forces Him to act as He does. Why is coercion by the will essentially different from the coercion Faur rejects? Moreover, other concepts of freedom, which distin‑ guish coercion by an external factor from activity motivated by the entity’s own nature, are also possible.85 Hence, if God is a morally and rationally perfect entity, then, necessarily, He will not command certain acts, even if not externally coerced in any way. Obviously, more than a discussion of the concept of freedom is required to refute this position, and equating free‑ dom with arbitrariness will not preclude the need for it. A systematic theol‑ ogy is required for this purpose, showing what features can legitimately be ascribed to God. Even granting Faur’s premises, does the conclusion that natural law must be rejected follow? How does a human commitment to norms that were not commanded by God affront God’s freedom? God can command whatever He wishes, and He can even command human beings not to abide by norms derived from natural law. So why should the very existence of these norms offend God’s freedom? Faur appears to be assuming that human freedom as such offends divine freedom, a rather implausible assumption. Support for the notion of God’s freedom need not entail that God must exercise this freedom by contradicting rational human judgment; to assume that He could do so is sufficient. The fact that God has not issued such commands, which is in itself contingent, is evidence of the divine regard for the norms of natural law.

82 See Statman and Sagi 1993. 83 Moshe Silberg, The Talmud’s Way (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1964), 68. 84 See also Sagi and Statman 1995, ch. 2. 85 See, for instance, Baruch Spinoza, Ethic, trans. W. Hale White and Amelia Hutchinson Stirling (London: Oxford University Press, 1937), definition 7.

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Faur was led to this bizarre conclusion by his adherence to the classic Roman version of natural law, which views natural law as the reflection of an eternal order endowed with metaphysical certainty, coercing even God.86 As noted, however, other versions of natural law are possible. We could argue, for instance, that no human society can endure without cer‑ tain basic norms, and this understanding creates a sufficient basis for the justification of natural law. Clearly, then, Faur’s argument cannot serve to refute natural law. vi. The Argument From Silence This argument appears in several formulations. The radical version, sug‑ gested by Fox, claims that Judaism has no theory of natural law, and that Joseph Albo is the first to use “natural law” as a terminus technicus.87 Supporters of this extreme view argue that the absence of a theory of natural law is particularly meaningful in light of the elaborate theoretical refinements this doctrine underwent in the Latin‑Christian milieu.88 More moderate versions argue that Judaism does offer a theory of natural law, but only as an option of “marginal importance.”89 On these grounds, supporters of the argumentum e silentio conclude that the theory of natural law is anti‑ thetical to Judaism, and rely on this to establish the positivism of Halakhah as a system anchored in God’s command. This argument raises two key questions: (1) Is it true that Judaism has no theory of natural law, or at best, one that is marginal? (2) If this is the case, what conclusions should we draw from it? Let us begin with the second question. From the absence of a theory of natural law, supporters of the argument from silence wish to infer that, in Judaism, no norms are predi‑ cated on natural law. But is it possible to rely on theoretical grounds to draw inferences pertaining to the normative realm? Would it then be true to say that, barring a comprehensive ethical theory, there can be no system of ethical norms? The omission of a concept or a theory of “natural law” can‑ not lead to any conclusions concerning the absence of norms that might be described using this concept. The error of this type of inference is even more striking when viewed within the broader historical context that gave rise to natural law theories 86 Faur offers only this version, both in “Understanding the Covenant” and in Studies in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah. 87 Fox, “Maimonides and Aquinas,” xi. 88 J. D. Bleich, “Judaism and Natural Law,” Jewish Law Annual 7 (1987), 6–7. 89 See Englard, Introduction, 67.

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in the Latin-Christian world. Exploring this historical context in depth is beyond the scope of this paper, as these theories developed at different times and for different reasons; I confine myself to one element, on which Fox dwells. In his view, the Catholic Church developed these theories after rejecting the Torah. Given the need to provide a new justification for some of the Torah’s norms, which remained valid despite rejection of the Torah, the Church developed a theory of natural law.90 In other words, the theory of natural law originated as a polemic; since Judaism never confronted a similar problem, it had no compelling reason to adopt this course. Thus far, I have considered whether any factors within Judaism could have encouraged the development of a theory of natural law. We can, how‑ ever, go a step further and argue that Judaism had good reason to refrain from developing such a theory. As mentioned, natural law can derive its validity from sevarah, which need not be commanded by God. Halakhic sages often oppose the notion that laws commanded at Sinai might con‑ tradict basic moral norms; the Sinai revelation cannot right what is wrong; for instance, condone bloodshed.91 The fact that Judaism takes the norms of natural law for granted, as part of a complex of norms binding on every Jew, has curbed the development of a theory of natural law, since, usually, we do not seek theoretical justification for the obvious. Thus an explicit conceptual system is not a necessary criterion of whether norms or ideas are operative in a specific culture.92 The argument from silence rests on the absence of a theory of natural law in Judaism. But does Judaism offer any systematic theory of Halakhah? Were there any such theories available at all before modern theories of Jewish law came into being? Rather, it would appear that, as part of the growing concern with the theoretical dimensions of Halakhah, we also find scholars concerned with the status of natural law in Judaism. If we seek hints of these theories of Halakhah in the classics of Jewish thought, we find several scholars supporting theories of natural law. Let us shift the focus of the discussion to the empirical level. A tradition support‑ ing and justifying natural law begins in writings from the Geonic period, with R. Nissim Gaon and R. Saadia Gaon, continues in the work of medieval

90 See Fox, “Maimonides and Aquinas,” xxx. 91  See Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Masekhta de-Nezikin 4. See also Sinclair, “Defending the Lives,” 37–39. 92 cf. Norman Lamm and Aaron Kirschenbaum, “Freedom and Constraint in the Jewish Judicial Process,” Cardozo Law Review 1 (1979), 110, n. 40.

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thinkers such as Judah Halevi, Maimonides, Shem Tov b. Shem Tov,93 and Joseph Albo, and is newly affirmed by Mendelssohn in the modern era. Contrary to Bleich’s view,94 this is a prominent halakhic trend, supported not only by R. Glasner, quoted above, but also by other modern halakhists. I mentioned R. Moshe Israel Hazzan, who postulates a theory of natural law akin to that of Aquinas, which is also endorsed by R. Heyyot. R. Skop also makes special use of this theory.95 Finally, this theory is manifest in the writings of R. Hirschensohn.96 The theories suggested by these and other sages consistently endorse natural law. The “empirical” claim that Judaism has no theory of natural law or that, if this theory is found, it is merely marginal, is therefore inaccurate. In sum, the argument from silence fails on two counts: it draws an inaccurate pic‑ ture of the meta-normative level, and infers from the meta-normative to the normative level. In this section, I have analyzed the main arguments advanced against the doctrine of natural law in Judaism, showing that they are unpersuasive, and cannot serve to refute the unconditional and intrinsic validity of the norms of natural law. Let us now examine the arguments in favor of natural law. 3. The Arguments for Natural Law Review of the arguments against natural law shows that this doctrine can‑ not be opposed on logical grounds. If we assume that divine command reveals rather than determines the norms of natural law, and if the percep‑ tion of Halakhah as a pluralistic system is feasible, we have no reason to reject the doctrine of natural law. In point of fact, the doctrine of natural law is well-established in Judaism. This section will present several of the arguments adduced in its favor. i. The Argument from the Necessary Conditions for God’s Command The basic assumption of this argument is that God would not hand down His commands to a society that did not comply with elementary norms of 93 See Derashot ha-Torah le-ha-Rav Shem b. Shem Tov (Venice: 1548), 25, 1. 94 Bleich, “Judaism and Natural Law,” 6, n. 6. 95 See Sagi 1993. 96 See Otsar Israel, s. v. sevarah; Hamisdrona, Kuntres ha-Katuv le-Hayyim, 73–74; Malki ba-Kodesh, Part 1, 21, and Part 4, 159, 162.

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rationality, as some type of perfection is a precondition for implementing God’s commands. Judah Halevi writes in this spirit: “For the divine law cannot become complete till the social and rational laws are perfected . . . What has he, who fails in this respect, to do with offerings, Sabbath, circumcision?”97 But why would God refrain from issuing commands to a society that neglects to implement natural law? Why not assume that God’s command is the constitutive element of all obligations and all provisions enabling human existence? Two reasons, at least, can be suggested. First, a human society failing to abide by norms so fundamental to human life is unworthy of receiving the Torah. For instance, R. Nissim Gaon implicitly assumed that since God cre‑ ated human beings and cares for their continued survival, He gave them the rational knowledge through which they can grasp the basic norms of human existence.98 On this argument then, God’s command is the highest level of a more basic structure, rather than the sole constitutive element of human existence. This notion was formulated by Judah Halevi: “These are the rational laws, being the basis and the preamble of the divine law, pre‑ ceding it in character and time. These are, however, the ordinations espe‑ cially given to Israel as a corollary to the rational laws.”99 The second reason is that, without these basic norms, the command‑ ments of the Torah would become distorted. R. Benzion Uziel, who also supports natural law,100 develops this argument: The splendor and the glory of the Torah will not dwell in an artificial soul devoid of essence, in some empty, impervious material, in a formless clump of matter . . . The Torah is found in him who prepares himself and trains his feeling . . . and his mind, and his thought, to understand it and enter its depth in order to see it and bask in its light . . . Handing the Torah to the heartless and unthinking, delivering its teachings to people who lack self‑understanding and common sense, is not merely unhelpful but dam‑ aging . . . In the hands of those upholding worthless, harmful notions and

97 Kuzari, II:48. Although Maimonides’ claim in the Guide I:2 was not intended to support this assumption, this is nevertheless its effect: “For the intellect that God made overflow unto man and is the latter’s ultimate perfection, was that which Adam had been provided with before he disobeyed. It was because of this that it was said of him that he was created in the image of God and in His likeness. It was likewise on account of it that he was addressed by God and given commandments . . . For commandments are not given to beasts and beings devoid of intellect.” 98 See Sefer ha-Mafteah. 99 Kuzari, II:48. 100 See, for instance, Mishpatei Uziel, 2nd edition, part 2, I, #60, and Sagi 1994.

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R. Uziel thus assumes that certain basic preconditions, independent of the Torah, are necessary for the appropriate implementation of halakhic norms. Presumably, the process of applying halakhic norms requires an act of moral judgment about what is right and just that are independent of the norms themselves. Hence, we must assume a system of norms and values that is not determined by the Torah, and the assumption that the norms of natural law are intrinsically valid thus becomes a necessary condition of the command itself. The God who commands the Torah, of which it is said “its ways are pleasant,” the God demanding that which is “right and good,” will not issue commands to unsuitable recipients. This argument entails assumptions concerning both God and Halakhah. Regarding God, the assumption is that He is a moral entity, “just and right is He,” interested in the continuity of human society. Hence, God would not give the Torah to people who would not interpret it honestly, justly, and in line with His intentions, The Holy One, blessed be He, is righteous, and abhors “righteous” men of this kind [who are “dishonest in their worldly dealings”]. For the sake of heaven, they should behave fairly and without deceit, because [deceit] leads to the destruction of creation and of society.102

The assumption is that many halakhic rulings rest on moral reasons, and disregarding these reasons might lead to their distortion. Interpreting the Torah in line with these reasons requires human beings to rely on their judgment, and on a system of values independent of the divine command.103 In sum, in the absence of an independent moral system that can be used to interpret it, God would not have given the Torah. ii. The Argument from the Necessary Conditions for Accepting God’s Command The previous argument discussed the necessary conditions for divine command, and claimed that we cannot plausibly assume that God would command a human society that does not abide by the basic norms of 101  R. Ben Zion Hai Uziel, Derashot Uziel, Avot (Jerusalem, 1991), 3–4. 102 ha-Netsiv, introduction to his Commentary on Genesis. 103 cf. Teshuvot Rabenu Avraham b. ha-Rambam, #97; Statman and Sagi 1993.

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natural law. This argument completes the picture and assumes that, on the human side too, the basis for receiving the divine command is anchored in natural law. This assumption is part of a long-established philosophic approach dat‑ ing back to Saadia Gaon. Saadia Gaon argued that a rational system is a necessary condition of the revealed commandments since, without it, the obligation to heed the prophet would be groundless: As human beings require a prophet, besides their own reason, to explain to them the revealed commandments, so do they require other command‑ ments, besides the revealed ones. The goodness of these other command‑ ments is rooted in human reason and understood through it, since it is not only through words that they learn what is moral. How would they understand [the obligation to heed the prophet] without logic and rational discernment?104

R. Skop, who, as mentioned, endorses natural law in his theory of Halakhah, also relies on this argument. Aware of the potential conflict between a view assuming that God’s command is the exclusive source of halakhic obliga‑ tions and one assuming that natural law is intrinsically valid, he asks: “This is puzzling, for what could create an obligation to do something without a command and a warning from the Torah?” He answers this question as follows: But when we delve into this problem, this matter is readily comprehensi‑ ble—the obligation and the need to worship God, may He be blessed, and obey His will, are an obligation and a need according to the norms of rea‑ son and knowledge too. This is also the case concerning financial liabilities, which are legal obligations incurred in line with the laws of property.105

In formal terms, this claim can be framed as follows: 1.  Obedience to God and His prophets rests on rational, autonomous reason. 2. Hence, anyone who obeys God and His prophets presupposes a rational autonomous system. 3. Morality and natural law are also part of this rational system. 4. Therefore, anyone obeying God presupposes natural law.

Assumption (3) might appear questionable: Even if a rational system does exist, why assume that it also includes morality and natural law? The answer is that if obligations, such as the obligation to obey God and His 104 R. Saadia Gaon, Commentary on Proverbs, Kapih edition, 241. 105 Skop, She‘arei Yosher, II, 4. For further analysis, see Sagi 1994a, section 6.

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prophets, can be created on rational grounds, then this system of reason can plausibly be assumed to include the basic obligations conditioning human existence. In objecting to this assumption we could argue that human reason may, epistemically, suffice to acknowledge the obligation to obey God but, once this obligation has been acknowledged, the only reason for all obligations incumbent on human beings is God’s command. This objection thus dis‑ tinguishes between the epistemic level and the justification of obligations, and presupposes a positivist approach.106 In other words, this objection unnecessarily assumes that God’s command is the only basis for all obliga‑ tions—why else would rational knowledge function as an epistemic instru‑ ment used to identify the obligation to obey God, but not to justify it? Novak suggests an interesting version of this argument, and consid‑ ers the reasons that could have motivated the people of Israel to accept God’s command. He examines three options: (1) fear of God’s power and of the possible results of disobedience; (2) complete folly; (3) faith in God’s goodness and wisdom.107 In his view, the first option is suggested in the talmudic legend, “God overturned the mountain upon them like a cask” (TB Shabbath 88a). The talmudic sages rejected this possibility on the grounds that if the people of Israel were coerced into accepting the Torah, they need not abide by it, in accord with the halakhic ruling granting exemption from responsibility for coerced obligations. Only the people’s voluntary acceptance at a later stage—“they reaccepted it”—imposed obligation.108 Novak then discusses sources that consider and reject the second option, complete folly. The only remaining option, in Novak’s view, is that Israel accepted the divine command because of their faith in God’s wisdom, a claim voiced in the Mekhilta.109 The answer to God’s question, “Why were the Ten Commandments not written at the beginning of the Torah?” is that only after God “divided the sea, sent down the manna for them . . . fought for them the battle with Amalek,” did He turn to the people and asked them to assume this obligation voluntarily. Novak claims that this midrash, in implying that the people of Israel judged God’s goodness before they took upon themselves the obligation to obey Him, points to the priority of natural law. A necessary condition for 106 See James Rachels, “God and Human Attitudes,” in Divine Commands and Morality, ed. Paul Helm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 45–46. 107 Novak, ”Natural Law, Halakhah, and the Covenant,” 51. 108 Ibid., 51–52. 109 Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ba-Hodesh, 5.

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exercising this type of judgment is the availability of an independent crite‑ rion of good and evil, enabling the people to judge God.110 In my view, however, the assumption of a moral criterion independent of God can hardly be ascribed to the Mekhilta, which never mentions God’s moral goodness and alludes only to His power. Although the ques‑ tion raised in this midrash—“Have you done anything good for us?”—is the very question addressed by the people to pretenders to the crown, the con‑ cept of “good” has no moral meaning in this context, and merely denotes something useful. The human ability to identify something as useful does not automatically entail the presence of an independent moral criterion, and ascribing this claim to the sources thus seems pointless. Instead, let us examine the logical structure of this argument, which rests on the follow‑ ing assumptions: 1. God’s power cannot justify imposing on the people of Israel an obligation to obey Him. 2. Only the acknowledgment of God’s moral goodness can be grounds for imposing this obligation. 3. Without a system of values independent of God’s command, this acknowl‑ edgment is not possible.

Since the people have accepted God’s command, it follows that: 4. A system of values independent of God’s command exists; natural law, obviously, is such a system.

But this chain of argumentation—since the obligation to obey God should rest on autonomous moral considerations, and since the people of Israel chose to obey God, it follows that the people’s actions were guided by these moral considerations—is problematic. This syllogism is built on a fallacy, because the premises are drawn from the realm of values, while the conclu‑ sion pertains to the empirical realm, drawing an inference that is logically impossible. We could argue that the people ought to have been guided by autonomous considerations, but nothing can be inferred from this claim about their actual decision. Novak’s formulation, therefore, is inadequate as a description of actual behavior, although his argument about the type of justification is certainly plausible.

110 This is one of the classic philosophic arguments adduced against the view that morality depends on religion: we can, through an independent system of good and evil, establish that God is a perfect moral entity worthy of our obedience, and not a powerful satanic creature. See Idziak, Divine Command Morality, 13.

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iii. The Argument from the Absence of Theories of Dependence in Judaism A theory prevalent in both Christianity and Islam argues that morality depends on religion, or that moral norms are valid only because of God’s command: an act becomes wrong only by virtue of a divine order. The differ‑ ent meanings of this view, including some of its literary formulations, have received attention in the literature.111 A comprehensive survey of the Jewish formulations reveals that few traces of this theory are found in Judaism, which assumes an autonomous moral system, independent of God.112 This finding is especially important given the existence of a “nominal‑ istic” trend,113 which assumes that norms are valid only because of God’s command rather than because of any intrinsic feature. R. Yair Bakhrakh for‑ mulates this notion clearly: “An act is loathsome only because it is bad and revolting in the eyes of God.”114 This approach excels at conveying the cen‑ trality of God and divine sovereignty, although Judaism, unlike Christianity and Islam, hardly ever extends this notion to the moral realm. The notion of an independent moral realm is so deeply embedded in Judaism that even supporters of the nominalistic trend limit its scope. Within this inde‑ pendent system, we can plausibly assume that Judaism acknowledges the validity of natural law. iv. The Argument from Halakhah While opponents of natural law pointed to the lack of a theory of natu‑ ral law, the present argument relies on the crucial role played by halakhic norms predicated on rational autonomous judgment. The preceding dis‑ cussion stressed the centrality of sevarah, but even norms not derived from sevarah can, at times, originate in a rational, autonomous system of values. Thus, for instance, R. Abraham b. ha-Rambam believes that the ruling on bar matsra, based on the verse “And thou shalt do that which is right and good” (Deuteronomy 6:18), conveys basic norms of justice and honesty, and

111  Sagi and Statman 1995, Introduction and ch. 1. 112 Statman and Sagi 1993. 113 I have adopted a concept suggested by Yohanan Silman in two papers, “Halakhic Determinations of a Nominalistic and Realistic Nature: Legal and Philosophical Considerations” (in Hebrew), Dine Israel 12 (1985–1986): 249–266; “Commandments and Transgressions: Matters of Obedience or Intrinsic Quality” (in Hebrew), Dine Israel 16 (1991–1992), 183–201. 114 Responsa Havat Yair, #192.

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is thus “enforced by members of other religions too.”115 Jacob Anatoli suc‑ cinctly formulates the central role of an autonomous system of values: Many legal obligations are taken for granted in the Torah, without even a hint as to their source. When these obligations are mentioned in the Tal‑ mud, no one ever argues “whence do you know this?” nor is it claimed that they were commanded orally. And this is because the mitzvah to establish a legal system is very ancient, and is not like the other mitzvot in the Torah. Because when the Noahides were enjoined to establish a legal system, this mitzvah only meant that they should set up laws for themselves, because the law is the pillar of the world . . . And since most laws are derived from sevarah rather than from the written or oral law, Jehoshaphat had to warn the judges and tell them: “Consider what you do, for you judge not for man but for the Lord.” He thereby meant that the proper administration of jus‑ tice implies that human beings imitate the ways of God, who built the world on the law.116

Although halakhic sages are invested with authority, their normative deci‑ sions are to reflect basic moral norms. As far as the normative structure of human life is concerned, the sages do not determine what is just and right, but merely reveal it, and the norms of natural law are intrinsically and independently valid—“It is sevarah—why do I need a verse?” On this basis, some halakhic sages conclude that, “As for that which is com‑ pelled by sevarah, the rule that ‘no laws are derived from before Sinai’ does not apply.”117 The cardinal role of autonomous human knowledge in halakhic litera‑ ture comes to the fore in several forms. First, certain norms are exclusively predicated on rational considerations, as is true for most norms derived from sevarah. Second, considerations of natural law operate in a variety of ways when applied to the interpretation of existing norms. Thus, for instance, we saw that R. Abraham b. ha-Rambam interprets the bar‑matsra ruling in light of moral considerations. Third, these considerations feature prominently in the application of existing norms to new situations, par‑ ticularly in the realm of legal obligations toward Gentiles. In one respon‑ sum, R. Uziel deals with the question of a father’s alimony payments to his children by his Gentile wife. Although he begins by stating: “I did not find that the Early Authorities state this ruling explicitly,” he still believes that 115 Responsa R. Abraham b. ha-Rambam, #97. 116 Malmad ha-Talmidim (Lick, 1866), 72. 117 See Hirschensohn, Otsar Israel, 136; Responsa Shevut Yaakov, part 1, 26. For a critical discussion of this ruling see M. Potolsky, “The Rule ‘We Do Not Learn from Before the Giving of the Torah’ ” (in Hebrew), Dine Israel 6 (1975): 195–230.

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the father should be forced to pay. He expressly refers to one of his own arguments as a “natural obligation.” In his view, it would be immoral to say to the father “cast your sons on this wife whom you have abandoned with her children as an unwanted object, after tormenting her.”118 v. The Argument from Philosophy Several sources in philosophical works endorsing the doctrine of natural law were mentioned above. In Geonic literature, this position is clearly for‑ mulated by R. Nissim Gaon, R. Saadia Gaon, and Bahyia ibn Paquda.119 This view is also represented in the writings of Judah Halevi, Joseph Albo, Shem Tov b. Shem Tov, and other medieval thinkers.120 Maimonides also sup‑ ports natural law in some of his writings. Thus, for instance, in “Milot haHigayion,” Maimonides places moral norms in the category of universally accepted propositions [mefursamot].121 In Eight Chapters, Maimonides challenges Saadia Gaon, arguing that moral norms should not be called rational, but his objection is semantic, and should not obscure his position. Maimonides is indeed opposed to the characterization of moral norms as rational, but only in the sense that they do not resemble mathemati‑ cal or metaphysical truths,122 that is, truths considered rational because they reflect an ontological order.123 Nevertheless, the universally accepted propositions are rational in that they are intended to regulate the social existence of “political man in nature.”124 In the Guide, Maimonides adopts a more moderate version of natural law, making norms contingent on an act of legislation, although he assumes the legislator is “wise,” not arbitrary, and His laws accomplish the purposes of natural law. Maimonides believes that “all laws have causes and were given

118 R. Uziel, Mishpatei Uziel, part 2, I, #61. See also R. Ovadia Yosef, Responsa Yahave Daat, part 6, #60, allowing a convert to say kaddish for his Gentile father. Here as well, one of his considerations is the general obligation of gratitude toward the father “who sired him, brought him into this world, and enabled him to attain the merit of joining God’s kingdom and knowing the truth.” See also Sagi 1994. 119  See the introduction to Bahya, Duties of the Heart. 120 See Avraham Melamed, “Natural Law in Jewish Political Thought” (in Hebrew), Daat 17 (1986), 49–66; “Did Ibn Waqar Precede Albo in Classifying the Laws”(in Hebrew), Tura: An Anthology of Research in Jewish Thought (Tel‑Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 1989), 270–284. 121  Gate 8; cf. Eight Chapters, ch. 6. 122 See Milot ha-Higayion,” Gate 8, and Guide I:2. 123 cf. Levinger, Maimonides as Philosopher, 53, n. 7. 124 Guide II:40.

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in view of some utility.”125 Hence, the law is valid not because it is anchored in the legislator’s command but because it stems from His wisdom, because He knows what is intrinsically true.126 Even if the Torah is not derived from nature and depends on an act of legislation, it still expresses natural human needs and, in this sense, is natural law.127 Halakhic sages then, as well as most philosophers, acknowledge the power of natural law and resist the religious and legal appeal of the con‑ trary view; natural law is deeply rooted in Judaism. The arguments favoring the doctrine of natural law have been shown to be more persuasive than those opposing it. Beyond analysis of the spe‑ cific arguments, however, the key question is the nature and the meaning of Halakhah. Differences over natural law reflect diverse perceptions of the halakhic ethos, the subject of the next section. 4. The Ethos of Halakhah The following two descriptions of the halakhic ethos outline ideal types, and their advocates need not commit themselves to such radical formu‑ lations. The differences between them extend to three related issues: the status of God’s command in the halakhic structure; the relation between the normative community bound by Halakhah and the natural community, and the meaning of divine worship. i. The Status of God’s Command The approach opposed to natural law argues that only God’s command makes the halakhic system compelling, be it through interpretation or through the legislative activity of the institution divinely authorized for this purpose. In this approach, to assume that natural law is intrinsically valid affronts the basic meaning of Halakhah, as well as the status of God as the legislator of the Torah. God’s command is perceived as total, extend‑ ing to every realm of Jewish life, and the sole factor determining every sin‑ gle norm. In contrast, the approach favoring natural law distinguishes between God’s command and the normative system, and does not assume that God alone determines halakhic norms. God’s command, whether issued directly 125 Guide III:26. 126 See Guide II:40. 127 See also Melamed, “Natural Law in Jewish Political Thought.”

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or indirectly, is only part of the broader normative structure binding on every Jew—the halakhic system. Divine command plays a central, but not exclusive, role in the shaping of halakhic norms. The differences between the two approaches reflect an essential disagreement over the question of whether Halakhah is a one‑stratum system, involving only God’s com‑ mand, or whether it has, at the very least, two layers—God’s command and the system of rational norms necessary to ensure social existence. Supporters of the doctrine of natural law also endow it with religious meaning. While its opponents make its validity wholly contingent on God’s legislation, its supporters ascribe religious meaning to a natural law they perceive as intrinsically valid, and view all halakhic norms as expressing God’s desire to see the world thrive.128 ii. The Relation between the Normative and the Natural Communities The approach opposed to natural law argues that the norms shaping the normative Jewish community are determined by God’s command. This command is constitutive of the community, and without it, nothing remains to bind its members together. Supporters of natural law assume that, prior to its becoming a community subject to religious norms, the Jewish community is a natural entity whose basic norms are contingent on the general principles that enable a shared human existence. God’s com‑ mand is a supplementary layer, resting on the foundations of the natural community; God’s command, then, is not a constitutive element, but one that adds particularistic features. A distinction can thus be drawn between the universal and the particu‑ laristic dimensions of the normative halakhic system. Norms derived from the organizational structure of the natural community are not specific to the Jewish people, and apply equally to Jews and Gentiles, “concerning legal matters there is no difference between Gentiles and Jews.”129 Hence, Jews have legal obligations toward Gentiles, even if these obligations are not religious mitzvot. This position assumes that the Jewish people are part of the human community, and norms pertaining to all humanity apply to the people of Israel as well: “There is no religion or law in the Torah that is

128 For more on this distinction see Sagi 1994. See also Louis Jacobs, “The Relation‑ ship Between Religion and Ethics in Jewish Thought,” in Contemporary Jewish Ethics, ed. Menachem Kellner (New York: Sanhedrin Press, 1978), 54–56. 129 Skop, She‘arei Yosher, part 2, 14–15. cf. Hiddushei R. Shimon Yehudah ha-Kohen on Bava Kamma (New York, 1947), 8. For further discussion, see Sagi 1993.

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opposed to the ways of true civilization.”130 Jews thus belong to two distinct communities, a natural one, ruled by universal norms, and a religious one, based on particularistic normative foundations. Halakhah is the product of two separate normative layers, predicated on different sources. The approach opposed to the doctrine of natural law sees the Jewish community as particularistic and its constitutive normative foundations as resulting from God’s command. Thus, for instance, even when this view assumes that Jews have obligations toward Gentiles, it derives these obliga‑ tions from a particularistic rather than from a universal normative system. The particularistic system determines the nature and the extent of the obli‑ gations owed to those who are not members of the religious community. The dispute between R. Solomon Luria and R. Zvi Ashkenazi illustrates the importance of this distinction. R. Luria assumes that “the Torah, in letter and spirit, was given to the people of Israel.” Hence, obligations toward Gentiles do not rely on the Torah but on general moral considerations, such as “one should keep away from ugliness, eat and drink only from one’s own, and refrain from making a habit of theft and robbery.”131 In other words, besides the Torah’s particularistic system of norms, which is unique to the people of Israel and pertains to the relations between members of the nor‑ mative Jewish community, there are moral norms that are not derived from the Torah and apply to everyone. R. Zvi Ashkenazi disputes this view. He claims that the Torah can impose obligations toward outsiders, since we have been commanded not to behave in ugly ways . . . and even toward animals, who cannot speak, the Torah commands us to be compas‑ sionate . . . and even regarding plants we have been commanded “thou shalt not destroy its trees.” And all this is not for their sake but for us, as we act

130 Hirschensohn, Malki ba-Kodesh, part 1, p. 21. R. Hirschensohn goes even further, claiming, “Not only are we not bound to do so, but we are also forbidden to transgress the laws of the nations and the laws of civilization.” He concludes that the command to blot out the seven Canaanite nations was only meant to apply during the conquest of the land. After the war, however, “there is no further obligation to kill souls in vain, and it is also forbidden to shed innocent blood.” He further assumes that it was on these grounds that David and Solomon refrained from killing these nations, and that Jacob also shared this attitude when blessing his sons Simeon and Levi on his deathbed: “Simeon and Levi are brothers; instruments of cruelty are their swords. Let my soul not come into their council; to their assembly let my honor not be united” (Genesis 49:5–6)—“this bitterness against coming into their council and to their assembly is because, in their anger, they did not respect international law” (Eleh Divrei ha-Brit, part 1 (Jerusalem, 1925), 70). See also R. Hayyim Hirschensohn, Novellae on Tractate Horayot, part II, Exchange of Letters, 3, 5–6. 131  Yam shel Shlomo, Bava Kamma, ch. 10, n. 20.

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These instructions do not point to an alternative system, shaping a differ‑ ent normative community, but indicate that the reason for these norms is within the normative system of the Torah. iii. The Meaning of Divine Worship The approach opposed to the doctrine of natural law argues that the only way to worship God is to obey Him, hence worship is only possible within a normative system anchored in God’s command. In the more radi‑ cal formulations of this approach, which gained ascendancy in the wake of Leibowitz’s philosophy, God’s command is seen as intrinsically valu‑ able rather than as a means to an end. Divine commands do not foster any purposeful aim related to the attainment of human goals. Worship means absolute devotion to God and complete disregard for all human concerns. God is its exclusive object; human values are relinquished. Human beings cannot worship God if they set themselves human aims, including a com‑ mitment to abide by certain values or obligations. The approach supporting the doctrine of natural law offers a more com‑ plex view. First, as mentioned, this approach argues that God’s command is not the only constitutive element in the set of norms binding on all Jews. One of two possible conclusions then follows: (1) In a narrow sense, the worship of God is determined by norms derived from God’s command, but there are other norms too, unrelated to worship. From a religious point of view, these other norms convey the basic preconditions of God’s worship. Even if this approach is possible, however, it fails to describe the religious experience of believers who support the independence of natural law. For them, natural law is a part of Halakhah, all of which is “God’s word.” They thus ascribe religious meaning to these other norms too, and view their implementation as an aspect of worship. Supporters of natural law interpret worship as: (2) The set of acts binding on believers, which is imbued with religious meaning.133 If God is assumed to be a good entity, concerned with the welfare of individuals and the pros‑ perity of society, then when human beings abide by natural law they are, in 132 Responsa Hakham Zvi, #26. 133 For further analysis see Robert M. Adams, “Modified Divine Command Theory of Ethical Wrongness” in Divine Commands and Morality, ed. Paul Helm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 97–98.

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fact, worshipping God. Moreover, if human reason is assumed to be a gift of God, when human beings worship God they acknowledge the power of natural law by exercising the rational judgment given them for this pur‑ pose. Other religious interpretations of worship, based on the assumption that worship constitutes the realization of God’s will, are possible as well. All assume that God makes His will manifest not only through explicit com‑ mands, but also by creating and caring for the universe. The view of natural law as an aspect of worship is contingent on the pos‑ sibility of endowing its norms with religious value. The concept of worship thus entails two types of acts: those performed in response to God’s com‑ mand and in order to implement it, and those, also endowed with religious value, performed for their own sake. In both cases, the assumption is that the norms included in the worship of God manifest the divine will, regard‑ less of whether it became known through His command. The approach opposed to the doctrine of natural law views Halakhah and worship as constitutive of a normative system antithetical to human needs and values. In the more radical formulations of this approach, this conflict is seen as epitomizing the uniqueness of religious life. In contrast, the approach supporting natural law views Halakhah as encompassing both norms and values predicated on God’s command and those predi‑ cated on human knowledge. Religious life is not antithetical to human life, but constitutes an additional layer of humanity. From this perspective, the notion of an inherent contrast between religious life and a human system of values is unacceptable.134 These approaches to natural law reflect differences in the underlying halakhic ethos. These differences may also emerge in the analysis of other topics, such as the status of halakhic authority, the status of moral consid‑ erations in Halakhah, and so forth. The dispute over the status of natural law, however, highlights these divergences, since views about natural law are often predicated on a specific halakhic ethos, and may even serve to justify it.

134 R. Kook formulates this notion as follows: “It is forbidden to let the fear of God thrust aside natural human morality, because this fear is then no longer pure. It is a sign of its purity that it helps the natural morality rooted in honest human nature reach higher rungs than those it would have attained without it. Were the fear of God taken to imply that, without it, life would tend to be better . . . and were it true that, as a result of it, this active power is diminished, then the fear of God would be baseless” (Orot ha-Kodesh, III, 27). See also Orot ha-Torah (Jerusalem, 1950), 69–70.

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This paper is part of an attempt to develop a comprehensive philosophi‑ cal and sociological theory of the halakhic endeavor. Analysis of argu‑ ments supporting or refuting natural law showed that the view supporting the doctrine of natural law in Judaism is not only better justified in logi‑ cal terms, but also represents more accurately the prevalent halakhic and philosophic trends. Since specific approaches to natural law are correlated with specific perceptions of the halakhic ethos, it follows that the halakhic ethos underlying this view is also the preferred option, a very significant conclusion for the philosophy and the sociology of Halakhah.

Tikkun Olam: Between Utopian Idea and Socio-Historical Process* Avi Sagi Few ideas have boosted human thought and imagination as that of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Reformers have been leaving their mark since the dawn of human history, some crowned with a halo of sanctity and some condemned for their evil deeds. Prima facie, tikkun olam is a sublime notion expressing key features of human existence. The leading one is freedom. The amendment of reality necessarily assumes the ability to transcend factuality and be free to shape the world. Tikkun olam attests also to human creativity—we envisage how the world should be. Human beings are free creatures, capable of transcending their actual being and pursuing the possible, anticipated through imagination. The fate of the tikkun olam idea, however, resembles that of many other sublime notions that are part of the general consensus—too little is invested in a critical effort that rigorously examines their nature. What do we intend when we speak of repairing the world? Is this a substantive idea, or do its inherent drawbacks deprive it of any justification? These are the central questions of this chapter. My starting point is a distinction between two different and unrelated meanings of the concept of tikkun olam: (1) Tikkun olam as a utopian idea. (2) Tikkun olam as a concrete historical process unfolding in a concrete society. My central claim is that the first meaning of the concept is extremely problematic. We can still endorse the second meaning, however, because the concrete process of amending the world does not depend on the idea that directs it. The first step in the understanding of these claims and their implications, then, is to clarify the first meaning of tikkun olam. Tikkun Olam as a Utopian Idea According to this meaning of the term, tikkun olam is the realization of a specific idea that outlines the ideal vision. This perception assumes a * This article was first published in Avi Sagi, Jewish Religion after Theology, trans. Batya Stein (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 205–234. Reprinted with permission.

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contrast between real and ideal—the ideal negates actual reality and proposes to replace it with a utopian idea of the organization of the world. A critical discussion of all the aspects related to utopian thought exceeds the scope of this chapter,1 and the following discussion will be confined to specific aspects necessary for clarifying the meaning of tikkun olam. Martin Buber defines utopia as “something not actually present but only represented. The utopian picture is a picture of what ‘should be.’ What is at work here is the longing for that rightness.”2 Implicit in this definition is an essential characteristic of utopian thought, which Karl Mannheim analyzes in detail in his celebrated work Ideology and Utopia. Mannheim emphasizes that utopia works in human thought in two complementary and opposite directions. First, human thought transcends the reality in which the utopia is born, rejects it, and offers an alternative model of existence in its place. In Buber’s terms, utopia places what “should be,” which is opposed to what is. Second, utopian thought strives to return to reality in order to rebuild it. Mannheim rightfully emphasizes that transcendence alone is not utopia. Transcendence becomes a constitutive element of utopia only if joined by a passion to shape reality in light of the idea.3 What are the structural elements present in every utopia?4 First, the idea of repairing the world rests on the notion of a perfect world. This perfection is related to the relationship between the components of the world on the one hand, and to the standing of each component on the other. The ideal world is an ordered world whose components are in perfect mutual harmony, while each one is also perfect in itself. In Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s terms, the ideal world is the best of all possible worlds, which utopia counterposes to the real and imperfect one. Second, since this world is ideal, it is harmonious—because it is more perfect than a non-harmonious world—and total—because it leaves no room for other options. Legitimizing another alternative as worthy means that the assumed perfection is not absolute because other and no less perfect options are also available.5 1  On this issue, see Shyli Karin-Frank, Utopia Reconsidered (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1986). 2 Martin Buber, Paths in Utopia, trans. R. F. C. Hull (New York: MacMillan, 1958), 7. 3 Karl Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979), 173–176. 4 For an extensive discussion, see Karin-Frank, Utopia Reconsidered, 37–40. See also Isaiah Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity: Chapters in the History of Ideas (London: John Murray, 1990), 20–23. 5 See also Frances Theresa Russell, Touring Utopia (New York: Dial Press, 1932), 45, and Karin-Frank, Utopia Reconsidered, 40.

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Finally, if the ideal world is perfect we must also conclude it is static and immutable, because change is an expression of imperfection and disharmony. This perfect world should therefore be characterized as one without progress or development. Given this description of the ideal world, is it at all within human grasp? Some utopians have indeed assumed that utopia is synonymous with what, in principle, is unattainable. This is how Herbert Marcuse relates to the concept of utopia: “Utopia is a historical concept. It refers to projects for social change that are considered impossible.”6 Marcuse, therefore, holds that the present reality reflects the “end of utopia” because it has now become possible to realize options that had previously seemed unattainable. This approach to utopia, however, appears unsubstantiated. At most, it reflects, as Mannheim claims, the vantage point typical of those affirming the status quo.7 Various answers have been offered to the question of how this ideal world might be reached and, in this context, a distinction must be drawn between different versions of utopian and eschatological thought. Utopian thought assumes that progress toward the ideal world is a human endeavor unfolding within the confines of human time and history. By contrast, eschatological thought assumes that tikkun olam is God’s endeavor and will occur at another place and another time, outside history.8 Eschatological time seeks to establish a divine kingdom on earth, and thereby disregards the concreteness of human reality. According to Mannheim, this disregard is what excludes eschatological thought from the category of utopia.9 Irrespective of whether Mannheim is correct, to the extent that the concern is to repair the world, the eschatological option must be excluded on the grounds that it does not seek to amend reality but to change it entirely. It speaks of a recreation of reality involving cosmological implications.10 This schematic description enables us to summarize the idea of tikkun olam as postulating the idea of a perfect world, toward which we should strive from within empirical reality. Although ostensibly a noble and worthy cause, a more critical appraisal will show this to be a problematic idea.

6 Herbert Marcuse, “The End of Utopia,” in Five Lectures: Psychoanalysis, Politics, and Utopia, trans. Jeremy J. Shapiro and Shierry M. Weber (Boston: Beacon Press, 1970), 63. See also Ilan Gur-Zeev, The Frankfurt School and the History of Pessimism (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996), 120. 7 Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 176–177. 8 See also Buber, Paths in Utopia, 8–10. 9 See Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 198–203. 10 See also Buber, Paths in Utopia, 8–10.

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Problems in the Utopian Idea of Tikkun Olam The epistemological problem. This meaning of tikkun olam, as noted, seeks the realization of a perfect, harmonious, total, and static world. The specific content of this world is the concern of the different theories offering various ideal options. Precisely at this point, however, a significant epistemological problem emerges: a perfect world is not necessarily a rational idea. Karl Popper, who deals with a critique of utopia in several of his works, formulates this claim as follows: utopia sets goals to be achieved, but “it is impossible to determine ends scientifically. There is no scientific way of choosing between two ends. . . . No decision about aims can be established by purely rational or scientific means.”11 The utopian idea derives from a specific life context, from a particular culture that sets ideals and expectations. Finley postulates this as a guiding methodological principle in the study of utopias: .

Utopian ideas and fantasies, like all ideas and fantasies, grow out of the society to which they are a response. Neither the ancient world nor the modern world is an unchanging entity, and any analysis of Utopian thinking which neglects social changes in the course of the history of either antiquity or modern times is likely at some point to go badly wrong.12

The seemingly inevitable conclusion is that the utopian idea will be valid only for members of the specific culture who formulated it. Both structurally and in historical-realist terms, however, tikkun olam as a utopian idea transcends the specific context within which it was born. The ideal world of one culture and one society is presented as “the” ideal world for the other, for every other, even one wholeheartedly opposed to this particular version of tikkun olam. The utopian idea of tikkun olam, then, has metaphysical pretensions and claims universal validity. Its modes of justification transcend the social-historical context that sustains it and the criticism of local circumstances, so that its justification is unrelated to this background. As for how this pretention is substantiated, the supporters of this ideal metaphysical world will probably claim it is validated by the truth of the utopia’s constitutive idea. But how can this truth be determined outside the 11  Karl Popper, Conjectures and Refutations: The Growth of Scientific Knowledge (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), 359 (emphasis in the original). Berlin makes a similar claim in The Crooked Timber of Humanity, 20–48. 12 M. I. Finley, “Utopianism Ancient and Modern,” in The Critical Spirit, ed. Kurt H. Wolf and Barrington Moore (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), 6. See also Barbara Goodwin, Social Science and Utopia (Sussex: Harvester Press, 1978), 5.

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cultural-social-historical context within which this perfect world was born? An ideal world is always judged within a specific cultural narrative and we have no critical way of turning it into a meta-narrative. In other words, the notion of an ideal world is always within a petitio principii circularity and, therefore, merely conveys the beliefs of members of a particular society. If this conclusion is correct, believers in an ideal world face a paradox: the notion of an ideal world rests on the assumption that the longed for world is perfect, harmonious, total, static, and universally valid. Epistemologically, however, the only claim that believers in an ideal world can substantiate is that this world is perfect for them and might therefore be imperfect for others. The empirical-existential problem. The idea of tikkun olam takes a negative view of concrete reality, which it defines as flawed and lacking. But such a sweeping perception of the empirical world is surely a superficial and shallow view of human reality, which is by nature a far more complex amalgam of lights and shadows, ambiguously mixing good and evil.13 It is to this evil, negative reality, that the notion of tikkun olam counterposes its idea of a utopian world. Indeed, the meaning of the term “utopia” in Greek is “no place” (ou topia). Utopia transcends the familiar space and the known concrete world, but does so in order to enter a positive reality, as suggested by the link between the term utopia and the good place (eu topia).14 In other words, the perfect reality does prevail somewhere in the world, but outside the familiar space. Thomas More’s Utopia,15 a paradigm of this literary genre, expressed this ambiguity when indicating that utopia is the name of a “new island,”16 separated from land by a channel. The term, then, denotes a new and different place that is not part of reality. This issue is recurrently emphasized through several aspects of More’s work: the precise name of the city is Amaurot [from amauroton meaning “made dark or dim”];17 the people residing in the city are the Achorians [from a- (“without”) plus choros (“place, country”):

13 See Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 177–178. 14 On this link between the two meanings of the term utopia, see Finley, “Utopianism Ancient and Modern,” 3. See also Leah Hadomi, Between Hope and Doubt: The Story of Utopia (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1989), 44. 15 Thomas More, Utopia, edited by George M. Logan Robert M. Adams, and Clarence H. Miller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 16 Ibid., 3. 17 Ibid., 113, note 7.

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“the People without a Country”]18 and the Polylerites [from polus (“much”) plus “leros” (“nonsense”): “the People of Much Nonsense”].19 Utopia, then, is a place beyond all places, a reality that is not part of the world.20 Yet, this is precisely the chink in the armor of the utopian idea: it traces a perfect, static, and unrealistic picture of the world.21 Moreover, the utopian idea assumes the existence of a uniform and simple ideal suited to all human beings.22 As Berlin shows, this assumption is necessarily committed to the claim “that men have a certain fixed, inalterable nature, certain universal, common, immutable goals. Once these goals are realised, human nature is wholly fulfilled.”23 But human creatures are by nature complex. The utopian idea disregards the unique character of individuals and of societies, failing to take into account that human beings are cultural creatures constituted by the historical and social contexts of their lives. The utopian idea is founded on a cultural “veil of ignorance” and is therefore unable to trace the contours of an ideal world that is real; the amendment it suggests is founded on the negation of human life’s historical-cultural character.24 Berlin, who endorses this criticism, concludes from it that the utopian idea of tikkun olam is “logically incoherent.”25 If the critique is correct, then, we must assume that the expression “the perfect society” is a family name for various real societies fitting this category. Each one is perfect, in that it realizes the ideals of the good, but it thereby denies the idea of a “single perfect society.”26 The existentialist implication of tikkun olam as a utopian idea is no less problematic. Even if amending the world is not synonymous with the establishment of God’s kingdom on earth, the idea does divert us from the present to the future. The present is negated for the sake of another future. The future-oriented utopian idea has nothing to say about the present, which it seeks to amend by transcending it altogether and thereby denying it as one of the foundations of human existence. Denying the present is also denying the past that has been brought into the present, that is, denying the temporal, historical character of human existence.

18  Ibid., 87, note 63. 19  Ibid., 71, note 37. 20 See Yosef Dan, Apocalypse Then and Now (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Hemed, 2000), ch. 8. 21  See also Goodwin, Social Science and Utopia, 5. 22 Robert Nozick, Anarchy, State and Utopia (Oxford: Blackwell, 1974), 212–213. 23 Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity, 20. 24 David C. Hoy and Thomas McCarthy, Critical Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 103. 25 Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity, 40. 26 Ibid.

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Erich Fromm calls this hope for the future passive hope, and describes its implications as follows: Time and the future become the central category of this kind of hope. Nothing is expected to happen in the now but only in the next moment, the next day, the next year, and in another world if it is too absurd to believe that hope can be realized in this world. Behind this belief is the idolatry of “Future,” “History,” and “Posterity.”27

According to the utopian idea of tikkun olam, the purpose of the individual’s life in the present is to engage in the constant nullification of his own existence for the sake of another existence. The real world in which the individual lives until the longed for future is realized is entirely meaningless. Is this not a return to Freud’s death drive? Finally, this idea assumes the possibility of absolute metamorphosis from one way of life to another. Although some individuals are indeed capable of such drastic conversion, the main course for human change and progress is far more moderate and constantly takes into account the surrounding reality that the utopian idea seeks to deny.28 The moral problems. Since people do not agree on the definition of the ideal, and since believers in the notion of an ideal world are sure that this is the only worthy and meaningful one, recourse to mechanisms of direct or indirect coercion and violence is inevitable.29 As a result of social and cultural changes, the notion of what is ideal will also change. The utopian approach to the amendment of the world, however, ignores these changes, since it sets the idea as an a priori purpose. One way of avoiding this contradiction is to resort to violent power against the social-ideological changes opposed to the implementation of the utopian ideal.30 Human history indeed shows that great ideas of tikkun olam have ended, more than once, in dreadful bloodshed; what began as a struggle against evil that offered ideas for a better world ended up in a worse world than the one it came to oppose.31 27 Erich Fromm, The Revolution of Hope: Toward a Humanized Technology (New York: Harper and Rowe, 1968), 7. 28 See also Hoy and McCarthy, Critical Theory, 135; Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity, 15–16. 29 Karl Popper, The Open Society and its Enemies, vol. 1 (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974), 159–161; Nozick, Anarchy, State and Utopia, 326–327. 30 See Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, 360. 31  This issue is discussed at length in Albert Camus, The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt, trans. Anthony Bower (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1956). See also Jacob Talmon, The Origins of Totalitarian Democracy (Harmondsworth: England: Penguin Books, 1952).

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The uniformity and the simplicity of the perfect world idea is also harmful to human individuality. The harm is moral, because people’s dignity is rooted in their individuality as expressed in human variance and differentiation.32 An idea that is a priori valid, then, violates human dignity. Prima facie, this criticism could be valid only if we assume a pluralistic world view supporting the existence of many alternative forms of the good, but this is not so. A moral monist claiming that every moral question has only one valid answer could still acknowledge that people have different cultural, social, and religious goals and values. Finally, the utopian idea assumes that sacrificing humanity’s present well being for the sake of its future is morally justified. In Kantian terms, however, this view breaches a fundamental moral duty by making human beings simply means for the advancement of future ends. Supporters of tikkun olam as a utopian idea could claim that no reform is possible without it. We can change and reform reality precisely because of an idea of perfection that guides our critique of the current reality. According to Ernst Bloch, perfect utopia plays a dual role: it provides a criterion for judging the present and it supplies society with a dream to strive for.33 This pervasive idea, however, conceals a logical fallacy, since reform could also be driven by the idea of mitigating suffering, poverty, or distress. Implicit in the suggestion that we need utopia is the idea that suffering, misery, poverty, or any other social ill cannot be recognized without an ideal of perfection, but this is an unnecessary assumption. The recognition that suffering and distress are intolerable follows from a negative reality rather than from an idea of perfection.34 Many thinkers have indeed drawn a distinction between real social criticism and speculative thought nurtured by fanciful ideas. A particularly sharp articulation of the distinction between social critique and tikkun olam through the utopian idea appears in the Frankfurt school. Max Horkheimer offers the following formulation: “The dialectical [critical] theory does not formulate its critique solely through the idea. . . . It does not judge according to what is over and beyond its era, but from it.”35 Horkheimer 32 See also John Stuart Mill, On Liberty (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books, 1974), 127–128. 33 See Ernst Bloch, A Philosophy of the Future (New York: Herder and Herder, 1970), 91. Berlin too points out that this consideration is at the basis of the utopian idea of tikkun olam. See The Crooked Timber of Humanity, 25–26. 34 See Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, 361; Hoy and McCarthy, Critical Theory, 107. 35 Max Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 5 (Frankfurt am Main: Fisher Taschenbuch, 1987), 224.

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rejects philosophical speculation and, with it, also utopia. He claims that “utopia skips over time,”36 and holds “it was a mistake to transcend the present and, because of a message about absolute perfection, fail to discern the possibilities latent in reality.”37 Marcuse summarizes this perception of a critical theory of society as follows: Up to now, it has been one of the principal tenets of the critical theory of society . . . to refrain from what might be reasonably called utopian speculation. Social theory is supposed to analyze existing societies in the light of their own functions and capabilities and to identify demonstrable tendencies (if any) which might lead beyond the existing state of affairs.38

Marcuse, who emphasizes the significance of negative critical thought about the present, holds this negative thought can become positive by discovering the options suppressed and denied in the present.39 Popper draws a similar distinction between utopia and social reform. Utopia imagines the ideal of the good society toward which it strives. The supreme concept of the utopian ideal is happiness and the perfect good. By contrast, social reform contends with a given reality of suffering and misery, and strives to amend it and reduce it as far as possible. Utopia focuses on what is not—on the future, whereas social reform focuses on the possible, that is, on the present.40 Criticism, change, or social progress, then, need not draw their contents from any absolute idea. We do not need to know what is the absolute good to identify an injustice and we do not need to know what is perfect happiness to identify human suffering. Quite the contrary, this criticism is particularly valuable because it returns to reality, examines the unfair and flawed aspects requiring correction, and points to the options latent within it. Tikkun Olam as a Socio-Historical Process A socio-cultural criticism more concerned with achieving reform in a particular society rather than with reforming the entire world is the sense covered by the second meaning of the concept, pointing to tikkun olam as

36 Ibid., vol. 9, 242. 37 Ibid., 246. 38 Herbert Marcuse, An Essay on Liberation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 3. 39 Herbert Marcuse, Negations (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books, 1968), ch. 3. Marcuse discusses this issue at length in Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud (London: Routledge, 1998). 40 Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, 361.

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a socio-historical process. This meaning of tikkun olam emerges against the backdrop of the first denotation, discussed above. Whereas tikkun olam as a utopian idea lies in the future, tikkun olam as a process is rooted in the present, in human reality. Whereas tikkun olam as an idea is a simple, uniform notion, tikkun olam as a process rests on the complexity of human reality. This process rests on a fragmented, local, and concrete perspective rather than on a total scheme.41 Tikkun olam as a utopian idea assumes a monistic world view, whereas tikkun olam as a process rooted in empirical reality is pluralistic, just like reality. This process, as noted, does not strive for an absolute change in complex human reality but seeks to disclose various possibilities latent in the social conditions of human existence. Hence, it is a family name for diverse phenomena, whose contents are not necessarily related. All societies and cultures engage or might engage in a struggle for reform whose contents are not dictated by a common idea. The common denominator uniting all the manifestations of tikkun olam as a process is the sober understanding that empirical reality is the ultimate human reality, and cannot be transcended to shift into an absolutely good, united, and harmonious world. In this perception, human efforts are constant and infinite. Every social and cultural reality involves aspects that can be criticized, and new possibilities will invariably emerge. Tikkun olam as a process is, in Marcuse’s terminology, “the end of utopia,” constantly evolving out of existence rather than by virtue of an idea beyond history. What epistemic instrument will serve to reveal reality’s latent potentialities? According to Paul Ricoeur, utopia plays this critical role. In his view, “social imagination” or “cultural imagination” is in a key position, both as a deconstructive element that criticizes the extant social order and as a constructive element representing alternative options for the organization of social life.42 Utopia or, more precisely, “the utopian mood” or the “utopian spirit,”43 fill the important role of social imagination: “From this ‘no place,’ an exterior glance is cast on our reality, which suddenly looks strange, nothing more being taken for granted. The field of the possible is now opened beyond that of the actual, a field for alternative ways of living.”44

41 See Goodwin, Social Science and Utopia, 7. 42 Paul Ricoeur, Lectures on Ideology and Utopia (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 3. 43 Paul Ricoeur, From Text to Action, trans. Kathleen Blamey and John B. Thompson (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1991), 319. 44 Ibid., 320.

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Ricoeur assigns to utopia an entirely different role from the one it had played in classic utopian literature. According to Ricoeur, utopia denotes a reflective, critical process that precludes the unbridled sway of factuality.45 Utopian thought presents alternative options of social order, of human relations, government, religion, and power, contrary to the classic utopias that pointed to a defined goal, a specific and mandatory conceptual content that all human beings must realize to attain a good existence. Ricoeur compares the role of utopia to the role of the “free variation” in Husserl’s perception.46 Just as for Husserl the free variation is what enabled reflection to attain liberation from the random factual datum by viewing it merely as one possibility among others, so also utopia. This perception of utopia as a critical instrument is immune to the problems burdening classic utopias, and its orientation is concrete and empirical. At the same time, the key questions are: Do we need utopia, even as a mood or as critical thought, in order to be released from the coercing power of factuality? Is utopia identical to social imagination? Does utopia function like Husserl’s free variation? My attempt to answer these questions will be guided by a renewed analysis of the relationship between Husserl’s free variation and utopia. Epistemically, free variation operates regarding a specific predicate of the object, such as color or shape. Through the free variation, we learn not to identify a given object with a specific color, since the variation enables us to think of another color as its predicate. Continued operation of the variation leads us not only to discover the available options but also, and mainly, to discover the “essence” (the idos), from which the free variation offers no release. This reflective process is thus a dual course: it discovers the possible as well as the essential. By contrast, utopia discovers the “possible” through the absolute denial and estrangement of factuality rather than as a variation of the same object. The process analogous to free variation is the discovery, through imagination, of the possibilities latent in a given social order rather than the absolute estrangement from it. Absolute estrangement points to distance and hence to utopia’s irrelevance to concrete life. This critique will be enriched by the adoption of Kierkegaard’s distinction between imagination and fantasy.47 Imagination is a reflective process that enables us to transcend factuality to the potential option latent 45 Ibid., 323. 46 Ricoeur, Lectures on Ideology and Utopia, 16. 47 Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, trans. and ed. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987), 30–31.

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within it. Although imagination is not entirely free from the given factuality, it does enable us not to see its concrete manifestation as the sole option. Fantasy, however, unlike imagination, is a process through which concrete existence detaches itself entirely from its real character. According to this distinction, utopian thought is a turn to fantasy, resting on complete liberation from empirical reality. Its constructive role in a process of social reform, which can occur by allowing imagination to reveal latent options, is thus hard to detect. Reform, then, cannot draw on utopia, even in the version Ricoeur describes. What will justify the social reform process? What will lead people to act to amend the world? Believers in the need for a utopian idea as a condition of tikkun olam assume, as noted, that without an absolute, perfect idea we have no justification for concrete action in the world and no way of motivating individuals to engage in it. This assumption, however, is mistaken on both counts. Concerning the justification, the suffering and distress that are the lot of so many impose an obligation of action on individuals and societies far stronger than that derived from the utopian idea. The utopian idea of tikkun olam relates to humanity in general but ignores concrete individuals living in dire circumstances. It also justifies, as noted, acts involving the sacrifice of individuals in the present for the sake of others’ happiness in the future, thus affirming and demanding immoral, harmful deeds. By contrast, focusing on the difficult circumstances of individuals in the present discovers the suffering other, and this pain suffices to compel us into action. It is the other that imposes a moral obligation on us.48 The real suffering of individuals or societies is an urgent moral task, and is indeed what creates the realm of the ethical: “Whoever explains poverty as the suffering of mankind, creates ethics.”49 Human suffering is not only a decisive justification for concrete action but involves an element that motivates action. The need to find motivation for action in a metaphysical idea rather than in actual reality means that we seek “to make a Philosopher of man before making a man of him.”50 But the main factor motivating human action is compassion, care, and a sense of responsibility for the surrounding reality.51 48 See Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, 361. The similarities between Popper and Emmanuel Levinas are hard to ignore, and a comparative analysis is indeed called for. 49 Hermann Cohen, Religion of Reason out of the Sources of Judaism, trans. Simon Kaplan (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1972), 135 (emphasis in original). 50 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Discourses and Other Early Political Writings, trans. Victor Gourevitch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 127. 51 Camus deals with this basic insight in The Plague, trans. Stuart Gilbert (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books, 1960), 104–105, 175 and in The Rebel. See chs. 3

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Fromm describes this situation of human solidarity as resurrection: Resurrection in its new [non-religious] meaning . . . is not the creation of another reality after the reality of this life, but the transformation of this reality in the direction of greater aliveness. Man and society are resurrected every moment in the act of hope and of faith in the here and now; every act of love, of awareness, of compassion is resurrection. . . . Every moment we give an answer. This answer lies not in what we say or think, but in what we are, how we act, where we are moving.52

This return to a human reality perspective also implies the development of an ongoing critical discourse. Believers in an absolute idea, in a truth that guides their lives can, at best, persuade the other or, if not, use violence in order to guide non-believers to the truth. But those who need to reform reality from within and have no recourse to absolute instruments require a continuous dialogue and the human commonality that will enable it. Buber resorted to strong terms to describe this reality: The real living together of man with man can only thrive where people have the real things of their common life in common; where they can experience, discuss and administer them together; where real fellowships and real work Guilds exist. . . . We must be quite unromantic, and, living wholly in the present, out of the recalcitrant material of our own day in history, fashion a true community.53

This is a humble perception of tikkun olam, involving no Promethean idea of absolute rebellion for the sake of another world and hence none of the hubris typical of such a rebellion. But does not this humbleness turn tikkun olam into a random, local event? How can we fight for reform in the other’s world when such amendments are called for? The struggle against evidence of evil in the other’s world rests on the principle of human solidarity, on the ability to develop a true dialogue of compassion with other human beings. The limits of his reform, however, are determined by our concrete shared humanity: amending the other’s world so that it may fit mine entails harm, paternalism, and contempt. Repair must be limited by what is common to all human beings—suffering and deprivation on the one hand, and aid to develop the other’s immanent options on the other. Tikkun olam as a process is now widening beyond the borders of a given community and culture, just as human solidarity is widening from a limited

and 5 above and my book, Albert Camus and the Philosophy of the Absurd, trans. Batya Stein (Amsterdam–New York: Rodopi, 2002), 159–172. 52 Fromm, The Revolution of Hope, 17 (emphasis in the original). 53 Buber, Paths of Utopia, 15.

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to an increasingly wider notion of “we.”54 But even if this broader definition were to include everyone in the entire world, the utopian idea of tikkun olam could never replace the process of tikkun olam. Tikkun Olam and Jewish Tradition Ostensibly, tikkun olam as a utopian idea definitely fits Jewish tradition, from its early days and until the Zionist era. Many scholars have indeed pointed to Jewish prophecy as one of the foundations of utopian discourse.55 The term tikkun olam that appears in Jewish sources implies a whole and harmonious reality. Thus, for instance, the Aleinu prayer reads: “to repair the world in the kingdom of the Almighty.” Maimonides defines in similar terms the test of the one destined to become the messianic king: “He will repair the entire world to serve God together.”56 Tikkun olam as a utopian idea acquires new strength in the Zionist era, when the utopian literary genre first appears in Jewish tradition.57 A view of tikkun olam as a real socio-historical process, however, is also clearly evident in Jewish tradition, as a constitutive element of the halakhic ethos. The system of commandments is, above all, a vote of confidence in empirical reality as it is—if concrete reality were negative, what would be the value of observing the commandments within it? Paulinian Christianity negated the commandments precisely because it negated current reality and material life, setting up as a goal the heavenly kingdom that is not in this world. It viewed the Torah as legitimizing carnal life and as luring us to it. The Torah, therefore, could not be the perfect expression of faith, which is an internal, spiritual matter.58 By contrast, the basic halakhic ethos is one of molding and repairing the present world. The halakhic endeavor is inner-worldly and is not meant to attain a different, ideal reality. The halakhic ethos does not ascribe decisive weight to messianism and to redemption beyond this world, as Maimonides clarifies when he utterly rejects any concern with the details of redemption and messianism:

54 Richard Rorty, Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 192. 55 Rachel Elboim-Dror, Yesterday’s Tomorrow (in Hebrew), vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben Zvi, 1993), 12, and references in note 7. 56 Maimonides, The Code of Maimonides, The Book of Judges, trans. Abraham M. Hershman (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1949), Laws of Kings, 11:4. 57 Elboim-Dror, Yesterday’s Tomorrow, particularly vol. 2. 58 Paul develops this thesis extensively in Epistle to the Romans, particularly chs. 3–8.

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Said the Rabbis: The sole difference between the present and the Messianic days is delivery from servitude to foreign powers (B. San 91b). . . . But no one is in a position to know the details of this and similar things until they have come to pass. They are not explicitly stated by the Prophets. Nor have the Rabbis any tradition with regard to these matters. They are guided solely by what the scriptural texts seem to imply. Hence there is a divergence of opinion on the subject. But be that as it may, neither the exact sequence of those events nor the details thereof constitute religious dogmas. No one should ever occupy himself with the legendary themes or spend much time on midrashic statements bearing on this and like subjects. He should not deem them of prime importance, since they lead neither to the fear of God nor to the love of Him.59

Maimonides, then, views the messianic idea as a marginal question that is not included in the principles of faith because it has no religious implications: it leads neither to love nor to fear.60 Gershom Scholem insightfully notes that halakhic tradition is the core of the “conservative forces” that strive to preserve existence as is and shape it within a halakhic context.61 Scholem rightfully points to the dialectical and conflicting attitude of halakhic tradition toward messianic utopias: On the one hand, Messianic utopianism presents itself as the completion and perfection of Halakhah. It is to perfect what cannot yet find expression in the Halakhah as the law of an unredeemed world. Thus, for example, only in Messianic times will all those parts of the law which are not realizable under the conditions of the exile become capable of fulfillment. . . . The law as such can be fulfilled in its total plenitude only in a redeemed world. But there is doubtless another side to the matter as well. For apocalypticism and its inherent mythology tore open a window on a world which the Halakhah rather preferred to leave shrouded in the mists of uncertainty. The vision of Messianic renewal and freedom was by its nature inclined to produce the question of what it would do to the status of Torah and of the Halakhah which was dependent on it.62

Despite this basic tension, we cannot ignore that the primary vector of the halakhic ethos is not toward the redeemed world. Furthermore, a decisive part of the laws that cannot be observed in exile can be observed in the Land of Israel, even in an unredeemed reality. In order to observe these 59 Maimonides, The Code of Maimonides, Laws of Kings, 12:2. 60 For an analysis of Maimonides’ position see Dov Schwartz, Messianism in Medieval Jewish Thought (in Hebrew) (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1997). 61  Gershom Scholem, “Toward an Understanding of the Messianic Idea in Judaism,” in The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York: Schocken Books, 1995), 3. 62 Ibid., 19–20.

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laws, no overall, sweeping reorganization of reality is required. Settlement in the Land of Israel or sovereignty will suffice to enable observance of most of the missing laws. The assertion of Samuel, the Babylonian amora, fits the halakhic ethos that adheres to concrete reality: “The only difference between this era and messianic days is [Israel’s] subjection to the nations” (BT Berakhot 32b). Scholem seeks to emphasize the messianic—utopian in his terms— dimension of Jewish tradition, and claims that Maimonides’ stance, as cited above, does not truly reflect it: “crucial parts of these theses have no legitimate basis whatever in the biblical and talmudic sources and are rather indebted to the philosophical traditions of Greece.”63 But even if Maimonides’ position concerning messianism does not derive deductively from a specific halakhic text, it does successfully convey the halakhic ethos affirming concrete reality while also stressing the obligation of its perpetual reform. The meaning of the term tikkun olam that appears in halakhic literature expresses the practical, non-utopian ethos of halakhic tradition, contrary to its meaning in the Aleinu prayer. The olam in this halakhic concept denotes the actual social reality within which human beings function, and the tikkun relates to the amendment of distortions or injustices in this context; tikkun olam is not the repair of the entire cosmos. In halakhic literature, tikkun olam denotes a concrete action meant to correct a specific wrong, not a comprehensive reorganization of reality by placing another, perfect world as an alternative to it. The act of correction reaffirms the concrete, routine social order; the act of correcting a specific wrong relates to one or another aspect of life that is reaffirmed through the limited character of the act of amendment, not to the whole of life.64 In modern Jewish thought, the non-utopian trend is indeed distinctively evident in the work of thinkers who shifted from speculative theory to halakhic praxis and are at the focus of this book. When embracing the

63 Ibid., 28. 64 For this use of the term tikkun olam, see, for instance, M. Gittin 4:2–7, 9; 5:3; 9:4; M. Eduyot 1:13; BT Gittin 33a. This is a particularly interesting text because of the talmudic commentary on the term tikkun olam: “What is ‘for the sake of tikkun olam’? R. Johanan says, to prevent bastards, Resh Lakish said, to prevent deserted wives.” See also BT Gittin 34b, 36a, 40b-41b; 45a-b, and more. For a profound analysis of this issue, see Menachem Lorberbaum, “Maimonides’ Conception of Tikkun Olam and the Teleology of Halakhah” (in Hebrew), Tarbiz 64 (1995), 65–82. See also David Schatz, Chaim I. Waxman and Nathan J. Diament, Tikkun Olam: Social Responsibility in Jewish Thought and Law (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1997).

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meaning of the halakhic ethos, these thinkers also embrace the assumption that concrete reality is the only one available to us, and the purpose of observing the commandment is to amend this reality. The first of these thinkers is Leibowitz, who takes this view of reality as his starting assumption: “The first mark of the religion of Halakhah is its realism. It perceives man as he is in reality and confronts him with this reality—with the actual conditions of his existence rather than the ‘vision’ of another existence.”65 The “anti-illusory,” “anti-visionary” character of Halakhah precludes, according to Leibowitz, “flight” to another, perfect reality.66 This understanding determines the way Halakhah contends with reality. Halakhah deals with the complex of questions raised by reality through the halakhic norm, not through theodicy.67 Leibowitz, as noted, rejects both the theodicean and the eschatological attempts to cope with reality by finding its meaning beyond it. The faithful live in this world without hope of finding redemption in another, better one. The concept of redemption undergoes a metamorphosis: it no longer denotes an occurrence in the world but a change in our being. The redeemed are those who transcend the shackles of natural givenness and concretize their freedom through the halakhic act per se: “Religion conceived as Torah and commandments redeems man from the shackles of nature. This is not redemption in the Christian sense, whereby a person is redeemed by virtue of his consciousness of being redeemed, but actual redemption, release from the bonds of natural, meaningless causality.”68 Freedom is embodied in the endless, Sisyphean task incumbent on human beings to fulfill their halakhic obligations within the natural world. Believers struggle with reality and transcend it by observing the commandments. This is therefore an immanent transcendence because it does not imply detachment from natural reality and, therefore, “the project it sets for man is permanent and endless. No religious attainment may be considered final; the project is never completed.”69 A similar approach is also suggested by Eliezer Goldman, when he analyzes the typology that differentiates “illusory religion” from “non-illusory religion.” Illusory religion “holds that religion provides a chance for the 65 Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Judaism, Human Values, and the Jewish State, trans. Eliezer Goldman et al. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), (henceforth Judaism), 12. 66 Ibid., 13. 67 Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Judaism, the Jewish People, and the State of Israel (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Schocken, 1976), 397. 68 Ibid., 60. 69 Judaism, 15.

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transformation of human reality, releasing it from its flaws and allowing genuine closeness to God.”70 By contrast, non-illusory religion acknowledges that human reality must be accepted as is and without illusions that we will be able to extricate ourselves from it. It is from and within this reality that God must be worshipped, “for that is the whole duty of man” [Ecclesiastes 12:13]. This worship offers man the only possible option for attachment to his Creator, without fostering any false beliefs in its ability to eliminate the basic conditions of a created reality and redeem us from its flaws.71

The rejection of utopianism and the adherence to concrete reality do not ensure the development of a tikkun olam ethos or the shaping of an “ethic of suffering.” Leibowitz indeed held that the only meaning of the religious obligation is to worship God, and set up a sharp dichotomy between “demanding” and “endowing” religions.72 Whereas the former places the worship of God at the center, the latter places human needs. From the perspective of the demanding religion, human redemption neither is nor can be embodied in a utopian world or an eschatological event. The purpose of religious life is to worship God, not to repair reality. Hence, human redemption is embodied in the heroic effort to fulfill the religious obligation in this world. In a way, redemption is a kind of release from the illusion that the role of religion is to respond to human demands. Simply, then, redemption is the transparency of religious life.73 In sum, Leibowitz neither did nor could have linked the rejection of utopia to the process of tikkun olam, since religiosity is absolute transcendence from the world within the world. In his balanced way, Goldman offers an approach more closely attuned to halakhic practice. In several articles that examine the relationship between religion, Halakhah, and morality,74 Goldman points to the decisive role of meta-halakhic norms in Halakhah.75 These norms express the values and the ideology of “halakhic man,” directing his halakhic decisions. In this way, Goldman points to the connection between Halakhah as a religious system and the real world within which it functions, although he did not develop an explicit view of tikkun olam as a process or an “ethic of suffering.” 70 Eliezer Goldman, Expositions and Inquiries: Jewish Thought in Past and Present (in Hebrew), ed. Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1996), 361. 71  Ibid. 72 Judaism, 14. 73 Ibid., 69–70. cf. ibid., 46. 74 See Goldman, Expositions and Inquiries, 265–305. 75 Ibid., 300. See also ibid., 13–15. Leibowitz later adopted the concept of “meta-halakhic norms” introduced by Goldman and used it in a variety of contexts. See, for instance, Judaism, 128–131.

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Contrary to Leibowitz and Goldman, Soloveitchik and David Hartman point to the link between Halakhah and processes of social reform. Soloveitchik’s distinction between topical and thematic Halakhah, discussed in detail in Chapter Five, and Hartman’s theological structuring of a non-utopian view of halakhic tradition, are explicit responses to this challenge, which Hartman sums up as follows: “The covenant does not suggest any promise of resolution for the finite human condition. Rather, it teaches the community how to be responsible for its social and political existence even within the uncertain and possibly tragic conditions of history and even though many events are beyond human control.”76 In sum, for Halakhah as the mainstream Jewish tradition, the constitutive assumption of its meaning structure is a critical, non-utopian perception of tikkun olam and a system of norms meant to attain it.

76 David Hartman, A Living Covenant: The Innovative Spirit in Traditional Judaism (New York: Free Press, 1985), 261.

Justifying Interreligious Pluralism* Avi Sagi Religious Exclusivism: A Critical Analysis Historical religions cover a broad spectrum of beliefs about the world and about God that are represented in symbols, myths, and practices. In this spectrum, each religion presents a unique world picture, incompatible with the others. Every religion, at least in its traditional garb, is exclusive— it claims to be the only true religion, presenting the most accurate picture of God and of reality. My main thesis here is that religious exclusivism is a hard position to defend, and that a pluralistic thesis that advocates the inner value of different religions is logically preferable. The motivation for religious exclusivism is clear. First, through this approach, believers convey their absolute commitment to their religion and their faith. For many, exclusivism conveys acceptance of their religion’s sole and absolute authority, interpreted to mean that all other religions have no share in the truth. Exclusivism, then, reflects the believers’ religious pathos. Second, exclusivism appears as “coherent and rational, “and believers who fail to endorse it appear to express doubts about the validity of their faith.1 This claim relies on two assumptions: (1) my faith is valid and (2) my faith is incompatible with all others. Hence other faiths are invalid.2 The second assumption is the crucial one for this argument, for without it the conclusion would be redundant and believers could sustain the validity of their own faith without necessarily negating the validity of others. The incompatibility of the various religions relates to two constitutive aspects: their factual and metaphysical beliefs about the world and about God and their system of practical obligations. This crucial assumption, then, compels the conclusion that not all religions can be true, implying the dismissal of interreligious pluralism as a valid possibility. * This article was first published in Jewish Theology and World Religions, edited by Alon Goshen-Gottstein and Eugene Korn and published by the Littman Library of Jewish Civilization (Oxford and Portland, Oregon, 2012). Reprinted with permission. 1 Raimundo Panikkar, “Religious Pluralism: The Metaphysical Challenge,” in Religious Pluralism, ed. Leroy S. Rouner (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 102. 2 Ibid.

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Third, every religion offers a way to salvation attainable only through God’s true revelation. Salvation as the purpose of religion, then, compels religious exclusivism.3 These justifications of religious exclusivism suggest that it conveys the beliefs of the faithful more successfully, in addition to possessing a sound theoretical foundation. An exclusivist approach might seem unappealing because it ostensibly denies the supporters of “untrue” religions the right to their faith, but this is not necessarily so. People may believe their religion is true and valid without denying others the right to uphold mistaken beliefs. A person can be both exclusivist and tolerant. Indeed, tolerance first emerged within an exclusivist world view, and John Locke’s Four Letters of Toleration clearly illustrates a combination of exclusivism and toleration of other religions. Sociologically, exclusivism has often led to coercion, but we should not draw conclusions about exclusivist versions of religion from history and sociology. If exclusivism is to be rejected, the argument affirming the rights of others to sustain their faith cannot be the decisive consideration. Opponents of religious exclusivism raise a series of objections. First, the theological one: the loving God cares for the salvation of all human beings. The exclusivist conclusion, arguing that only followers of the true religion will be redeemed, is incompatible with God’s universal goodness.4 The second is a moral argument: people leading worthy lives can hardly be doomed simply because they belong to another religion.5 The geographical-historical argument is a third objection: membership in a particular religion is usually a matter of random historical and geographical circumstances rather than choice, the product of birthplace, education, environment. To assume that something as crucial as human redemption might possibly depend on such fortuitous events is highly disconcerting. Even if these objections are valid, however, they do not necessarily substantiate interreligious pluralism, and two other conclusions are possible. The first is the endorsement of religious inclusivism, an approach claiming

3 See Michael Peterson et. al., Reason and Religious Belief: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion (New York: Oxford University, 1991), 222; Avishai Margalit, “The Ring: On Religious Pluralism,” in Toleration: An Elusive Virtue, ed. David Heyd (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996), 147–157. 4 See Joseph Runzo, “God, Commitment, and Other Faiths: Pluralism vs. Relativism,” Faith and Philosophy 4 (1988), 347; John Hick, God Has Many Names (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1982), 17; Keith Ward, “Truth and the Diversity of Religions,” Religious Studies 26 (1990), 1. 5 Peterson et al., Reason and Religious Belief, 223; Ward, “Truth and the Diversity of Religions,” 1.

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that one religion is indeed the true one, but God’s mercy extends to members of other religions as well. This, for instance is the approach of the theologian Karl Rahner, who claims that Jesus’ expiation of sin is an objective fact applicable to all human beings.6 A second and perhaps more plausible conclusion is that human redemption is not at all contingent on religion. If God cares about human redemption, how can people be doomed because they were born in the wrong place? Human redemption, then, cannot depend on religion but on leading a worthy life. Furthermore, exclusivists could endorse these arguments without implying that redemption is attainable outside the true religion and claim that “the righteous among peoples of the world have a portion in the world to come.”7 A more persuasive argument against religious exclusivism is one that makes the validation of religion contingent on a special type of experience—the religious experience.8 Relying on this argument, John Hick argues we should ascribe equal value to the religious experience of others: “In acknowledging this we are obeying the intellectual Golden Rule of granting to others a premise on which we rely ourselves.”9 In a later paper, Hick formulates this conclusion even more emphatically: “This basic principle [assuming the primal character of religious experience] has to be applied not only to Christian but also to other forms of theistic experience, and indeed not only to theistic but also to non-theistic forms of religious experience.”10 On these grounds, Hick seeks to reject exclusivism and validate interreligious pluralism.

6 For a detailed analysis of religious inclusivism, see Peterson et al., Reason and Religious Belief, 228–230. For the terminological distinction between exclusivism and inclusivism, see John Hick, Problems of Religious Pluralism (London: St. Martin’s Press: 1985), ch. 3. For a discussion of inclusivism, see ibid., 32–34. Hick had engaged in a preliminary discussion of this issue, without resorting to this terminology, as early as 1982. See Hick, God Has Many Names, 33–36. 7 Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, The Book of Knowledge, trans. Moses Hyamson (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1981), Laws of Repentance 3:13; see also Laws of Kings 8:11. 8 See, e.g., John Hick, An Interpretation of Religion: Human Responses to the Transcendent (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), ch. 13; idem, “Religious Pluralism and the Rationality of Religious Belief,” Faith and Philosophy 10 (1993), 242–249; William Alston, Perceiving God: The Epistemology of Religious Experience (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991); Alvin Plantinga, “The Foundation of Theism: A Reply,” Faith and Philosophy 3 (1986), 298–313; idem, “Justification and Theism,” Faith and Philosophy 4 (1987), 403–426; idem, “Is Belief in God Properly Basic?” in Contemporary Perspectives on Religious Epistemology, ed. R. Douglas Geivett and Brendan Sweetman (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 133–141. 9 Hick, An Interpretation of Religion, 235. 10 Hick, “Religious Pluralism and the Rationality of Religious Belief,” 245.

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The argument from religious experience could be formulated as follows. (1) Every religion is based on a particular religious experience. (2) The religious experience of a believer in one religion differs from the religious experience of a believer in another religion. (3) Believers are justified in relying on their religious experience. All believers, therefore, can justifiably view their own faith as valid. But rejecting exclusivism and justifying interreligious pluralism on these grounds is questionable, since the only conclusion of this argument is that believers in various religions have an epistemic justification for continuing to uphold their beliefs, without any conclusions necessarily following concerning the truth of their religions.11 Another widespread objection to the argument from religious experience challenges the third assumption: are believers indeed justified in relying on their religious experience? The justification usually assumes that religious experience is a particular instance of standard empirical experience, but these experiences are distinctly different. Whereas standard empirical experiences are more or less uniform (almost everyone facing a tree experiences a tree), religious experiences are different and even incompatible.12 The argument from religious experience may, at most, justify a claim that a different religious experience might be certain, but this does not imply it has been positively validated. Religious exclusivism, then, cannot be dismissed on the grounds of a claim based on religious experience. Attempts to reject religious exclusivism have frequently resorted to the phenomenological argument, which relies on the actual historical existence of many and different religions. Notwithstanding its appeal, however, we can draw no conclusions from it. Exclusivists do not deny historical experience but claim that, in and by itself, it is insufficient to refute their approach. The attitude to the phenomenological datum cannot be derived from the datum itself. For supporters of pluralism, interreligious pluralism will be an additional confirmation of their outlook. Normative monists or religious exclusivists, however, will go on claiming that the phenomenological datum proves nothing, that all other religions are mistakes, and only their religion is true. Exclusivists will not, on these grounds, scorn other religions. They may even view them as sublime human creations and may even be touched by the intensity and sincerity of their believers, but without

11 Cf. S. Mark Heim, “The Pluralistic Hypothesis, Realism, and Post-Eschatology,” Religious Studies 28 (1992), 209. 12 David Basinger, “Plantinga, Pluralism and Justified Religious Belief,” Faith and Philosophy 8 (1991), 70–71.

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concluding that they must therefore reject exclusivism. Interreligious pluralism will only impress someone who is already a pluralist. Notwithstanding other arguments against religious exclusivism, most of them do not threaten it. The crucial challenge to religious exclusivism is what I will call “Hume’s dilemma.” Hume’s Dilemma Hume formulates the dilemma as follows: “In matters of religion, whatever is different is contrary; and it is impossible that the religions of ancient Rome, of Turkey, of Siam, and of China should, all of them, be established on any solid foundation.”13 Hume advances this formulation as an argument for religious scepticism. My discussion focuses on this argument and on its implications for religious exclusivism, and considers several versions of the dilemma. The first one follows. For any particular religion (X), two options are possible: (a) Religion X is true. (b) Religion X is false. If (a) is correct, and on the assumption that “whatever is different is contrary,” every other religion is false. If (b) is correct, however, it does not necessarily follow that every other religion is true, since many other false religions may exist. At best, we may conclude from (b) that other existent religions could be true, and the question then is: how do we distinguish a true religion from a false one? Both options show that justifying the falsity of religions is easier than justifying their truth. How, then, do exclusivists validate their position? Whether this version of the dilemma validates interreligious pluralism depends on what we mean by “interreligious pluralism,” an issue I discuss below. At this stage of the discussion, we may formulate the following argument: at least according to versions stating that pluralism does not endorse Hume’s assumption that “whatever is different is contrary,” then, even if Religion X is true, we need not conclude that all other religions are false. A pluralist who rejects this assumption could argue that exclusivism is best 13 David Hume, Enquiries Concerning the Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 121.

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avoided because it is self-defeating, and will eventually undermine its own religious Weltanschauung.14 Another formulation of Hume’s dilemma follows William Alston and Mark McLeod.15 In this version, the datum is the existence of incompatible religions. To decide which one is true we cannot rely on the inner criterion of any one religion, and we require an overarching standard allowing us to compare them. Since no such standard is available, however, I cannot claim that my religious beliefs are more credible or correct than others. This version challenges religious exclusivism by pointing to the lack of an epistemological criterion that might serve to determine the preferable religion. According to this formulation, however, Hume’s dilemma cannot serve to validate interreligious pluralism. An approach supporting interreligious pluralism should not be equated with scepticism about religions in general. In this regard, the interreligious pluralist and the exclusivist find themselves in a similar quandary. As I show below, however, “interreligious pluralism” is a rubric that groups several approaches that cannot be discussed as one, and the dilemma does not apply to versions claiming that various religions are not incompatible or that religions do not suggest truth claims about the world. Another version of Hume’s dilemma claims that incompatibility bet­ ween religions leads to another problem. If the various religions are incompatible, and if the faithful in each religion have justifications for believing in it, we arrive at the following conclusion: “If I am rationally justified in believing x, and you are rationally justified in believing not-x, then we are both justified in believing the other to be deluded, or in some other way mistaken.”16 Consequently, neither believer enjoys an advantage, and both religions are equally uncertain. No religion, then, has any basis for certainty, and exclusivism faces a problem. This argument, however, could also pose a threat to certain versions of interreligious pluralism, as it challenges the very justification of religious faith per se. Another versions deals with the meaning of the belief that x is true. According to Keith Ward, believing that x is true means believing that non-x is false: “To believe a proposition is to think that it is true. To think that it is

14 Hick, who rejects Hume’s assumption, quotes him recurrently in an attempt to challenge religious exclusivism (see, e.g., Hick, Problems of Religious Pluralism, 38; idem, An Interpretation of Religion, 228–229). 15 Alston, Perceiving God, 268–269; Mark S. McLeod, “The Limits of Theistic Experience: An Epistemic Basis of Theistic Pluralism,” Philosophy of Religion, 34 (1993), 80. 16 Ward, “Truth and the Diversity of Religions,” 13.

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true is to affirm that reality is as it is described by that proposition. . . . Thus an affirmation by its nature excludes some possible state of affairs; namely, one which would render the proposition false.”17 This argument shows that, logically, different truth claims cannot possibly be compatible. Ward advances this argument against the very possibility of interreligious pluralism, since the conclusion that follows from this argument—“it is a necessary truth that not all possible religious tradition can be equally true”18—is plainly opposed to a pluralistic stance. The various versions of Hume’s dilemma, then, challenge the possibility of religious exclusivism. Yet in certain versions they also challenge interreligious pluralism, as they cast doubt on its assumption that truth claims, even though mutually incompatible regarding the world, could still be true. Because Hume’s dilemma challenges religious validation from both perspectives, we can refer to it as a “paradox.” What defense can we adduce for an exclusivist or a pluralistic position facing the challenge of Hume’s dilemma? The source of Hume’s dilemma is the existence of mutually incompatible religions. The dilemma conveys the problem evoked by interreligious pluralism, and the discussion below offers two central strategies for dealing with it. The first offers a modified version of validation in general and of religious justification in particular. The second offers a modified version of the concept of truth. Ultimately, these strategies make pluralism a position more defensible than exclusivism. Modifying the Concept of Justification The Radical Approach Alvin Plantinga is the main proponent of the thesis that religion is a “basic belief,” which he defines as a faith that is not justified in terms of another. 19 This concept covers the whole range of our cognitions. Thus, for instance, the equation 1 + 2 = 3 does not rest on any other. Similarly, the belief that I saw a tree does not rest on other propositions. Plantinga stresses that the absence of a justification that relies on other propositions should not be interpreted as an absence of justification altogether; my specific 17 Ibid., 2. 18 Ibid. 19 See Plantinga, “The Foundation of Theism”; idem, “Justification and Theism”; idem, “Is Belief in God Properly Basic?

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experience with the tree, as well as other circumstances, justify my faith.20 According to Plantinga, we have “cognitive faculties designed to enable us to achieve true beliefs with respect to a wide variety of propositions—propositions about our immediate environment, about our interior lives . . . about our universe at large . . . These faculties work in such a way that under the appropriate circumstances we form the appropriate belief.”21 Plantinga claims that religious faith is a kind of basic faith requiring no justification in other terms, anchored in a tendency or a disposition to perceive experience as religious: God has so created us that we have a tendency or disposition to see his hand in the world about us. More precisely, there is in us a disposition to believe propositions of the sort ‘this flower was created by God’ or ‘this vast and intricate universe was created by God’ when we contemplate the flower or behold the starry heavens and think about the vast reaches of the universe.22

In terminology suggested elsewhere, Plantinga argues that God created us with specific aptitudes, that “when they are working in the way they were designed to work by the being who designed and created us and them,” we arrive at theist beliefs.23 In this view of religious faith, believers do not have to be concerned with the positive justification and validation of their beliefs and only need to deal with “negative apologetics,” that is, they only need to reject the counterclaims of faith’s opponents.24 According to Plantinga, the approach supporting rational justifications of faith is part of the Enlightenment’s legacy, which claimed that when we say rational we mean based on incontestable propositions.25 This solution to Hume’s dilemma, then, is to negate any need for positive validation in the religious domain. I will not enter here into a detailed critique of Plantinga’s position,26 but, assuming for the sake of the discussion that Plantinga is right, the question still remains open: what is the relationship between the various religious faiths? Religious aptitude is not responsible for shaping a particular faith, so can theists be satisfied merely with warding off attacks? Does not the pluralist datum reopen the issue 20 Plantinga, “Is Belief in God Properly Basic,” 136. 21 Plantinga, “Justification and Theism,” 405. 22 Plantinga, “Is Belief in God Properly Basic,” 137. 23 Plantinga, “Justification and Theism,” 411. 24 See Plantinga, “The Foundation of Theism,” 313, note 11. 25 Ibid., 307. 26 For a detailed critique see, e.g., Basinger, “Plantinga, Pluralism, and Justified Religious Belief.”

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of the epistemic status of religious faith as a basic belief? Does it not challenge the statement that religious faith, which from now on is always a particular faith—Christian, Jewish, and so forth—does not require validation? If believers do not offer positive validation, is the inevitable conclusion a total negation of their faith or merely a challenge to its certainty? These questions have no answer within the framework of Plantinga’s thesis and, in this sense, Plantinga leaves Hume’s dilemma unresolved. In many ways, Plantinga’s approach is close to that of neo-Wittgensteinian thinkers such as D. Z. Philips. Both Philips and Plantinga reject foundationalism. According to Philips, the choice of foundationalism as the preferred perspective in the analysis of religion is “one of the scandals of the philosophy of religion.”27 Relying on Wittgenstein, Philips claims that religious faith is the believer’s “absolute disposition” toward the world. Believers do not argue about the certainty of religious beliefs in the same terms they use to argue about the truth of statements about the world, because their commitment to religious truths is absolute and unconditional, unlike their commitment to statements about the world.28 According to this approach, the religious realm leaves no room for justifications—not because religion is a product of the religious aptitude but because religion is the absolute starting point from which believers grasp the world. The basic structure of justification, which rests on other claims, undermines the primary quality of religious faith as an absolute disposition. This approach makes the religious realm one of inner meanings, expressing the believers’ inner world. But the key question touches on the meaning of this disposition—is it making claims about the world, or does it only express the believer’s feelings and values? Is religious faith only expressive of the believer’s inner world, or is it cognitive and realistic and making claims about the world and God? To assume that it makes claims about the world is the more plausible interpretation of “absolute disposition,”29 but it exacts an onerous religious price since it fails to match the practical experience. For most believers, religion is an intentional activity directed towards a real God who created the world and guides it with infinite mercy and grace. Therefore, if Hume’s 27 D. Z. Philips, Faith after Foundationalism (London: Routledge, 1988), 3. 28 For a summary of Philips’ position, see Alan Keightly, Wittgenstein, Grammar, and God (London: Epworth, 1976), 73–74; see also Ludwig Wittgenstein, Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief, ed. C. Barrett (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1970), 56–58. 29 Some scholars place Philips in this category, although I am not convinced this is the case (see Hick, An Interpretation of Religion, 198).

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dilemma is the justification of such an approach, this solution seems too costly. If making claims about the world and about God is the more plausible interpretation of this concept,30 believers who start out from an absolute disposition adopt their specific religious statements in preference to others, even to atheistic ones. But preference is not justification. One cannot engage in metaphysical discourse while totally negating the possibility of criticism; religious language is not in a separate and autonomous realm divorced from standard discourse.31 Thus the idea that criteria of truth regarding religious language will not be open to criticism in the name of “the absolute disposition” is unacceptable. Another option is that the absolute disposition is synonymous with personal choice and preference.32 According to this approach, justifications are out of place here, since we are explicitly dealing with choice. The problem with this position is its complete renunciation of a rational critique of choice, which it equates with an arbitrary act or a casual whim.33 This is not the perception of most believers, who view their religious faith as justified and not merely an arbitrary act. Most believers are born into a religion, just as they are born into a specific society and culture. They do not reach faith through a process of critical consideration or because of an arbitrary choice, leaping, as it were, into a religion. Yet we cannot therefore conclude that believers will not invest effort in justifying their beliefs. The attempt to turn religious discourse into one that reports choice and preference a posteriori leads many believers to view this discourse as devoid of meaning. The radical approach, as I have presented it here, claims that the religious domain leaves no room for justification, and Hume’s dilemma is therefore not a challenge to believers. But even if we ignore all the objections to the various versions of this approach and consider it a successful strategy, it will be of no use to exclusivists. Supporters of the radical approach, in all its versions, cannot claim that they are the only ones in possession of the 30 Peter Winch takes this position. He stresses that religion is not merely expressive but makes claims about an entity and about the world, although this entity exists only within the religious context. Winch has stated this position recurrently (see Peter Winch, “Understanding a Primitive Society,” in Rationality, ed. Bryan R. Wilson (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1985), 82; idem, Trying to Make Sense (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987), ch. 8). 31 Compare Kai Nielsen, “Wittgensteinian Fideism,” in Contemporary Philosophy of Religion, ed. Steven M. Cahn and David Schatz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 247. 32 This is the approach suggested by Basinger, who speaks of solving the pluralist challenge “in a personal, private fashion” (“Plantinga, Pluralism and Justified Religious Belief,” 77). 33 See Hick’s similar critique of Basinger (“Religious Pluralism and the Rationality of Religious Belief,” 247).

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truth, and that their faith is justified and absolutely preferable to all others. Advocates of this strategy cannot, by the very nature of their claim, negate pluralism. The Limited Approach Whereas the radical approach alleges that religious faith is not within the realm of propositions requiring justification, it is possible to make a more limited claim, arguing that the justification of faith is not necessarily universal. Different people professing different and incompatible beliefs can all be justified, without one faith’s justification negating the other. William Alston suggests such an approach, when he claims that incompatible religious pluralism raises a problem regarding the justification of my own faith.34 Exclusivists contend with this datum by dismissing the truth value of other faiths. Alston, however, argues that preference for a particular religion cannot be justified in terms of the religion itself. To determine which religion is preferable, we must rely on a criterion that all competing religions will find acceptable. This criterion must be external and cannot be grounded on one specific religious tradition, because all religious traditions claim to be preferable to all others. Since in his view no such external criterion is available, we have no way of comparing different religions and determining which one is preferable.35 In sum, “we have no idea what a non-circular proof [which assumes the truth of religion a priori] of the reliability of CMP would look like.”36 Why is an external criterion for examining religions impossible? Alston claims that the incommensurability of religions follows from their incompatibility.37 But this justification of incommensurability is problematic. The incompatibility of religions shows they do not have shared internal criteria, but not that no external criterion may be found.38 A better defence of Alston’s position would dismiss as implausible the assumption that a shared external criterion may give one religion a prominent advantage over others. 34 William Alston, “Religious Diversity and Perceptual Knowledge of God,” Faith and Philosophy 8 (1991), 433–448; idem, Perceiving God. 35 Alston, Perceiving God, 268–280. 36 Ibid., 272. CMP is an acronym for Christian Mystical Perceptual Doxastic Practice. This argument is pertinent to all religions and not necessarily to Christianity as interpreted by Alston. 37 Ibid., 268. 38 This thesis is well demonstrated in Daniel Statman, Moral Dilemmas (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995), especially ch. 3.

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This approach appears to lead to the conclusion that no position enjoys any advantage over others, and that upholding a particular faith is pointless. Alston’s innovation is that he rejects this conclusion and claims that upholding a particular religious view based on religious experience is both meaningful and justified, even if unjustifiable in universal terms. The lack of universal justification for my faith does not imply it lacks justification altogether. The religious domain, according to Alston, is a particular case where incompatible propositions are justified to different people.39 Individuals can continue to rely on their religious experience without committing themselves to the claim that this experience is of universal value.40 Alston, therefore, circumscribes the meaning usually ascribed to justifications and argues that universality is not a necessary condition of them.41 Thus far the discussion indicates that modifications in the concept of justification are incompatible with religious exclusivism and that preserving the traditional concept of justification leads to Hume’s dilemma. A pluralistic stance, therefore, emerges as epistemically preferable to exclusivism. Modifying the Concept of Religious Truth Modifying the concept of religious truth implies adopting one or another version of the pluralistic position. In this section, I examine several versions of this modification and, accordingly, several types of religious pluralism. Moderate pluralism A typical pluralistic position makes at least two assumptions: (1) Competing systems are incompatible. (2) No shared criterion is available for choosing between systems.42 Moderate pluralism may restrict the connotations of both these assumptions. Two types of moderate pluralism will be succinctly outlined in this section: one claims that an exhaustive description of a pluralistic religious reality is not a description of

39 Alston, Perceiving God, 275. 40 Alston, “Religious Diversity and the Perceptual Knowledge of God,” 440. 41 Advocates of interreligious pluralism tend to support the argument of limited justification (see John Kekes, The Morality of Pluralism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 95). 42 Ibid., 53–59.

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incompatible systems, and the other that we do not need to choose between different systems. The first type, sometimes called “universal pluralism,”43 claims that God, the entity, or the absolute are all one, and that every particularistic religion reflects its specific experience of God or the absolute entity. The variance reflects the range of cultures represented in different images of God.44 Hick develops this approach at length, but a detailed analysis exceeds the scope of this paper and I will confine myself to a concise summary.45 Hick was influenced by Kant’s distinction between the phenomenon and the noumenon,46 and he draws a distinction between the entity as such (God) and the modes of experiencing it. The entity is one, while the modes of experiencing it are many, but all are different modes of experiencing the very same thing. To illustrate his approach, Hick returns to the Greek parable about blind men laying their hands on various parts of an elephant: each one perceives the object differently, but all still perceive the same thing.47 As the entity or the absolute are infinite, beyond speech and thought, the object of worship in the various religions is not the absolute itself, but the absolute as perceived within the religious experience.48 Consequently, Hick argues that different religious experiences may seem incompatible but are actually complementary, and that this claim also applies to religious truths, all of which relate to various aspects of the same entity. Why does Hick persist in retaining the assumption of one entity rather than confine himself to pointing out the different religious experiences? Hick describes his approach as “inductivist,” a perspective that takes the human religious experience regarding the transcendent seriously. On this basis, he postulates the existence of a single entity.49 According to this approach, Hume’s dilemma should not lead to religious scepticism; in fact, as noted, Hick views the dilemma itself as evidence of the shared grounds underlying the various religions.50 43 Yong Huang, “Religious Pluralism and Interfaith Dialogue: Beyond Universalism and Particularism,” Philosophy of Religion 37 (1995), 127–128. 44 Hick, God Has Many Names, p. 105. 45 Note that Jewish theologians have suggested a similar approach (see, e.g., Daniel Polish, “Understanding Religious Pluralism,” Religion and Intellectual Life 4 (1987): 50–63). 46 See, e.g., Hick, God Has Many Names, 104–105; John Hick, Philosophy of Religion (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1983), 119–120. 47 Hick, Problems of Religious Pluralism, 37. 48 Hick, Philosophy of Religion, 111. 49 Ibid. 50 Hick, “Religious Pluralism and the Rationality of Religious Belief,” 248.

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Hick’s approach has evoked widespread controversy. He argues that the believers’ intentional activity is ultimately directed towards God as experienced by members of a particular religious community rather than towards the real God as such. According to Hick, relating to the real God is impossible. This approach, however, contradicts the basic faith of believers, who do direct their activity towards a real God.51 Furthermore, is Hick suggesting a new perception of religion, an alternative to the existing religions, or a second-order analysis or meta-religion about religions as they actually are? From Hick’s writings, and from his deep commitment to the believers’ religious experience as they themselves describe it, he appears to be advancing a second-order analysis of religions. The test of a second-order analysis is twofold: first, the consistency and the coherence of the analysis itself; second, the extent to which the analysis is congruent with the datum to which it relates. Hick fails not only according to the first criterion but also, and particularly, according to the second. He does not take into account believers’ own religious experience in the various faiths. Every religion considers itself entirely different from all others, and every religion perceives itself as relating to the real God. The value of a second-order analysis that fails to interpret these data is at best dubious.52 Hick argues that the source of the differences between the various religions relates to sociological and historical differences between believers. Most probably, Hick does not mean to confine religion to historical-sociological data. He does not intend to claim that religion is the product of a given society and culture, and consistently emphasizes that the entity is absolute and does, indeed, exist “there.” What, then, is the relationship between this entity and the religious experience? If the religious experience is decisive, how can we use it to spring the reductionist trap?53 Hick’s assumption, that religious experiences share a common ground, fails the phenomenological test. Indeed, a comparison of different religious traditions reveals that the differences between them far exceed the similarities, as Ninian Smart notes: “There is no common core, but rather . . . there are different sorts of religious experience, which recur in different traditions, though not universally. From a phenomenological point of view it is

51 See Peterson et al., Reason and Religious Belief, 227; Robert McKim, “Could God Have More Than One Nature,” Faith and Philosophy 5 (1988), 383. 52 See Harold A. Netland, “Professor Hick on Religious Pluralism,” Religious Studies 22 (1986), 254–255. 53 Ibid., 253.

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not possible to base the judgment that all religions point to the same truth upon religious experience.”54 Finally, consider the elephant parable: who has the external perspective enabling the conclusion that the blind are indeed experiencing the elephant rather than something else? Certainly not the blind themselves. According to Hick, however, the religious experience resembles that of “the blind.” Hick assumes we do not experience the entity or the absolute, so who does have the external perspective from which we might determine that the religious experience is indeed the experience of this absolute? Why not assume that the religious experience is not intentional, has no realistic meaning, and is by nature expressive? In brief: if God can be described, we are not blind; and if nothing can be said about God, religion is either an illusion or, at most, an expression of human perceptions and judgments.55 Aware of this difficulty, Hick tries to contend with it. In his view, individuals have no external perspective allowing them to know that their experience is actually realistic. Good reasons do exist, however, for relying on the religious experience, which is unquestionably directed toward the actual entity.56 Yet this move takes us no further, since the key question still is: “What is there in the religious experience?” If this experience conveys a relationship with a real God, Hick’s thesis collapses since he assumes that no relationship with this entity is possible. Alternatively, we might endorse the claim that the religious experience is unreliable and merely an illusion. But if the religious experience relates only to the image of God, why not assume it has no real object whatsoever? Even assuming epistemic justification for relying on the experience, no ontological conclusions can be drawn from it. The moderate pluralistic model of the Hick variety therefore fails to overcome the basic problem raised by Hume’s dilemma. Another model of moderate pluralism assumes that all religions have something in common (that is, they all reflect the divine revelation), thus making choice unnecessary. David Hartman offers an interesting development of this approach. In his view, God’s revelation expresses God’s will “to meet human beings in their finitude, in their particular historical and social situation, and to speak to them in their own language.”57 Instead of a

54 Ninian Smart, “Truth and Religion,” in Contemporary Philosophy of Religion, ed. Steven M. Cahn and David Schatz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 299. 55 See Netland, “Professor Hick on Religious Pluralism,” 259–261. 56 Hick, Problems of Religious Pluralism, 37. 57 David Hartman, Conflicting Visions: Spiritual Possibilities of Modern Israel (New York: Schocken Books, 1990), 247.

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theory postulating one divine revelation, then, Hartman suggests a theory of multiple revelations. This multiplicity relies on two interrelated assumptions, one theological and one anthropological. The specific revelation is always fragmented because God’s infinite abundance cannot be exhausted by “divine-human encounters.”58 First, revelation is an encounter between God and concrete human beings, implying that God turns to human beings out of consideration for their concreteness. Revelation, therefore, is not the “source of absolute, eternal, and transcendent truth.”59 In principle, then, revelation cannot be universal and is always particular, with various religious as different expressions of divine infinity. According to Hartman, awareness of the plurality of faiths “is spiritually redemptive.”60 In this approach, a given obligation (O) can be a religious obligation within one faith, whereas another faith may define its negation (not-O) as an obligation. The fact that religions are incompatible is a consummate expression of the nature of divine revelation. Hence, we do not need a criterion that determines truth in each religion. All are true in the sense that they convey an encounter between human beings and God. The advantage of this approach over the previous one is clear: Hartman does not assume a distinction between the real God and the image of God, and claims that each religion worships the real God in its own unique fashion. This approach, however, is also fraught with problems. First, what does this formulation represent—a new perception of religion or a second-order analysis of religions? If Hartman is seeking to offer a second-order analysis, his claim is antithetical to that of the religions. For instance, Christianity believes that Jesus is the redeemer and the messiah, and this is precisely the creed that Jewish believers negate. The beliefs of different religions are mutually contradictory. Hartman claims that every religion offers a fragmented, intrinsically correct truth that does not negate another, but this is not the view that religions endorse. Second, how does this theory of revelation explain the religious value of the various religions? Hartman makes two assumptions, one theological and one anthropological, but neither of them compels the conclusion he wishes to infer. Even if God is an infinite abundance that cannot be exhausted through any particular revelation, it does not follow that there will be other revelations in the future. All we may learn from God’s infinite abundance is that no revelation can exhaust God, but not that revelation 58 Ibid. 59 Ibid., 248. 60 Ibid.

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will recur. Furthermore, only in Christianity does revelation relate to God as such; in Judaism and Islam what is revealed is not God but the obligations incumbent on humanity, or the book that is the bedrock of these obligations. In these religions, God’s infinite abundance is irrelevant to the nature of the revelation. Third, are the historical religions a product of culture and other concrete facts or do they embody the divine norms and beliefs? If they represent a cultural product, religion is reduced to history; if they embody truth, what exactly is the role of concrete history in the shaping of religion? Finally, this approach assumes a relationship between the concrete history of a society and a culture on the one hand and religious expression on the other. But what is the relationship between Christian society and culture and the specific manifestations of Christian religion or Christian religions? Also, why is the wearing of phylacteries, for instance, appropriate to Jewish rather than to Islamic history? Why is eating the host appropriate to Christianity rather than to Judaism? Every religion may have an ethos, normative expressions, myths, or symbols linked to the concrete history and language of members of a particular religious community, but why should we assume that this is true of all expressions? This question is particularly relevant given the many religious expressions lacking all signs of concrete historicity. Similarly to the problems I pointed out concerning the first approach, these problems also indicate that the attempt to allow pluralistic openness through a strategy involving a softening of pluralist assumptions (for example, claiming that all religions address the absolute or create an encounter between God and human beings) is highly problematic. In this light, the option that has been called “radical pluralism,”61 seems more appealing to the pluralistic believer. Radical pluralism Radical interreligious pluralism rests on the two pluralistic assumptions and dismisses any denominator common to all religions. According to this approach, each religion offers a closed and sealed world of beliefs and values, detached from all others. The truth or falsity of a religion is not decided through a comparison with other religions, but tested within the

61 See McKim, “Could God Have More Than One Nature,” 380.

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intra-religious context.62 A survey of the literature suggests two views of radical pluralism, which I refer to as “realistic,” and “expressionist.”63 The realistic approach is antithetical to the one Hick proposes and Mark Heim, one of its chief proponents, indeed formulates his thesis in direct confrontation with Hick.64 From a pluralistic perspective, the realistic approach detects a fundamental problem in Hick’s approach. Hick’s pluralism emerges as ultimately artificial because it appears only at the level of the phenomenon, in God’s various images, while the numen (the entity, the absolute, or God) is one and identical in all religions. This pluralism, then, relies on a universalistic assumption, which the realistic approach rejects. Realists claim that every religion offers its own perception of the transcendent entity rather than presenting an image of God. Even if the deity is transcendent, this need not imply that the believer cannot experience God, since experiencing an attachment to God does not mean experiencing all the divine attributes to the full.65 Heim therefore argues that we cannot rule out the option that religions do grasp the divine entity.66 He then moves one step further and claims that every religion perceives the divine entity differently: “the God in whom we [Christians] believe is not quite the same as that of the Jew or Muslim, since our God’s character is fundamentally defined by different standards.”67 This approach, therefore, argues that religions suggest different concepts of God, concepts that reflect the actual divine entity and not only our perceptions of it. Radical pluralism is therefore realistic, because it claims that God exists beyond our perceptions and is not contingent on us. It is also radical, because it assumes that every religion offers a different entity as the divine. Peter Winch has suggested something close to this approach. For Winch, what is real and unreal is within, not beyond the religious language, and “the conception of God reality” is only meaningful within a specific

62 See Purusottama Bilimoria, “A Problem for Radical (Onto-Theos) Pluralism,” Sophia 30 (1991), 23. Runzo argues that pluralistic positions endorse a theory of idealistic truth (“God, Commitment, and Other Faiths,” 350). This formulation, however, is misleading. Although pluralistic theories do renounce the comparative test as a way of testing the truth of religions, they do not thereby endorse idealistic theories of truth. 63 Both approaches are a possible development of Wittgenstenian thought models, since both view the various religions as different “language games.” Several neoWittgenstenian thinkers support one of these two approaches, as shown below. 64 See Heim, “The Pluralistic Hypothesis, Realism, and Post-Eschatology.” 65 Ibid., 213. 66 Mark Heim, Is Christ The Only Way? (Valley Forge, PA: Judson, 1985), 25. 67 Ibid., 143.

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religious language.68 He does not mean that religious language is only expressive and lacks realistic cognitive content, but that the concept of “God” assumes meaning only within a specific religious context. This context does not negate God’s existence; rather, God’s existence and meaning are determined by the specific religious context.69 The advantage of radical pluralism over the previous version is clear. Rather than blurring the differences between religions, radical pluralism chooses to highlight them dramatically, since these differences exist not only at the level of the phenomenon but also at the level of the noumenon.70 Radical pluralism also negates any room for comparison between religions, which could lead to a decision about the one true religion. All religions can be true, in the sense that they describe the divine entity accurately, even though the divine entity is different.71 Finally, radical pluralism successfully conveys the phenomenological fact that religions, in their full garb, are ultimately different from one another. However, this approach encounters many problems. First, its metaphysical world picture remains blurred. Prima facie, radical pluralism claims that the various divine entities—the Christian God, the Jewish God—exist independently of the respective religions. The world is thus full of divine entities, as many as there are religions. Postulating a multiplicity of divine entities, however, fails the test of Ockham’s razor. The only reason for assuming this multiplicity is that the various religions relate to such entities, but is this a sufficient reason to substantiate this assumption? To assume that religious discourse is beyond the critique of standard ontological discourse is groundless. Second, what are the attributes of these divine entities and what is the relationship between them? Whereas some of the attributes ascribed to these entities are common to all, some are exclusive. Thus, for instance, monotheistic religions claim that God is good, infinite, and so on and ascribing identical attributes to different entities implies no contradiction. Yet, some of these attributes are exclusive, ascribed to one particular deity. For instance, Judaism claims that the redeemer of humanity is the God of Israel and not the Christianity’s God, whereas Christianity claims that redemption is precisely an attribute of the Christian rather than the Jewish God. Some of the attributes that believers ascribe to one particular 68 Winch, “Understanding a Primitive Society,” 82. 69 Winch, Trying to Make Sense, ch. 7. 70 See Huang, “Religious Pluralism and Interfaith Dialogue,” 131. 71 Ibid.

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deity are negated by the other religion. Judaism negates the incarnation of the Christian God. Divine entities, according to radical pluralism, are both identical and contradictory. The metaphysical world of this pluralism is full of entities and non-entities, and we have no way of discerning between what is and what is not. Finally, in what sense is any religion true? If truth implies an accurate description of the divine entity, the assumption underlying this statement is that, in some religions, an unconditioned entity exists that this particular religion describes successfully. The basic flaw of radical pluralism stems from its desire to uphold the two contradictory trends that guide it. On the one hand, it seeks to uphold a realistic position claiming that the God of religions is a real and unconditioned entity, and on the other, it claims that every religion has a different perception of this entity, implying that this entity is defined and confined by religion.72 The problems facing radical pluralism were not the only forces driving the development of expressive pluralism as an alternative, but they did help to make the latter a meaningful and appealing option. Expressive pluralism, as I show below, is linked to postmodern trends in theology. Expressive pluralism differs from realistic pluralism in its dismissal of any claims regarding God as an entity, or any ascription of religion to God. God is not an unconditioned entity sustaining a relationship with human beings, or an intentional object of religious activity. God is a concept that only becomes intelligible and meaningful within religious language and praxis. This approach changes not only the standard meaning ascribed to the concept of “God,” but also the meaning of religion. Religion is not a type of relationship between the individual and God but a life pattern, whose source and meaning lie within human activity. As postmodernist thought flourished, more and more thinkers adopted this model of pluralism.73 Expressive pluralism stresses that individuals do not become attached to a particular religion after its critical evaluation. People are born into a community where a particular religious tradition usually prevails.74 Their readiness to adopt religious beliefs and values is motivated by many 72 For further criticism, see McKim, “Could God Have More Than One Nature,” 383. 73 On the link between postmodernism and expressive pluralism in modern theology and thought, see the summary of Nancy Murphy and James W. McClendon, “Distinguishing Modern and Postmodern Theologies,” Modern Theology 5 (1989), 191–214; see also John Milbank, “ ‘Postmodern Critical Augustinianism’: A Short Summa in Forty-Two Responses to Unasked Questions,” Modern Theology 7 (1991), 225–237. 74 See John Hick, “Religious Pluralism and Absolute Claims,” in Religious Pluralism, ed. Leroy S. Rouner (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 194.

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factors—social relationships, a commitment to an active tradition, or the religion’s ability to organize the individual’s experiences within a meaningful framework.75 The motivation for choosing a religion is not the measure of its truth. Believers do not view the philosophical and theological justifications of the various religions as a condition of their own religiosity, nor do they find philosophical and theological critiques necessarily impressive.76 If the believers’ attachment to religion is not based on its being true, however, this means that religion has another role. Supporters of expressive pluralism stress that in organizing human experience, religion and faith in God play a key role by giving existence meaning. Gordon Kaufman sharpens this formulation, stating that the analysis of religion must rest on the awareness that discourse about God is only meaningful within a symbolic framework, which develops in a particular historical context. The symbol of “God“ emerges when a picture of the world gradually unfolds within a specific set of historical circumstances and allows people to cope, more or less successfully, with their needs for survival. Like other symbols, this one too must be understood as a product of human imagination.77 In the expressive approach, “God” plays a practical role rather than being the name of a concrete entity found in the world. The claim that “God exists” implies that this concept plays a role in the organization of our concrete life experiences.78 Expressive pluralism does not necessarily rule out the use of the term “truth” in regard to religion, but it invests the term with a different meaning. In this language, the concept of truth has a double meaning: consistency and congruency. A true religion is one where the theoretical and practical realms are consistent or one whose believers consider that it organizes their experience fully and comprehensively.79 In postmodern terms, every religion offers a different narrative. Hence, the question of the justification and truth of a religion in the usual sense

75 See Ward, “Truth and the Diversity of Religions,” 3; Huang, “Religious Pluralism and Interfaith Dialogue,” 133. 76 Neo-Wittgenstenian thinkers emphasize this point (see, e.g., Norman Malcolm, “The Groundlessness of Religious Belief,” in Reason and Religion, ed. Stuart C. Brown (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977); Philips, Faith after Foundationalism. 77 Gordon Kaufman, In Face of Mystery: A Constructive Theology (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 39–40. 78 Hick, An Interpretation of Religion, 199. 79 Compare Murphy and McClendon, “Distinguishing Modern and Postmodern Theologies,” 206.

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of these terms is irrelevant. No meta-narrative exists that might determine which narrative is in fact preferable.80 From this perspective, the classic discussion between exclusivism and pluralism becomes illegitimate. Not only are exclusivists mistaken but so are pluralists, if they assume that pluralism describes reality more accurately. Religious pluralism is merely a description of human reality—as reality is manifold and diverse, so is religion, which is one of its products.81 Expressive pluralism has a prominent advantage over realistic pluralism: it is not committed to a problematic metaphysical Weltanschauung. Its main drawback is that it belies the world of the believers themselves, who do not view God as a product of their imagination. God is for them a concrete entity to whom they address their religious action. Expressive pluralism offers a second-order analysis that fails to take into account the datum to which it relates. Indeed, it offers a transformation of religion itself. Although expressive pluralism is possible, the question is whether it is useful: it seems in no way helpful to believers and is superfluous to non-believers. The conclusion of this analysis is that all pluralistic approaches confront difficulties when attempting to offer a coherent picture of religion. My claim is that these difficulties do not threaten the pluralistic approach, nor do they compel us to relinquish it. They merely point out the task confronting the supporters of interreligious pluralism—to build a theory of interreligious pluralism. When doing so, they must take heed of the participants in the pluralistic game, which include not only the various religious partners but also the deniers of religion. To claim that all or most religions have internal value, whereas approaches that negate religion must be rejected a priori is unacceptable. The analysis has shown that religious justification is fundamentally limited. This limitation, however, applies not only to the relationship between religions, but also to the relationship of the various religions with non-religious or anti-religious approaches. Differences between religions are as wide as the differences between various religions and non-religious or anti-religious conceptions. An epistemic umbrella covering all the various religions would, in principle, be pertinent to other approaches as well. Does interreligious pluralism detract from people’s loyalty to their religious faith?

80 Peter Donovan, “The Intolerance of Religious Pluralism,” Religious Studies 29 (1993), 223–227. 81 Cantwell Wilfred Smith, Questions of Religious Truth (London: Victor Gollancz, 1967), 73.

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Religious Loyalty Does loyalty to one religion entail the negation of all others? Moreover, does not interreligious pluralism imply an acknowledgment of the relativism of a religion’s truth? These questions necessitate a reanalysis of what we mean by loyalty to values. Underlying all of them is a conception that I call “the stringent view of loyalty.” This concept claims that denying other options as false is a necessary condition of normative loyalty and thereby assumes a necessary link between loyalty and a cognitive position. The usual justification for this assumption is the suspicion that people who fail to negate other values may eventually deviate from their particular normative system and be ready to replace it with another. This assumption appears questionable, however. Precluding any option of normative change requires a radical step involving the dismissal of rational criticism and foreclosing the possibility that, on further thought, something considered right might emerge as wrong. I doubt that most supporters of the stringent view of loyalty would be willing to go that far. Insofar as rational-critical discussion remains legitimate, therefore, the option that a given normative system might be replaced cannot be precluded by negating the value of other systems. Excluding all other options cannot be a necessary condition of loyalty. Many individuals loyal to their moral and religious values are incapable of offering epistemic justifications for them. They express their loyalty by organizing their lives in light of these values and through their willingness to pay a high price for their adherence to them. But people unable to justify their values could still assume that such justifications do exist, even if they do not know them. This line of argument is already a retreat from the stringent view, since it attests to the lack of a necessary link between loyalty and actual epistemic justification. Even if loyal individuals do keep this assumption within their consciousness, however, their actual loyalty can hardly rest on the belief that someone else knows their values to be true. Exclusivists could claim that the negation of other options, while not a necessary condition of every normative system, is still pertinent in the religious realm because we thereby acknowledge the absolute sovereignty of the God of religion. The recognition of possible truth in other religions appears to erode this absolute sovereignty. Yet this line of defense is redundant because, as long as rational-critical discourse remains available, this sovereignty remains vulnerable to potential challenges. Religion’s absolute sovereignty is embodied in the usual ways of representing sovereignty—the readiness to obey God’s commands. This readiness need not be

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incompatible with a cognitive acknowledgment of the value of other options for other people. Believers go on obeying their God although others do not do so, and this understanding brings us closer to a different interpretation of the concept of loyalty. A plausible interpretation of normative loyalty views it as a kind of inner relationship between loyal persons and their values. People loyal to their values are ready to live by them, although they could choose otherwise. Despite the availability of other, not necessarily negative, options, people demonstrate their loyalty to their own values by favoring them over others. The test of loyalty is internal: rather than the cognitive acknowledgment of the truth of a normative system, loyalty conveys a form of integrity.82 Isaiah Berlin concludes “Two Concepts of Liberty” as follows: Principles are not less sacred because their duration cannot be guaranteed. Indeed, the very desire for guarantees that our values are eternal and secure in some objective heaven is perhaps only a craving for the certainties of childhood or the absolute values of our primitive past. “To realize the relative validity of our convictions,” said an admirable writer of our time, “and yet stand for them unflinchingly, is what distinguishes a civilized man from a barbarian.” To demand more than this is perhaps a deep and incurable metaphysical need; but to allow it to determine one’s practice is a symptom of an equally deep, and more dangerous, moral and political immaturity.83

Supporting interreligious pluralism, then, seems preferable to exclusivism. This conclusion accords with the prevalent trends of our culture, which tends to reject normative monism, and is also that of many believers. My claim is that interreligious pluralism is preferable not only because it is consistent with the prevalent trends, but because Hume’s dilemma provides solid epistemic grounds for its adoption. Pluralism and Jewish Tradition Does the endorsement of pluralism imply the breakdown of religion traditions in general and of Jewish tradition in particular? The answer is “no.” Even if pluralism reformulates accepted religious truths, its innovations

82 For further discussion of this issue, see Peter Winch, Ethics and Action (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1972), 193–209. 83 Isaiah Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” in idem, Four Essays on Liberty (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 172.

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are hardly more significant than the ones that Jewish thinkers have offered since the dawn of their tradition. Is the price of a pluralistic stance higher than that of a typical medieval philosophical position that turned God into a transcendent entity of the Maimonidean variety? The ability of a tradition to absorb change is tied to many elements and is never contingent on one sole element, such as adherence to metaphysical truths. Some turning points in a tradition do sharpen the split between past and present. The present gradually erases all remnants from the past, even when ensuring them a decent burial. But when the dialogue with the past acknowledges its intrinsic value and consistently seeks to bring it into the present, the past comes back to life in the present, even if in other garb. At times, the return to the past through the patterns of the present guarantees its continuity, since the reinterpretation process implies a renewed commitment to the tradition. A dialogue with the past from a present-oriented perspective necessarily assumes change, but not every change implies the dismissal of tradition. Ultimately, two main elements determine continuity: the similarity of practices and the disposition toward aspects of the tradition. Paradoxically, interreligious pluralism emerges as a stable anchor in the shaping of a new disposition towards the tradition. In the past, the power of tradition rested on truth claims. However, truth claims are by nature contingent, and pluralism can elude contingency because in a pluralistic setting the validity of a value system no longer rests on being the exclusive “truth” for all humanity. It rests, rather, on its internal recognition. The passion of commitment to these values is not contingent. Pluralism, including interreligious pluralism, is a liberating power that allows us to express commitment without fearing that we might be wrong. Indeed, it enables us to return to the tradition without reservations. Pluralism is not free of problems, but the return to tradition is not one of them. Given the challenges that exclusivism faces, pluralism indeed emerges as the main road for a return to tradition. Even if pluralism is possible and worthwhile, when we apply it to Judaism we create a conceptual revolution that is not easily compatible with the apparent rigidity of halakhic language and action. Indeed, Halakhah may find it easier to support a pluralistic approach in its attitude to other religions than in its attitude toward non-halakhic Jews. A Jew who does not observe the Torah and the commandments is described in halakhic language as a transgressor, ignorant of the law, and acting under duress. Moreover, transgressing some commandments is considered equivalent to

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violating the entire Torah. Public desecration of the Sabbath is of special importance in this context. As Rashi noted, the unique status of the Sabbath is related to its theological meaning: “The Sabbath transgressor denies his acts, and falsely attests that the Holy One, blessed be He, did not rest on the Sabbath.”84 The conceptual revolution faces a hard challenge here, because the Sabbath’s unique status denotes the presence of a deep metaphysical foundation in the halakhic realm. No less important, however, is the ensuing halakhic implication. A mainstream halakhic tradition that stretches from Halakhot gedolot85 through the literature of the early authorities86 and up to modern halakhic literature87 speaks of public Sabbath violators as complete idolaters who are no longer included in the Jewish collective. However, various rabbinic authorities developed a more tolerant attitude to Sabbath violators for other reasons. Some relied on considerations of result, claiming that viewing public Sabbath desecrators as non-Jews would lead them to abandon the Jewish people. Others relied on sociological considerations, arguing that the precondition for breaking the Sabbath in public is the existence of a society that observes the Sabbath. However: In our times, they are not called public Sabbath desecrators because this is what most people do. When most Jews are guiltless, the few who dare to transgress are denying the Torah, committing an abomination, and excluding themselves from the Jewish people. Unfortunately, however, when most Jews are transgressors, the individual believes this is not such a serious offense and one need not hide.88

The transgressor’s intention is thus a necessary condition for determining the seriousness of the offence. In light of secularization, the Sabbath desecrator has no consciousness of being a sinner and therefore is not in the classic halakhic category of a public Sabbath violator.

84 Rashi on BT Hulin 5a, s.v. ileima mumar. 85 Azriel Hildesheimer, ed., Sefer halakhot gedolot (Berlin, 1888), 516. 86 See, e.g., Abraham ben Yitzhak of Narbonne, Sefer ha’eshkol, ed. Shalom and Hanokh Albeck (Jerusalem, 1984), pt. 2, 105; Yitzhak bar Sheshet (Ribash), Responsa, no. 4; Beit yosef, “Yoreh deah,” no. 119; and others. 87 See, e.g., Moses Sofer (Hatam Sofer), Responsa, pt. 3, “Deletions,” no. 195; Moses Schick (Maharam Schick), Responsa, “Hoshen hamishpat,” no. 61; Hayim Elazar Shapira, Minhat eli’ezer, pt. 1, no. 74. 88 David Zvi Hoffman, Melamed leho`il (responsa) (Frankfurt: Hermon, 1926–32), vol. I, no. 29.

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At best, these considerations can substantiate toleration, but under no circumstances can they justify pluralism.89 Pluralism contradicts Halakhah’s basic assumption, which holds that all Jews are compelled to observe the Torah and the commandments by virtue of the Sinai covenant, making pluralism an extremely difficult position to sustain in religious terms. First, pluralism is committed to a conceptual religious revolution. Second, this revolution is not sufficient either, since Halakhah might be compatible with toleration but not with pluralism. In other words, the maximum possible is a pluralistic consciousness and halakhic toleration. Is pluralism then entirely incompatible with Jewish religion? Halakhah is indeed hard to integrate with a pluralistic stance, but a conceptual religious revolution is not a negligible feat even if it cannot be directly translated into practice. It creates a new consciousness that could be significant and, indirectly, could also contribute to practical trends. Even if unable to foster a pluralistic Halakhah, it might promote tolerant trends that will somehow progress toward pluralism. The religious pluralist may be doomed to live in permanent tension, fluctuating between a religious and pluralist pole, on the one hand and, on the other, a halakhic pole that, at best, will be tolerant. This tension is a good illustration of the pluralist’s participation in two communities—a Western community that endorses pluralism and a halakhic Jewish community unreservedly committed to its own directives. Membership in these two communities at times leads to a deep value conflict. Yet, as I have shown elsewhere,90 affirming a conflict between two different value systems is, in logical terms, a measure of the deep commitment felt towards both. The conflict, then, is the quintessential affirmation of membership in both communities. Finally, do religious believers have any reason for embracing religious pluralism despite the heavy religious price it exacts? The answer is highly complex. Good religious reasons can be adduced for doing nothing at all, from the religious concessions that pluralism would demand of tradition to the ultimately deleterious effects of any action and its future implications for political and social life in general and religious truths in particular. A believer wishing to remain within a traditional framework could hardly accept arguments that lead to its erosion and would have no reason to 89 On the distinction between pluralism and toleration, see Avi Sagi, Jewish Religion after Theology, trans. Batya Stein (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 3–42. 90 See Avi Sagi, “The Suspension of the Ethical and the Religious Meaning of Ethics in Kierkegaard’s Thought,” International Journal for Philosophy and Religion, 32 (1992), 83–103.

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adopt a pluralistic outlook. The question is only relevant to a believer leaning towards pluralism, and, for that believer, are there any rational justifications for this inclination? The reasons justifying the preferences of pluralist believers will not make traditional believers change their minds, yet they are most valuable to the pluralist. These reasons are a conscious reconstruction of the pluralist believer’s world and an explication of the first datum in the pluralist’s consciousness. In other words, these reasons provide pluralist believers with a theoretical foundation for the religious world they have already been inhabiting for a long time. A serious attempt to contend with the questions raised by pluralism is desirable on two counts. First, pluralism challenges traditional believers who see themselves as members of Western liberal societies, compelling them to examine to what extent they can negate the intrinsic value of the other’s world without hindering this membership. Second, concerning many public and value-based questions, believers who have opened up to the world endorse a pluralistic outlook. If they translate this outlook into actual behavior, they have to meet the theoretical challenge of formulating a pluralistic religious world view. My conclusion in this analysis of the possibility of toleration and pluralism within Judaism is that, conceptually, toleration is an easier position for a traditional Jewish believer to accept and it may be compatible with a traditional Jewish world view. Endorsing pluralism, however, requires a religious revolution and while it exacts a heavy religious price, it is pluralism more than toleration that is compelling to contemporary Jews living in a modern democratic world.

Interview with Avi Sagi January 7, 2013 Hava Tirosh-Samuelson I would like to begin our interview by talking about self-definition and self-identification. How would you define yourself? Would you say you are a philosopher of Judaism? An analytical philosopher of religion? A religious Zionist? An interpreter of Zionist religiosity? How would you say that you came to be who you are today? I’d like to open by saying that, in principle, I do not define myself. I think that people’s identities are always incomplete, unfinished, and this is certainly true of my own identity. The projects I have taken part in move from the study of Halakhah, in a positivist sense, to the study of continental thought. I devoted six years of my life to the work of Kierkegaard, and I was involved in analytical philosophy when I worked on a big study on religion and morality. In the last few years, I have done a great deal of work on the interface of literature and philosophy. The only thing I can actually say about myself is that I am a curious person, and that philosophy is for me a tool for understanding reality and human existence. I don’t mean human existence in general but rather my own real existence, as a person set in a particular place, time, and culture. So I can’t really answer the question of what kind of philosopher I am because almost nothing in philosophy is alien to me. The one thing I can say concerns the relationship between my philosophical work and my work in Jewish philosophy. My basic training in philosophy emphasized both the continental and the analytical traditions. My interest in Judaism comes from a very personal place, from an attempt to decode my Jewish existence here and now, but with the tools provided by philosophy. Jewish philosophy is for me another branch of a much broader philosophical pursuit. In the course of my work, I have usually written a philosophical work and then a parallel one in Jewish philosophy. This year I published two books—one entitled Facing Others and Otherness: The Ethics of Inner Retreat, where I engage in a serious philosophical controversy I thank Batya Stein, the translator of Sagi’s works into English, for translating Avi Sagi’s responses in this interview.

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with Levinas, and another drawing on the same tradition called Halakhic Loyalty. So, although I did train as a student in the classic fields of Jewish philosophy, my orientation is different from that of most scholars in the field. Most Jewish philosophers have a historiographic concern and focus on the study of texts, whereas I challenge texts by posing questions to them. My position is that of an inquiring philosopher. I have no memory of ever writing something on Jewish philosophy seeking to study a text as a text. I have done this in my philosophical work—I wrote a monograph on Camus and another one on Kierkegaard, where my interest was to expose their philosophy in a phenomenological context. But when I look at a Jewish text, I generally ask questions and, through them, try to develop a stance that will contain the text, relate it to others, and make it relevant to Jewish existence in the present. We will go back to these questions of Jewish existence in the present, but I’d like to know some more about who you are, your own biography, where you grew up, what kind of training you received, where you studied in Israel. That would be very relevant to the whole project. In some ways, I think that we define philosophy and Jewish philosophy as a function of where we come from, and I’d like to know a bit more about that. I must disagree with your last sentence. I don’t think that something in my personal biography could have predicted my pursuits and the mode of my development. I believe that people create the story of their lives but not in heroic moves, standing at crossroads and making big decisions. Sometimes, things just unfold and we can only account for them after the events. Sartre writes in Nausea that stories must be read from the end rather than from the beginning, so I cannot tell you what in my training and my upbringing led me to this point. What I can do is point to certain steps that, when I look back, I can say for sure that they enabled me to do what I do in better ways. I had a traditional, Orthodox religious education. I studied at a yeshiva high school, the Eton of yeshiva high schools in Israel, Netiv Meir, which many of the current leaders of religious Zionism in Israel attended. Contrary to many of my friends, however, I served in the army in a Nahal unit. I did not choose to study at a military yeshiva and went instead to a track within Nahal where I was also a youth movement leader. Also, ever since I can remember myself as a child and throughout my life, I have been reading. I finished reading Nietzsche and Dostoyevsky at the age of sixteen. Now, to answer your question about what attracted me in these people . . . 

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For an Orthodox child . . .  I was not an Orthodox child. For a child who had a traditional, somewhat Orthodox, upbringing, choosing to read Nietzsche at the age of sixteen is very unusual. Perhaps, but I cannot tell you today, from my adult perspective, why at the age of sixteen I began reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra—by the way, I am now writing a book about Zarathustra—but the fact is I found myself there. Is it because our home was full of books? Because I grew up in a culture of books that did not catalog religious books separately from others? Is it because I am a child of that religious-Zionist aristocracy that created this synthesis? I don’t know. But the fact is that, ever since I discovered these books, I’ve repeatedly gone back to them until this day so when completing my work on Nietzsche today, I do so as a debt I owe to my childhood. I also had a real passion for books, all books—rabbinic holy books, or literature and philosophy books—and my home had a rich library. Rabbi Reuven Margaliot, who edited The Zohar, was a member of my family and I had access to his magnificent library. As a child, I saw people reading, studying, and I found that fascinating. During my army service, I studied the entire Talmud, and after the army, I studied at a Haredi yeshiva rather than at a typical religious-Zionist one because I wanted to complete my training in halakhic rabbinic disciplines. I then turned to those fields of study that truly moved me—rabbinic literature on the one hand, and philosophy and Jewish thought on the other. I began by studying Jewish philosophy, but I soon discovered that I found historical or philological aspects less exciting. The serious questions that drove me were philosophical questions, but I only learned about the questions that interested me through my academic training. I didn’t know the questions a priori—we only know what we are after we have traversed the road, not before it. I soon discovered that the classic Jewish texts of philosophy did not speak to me, on two counts. First, most of these texts were written in other eras and, although translation is possible, rendering them into the terms of the current reality makes them almost irrelevant. Second, because of my training in both the analytical and the phenomenological traditions in philosophy, I soon developed doubts about the theological project. Theological questions did not interest me and what I really cared about were existential questions. Gradually, my path became clearer. I devoted six years to learning Danish and studying and writing about Kierkegaard, and I haven’t

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stopped writing about him because I wanted to see how a modern, “contemporary” person deals with questions of dual loyalties, of religious commitment in a nonreligious world. I was really touched by the man’s personal voyage and, ever since, I have found myself consistently returning to questions along the existential pragmatic continuum, whether in philosophy or in Jewish thought. You’ve already mentioned at least two philosophers who shaped your thought—Kierkegaard and Camus. Any others? I’d like to talk a bit about your philosophical sources, about the people with whom you are in a dialogue, and I’d like to spend some time on the concept of dialogue. Let’s consider the non-Jewish philosophers first and we’ll talk separately about the Jewish philosophers. Who, then, are your conversation partners? I like the ending of your question. I’m not so at ease with the beginning, where you asked about thinkers who shaped my thought. One thing I can say about myself with any certainty is that my philosophical thought is independent in the sense that I always assume a critical position. I’m never in a position where I am a kind of object for the activity of some other philosopher. I am where I am as a thinking subject, as a critic. My students sometimes complain that when they study Heidegger with me, they also study the criticism of Heidegger, and when they study Nietzsche, they study the criticism of Nietzsche. That is why I find that dialogue, the term that you used, is the true concept. The central thinkers with whom I maintain a dialogue are philosophers who are part of the continental tradition—Hegel, Marx, Heidegger, Nietzsche, Camus, and Ricoeur. These are some of the thinkers with whom I share a language and it is vis-à-vis them that I have developed my independent views. I’d like to challenge you here. I understand what you’re saying—I know who I am, I’m in a conversation, I’m not influenced. But every conversation changes whoever participates in it, and it’s impossible not to be affected by it. I imagine that you find some of the people with whom you are in a dialogue more appealing than others. Some, you are forced to deal with simply because they are there. You cannot discuss twentieth-century thought without relating to Heidegger but

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this doesn’t mean that you like Heidegger and, for all I know, you may actually hate him. What I mean by influenced is that you feel some empathy with, or some deep attachment toward, one thinker more than another, and I’d like to explore that a little. If you tell me that you are attracted to Nietzsche, that will tell me something very different about you than if you tell me that you’re attracted, say, to Sartre. So who are the people with whom you like to be in conversation? I think your comment that entering a dialogue creates change is extremely important. Paul Ricoeur writes somewhere that we know how we enter a dialogue, not how we leave it. A genuine dialogue involves an element of risk because, through it, something is supposed to happen to the participants. Otherwise, it is a monologue or really nothing. In that sense, I can indeed point to thinkers with whom I am engaged in a constant dialogue. I am very critical of Nietzsche. I am not attracted to thinkers displaying great pathos, who have a kind of prophecy. I am closer to the early Nietzsche, the negative, critical thinker, than to Nietzsche the affirmative thinker holding a prophecy of truth. This is precisely the context of my new book on Zarathustra: Zarathustra between Socrates and Jesus, that is, as a middle figure between one who wishes truth to grow from humans and one who brings truth to them. One thinker I truly love is Kierkegaard, because of his irony, because of his ability to make a move and simultaneously question it. He is not a prisoner of his own rhetoric. I am also clearly aware that Heidegger is a deep source of my thought, often accompanied by a sense of great compassion for him. His deep pathos fails to take into account the fact that his writing ultimately reflects a given culture and a given time, and the ontological pretension is indeed that—a pretension. But I do conduct a dialogue with him. I think that Heidegger’s flaw finds its remedy in the work of his disciple Gadamer, who is for me a key dialogue partner in a dual sense. First as a philosopher, and then as a person who understands the deep meaning of the human being as a homo hermeneuticus, as an interpreting being. Gadamer grasped that interpretation is an act that implies reception but also creativity. Most of my works, certainly those on Jewish topics that we’ll be talking about, have a Gadamerian starting point. Generally, I tend to feel closer to phenomenologists and existentialist philosophers. It is with them that I have my struggles and wage my wars, be it a persistent intellectual struggle with Levinas or, as I said, with Nietzsche and Heidegger on other issues, but this is my cultural milieu.

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A few words about the Jewish philosophers with whom you’d like to keep an ongoing conversation or with whom you have been in conversation. Who would they be? It’s probably not going to be Maimonides, he’s not going to come up as number one for you, is he? True. The Jewish philosophers who appealed to me are those I could connect in various ways to my concern with practical and existential questions. I began my work on Jewish questions by studying Buber and I assumed I would go on developing in that direction. But I gradually drew away from Buber when I understood that the basic constructs he operates with are not real, not concrete. In the I-thou connection, both the I and the thou he speaks of are beyond the concrete and the specific—they transcend real self-consciousness and self-perception. The last article I wrote about Buber dealt with his own turn from his early works to his more mature philosophical anthropology, where he himself acknowledges the distance between self and other. Yet, he does not provide a reasonable account of this. My more mature work in Jewish philosophy began with a dual endeavor. First, the record of Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s philosophical work, which was accompanied by a serious critique of it. The first section in one of my recent books, The Jewish-Israeli Voyage, is entitled “Farewell to Yeshayahu Leibowitz” and discusses why Leibowitz, as a philosopher, cannot provide answers to these concrete questions. The second thinker I related to was Rav Soloveitchik, who, seemingly, draws on the same legacy that I rely upon—continental philosophy. True, his roots are mainly in the neo-Kantianism of Hermann Cohen, but I did feel challenged by his approach. Gradually, however, I felt that he too fails to answer concrete questions, in two ways. First, he creates an imagined picture of the Jewish normative system that does not correspond to the accepted course of halakhic discourse, which takes reality extremely seriously. For Soloveitchik, Halakhah resembles mathematics, and my rabbinic training taught me that such an approach might work for scholars but not in the real world of Halakhah. Second, I identified in him an import unknown in the Jewish world. Soloveitchik speaks of an experience of alienation and absurd at the core of Jewish existence and I find this bizarre. If anything can be said about the Jewish normative system, it is that the world is the area of human action. Human beings are not alienated and estranged from the world. Quite the contrary, they are meant to be active. In time, then, I lost interest in both of these philosophers. Recently, I have dealt at length with Levinas, who also comes from the same European and Jewish sources.

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He’s a student of Heidegger. True. My insight about him took a long time to mature, and only in my last book did I come to realize that his views cannot be justified, either phenomenologically or from a real, concrete perspective. For Levinas too, the other is never a specific other. The other is the realization of the transcendent. But if each one of us embodies transcendence, what remains of our real concrete meaning as people? When writing this critique I joined Derrida, who had already pointed out some of these problems in Levinas’s thought. From a Jewish perspective, my sense is that Levinas does not address the halakhic normative aspect seriously enough, nor does he contend with the problems of concrete identity and existence that trouble the contemporary Jew. His starting point does not genuinely respect the secular person and assumes that, underlying Jewish existence and indeed existence in general, is a religious foundation. I find the attempt to interpret individuals and cultures contrary to the way they interpret themselves unacceptable. Respecting people and cultures requires that we understand them as they view themselves. In this regard, I follow Wittgenstein, another philosopher who has influenced my thought, in his claim that the role of philosophy is not to create theories that deny people their meaning but to explain, analyze, and describe their language games. Levinas, just like Rav Kook, ignores the fact that the large majority of the Jewish people have been secular for over two centuries. I assume that neither of them ever related seriously to the Zionist project of renewing Judaism that people like Ahad-Haam, Berdyczewski, and Brenner took upon themselves. To me, these projects are authentic because people believed in them, this was their world and how they described it, not the way it was described by outside observers. I’m actually very glad to hear that and we’ll come to Jewish secularism later. But before we leave the sources, tell me a little bit more about medieval Jewish thought or medieval Jewish philosophy. Why is the medieval legacy, be it philosophical or kabbalistic, not so paramount in your thought? Is it because it’s so theologically laden or directed? What in it does not speak to you? I find this question problematic. First, the assumption that if a text is part of the Jewish philosophical tradition it must influence Jewish philosophers is not obvious to me. Historically, Jewish philosophy was always a kind of

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avant garde, on the margins of Jewish existence. Jewish expression came to the fore mainly in Halakhah, practices, piyutim, and prayers—not in philosophy, which appealed only to Jewish philosophers. The interesting question is why medieval Jewish philosophy was of no interest to the vast majority of the people contrary, for instance, to Kabbalah or Hasidism, which attracted large audiences. So I do not necessarily agree with the assumption that anyone dealing with Jewish philosophy must connect with the whole of Jewish philosophy simply because it exists. A second and far more dramatic reason is that we live today in an entirely different world. Only few people have any interest in medieval theological questions today and our metaphysical conceptions are completely different. They lived in the Aristotelian world that preceded the Copernican revolution, a world that made all kinds of assumptions about nature and about reality that no modern person, and certainly no postmodern person, can accept. So why must I accept a text that seems so strange? In a way, it is as if you were to ask me why I accept Darwin’s theory rather than the biblical version of Creation. And the answer is that the biblical text on Creation, if it pretends to compete with science, does a bad job. We have alternative theories and acquire our knowledge about the world through standard epistemological tools rather than through holy texts, be it the Bible or medieval Jewish philosophy. Let’s take this question of the relationship with the past author a bit further. You and the past author, or the modern or contemporary interpreter and the past author—what should be the relationship between the two? My approach is that of an intellectual historian. These are the sources, these are the tributaries that make me who I am, this is the sea in which I swim. I therefore want to know as much as possible about the past author, and the dialogical approach you represent makes perfect sense to me. But you seem to be far more selective and possibly far more critical of the past. Should I, a Jew in the twenty-first century, not care about what Maimonides said or what the kabbalists said? They are probably wrong, their ontology is probably wrong, but they are a part of the past that is part of who I am in the present. So what is your relationship in the present to the authors of the past? Let us begin with the fact that not everything in the past is part of our constructed present. I’m not convinced that, in the cultural history of the Jewish people, Maimonides the author of the Guide of the Perplexed is an

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actual presence, as opposed to Maimonides the author of the Mishneh Torah. But this question is definitely related to the study of cultural criticism. I don’t deny that these texts are a part of my tradition, but my question regarding medieval Jewish thinkers, especially Maimonides, is entirely different. I do not inquire into his philosophical themes and into the sense in which they are meant to influence me or direct me but rather into the meaning of the enterprise he embarked upon. From the perspective of cultural studies, Maimonides undertook an astonishing project. He took one culture, confronted it with another, and created a new synthesis. Today, this synthesis is not new and has become part of the diachronic legacy of Jewish tradition, but then it was a dramatic novelty that, precisely because of that, evoked anger and rage. As a person writing about the meaning of culture and the fluctuating nature of the tradition, this is for me the interesting issue. What did Jewish philosophers struggle with? In what sense did what they brought in from the outside become part of the inside? What did they find impossible to absorb? The fundamental question that interests me is always what is the core—what is at the core of what, in non-essentialist language, we call the Jewish tradition? But isn’t that an essentialist position? Once you talk about a core, that’s necessarily essentialist. No, not necessarily. I can speak of a core in the sense that when I look at the cultural history I can see continuities, but these continuities are historical rather than metaphysical. They exist within the tradition. I do not go outside the tradition’s language game but see what’s inside it. By writing the Guide of the Perplexed, Maimonides created a dramatic revolution—in the perception of God, in the meaning of the halakhic norm, and in the relationship between the biblical and the Talmudic texts through the process of their isolation. The question that interests me is twofold—what did Maimonides create, and what was the effect of his work on our cultural legacy? Did it lead to a process of change and if so, how significant? The less the culture appears to have changed, the greater the evidence of nonacceptance, the easier the identification of the core. The more it seems to have changed, the more we are forced to ask whether a core exists at all. Is there any continuity? Or is there continuity but a more limited core? When we study Jewish cultural history, we see that all the big crises we have discussed since Yerushalmi and others are a function of perspective. We can speak of the crisis of the Haskalah if we make certain essential assumptions about

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Jewish culture. Without these assumptions, we can ask in what sense did Ahad-Haam, Berdyczewski, and the Haskalah in Russia and elsewhere represent continuity. Entirely different questions emerge here, which cannot be answered through some essentialist assumption stating that Judaism, as such, must always be analyzed from a theological perspective. That perspective will definitely lead to the conclusion of a breakdown. But if we assume that Judaism, as a cultural movement and as a tradition, is in constant dialogue with important texts, that conclusion is not inevitable. Therefore, when I deal with Maimonides and the Guide of the Perplexed, I’m not concerned with his relationship with Moslem thinkers who dealt with similar questions in the interpretation of Aristotle or with their influence. Instead of studying the Maimonidean text as a text, what interests me is the place of this text in the shaping of Jewish culture. So what would you say is the best theoretical framework for this interpretive work, this dialogue with past authors that you’re engaged in? I think that Gadamer’s starting point, as I said before, is excellent. Its advantage lies in the recognition that we are always in a kind of I-thou relationship with the tradition—we ask the tradition questions and the tradition asks us. From this perspective, the importance of dealing with texts rests on one question: in what sense do past texts affect us? In what sense, at any point of time, did what was then the present connect with the past? And to what extent? One further point needs to be mentioned. In the study of Jewish culture, as in the study of any culture, beside the diachronic dimension emphasized by Gadamer is another one that is no less significant: the synchronic dimension stressed by Charles Taylor. Maimonides is an informative example. In the synchronic dimension he lived in two communities at the very least: the Jewish community and the intellectual philosophical community. In the diachronic dimension, he lived in the continuum of Jewish texts. His oeuvre marks the intersection of these two dimensions. In my attitude to the past, I always consider these intersections and, vis-à-vis them, locate the concrete present. What about Habermas’s critique of Gadamer? Do you care at all about it? I don’t really take Habermas’s critique into account because I assume that in the hermeneutical project, as opposed to political projects, some variation of Gadamer’s approach is highly plausible. It grants the proper weight, with

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all the ambiguities of the method, and we never know whether Gadamer is conservative . . .  I think he actually is. I think his is a deeply conservative position. Well, that’s a moot point. I think that Gadamer’s advantage is that he does not grant preference to any particular moment—either in the present or in the past. Until him, hermeneutics had granted decisive weight to the past, to what had been, to the written, to the writer, and the reader or someone approaching this material in the present was expected to penetrate that realm. Philosophy after Gadamer, especially deconstructionist trends, granted decisive weight to the present, to the creation process. Gadamer seeks the balancing point between the two time dimensions and to me, as someone who studies culture, this seems the most appropriate approach. Surprisingly, I think Gadamer was preceded by an “unknown” philosopher named Ahad-Haam, who formulated a Gadamerian position long before Gadamer. That’s very interesting. I’d never thought of it that way. I thought you were going to say Dilthey. No, no. Dilthey is still deeply set in the perception of the past, he only changed its meaning—not the past of the specific writer, not the text’s intention à la Schleiermacher, but a perception more related to context, to experience. Still, Dilthey did not make the breakthrough, he did not realize that someone living in the present ultimately confronts the past, that the past is what the person in the present perceives as the past. That’s indeed very interesting. I now have to go back to Ahad-Haam to reread him in light of Gadamer. But how did he ever come to this idea? His intellectual brilliance is one of the surprising things about Ahad-Haam. He was an autodidact, never trained at formal institutions. That’s his weakness, but also his great advantage—his weakness because he was not fully aware of the meaning and the depth of the theories that he related to, and his advantage because the academic process often castrates independent thinking. We are often drawn into a pursuit where we lose our own unique voice. But it didn’t happen to Ahad-Haam. I think of this as one of his most

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exceptionally creative intuitions—the claim that the self does not begin in the present but actually in the past. That’s our situatedness, our historical situatedness. Precisely, in existentialist terms, this is what Heidegger called thrownness, geworfenheit—stumbling into a situation one has not chosen. As for the question of who is the individual and what is human culture, your answer must always be—human culture is what has been. But Ahad-Haam adds here, it’s not only what has been but also what could be, and that is the future horizon. And the way Ahad-Haam developed this idea through a dialogue with the tradition is amazing. His article on Moses, where he draws a distinction between historical and archeological truth, represents a breakthrough in this intuitive approach. By then he’s already part of a culture of critique, and he does not accept conventional assumptions. He knew about biblical criticism. Exactly. No one who has studied the Bible and critical theories can go back to read our childhood stories about Moses, despite all the beautiful nostalgia. But Ahad-Haam, as one who was sensitive to the question of cultural construction, drew the distinction between historical and archeological truth. Historical truth refers to the myths that shape our lives, and whether they were real is irrelevant—what matters is not Moses the actual historical person who operated at a given time and place but the literary character. To think that this man is writing at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries, that he understands phenomena that scholars of myth have only begun to develop in recent decades, is unprecedented. Yes, that is exciting. I’m now going to reread Ahad-Haam accordingly. Now, precisely because you think in Gadamer’s terms, you situate yourself within a tradition. So would you say that there is some Jewish canon that we all need to be familiar with or establish a relationship with? Do you accept any canonic approach to the Jewish past? That’s a serious question. Perhaps I should begin with a story related to my extra-philosophical involvement. Quite a few years ago, the Minister of Education at the time, Prof. Yuli Tamir, asked me to chair a committee on

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the teaching of the Jewish heritage in secular schools. Our team invested a great deal of time in this project. A cornerstone of the Israeli Zionist discourse was that the Bible is a kind of canon, an absolute must. You can do without rabbinic literature, you can do without modern Hebrew literature, but not without the Bible. I called it the tree theory. A tree has roots and without the roots it won’t be a tree and, therefore, you cannot do without the Bible. Rabbinic literature is a branch, modern Hebrew literature is another. You can prune branches, but you cannot cut the roots. I asked myself when, in what Jewish culture, the Bible had been thought of as the roots. This is not classic Jewish culture, where Jews encountered the Bible via the Talmud, via the obligation to read the weekly Torah portion on Shabbat, and on Mondays and Thursdays at the synagogue. The independent concern with the Bible in isolation from rabbinic literature as a whole is a later invention. Even Mendelssohn, in the preface to his Beur, painstakingly emphasizes that he will not depart from Jewish tradition and that this text only makes sense within its traditional context. The question, then, is in what sense is the Bible a canon? Is it a canon because it is part of something else? Or does it have independent status? This question led me to the conclusion that the canon is determined post factum rather than ab initio. We cannot isolate the canon from a cultural process. We cannot assume the existence of something outside the cultural phenomena within which the texts function. For a believing Jew, Orthodox or even less than Orthodox, the Talmud is unquestionably a canonic text. But is it indeed? Is the canonic text the Talmud or perhaps the Shulkhan Arukh? In what sense is the Talmud a canonic text for a religious Jew who doesn’t know how to study a Gemara page? How does this function within the realm of his culture? In what sense does it direct his life? What does it mean to say that this is a canonic text if you’re already detached from it and you’re reading it through the Shulkhan Arukh? Actually, contemporary Jews usually read the Talmud via texts even shorter than the Shulkhan Arukh, through the Mishnah Berurah and other abridged works that actually rob the Talmudic discourse of its soul. I studied the work of a nineteenth-century rabbi, Moshe Yisrael Hazan, who lived in Italy for part of his life and contended there with secularization and enlightenment. You would expect him to be critical of secular Jews, but in one of his amazing texts, he says that the blame lies with the writers of all the abridged books, because they released the faithful from the obligation to turn to the sources. The question of what is a canon, then, is a question that every culture, or every stage of Jewish culture, must answer in its own time and place. For Israeli schoolchildren,

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the Bible cannot be part of the canon because they don’t understand the Hebrew of the Bible, and I’m not even relating to Jewish schoolchildren who don’t speak Hebrew. So if the meaning of a canonic text is one that no one reads or understands, then this is a canonic text. But if the meaning of a canonic text is one that guides your life, you must answer this question from the perspective of the present and examine at every given stage what is canonic in Judaism. The more I listen to you, the more it appears that you’re claiming that Jewish philosophy is always culturally dependent—no such thing as philosophizing outside the philosopher’s historical situatedness. Is that a fair summary? You place a lot more emphasis on the cultural givenness, so to say, of the philosophical activity. Some philosophers— especially analytical philosophers, but even traditional, metaphysically oriented ones—would feel slightly uncomfortable with this stress on cultural context. You really are a contextual thinker. Is that a proper assessment? Not entirely. First, analytical philosophy—if you can indeed talk about it in general terms without turning it into something ridiculous—has ultimately one deep concern: the analysis of language, of the talking mode. If Wittgenstein is part of philosophical tradition, I assume that everything I’ve said is not only acceptable but also entirely compatible with his position, at least insofar as his later works are concerned. In the research literature, the closeness between him and Heidegger is by now a banal platitude. From the perspective of analytical philosophy, then, I cannot see a problem. Analytical philosophy provides us with an excellent set of tools for the study of language and of the ways through which we build our statements. But does it tell us anything about the cultural context of our life? It can explain that statement X means this-and-that rather than something else, but it doesn’t tell you why statement X came to be what it is, right? It doesn’t tell us anything about that. Right. Ultimately, analytical philosophy provides a toolbox. I studied with Reuven Gil‘ad, who I believe was among the top continental philosophers and very well known in Europe (less so outside it), and the last disciple of Nicolai von Hartmann. He once said something that I’ve since thought a great deal about: some deal with philosophical plumbing and some deal

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with philosophy, and what he meant is that analytical philosophy is a kind of philosophical plumbing, which is important . . .  It’s like grammar. In a deep sense. Now let’s consider the second issue you noted, the metaphysical question. The metaphysical temptation, and I deliberately use the term temptation, often leads us to play down the context of our lives in the name of general claims. I don’t negate outright the option of a metaphysical concern but I was speaking about my philosophical background—where I grew up, and where I operate, and what I affirm. Human beings are, above all, historical cultural creatures. So where does the universal come into your philosophizing? You seem to be stressing particularity, yet philosophy from its very emergence in Greece advanced claims of universality. So what is the dynamic between the universal and the particular in your work? Excellent question. I think that, in order to answer it, we must consider what a universal philosophy does. Any universal philosophy, be it ethical or metaphysical, does one thing: it enables human beings to realize their self-transcendence. It allows them to say: we are indeed rooted in a setting, in a culture, but we can also be different. Metaphysics is the human power to transcend—not the only one, but it’s a power. So in what ways has universal philosophy been helpful and in what ways has it not? One thing it has not done is help us to understand the world around us. Telling the story of individuals and of societies has been the task of anthropology and of sociology, not of metaphysics. When anthropology started out at the beginning of the twentieth century with a set of metaphysical assumptions, it studied cultures hierarchically, as reflected in its use of the term “primitive society.” There is some universal ethos represented by the European, which is contrasted with the non-universal one. Ethically, and this is the complementary facet of my book Facing Others and Otherness, universality is a strength but also a weakness. A universal ethics applies the same rules to all and it is therefore incapable of dealing with the individual case. The “individual case” problem has been known since Aristotle—what to do about personal injustice, about personal suffering? Universal ethics lacks the ability to develop what I have called in some of my works an ethics of compassion, what Carol Gilligan has referred to in other contexts as an “ethics of care.”

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For a Kantian position, the other is an object of our obligation and not the one with whom we enter into a discourse about obligation. The universal dimension involves an aspect that, in a deep sense, is totalitarian, and in a sense that is no less deep, is harmful to the dignity of individuals as real people. So the key question is how we can transcend to a different universality. The first to attempt such an endeavor was Richard Rorty, who suggested that we always live in a specific “we community” but we can open it up. We can open it up toward the other by representing the other in art, or by encountering the other, and this going out toward broadens the borders of the “we.” If universality emerges, it will grow from reality rather than from a preceding metaphysics. But this move of Rorty is deeply flawed, and precisely in the ethical realm. If we have learned anything from the horror of the Holocaust, it is that human beings, contrary to Rorty’s view, sacrificed their lives for others who were not members of their “we” community. We find here what Camus called in some of his works “metaphysical solidarity.” True, these instances are exceptional but the fact is that, usually, if universalism does not begin or open up from one’s particularism, it will not genuinely address the other’s particularism either. Ultimately, it will create a community of abstract rather than real beings. Where does Judaism fit into these dynamics of universal and particular? In a recent interview, R. Jonathan Sachs told me that the genius of Judaism, which is obviously a very particularistic tradition, is its universal message. How do you see that? How do you see these two dynamics working within Judaism? What is what we would call the contribution of Judaism on this issue? I want to be modest. I don’t think that Jewish culture and society have a mission, nor do I think that Judaism is meant to make a contribution beyond the one that culture contributes to itself. The hierarchic view of cultures, stating that a particular culture has a universal role, draws on a very rigid medieval metaphysics. People live in cultural communities, and cultures are fundamentally incommensurable. We have no shared criterion for ranking cultures and determining in what sense a culture is truer or preferable. It is actually impossible for a culture to be true because cultures do not make truth claims. In a classic truth claim, we say that a statement is true if and only if reality matches the statement. But culture does not say anything about reality—it creates it, it transcends it, it is artificial to it. In that sense, then, we cannot speak about cultures as more or less true. They are not

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metaphysics. As for the preferability of cultures, the question is in whose perception? For its members, their culture is obviously preferable because that is their language and because they were born into it, not because it bears some absolute value. A person is born into a culture. Moshe Shamir opens Pirkei Elik [With His Own Hands] with a famous sentence, “Elik came from the sea.” But people don’t come from the sea. People understand that they are born into a tradition, into a culture, into a language that dictates their orientation in the world, their modes of understanding. Adults who are children of parents and parents of children understand that they live within a tradition, within a language. The contents of their culture matter to them not because they are better than those of other cultures but because they are better for them. Generally, the very idea that something is good for me only if it is also good for another suggests a deep insecurity. I’m so unsure it’s good for me that I want the other to be like me and then, perhaps, I might be persuaded. This seems to me very childish. We’re living in a postmodern world. Let’s explore this concept. I was just about to say that you sound to me relativistic or that you think in postmodern categories. What’s the strength of postmodern thought and what are the weaknesses of postmodernity? We won’t try in the context of this conversation to analyze all the flaws and advantages of postmodernism. The term “postmodernism” covers so many methods and approaches that it’s hard to discuss it in general. I’d actually like to start with your question about relativism. A relativistic position is meaningful only insofar as it is contrasted with its antithesis—objectivism. We have an objectivistic position in ethics, which says that the rule is universal and applies to everyone and, opposing it, a relativistic position. But let’s reshuffle and, rather than asking what is relativistic and what is objectivistic, let’s ask what are the values and approaches that transcend the “we community.” Quite surprisingly, we will find approaches that are indeed largely ours, belonging to a specific culture, but others that are not. For the classic example, I owe a great debt to a philosopher whose name I must mention here—John Kekes. I developed part of my work on pluralism and toleration through a dialogue with him, and his studies have been very significant to my work. What we find, then, is that in very primary aspects of their lives, human beings ultimately want the same thing—they want to live, they want to be spared suffering.

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How about being happy? As Aristotle told us, human beings want to be happy. I’m not sure that happy is exactly the word. John Kekes actually wrote this. Yes, that’s true, but I would limit this. I think that people want to live. When they sacrifice their lives, they do so because their specific concepts of the good life compel them to such actions. Our primary values, then, are very similar, and we hear an echo of this idea already in the Bible—“have we not all one father, has not one God created us?” Some of our values, then, are very, very primary. And universal, wouldn’t you say? In some senses universal, but we don’t know this a priori. We encounter this universality. In order to make the murder of the Jews possible, Nazi culture had to dehumanize Jews first. Even their distorted approach, then, rested on the assumption that the principle of “thou shalt not kill” applies to all human beings. To enable the murder, the Nazis had to show that Jews are not really humans, and they created a vast number of mechanisms for this purpose, but this was not enough. We find in documents from the Holocaust and in Holocaust literature that Jewish prisoners were forbidden to look at Nazis straight in the face. Why? Well, Levinas could give us a good explanation of that moment, wouldn’t you say? I don’t think so. I’ll tell you how I interpret this, and what emerges from Levinas’s approach. As I understand it, this prohibition reflects the fear that the SS man would be unable to cope with the discovery that before him stood a human creature, just like himself. For Levinas, it is not enough that this is a human creature—the other’s face embodies the transcendent. But if you stick close to the data, you can clearly see what troubled the Nazis, who created an entire symbolic context in the clothing, the classification, and the humiliation of the Jews that was intended to make the murder possible. We find that human beings, even the most distorted ones,

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share certain moral truths. Our controversies do not usually touch on these primary values but rather on secondary values and on their translation. Two sides may disagree, for instance, concerning euthanasia, but not on the principle that murder is forbidden, only on the question of whether this is life. This side says this is still life and this side says this is no longer life. Often, then, our controversies do not reflect relativistic positions but precisely the realization of universal norms in a concrete reality. But we can only learn this from reality, from a critical study of culture, not from an analysis that precedes reality that is itself metaphysical. The danger of this analysis is that human beings will find it appealing, but the human beings it speaks of are not real creatures. So let’s take the postmodern posture or sensibility—I think it’s more about sensibility—and apply it to Israel. We have many communities here, many “we”s, and each community defines the meaning of being Jewish differently from the next. Given the richness, or perhaps we should call it pluralism, and given what you have called incommensurability, how do we negotiate this? I would like to spend some time now thinking about the theory of pluralistic existence, especially for Jews in the State of Israel. I think that this question should not be framed in terms of pluralism but rather in terms of multiculturalism. I’d like to sharpen it even more. The state as a state creates a supra-cultural category—the citizen. The category of citizenship invites, certainly in a liberal-democratic state (which I hope the State of Israel is), a kind of alienation. In a civic discourse, I relate to the other only through the mediation of legal systems, through a discourse of rights, of obligations, of plaintiff and accused. Jeremy Waldron pointed out that a discourse of rights precludes intimacy and empathy. That is its power because, whoever you are, I don’t care who you are, you are a citizen bound by the law. The tension is much greater in Israel because, on the one hand, this is a state that should by definition be the state of all its citizens, and on the other, this is a state made up of different “we communities” and the key question we confront is how will all these contrasting cultures live together. In the past, Israeli hegemonic culture held that we’d only be able to live together if we became the same. This culture, therefore, was and still is involved in a process of creating the same thing—the same symbolic thing, the same normative thing, and the same myth. In an era of multiculturalism, this project is obviously fading. In Israel we have several

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types of multiculturalism—a thin type, meaning that the different Jewish cultures are connected through the language, through texts, and through parts of myths. But Israel also has a Palestinian minority, and I stress the word “Palestinian.” The term “Israeli Arabs” is an Israeli invention that held up to the 1970s to designate citizens who think of themselves as members of a Palestinian nation, like their brethren beyond the Green Line. The question is whether the alienated context of a civic discourse will enable us to build bridges to these communities or whether the fear that we’ll perish lest we have one ethos and one myth will prevent this. But fear is an extremely bad mechanism for cultural fashioning because fear shuts us off, precludes dialogue and even the very perception of the concrete other. This reality will not be changed by the state. Shaping a culture, shaping a society, is not the task of the state, certainly not in a liberal world view. The state is not supposed to regulate, direct, or create a cultural discourse, it is supposed to facilitate it and create the dynamic that will make it possible. In Israel, we see two antithetical developments. We see self-segregation, isolation, and the creation of sealed cultural enclosures, but wherever a civil society gradually begins to take shape we also see the opposite. Wherever a civil society emerges, divisions collapse. I’ll give you an example. Many charitable organizations operate in Israeli hospitals. One thing I discovered is that, even though many of these organizations are run by Haredim, when they enter a hospital they do not draw distinctions between religious and secular or between Jews and Arabs. They encounter the patient. They encounter the presence of suffering individuals and their families, and wherever this encounter takes place, partitions break down. On this count, I think that Rorty’s thesis was slightly weak. He spoke about the capacity to imagine the other through his representation but he forgot that, sometimes, when you represent the other, you don’t really see the other but only the representation. Or only whatever you want to see about the other. Exactly. If this process takes place at all, it is only by turning to the other directly. Representation may be part of it, but certainly not the end of it. So Israel is today at a crossroads. I have no doubt at all that the question is not whether Israel will survive. This paranoia of being on the verge, this idea that any minute everything will come crushing down, should be examined in the context of Jewish psychopathology. The question, the challenge, is whether Israel will cross the borders and create what I call a dialectic

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public arena where members of the different communities will meet one another, not necessarily reaching consensus but understanding that this is our living space. Am I optimistic in this regard? Sometimes yes and sometimes no, which shows me that this is an ongoing process. The answer cannot be abstract and theoretical and will only emerge through practical involvement. Well, let’s explore. I think that there are two issues here with the Palestinian other, or you could say the Palestinian brother, who is living in the same space and is going to be part of the civil society. Under the same sovereignty. Yes, under the same sovereign government. Yet, I don’t know to what extent Palestinians who define themselves in national terms can accept Zionism and arrive at some notion of let’s say a shared space. This is a problem, and we have to spend some time thinking about the meaning of nationalism here and about where nationalism hinders the multicultural conversation or makes it impossible. But I want to leave that aside for a second. I’m more concerned about the tension between the secular and religious communities. At least where I come from, many secular Israelis have lost the capacity to speak to, or listen to, or even want to listen to religious Jews. What do we do about that tension? It sometimes seems tragic to me. No doubt. In the history of this discourse, both parties (but particularly the religious one) struggle for the truth, for what they see as Judaism. The discourse is essentialist. In the classic historical controversy within Zionism, let us say between Ahad-Haam and the religious, both parties claimed that truth was wholly on their side. The religious party said the meaning of Jewish culture is religious and no other option is possible, and Ahad-Haam said religion is one kind of cultural construct but, fundamentally, Judaism is the creation of the Jewish people. Over time, something tragic happened. The religious, who are still living within classic Jewish culture and tradition, have assumed sovereignty over the texts, know how to read them, and sense they own them. By contrast, Zionism in its real history, particularly in the Second and Third Aliyah but especially in the Third, increasingly developed a consciousness of detachment—they renounced the texts.

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Against Bialik’s or Ahad-Haam’s loud protests, they accepted one version of Brenner claiming that what matters is what we do, the work in the present, not the voice of the tradition. I say “one version of Brenner” because in my work on Brenner I showed that his voice is far more complex. The result was that, for generations of native Israelis until 1967, the classic Jewish library remained inaccessible and they never developed the sense of ownership concerning rabbinic literature that characterized their counterparts in the religious world. A kind of agreed hierarchy developed. I remember that I was once invited to the Aba Kovner circle in the kibbutz movement and a longstanding member introduced me by saying: “You people are my beacon.” And I said, “I’m truly shocked. I refuse to function as a beacon, but why should you defer to me in the first place? It is yours as much as it is mine.” In the last few years, we have seen the beginning of a change, which actually goes back to the Six-Day War and to a kibbutz group known as the “Shdemot circle.” Today there is even a secular yeshiva and several religious circles have to some extent relaxed their approach toward some kind of balance, toward recognition of different perceptions of Judaism as legitimate. Differences remain. The Judaism of a believer differs from that of a nonbeliever but all have something in common—the texts. They have enough of a family resemblance, in Wittgenstein’s terms, that enables them to communicate and remain attached to one another, if both parties are willing to renounce their mutual reductionist understandings. The process is limited, it’s not yet strong enough, but it is taking place. Unfortunately, Orthodox Jewish thought has not developed a pluralistic worldview. At times, it developed a tolerant worldview, meaning recognition that the other is mistaken but we are prepared to absorb it, but the pluralistic recognition of the inner worth of his or her world for the other is almost nonexistent. All Jewish thinkers, including Levinas, are unwilling to understand that people live in their own cultures, and you cannot explain their cultures differently from what they do themselves. In somewhat harsher terms, I would say that the humanistic discourse has not yet surfaced because to be a true humanist means to respect others as they are rather than tell stories about them. Rather than speaking for the other, we must speak to, listen to, and give room to the other’s voice. One of the strongest forces in Israel today is what I would call the acute messianic voice. Would you agree with that? Depends on how you see it. If you look at the reality through the lens of politics or the media, you are definitely correct. But if you consider the actual

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processes of dialogue, of learning, of encounter, the picture is different. Politics and the media seem to be in some kind of dubious collaboration. Largely, their shared interest seems to be to exacerbate tensions to create among their supporters the sense of a just struggle and grant themselves legitimation. One of the most amazing wonders is how in the State of Israel, in Israeli culture, Rav Kook’s thought has become so dominant. In my view, and I have written about it at some length, the reason is that his thought enabled religious Jews to communicate with the other without renouncing a total, all-encompassing consciousness. Religious Zionism in Israel set out on its course equipped with the belief that it possessed a unique key— not only can I communicate with the other but I know him better than he knows himself. When you read Rav Kook’s “Ha-Dor” article or other of his texts where he analyzes the reality of the Second and Third Aliyah, you see that he supplied religious Zionists with a kind of answer to their harshest existential distress. On one hand, religious Zionists usually live their lives within a secular context and operate within different systems according to the systems’ rules—be they economists, jurists, or shoemakers—without ascribing exclusive religious meaning to these systems. On the other, they also have their own religious world, and the complexity resulting from the fact that their lives cover different networks of meaning is a source of tension. Rav Kook mediated this tension magnificently by subordinating the whole of life to the religious context. Everything has religious meaning. Pioneers building the land think they are seeking self-realization? No, they are actually accomplishing the divine mission. This approach in some ways combines Hegelianism and naiveté, though this formulation should be somehow softened because Hegel thought backwards, he thought history, and Rav Kook wanted to think forward. The truth is that even at the time Rav Kook wrote this, and contrary to what his hagiography claims, kibbutz members rejected him. They didn’t understand him. Brenner’s meeting with Rav Kook was far more complex than the descriptions in the literature because Brenner did identify the problem: Rav Kook did not welcome, respect, or open up to the presence of another position and considered the secular stance illegitimate. This is an extremely interesting development because soon after, in the 1930s, Yeshayahu Leibowitz would formulate his own view. As a religious Zionist of course. Not an ordinary religious Zionist but what could be called, in Ernst Simon’s terms, a Catholic one, meaning one claiming that Jewish religion must

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contain everything. Gradually, Leibowitz developed a compartmentalized approach, which lacked appeal because it did not enable religious Zionists to fit together all the various systems of their lives. And his rejection is a tragedy. Leibowitz was probably the most important voice of the Brit haHalutzim, the group that built the religious kibbutzim that did incorporate his approach. But over time, Leibowitz parted company with them as well and, to this day, the dominant voice is that of Rav Kook. Segments of messianic Zionism still relate to the present in light of the tradition of “Ha-Dor.” But isn’t there a difference between Zvi Yehuda Kook and his father? And doesn’t what happened in 1967, this acute messianism, represent a profound transformation? That is not Rav Kook! Were Rav Kook alive, he probably would not have said what his son said. Isn’t that right? The question of whether R. Zvi Yehuda continues his father’s project is in dispute among scholars, and I certainly wouldn’t want to take a stand on it, so I will perhaps reformulate. Instead of speaking about Rav Kook as an archeological being, in Ahad-Haam’s terms, I will refer to Rav Kook as a mythical figure, that is, a figure created by the culture and the society that were influenced by his words. In that sense, I don’t think that believers in these positions draw distinctions between R. Zvi Yehuda and his father. The faithful see both of them clinging to the same eternal truth, and the question of whether they actually share the same views is academic. Now, when this is the starting point, you are clearly not inviting pluralism or even toleration. In one of my works I dealt with this issue and called this approach paternalistic, meaning it denies the independence, sovereignty, and dignity of the partner to the dialogue, and wishes to dictate how he or she must live. I couldn’t agree more. I guess that would shed light on the failure of the American, more progressive variations of Judaism to take hold in Israel. Would you agree that they have failed, and do you think that something could perhaps be done to change things? That’s a very interesting question. There are many profound differences between Jewish life in the United States (or in any other country for that

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matter) and in Israel. I’m going to take an example from Europe. One of my students is now a rabbi in an Eastern European community—I’m leaving this vague because I don’t want him to be identified—and he asked me a question: “Some of the congregants in my synagogue, partners of Jews, are not Jews according to Halakhah. What must I do?” And I told him, “Leave the halakhic question, that’s not the point. When you say they’re not Jews, you imply that you have an a priori definition of what it is to be a Jew, which is precisely the halakhic definition. But if you do not accept this definition, why should you assume that they’re not Jews? People who behave as Jews and declare that they are Jews—why are they not Jews? If you say that in order to enter the Jewish collective you need some kind of rite de passage in sociological terms, so let us consider what it is and whether it is indeed necessary. But you don’t need to make these assumptions.” That is the reality for Jews throughout the world, where Jewish existence is undergoing a change. In Israel, we speak about it in categories of assimilation—anyone who does not meet the halakhic criterion is assimilating. But if we were to examine the question from another perspective—who belongs to Jewish communities, how many Jewish practices are they involved in—Jews are not only not assimilating but their numbers are even growing. In Eastern Europe and in the United States too, there are many such Jews, but here in Israel we use different categories. Why? The banal and too easy answer is that the Orthodox establishment is dominant here. But then the question is why do we accept that? We can understand why the State of Israel at one time rejected the option of a Jew who is a Christian. In the case of Brother Daniel who, halakhically, is a Jew, Justice Silberg wrote that he cannot be one of us if he belongs to the Christian religion that negates us. This is a plausible approach—not halakhic but plausible. But why did Israeli society assume as obvious that the sole and exclusive criterion for determining who is a Jew should be halakhic? My answer, which applies only to Israel, is that handling the question of Jewish identity in the public realm is extremely complex and, therefore, the question was reformulated as one of Jewish identification. The shift was from identity to identification, which the authorities found easier to handle. In a deep sense, this shift released them from the need to face the question of Jewish identity altogether. When you replace identity with identification, you can quickly find out who is one of us, and here in Israel we have an urgent need to identify who is in and who is out.

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But that goes precisely against the notion that everyone living here belongs to a civil society. With this focus on identification, the Arab from Kfar Kara, for example, is not one of us. True. So how can I be a member of this democratic society, and how can I live next to people with a different national identity, a different national dream? How can we fuse even our dreams when they are so contradictory? Dreams have no borders, but real life is not a dream. In real life, when you see that beside you are different others, the question you must ask yourself as a moral and as a practical person is what and how much is negotiable in my dream. Compromises could make my dream more moral and more real. We have diverse communities living here and diverse Jews, who have joined Judaism in different ways. We have many olim from the former Soviet Union who reject outright being told that they are not Jews because their identification as Jews by others has cost them dearly, and they are not willing to go through the rituals suggested by the state authorities or by the rabbinate. And, of course, there are those who are even more distant, the Palestinian Israelis. The question, then, is not how to create a shared space but how to create a contradictory shared space where I, as a Jew, sing “Hatikvah,” but I do not shut up the Palestinian, who has a different anthem, just as I do not shut up the Haredi, who cannot sing “Hatikvah” on other grounds. What must emerge in that space is a polyphony that lives in peace with the other. Whenever I raise these ideas, I hear that such a reality would negate the State of Israel as a Jewish state. My answer is that Israel, as a state, is defined by its regime—a liberal democracy. The set of rights and obligations is the foundation of the building. You cannot have a state without a set of rights and these rights cannot be merely individual rights. People see themselves as members of communities, and we have a national Arab minority here just as we have Haredi communities. Or Druze or Christians. Certainly. Therefore, the key issue in this context is in what sense will the country be Jewish, and the simple answer is that Israel will be Jewish for as long as most of its citizens are Jews and for as long as its discourse is Jewish. If we speak Hebrew, and if the majority preserves a certain set of rituals,

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the country will be Jewish, but my Judaism is not supposed to negate the other. That’s what I mean by a contradictory shared space. These issues are not relevant in the United States and in other countries where Jews live in entirely different political frameworks and do not express their identity in the public realm. One of the great advantages of Jewish life in Israel is the power to create a public space, as evident, for instance, in the creation of a contradictory public space on Shabbat, which is Jewish. What I mean by this is that I, as a religious Jew, must understand that the Shabbat of the secular Jew is different from mine, but it is Shabbat. Secular Jews set the Shabbat apart for their world, and only religious Jews who have never met secular Jews can imagine that the Shabbat of secular Jews is like their Mondays or Tuesdays. It is Shabbat, but a different one. Your greatest critics, then, would be the people to the right of you— people within the religious-Zionist camp, or within the Orthodox or even ultra-Orthodox camps that would look at what you’ve just said as somewhat heretical. Perhaps, and that’s why I do not define myself as a religious Zionist or as Orthodox. In this regard, if I may say so, I follow Rabbi Hirschensohn. I have invested years in the study of his endeavor and in bringing his legacy to life. He begins a responsum by writing: “I am not Orthodox, not Reform, and not Conservative.” I view these distinctions as unimportant and uninteresting. They were meant to achieve control, they rest on power, and bear no meaning. As an observant Jew, I sometimes find myself closer to Jews who are not observant and sometimes to Jews who do not pray at my synagogue, and that doesn’t bother me. One of my programmatic works, which has already appeared in English, is entitled “Orthodoxy as a Problem,” and I meant a problem from a research perspective, and certainly from the perspective of the study of culture. Generally, my view is that, if intellectuals play any role at all in society, it is to bring themselves—in their writing, in their teaching, in the creation of options that sometime elude us in our day-to-day existence. So if I understand you correctly, the role of the philosopher (and I would say philosopher rather than intellectual) is ultimately a social role? I wouldn’t say the role. But one of the philosopher’s roles in the society to which he or she is committed is to open up possibilities, potential options, and in this regard I’m very close to Michael Waltzer’s work on the

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social critic. These options do not necessarily create harmony, peace, or security, but human life is not about peace and security; instead, it is full of tensions and contradictions and hardly ever consistent. One of the classic differences between the big philosophies and contemporary, postmodern philosophies is that between major and minor philosophy. You respond to a situation, and what you say here may not necessarily fit what you say there, because that is the nature of our life. In a profound reflection that influenced many philosophers, among them William James, Kierkegaard writes that we live our life forward and think it retrospectively. Life poses great challenges. Renouncing these challenges and choosing not to think about life retrospectively but rather as if we were not living it may lead to a coherent doctrine but deprives life of its vitality and, in a deep sense, creates empty theories that do not even rest on Jewish sources. Is Jewish tradition coherent? Is Halakhah coherent? Did Ashkenazi Jews in the twelfth century behave like Sephardic twelfth-century Jews? Was the ethos of kiddush ha-Shem implemented in Ashkenaz valid also in Spain? Definitely not. Responses always reflect a deep balance between diachronic and synchronic value systems. Buridan’s ass was a consistent creature in the classic philosophical example, and he died because he could not choose between two piles of hay. We are choosing creatures, we are drifters in Iris Murdoch’s sense, wanderers. That’s the reality of our lives. Anyone wishing to create another reality should remember it may be found in the theater, in art, in literature, but not in the realm of real life. In real life, gender is a crucial factor. As we near the end of this interview, I’d like to ask you how you assess the importance of feminism as a philosophical position in general, and Jewish feminism in contemporary Jewish life in particular. Feminism is doubly important. First, because it finally enabled those who had been denied a voice to be present, and I’m not only talking about women. It also enabled me, as a feminist, to be present. When reciting the morning prayers in my youth, the series “Blessed who hast not made me a heathen, a slave, a woman” hierarchically ordered, used to drive me crazy. Later, when I understood that Halakhah works through alternatives, I asked myself whether this is the alternative we have to live with. I think that my development involved a process of returning to the sources to review options and grasp that, when the sources do not allow for something we can live with, to live with the conflict. Conflict and tension with the sources is a stance of loyalty to reality. At a later stage, we will build philosophies

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on this, but first we have to be loyal to reality. We cannot possibly take as a starting point an assumption that ranks women hierarchically, and then embark on explanations. The historical justification does not interest me. We’re not living in the twelfth or fifteenth centuries, we’re living here and now. Someone who accepts a hierarchical approach that fails to respect other human beings should not only not expect to be respected by others but, in Levinas’s terms, murders the others’ face. I say this not only about feminism but also about gays and lesbians. That would have been my next question. Well, it’s the same argument. When halakhists say that homosexuality is forbidden as an abomination and talk about conversion therapy, you realize that they either do not understand human beings or, if they do, they are guilty of murder in a metaphorical and, at times, in a real sense. Having said this, I accept that sometimes we succeed in finding alternatives within the Jewish discourse and sometimes we don’t. Where we do, my role as someone who deals with Jewish thought and with the study of Halakhah is to make these options surface. In a book that is due to appear soon entitled The Body and Sexuality in the New Religious-Zionist Discourse, of which some sections have already appeared in English, I relate to other existing options and not at all marginal ones. And when such options do not exist . . .  You have to create them. Well, if people wish to be able to give themselves a religious and moral account, they will have to create these options or, sometimes, they will have no alternative but to live contrary to Halakhah. Later generations will find the solution to this. People live with contradictions and don’t always settle them. But to say I cannot live morally because of my loyalty to a system that forbids me to do so is unacceptable. If a religious person tells me that, my answer is that God too is bound by morality, and when you deny God’s morality, you turn God into a demon. Now go and consider all available options. I cannot accept the rejection of any human possibility. All the issues of gender and of alternative sexuality were usually dealt with through a metaphysical worldview, based on the assumption of a natural order that views men as superior to women and also leaves gays and lesbians out. My perspective, as I said, is cultural. We know that what people determine about human metaphysics merely reflects their cultural

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insights or, if we use Foucalt’s terms, their attempt to impose regimes on others. Anyone willing to live like that is simply not a moral agent. That’s wonderful, and I do look forward to the new book. But to what extent is feminist philosophy part of your philosophizing about gender issues? I’m not talking about Jewish sources but about feminist philosophical sources. Because one of my frustrations since I’ve been writing on feminist philosophy is the degree to which most Jewish philosophers remain somewhat ignorant or even uninterested in feminist philosophical discourse. I hope that’s not true of you, but what do we need to do in order to make this philosophical conversation become familiar? The only way of spreading feminist thought, which I consider a vital, imperative task, is to write about it. Not to improve it, or change it, or consider how it fits Jewish tradition, as some Orthodox feminists do, but truly to see it as a profound voice. I see myself as no less a feminist philosopher than a feminist woman, because feminism is not the problem. Carol Gilligan, who has influenced me and with whom I have engaged in a dialogue in my writing, refers to the foundation behind feminist thought as the readiness to identify the “other voice.” I don’t think it matters that, in her earlier works, she ascribed this other voice to the woman or to the feminine element. Feminist thought is critical thought. It enables us a new perspective on our cultural constructs, on the power mechanisms at work. If philosophy can do anything, it is to redeem us from ignorance, to avoid assuming as obvious what need not be obvious. Feminist thought has made an enormous contribution here, among the most significant in twentieth-century thought. I began by explaining that I reject metaphysical thought precisely because it prevents us from hearing the real voices, the voices of critical thought that enable us to be ironic creatures in the sense of constantly casting doubt on our insights. In the feminist context, casting doubt is a practical matter: what do you do in your household? My daughter came home from school with a book that said “Mummy cooks,” and wondered, “But here you cook! So what must I say?” And I said, “Just erase it and say, ‘Daddy cooks. Mummy does not enter the kitchen.’ ” In other words, gender differences are socially constructed. Yes? The vast power of culture operates on us precisely because it is articulated as obvious. It is obvious that Mummy cooks. It is obvious that the woman

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is emotional and the man is not, and in Israel men are machos and they don’t cry. Partly, the power of this feminist thought is indeed to release us from it. Ultimately, this release is what enables us to live as happier human beings, who do not need to negate what they are. Men cry, too, and not only at night as in the song. And as soon as people understand that the weakness that had been projected on women in order to free men is simply unnecessary, life will be richer and fuller. Part of my great disappointment with Jewish philosophy and Jewish philosophers is that they are stuck on the agenda of previous centuries. There is hardly a Jewish philosopher who has taken up the challenge of rethinking Jewish existence in categories of present. The temptation of the past and the enchantment with it are so great that the synchronic axis was gradually forgotten. The only way of creating a different Jewish philosopher is, if I may say so, to endorse my course. Do you mean the move from metaphysics to practice? One step before that is to delay training in Jewish philosophy in favor of extensive training in philosophy, particularly where philosophy interfaces with existence. I don’t mean studying the sixteenth-century metaphysics of the English school but hermeneutics, what is called cultural or critical studies. I am referring to the new tradition where Marxism, feminism, hermeneutics, and postmodern thought are involved in what I would call the potential for a powerful storm that will ultimately affect Jewish existence. Actually, you’ve just answered the question that I wanted to ask about your assessment of Jewish philosophers today. Generally, then, would you say you are optimistic about the future of Jewish philosophy in the twenty-first century? Or would you say that you’ve detected a kind of malaise, or perhaps even superficiality, leading to the perception that nothing is really going to change much because not many people will be holding your view? I’m really glad we’ve met because I think that you hold an original and rather unique position. I’ll answer with a word that Emil Habibi coined—I’m an opssimist. What I mean is that I have all the reasons for being a pessimist. When I read works of Jewish philosophy, I see them moving along a completely different orbit and removed from any specific place. I sometimes feel great compassion for Jewish philosophers writing about the interface with political philosophy or with existential questions when I see how estranged they are from

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this world. That is one side of the coin and, therefore, when I review the curriculum of Jewish philosophy departments in Israel but also abroad, it seems to be leading nowhere. We will just go on dealing with the classic texts and adding some excerpt of what some rabbi wrote and it will just be more of the same. What leads me to think in more optimistic terms is the imperative of existence. The day will unquestionably come, and perhaps it already has, when people with a realistic Jewish commitment derived from a deep integrity will no longer be able to continue yesterday’s conversation. Those who have found answers to their world in Jewish theological and religious philosophies entirely unrelated to their lives will be forced to confront the meaning of their lives. That Jewish philosophy will have to follow life rather than precede it. My optimism rests on the fact that we live differently. The greatest chauvinists are often feminists in their homes without even knowing it and the greatest theologians, in their personal lives, do not grant weight to the things they talk and write about. Jewish philosophy may need a shakeup. To use your metaphor of the voyage, it’s a voyage to meaning, right? Jewish philosophy is really an ongoing and constantly self-critical voyage to find meaning in one’s life as lived. It’s all about lived existence, rather than theorizing about the meaning of being Jewish. From the first book I ever wrote, about Kierkegaard, I learned this idea of life as a kind of voyage. And if philosophy wishes to be true to life, it must be a voyage. When I see what’s being done in the study of Heidegger—early Heidegger, late Heidegger—in an almost holy belief that there are turnings and transformations, I remember what my teacher Reuven Gil‘ad said. After asking whether these were really turnings, he suddenly understood that the answer was inappropriate and a new move was required. This is a kind of philosophy on the move, but the movement does not deny what preceded it. The entire process is one of movement. My problem with Heidegger, and surely your problem as well, is his failure as a human being in 1933, which raises a major question—to what extent can we look up to this man? That’s why I prefer Kierkegaard, who was ironic enough to write each text under a different pseudonym. The pseudonyms are actually alternative options—I’ve written this, and now I’m ready to begin anew. After I keep

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reinterpreting my existence, I must keep on asking: what expresses me at this point in time? To what extent does it not express me? Philosophy here is a kind of project against which you are constantly examining yourself. It never reflects you or represents you fully because you cannot represent life, but it does offer moorings from which you can contemplate life. And the answers we give ourselves will inevitably be local and fragmented. We are human beings and not divine creatures, and a philosophy written from a divine perspective should preferably be written by God and not by us. That’s an excellent ending to a fascinating interview. I’ve learned a great deal about your views, and this will definitely help me to write the introductory essay; all is much clearer now. Thank you so much for your time.

Select Bibliography Books 1. Not in Heaven: Issues in the Philosophy of Halakhah. Ein Tsurim: Jacob Herzog Center, 1991 [Hebrew]. 2. (With Daniel Statman) Religion and Morality, translated by Batya Stein. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995. 3. Judaism: Between Religion and Morality. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1998 [Hebrew]. 4. (With Zvi Zohar) Circles of Jewish Identity: A Study in Halakhic Literature. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2000 [Hebrew]. 5. Kierkegaard, Religion, and Existence: The Voyage of the Self, translated by Batya Stein. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000. 6. Albert Camus and the Philosophy of the Absurd, translated by Batya Stein. New York: Rodopi, 2002. 7. A Critique of the Jewish Identity Discourse. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2002 [Hebrew]. 8. A Challenge: Returning to Tradition. Tel Aviv and Jerusalem: Bar-Ilan University, Shalom Hartman Institute, and Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2003 [Hebrew]. 9. The Jewish-Israeli Voyage: Culture and Identity. Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2006 [Hebrew]. 10. The Open Canon: On the Meaning of Halakhic Discourse, translated by Batya Stein. London: Continuum, 2007. 11. (With Zvi Zohar) Transforming Identity. London: Continuum, 2007. 12. Tradition vs. Traditionalism: Contemporary Perspectives in Jewish Thought, translated by Batya Stein. New York: Rodopi, 2008. 13. The Human Voyage to Meaning: A Philosophical-Hermeneutical Study of Literary Works. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2009 [Hebrew]. 14. Jewish Religion after Theology, translated by Batya Stein. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009. 15. (With Yedidia Stern) Barefooted Homeland: Israeli Reflections. Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2011 [Hebrew]. 16. Prayer after “The Death of God”: A Phenomenological Study of Hebrew Literature. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2011 [Hebrew].

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17. To Be a Jew: Joseph Chayim Brenner as a Jewish Existentialist, translated by Batya Stein. London: Continuum, 2011. 18. Facing Others and Otherness: The Ethics of Inner Retreat. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2012 [Hebrew]. 19. Halakhic Loyalty: Between Closure and Openness. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2012 [Hebrew]. 20. (With Yakir Englander) The New Religious-Zionist Discourse on the Body and Sexuality. Jerusalem: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2013 [Hebrew]. Edited Books 21. Yeshayahu Leibowitz: His World and Philosophy. Jerusalem: Keter, 1995 [Hebrew]. 22. Faith in Changing Times: The Thought of Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik. Jerusalem: WZO, 1996 [Hebrew]. 23. (With Zeev Safrai) Between Authority and Autonomy in Jewish Tradition. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1997 [Hebrew]. 24. (With Daniel Statman) Between Religion and Ethics. Ramat-Gan: BarIlan University Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 25. (With Dudi Schwartz and Yedidia Stern) Judaism: A Dialogue Between Cultures. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 26. (With Menachem Mautner and Ronen Shamir) Multiculturalism in a Democratic and Jewish State: The Ariel Rosen-Zvi Memorial Volume. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 27. (With Zvi Zohar) Renewing Jewish Commitment: The Work and Thought of David Hartman, 2 vols. Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Shalom Hartman Institute-Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2001 [Hebrew]. 28. (With Nahem Ilan) Jewish Culture in the Eye of the Storm: A Jubilee Book in Honor of Yosef Ahituv. Tel Aviv and Ein Tsurim: Hakibbutz Hameuchad-Jacob Herzog Center, 2002 [Hebrew]. 29. (With Dov Schwartz) A Hundred Years of Religious Zionism, 3 vols. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003 [Hebrew]. 30. (With Uzi Shavit and Yehuda Friedlander) The Old Shall Be Renewed and the New Sanctified: Essays on Judaism, Identity, and Culture in Memory of Meir Aeyali. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2005 [Hebrew]. 31. (With Moshe Halbertal and David Kurzweil) On Faith: Studies on the Concept of Faith and its History in Jewish Tradition. Jerusalem: Keter, 2005 [Hebrew].

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32. (With Zvi Zohar) A Judaism of Life: The World of Rabbi Haim David Halevi. Jerusalem and Ramat-Gan: Shalom Hartman Institute-Law Faculty of Bar-Ilan University, 2007 [Hebrew]. 33. (With Ohad Nachtomy) The Multicultural Challenge in Israel. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2009. 34. (With Avidov Lipsker) Twenty-Four Readings in Aharon Appelfeld’s Literary Work. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2011 [Hebrew]. 35. (With Dov Schwartz) Faith: Jewish Perspectives. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2013. Series Editor 36. (With Yedidia Stern) Democratic Culture (scholarly journal). RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press [Hebrew]. 37. “Interpretation and Culture” (books series). Bar-Ilan University Press [Hebrew]. 38. (With Yedidia Stern) “Israeli Judaism” (book series). Shalom Hartman Institute and Law Faculty, Bar-Ilan University [Hebrew]. Book Chapters 39. “Two Models of the Halakhic Truth Category.” In Higayon, edited by Moshe Koppel and Ely Merzbach, 69–91. Ramat-Gan: Center of Jewish Public Policy at Bar-Ilan University, 1989 [Hebrew]. 40. “The Ethical Qualities of God in Halakhic Literature and the Ethical Factor in Halakhah.” In Studies in Halakhah and Jewish Thought, edited by Moshe Beer, 261–86. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1994 [Hebrew]. 41. “Leibowitz: Jewish Meditation in Light of Modernity.” In Yeshayahu Leibowitz: His World and Philosophy, edited by Avi Sagi, 162–75. Jerusalem: Keter, 1995 [Hebrew]. 42. “Rabbi Soloveitchik: Jewish Meditation in the Light of Modernity.” In Faith in Changing Times: The Thought of Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik, edited by Avi Sagi, 461–500. Jerusalem: WZO, 1996 [Hebrew]. 43. (With Zvi Zohar) “Giyyur, Jewish Identity and Modernization.” In The Body of the Text: Toward an Anthropology of the Texts of Jewish Tradition, edited by Florence Heymann and Danielle Storper Perez, 293–318. Paris: CNRS, 1997 [French].

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44. “Halakhah, Discretion, and Responsibility in Religious Zionism.” In Between Authority and Autonomy in Jewish Tradition, edited by Avi Sagi and Zeev Safrai, 195–217. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1997 [Hebrew]. 45. (With Daniel Statman) “The Dependence of Morality on Religion in Jewish Thought.” In Between Religion and Ethics, edited by Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman, 115–44. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 46. “Religious-Zionism: Between Closeness and Openness.” In Judaism: A Dialogue Between Cultures, edited by Avi Sagi, Yedidia Stern, and Dudi Schwartz, 124–68. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 47. (With Menachem Mautner and Ronen Shamir) “Thoughts on Multiculturalism in Israel.” In Multiculturalism in a Democratic and Jewish State: The Ariel Rosen-Zvi Memorial Book, edited by Avi Sagi, Menachem Mautner, and Ronen Shamir, 67–76. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1998 [Hebrew]. 48. “David Hartman: Jewish Modern Meditation.” In Renewing Jewish Commitment: The Work and Thought of David Hartman, vol. 1, edited by Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, 445–92. Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Shalom Hartman Institute and Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2001 [Hebrew]. 49. (With Zvi Zohar) “The Conversion Process and its Symbolic Meaning.” In Religion and Nationalism in Israel and the Middle East, edited by Neri Horowitz, 343–58. Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2002 [Hebrew]. 50. “A Critique of the Jewish Identity Discourse.” In Jewish Culture in the Eye of the Storm: A Jubilee Book in Honor of Yosef Ahituv, edited by Avi Sagi and Nahem Ilan, 248–94. Tel Aviv and Ein Tsurim: Hakibbutz Hameuchad and Jacob Herzog Center, 2002 [Hebrew]. 51. (With Dov Schwartz) “From Pioneering to Torah Study: Background to the Growth of Religious Zionism.” In A Hundred Years of Religious Zionism, vol. 3, edited by Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz, 73–76. RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003 [Hebrew]. 52. (With Dov Schwartz) “The Religious-Zionist Enterprise Confronting the Modern World: Introductory Essay.” In A Hundred Years of Religious Zionism, vol. 1, edited by Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz, 9–40. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003 [Hebrew]. 53. “Unity of Scripture Constituted through Jewish Traditions of Interpretations.” In One Scripture or Many? Canon from Biblical, Theological, and Philosophical Perspectives, edited by Christine Helmer and Christof Landmesser, 186–216. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.

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54. “Between God and Man: The Holocaust as a Theological or as a Religious-Existential Problem.” In The Holocaust in Jewish History: Historiography, Historical Consciousness and Interpretations, edited by Dan Michman, 493–508. Jerusalem: Yad Vashem Press, 2005 [Hebrew]. 55. “Between the Individual and the General.” In The Old Shall Be Renewed and the New Sanctified: Essays on Judaism, Identity, and Culture in Memory of Meir Aeyali, edited by Avi Sagi, Uzi Shavit, and Yehuda Friedlander, 11–13. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2005 [Hebrew]. 56. “The Controversy about Secular Studies in the Responsa Literature.” In Studies in Memory of Professor Ze’ev Falk, edited by Michael Corinaldi, Moshe David Herr, Rivka Horowitz, and Yohanan Silman, 231–53. Jerusalem: Mesharim Press, 2005 [Hebrew]. 57. “Ethical Commitment and Identity in a Multicultural Existence.” In Multiculturalism in the Israeli Context, edited by Ohad Nachtomy, 63–79. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2005 [Hebrew]. 58. “Faith as Temptation.” In On Faith: Studies on the Concept of Faith and its History in Jewish Tradition, edited by Avi Sagi, Moshe Halbertal, and David Kurzweil, 39–118. Jerusalem: Keter, 2005 [Hebrew]. 59. “ ‘The Lonely Jew and Judaism’ as an Existential Voyage.” In The Path of the Spirit: The Eliezer Schweid Jubilee Volume, vol. 1, edited by Yehoyada Amir, 63–80. Jerusalem: The Hebrew University and Van Leer Jerusalem Institute, 2005 [Hebrew]. 60. “Religion and State: A Critical Analysis of the Public Discourse.” In Religion and State in Twentieth-Century Jewish Thought, edited by Aviezer Ravitzky, 43–76. Jerusalem: Israel Democracy Institute, 2005 [Hebrew]. 61. “Jewry between Tradition and Secularism on Religious Tensions.” In Jewry Between Tradition and Secularism: Europe and Israel Compared, edited by Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Thomas Gergely, and Yosef Gorny, 105–20. Leiden: Brill, 2006. 62. “Orthodoxy as a Problem.” In Orthodox Judaism, New Perspectives, edited by Yosef Salmon, Aviezer Ravitzky, and Adam Ferziger, 21–54. Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, Jerusalem, 2007 [Hebrew]. 63. “Rabbi Haim David Halevi: Introduction to his Halakhic Philosophy.” In A Judaism of Life: The World of Rabbi Haim David Halevi, edited by Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, 311–30. Jerusalem and Ramat-Gan: Shalom Hartman Institute and the Law Faculty of Bar-Ilan University, 2007 [Hebrew]. 64. “Religious Commitment and the Threat of Culture: Leibowitz as a Test Case.” In Yeshayahu Leibowitz—Between Conservatism and Radicalism:

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Reflections on His Philosophy, edited by Aviezer Ravitzky, 112–36. Jerusalem: Van Leer Jerusalem Institute and Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2007 [Hebrew]. 65. “Between an Ethics of Compassion and an Ethics of Justice.” In On Justice, edited by Yedidia Stern, 173–220. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2010 [Hebrew]. 66. “Poland Is Green Country: From Alienation to Identity.” In TwentyFour Readings in Aharon Appelfeld’s Literary Work, edited by Avidov Lipsker and Avi Sagi, 237–60. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2011 [Hebrew]. 67. “Justifying Interreligious Pluralism.” In Jewish Theology and World Religions, edited by Alon Goshen-Gottstein and Eugene Korn, 61–86. Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2012. 68. “Reflections on the Challenges Confronting the Philosophy of Halakhah.” In The Cambridge History of Jewish Philosophy, vol. 2, edited by Martin Kavka, Zachary Braiterman, and David Novak, 499–518. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. 69. “Faith as Temptation.” In Faith: Jewish Perspectives, edited by Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz, 12–122. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2013. Journal Articles 70. “The Loneliness of the Man of Faith in the Philosophy of Soloveitchik.” Daat 2–3 (1978): 247–58 [Hebrew]. 71. “The Relationship Between ‘I-Thou’ and ‘I-Eternal Thou’ in the Philosophy of Martin Buber.” Daat 7 (1981): 139–54 [Hebrew]. 72. “The Category of the ‘Other’ and its Implications for Buber’s Philosophy of Dialogue.” Daat 13 (1984): 95–114 [Hebrew]. 73. “The Relationship Between Religion and Morality in Buber’s Thought.” Daat 17 (1986): 97–118 [Hebrew]. 74. “The Akedah: A Comparative Study of Kierkegaard and Leibowitz.” Daat 23 (1989): 121–34 [Hebrew]. 75. “The Dialectic of Decision-Making and Objective Truth in Halakhah: Some Considerations Regarding the Philosophy of Halakhah.” Dine Israel 15 (1989–1990): 7–38 [Hebrew]. 76. “The Art of Existence: Three Approaches in Kierkegaard’s Thought.” International Philosophical Quarterly 124 (1991): 473–84. 77. “The Existential Meaning of the Art of Theatre in Kierkegaard’s Philosophy.” Man and World 24 (1991): 461–70.

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78. “A Philosophical Analysis of S’vara.” S’vara 2, no. 1 (1991): 3–7. 79. “Halakhic Praxis and the Word of God: A Study of Two Models.” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 1 (1992): 305–29. 80. “Rabbi Soloveitchik and Professor Leibowitz as Theoreticians of the Halakhah.” Daat 29 (1992): 131–48 [Hebrew]. 81. “The Suspension of the Ethical and the Religious Meaning of Ethics in Kierkegaard’s Thought.” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 32 (1992): 83–102. 82. “S’vara and the Concept of Torah.” S’vara 2, no. 2 (1992): 5–8. 83. “ ‘Both Are the Words of the Living God’: A Typological Analysis of Halakhic Pluralism.” Hebrew Union College Annual 65 (1994): 105–36. 84. “Is the Absurd the Problem or the Solution? The Myth of Sisyphus Reconsidered.” Philosophy Today 38 (1994): 278–84. 85. “Leibowitz and Camus: Between Faith and Absurd.” Iyyun 42 (1994): 469–92 [Hebrew]. 86. “The Punishment of Amalek in Jewish Tradition: Coping with the Moral Problem.” Harvard Theological Review 87 (1994): 323–46. 87. (With Daniel Statman) “Divine Command Morality and Jewish Tradition.” Journal of Religious Ethics 23 (1995): 39–68. 88. (With Zvi Zohar) “Giyyur, Jewish Identity, and Modernization: An Analysis of Halakhic Sources.” Modern Judaism 15 (1995): 6–49. 89. “The Halakhic Ritual of Giyuur and its Symbolic Meaning.” Journal of Ritual Rites 9 (1995): 1–14. 90. “Models of Authority and the Duty of Obedience in Halakhic Literature.” AJS Review 20 (1995): 1–24. 91. “Rabbi Moshe Chazan: Between Particularism and Universalism.” American Academy for Jewish Research 61 (1995): 23–43 [Hebrew]. 92. “Religious Command vs. the Legal System: A Chapter in the Thought of Rabbi Shim’on Shkop.” Daat 35 (1995): 99–114 [Hebrew]. 93. “Tolerance and the Possibility of Pluralism in Judaism.” Iyyun 44 (1995): 175–200 [Hebrew]. 94. “ ‘He Slew the Egyptian and Hid Him in the Sand’: Jewish Tradition and the Moral Element.” Hebrew Union College Annual 67 (1996): 55–76. 95. “Religious Commitment in a Secularized World: Introductory Chapters to the Thought of Eliezer Goldman.” Daat 36 (1996): 69–88 [Hebrew]. 96. “Contending with Modernity: Scripture in the Thought of Yeshayahu Leibowitz and Joseph Soloveitchik.” The Journal of Religion 73 (1997): 421–41. 97. “Leibowitz: The Man against His Thought.” Daat 38 (1997): 131–44 [Hebrew].

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98. “Yeshayahu Leibowitz—A Breakthrough in Jewish Philosophy: Religion without Metaphysics.” Religious Studies 33 (1997): 203–16. 99. “Camus—Middle Eastern Thought: A Philosophy of Beach and Sun.” Perspectives 5 (1998): 11–20 [Hebrew]. 100. “Judaism as Interpretation: Reflections on Goldman’s Thought.” Daat 41 (1998): 57–74 [Hebrew]. 101. “Kierkegaard and Buber on the Dilemma of Abraham in the Akedah.” Iyyun 37 (1998): 248–62 [Hebrew]. 102. “The Meaning of the Akedah in Israeli Culture and Jewish Tradition.” Israel Studies 3 (1998): 45–60. 103. “Judaism and Democracy: Indeed at Odds?” Democratic Culture 2 (1999): 169–87 [Hebrew]. 104. “Religious Pluralism Assessed.” Sophia 38 (1999): 93–115. 105. (With Daniel Statman) “What Could Be the Meaning of the Idea that Morality Depends on Religion?” Iyyun 38 (1999): 103–36 [Hebrew]. 106. “Identity and Commitment in a Multicultural World.” Democratic Culture 3 (2000): 167–86. 107. “Law and Society: Rights Discourse and Identity Discourse in Israel.” Bar-Ilan Law Studies 16 (2000): 37–54 [Hebrew]. 108. “Natural Law and Halakhah: A Critical Analysis.” Jewish Law Annual 13 (2000): 149–95. 109. “The Discourse of Compassion and the Norms of Tsedakah.” Daat 47 (2001): 35–52 [Hebrew]. 110. (With Ron Shapira) “Civil Disobedience and Conscientious Objection.” Israel Law Review 36, no. 3 (2002): 181–217. 111. “Canonic Scripture and the Hermeneutical Challenge: A Critical Review in Light of Nahmanides.” Daat 50–52 (2003): 121–42 [Hebrew]. 112. “Torah and Life: Halakhah in Eliezer Goldman’s Thought.” Democratic Culture 8 (2004): 145–64 [Hebrew]. 113. (With Yedidia Z. Stern) “The Exile of Identity: Altneuland in the Jewish State.” Alpayim 30 (2006): 46–70 [Hebrew]. 114. “Conscientious Objection and Jewish Tradition.” Democratic Culture 11 (2007): 203–35. 115. “The Mystery of Being and the Creation of Hebrew Literature.” Iyyun 59 (2012): 165–86 [Hebrew]. 116. “Exile, Strangers and Sovereignty: Reflections on the Biblical Tradition.” Democratic Culture 16 (2014) (in press).

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Book Reviews 117. “The Relationship Between Peshat and Derash.” Review of Peshat and Derash, by David Weiss Halivni. Tarbiz 61 (1992): 583–592 [Hebrew]. 118. Review of God of Abraham, by L. E. Goodman. Religious Studies 33 (1997): 349–60. 119. Review of Interpretative Revolutions in the Making, by Moshe Halbertal. Daat 42 (1999): 171–76 [Hebrew]. 120. “A Journey in Search of Jewish Identity.” Review of A Split Identity, by Ella Belfer. Daat 55 (2005): 153–57 [Hebrew].