Between Religion and Reason (Part II): The Position against Contradiction between Reason and Revelation in Contemporary Jewish Thought from Eliezer Goldman to Jonathan Sacks 9781644695715

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BETWEEN RELIGION AND REASON P a

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THE POSITION AGAINST CONTRADICTION BETWEEN REASON AND REVELATION IN CONTEMPORARY JEWISH THOUGHT FROM ELIEZER GOLDMAN TO JONATHAN SACKS

Studies in Orthodox Judaism Series Editor Marc B. Shapiro (University of Scranton, Scranton, Pennsylvania) Editorial Board Alan Brill (Seton Hall University, South Orange, New Jersey) Benjamin Brown (Hebrew University, Jerusalem) David Ellenson (Hebrew Union College, New York) Adam S. Ferziger (Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan) Miri Freud-Kandel (University of Oxford, Oxford) Jeffrey Gurock (Yeshiva University, New York) Shlomo Tikochinski ( Jerusalem)

BETWEEN RELIGION AND REASON P a

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THE POSITION AGAINST CONTRADICTION BETWEEN REASON AND REVELATION IN CONTEMPORARY JEWISH THOUGHT FROM ELIEZER GOLDMAN TO JONATHAN SACKS

EPHRAIM CHAMIEL Tr a n s l a t e d b y Michael Carasik

BOSTON 2021

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020001998 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020001999 © Academic Studies Press, 2021 ISBN 9781644695708 (hardback) ISBN 9781644695717 (Adobe PDF) ISBN 9781644695722 (ePub) Cover art by David Breuer-Weil On the cover: David Breuer-Weil, "Weave." Acrilic on canvas, 91.5x137.5 cm. Book design by Kryon Publishing Services (P) Ltd. www.kryonpublishing.com Published by Academic Studies Press 1577 Beacon Street Brookline, MA 02446, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

To my grandchildren: Tair Elkayam Hibat Uriya Tzfanya Liron Noya Berechya Yuval Oz-Haim

Table of Contents

Translator’s Note

viii

Chapter One: Introduction

1

Chapter Two:

6

Prof. Eliezer Goldman

Chapter Three: Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm

21

Chapter Four:

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman

50

Chapter Five:

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein

122

Chapter Six:

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks

163

Chapter Seven: Rabbi Dr. Michael Abraham

193

Chapter Eight: Summary and Conclusions

221

Epilogue225 Bibliography227 Index230

Translator’s Note

I

n this final part of the third volume in his trilogy, Dr. Chamiel discusses four thinkers who wrote much or all of their work originally in English, and a fifth, Eliezer Goldman, whose native language was English, though most of his writing—including the texts discussed in this book—appeared in Hebrew. I have endeavored to translate Dr. Chamiel’s discussion as if it was directed at the English quotations from these authors. When I have succeeded imperfectly, the fault is of course mine and not his. In the case of Michael Abraham, who wrote in Hebrew, I translated whatever of his work is cited here myself. I hope he will forgive me if I have inadvertently put words in his mouth that he himself would not choose to write. I would like to offer my thanks to Dr. Chamiel for the opportunity to collaborate with him on this fascinating volume. I would also like to thank him, along with Dr. Adrian Sackson of Academic Language Experts, and Prof. Marc Shapiro, the series editor, for their assistance with the translation. I, of course, am ultimately responsible for it. Michael Carasik, Tamuz 5780—June 2020

CHAPTER ONE

Introduction DENYING THE CONTRADICTION BETWEEN REASON AND REVELATION: THE POSITION AND ITS SOURCES

I

n this book I continue my discussion of the different approaches in contemporary Jewish thought regarding the notion of a possible contradiction between reason and revelation. Here I shall discuss the approaches that do not accept the possibility of such contradiction, including the various identicality approaches, the compartmental approach, and the transcendental approach. I began the discussion of this issue in part 1 of my book Between Religion and Reason,1 in which I discussed the dialectical approach in contemporary thought, which recognizes and accepts the contradiction between the two realms. In my book The Middle Way, following my teacher Shalom Rosenberg’s model2 of the relationship between religion and science, reason and revelation, I discussed the various approaches that either deny the possibility of such contradiction or accept it.3 I showed that those thinkers who accept the identicality approach can be further divided among three secondary approaches. 1. According to the full identicality approach, the content of revelation and the scientific and philosophical conclusions reached by human   1 E. Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, part 1: The Dialectical Position in Contemporary Jewish Thought from Rav Kook to Rav Shagar, trans. A. Kallenbach (Brighton, MA, 2020).  2 See idem., The Middle Way: The Emergence of Modern Religious Trends in NineteenthCentury Judaism—Responses to Modernity in the Philosophy of Z. H. Chajes, S. R. Hirsch, and S. D. Luzzatto, ed. A. Abelman, trans. J. Green (Brighton, MA, 2014), 351–357. See also idem., The Dual Truth: Studies on Nineteenth-Century Modern Religious Thought and Its Influence on Twentieth-Century Jewish Philosophy, trans. A. Kallenbach (Brighton, MA, 2019), xii; idem., Between Religion and Reason, 1:4–6.  3 Chamiel, The Middle Way, 351–357.

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reason are perfectly identical, and there are no problems or contradictions whatsoever between the two realms. According to some scholars, the originator of this position is Saadia Gaon. It must be emphasized here that this is not the Haredi position, according to which reason has nothing whatsoever to say about theological or normative subjects or any other subject on which revelation and religion take a stand. On all such topics, truth is transmitted exclusively through revelation—written and oral—and through those who carry it forward, the great scholars of Torah. 2a. According to the restrictive identicality approach, the two realms are identical in principle, but problems and even apparent contradictions do often appear. In these cases, the scientific or ethical assertion whose source is in human reason is for its part mistaken. The source of the problems is usually that the scientific discussion has encroached on areas that are beyond its scope, or that a philosophic or ethical discussion, lacking conclusive evidence, nonetheless has treated a hypothesis as a truth. In these cases, one must rather turn to knowledge that is based on revelation, whose source is divine and therefore cannot be questioned, as a touchstone for truth. In my book The Middle Way, I demonstrated that the source of this position is Judah Halevi. Hasdai Crescas and Philo took this approach as well. In the nineteenth century R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes held this position.4 2b. The modern period saw a shift in this fundamentalist position among several thinkers. In the Middle Ages, the statements of revelation remained unquestioned, since science had great difficulty in formulating a firm basis for its conclusions and believers took it as established fact that revelation was God’s direct word to humanity. This applied to both the Old and New Testaments, as well as the Quran. But when, from the seventeenth century to the nineteenth, biblical criticism began to loom larger and science succeeded in many instances in proving its conclusions beyond doubt, the question again arose among fundamentalists of what to do in such cases of contradiction, since it was impossible to refute them the old way. That is when the neo-fundamentalist identicality approach appeared, which holds that in such cases of contradiction we have to turn to position 3 (described below), despite the flaw that this makes the   4 Ibid., 211–216.

Introduction    Chapter One

approach inconsistent. The fundamentalist criterion asserts not that the biblical text is always consistent, but that it is inerrant—it cannot be mistaken, either in theology and morality or in physical, geological, or historical facts.5 I identified R. Samson Raphael Hirsch as one of the nineteenth-century thinkers who took this approach.6 3. According to the interpretative identicality approach, the two realms are in principle identical. But the solution that this approach suggests for instances of apparent contradiction between the two realms is the opposite one. According to this approach, the contradictions stem from a misunderstanding of the meaning of those statements in revelation that appear to contradict the conclusions of reason and science. In such cases, it is precisely to the conclusions of reason that one must turn as a touchstone. In this way the stories and beliefs expressed in the Bible take on an interpretation opposing the straightforward one, that is, a symbolic, allegorical-philosophical, or mystical-kabbalistic interpretation. I will not discuss these sorts of interpretation in this book. In The Middle Way I showed that this philosophical approach came to its full expression in the thought of Maimonides.7 According to the identicality approach, it is unnecessary to speak of a contradiction between revelation and reason/science, since they are in principle identical. This approach is the opposite of the dialectical approach, discussed in the first part of Between Religion and Reason, according to which there is a contradiction between the two realms. But there are two other approaches according to which there is no contradiction between them. The first one is the compartmental approach, which comes from the thought of Moses Mendelssohn and Franz Rosenzweig and was adopted as well by Yeshayahu Leibowitz.8 According to this approach, we have two sections of a single greater truth. They are partially or entirely separated and they speak in different languages and discuss different worlds, to the extent that it is impossible for either to question the other. The second one is the   5 On this shift, see J. Barr, Fundamentalism (Philadelphia, 1978); and also Chamiel, The Middle Way, 150–151.   6 See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 402–422.   7 Ibid., 354–357.   8 On Mendelssohn’s compartmental approach, see ibid., 357–361. On Rosenzweig on this subject, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 328–332; and on Leibowitz see ibid., 257–258.

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transcendental approach, which comes from Kant and is held by Isaac Breuer and R. Shagar. According to these latter two, since the divine, religious realm represents the Ding an sich, things as they really are beyond the material reality and human comprehension, it does not come within the purview of reason, which is concerned solely with the world of appearances. These identicality or compartmental approaches are preferred by most modern believers who face the contradiction between the two realms—so much so that sometimes thinkers unconsciously confuse them. By contrast, the dialectical approach, especially that according to which there is no solution, no way to patch together the contradictions and the dialectical tension in this world—for there are two truths involved—is less accepted and more difficult to understand and to digest than its predecessors. In my opinion, however, this is the one approach that is not apologetic or illusory, as are the other approaches, according to which harmonization is always possible. I turn now to a survey of those thinkers who hold the various positions that oppose the possibility of contradiction. I will devote a separate chapter to each of them. I prefer, as far as is possible, to permit each thinker to speak on his own behalf. But I will precede or follow his own thoughts with whatever words of explanation may be necessary. The reader will certainly note that I am not accustomed to preserving academic distance from the subjects of my research as other scholars do, and I often respond to them or dispute with them. This stems both from my own unusual character and from my way of being direct with regard to the explanations of others and expressing my own opinion as to whether these explanations are correct or in error. It stems as well from the fact that we are talking about contemporary thought and about topics that are still at the heart of discussion and debate today, still in the soul of every modern believer. Therefore, I cannot avoid getting involved with them. My own critical opinion, whether positive or negative, I withhold from no one, speaking clearly and looking you in the eye. But I emphasize here at the beginning that this is of course only my personal opinion. The reader, in turn, is invited to read my words with a critical eye and to formulate his own opinion on the topic under discussion. I take this opportunity to thank the team at Carmel Publishers, led by Yisrael Carmel, for the work they have devoted to the publication of my trilogy. Thanks to the tireless Maayan El-On Fedder, to Amram Peter, the remarkable editor of this book, to its page designer Ella Cohen, to the talented cover designer Yael Bar-Dayan. The important London artist and painter David Breuer-Weil has once again permitted me to use one of his wonderful philosophical paintings to decorate the book, and for this I am deeply grateful.

Introduction    Chapter One

Thanks also to my family for their patience and support, especially to my dear wife Gulie. Jerusalem, I Adar 5779—February 2019 I would like to take this opportunity to express my sincere thanks to all those who took part in the translation and publication of my book in English. Firstly, to my series editor, Prof. Marc B. Shapiro, for accepting this book to his series and providing important comments on the translated text. Marc’s comments on the manuscript, as well as those offered by the translators of the book’s two parts, drew my attention to a few errors in the original Hebrew version of the book. I have corrected those mistakes in the digital Hebrew version as well. I also want to thank Avi Staiman, CEO of Academic Language Experts, Dr.  Adrian Sackson, managing editor, and translator Dr. Michael Carasik, who did a wonderful job in translating this book. Last but not least, I want to acknowledge the management of the ASP publishing house and its dedicated staff, including Alessandra Anzani and Kira Nemirovsky, for their great work on this book. Jerusalem, Tamuz 5780—June 2020

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CHAPTER TWO

Prof. Eliezer Goldman

E

liezer Goldman was born in 1918 in New York. He attended the Talmudic Academy high school and then Yeshiva College; at the same time, he acquired his Torah learning at R. Isaac Elhanan Theological Seminary. He immigrated to Palestine in 1938 and studied at the Hebrew University. In 1941, he and some friends established Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu, where he worked in the vegetable garden and for a while was the kibbutz secretary. He taught at the joint high school of the religious kibbutzim in the Beth Shean valley. In the course of time, Goldman became the chief ideologue of moderate religious thought in the religious kibbutz movement. He continued his own studies at Bar-Ilan University and also taught there, in the departments of general and Jewish philosophy. His doctorate, on Pragmatism, was published in book form in 1980 in English. His research focused on the thought of Maimonides, Saadia Gaon, R. Kook, and R. Soloveitchik. He developed his own pluralistic, post-modern, non-illusory religious thought, firmly planted in this world and free of fundamentalism, mysticism, and messianism. In 1988 he won the Bialik Prize. In 1996 he published Meḥkarim Ve’iyunim: Hagut Yehudit Be’avar Uvahoveh (Studies and examinations: Jewish thought in the past and the present), edited by his students (and, later, his colleagues) Daniel Statman and Avi Sagi. Goldman died in 2002. In 2009 his students published another collection of his articles under the title Yahadut Lelo Ashlayah ( Judaism without illusion).1 Among scholars of Jewish thought, Goldman was known as a pluralistic religious thinker who did not shut his eyes to the difficulties with which modernity presents the believer. At first glance, I took his thought to adopt the dialectical approach. According to this approach, we cannot ignore the contradictions between the conclusions of modern science and philosophy and the statements of revelation. After giving the matter second thought, I was   1 E. Goldman, Yahadut Lelo Ashlayah ( Jerusalem, 2009).

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two

of the view that, having been influenced by Leibowitz, Goldman had adopted the compartmental approach. But, after carefully studying both his own writing and Gili Zivan’s book, Dat Lelo Ashlayah (Religion without illusion),2 I came to the conclusion that his religious hero was Maimonides. In my opinion, Goldman, like Maimonides, held the interpretative identicality approach. Indeed, most of Goldman’s writing is devoted to an attempt to reinterpret the Bible, Halakhah, and other religious statements in accordance with contemporary philosophy. His work on contradiction is peripheral. Nonetheless, it is important to note that Goldman abandoned the medieval and modern “meta-narrative” approach, according to which the world is directed at some sort of ultimate purpose. He adopted a pluralistic, postmodern approach of narratives dependent on context, culture, government, and society. Goldman does indeed advocate a far-reaching pluralism, but he applies it to all realms of reality except for the religious realm, which, in his words, transcends human comprehension. But I am getting ahead of myself. First let me focus on an analysis of his writing on the topic of the relationship between the realms, in order of their publication. In an article that Goldman published in De’ot 12 (1960) called “Al Ha’emunah Habilti Ashlayatit” (On non-illusory belief),3 he begins, in agreement with Leibowitz, by refuting illusory redemptive religiosity. According to this position, religion can redeem humanity from the defects and fetters of reality and thereby make possible a genuine closeness to the divine. Instead, Goldman adopts a non-illusory religion that acknowledges the contrast between created reality and the Creator, and the unbridgeable gulf between the human and the divine. “Human reality must be accepted as it is, without any illusion that we can extricate ourselves from it, and while in it one must serve God; ‘for that is the whole of man’ [Eccl. 12:13]. Such service expresses the sole possible path from man to his Creator.”4 The human intellect, which operates technically and makes use of the scientific method, is discontinuous with divine wisdom. Even practical reasoning, which attempts to establish ethical norms, operates technically; experience proves that there are no established goals or definite commandments (of the kind sought by Kant) but only

  2 G. Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah: Nokhaḥ Olam Postmodernisti: Iyun Behagutam shel Soloveitchik, Leibowitz, Goldman VeHartman ( Jerusalem, 2005).   3 E. Goldman, “Al Ha’emunah Habilti Ashlayatit,” in his Meḥkarim Ve’iyunim: Hagut Yehudit Be’avar Uvahoveh ( Jerusalem, 1996), 361–371.   4 Ibid., 361; see Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 105–106.

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conditional ones.5 Nor is human law fixed and complete. It is merely a groping toward orderly action in the human social reality. It is certainly an attempt to put into action ethical principles such as justice and honesty, which, in fact, reflect only the many meanings, the disorder, and lack of clarity of the principles of justice themselves. “Law is one of the foundations of culture that reflect, in clearest form, the human situation as it is, both with regard to its possibilities and to its essential limitations.”6 Religious beliefs are likewise illusory and meaningless inasmuch as they relate to a world that is beyond human reach and outside of human experience. Only serving God by fulfilling the commandments as a religious act has any meaning, since that is what makes possible an attachment between the Creator and creation that is not illusory. Observing the commandments “is faith. The most profound content of faith is the Jew’s confidence that it is possible to serve God by observing His Torah. On that he casts his lot. Without such confidence, his whole life, as he lives it, loses all sense and meaning.”7 This non-illusory religious approach does not resemble any human cultural configuration—such as language, art, or science—that operates within reality and cannot go beyond it. It is only via the religious approach that we can relate to that which is beyond any human configuration without speaking in words or specifying formulas. Goldman asserts this pluralistic approach with regard to all areas of human culture under discussion: “The most dangerous illusion is the one expressed in the arrogance of those who think that their method is certain in every detail, that they have in their hands a clear-cut answer to everything, and that only a lack of faith is the source of all confusion. Uncertainty is basic to the human condition. It accompanies us wherever we turn—in intellectual awareness, in ethical choice—in our fundamental assumptions and in every detail. Faith does not alter this. The believing person certainly takes a clear position toward the various possibilities. He relates his life, his stance toward the world and to reality, his standards of importance and ‘success,’ to his religious stance. But taking a decisive approach has nothing to do with certainty.”8 At the conclusion of the article, Goldman adds to the various cultural realms he has been discussing—practical reasoning, ethics, law, and faith—the realm of Halakhah. In his opinion Halakhah, too, is part of human culture. It is   5 On the pluralism of morality, see Goldman, Yahadut Lelo Ashlayah, 186, in the article “He’arot al Hapluralism,” as well as ibid., 191, in the article “Hapluralism Vehayehudi Hamoderni.”   6 Ibid., 366.   7 Ibid., 367.   8 Ibid., 370.

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two

dynamic. It is passed down to us, in order for us to direct it and develop it. And, therefore, it is akin to any other kind of legal framework. It has room for the decisor’s own subjective thought and reasoning. Moreover, even the sources on which decisors must rely are not clear cut.9 I would say that Goldman is a pluralist in all areas of human existence in reality, except for the divine-religious area, which comes from a transcendental source.10 In an article from the same year called “Hamitzvah Kenatun Yesodi shel Hadat” (The commandment as a foundational datum of religion), Goldman presents, in greater detail, his position—that what is unique in Judaism is its commandments. In this he continues the path of Saadia Gaon, Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, and S. R. Hirsch. He adds two assertions. First, according to modern thought, there is no meaning in discussing the reasons for the commandments, in the manner teleological rationalism was discussed during the Middle Ages. Second, Halakhah and observing the commandments are perhaps the sole possible expression of faith. In this, of course, he follows in the footsteps of Leibowitz. With regard to the question of whether the source of the values and obligations placed on a human being is his own reasoning or revelation, in the Middle Ages they answered that The command or the value that is revealed autonomously by reason is “natural law,” planted by the Creator of the world. They express natural purposes. Prophecy as well is in a sense autonomous, an exercise of the potential that is within human nature. It is heteronomy, being the product of an overflow of the divine wisdom, but this is the nature of the mind in general. The opposition between autonomy and heteronomy is here an opposition that is in the “characteristics,” not an opposition in the essence.11

But in the modern era the situation has completely changed: By contrast, in the framework of our own ideas, this opposition is in fact one of essence. Anyone who wants to avoid a purely empirical approach to the commandments, which relates to them solely as cultural, historical phenomena, must view them either idealistically as autonomous   9 See also ibid., 294–305, in the article “Hamusar, Hadat Vehahalakhah” (1962–1963). 10 See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 175–185. 11 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 310–311.

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Between Religion and Reason legislation of the human spirit, or theistically as divine legislation. [.  . .] Divine revelation of the Torah and the commandments is a complete innovation—it is not a shorthand way to reveal truths that in principle could have been acquired in some other way [Saadia]. In such conditions, any attempt to use human reasoning to substantiate the contents of revelation is ultimately absurd. And yet the fact that the problem of the reasons for the commandments has been rendered meaningless does not mean that the problem of the meaning of the Torah as a whole has been rendered meaningless. Not at all! We are confronted with a serious dialectic situation, which demands a radical solution.12

In Goldman’s view, it is Judaism that provides the radical solution necessary to bridge the gap between the divine world and the human world in a physical universe that is emptied of all religious meaning, and that provides an answer to the feeling of cosmic loneliness that is characteristic of contemporary man: As far as I understand, Judaism makes possible a radical solution to the same basic question of the relationship between divine reality and human reality. It essentially accepts the situation that we have described—that is, that from an ontological perspective divine reality annuls the reality of human-natural reality. But the idea of the giving of the Torah tells us—and this of course is a matter of pure religious content, not of intellectual content—that the divine gives a certain meaning to human life and activity, when they are organized around one basic activity—that of serving the Creator. The divine revelation through the Torah and the commandments, which shapes the religious norms of Judaism, is a complete innovation. It is not connected with the ontological situation, given that what is normative is not decreed by reality. It does not stem from human culture, as is evident from its radically heteronomous nature. It is, however, aimed at human culture and directed toward it. As such, it imparts a religious meaning to this culture that it does not intrinsically have, and that the ontology of faith on its own must in fact negate. [. . .] The essence of revelation through Torah and commandments makes it possible for us to relate directly to the Creator in both of these two aspects: will and love. The aspect of will—in that the Torah is His commandment; of love—in that this commandment 12 Ibid. See also ibid., 145, in the article “Hagut Yehudit Ortodoksit mul Hamodernah” (1956).

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two is aimed at the human-cultural world, giving it meaning and value, which without the Torah we would be forced to negate, precisely because we are believers. This religious meaning of the commandments lies in the fact that they alone make it possible, and obligatory, to serve the Creator. Faith in the abstract cannot indicate a point where any link between man and his Creator is forged. In the human-cultural reality there is no action that can be seen as a natural expression of the service of the Creator. [. . .] Not a single deed, not a single thought, intrinsically has anything of service to the Creator in it, just as there is not a single object or a single place that is intrinsically holy. Only the commandment that we are commanded to serve the Creator in this or that way—that is what creates the possibility of such service.13

Goldman sums up his article by explaining that the reason for each and every commandment does not interest us, and that we seek in vain when we look for reasons outside the framework of the commandments themselves: From such a point of view, the reason for this or that individual commandment holds no interest for us whatsoever. [. . .] What the results of the commandments are in the human reality—this question in and of itself has no importance for a person who means to serve his Creator. These results have no intrinsic value for him. Indeed, in and of itself this very reality is utterly lacking in value. But the special nature of the Torah and the commandments is that, after the fact, they imbue this reality with value even from a religious perspective, since the commandment of the Creator is to serve Him in, and from within, this reality.14

In conclusion, Goldman admits that he is not deceiving himself that it is possible to explain to the wider public this kind of approach to the commandments. But it is important to him that it should be clear to all that Halakhah needs no justification that comes from outside the framework of the commandments itself, and there is no basis for the claim that the necessities of life or human values can be used as justification for them. To the contrary—it is the human world that requires religious justification.

13 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 313–315. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 206–208. 14 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 315. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 235–236.

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Goldman thus takes Liebowitz’s principle of the uniqueness of serving God for its own sake as characteristic of Judaism and uses it against Liebowitz’s own compartmental approach. The realm of human reason and reality has no intrinsic value without the divine commandments in the Torah. But the commandments of the revelation in the Torah are the bridge that Goldman sets up between the divine and the human, realms that are not compartmentalized and do not contradict one another. The following questions still remain open: Does reason operate only in the human sphere? How can the two realms be made identical? And what is the touchstone for this identicality—revelation or reason? Eventually, Goldman provided a specific answer to this, in an article he published in De’ot 32 under the title “Hegedim Madaiyim Vehegedim Datiyim—Mispar Hevdelim Yesodiyim Be’ofyam” (Scientific statements and religious statements—a number of fundamental differences in their nature). He explains at the beginning of the article that he intends to note four important differences between biblical-religious statements, in which God appears as the subject—statements which in fact have no meaning, since it is impossible to describe God at all in human language, but which are indispensable to the believing person, that is, prophetic statements—and scientific ones. The four differences are as follows: 1. A statement that is not meant to be comprehensible cannot be considered a scientific statement. Prophetic statements are therefore qualitatively different from scientific statements. 2. A scientific statement serves (among other things) as the basis for an explanation of a phenomenon. This kind of statement must be subject to the possibility of refutation. By contrast, it is impossible to reach conclusions that will make it possible to explain some phenomenon from a religious statement, which is in principle not meant to be comprehended and is not subject to refutation. 3. Confirmation of a scientific statement establishes not only the language of the statement. It also confirms the claim that it lays out. By contrast, confirmation of a religious statement, like a prophecy, establishes only its own combination of words and the content described. This meaning is changeable and dynamic.15

15 See also Goldman, Meḥkarim, 11.

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two

4. A scientific statement always stands in readiness to face the possibility of its being refuted by experiment. The readiness to obligate oneself to a statement without subjecting it to experiment contradicts the scientific method. A statement that is refuted is negated. By contrast, religious statements of the prophetic kind are accepted by the believer as correct despite what experience teaches in any particular period. “The conclusion from experience that contradicts the statement, as interpreted at any particular time, is not a negation of the statement but a negation of the accepted interpretation.”16 Goldman clarifies that the verses that contain predictive prophecy must be reinterpreted from time to time. By contrast, theological assertions in a religious statement do not require reinterpretation as a result of personal or historical experience. From one era to another, the verses simply appear in a different light as a result of these experiences. In fact, it would be possible to argue that Goldman makes a claim similar to that of Leibowitz and follows his compartmental approach completely.17 But closer study will demonstrate otherwise. Leibowitz asserts that there can be no problems or contradictions between religion and science, since they speak of realms whose subjects are completely different from one another; each of them has its own language. Goldman, on the other hand, identifies problems and contradictions between conditional human reality and unconditional divine reality. What according to Leibowitz cannot be a problem at all is, according to Goldman, something that requires consideration and resolution. The resolution lies in reason and its perceptions. Goldman thinks that reason cannot bear contradiction. It enables us to re-explain the verses according to need and to alter our perceptions of what is said in them, in order to reconcile them with our personal and historical experience. Thus is built the interpretative identicality approach (that of Maimonides), which resolves contradictions. Goldman also implements this approach in addressing the tensions between the secular state and religion. In an article he published in 1978 in response to Gershon Weiler’s book Jewish Theocracy, published a year earlier, Goldman opposes Weiler’s contention that “Halakhah and government law are 16 Ibid., 344. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 221–223, 234–235, 237–238. 17 See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 107–108; also, A. Sagi in Leibowitz Mitpalmes: Timlul Veti’ud Video shel 13 She’ot Pulmus, ed. Y. Avisar ( Jerusalem, 2013), 7.

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two normative frameworks, each of which is seeking supremacy.”18 Therefore, “whoever accepts the sovereignty of Halakhah considers it superior to any other norm, including secular laws. When Halakhah and secular law collide, he will give preference to the former.”19 In Weiler’s opinion, the modus vivendi that has been reached in Israel between the secular attitude to Zionism and the religious one—according to which the secular state has adopted certain halakhic norms in order to achieve in practice some coordination between religion and state—is just an illusion, since “the Jewish religion and the existence of this state are antithetical to each other by their very essence.”20 Halakhah, which opposes politics, is a totalitarian framework which makes harmonious relations impossible. Goldman does not agree with these assertions. He points to the fact that Weiler’s evidence is not credible, his treatment of the sources is flawed and selective and reveals great ignorance, and therefore the contradictions he points at in the sources are imaginary. For example, the rabbinic ruling that “the law of the land is the law” is quite relevant for this discussion, since some of the grounds that underlie this principle can be applied equally well to a Jewish government not established on a halakhic basis. In Goldman’s opinion, most religious views other than the most fundamentalist ones, are of the opinion that Halakhah is not a totalitarian system: It is precisely in areas that do not clearly involve ritual that there are broader legislative possibilities; and they have been exploited during the course of 2,000 years in a form that has changed many procedures and norms in quite radical ways. How were these legislative actions justified? If we turn to the Tannaim and the Amoraim, we find them speaking of “the betterment of the world,” “the enactment of the marketplace,” “the enactment of the borrowers,” “for the sake of peace,” and the like. That is, there are social needs that demand taking care of, economic interests that need to be protected. The rules of the Torah do not answer such needs, and they therefore require completion or change, at which point an enactment of the Sages steps into the breach.… The commandments of the Torah are understood to be divine. A rabbinic enactment is taken to be obligatory by virtue of the authority that the Torah has granted to the Sages, but it is not in itself a divine command. The command here is an authoritative norm, 18 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 387. 19 Ibid. 20 Gershon Weiler, Jewish Theocracy (Leiden: Brill, 1988), xiii.

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two but not a substantive [independent] norm. When the Sages legislate in the realm of public, civil law, they are motivated by considerations of usefulness, of doing justice, and the like. [. . .] For the thesis of Weiler’s book, it is especially important that, from the beginning of the eleventh century, the organized public—the community and its institutions—became the chief legislator. [. . .] The community was certainly not an independent state, and it acted within a non-Jewish governmental framework. But it is important to notice that Halakhah acknowledged that the public legislation was authoritative; that the public wished to grant such legislation validity; and that the courts submitted to this legislation; all this in complete opposition to the claim of Weiler that Halakhah cannot recognize any such possibility.21

That is, Halakhah, like the Bible, is susceptible to interpretation by human reason, and such interpretation makes possible compromise between realms that are in principle separate. Indeed, Goldman concludes that, in order to dispel the concerns raised by the current modus vivendi, despite the difficulties and tensions that arise from time to time between Halakhah and secular law, a great measure of tact and of moderation is required on all sides. An obstinate insistence on ideological principles, whether of secularity or of the faithfulness of the state to Halakhah, are likely to shatter our shared national life. I am not arguing in favor of any particular status quo. My claim is that any viable national-political reality will not be able to embody a consistent approach with regard to the nature of Jewish nationhood or the relationship between the state and Halakhah. It reflects practical experience in harmonizing groups whose perspectives on the preferred political-legal order for a Jewish state overlap only partially and disagree on many central questions.22

In his article “Datiut Yehudit Be’idan shel Ḥilon” ( Jewish religiosity in an age of secularization), published in Amudim in 1979, Goldman discusses his feelings about a “Torah state.” He argues that this expression is internally 21 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 391–392. 22 Ibid., 388. Emphasis in the original.

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inconsistent. Since a modern state is based on the principle of legal and territorial sovereignty, all of those who dwell in it being citizens with equal rights, it is intrinsically secular. In this situation, the approach of the founders of Mizrahi and the religious kibbutz movement (to which Goldman considers himself to belong) is a paradoxical one: On the one hand, it is difficult for us to admit the legitimacy of secular Jewish nationalism. It is against everything that is meaningful to us in Jewish identity. On the other hand, we are greatly interested in having Jews continue to self-identify as Jews, something that is possible today for the majority of them only on a secular basis. [. . .] It seems to me very important to expose this significant source of confusion and internal contradiction not only in our thinking but in our actions.23 Goldman rejects the illusory solutions of the Haredim (secularism is distorted) and of the mystics (sanctification of secularity) to the problem that he presents, and suggests a solution according to which secularity is natural: Our nation, like every contemporary nation, is a secular one. It is not the long-awaited national framework of the Jewish people actualizing in its life the Torah in its full compass. By its nature, it is incapable of that. But this is the national, Jewish framework that is possible today. On the historical horizon that is foreseeable today, there is no other apparent possibility.24 Those who take this approach feel that as religious Jews they have an interest in an independent Jewish nation and not only in Jewish religious life. For this reason, they participated in the creation and development of the state. Like the Jews in every generation, they await the creation of new possibilities that cannot yet be expected today. But even in a state of this kind, it is possible to instill a foundation of holiness, just as has been possible in other secular situations: appropriate ways of managing public life, integrity, fostering appropriate interpersonal relationships, 23 Ibid., 439. 24 See also Goldman, Yahadut Lelo Ashlayah, 192–193, in the article “Hapluralism Vehayehudi Hamoderni”; and ibid., 233–235, in the article “Dilemmot shel Tsiyonut Datit Bimetsiut Ḥilonit.” Goldman vigorously disapproves of the mystical approach of the students of R. Kook, who tried to present reality or national values as essentially sacred. He gives precedence to the normative perception of holiness, in which there is a clear distinction between the sacred and the secular. See ibid., 225–237.

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two a just social order, genuine concern for those who genuinely lag behind— these are the characteristics of a state that can pretend to be trying to give some kind of expression to the fundamentals of holiness with which the public life of the Jewish people ought to be infused. Even this is an extraordinarily difficult task. It demands a change in entrenched habits, and even more seriously, an alteration in the patterns of personal motivation that have spread in the last thirty years. This in itself will not create a Torah state. For this kind of state, the most that would be possible would be to find halakhic legitimacy. But some principles of Halakhah could be realized there—in particular, principles that have some aspect of acting honestly and well in the eyes of God, in the broader meaning that Nahmanides and others gave to this idea. From this perspective, the principles of the thinkers of the “Torah and Labor” school are no less actualized than they were in their own time.25

In another article, published in Gilayon in 1997, he writes: “The secular worldview is entirely natural in our contemporary reality. It is not the fruit of some distorted perspective.”26 To me, what is presented to the contemporary Orthodox person here is a liberal stance. However, it does not present a lofty pluralistic stance, one that definitely recognizes the potential value and the full legitimacy of the secular doctrine with which it is contending, but rather a somewhat paternalistic stance.27 Even though it is inferior to our religious principles, Goldman tells us in his beautiful words, we cannot overcome it now. So we must live with it, compromise with it, and do all that is in our power to bring it closer to religious observance and sanctify it with the ethical ideas of Torah and Halakhah until the generation is ready for us to get it to identify with our principles. The ethical principles that Goldman presents as religious ethics are also the ethical values of those who take various secular and even atheistic approaches. But those who take a secular approach have a similar problem in educating the next 25 Ibid., 440–441. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 135–136. 26 E. Goldman, “Hatsiyonut Hadatit Umeḥuyevutah Liklal Yisrael: Beḥinah Meḥudeshet,” Gilayon, 5757, 45. 27 Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 183–185, thinks differently. To her, on the topic of the religious-secular divide Goldman gives legitimacy, acceptance, and full recognition to the voice of the other. With regard to the impermanence of secularism in religious Zionist thought see D. Schwartz, “Beyn Zeman Lenetzaḥ: Iyunim Bitefishat Ha’araiyut shel Haḥilun Baraayon Hatziyoni-Hadati,” in Yahadut Penim Vaḥutz: Dialog beyn Olamot, ed. A. Sagi et al. ( Jerusalem, 1999), 169–181, and in this book’s chapter on Lichtenstein.

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generation to hold these values, for the same reasons enumerated by Goldman. The thought that one day secularism will vanish, or that its approach will completely turn around and identify with “ours,” is not a lofty, pluralistic position, but a fantasy. The ambition to achieve identicality between religion and reason obligates Goldman (like Maimonides during the Middle Ages, in accordance with the philosophy and cosmology of that era28) to explain religious-theological ideas like creation, revelation, redemption, providence, miracles, chosenness and particularity, the world to come, and resurrection of the dead rationally and rationalistically, and in that way to refine them.29 On this he writes, in the introduction to his 1996 book: The obsolescence of philosophical frameworks and worldviews makes theological formulations that were created under their influence irrelevant. When it comes to widespread popular perceptions, the phenomenon is sometimes aggravated, since they belong to “the world of our everyday lives” in opposition to the perception of that everyday world in the actual lives of those “believers.” The worldview in which they base their religious faith contradicts the worldview according to which they lead their everyday lives. We must constantly check the tools we use for theological conceptualization if we want to maintain the vitality of our religious content. Disconnecting from accepted formulations is precisely what may make possible the discovery of rich layers of religious meaning. [. . .] This subject was central in medieval Jewish thought and especially so in the work of Maimonides. As Maimonides himself declares, large parts of the Guide of the Perplexed are nothing but the implementation of his ideas about how prophetic language functions. An examination of such linguistic usages in all their varied layers had an important place in the philosophy of our own century. We were not intelligent enough to use this tool to resolve our theological confusion. Instead, people are prepared to suggest and to accept 28 On the approach of Saadia and Maimonides with regard to reason as the criterion by which to exegete prophecy and Halakhah, and to bring guidance through life by means of logical reasoning (‫ הרבס‬/ sevarah) which has the validity of a Torah ruling—see Goldman, Yahadut, 242–245. According to Goldman, their thought about reason must serve as a source of study from which to draw the correct approach to the problematic solution of religious Jewish society in a secular state. 29 On revelation, see, for example, Goldman, Yahadut, 48–49, in the article “Hitgalut—Bediun Filosofi.” On providence, see Goldman, Meḥkarim, 346–357, in the article “Al Hahashgaḥah.” See also Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 106.

Prof. Eliezer Goldman    Chapter Two futile responses to contradictions between what they believe based on their religious faith and the perspectives that are required by our knowledge of nature. No less important are the internal contradictions in those religious beliefs.30

That is to say, the rational principles of modern philosophy must serve as a standard to establish the correct principles of religion, and in this way to bring the two realms, which currently are separated by contradictions and confusion, closer enough to each other in order to make them somewhat identical. We thus cancel out obsolete religious formulations that can no longer fit the picture of the modern world. As I have shown above, Goldman is aware that he is distancing himself from the basic religious beliefs that are prevalent among the people. He is also awake to the fact that it will be difficult to educate people along the lines of the interpretive ideas that he suggests. But this does not daunt him. When I finished writing this chapter, I felt a sense of discomfort. I kept looking through Goldman’s writing and I tried harder to comprehend his thought, since his style can be complicated and sometimes obscure. I was not completely convinced that his position relied on Maimonides’s approach to the tensions between reason and revelation, since he mostly associates that with a philosophical world gone by, one that no longer touches directly on current topics. Indeed, it is possible to understand Goldman also in the spirit of what Sagi and Zivan found in him—as one who, like Leibowitz, takes the compartmental approach. This realization aroused my thoughts: perhaps there is something different in his approach. I went back to his article on the commandments and read again what he wrote about all that has happened to humanity in modern times, when “human reason was put in a position of being disconnected from divine wisdom.” He writes: Humanity and the world, as they face each other, are empty of all religious meaning. I am not certain that we are sufficiently aware of the full depth of the situation, in which there is no possibility to recognize the Creator of the world by means of that world: from our experience of the world and from observation of it, it is impossible to attain the idea of the Creator in an intellectual way; there is no way to integrate such an idea into the categories in which we understand nature. Ultimately, a religious person’s stance is dependent on the action of a faith choice. That same believer, of course, 30 Goldman, Meḥkarim, 10–11.

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Between Religion and Reason sees the world in a different light—but from within the world as a given he cannot attain faith.31

In other words, the modern believer cannot connect the conditional human reality with the unconditional divine reality, the actual world with the transcendent one. Kant asserted that human understanding and reason have no contact with the divine. If this is so, then the consciousness of a believing person comprises two worlds that are parallel and not contradictory. This is the transcendental approach of Isaac Breuer, who follows Kant. R. Shagar, too, takes this approach. It could be that this is also the position of Goldman. Breuer and Shagar need kabbalah and mysticism to bridge the two worlds, but Goldman, who is revolted by mysticism, chooses observance of the commandments as the bridge that connects the two.

31 Ibid., 311.

CHAPTER THREE

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm

N

orman Lamm was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1927. He studied at Yeshiva Torah Vodaath in Williamsburg. In 1945 he began his academic studies. He earned a bachelor’s degree in chemistry, with distinction, from Yeshiva University in 1949. Lamm wanted to devote himself to science, but the second president of Yeshiva University, R. Dr. Samuel Belkin, persuaded him to continue and complete his studies in the humanities as well as his rabbinic studies there. In 1951 his teacher, R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, gave him rabbinic ordination through the R. Isaac Elhanan Theological Seminary. He was appointed rabbi of the Manhattan Modern Orthodox congregation Beth Israel in 1952. In 1958, after serving as rabbi of Congregation Kodimoh in Springfield, MA, he was appointed associate rabbi of the Jewish Center in Manhattan and a year later was given the job of rabbi. He served in this role until 1976. In 1960 he had joined the academic staff of Yeshiva University, which granted him the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (PhD) in 1966. He was chosen in 1976 as president of the university and continued in that role, with great success, until 2003, after which he served for another ten years as its chancellor. He published many books and articles, the most prominent of them being Torah Lishmah: Torah for Torah’s sake in the Works of Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin and His Contemporaries (1989), and Torah Umadda: The Encounter of Religious Learning and Worldly Knowledge in the Jewish Tradition (1990; 2nd ed. 1994; 3rd ed. 2010). A Hebrew translation of this latter by Shelomoh Shmidt and the author was published in 1996. Lamm passed away in 2020. Lamm worked on the relationship between revelation and reason and focused primarily on the specific subject of sacred versus secular learning, or in short, religion and science. Lamm well understood the broader implications of the subject for the world of the modern believer. In the introduction to his

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book Torah Umadda he recounts how this topic filled his thoughts and disturbed his rest from a young age: In the Fall of 1945 I came to Yeshiva University in New York as an 18-yearold freshman. [. . .] But as crucial to that decision as all else was my fascination—from afar—with the ideal upon which the institution was based and which it exemplified, the “synthesis” of Torah learning and Western culture that goes by the name of Torah Umadda, or the study of sacred Jewish texts along with the secular wisdom of the world at large. I have experienced a lifelong romance with this ideal, a romance that was not at all uncritical. It has inspired and frustrated me, challenged and puzzled me, and made me feel that, in turn, it is incapable of theoretical justification for a believing Jew—yet so self-evident as not to require any justification. As a student I felt that with all that Yeshiva was providing me in the way of both sacred and profane learning, it had failed to spell out the nature of their relationship, the problematica, the consequences. [. . .] The big void in my education was the lack of a cohesive halakhic and philosophical theory of Torah Umadda. [. . .] I now had the forced opportunity to crystallize my thinking on this subject and to try my hand at this form of apologetics—in the very best sense of the word—even though I had not yet resolved all the problems involved in what is not only a specific curricular question but, far more, a major cultural issue that has vast spiritual, halakhic, psychological, and anthropological implications.1

Lamm devotes the first chapter of the book to defining the problem of the tension between faith and science that faces the modern believer. He apparently accepts the “dual truth” approach, or in other words, the unresolved dialectical approach, which (in my opinion) his teacher, R. Soloveitchik also took. I also recognize echoes of Leo Strauss, when he speaks of Athens and Jerusalem: Religiously committed individuals who participate in our contemporary society and culture are beset by a conflict of values and perceptions that is of the greatest personal consequence. The encounter of the two worlds within religious individuals and communities often leaves deep scars on the psyche of the individuals and the ethos of the community. But it also   1 N. Lamm, Torah Umadda: The Encounter of Religious Learning and Worldly Knowledge in the Jewish Tradition (Northvale, NJ, 1990), x–xiii.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three holds the promise of fascinating creativity, of new syntheses, of renewed efforts to grasp elusive insights. The tension between the sacred and the secular is a perennial one. As long as men and women keep open minds (admittedly not a universal condition) and recognize that both these realms embody truths that may be ignored only at the peril of injuring one’s intellectual integrity, this subject will be of deep concern—to some as an anxious existential question, to others as a challenging theoretical problem. It is not a contest from which one side will emerge victorious and the other turn heel and flee in ignominious defeat. This most vexing, complicated, and axiologically significant issue cannot be reduced to such a simple, partisan, adversarial confrontation on the level of a children’s game. The history of the last two or three thousand years should reinforce our conviction that we are dealing with an issue so perplexing, so central to human destiny and to our understanding of our place in the world, that we must shun simplistic solutions. The two worlds—of faith and inquiry, of religion and science, of trust and reason—are destined (not doomed!) to live together, now close and now far, now attracting and now repelling, like twin stars revolving about each other in some distant corner of the galaxy. [. . .] The words “Athens” and “Jerusalem” eventually became paradigms for the development of culture in the Western world. [. . .] Indeed, one of the defining characteristics of Western civilization is this dialectical tension between biblical religion and autonomous reason.2

But as is appropriate for a yeshiva student who becomes a Modern Orthodox rabbi, Lamm rejects outright the possibility of this sort of dialectic interpretation for his position: However, great caution must be exercised not to overstate the value of such dichotomy and not to oversimplify the collision between Judaism and Hellenism by elucidating from it two universal principles. The tendency to do this is a weakness of intellectuals, a delightful methodological toy of academicians. Toys can be played with, and often have educational value, but should never be substituted for reality.3   2 Ibid., 2–4. On the dialectic thought of Soloveitchik and Strauss, see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, part 1, chs. 3 and 6.  3 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 4.

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I would seek to direct the reader’s attention to the fact that the average Modern Orthodox (as opposed to ultra-nationalist-religious) Jew is capable of espousing tolerance and educating his children and his students toward openness to secular and academic studies, and to such things as the position of women and foreigners, human rights, freedom, equality, democracy, tolerance, and universalism. But in general he will not be ready to accept a genuine, unresolved contradiction between reason and revelation, between Torah, on one hand, and science and philosophy, on the other. A superior pluralism is not acceptable to him.4 Lamm is not unusual in this respect. He is ready to use expressions like “difficulty,” “struggle,” “conflict,” “dilemma,” “problematic,” “tension,” and “dichotomy,” but not “contradiction.” He will not put science and philosophy on an equal level with religion and Torah when some tension between a scientific deduction and a statement of revelation reveals itself. When there is a genuine contradiction in this context, he finds it extremely difficult to talk about. I will point to examples of this in my further discussion of his views. Lamm begins with a historical overview of various approaches to the idea of “Torah and Wisdom,” in order to choose the approach that is most suitable for the relationship between them. First, he compares the Hellenizing Jews of Alexandria to the Jews of medieval Babylonia and Spain and points to the failure of the Hellenizers: That lesson must not be lost on us as we attempt to fashion an approach for Torah Umadda for our times, one that will resonate with the fundamental structures of Judaism and issue out of Torah itself. The primacy of Torah must be a given in any viable Torah Umadda approach. This precludes any version of Torah Umadda that treats Torah as a form of human culture only, as a literary-religious adjunct of the ethnic or national polity of Israel that remains supreme and absolute.5

Lamm asserts here that the statements of revelation that are embodied in the Torah are primary and must be the exclusive standard of truth, when we compare them to statements from scientific fields and by doing so create difficulties and conflicts that cause anxiety. In my view, this is not objective   4 On “superior pluralism,” see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 427–428, 539–540; idem., Between Religion and Reason, 1:205.  5 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 22.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

research but apologetics. His approach is close to the “restrictive identicality” approach of Judah Halevi, also adopted by R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes and (partially) by R.  Samson Raphael Hirsch. It is characteristic of classic fundamentalist Orthodoxy. In what follows, I shall show that even though Lamm criticizes Hirsch on this subject, his criticism stems from a misunderstanding. In fact, his own view is closer to Hirsch’s than he thought. I shall also show that Lamm’s own statements are contradictory. He moves from approach to approach capriciously, mostly without even noticing. He aims harsh criticism at Hirsch that is quite incorrect. According to Lamm, since Hirsch did not pay sufficient attention to the subject, there was much controversy about what his precise position was. In line with this axiomatic statement of his, Lamm examines the positions of the three Jewish thinkers who are, to his mind, the chief representatives of the stream that requires a combination of Torah and wisdom: the approach of Maimonides, which he subsumes under what he calls the “rationalistic” model; the approach of Hirsch, the “cultural” model; and that of R. Kook, the “mystical” model.

MAIMONIDES According to Lamm, Maimonides’s attitude toward secular studies, which stems from his rationalistic, philosophic worldview, is the most positive and all-encompassing in the history of Jewish thought. Maimonides believed that occupying oneself with secular studies was actually a religious commandment.6 The natural sciences are the basis for correct observance of the commandments and for occupying oneself with Torah and metaphysics. Moreover, properly learning the sciences (in Maimonides’s language, “wisdom”) in order to comprehend and serve God is, from the perspective of Halakhah, a fulfillment of the commandment to study Torah. We have here, then, a fully developed presentation of Torah Umadda, buttressed both philosophically (in the rationalist idiom) and halakhically. Madda is not alien to Torah but, if studied in the manner and for the purposes described by Maimonides, becomes part of Torah itself.   6 Hirsch, too, thinks that secular studies are a religious obligation, but he does not consider them to be actual Torah study. See S. R. Hirsch, The Collected Writings, trans. I. Grunfeld and J. Miller (New York, 1997), 7:87–88; also Chamiel, The Middle Way, 432–433.

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Between Religion and Reason This point should be emphasized and certainly not overlooked. [. . .] Both Torah and Wisdom are, philosophically, ultimately instruments through which one may attain the highest good of Judaism, that of daat ha-Shem, the knowledge of God. In one sense, they are each autonomous; in another, they are interdependent in that both are necessary for the attainment of this knowledge of God, each with its role to play, as each enlightens the other. But neither can be reduced to the role of a “mere” instrument for the other, otherwise devoid of innate value.7

At the beginning of this passage, science is part of the Torah and is, in fact, identical with it in principle. Indeed, in Rosenberg’s view, this identicality approach constitutes an important component of Maimonides’s approach. But at the end of the passage, what we have are two separate, independent realms, each of which enlightens the other—and this is the compartmental approach. In an endnote, Lamm supports the first explanation in greater detail. There he describes Hirsch’s criticism of Maimonides for using foreign philosophy to resolve the contradiction. Lamm does not like Hirsch’s criticism. According to him, just as Hirsch uses Hegel’s dialectic8 and is enchanted by German idealism, both of which are already outmoded, Maimonides in like manner was aided by Aristotelian philosophers: Maimonides, like Saadia before him, believed in the common origin of reason and revelation, hence of philosophy and Torah. All discrepancies must then be considered as only apparent, and these are to be “reconciled,” but this can hardly be subject to the accusation of stepping out of the realm of Judaism to introduce, subversively as it were, alien ideas. Once the original identity of Torah and Wisdom is granted, such a charge is irrelevant.9

 7 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 81–84. Apparently, Lamm was not aware that Hirsch also saw secular learning as a religious obligation. See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 432–433.   8 Hirsch was, in fact, aided by Kantian ideas like the Ding an Sich. According to Hirsch’s system, the Torah is the Ding an Sich, the loftiest thing. Kant’s notion of the disconnection of the rational human intellect from the transcendent God made it possible for Hirsch to propound a return to the good, ancient experience of revelation. See also Hirsch, Writings, 7:88. But I have not found any mention in Hirsch of a dialectic between two contradictory poles, as there is in Hegel; rather, there is an integrative process of clarification. After all, the two realms are in principle identical and flow from the same divine source. Ironically, Lamm himself uses the Hegelian dialectic process—see below 44-45 and n. 38.  9 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 105 n. 13.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

Given that Lamm affirms that, according to Maimonides, there is a shared origin (God’s gift) for reason and revelation, thus assuring their identicality, the two realms are essentially identical to each other. This once again expresses the identicality approach. In Lamm’s view, Maimonides thought his method offered a solution to contradictions. But Lamm sidesteps a detailed discussion of the contradictions and the question of how they are to be solved. Most scholars of Maimonides believe he did indeed think that the statements of revelation and of reason are in principle identical, since revelation in fact takes place via human reason (an assertion to which Lamm is most certainly opposed). Therefore, when contradictions do actually appear, the criterion for establishing the truth should be reason (the opposite of Judah Halevi). When statements of revelation actually contradict conclusions made by reason, we are obligated to interpret them philosophically/rationally/allegorically so that identicality can be preserved. This is the interpretative identicality approach.10 Lamm has no desire to be cornered in such a way. He does not even understand, or is unwilling to admit, that this is precisely Hirsch’s criticism of Maimonides. Hirsch generally prefers the approach of Judah Halevi, according to which revelation serves as the criterion for truth in cases of contradiction, since it is God’s direct word to humanity. He is not ready to accept the philosophical-allegorical interpretation of the revelation that is embodied in the Torah, and he therefore criticizes the method Maimonides advocated for settling such contradictions. In what follows, I will provide additional examples in which Lamm reveals a lack of consistency in describing and even in understanding the approaches of others. Lamm himself criticizes Maimonides with the well-known argument that the science on which he based his reconciliation of the contradictions— Aristotelian physics—is outmoded, and its solutions are no longer persuasive or relevant. However, he correctly adds, at least we can learn from him general guidelines for our relationship to science: “[A] believing, thinking Jew needs a large and embracing vision, a more capacious theoretical framework into which he can integrate his most precious Jewish ideals, a vision that will be uplifting to his soul and luminous to his mind, and that will endow with renewed vigor his most fundamental commitments.”11 Lamm, then, strives for such a solution rather than a preference for reason over revelation, or for a solution that God forbid includes a contradiction. 10 On the approaches of Judah Halevi and Maimonides, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, 354– 357, with n. 16 there. 11 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 85.

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RABBI SAMSON RAPHAEL HIRSCH For Lamm, Hirsch’s cultural-educational-communal activity—a practical integration of Torah and secular culture—was the most important and successful of his activities. He produced his great educational plan, which was introduced in his community, Frankfurt, under the slogan Torah im Derekh Eretz. Lamm uses various expressions, which sometimes contradict each other, when he describes Hirsch’s integrative model. Expressions like “harmony,” “Jewish humanism,”12 “he gave Torah primacy over secular education,” “we get the impression that Hirsch believed in the original identity of Torah and the secular disciplines,” “[t]hey can cooperate,”13 are used by him randomly. Combining all these descriptions could lead only to Halevi’s approach—the restrictive identicality approach—according to which the two realms are in essence identical, and therefore there can be no contradictions between them. If a difficulty or contradiction actually appears, the Torah serves as the standard of truth and the science is considered mistaken and hypothetical, not successfully proven. Elsewhere I have cited quotations from Hirsch that discuss situations in which there are, or could possibly be, scientific proofs that contradict explicit statements in the Torah. But Lamm prefers to ignore such challenges—for example, the arguments for the immense age of the universe and for Darwin’s theory of evolution. In these cases, Hirsch diverges from the position he has asserted, and he moves without hesitation to the opposite approach—the interpretative identicality approach of Maimonides—and explains the biblical verses about these two subjects according to reason and science. Clearly, Hirsch’s guiding principle is the inerrancy of the sacred biblical text. Yet in cases of contradiction, the superiority of statements of tradition, faith, and religion over those of reason and science becomes a secondary principle. This approach is characteristic of modern fundamentalists, as James Barr has explained.14 Hirsch dismisses biblical criticism emphatically and contemptuously. According to him, the Torah is a divine text, and therefore it cannot 12 I assume that by “humanism,” Lamm means devotion to human welfare, since in modern philosophy, “humanism” means that man and human understanding are at the center of existence. Such a claim is completely opposed to any Orthodox perspective, according to which God is the center of existence. Indeed, Lichtenstein tries to integrate the two and argues for a partial humanism within Judaism; see below. 13 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 112. 14 For a full explication of Hirsch’s stance on the subject of religion and science, as well as secular and religious studies, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, 412–422, 425–442. See also n. 6 in the introduction to this book.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

be studied with modern philological and historical research methods, which are appropriate for human texts alone.15 Just as Lamm avoids presenting any contradictions other than those that exist between religion and experimental science, so too he does not mention at all the problem that biblical studies presents to the modern believer. And here another surprise awaits us. While presenting the approach of R.  Ezriel Hildesheimer, who (like Hirsch) advocated for Torah im Derekh Eretz, Lamm notes that Hirsch wanted to integrate the two realms in his community, whereas Hildesheimer, who directed his students into two separate institutions—the rabbinical seminary that he had established in Berlin and the university there—held the “compartmental approach.” In his seminary, they learned nothing but works of Torah, yet they were studied on a philological-historical, scientific, critical basis. Hirsch was completely opposed to any use of the tools of scientific research in the study of sacred texts; in his philosophy, such tools were unsuitable for examining and understanding divine texts. Lamm writes this about the approaches of the two rabbis: Students of the Torah im Derekh Eretz movement are in disagreement as to whether Hirsch or Hildesheimer strived for an organic synthesis of Torah and derekh eretz, and which one wanted them to coexist separately—even though both were necessary—without combining them. (It is the opinion of the writer, as mentioned earlier, that Hirsch posited a coexistence, not a synthesis.) Similarly, there is some confusion as to whether Hildesheimer considered secular wisdom as significant only for its value in enhancing Torah, or whether he believed it had, from a religious point of view, its own intrinsic value. [. . .] Indeed, the uncertainty with regard to both Hirsch and Hildesheimer on this point indicates that, in all probability, neither of them focused on the problem or gave it much thought.16

Lamm unexpectedly transfers Hirsch from the dialectical approach, or the identicality approach, to the compartmental approach, and forgets that just three pages earlier he categorized him as following the restrictive identicality approach. In my view, he is wrong in both cases. Hirsch’s approach 15 See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 82–94. 16 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 116. Lamm does not cite where he wrote the words in parentheses. Previously he has spoken chiefly about Hirsch’s use of Hegel’s dialectic, about integration and identicality, and not mentioned coexistence at all.

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is the neo-fundamentalist identicality approach. Even his conclusion seems hasty to me. It could be that, due to the great exertions of these two rabbis (the Berlin school and the Frankfurt school), it is necessary to go much deeper into all their writings and thereby “get into their heads” in order to fully comprehend them. I think that both Hirsch’s approach (as I have presented it above) and Hildesheimer’s approach are clear and consistent— the Torah and its commandments are from God; there is no contradiction between religion and science, between revelation and reason, because of their shared divine source, and therefore it is obvious on the face of it that secular studies have independent value. The differences between them are chiefly expressed in the area of socio-politics, not in ideology, except for one subject: the relationship between religion and science. Hirsch thinks that these realms are identical, and Hildesheimer thinks they are separate. Hirsch therefore forbids any use of modern research methods to understand sacred texts, while his opposite number sees this as obligatory. Hildesheimer thinks the matter is so important that biblical scholars must be fought with their own tools, while Hirsch thinks that it is unacceptable, even dangerous, to do so. It is inappropriate for a divine text.17 At the end of his discussion of Hirsch’s thought, Lamm expresses an interesting criticism of his philosophy of Torah im Derekh Eretz: For all his devoutness, there is a lack of a sweeping religious feeling, of an underlying spirituality—not in Hirsch himself, as he comes through in his writings, but in the rather rarefied and desiccated theory that he spins out for us. One waits expectantly for a sense of mystery, of transcendence, of spiritual vision and grandeur—and the expectations remain unfulfilled. In a comparison of Hirsch and Kook, clearly Kook succeeds precisely where Hirsch fails; and it is more than a matter of style. Kook’s thought is permeated with neshamah, with soul, with religious imagination; Hirsch, despite his efforts, does not succeed in attaining such heights. Perhaps this is why a number of loyalists of Torah im Derekh Eretz found their way to Kabbalah, which was much neglected—if not disdained—by Hirsch himself. Hirsch was critical of East European Jews because of what he considered a tradition of irrationality in the “old” Orthodoxy, especially as it came to expression in eighteenthand nineteenth-century Hasidism. He opposed mysticism, or at least 17 For additional details on the two schools, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 373–374.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three consciously and deliberately ignored it; in his Torah im Derekh Eretz there is no place for mysticism and no need for it.18

Apparently Lamm identifies with this criticism, thus associating himself with the New Age circles who explain the success of R Kook in leaving behind disciples to carry on his work and the contrasting failure of R. Hirsch to leave behind anyone to “keep the flame” of his legacy. The search for spirituality and religious experience is undoubtedly one of the hallmarks of our generation, and it frequently comes at the expense of reason. I explain the failure of Hirsch, based on Prof. Breuer, by his wish to teach religious physics and religious mathematics. That simply did not work and cannot work. Nor was his anti-Zionism helpful in this respect, as Lamm also notes. All the same, it is definitely possible to say that the state-religious educational institutions and the yeshiva high schools in which Torah and secular studies are taught, not to mention Bar-Ilan University and Yeshiva University, are closer to the spirit of Hirsch than to that of R. Kook. There is no mystery or mysticism in them (except among HarediZionist circles), and they are all thriving. In the continuation of his book, Lamm himself admits this without hesitation. As I shall show in what follows, this criticism of Lamm’s serves him as the impetus to prefer the philosophies of R. Kook and of Hasidism as a basis for integrating Torah and secular knowledge. What we are experiencing today in religious education, both in Israel and in the United States, is closer to Hirsch’s philosophy than to kabbalah. What remains of R. Kook’s teaching is not Hasidism and Kabbalah but Zionism and a nationalism that has turned into jingoism. But the latter were irrelevant in Hirsch’s day.

RAV KOOK Here Lamm gets to a detailed analysis of Rav Kook’s approach to the problem of the tension between Torah and science, between religious studies and secular studies, and between sanctity and secularity in general. Based on some quotes from the writings of Rav Kook, he explains: According to Rav Kook, there is a movement from the outside inward, to the center, that strengthens the sacred and generates a movement in the opposite direction—from the center outward—that sanctifies the secular, to the extent that everything becomes unified and turns sacred. Lamm compares Rabbis Hirsch and Kook 18 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 122–123.

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and criticizes Hirsch for whitewashing the problem and trying to hide it. Hirsch speaks of a tranquil, artificial coexistence, while Rav Kook speaks of a stormy, challenging dynamism, more difficult to realize: [Hirsch] appears to us to be delighted that he can avoid these intellectually bloody conflicts between religion and science, that he can steer clear of the ragged edges of discord between Torah and Western Wisdom. “Handin-hand” they will walk and appear “pleasant” in the eyes of all. There is something placid as well as idyllic and utopian in this vision. It is too easy, too gentlemanly, too cultured—or, if one may say this, too bourgeois. The slogan Torah im Derekh Eretz would not be appropriate to Rav Kook’s grand vision of the sacred and the profane. Torah “with” derekh eretz implies that they keep a respectable distance from each other, like neighbors who remain courteous as long as they do not become too intimate. Torah “and” derekh eretz would be more fitting for Kook. There is a decided difference between these two conjunctions. Torah “and” derekh eretz suggests a meeting of two powerful personalities, the two of them coming to grips with each other, with the very serious question of whether this engagement will be an embrace or a wrestler’s headlock. [Kook, unlike Hirsch, views Madda as included within Torah rather than seeing them as two separate entities with one (Torah) superior to the other (Madda).] Hirsch’s view of Torah and Wisdom is one of coexistence and is therefore essentially static. Kook’s is one of interaction, and hence dynamic. Hirsch is an esthete who wants Torah and derekh eretz to live in a neighborly and noncombatant fashion for the cultural enhancement of both. Kook is an alchemist who wants the sacred to transmute the profane and recast it in its own image. From the point of view of Kook, it is not enough to raise a generation of Orthodox Jews who will also be cultured Western people, admirable as this ambition may be. It is not enough to conceive of the two cultures as parallel lines that can meet only in infinity. It is urgent that there be a confrontation and an encounter between them. For Kook, there must be a qualitative accommodation of both studies, for the secular studies are not inherently unholy, and the limudei kodesh must have something not-already-sacred to act upon. The limudei hol (secular studies) are part of the drama of kiddush (sanctification). Hence, for Kook, Torah Umadda represents a genuine synthesis, with all the benefits and problems—and dangers—associated with that. For Hirsch, for whom the direction of the interaction is from the profane to

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three the sacred—that is, for whom the secular disciplines are employed to order, define, and assist the sacred and place it on a firm scientific basis— Torah im Derekh Eretz is a relationship of coexistence. For Rav Kook, who demands interaction as the central theme of the relationship, the motion goes in both directions. [. . .] The dynamic synthesis of Kook is fraught with danger and risk. Fear and trembling are inescapable. [. . .] But if neither world is to be relinquished, and if they are to be allowed to act upon each other, then one must accept fear and the sense of crisis and all the neurotic tensions that come with them. [. . .] Only if there is such fear can there be hope to experience the second part of the Prophet’s verse: “and thy heart shall be enlarge”—true joy and exaltation.19

Lamm’s criticism of Hirsch is correct. But his explanation of Hirsch’s approach is incorrect, and his explanation of Rav Kook’s approach is imprecise. Lamm shows, again, that Hirsch propounded a compartmental approach of coexistence (the position of Mendelssohn and Hildesheimer; even though Lamm previously criticized Hirsch for his dialectic Hegelian perspective, which he now attributes to Rav Kook), which indeed blurs the problems and contradictions. But I have already written above that in my view Hirsch’s approach is the neo-fundamentalist identicality approach, which similarly blurs the problems and contradictions between religion and science. As for Rav Kook, I suppose that if Lamm is thinking of some sort of Hegelian dialectic process,20 in which there is a tension between the thesis and the antithesis (Torah and science), at the end of it we would get a synthesis which is a completely new product, a delightful resolution to a condition of trembling, tension, and contradictions. These, as it were, are resolved and merged on a higher level in which everything becomes holy, by “expanding the palace of Torah above it.” Indeed, many people think that Rav Kook has a solution to the

19 Ibid., 131–135. Emphasis in the original. The full prophetic quotation cited by R. Kook is from Isa. 60:5, “And thy heart shall tremble and be enlarged.” The sentence in brackets is translated from the Hebrew edition, 96. 20 Lamm does not mean the kind of chemical reaction in which two different materials create a new material—even though he uses a term taken from alchemy, the conversion of base metals to noble ones like silver and gold.

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dialectic tension, in the totality of holiness. In my earlier books21 I attempted to show that in fact Rav Kook thought at first that the dialectic tension had been resolved (following Hegel). But eventually he accepted, with a broken heart, the view that the dialectic tension had not been resolved and could not be resolved (following Schelling). So, despite all his efforts, theoretical and practical, he remained torn between religion and science, and trapped in an unresolvable dialectical tension—namely, the dual truth whose opposites can really unite only in the world of God. If you thought until now that Lamm thinks Rav Kook’s system was victorious over that of Hirsch, you have a surprise awaiting you. At the end of the chapter, everything turns on its head: This comparison between Rav Kook and Rav Hirsch cannot be concluded without observing the greater success of Hirsch in his impact on later generations. Despite the tergiversation of so many Hirschians today in their reversion to the American forms of the East European models criticized by Hirsch, and the lamentations of the remaining Hirsch loyalists, Torah im Derekh Eretz remains a living option for numbers of talented and committed Jews and holds a powerful attraction for young people searching for a viable model for integrating Torah and Wisdom. Professionals of GermanJewish descent who observe the mitzvot and regularly study Torah lishmah, for its own sake rather than for “professional” reasons, and communities of observant laymen of all geographic origins who are open to the culture of the contemporary world—these are Hirsch’s very real legacy. On the other hand, Kook’s ruminations on the holy and the profane, profound as they are, have—tragically—had little effect on his followers. His late son, Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook, did not openly encourage the study of Madda. The yeshiva that the elder Rav Kook founded does not to this day abide any affirmative attitude toward university studies; its only distinctive trait is its extreme nationalistic character. Rav Kook’s thought thus still awaits its redemption. Perhaps jointly with some of its closest ideological relatives, Kookian theories of the relation between the sacred and the profane can be implemented in the institutions that are today dedicated to Torah Umadda.22 21 For my interpretation of the development in Rav Kook’s approaches with regard to the relationship between Torah and science see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 494–498; idem., Between Religion and Reason, 1:7–15. 22 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 135–136.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

If so, evidently Lamm himself is aware of the argument that I too advanced against him above. He asserts that Rav Kook’s philosophy is difficult to put into practice, and thinks that Hirsch’s pedagogical and ideological philosophy, arid and lacking in religious, spiritual experiences though it may be, has won success both in Israel and in the Diaspora. In my view, Hirsch’s philosophy has also failed. It could be that educational philosophies that integrate Torah and secular learning exist today by virtue of Hirsch’s method, but they are implemented according to the philosophies of Mendelssohn and Wessely. They do not teach “religious” mathematics and physics, as Hirsch wanted them to do, but regular physics and mathematics alongside religious studies. Hirsch failed to implement his philosophy even in the school that he himself founded.23 The state-religious schools in Israel and the Modern Orthodox Jews in Western countries adopted the approach of blurring and concealing the contradictions until they reappear with full force when students begin their university studies. Now Lamm turns to seek advanced methods of integrating the two realms that will make it possible to overcome the problems that he has presented. It could be that he will solve the problem of arid learning. But, in my view, he will not solve the difficult problem of implementing such methods, nor the problem of blurring the contradictions on the basis of the claim that it is possible to reach a synthesis between religion and science.

NEW VERSIONS In order that we not, God forbid, err in thinking that Lamm wants from now on to adopt the dangerous dialectic of Rav Kook, or that he will accept the bourgeois coexistence of Hirsch, he calms us down at the beginning of the following discussion. In principle, there is no reason whatsoever to worry about a true contradiction or separation between religion and science, since there is a primordial identicality between them that makes it possible to bring them back into harmony: The most important element that the various versions of Torah Umadda share is the tenet that the two, Torah and Madda, are fundamentally compatible; perhaps, in an ultimate sense, they can be said to have once constituted a unity. Hence, in seeking to bring the two together, we are not endeavoring to combine two disparate entities de novo. We are not in 23 See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 428–431, with n. 129 there.

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Between Religion and Reason metaphoric violation of the biblical prohibition of harnessing a mule to an ox, or sowing the seeds of the vine with those of other fruit, of weaving wool with linen. The enterprise of Torah Umadda is that of reestablishing a primordial harmony.24

If this is so, then Lamm is returning us to the warm embrace of the identicality approach, according to which the statements of science and revelation were identical in origin in days of old, and there is no contradiction or separation between them. This harmony was shattered by the destruction of the Temple, the exile, and the separation of the divine sefirot (emanative attributes). During worse periods of exile, the people of Israel clung solely to the Torah, and in better periods of exile, as in the age of enlightenment, they clung solely to secular wisdom. In this way a profound rift between the two was formed, and now we must return the crown to its ancient glory by a process of reunification. Lamm completely ignores the unresolvable dialectic approach of his teacher, R. Soloveitchik, with regard to the permanently dialectical situation, impossible of synthesis in this world,25 and he adds: Thus, advocates of Torah Umadda do not accept that Torah is fundamentally at odds with the world, that Jewishness and Jewish faith on the one side, and the universal concerns and preoccupations of humanity on the other, are fundamentally inapposite, and that Torah and Madda therefore require substantive “reconciliation.” Rather, whereas it may be true that effectively Torah and culture have become estranged from each other—both as a result of the religiously negative forces unleashed by the Enlightenment, and the political and socio-economic factors that caused Jews to lose touch with the progress of general cultural thinking while they immersed themselves in Talmud and Kabbalah—in essence they are part of one continuum. Hence, the motivating mission of Torah Umadda must be to reunite and restore an original harmony. In other words, the exclusive concentration on one of these two poles to the detriment of the other is a sign of galut (exile), the one-sidedness that results from the need to

24 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 139–140. 25 On the disagreements about how to explain changes in R. Soloveitchik’s approach—his having argued this in a number of places in his writings in direct opposition to other places in his own writings—and my explanation (that is, my interpretation) of the changes, see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:16–55.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three respond to an artificial distinction ( Jew/human) that carries the weight of established doctrine while being inherently invalid. [. . .]

Our starting point is the conviction that when we speak of Torah and Madda, it is not because of practical economic necessity or because we impute any imperfection or inadequacy to Torah unintended by its divine Author, but because we affirm that both Torah and Nature are the results of divine revelation; and even as God is One, so is there no split between His self-revelation in Torah (His word) and His self-disclosure in Nature (His world). Hence the study of Torah is the contemplation of God’s self-revelation as Teacher (as in the blessing melamed Torah le’amo Yisrael, “He who teaches Torah to His people Israel”); and Madda is the study of Him as Creator. God as Creator is the focus of Genesis, the first Book of the Torah, whereas God as Teacher is the focus of Exodus, the second Book. And both “are given from One Shepherd” (Ecclesiastes 12:11).26

According to Lamm, if the revelation that teaches Torah and commandments and the rationality that teaches science and nature both have their source in God, there will be no contradiction between them and there cannot be any separation between them. That is the identicality approach, and Hirsch too uses the same argument.27 On the one hand, this is a good argument for the modern believer. But it is not valid in the eyes of the atheist or the deist, who acknowledge only the achievements of reason and science. Nor is it valid in the eyes of the Haredi and the fundamentalist, who acknowledge only revelation, which directly transfers divine truths. The latter believe that human reason that investigates nature is limited and has no authority whatsoever. On the other hand, all modern religious people believe that God is the giver of all things. But this belief still does not necessitate the identicality approach on the question of the relationship between these two sources of authority. Namely, is there a contradiction between them or not, and if there is, when is the reconciliation between them to be achieved? Even a modern believer who thinks that there is a contradiction, believes that God is the giver of all things. It could be that only in His world is all united, but not in our world or our cognizance, in which there are two truths—that of revelation and that of science. In my view, this is what Rabbis 26 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 142–144. 27 See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 406, 413.

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Kook and Soloveitchik think. Even according to the compartmental approach of Mendelssohn and Hildesheimer, God is the giver of all things, and despite this they profess a separation of Torah and science as two parts of a single truth. Which identicality position does Lamm hold? The classic, fundamentalist one of Judah Halevi (in opposition to that of Maimonides), which is the restrictive identicality approach? On the face of it, the answer is affirmative, since he declares, as he has already stated previously: [A]t the heart of our view of Torah Umadda as its most fundamental axiom: Nature, the world, must not be neglected, and it must be studied and explored as part of man’s relationship with his Maker. But Torah, as more than a creation of God but His very Word, ever remains supreme.28

That is to say, if a (temporary) contradiction appeared between the statements of revelation and science, revelation would be the standard of truth and the science would be mistaken; this would resolve the contradiction. But it seems to me that an educated person like Lamm could not keep consistently to this approach. Were we to ask him if he accepts revelation as determining the age of the earth and as opposing the theory of evolution, he would admit that in cases where the science has been proven beyond doubt, we are forced to interpret the Torah according to the statements of science, as Maimonides did. That is, he holds the same view as Hirsch—the neofundamentalist identicality approach. Lamm does not say this explicitly, since he deliberately avoids discussing any particular contradiction between religion and science. Yet one assumes he would admit it. So we must permit him to enjoy the benefit of the doubt in this regard. Finally, Lamm reaches the goal of his book—to suggest to us three other versions of the idea of Torah and science. Lamm, the modern believer, actually builds these three versions of the idea on the foundations of devout Jewish thought from eastern Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries— Lithuanian Mitnagdism and Hasidism, both of which advocated “Torah only.” For him, the advantage of seeking versions of this kind in those particular places is that eastern European Judaism was the least acculturated to its surroundings and hence developed original Jewish ideas that can contribute to the idea of Torah Umadda. This, despite the fact that they advocated “Torah only.” Lamm’s point of view is that of the modern religious yeshiva student who 28 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 147.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

is persuaded that science is important, and therefore seeks to persuade the rest of the yeshiva students to abandon the “Torah only” approach. He thinks his new third suggestion is close to that of Rav Kook. But so far I have shown that his approaches are closer to those of Hirsch. He begins by explaining the difference between Mitnagdism and Hasidism. Mitnagdism (which essentially means “opposition [to Hasidism],” and whose outstanding representative is R. Haim of Volozhin) believes that the transcendent God brought creation into being ex nihilo, and that only His word in the Torah has reached us. From the Torah we understand God’s will and keep His commandments, and only the Torah makes possible a connection between us and God. God and the Torah are holy, but creation is not holy. Hasidism (whose outstanding representative is R. Shneur Zalman of Lyady) believes, according to the theosophic tradition, that God is immanent in the world that was created by means of sequential emanations from Him. The material world too is holy, since God is found everywhere. The drama of the encounter between man and God takes place in this world, and in that way the gap between sacred and secular diminishes and the dichotomy is annulled.29 Lamm bases the first model of Torah Umadda on the Mitnagdic idea and calls it the instrumentalist model. According to this model, in which there is a duality between Torah and science/nature, science is understood as hekhsher mitzvah, the necessary background and preparation for the commandments: “This is a halakhic term that denotes an act devoid of innate religious value, but one that derives its significance from its utility in making possible or enhancing a mitzvah. This approach thus envisions Madda as having instrumental value.”30 According to this approach, only Torah study has intrinsic religious value; study of the sciences has secondary, instrumental value, serving as “perfumers, cooks, and bakers” for the woman who actually owns the house—the Torah. “It is, essentially, the view of Samson Raphael Hirsch as well.”31 Here Lamm is completely confused, for this contradicts everything he has said about Hirsch’s approach up until now. In my view, this is a fanatical, ultra-Orthodox model 29 Lamm does not note that kabbalah in general and Hasidism in particular are not pantheistic (Spinoza: the universe = God) but panentheistic (the universe is included within God). But it is clear from his words that he thinks so. For another explanation of the disagreement between Mitnagdism and Hasidism see T. Ross, “Orthodoxy and the Challenge of Biblical Criticism: Some Reflections on the Importance of Asking the Right Question,” in The Believer and the Modern Study of the Bible, ed. T. Ganzel et al. (Boston, 2019), 276–280. 30 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 155. 31 Ibid., 157. See above, page 28. Hirsch never used this expression in his writings. I found it in his Haredi translators. See Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 34–35.

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that has no business entering any list of possibilities for integrating Torah and science that is fitting to suggest to a contemporary believer. The second model of Torah Umadda that Lamm bases on Mitnagdism he calls the inclusionary model. Maimonides asserted that science and philosophy are part of the study of Torah. R. Haim of Volozhin asserted that there are various levels in the study of the Torah. Lamm suggests that learning the sciences should take a low rung on the ladder of values of Torah study. This would be intellectual study, lacking sacred texts but demanding the same feelings of fear and awe as when learning Torah. For Lamm, this is a problematic model, demanding of the learner a subjective awareness throughout the period of learning. Lamm adds that this model is more Maimonidean than Mitnagdic. But for Maimonides, learning philosophy by use of one’s intellect is the apex of study aimed at rational comprehension of God, and this is not so in Lamm’s model. In my view, it is incongruous to rely on a Maimonidean model that gives precedence to reason while at the very same time giving precedence to Torah over reason as the standard by which truth is measured, as Lamm seeks to do. Lamm bases the third model of Torah Umadda on a Hasidic idea and calls it “Madda as worship.” He declares that this model is his own innovation, and this is the model he prefers. One consequence of the kabbalistic-Hasidic idea of divine immanence is that it is possible to serve God through corporeality, namely, through daily, non-spiritual activities and corporeal occupations that are not connected to formal, halakhic activities: Madda, on the basis of avodah be’gashmiut, thus appears, in a new dimension, as an authentic and autonomous form of worship, of avodat ha-Shem. In this light, Madda is important not only because it helps one to understand Torah, although it most assuredly does that; it is not so much a “perfumer, cook, and baker” as a helpful co-wife to Torah. And Madda’s significance is established not only because we can assign it a value of Talmud Torah on a lower level, as in the inclusionary model we suggested, but because it is, in its own right, a sacred activity—provided, and always provided, that it is pursued as an act of avodat ha-Shem, and not merely for career reasons, cultural curiosity, or because it is socially accepted.32

Is this worship of God through corporeality, using one’s intellect for the study of secular knowledge, a partner of equal value to the worship through 32 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 174.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

spirituality of Torah learning? Here, Lamm is faithful to the restrictive identicality approach of Judah Halevi and responds with an absolute negative: Hence, it should be made clear that when we propose the hasidic or Madda-as-worship model of Torah Umadda based on this tenet of avodah be’gashmiut, we rule out any equality between avodah be’gashmiut and a formal mitzvah, and between Torah and Madda. Avodah be’ruhaniut (worship through spirituality), the performance of a halakhic act informed by the proper intention, remains superior and absolute; avodah be’gashmiut or Madda is subordinate to and also contingent on it. That is, to invoke the talmudic principle, “one who is commanded and does” always takes primacy over “one who is not commanded and does.” Indeed, it is worship through spirituality that legitimates worship through corporeality and, consequently, Torah that legitimates Madda. The pursuit of Madda without Torah is devoid of any innate Jewish significance. Hence, in addition to requiring that Madda be pursued “for the sake of Heaven” and in the spirit of awe and reverence recommended by the Talmud for Talmud Torah, the religious legitimacy of Madda would require that one spend a significant portion of his time in the formal study of Torah, the Talmud Torah component of avodah be’ruhaniut. With Torah, Madda has not only instrumental but also intrinsic value, but never without it. With Torah, Madda rises to the unbelievable heights of worship through corporeality (or, more specifically, worship through intellectuality). It is the two of them in conjunction that give our religious experience, our avodat ha-Shem, both breadth and depth.33

In my view, this is what Hirsch would agree to, even though Lamm himself understands Hirsch differently (when he spoke of compartmentalizing, or about science as “perfumer and cook”), at least at this stage of his discussion. Lamm does not wonder what students should do if some contradiction between science and revelation reveals itself in subjects where science has 33 Ibid., 177–178. Lamm is faithful here also to the decisive approach of his teacher, R. Soloveitchik. According to this approach, on a practical level one must conquer the pole of human reason and morality, which are in irresolvable dialectic tension, and act—in the spirit of the Binding of Isaac—according to what the rabbis have established for us, even if it is opposed to morality and reason. For more details, see below in the chapter on Hartman, who disagreed with Soloveitchik and his students Lamm and Lichtenstein over this “Binding of Isaac” approach.

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proved its approach conclusively. It is reasonable to assume that they would be obligated to interpret revelation in such a way as to make it conform to science, despite the claim that revelation is always superior to science, as Hirsch argues. All the same, the terminology “worship through intellectuality” is not clear to me with regard to science. Are Torah and Talmud not studied by means of the intellect? Moreover, the very same reservation that Lamm had with regard to the inclusionary model is relevant here as well, since worship through corporeality demands a constant subjective relationship of fear, during the study of science just as much as during the study of Torah. Occupying oneself with secular learning for the sake of heaven, accompanied by a feeling of awe, is a subjective situation that is required at all times when one is studying as a form of worship. If this feeling subsides, the study loses its value. Lamm maintains that this model resembles that of R. Kook, who also drank in Hasidism with his mother’s milk and sanctified the secular. In his opinion, the model of integrating Torah and Madda that he now proposes is similar to that of R. Kook not only in that they both see the proper study of secular wisdom as a religious deed, but also in that they also look tolerantly on those who advocate “Torah only.” They are close, as well, in that “[b]oth are based upon a monistic view and consider the primordial unity of all knowledge, indeed all existence, as reflective of the Unity of God.”34 It is as if there is no dialectical tension in R. Kook that is not put to rest, and everything is beautifully unified. All the same, Lamm emphasizes that there are differences between the two models. R. Kook’s mystical model is more difficult to achieve and demands a deeper awareness than does the Hasidic model, which is more practical.

CONCLUSION Next Lamm contrasts the Hasidic model with the cultural model of Hirsch. For this purpose, he returns to a discussion of whether the relationship between Torah and wisdom, for Hirsch, is one of synthesis or of coexistence. He presents as the basis for his discussion the explanation of Zev Falk. Falk thinks that Hirsch’s approach is a Hegelian-dialectical process, in which Torah im Derekh Eretz is the new synthesis that is eventually created. He argues that Hirsch did not carry this approach to its logical conclusion and did not suggest a qualitatively new interpretation of the Torah but instead was yoked to traditional interpretation. Therefore, says Lamm, Hirsch left the general culture 34 Ibid., 184.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

as instrumental “perfumes and cooks” for the Torah, as he has already argued previously. In my view, Falk’s interpretation is mistaken. First, a synthesis is not made by using some “instrument” as a tool; it arises as a consequence of values. Second, according to Hirsch, when the two realms are purified, they are in principle identical and not contradictory. Their integration and purification are achieved by a process of amalgamation that is calm and free of tension. Even Falk’s argument that Hirsch did not suggest a new interpretation is out of place here. It is perfectly clear that Hirsch will stick with traditional exegesis wherever possible, since in his view the Torah is the standard for truth under ordinary circumstances. He will agree to a new interpretation only when there is no other alternative. Lamm goes on to cite the explanation of Mordechai Eliav. Eliav thinks Hirsch suggested a kind of chemical synthesis (of various compounds that create a new substance) between the two realms. In his view, Hildesheimer was satisfied with an emulsion, a physical mixing of coexistence between two separate components that do not dissolve together, and he claimed that even Prof. Mordechai Breuer thought the same thing. I think Eliav was wrong about Hirsch and wrong about Breuer. Hirsch thinks that the two components, which are in principle identical (not different), can only be revealed as such by clarification and purification. Breuer, too, thinks it is a matter not of synthesis but of identicality.35 In any case, Lamm’s conclusion (unwarranted, in my view) from all this unclarity and disagreement with regard to the approaches of Hirsch and Hildesheimer is that “they never formulated the problem definitively or, indeed, paid much attention to it.”36 Lamm discusses at length the shortcomings of synthesis and coexistence and even suggests the metaphor of biological symbiosis (in which different creatures live together for mutual benefit). According to his system, synthesis is intended for the elite and is difficult to achieve. Coexistence does not enable reciprocal action between the two realms. He does not even consider the dual truth approach, since it deprives the truth of Torah of its superiority, rendering it equal to scientific truth. He prefers the Hasidic model, which relieves him of the necessity to answer the question decisively. He concludes as follows: The author admits, with appropriate professions of shame and inadequacy, that he has not (yet) come to a firm conclusion on the matter. His excuse is that his vision of Torah Umadda as based on avodah 35 See Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 383–384, with n. 28 there. For more on Hirsch’s approach, see ibid., 21–25. 36 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 189.

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Between Religion and Reason be’gashmiut—what we have called the hasidic model—does not require of us to make that decision. This vision or construct allows us to undercut the synthesis-coexistence question. It gives us a structural framework without committing us exclusively to either version of Torah Umadda.… This particular model of Torah Umadda locates the fulcrum of the entire enterprise in the individual, as a subjective servant of God, and not in the corpus of either Torah or Madda per se.37

Lamm admits honestly, and in a way that inspires great respect, that he has not completely succeeded in explaining the nature of the relationship between Torah and science. He thinks he has succeeded in making the problem irrelevant by transferring it from the ontological realm to the realm of human subjectivity, which is homogeneous and essentially uncomplicated. Lamm believes that the controversy over the question will be settled one day. In my view, the problem will never be solved, and the rift within the human mind will never be mended, for there is an irresolvable contradiction between the two realms, even if it is in the mind alone. This contradiction can be resolved and its elements reunified only in the world of the Holy One. Lamm cannot agree to a situation of unresolved contradiction. He therefore remains confused between the restrictive identicality approach and the neo-fundamentalist approach— with both of which he admits he is not fully in agreement—with the reciprocality between sacred and secular, inner and outer, of R. Kook, and with worship of God through corporeality, which resolve, in his view, some but not all of the difficulties. In his opinion, all these are embodied, in practical terms, in the academic institution that he headed. It would not be correct to say that Lamm ignores the difficulties and the tensions of encouraging the combination of Torah and Madda; on the contrary—for him, this is a fruitful tension that makes creativity possible. In opposition to the whole course of his discussion up to this point, Lamm suddenly deviates from the identicality approach and adopts a resolved dialectical approach, which many scholars think R. Kook followed. Despite the perplexity and helplessness that he exhibits, Lamm in fact achieves enlightenment by means of this approach, and expresses some bold opinions, neither apologetic nor illusory. But it is important that I note once more that the situation of constant contradiction does not exist for Lamm, so none of the solutions that he suggests actually respond to the situations of contradiction that he is 37 Ibid., 190–191.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

ignoring. In fact, this is pseudo-dialectic, not real dialectic. Pay attention to how he moves to a resolved dialectical approach and how he avoids the words “dialectic,” “synthesis,” and “contradiction,” from which his teacher R. Soloveitchik did not flinch, though he found no solution for them: The charge that Torah im Derekh Eretz encourages schizoid reactions, a split in one’s own personality, must be carefully evaluated, for, in a way, it is a criticism that might be directed against all models of Torah Umadda. However, here too the criticism is overstated. Undoubtedly, the attempt to embrace two disparate cultures and value systems, with all their associated emotional dimensions and nuances, contributes to a life of tension. No one who is serious about his intellectual and religious commitments, whether of the Torah im Derekh Eretz or other Torah Umadda schools, is without tensions between the two poles around which his inner life and practical existence revolve. Such anguish is the tribute that faith pays to integrity. But the following must be stated not so much in rebuttal as in modification of this criticism. First, intellectual and spiritual tension is a great source of creativity. Without questions there are no answers, and without problems there are no solutions. Transition, change, conflict, tension—these are the working conditions for the production of great art, literature, and philosophy. [. . .] Religious tensions caused by the confrontation of Torah and Wisdom can be and must be transmuted into a new and higher level of creativity. Both Hirsch and Kook spoke movingly of such tensions as the necessary concomitants of the creative and mutually fructifying encounter between Torah and Wisdom.38

He adds that the situation of tension does not inevitably point to a divided soul, but to the suffering (a suffering that Soloveitchik speaks of) that is the lot 38 Ibid., 194–195. I have not found in Hirsch any expressions of dialectic tension between Torah and wisdom such as would cause spiritual suffering. All the same, it is important to note that, according to Hirsch, the identicality of reason and revelation is revealed when they are purified, as when secular and religious studies are taught together. That is how one creates an integrative, educational unity whose product is greater than the sum of its parts. See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 434–435. With regard to R. Kook, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, ch. 12; idem., Between Religion and Reason, part 1, ch. 2. The claim that dialectic tension is fruitful and is the main source of human creativity was already raised by Soloveitchik and Leo Strauss. See Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:33–34, 90.

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of anyone who struggles to encompass both extremes. He cites as a concurring opinion the words of R. Yitzhak Hutner, who wrote to a student of his who had left to study for a secular career that the multiplication of viewpoints would only broaden his world; it would not impact his sense of oneness: A multitude of diverse points, one above the other, certainly implies [an undesirable] multiplicity, but when the points are arranged around one central point, you have a circle. That, my dear friend, is your obligation in the world: to place in the center of your life the “One” . . . and every new point that you acquire will simply serve to broaden the circle, and this will in no wise injure your sense of unity.39

Lamm concludes by asserting that his Hasidic approach of worship through corporeality would also be of assistance in preventing fragmentation and duplication: [S]ince the locus of the religious condition is situated in the person, rather than in the two objects involved in the encounter and since it is the avodat ha-Shem of the person that is critical to the process, a sense of unity and cohesiveness is preserved in one’s psychic and spiritual life even as he grapples intellectually with the collision of the two worlds. To put it another way, without a grounding in the hasidic notion of avodah be’gashmiut, the disjunctiveness between Torah and Wisdom is perceived of as an ontological conflict; with such a grounding, it is reduced to an epistemological problem.40

At the end of his book, Lamm deals with two further points that are important for him to note. The first point is intended to calm us down, so that the tensions in the idea of Torah and science do not bring us to fragmentation but to a harmonious completeness: Torah Umadda became for [the author] not, as so many of its critics aver, a source of spiritual and religious schizophrenia but, quite to the contrary, an opportunity—because of all its creative tensions—for ultimate inner harmony. [. . .] 39 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 196. Ellipsis in original. 40 Ibid.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three [M]athematics did not make the Gaon of Vilna any less a gaon; and general philosophy has not lessened the greatness of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. On the contrary, the Madda development of each contributed not only to his intellectual greatness but also to his shlemut, which would have suffered without the development of those gifts. Wholeness is enhanced by many-sidedness, and fullness by openness.41

The second point is presented in order that we should not, God forbid, think that a situation of tension between two extremes that is completely resolved hints that the two extremes are equal. Lamm insists on warning us: A caveat must be entered here. Openness applied uniformly is openness applied mindlessly. Doing everything, trying everything, tasting everything, with no thought to discriminating between the more and the less valuable, is sure to lead to dilettantism, and this is hardly the shlemut we seek. The primacy of Torah must be recognized as unchallenged; in the language of hasidic thought, avodah she’be’ruhaniut is superior to avodah she’be’gashmiut. This broader conception of shlemut, therefore, is meant to modify and expand rather than to supplant the narrower view.42

In conclusion, it appears that Lamm has not decided whether he advocates the neo-fundamentalist identicality approach or the resolved dialectical approach. In any case, the dialectic here is not a true one (in opposition to what his teacher R. Soloveitchik and his hero R. Kook thought), and the rift is healed. Evidently both realms are identical in the consciousness of the learner who deliberately serves God even when he is pondering corporeal science and philosophy. Everything makes clear that revelation is superior to reason. As Lamm admits at the beginning of his book, this is an apologetic approach. I would add that it is also illusory and not pluralistic. The pluralism that he is ready to accept is only within a halakhic framework.43 With regard to the essence of the relationship between Torah and science, apparently Lamm feels that he is “dancing at two weddings” and he turns this into a legitimate situation as part of the pluralism that he does recognize: “This concept of a pluralistic Torah community, in which both Torah Umadda and ‘Torah only’ 41 Ibid., 211–222. 42 Ibid., 222. 43 Ibid., 229.

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have their rightful roles, extends both to the amicable coexistence of “Torah only” and Torah Umadda, and to the variants of Torah Umadda itself.”44 All the same, it must be admitted that relative to the “Torah only” approach, which Lamm stands against (and not against the culture of the secular West), he portrays himself as a modern and open-minded thinker for whom science is of intrinsic worth which completes the Torah. This approach is taken as self-evident to all associated with the “middle trend” of modern religiosity.45 Lamm’s inconsistency with respect to analysis and definitions, and the pluralism whose scope he has so limited, are evident in what he writes about the identicality approach: The mystical and hasidic models of Torah Umadda must be understood as advocating a more complex and sophisticated approach to the ultimate unity of existence, whether the harmonistic vision of Rav Kook or the subjective coordinate of the unity of God as reflected in the immanentism (if not acosmism) of the hasidic thinkers. Either way, we assert the harmonious blending of the diverse and the resolution of antonymous forces.46

After this, he writes about a true contradiction between the realms, and integrates into his words some expressions from the unresolved dialectical approach. He bases this approach on Niels Bohr’s theory of nuclear physics (the electron as particle and as wave, the quantum), according to which there are two truths: [W]hat atomic physics teaches us is to liberate ourselves from the prejudice that reality must necessarily conform to the contours and biases of our limited minds. There are, it holds, two kinds of truth: superficial truths, the opposite of which are falsehoods, and deep truths, the opposite of which are also true. Each conflicting proposition may be true, reflecting an aspect of an ultimate truth about a reality too large and too complex to be contained in the simple logic to which we have become accustomed.47

44 Ibid., 231. 45 On the “middle trend,” see Chamiel, The Middle Way, 13–23. 46 Lamm, Torah Umadda, 232. 47 Ibid., 233.

Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm    Chapter Three

But he immediately retracts his own bold words and returns to the one great, harmonious truth and to the identicality approach: Complementarity offers rousing support to the comprehensiveness of the whole approach. Torah, faith, religious learning on one side, and Madda, science, worldly knowledge on the other, together offer us a more overarching and truer vision than either set alone. Each set gives one view of the Creator as well as His creation, and the other a different perspective that may not at all agree with the first. Yet, “they are given from One Shepherd,” as Ecclesiastes (12:11) taught. Each alone is true, but only partially true; both together present the possibility of a larger truth, more in keeping with the nature of the Subject of our concern. [It turns out that the truth of each one invigorates and expands the truth of the other.]48

One should not suspect that Lamm has concluded his book by asserting that the two truths are contradictory. What he means is that each of the two realms is a partial truth in a larger truth that is greater than the sum of its two parts. Only an integration of the two realms through a process that fully amalgamates both can reveal the one greater truth. And indeed, like Hirsch who holds the identicality approach, he says: [O]ne should not impute dissonance to Yeshiva University and its affiliated institutions when they simultaneously nourish advanced kollelim—institutions exclusively devoted to higher talmudic learning—and the whole array of Torah Umadda that exposes the undergraduate both to Torah and to the arts and sciences on a level of excellence. The two together form a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.49

In his book, Lamm offers us many Jewish sources that are important for a discussion of the subject of the relationship between religion and science and the variety of approaches on this topic, as well as some fascinating ideas of his own. But the discussion itself is deficient in that it lacks consistency, is self-contradictory, and confuses the reader. To all this I would add that the bottom line is that his apologetic, illusory approach sidesteps any discussion of the details of the actual contradictions, whitewashing them and suggesting completeness and unity in a place where they cannot actually be attained. 48 Ibid., 236. The sentence in brackets is translated from the Hebrew edition, 159. 49 Ibid., 236.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman

D

avid Hartman, philosopher, theologian, and scholar of Judaism, was born in 1931 in Brooklyn to an Orthodox family descended from the Old Yishuv in Jerusalem. As a young man he studied in the Chaim Berlin, Chabad Lubavitch and Lakewood yeshivot. From 1953 to 1960 he studied in the Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Theological Seminary at Yeshiva University with Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who gave him rabbinic ordination. He served as a congregational rabbi in the Bronx from 1955 to 1960 and then as founding rabbi of Congregation Tifereth Beth David Jerusalem in Montreal. Meanwhile, he finished a master’s degree in philosophy with Prof. Robert Pollock at Fordham University. He earned his PhD in philosophy in 1973 from McGill University, where he studied with professors Chaïm Perelman and Alan Montefiore, and where he also taught. He immigrated to Israel in 1971. In 1976, he established in Jerusalem an educational center and institute for the study of Judaism, which he led—the Shalom Hartman Institute, named after his late father. Eventually he also opened two high schools, one for boys and one for girls, next to the Institute. Hartman simultaneously served for more than twenty years as professor of Jewish thought at the Hebrew University. He died in 2013. Hartman was a modern-religious scholar of Judaism, a pluralist and a universalist, and an icon of the moderate left in the religious-Zionist sector. Hartman’s hero was Maimonides. Rabbis Soloveitchik and Heschel and professors Leibowitz and Goldman also influenced his thought. He wrote many articles and books, among them Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest (1976), A Living Covenant (1985), A Heart of Many Rooms (1999), Israelis and the Jewish Tradition (2000), Love and Terror in the God Encounter (2001), and The God Who Hates Lies (2011, with Charlie Buckholtz). In 2001, a two-volume collection was published in Tel Aviv, edited by Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, with the assistance of Dror Yinon, entitled Meḥuyavut Yehudit Mitḥadeshet: Olamo Vehaguto shel David Hartman (A renewed commitment to Judaism: The world and thought of David Hartman).

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

MAIMONIDES: TORAH AND PHILOSOPHIC QUEST Hartman begins the introduction to his book on the thought of Maimonides with some questions: Does the theoretical philosophic thought of Maimonides stand in opposition to the tradition of practical Halakhah in Judaism? Is wisdom opposed to will, natural law to revelation, Athens to Jerusalem, intellectual perfection to the prophetic ideal of moral excellence, the immortality of the soul to the messianic era? Perhaps, “[o]nce the outgrowths of Athens have taken root in the soil of Jerusalem both cities may not need to remain opposing spiritual poles. A new, spiritual synthesis with different categories may emerge. Man may remain fully within the way of Jerusalem and yet deeply appreciate and appropriate the way of Athens.”1 Wanting to answer these questions, Hartman suggests a model of his own, different from Rosenberg’s, for presenting the tension between philosophy and Halakhah. He counts four paths that are open to traditional people who are exposed to spiritual worldviews that possess some other truth. I briefly summarize them here for the reader’s benefit, adding quotations from Hartman’s own writings. 1. Insulation—a refusal to take external truths seriously, ignoring and rejecting them, seeing other ways of life as unimportant. Everything that is found outside of my own culture has no legitimate intellectual status. Revelation is the sole standard for thought and action, for truth and good, and next to it human reason has no standing to ask God to justify Himself. It seems that Hartman dissents from this insular, rejectionist position. He identifies a parallel secular position, whose justification is not religious but expresses a naked claim to power or an assertion of racial superiority.2 2. Dualism— One’s tradition can be preserved by remaining behaviorally loyal to its values while nonetheless accepting the conflicting truth-claims of another system. This bifurcation is possible if the active, willing nature of man’s being is severed from its reflective, rational aspect: My knowledge does   1 D. Hartman, Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest (New York, 1976), 7.   2 Ibid., 9. It is interesting that Hartman brings this sort of fundamentalist approach into his model. This is an extreme position which rejects reason. As a result, any discussion of the relationship between reason and revelation is impossible. In Rosenberg’s model this approach is excluded from discussion right away. See S. Rosenberg, Torah Umadda Bahagut Hayehudit Haḥadasha ( Jerusalem, 1988), 23. For a description of the four ways and Hartman’s choice of them, see A. Sagi and D. Schwartz, Ne’emanut Bikortit: Olamo Vehaguto shel David Hartman ( Jerusalem, 2018), 80-84.

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Between Religion and Reason not get in the way of my practices. My wisdom never interferes with my will. The life of the mind is permanently shut off from the life of action. [.  .  .] The truths of philosophical reason need not falsify the claims of practical reason. The theoretical is the ground for knowledge; the practical is the ground for orderly political society. The search for truth does not demand that I openly reject the false knowledge-claims that are part of the tradition. My pursuit of intellectual excellence will find its fulfillment in the lonely life of the mind, in the private aspect of my life. It is in the non-social and private moments of life that I will act out my true humanity which is theoretical perfection. [. . .] The commitment to truth need not challenge a moral system whose aim is social and political. Truth leads to self-perfection; moral norms lead to communal well-being. [. . .] Moral systems merely provide the necessary political conditions to further the pursuit of individual excellence. [. . .] Because the ultimate criterion in evaluating an action-system is only its functional value, the faulty theoretical ground of the tradition need not affect his loyalty to truth. [. . .] Revelation and reason can coexist if revelation is placed within the practical domain and reason within a framework of truth.3 Hartman thinks this position is neither logically consistent nor intellectually honest, since political virtue makes truth-claims and theoretical virtue demands a specific way of life. It is possible to tolerate such a disconnect because we live in a crude world of mass ignorance. In such a society only myths about revelation, God’s providential care for individuals, and reward and punishment can motivate people to follow the religious commands that promise to perfect society. But this kind of approach is not appropriate for a modern, educated society.

3. Rejection. One who follows this path, chooses to reject his own tradition completely, since he cannot separate the system of moral and religious rituals from theoretical claims. [. . .] A mind that is loyal to the claims of reason may find the claims of revelation  3 Hartman, Maimonides, 9–12. In Rosenberg’s model (Torah Umadda, 32–40) this is called “the compartmental approach.” According to Rosenberg, those who espouse this approach think that philosophy discusses eternal truths and Torah deals with historical truths and ethical norms of behavior. To me, this is the approach followed by Mendelssohn, Rosenzweig, the early Shadal, and Leibowitz. The latter maintains that religious commandments are completely independent of morality, which is a secular, atheist creation.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four degrading and insulting. The claim that divine thoughts are not human thoughts becomes, for this individual, not a justification for submission to revelation but a reason for its rejection. He finds himself incapable of accepting a divine truth which is false by human standards. [. . .] A man choosing the third option cannot subscribe to a tradition—even though that tradition only affects actions—if in order to justify those actions, he must posit specific theological claims (e.g. a god of history, revelation) which he knows to be false.4

4. Integration— The fourth option regarding this conflict is one in which the individual takes both knowledge-claims seriously: the religious as grounded in revelation and in traditional authority, and the human as grounded in reason. He does not assume an either/or posture. He refuses to believe that man must choose between God’s mind and his own. “Your thoughts are not my thoughts” [Isa. 55:8] does not lead irrevocably to the complete severance of religious knowledge-claims and rational human-claims; it does not imply the impossibility of common areas of discourse. Divine revelation need not be in discord with human understanding. In fact where they share a common domain, in principle, they are never in discord. Man’s rationality participates in the divine system of knowledge. There are not two truths [emphasis mine—E.C.]. This participation does not mean that man can grasp all that the divine mind knows. But to say that man does not know all that God knows is not to say that the divine mind can know, as truth, that which the human mind knows to be false. The two minds do not contradict one another. [. . .] That which the human mind knows to be logically impossible from within its sphere of competence cannot be proven logically possible by the claim that the divine mind knows it to be true. The human mind is prepared to admit limitations and yet claim absolute sovereignty within the legitimate scope of its understanding. This paradoxical gesture which admits both the absolute competence and limitations of human rationality is always operative within the fourth option—the way of integration—a gesture which may be called restrained  4 Hartman, Maimonides, 13–14. This atheistic or deistic approach too is not included in Rosenberg’s model, for the same reason that I noted in n. 2 above—but from the opposite perspective.

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Between Religion and Reason self-confidence. Revelation, as mediated through the tradition, does not cause the individual to doubt that which can be known within the human sphere. He feels confident that he can maintain a posture of critical loyalty to the tradition because he knows that the tradition encourages and values the use of human reason. God does not play tricks nor does He deceive the human mind. God cannot square the circle. God cannot make possible that which is logically impossible. It is the human mind which defines the logically impossible that God’s mind never violates. The same logical rules that apply to human understanding apply to the divine mind as well.5 It follows that, since the two truths cannot live with each other— because the contradiction between them is unbearable and therefore impossible, and any demarcation between philosophy and religion is intellectually dishonest when the public is educated and looking for dialogue between the realms—Hartman is stuck in the illusion of the integrative harmonistic approach. What happens if conspicuous contradictions nevertheless appear between the claims of revelation and those of the intellects? Hartman answers that since human reason shows us the truth, and religion does not demand of us that we cast doubt on the reliability of our understanding, and since truth is not determined exclusively by revelation, he can demand that tradition make itself intelligible within the categories of the established truths of reason. The fourth way makes possible an integration between the claims of tradition and the claims of reason by expanding the possible meanings of religious language to include symbolic meaning. A literal understanding of one’s religious language limits the possibility of its being modified by new intellectual claims. The key epistemological criteria used to determine whether one is to read the language literally or symbolically are defined by the claims of reason. Rational demonstrative truth has the power to alter the literal meaning of religious language. [. . .] If, however, the individual is encouraged to think, and if the mind’s discovery of demonstrative truths is considered sufficient reason for rethinking the tradition, then something is set in motion. This is the individual who does not look upon obedience as the highest virtue, but recognizes that to understand is greater than to obey. The trust in human reason creates a new relationship to God: love based upon understanding. The way of integration will not revel in norms   5 Ibid., 15–16. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 18, 164–165.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four that are not reasonable, nor consider the soul to be spiritually nurtured when it is obedient to that which it doesn’t understand. On the contrary, actions which grow from understanding will be seen as the highest level of religious achievement. [. . .] He who lives within the way of integration will attempt to discover methods of making his tradition intelligible within a universal framework of intelligibility. To the degree that one can render one’s tradition comprehensible to all people, to that degree one can argue that the way of reason and the way of tradition are harmonious. Even those areas which manifest the particular life-style of the tradition will be interpreted within categories that are intelligible to all reasonable men. It is not enough that the knowledge-claims of tradition be in harmony with universal claims of knowledge; the way of integration strives to make the practice of tradition comprehensible and meaningful to all men. One last feature of the way of integration must be emphasized. As mentioned, the way of integration strives to harmonize reason and tradition within a framework of mutual enrichment. The spiritual values that the tradition holds to be important become enhanced through the way of reason. Reason provides both a guide to knowledge-claims within the tradition and an opportunity for the individual to realize the goal which the tradition holds to be important. The growth of knowledge moves one to a deeper understanding of the tradition; the goals which are present within the way of reason take on new dimensions as a result of the tradition.6 Rosenberg calls this harmonistic approach “the interpretative identicality approach,”7 and he, like Hartman, attributes it to Maimonides. In this approach, there is an essential identicality between science and philosophy on the one hand and religion and Torah on the other. When apparent contradictions reveal themselves, the text of revelation must be interpreted in accordance with the standard of truth provided by reason. When necessary, Maimonides provided symbolic, allegorical interpretations that he considered rationally, unquestionably true, in order to make biblical statements fit with Aristotelian philosophy and physics. In this way, Rosenberg’s interpretation of Maimonides matches Hartman’s. Of course, long after Maimonides’s time Aristotelianism collapsed. New contradictions also appeared between science and philosophy, which were not  6 Hartman, Maimonides, 16–20.  7 Rosenberg, Torah Umadda, 29–31.

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Between Religion and Reason known or at least not evident in his time. This is the source of my criticism of Hartman, who remained personally faithful to this approach. Moreover, both Rosenberg and Hartman—as the latter himself explains—opposed the interpretations of Maimonides’s approach by Leo Strauss, Harry Austryn Wolfson, and Isaac Husik. These interpreters claimed that there are distinctions and contradictions—whether he was aware of them or not—between Maimonides the philosopher of the Guide of the Perplexed and Maimonides the traditional halakhist of the Mishneh Torah.8 Unlike them, Hartman maintains that, according to Maimonides, [t]he person whose spiritual life is nurtured by reason can fully embrace the spiritual life of his community. His intellect is never compromised when he acts within the framework of Torah. Had the Jewish tradition demanded the acceptance of beliefs which reason establishes as false, such a person would be compelled to suppress his intellect, or to reject his tradition, or to accept tradition for political expediency. Maimonides’ epistemology eliminates the need to choose one of these options. The individual who has found his way to God by reason can accept communal forms of spirituality, i.e., Halakhah, as a whole man; he need not sever his political and social life from his individual aspirations. He knows that Judaism never allows authority to overstep the limits of its legitimate competence and to invade domains where reason is master.9 To me, Hartman is using the term “synthesis” here in a strictly metaphorical sense. Synthesis comes into existence only after a dialectic process in which there are two extremes. It relaxes the tension and settles the contradiction between them by means of sublation on a higher level (in Hegel’s terminology, Aufhebung). That is the process which, at its end, generates a phenomenon that is a new creation, completely different from the two extremes that created it. In the process of Maimonides and Hartman there is no dialectic, just interpretation that shows the identicality that actually exists between the components that seem contradictory.   8 See Hartman, Maimonides, 20–26. On Strauss’s interpretation of Maimonides see also part 1 of this book, ch. 6.   9 Ibid., 137 ff. On the controversy with Husik and Strauss see Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 19. Sagi and Schwartz think Hartman moved from the integrative approach to the compartmental approach in between the appearance of the two editions of Maimonides. See Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 38–39.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

Moreover, if, like Rosenberg, we omit from this discussion the two extreme approaches, which do not recognize a need to hold the two realms together, there are really only two approaches left in Hartman’s model: the compartmental approach and the interpretative identicality approach. In the more detailed and complex model of Rosenberg, there are additional approaches, like the restrictive identicality approach of Judah Halevi, and the resolved and unresolved dialectical approaches: the transcendental approach, which does provide a resolution, and the dual truth approach, according to which the contradiction remains unresolved. Hartman also discusses the perspectives of the supposed synthesis that Maimonides built between Halakhah and philosophy. Inter alia, he touches on several topics that set up stumbling blocks between religious tradition and philosophy; Maimonides reconciles these, too, by means of philosophical interpretation of the tradition. Here are a few of them:

Reward and Punishment, Suffering, the Messianic Era, and the World to Come These phenomena are not merely material and for the community as a whole, nor are they necessarily miraculous. They are essentially spiritual and intellectual, for the superior man, and result in consequence of his deeds: The eschatological dreams of a community reflect their notions of happiness. Such dreams reflect what they consider to be the essence of human joy. Biblical descriptions of man’s longing for material benefits would appear unrelated to a conception of man whose focus is upon his intellectual faculties. The concept of olam ha-ba, the domain of pure spiritual joy, enables Maimonides to assert that the Jewish tradition believes, that in addition to the satisfaction of man’s everyday material needs, there is another satisfaction in the human joy of intellectual understanding. To Maimonides, olam ha-ba embodies the expectations of the man whose conception of joy involves more than the pleasures of physical self-interest. The role of philosophy in transforming the individual’s worship of God from one based on self-interest to one of disinterested love is, in part, a function of its capacity to inculcate notions of joy which transcend the pleasures of the body. The activity of intellectual reasoning brings about a new man insofar as it alters man’s conception of what constitutes joy and happiness. [. . .]10 10 Hartman, Maimonides, 79.

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Between Religion and Reason The language of reward and punishment need not imply divine miraculous intervention. An understanding of the social consequences of human action is one way Maimonides tries to have his reader understand the language of reward and punishment. [. . .]11 Because of Sinai, the halakhic Jew understands his historical condition through obedience or disobedience to the will of God. Physical suffering is interpreted as a message from God calling one to examine his relationship to Torah. [. . .] No suffering is perceived as accidental; God’s will addresses man through what is normally perceived as being accidental. According to Maimonides, this understanding of the relationship of suffering to teshuvah is implied by the covenantal election of Israel. The philosophic Jew brings this covenantal consciousness into his quest for intellectual communion with the God of being. In the end of the Guide, Maimonides suggests that the philosophic-halakhic Jew should understand his suffering as resulting from his failure to fulfill the mitzvah of intellectual love of God. [. . .] Both the halakhic Jew lacking knowledge of philosophy and the halakhic Jew possessing such knowledge recognize that “there is no suffering without transgression” and “if a man sees that painful sufferings visit him, let him examine his conduct.” The difference between them, however, is that the former understands his failure solely within the rubric of halakhic practice whereas the latter perceives his sin as the absence of intellectual love of God. These two approaches to what constitutes the cause of suffering are mirrored, respectively, in the yearnings for messianism and for olam ha-ba. The Mishneh Torah, which strives primarily to guide the community toward halakhic practice, ends with a description of the ideal political condition for a Halakhic community—messianism. Messianism gives expression to the hopes of a halakhic community which understands teshuvah as its failure to fulfill halakhic norms. However the individual who follows the path to intellectual love of God delineated in the Guide of the Perplexed, expresses his longing for teshuvah by a passionate yearning for freedom from the limitations of human existence. He longs for olam ha-ba.12

11 Ibid., 149. 12 Ibid., 209–211. See E. Ophir, “Beyn Sulam Ra’ua Limedinah Metukenet: Hayissurim K’etgar Labrit,” in Meḥuyavut Yehudit Mitḥadeshet: Olamo Vehaguto shel David Hartman, ed. A. Sagi and Z. Zohar (Tel Aviv, 2001), 525–552.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

Is it permissible even today to distinguish between the needs of the community and the needs of the individual? Is it possible today to tell the community about material reward for fulfilling the commandments? To me, neither the reasons for suffering nor the results of repentance that Hartman suggests to the community are rationally acceptable. Reason can reconcile itself only with something that seems reasonable to the intellectually capable individual, and therefore the supposed synthesis, or the integrative interpretation, that Maimonides suggests (according to Hartman) is not achievable.

The Commandments It is not only the authority of Sinai that demands compliance, but also, and especially, a rational framework that has absorbed criticism: The Halakhah is a system of norms tracing its ultimate authoritative appeal to God; the revelation at Sinai is the ground of the normative structure of halakhic legislation. Specific laws dictate the behavior of Jews in virtually all aspects of their lives. It is reasonable to expect, that since Halakhah is based on unconditional acceptance of divine authority, it would develop the obedient personality whose primary concern is to fulfill the laws of his tradition. Yet, according to Maimonides, the telos of Halakhah is to create ideal conditions for the realization of intellectual love of God. Maimonides must therefore develop an approach to halakhic authority which will make it compatible with a spiritual life dedicated to philosophic knowledge of God. He must show that obedience to authority is not the sole virtue of Halakhah. If Halakhah encourages the development of a critical mind capable of independent reflection and evaluation, it cannot be exclusively characterized by appeals to authority which demand unconditional obedience. [. . .] Maimonides asserts that there has never been any disagreement regarding the laws for which the authority of Sinai is claimed. However another body of law exists which does allow for disagreement; there is no claim for its emanation from Sinai. It does issue from the application of talmudic rules of hermeneutics which serve as principles by which men can analyze texts and infer laws. Maimonides writes that after the death of Moses, Joshua and his generation developed laws on the basis of halakhic reasoning in areas where there was no Mosaic legislation. [. . .] In this area of Halakhah, disagreement is possible due to the inherent nature of laws which emerge from legal reasoning. Law based on reasoning is not

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Between Religion and Reason defended by appealing to authority, but to the compelling force of argument. Such laws appeal to human understanding and not to loyalty to authority. [. . .] Maimonides’ position excludes prophecy from a key portion of halakhic law and maintains that rabbinic argumentation is independent of appeals to divine authority and is thus subject to disagreement. In addition to the certainties of Mosaic prophecy and traditions from Sinai, Maimonides offers the Jew norms developed by men who rationally struggle to resolve problems about which they often disagree, and who never demonstrate that alternate approaches to the law are invalid. [. . .] By eliminating prophets from halakhic argumentation and restricting the scope of tradition-based law, Maimonides weakens the security which results from obedience to traditional authority. [. . .] Only a reflective person could live with change in his religious life and still maintain an approach of discrimination as opposed to the all-or-nothing response of the uncritically obedient. [The Halakhah is not an insipid collection of mitzvot aseh which must be obeyed indiscriminately and without question. The Halakhah is a rich assemblage of a variety of topics. Only by hard work and discriminating thought can one become sensitive to the multi-faceted nature of the Halakhah and hear within it more than a monotonous univocality.] From Maimonides’ first major legal work, we recognize the Jew which he believed emerged from Halakhah. In comparing Halakhic man to philosophic man it is not correct to claim that the former reflects the virtue of unthinking obedience and the latter the value of critical reflection. The Halakhah itself develops a disciplined, discriminating approach. [. . .] The personality which Halakhah cultivates, according to Maimonides, is the same as that which emerges when the Jew is exposed to philosophy.13

13 Hartman, Maimonides, 104–121. [Translator’s note: The text in brackets does not appear in the English edition and is translated here from the Hebrew.] It is interesting to note that on the topic of revelation at Mount Sinai the later Hartman backs off from the approach he takes here and comes closer to the approaches of Halbertal and Goodman. In A Heart of Many Rooms he minimizes the authority of this revelation: “Unlike Buber and Rosenzweig, I do not believe in the importance of making philosophic sense of Divine speech at Sinai in order to explain and justify the respective roles of revelation and interpretation in Judaism. The issue is not what happened at Sinai but what Jews did with Sinai. My concern is not with the metaphysics of revelation but with how Jews understood revelation. I do not live by what happened at Sinai; I live by what Jews did with what happened at Sinai. This is the talmudic significance of the expression Torah lo bashamayim hi: Torah is not in heaven” (D. Hartman, A Heart of Many Rooms: Celebrating the Many Voices within Judaism [Woodstock, VT, 1999], 120).

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

Hartman disagrees with the interpretation of Strauss, Halbertal, and Goodman, according to which the revelation at Mount Sinai (per Maimonides) was entirely in the rational minds of Moses and the people, not a descent of God from above to below. But a harmonistic interpretation of this sort is inconsistent with philosophical thought about the absolute transcendence of God. Moreover, Sabbath violators, adulterers, and homosexuals are condemned to death. This is explicitly written in the Torah, and is indisputable, though it is contradictory to reason.

Jewish Legends Those Jewish legends that oppose rational scientific knowledge are rejected. All Aggadah, both rabbinic and prophetic, must take cognizance of universal criteria of truth. When one studies Aggadah susceptible to demonstrative certainty, loyalty is to reason not to authority. The certainties of demonstrative reason transcend the logic of communal authority. Maimonides’ attempt at reconciling the Aggadah of Judaism with Aristotle’s physics is not based upon his loyalty to Athens [as Strauss claims], but upon his commitment to truth. Once a truth has been established through demonstrative reason, it ceases to have any logically significant relationship to the one who established it. The acceptance of truths based upon demonstrative reason does not in any way reveal the cultural or historical loyalties of an individual. [. . .] Just as there is no “Jewish” astronomy so there is no “Greek” physics. Demonstrative truths claim assent on the basis of their content, and not by the appeal of their author. In his attempt at reconciling the science of his day with Torah, Maimonides did not see himself as attempting to merge two cultural loyalties. He was loyal to the Jewish tradition; he did not believe that this demanded the denial of universal truths. Maimonides was loyal to the authority of Moses and Abraham; he was intellectually open to the rational arguments of Aristotle and al-Farabi. [.  .  .] Judaism always recognized that philosophic truths transcended loyalty to authority. One shows allegiance to the tradition by refusing to allow for the possibility of a contradiction between teachings based upon authority, and demonstrative truths. By maintaining that Judaism from Sinai onward contained both a legal and philosophical oral tradition, Maimonides enables the student of the Guide to realize that one

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Between Religion and Reason remains a traditional Jew by joining loyalty to the oral law with loyalty to reason. The unity of Halakhah and Aggadah, within the tradition, makes it possible for an individual to unite allegiance to community with respect for truth regardless of the source of the truth. Maimonides’ philosophic explanation of prophetic Aggadah is a traditional mode of explanation since the tradition always recognized the difference between arguments from authority and arguments from reason.14

Even if we consider nothing but the pure metaphysics that is left after Aristotelian physics collapsed, Maimonides’s interpretation of biblical and rabbinic legends opposes everything that is accepted in rabbinic tradition. For according to this interpretation, when these legends seem to contradict reason, they are not describing historical facts but must rather be philosophical allegories presented to us by the sages of Greece. Subordinating the statements of revelation to the statements of reason in this way, revealing them, contrary to their plain sense, to be identical to the statements of philosophy, has seemed illusory and apologetic to readers ever since the time of Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton. How does Hartman rescue the story of the Sinai event from allegorical interpretation?

Miracles For the most part, miracles that ostensibly contradict the laws of nature do not really do so: In his Treatise on Resurrection, Maimonides writes of many committed Jews whose most beloved activity is to bifurcate Torah and reason by emphasizing miraculous features of Torah which openly contradict the order of nature. As opposed to this group, Maimonides states that his efforts were directed at making Torah compatible with the order of nature. Only when such an approach would do violence to the explicit sense of certain biblical statements does Maimonides feel compelled to admit the occurrence of a miracle. [. . .] Maimonides constantly attempts to interpret the seemingly miraculous in natural terms. Vertical actions of God are not understood in isolation from the ordinary structure of nature or human action. Biblical descriptions of divine actions in history, which appear to 14 Hartman, Maimonides, 126–129.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four suggest that divine working is independent of human action, are understood by Maimonides in a manner making God similar to a perceptive prognosticator of human events. [. . .] Petitional prayers for divine guidance can be understood within the horizontal structure of reality. One can understand God’s response to man’s petitional prayers for divine guidance by understanding how human reason is a manifestation of divine governance. This nonmiraculous understanding of divine grace finds similar expression in Maimonides’ approach to historical redemption. Redemption in history is not initiated by the autonomous will and power of God, but by human repentance (teshuvah). [. . .] The biblical promise of redemption does not refer to God’s miraculous intervention in history, but is based upon the conviction that a change in man’s moral life will ultimately affect a change in man’s political conditions. Just as God answers man’s prayer for guidance by providing him with an intellect, so too does He answer man’s longing for redemption by giving the community a Torah which implants in the believing Jew the conviction that his historical condition is affected by his moral actions.15

So it is that in Hartman’s interpretation of Maimonides, the fear that contradiction might lead to the abandonment of religion, which cannot hold on to two contradictory extremes, leads to complicated philosophical speculations, which cannot stand up to the honest intellect of the reader of the holy text. Anyone who sanctifies the intellect and sets it up as the highest standard, instead of giving equal status to revelation, endangers the cleaving to faith. The claim that statements of revelation which apparently contradict reason are in fact philosophical insights denigrates religion. What are we to do with miracles whose occurrence Maimonides is forced to admit, and yet are contradictory to the laws of nature as discovered by reason? What meaning can religion have if God does not intervene, of His own will, in history?

A LIVING COVENANT: THE INNOVATIVE SPIRIT IN TRADITIONAL JUDAISM Hartman published a book by this title (the Hebrew translation is called “From Sinai to Zion: Renewal of a Covenant”) in 1985, nine years after his book on Maimonides. This new book looks at the problem of the essence of Judaism. In doing so, Hartman finds himself debating with Soloveitchik and Leibowitz, 15 Ibid., 148–151.

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and this is how he sketches out his own vision of what Judaism and the covenant of the people of Israel with God should look like in the sovereign state of Israel. He deals as well with the link between philosophy and modern culture and how human reason can connect with faith, revelation, and Halakhah. In the introduction, Hartman says that Maimonides is the first and foremost of the three philosophers who stimulated his thought (the others are Soloveitchik and Leibowitz): He [Maimonides] is the major paradigm for how I feel that Jewish philosophy can be done today. This is partly because of specific Maimonidean doctrines that I find still highly relevant, such as his demythologization of Jewish messianism and his emphasis on love of God as the goal of halakhah, but also because his ability to integrate halakhah with Aristotelian physics and ethics can teach us how to set about the corresponding tasks in an era when philosophers and scientists have moved far away from Aristotle. Although this book owes much to the spirit of Maimonides, I have not sought to find everywhere a position that is in some sense “authentically Maimonidean.” As I have mentioned, it is not formal legitimization that I seek from the past, but direction for participating in what I believe to be an ongoing conversation that began at Sinai.16

As I have shown, in Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest Hartman adopted Maimonides’s approach, according to which there can be no contradiction between philosophy and Torah. The conclusions drawn by both realms are in principle identical. When difficulties do arise, we must interpret the statements of revelation in such a way that they fit with and can be integrated into the statements of philosophy and knowledge gained by reason. Here Hartman admits that Aristotle is no longer relevant. On the other hand, he does say that it is possible to learn from Maimonides a direction that is suitable for us today. For example, here: Maimonides denies that there is any antipathy between Torah and halakhah, on the one hand, and natural science and philosophy, on the other; 16 D. Hartman, A Living Covenant: The Innovative Spirit in Traditional Judaism (New York, 1985), 10. See also the citation in n. 5 above; Moshe Hellinger, “Teologiyat habrit shel David Hartman—Degem Lesintezah beyn Yahadut Hilkhatit Leveyn Demokratiyah Liberalit Ba’ortodoksiyah Hamodernit,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 1:121–167; D. Zohar, “Habrit Bemishnatam shel Harav Hirshensohn VeDavid Hartman,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 1:169–208.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four rather they are united in seeking to overcome the painful ignorance and pathetic gullibility that make human beings fall victim to every kind of superstitious belief and abhorrent idolatrous practice.17

Hartman explains that reason is the partner of revelation in creating contact with God, and revelation continues even after the Sinai event “in the rabbinic application of human wisdom.”18 Human participation is necessary for the implementation of the divine plan for history, which is constructed on his freedom and self-respect. That is why God contracted His own allencompassing knowledge in favor of human free will: God makes room for humans as independent, free creatures. The mystery of God’s love for them is expressed in this act of divine self-limitation. God limits His power so as to permit human development within the context of freedom. [. . .] The notion of divine-human interdependence provides a rationale for the covenant consummated between God and Israel at Sinai. [. . .] The giving of the law indicates that the omnipotent Lord of History does not program the human individual to become a puppet who cannot but obey the will of God. The promise that the covenant of mitzvah shall be eternal is tantamount to God’s promising to respect the inviolability of human freedom.19

In chapter three of his book, Hartman criticizes the dialectic approach of his teacher, Rav Soloveitchik. As I have already noted, Hartman cannot accept any possibility of contradiction if the dialectic tension that stems from it remains unresolved. Hartman also suggests a resolution of the contradiction, ostensibly 17 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 240. 18 Ibid., 7. 19 Ibid., 38–39. Human free will is of course liable to give rise to disaster, even nuclear disaster, and to failures that might lead to death, even mass death. That is the responsibility of the human being who participates with God, and there is no certainty of unilateral redemption. For whatever reason, Hartman does not employ this argument in order to explain the Holocaust. See ibid., 261. On God’s self-limitation after the Sinai event, see ibid., 235–236. Given this last citation on the difference between the miracle at Sinai and the miracles described in the Bible subsequent to it, the question for Maimonides and Hartman returns: Are all the miracles that took place after Sinai miracles or not? If some of them were miracles, how can we know which is a miracle and which is not? Was God’s self-limitation after Sinai with regard to miracles, like that with regard to free will, already settled during the six days of creation?

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offered by his teacher, and explains it to us. He refutes the resolution that he himself suggests and completely ignores what Soloveitchik himself wrote explicitly about his dialectic approach. In his essays “Ga’on ve’anavah” (Pride and humility) and “Tseiruf ” (Catharsis), Soloveitchik says that Judaism has only thesis and antithesis, without any possibility of synthesis. The two extremes that are in tension—rational culture and revelation—remain valid, of equal worth, and irresolvable. Moreover, the tradition of revelation is no more decisive than is human reason.20 But to Hartman, Soloveitchik thinks that, at the end of a long, crooked path, full of progress and regress (as described in those essays), the modern believer will achieve a synthesis between the understanding that the Western culture in which he is immersed can enrich his experience of faith, and the realization that this culture is actually superficial and vulgar. The bottom line is that there is a point at which he is obligated to accept, submissively and without hesitation, the inscrutable demands of God and the authority of tradition. Of course, Hartman disputes this interpretation that he has given to the words of his teacher. But he is bursting through a door that is unlocked. For Soloveitchik thought that there is actually no solution at the conceptual level— the theological and philosophical one. The contradiction remains theoretical and essential, and there is no decisive synthesis between tradition and reason. Nor is there any certainty of the victory of a restorative synthesis other than at the end of days. But when we must go down to the practical level we have to suppress this unresolved tension, to silence the inner voice of reason and to act in accordance with traditional Halakhah, uncritically and submissively. This is the approach that was taken by Abraham at the Akedah, the “binding” of Isaac, when God inexplicably demanded that he sacrifice his son. In a speech that he gave at a meeting of the Rabbinical Council of America in 1975, Soloveitchik sharply criticized the suggestion of Rabbi Emanuel Rackman that the halakhah with regard to chained wives (those whose husbands refuse to grant them a religious divorce) be changed. This halakhah is based on a talmudic presumption which according to logic is no longer correct. He said: You must not judge laws and ordinances (hukim u-mishpatim) in terms of a secular system of values. Such an attempt, be it historicism, be it psychologism, be it utilitarianism, undermines the very foundations of Torah and tradition (u-mesora). And leads eventually to the most tragic consequences of assimilationism and nihilism. No matter how good the intentions are of 20 On this, see part 1 of this book, ch. 3.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four the person who suggests it. [. . .] Not only the halachos, but also the hazakos [presumptions] which the traditional sages have introduced, are indestructible. For the hazakos which the Rabbis spoke of rest not on trenchant psychological patterns, but upon permanent ontological principles rooted in the very depth of the human personality—in the metaphysical human personality—which is as changeless as the heavens above.21

Hartman does not recognize that in Soloveitchik’s thought there are two levels on which the tension is unresolved. In one of them it is necessary to suppress the tension by submission to the will of God. Here is how Hartman formulates his teacher’s approach and his own objection to it: [E]ven though he [the Orthodox student] is called upon to admire Western culture, he must know that true depth and authenticity, including genuine heroism, are found only within his own tradition. He will achieve the fullness of existential authenticity only to the degree that he can live a dialectical experience in which he also fully embraces Torah learning and observance. Only if he can make that total commitment will he discover how modern secular culture can enrich his faith experience. [. . .] From all these examples [a bride who finds on her wedding night that she has begun to menstruate, the tragic death of Aaron’s two children, and the failure of the human mind to penetrate the mystery of being and to create a human-made moral law], we see how Soloveitchik seeks to reconcile the two conflicting themes discussed in our previous chapters [assertion versus submission] and combine them into a higher unity. It is by postulating that “man moves toward the fulfillment of his destiny along a zig-zag line; progress frequently superseded by retrogression; closeness to God, by the dark night of separation.” The problem with this solution is that it is implausible when compared with our experience. Does Soloveitchik’s redemptive cathartic experience teach us always to withdraw from an enemy who still harbors in his heart thoughts of destruction? As he admits, nothing guarantees that in the act of recoil and in self-defeat one will also move forward to new victories. In reality, the act of self-defeat may be an invitation to further destructive action on the part of one’s enemy. [. . .] Although the concept of 21 Cited in D. Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies: Confronting and Rethinking Jewish Tradition, with C. Buckholtz (Woodstock, VT, 2011), 148–149; emphasis added by him. See below, 114-115.

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Between Religion and Reason Judaic catharsis is ingenious and has genuine applications, it is insufficient to provide the systematic answer that Soloveitchik seeks. Ultimately, as in “Majesty and Humility,” his approach has to fall back upon accepting the inscrutable will of God. Ultimately, Soloveitchik requires Jews to recognize that in all realms of existence the authority of God is total and that their existence is will by God to the degree that they can control their existence through the discipline of the normative halakhah. Whether Soloveitchik speaks of catharsis, heroism, redemptiveness, or in-depth existential living, the bottom line is that Jews have a right to think, to feel, and to love only to the degree that they are prepared to submit totally to whatever God will demand of them. [. . .] Yet even he, in his attempt to reconcile the conflicting tendencies found in Judaic spirituality, could maintain plausibility only up to a certain point, beyond which one is required to accept unquestioningly the inexplicable demands of God and the authority of the tradition.22

In the fourth chapter of the book, Hartman discusses the approaches of Soloveitchik and Maimonides to the relationship between reason and revelation and takes the opportunity to examine how ethics relates to Halakhah. This brings us to the practical level—how one should actually behave. Hartman argues, justly, that Soloveitchik demands of the believer who is required to act that he adhere to Halakhah despite the dialectic tension in which he finds himself. For Soloveitchik, the believer must suppress this tension and submit to the word of God, even when this contradicts (as he claims, only apparently) the conclusions of Western morality, and must give up his own independent reason. Hartman altogether rejects this approach. As we have said, Hartman gives precedence to Maimonides’s approach on this matter. He thinks there cannot be any contradiction between rational morality and Halakhah. Rational morality fits perfectly with Halakhah and is contained within it. To me, in our day, this approach is illusionary and apologetic. Here is Hartman’s criticism of Soloveitchik’s approach: When asked to explain their total allegiance to mitzvot that appear to conflict with generally accepted notions of morality, halakhic Jews influenced by Soloveitchik have often cited to me the importance of an Akedah-like

22 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 85–88. See also ibid., 62–63.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four resignation for the spiritual life of Judaism.23 [. . .] [Soloveitchik’s] religious anthropology gives support to the claim that Judaism must create obedient personalities who give total allegiance to authority without allowing any independent moral or rational considerations to enter into their evaluation of their obligation to the norms and theological claims of the halakhah. This chapter will argue that the surrender of human rationality and the sacrifice of one’s human ethical sense are not required by Judaic faith. In demonstrating this, I shall build upon certain aspects of Maimonides’ religious anthropology that provide a different religious emphasis from that of Soloveitchik. Subsequently, I shall claim that passionate commitment to God and Torah gives expression to Jewish particularity and not to Jewish isolation. The loneliness of the “man of faith” is not a constitutive of the Sinai covenant. Maimonidean religious anthropology is in no way similar to Soloveitchik’s existentialist portrayal of “covenantal man.” Covenantal Jews, as Maimonides depicts them, move in the direction of the fullness of religious vitality when they connect the purpose of the law with truth and rationality. The harmony between reality and the religious norm, the understanding that there is a unified spirit of intelligibility permeating both natural causality and divinely revealed law, is what Maimonides believes will bring Jews closer to a dedicated intimacy with the God of the covenant. Contrary to Soloveitchik, he does not ask us to live as a covenantal community of faith oscillating between the “majestic” role offered by the God Who created nature and an unconditional surrender and self-negation demanded by the God of revelation. There is no dichotomy between “majesty” and covenantal faith. In contrast to Maimonides, for Soloveitchik it is the human will and not the intellect that makes possible the highest achievement in the religious life. For Maimonides, love of God grows from understanding; for Soloveitchik from total surrender. Maimonides held that it is possible to discern a rational divine purpose in all the mitzvot given to Moses. [. . .] One of Maimonides’ theological innovations was to transform this distinction [between rational mishpatim and non-rational hukkim] into one between those mitzvot whose rational purpose was self-evident and those whose rational purpose could be discerned only after careful reflection. All the mitzvot, then, were rational and could in principle be justified in terms acceptable to medieval philosophers, Jewish or non-Jewish. 23 Another student of Soloveitchik’s replies the same way—Lichtenstein. See the chapter devoted to him in this book.

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Between Religion and Reason [. . .] Maimonides believed that there was something lacking in a Jewish soul that finds love of God incompatible with rational understanding of the laws given by God to the Israelite community.24

Hartman is correct to call Soloveitchik’s model an “oscillating” community of faith, but he does so for the wrong reason. After all, in his opinion Soloveitchik has a synthesis that in the last analysis is resolved in favor of tradition and is no longer “oscillating.” But according to my interpretation of Soloveitchik’s approach, the community is always oscillating, since the tension is constant and unresolved. Only when we must take action are we required to suppress the one extreme, of our reason, by absolute submission to the other, Halakhah. In principle, however, the tension in the community between Soloveitchik’s “majestic man” and the “man of faith”25 is ongoing on every level. Clearly Hartman is also opposed to his teacher’s approach on a practical level, is unwilling to accept the “Akedah” perspective, and remains faithful to Maimonides and to his interpretative identicality approach. Torah and Halakhah are to be explained so that they match, complete, integrate with and are identical to human reason and morality as expressed in general culture. He further declares that Maimonides’s guidance is suitable for our own times: Maimonides, the master halakhist of Jewish history, was not embarrassed to read the Bible and the Talmud with the help of Aristotelian philosophy. In that same spirit, contemporary halakhic Jews need not apologize for using the best of ethical thought to learn how to apply the mitzvot that touch upon ethical and moral considerations in everyday life. [. . .] Maimonides demonstrated that covenantal halakhic spirituality is in no way threatened or undermined by admitting the validity of ethical norms whose source is independent of the notion of revelation. [. . .] One can be an ethical human being without faith in the covenantal God, but one cannot commit oneself to the fullness of the covenantal mitzvah without appreciating the way the ethical impulse is intrinsic to Judaism as a way of life. That is to say, one can 24 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 89–91. See 111-113 below. See also R. Margolin, “Halakhah Vehavayah Behaguto shel David Hartman Le’or Hasagotav al Harav Soloveitchik ve’al Martin Buber,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 1:375–405; M. Hellinger, “Hahalakhah Veha’otonomiyah Ha’enoshit Bemishnatam shel Yeshayahu Leibowitz VeDavid Hartman,” in Sagi et al., Yahadut Penim Vaḥutz, 336–344. 25 On Soloveitchik’s “majestic man” and “man of faith,” see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:29–33.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four be ethical without being religious, but one cannot be covenantally religious without an ethical passion. […] Nor may our appreciation of what is considered just and fair ever be undermined through appeals to the absolute authority of halakhah.26 [. . .] The halakhic law of Judaism and the universal truths of philosophy must, he [Maimonides] was convinced, be significantly interrelated. The election of Israel and the resultant particularistic Jewish culture did not remove Jewish spirituality from the universal framework of human rationality and wisdom. [. . .] On the contrary, he constantly brings the religious quest to know God through the study of the Torah together with the religious quest to know God as He is manifested in nature. There are not two incompatible cognitive gestures. There are not two separate roads to God that are totally unrelated and that speak a different logic. This for Maimonides would be a violation of the unity of God.27

Evidently, Hartman disagrees with Leibowitz as well, since the latter also recommends an “Akedah” Judaism. In Hartman’s words, Leibowitz does not see: the humanistic, assertive ethical features of Judaism as a higher expression of Judaism. What typifies Judaism for him is Abraham’s readiness to sacrifice Isaac. The act of worship reaches full purity only when the human being’s total sense of personal dignity is negated, when a person willingly places worship of God outside of any categories that are intelligible to one’s ethical sense. Worship out of love demands total submissiveness. Leibowitz admits that there are humanistic features in the Judaic tradition, such as the attempts to make the commandments intelligible to human reason and to link their observance with social and economic benefits. But this, according to Leibowitz, represents only the first stage in the religious development of a Jew. In order to motivate human beings to worship, one appeals to their self-interest. Leibowitz call this worship she-lo li-shemah, worship of God not for its own sake, where human needs and human rationality lie at the center of the religious life. Religious maturity comes only when a Jew is able to achieve worship of God li-shemah, for its own sake. It 26 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 98–101. 27 Ibid., 105–107. See also ibid., 124: “Maimonides sees no contradiction between the two frameworks; they complement each other and must be in ultimate harmony with each other.”

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Between Religion and Reason expresses itself in a love of God that is totally dominated by the theocentric passion. Leibowitz recognizes no covenantal category that would in some important way involve mutuality between God and the Jewish community. For Leibowitz, one chooses either a human-centered religion or a Godcentered religion. Paradigmatic for Leibowitz’s understanding of Judaism is the Akedah, the readiness of Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, and thereby to sacrifice all human concerns and values in unconditional obedience to God’s will. There is therefore no category of ethics in Judaism; humanism is an atheistic, secular category that is in no way tied to Jewish worship. [. . .] Leibowitz denies any theology of history, but rather that Jews are called upon to worship God even in an unintelligible reality that defies all human expectations of God. The act of worship in Judaism is sui generis and unrelated to whatever events occur in history; it should in no way be integrated into the universe of discourse where human rational and ethical categories are operative. Worship of God is beyond the ethical, beyond the rational, beyond the possibility of translation into cultural categories that can be shared with all human beings irrespective of religious commitment. There is a unique dimension to worship that cannot be reduced to any other human category.28

According to Hartman’s analysis, Soloveitchik and Leibowitz both think Judaism is epitomized by the submissive and obedient Abraham of the Akedah, while Maimonides and he himself hold that Judaism is epitomized by the Abraham of the Sodom story, who is searching for meaning and justice in the divine decree and does not hesitate to confront God about it. Indeed, Leibowitz certainly maintains the compartmental approach. In his opinion, revelation and Halakhah exist in a realm separate from that of morality, reason, and culture, with each realm containing part of the overall truth. In the opinion of Maimonides and Hartman, the two truths are one and the same—revelation is to be interpreted by using the interpretive categories of philosophy, morality, and reason. My interpretation differs from that of Hartman only with regard to Soloveitchik. Hartman classifies him with those who maintain the resolved dialectical approach, whereas I 28 Ibid., 61–62. It is interesting that Maimonides is Leibowitz’s hero as well, though he obviously interprets his thought completely differently. Hartman explains (ibid., 117–130), in detail and at great length, the difference between his own interpretation of Maimonides and that of Leibowitz. I prefer Hartman’s interpretation. For more on Leibowitz’s thought, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 257–289, especially 286–289.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

classify him with those who hold the unresolved dialectical approach—the dual truth approach—which on the level of practical, halakhic action must be suppressed. At the conclusion of this chapter, Hartman adds a sharp criticism of Soloveitchik’s halakhic approach, which obligates the Jew to relinquish his rational, moral autonomy, to subordinate himself unconditionally to halakhic tradition, and to live in loneliness, removed from communities of other believers and from external criticism. Such a life is liable to result in moral deceit and religious arrogance. A human being who lives such a life is liable to think mistakenly that the Tabernacle of absolute truth is located entirely within the halakhically faithful Jewish community. There is danger in the self-righteousness of this kind of thought: But the danger is innate in any theology that exalts the Torah, as the revealed word of God, above the limitations that are part of normal human rationality. If the practical meaning of the biblical revolution is not self-evident, but requires as well as living tradition mediated by commentary, then the revelatory system of Judaism is not immune from the limitations and imperfections of the human mind. [. . .] When the faith commitment has been insulated from and is unresponsive to rational criticism, there is nothing that cannot be justified in the name of tradition. History has shown the dangers that result when religious traditions claim to transcend the limits of human finitude and to embody absolute universal truth. People who believe that authentic faith requires that they follow the model of the Akedah may sacrifice thousands of innocent human beings in the name of their “insane” love for God. Soloveitchik seeks to justify the faith posture of “loneliness” by making severe ad hominem attacks on “majestic” Western culture. [. . .] I call these accusations ad hominem because Soloveitchik has not presented any solid argument to show that the denounced failings are intrinsic to Western culture, to show that the community outside of the covenantal faith framework must necessarily be dominated by self-interest and demonic in its quest for success. These features of human life can certainly be seen in many members of the nonhalakhic community, but it would hypocritical to ignore the fact that they also characterize both individuals and groups found inside the halakhic community itself. Soloveitchik admits that all human beings are susceptible to such failings; he has not shown that Western culture is innately less capable of coping with them than is the covenantal faith community. His denunciations of Western spiritual people could easily be

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Between Religion and Reason construed as encouraging the very form of religious self-righteousness of which he wished to purge covenantal man in his article “Catharsis.”29

My interpretation of Soloveitchik’s approach is different. His relationship to the tumultuous secular world that surrounded him, both in the United States and in Israel, was, to be sure, negative, and he would have preferred to live without it. But Soloveitchik thought that, in accordance with the existential, biblical truth, if secular culture were purified of its errors and mistakes, then an investigative, rational man would appear, who would rebel against and conquer this culture. It would then become evident that this type of man can be found naturally in the inward consciousness of every human being. That is equally true for the modern believer, and this was indeed the intention of the Creator for the good of humanity. This culture has independent, internal value, in ongoing dialectic tension with the submissive, withdrawn homo religiosus. This tension cannot be resolved either by the retreat or the victory of either side. Only at the level of practical action, in which, according to Soloveitchik, the tension must be suppressed and subordinated to the will of God, is Hartman’s critique correct. I would turn Hartman’s sharp criticism toward the Haredi community. For the phenomena to which Hartman refers with justifiable disgust and anxiety are evident there.30 In chapter eight Hartman discusses the difficult question of the reason for suffering and for the pain that comes arbitrarily upon human beings who believe in a God who acts justly, one who is good and does good. The question of the contradiction between faith and reason in the realm of suffering arose, of course, already in the biblical and rabbinic periods. Hartman—simultaneously indicating what answer he will give—presents it this way: When meticulous attempts to live up to covenantal responsibilities were followed by unexpected disasters, was it because of some undetectable 29 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 102–104. See M. Fish, “Mishnayim Le’eḥad Uvahazarah: Sippur(ey) Habriah Ve’antropologiat Habrit shel David Hartman,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 2:659–693. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 67–69. 30 See Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:29. In Hartman’s book devoted to the thought of Soloveitchik (D. Hartman, Love and Terror in the God Encounter: The Theological Legacy of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik [Woodstock, VT, 2001]), there is a development in his understanding of Soloveitchik. On this, see below. On the danger that dogmatism and the sense of superiority in Haredism and “Hardalism” (nationalistically inclined ultra-Orthodoxy) pose to religious pluralism, to relationships with other religions, and to universalism, see Hartman, A Living Covenant, 303–304.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four flaw in apparently exemplary behavior, or was it because of the sins of earlier years or even of previous generations? When the wicked prospered, on the other hand, how long would one have to wait for divine punishment? One cannot ascribe a sense of dignity to people who are burdened by such questions and are unable to handle their understanding of how God responds to their lives. [. . .] To the philosopher or theologian concerned with the problem of theodicy, the existence of morally indifferent causes of suffering appears to be incompatible with the existence of an all-powerful and benevolent God. Such an individual is faced with the problem of reconciling what seems to be an incompatibility of facts and beliefs. How is it logically possible to claim that God is the just Lord of History in the light of the senseless evil manifest in the world? The problem of suffering appears in a different light, however, when the focus is more on its anthropological than its theological implications. The question then becomes: How do we respond to events that can call into question our whole identity as God’s relational partners? Can we allow ourselves to embrace a personal God, knowing that chaos can at any moment invade our reality and arbitrarily nullify all our efforts and expectations? Do we have the strength to open ourselves to a personal God in a world filled with unpredictable suffering? When her child dies, the question a mother faces is less how to explain the logic of God’s omnipotence than whether she has the strength and emotional energy to love again. From the anthropological perspective on the problem of evil, therefore, the prime concern is not so much to defend the notions of divine justice and power. It is rather, as in other personal relationships, to determine what measure of continuity, stability, and predictability can enable the relationship with God to survive all shocks.31

The rabbinic sages’ response to this question, Hartman tells us, was not dogmatic. Rabbi Akiva, for example, interpreted happiness and pain according to circumstances, sometimes to be resolved in this world and sometimes in the world to come. At the moment when he himself was led out to an excruciating death at the hand of the Romans, he drew an immediate lesson that had nothing to do either with reward and punishment or with the world to come. He interpreted his suffering as an occasion to realize his great religious dream to love God unconditionally, with a passion that transcended the 31 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 184–187.

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Between Religion and Reason normal human instinct of self-preservation. [. . .] In general, the rabbis sought to transform suffering, even their own, into a means of deepening their understanding of the Torah and the mitzvot. When tragedy occurred, their characteristic question was “What can we learn from this?” and typically they taught that repentance (teshuvah) was always a proper response to suffering. “If a man sees that painful sufferings visit him, let him examine his conduct. . . . If he did . . . not find [anything amiss], let him be sure that these are chastenings of love.”32

Hartman admits that he does not offer a definitive answer to the question of arbitrary suffering. In his opinion, since the question is not a theological or philosophical one but touches on personal relationships between the individual and God and between the community and God, the responses to suffering will be different for different personality types: Some find the unpredictable dimensions of reality to be so overwhelming that they cannot bear the strain of not knowing whether God loves them or has turned away from them. Theism gives them the feeling that to live religiously is to be doomed to remain psychologically a manicdepressive. For them, suffering is bearable if it results from the limitations of finite human beings, but it becomes terrifying and demonic if it is seen as part of the scheme of their all-powerful Creator. Others would find life unbearably chaotic if they could not believe that suffering, tragedy, and death were part of God’s plan for the world. Feeling that there is meaning and order in the world and that God in His wisdom decided to terminate the life of their loved one makes their tragedy bearable.33

All the same, these answers are not satisfying and raise difficulties. How would the first type of person explain suffering that is not the fruit of human limitations but the outcome of natural disasters? For the omnipotent God could have prevented them, or alternatively have created a natural world in which there are no such disasters. The second type would have difficulty understanding what kind of plan could rationally require a child to die of disease. Hartman simply avoids the philosophical and theological aspect of these questions and gives it no answer whatsoever. He understands for the first time that it will never be possible to reconcile a still-strong religious faith with reason, 32 Ibid., 195–196. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 232–234. 33 Hartman, A Living Covenant, 202.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

despite the contradiction that suffering expresses. Even the Holocaust did not extinguish this faith: If Jewish theism was not destroyed by two thousand years of exile, it should not be imagined that even the Holocaust could destroy it. Those theologians who pronounced God dead or dethroned since Auschwitz misunderstood the source and staying power of covenantal theism. In trying to understand the power and hold that the Judaic tradition has had over individuals for thousands of years, one must recall that the end of wisdom includes knowing the limits of what one can fully judge. “Hands off ” is what William James would advise us when encountering the mysterious phenomenon of covenantal faith. Philosophy done in the spirit of James teaches us to be sensitive listeners rather than passers of judgment on visions of life that are possibly far more complex than some of our theories of truth and meaning can handle.34

Having said all this on the topic of reward and punishment and the suffering that comes to decent people who serve God, Hartman, influenced by Maimonides, admits that indeed, from a philosophical point of view, Aristotle was right: There is no reward and punishment; the sudden death of a child, a terrible earthquake, the sinking of a passenger ship in which wicked people and righteous people both perish—all these are inexplicable. But Maimonides thinks the public must be educated to integrate all this within a covenantal perspective, to ensure social order and the serious relationship of the individual and the public with a moral life. Hartman therefore employs models of providence and reward and punishment even though he admits that he does not understand them: Maimonides considers that if we look upon human suffering and death in the same way as we view the death of flies, then ultimately the seriousness with which the community takes moral norms will be undermined. If the community is to be influenced to build human life on the principles of the Torah, a way must be found to relate these occurrences of suffering to a larger scheme of justice. For moral reasons, therefore, Maimonides is prepared to utilize the model of reward and punishment, while admitting at the same time that he is unable to understand how this justice model of 34 Ibid., 203.

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Between Religion and Reason reward and punishment in fact works. [. . .] He agrees with Aristotle that providence is manifested in the ordered framework of causality and necessity, such as the motions of the heavenly bodies. At the same time, he realizes that it is crucial for a religious moral political order that the community remain firm in its belief that all human suffering occurs within the framework of divine judgment. Without that belief, the loyalty of the individual and the community to the Torah could be undermined. With that belief, on the other hand, the community can even be strengthened by tragedy, since it will react to disasters with repentance and moral self-renewal.35

Here you have a description of the two strata of Maimonides’s thought as Hartman analyzes it. In fact Hartman admits that, in the realm of the problem of suffering and evil, religion and Torah contradict philosophy and science on the level of ordinary people and what is required for their education (according to Strauss’s interpretation of Maimonides, with which Hartman disagrees). On the elite level, it is a lack of knowledge that prevents the integration of the two realms. The philosopher remains with the contradiction between the divine good in which he believes and the divine transcendence called for by philosophy, and he cannot reconcile them. Everything Hartman says on the subject relates only to the existential level, the Jewish way of life, on which level the two realms are indeed integrated. The fact that Aristotle is no longer relevant (as he noted at the beginning of this book) does not change the answer: Maimonides, to whom the Jewish community gave such great authority to define its halakhic life that he may be said to have shaped the development of Jewish behavior for the last eight hundred years, believed that the theistic vision intrinsic to Judaism can be absorbed within a philosophy that recognizes the will of God in the ordered regularities of the world of nature. It is unimportant whether the Aristotelian philosophical and scientific conceptions embraced by Maimonides are seen as valid today. What is important is that here is a master authority of the Judaic normative tradition who struggled to give vitality to covenantal halakhah through a perception of the world that does not restrict divine immediacy to the miraculous. In this respect, therefore, Maimonides provides a more than adequate precedent

35 Ibid., 248–249.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four in the Judaic tradition for seeing the Sinai covenant as an operative model for understanding God’s action in history.36

After this struggle between the philosophical dimension and the existential dimension, Hartman summarizes his discussion of suffering with an ironic, somewhat Leibowitzian air. Here he is closer to Leibowitz’s interpretation of Maimonides—that history and the world are devoid of any moral interference by God, and that religious and ethical categories are completely separate: God Who submits to the autonomy of human reason in the academy of Torah learning thereby invites the Judaic community to construct its covenantal relationship with God in categories that do not annul our human sense of justice. [. . .] I therefore do not accept that all of history embodies an inscrutable form of divine justice. The tragic is present in human life because contingency and the possibility of suffering are intrinsic to it. To reiterate Maimonides, it is “foolish” to imagine that one could be human and yet not be vulnerable to death and suffering. Undeserved suffering is a permanent possibility of life in this universe. In “pursuing its normal course,” the world functions according to its own morally neutral pattern. It is therefore an error to try to explain such a world in toto by means of human ethical categories. Not everything that occurs in human history and in nature expresses the moral judgment of a personal God. Nor does the covenant of mitzvah offer a worldview that enables everything that occurs in the world to be placed within a larger, rational moral scheme—not now and equally not in an eschatological future. Rather, it provides a way for living in a universe shot through with the possibility of suffering.37

36 Ibid., 250. 37 Ibid., 268. For more on Hartman’s position see Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 108–110, 118–119. The “inscrutability of divine justice” that is implicit in Soloveitchik’s perspective on suffering (which Hartman rejects) strengthens my own claim that Soloveitchik advocates the dual truth approach. According to Hartman, “While Soloveitchik does not suppose that we shall ever achieve a full rational comprehension of God’s actions in history, he does believe that, in principle, were we able to look at the world from God’s vantage point, we would understand how all of human suffering is compatible with the belief in God as a loving Creator and just Lord of History. He suggests that we respond to suffering as Job did, by becoming more sensitive, loving, and caring toward other human beings” (Living Covenant, 267). That is, in our world there is a contradiction, and only in the world of the Holy One are things unified. This is the unresolved dialectical approach. In my humble opinion, Hartman’s approach, based on the system of Maimonides, is problematic in that it is apologetic, illusionary, and

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If we do not recognize the ongoing contradiction that exists between reason and Western morality on the one hand and faith and revelation on the other, it is nonetheless possible to point to certain problems in this approach: Why must human life be bound up, by its very nature, in events and afflictions that are not the work of human hands? Why should a decent person be forced to risk exposure to suffering? This is in fact the position in which human beings find themselves. But why should it be this way? Could not a loving, omnipotent God have created some other kind of human being, or a different nature, from which He would withhold unjustified, immoral suffering?

ISRAELIS AND THE JEWISH TRADITION The third book I wish to discuss here was written thirteen years after A Living Covenant. It is based on a series of lectures that Hartman gave in 1998 at Yale University and was published in 2000. In this book, Hartman deals with the question of the dispute between religious Judaism, which adheres to tradition, and secular Judaism, which relies on reason, and the desirable relationship between them in the State of Israel. In the introduction he explains that religious Zionism is disillusioned about messianism and is searching for a new theology of history, while the secularists are disillusioned about nationalism and are searching for a connection to tradition that is not in the Orthodox mold. Hartman tries to suggest to both sides, polarized and searching in crisis, “new ways of integrating the Jewish tradition with modern culture and values.”38 In the first chapter he adds to these two extremes the Haredim, on the traditional side, and the Reform and Conservative movements, who stand between the two camps. Hartman presents the reader with a situation of decided weakening of solidarity in Israeli society, which demands a solution that will permit the integration he is seeking. The religious have loyalty to God, tradition, and the authority of Halakhah, while the secularists have loyalty to the Jewish people and the state: The Jewish nation and Israel thereby usurp God’s role in defining the meaning and purpose of Jewish history. [. . .] The bold, revolutionary establishment of the Jewish state met with unanticipated historical naïve. For further analysis of the problem of suffering see Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 117–125 (on Soloveitchik) and ibid., 125–131, 139–140 (on Hartman). 38 D. Hartman, Israelis and the Jewish Tradition: An Ancient People Debating Its Future (New Haven, CT, 2000), xi.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four and cultural setbacks that left the confrontation between the Jewish tradition and modernity unresolved. [. . .] It is therefore impossible to escape the issues involved in the confrontation of modernity with the three-thousand-year-old Judaic religious tradition. Can Judaism thrive in a democratic pluralistic society? How can a majority of nonobservant Israelis become empowered to reclaim the Jewish tradition without repudiating all that they value in the modern world? How can we provide a religious response to the rebirth of nationhood without placing our national renaissance within the continuum of a redemptive messianic process? Can we respond to events religiously without claiming to know God’s will or perceiving Israel in eschatological terms? The categories and language with which we discuss these issues will define the future health and viability of Israeli society. The growing divisions and animosity between Jews concerned with rituals and traditional symbols of Jewish particularity, on the one hand, and those committed to the liberal values of democracy, human rights, and individual freedom, on the other, threaten the social and political viability of Israeli society. Must the rebirth of nationhood and the concern with security and Jewish survival be antithetical to sharing in a universal language of moral discourse? The perennial Jewish debate regarding universalism versus particularism surfaces repeatedly in the acrimonious political rhetoric of Israeli society.39

Needing a solution that would lead to the possibility of “brethren dwelling together” (which is no different from the solution he suggested in his earlier books), Hartman analyzes the approaches of Judah Halevi and Maimonides. In his opinion, the two points of view, so different from each other, represent two types of religious consciousness. They reflect the difference between the characteristics of Diaspora Judaism before the establishment of the state, which match the Halevi approach, and the desired characteristics of Judaism after the establishment of the state, which match the Maimonides approach. Halevi’s particularistic approach, reliant on the prophetic culture of the Bible, makes no allowance for an integration of Torah and philosophy. But 39 Ibid., 20–25. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 137–138; E. Ramon, “Yahadut Ḥilonit Viyhudim Ḥiloniyim Behaguto Hadatit shel David Hartman,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 1:425– 443. On the negation of utopianism by Hartman see also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 110–114, 145–150.

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Maimonides’s universalistic one, reliant on the textual culture of the Talmud, is based on precisely such an integration: Halevi’s event-based theology had its roots in the biblical tradition, whereas Maimonides’ philosophical religious worldview may be understood as reflecting certain important features of the talmudic tradition. Halevi’s religious sensibility is energized by a quest for distinctiveness and uniqueness, a desire to sustain and confirm the fundamental meaning of Jewish destiny through a revelation of Judaism’s uniqueness. Maimonides, on the other hand, encourages the cultivation of a religious sensibility that does not thrive on distinctiveness and uniqueness but is able—and actively tries— to translate the Jewish religion and way of life into universal categories of rationality and human psychology. The particularity of Judaism has significance for Maimonides without dubious claims about the distinctive logic of revelation and divine authority. [. . .] I argue that the talmudic tradition provided an appropriate framework for Maimonides to incorporate the God of Aristotle into the Jewish tradition. Had Judaism consisted solely of the Bible, Maimonides’ intellectual and religious undertaking would have been— some scholars claim it actually was—unintelligible from a Jewish point of view. The distinction between Athens and Jerusalem would have been far too radical and thus unbridgeable in the quest for a plausible way of combining Aristotle’s God of being with the prophetic God of history. The Talmud, however, provided a suitable context for Maimonides’ philosophical religious outlook in that it shifted the focus of the Jewish tradition from a revelation-centered, event-based theology to a Torah/text-centered religious way of life. In this new environment learning and developing the Torah were the main organizing components of experiencing God’s presence in history. The rabbinic tradition thus provided a framework for expressing a religious passion that was not nurtured or driven by the dramatic interventions of God in history.40

The main difference between Judah Halevi and Maimonides with regard to revealing the truth is as follows: Halevi thinks that biblical prophetic revelation is the touchstone for revealing the truth, while Maimonides believes 40 Hartman, Israelis and the Jewish Tradition, xii–xiv. It appears to me that the “scholars” to whom Hartman alludes are the Straussian expositors of Maimonides’s thought. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 197–200.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four

that rabbinic reasoning and philosophy are the touchstone. As Hartman puts it, “Maimonides was prepared to collapse revelation into the rational human enterprise of learning and understanding whereas Halevi insisted that the prophetic mode is a continuous source of law.”41 In the last chapter of the book, Hartman once again suggests that today we must rely on the method Maimonides outlined in his exegesis of the Bible and of rabbinic literature. He says it is possible to integrate reason and tradition by means of the interpretative identicality approach, and by doing so to provide a method that suits the search for truth by both of the disputing sides. This perspective will free us from the idea of reward and punishment in history and from the demand for obedience and particularism. It will lead us to the notion that “the reward for performing a commandment is another commandment,” to solid, intellectual study of the texts of Judaism and to a universalism informed by the idea of creation. This approach is based on the words of Maimonides with regard to how “the theme of Creation affects the application of the Sinaitic revelation. If we understood and applied the mitzvoth in keeping with the universalistic spirit of Creation, we would realize that the true intent of God’s revelation is to create a people who would embrace and feel responsible for and compassionate toward all human beings: the Creation narrative— solidarity with all human beings—is necessary for realizing the true spirit of Torah law.”42 This integration between the narrative of creation and the narrative of Sinai can free us from the dilemma of having to choose between them: “Understanding that the Judaic tradition gave us both the Creation and the Sinai narratives can ameliorate the growing divisions and animosities between secular and religious groups in Israeli society.”43 If we adopt this narrative, we will be able to shed both the humiliation of the stranger and the scorn of those who follow other religions. We will see this kind of offensive behavior as a sort of idolatry that puts us “in danger of diminishing God’s reality.”44 Moreover, we will be able to feel the same pain at public transgression of the ritual commandments, like kashrut and Sabbath violation, as we do at transgressions of the social and ethical commandments, like injustice toward and exploitation of foreign workers and minorities. It must be noted that many Orthodox Jews disregard the latter, “relinquishing concern for the ethical and moral quality of our 41 Hartman, Israelis and the Jewish Tradition, 121. 42 Ibid., 133–134. 43 Ibid., 134. 44 Ibid., 120.

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society to secular and Reform Jews.”45 Hartman identifies faith and the struggle against idolatry with ethical qualities and sanctification of human life. Yet others, like Leibowitz, prefer to identify faith with the complete obedience that characterized the Akedah, an obedience that “transcends human knowledge and morality.”46 Hartman prefers the Abraham who bargains for the lives of the people of Sodom, a story in which God accepts the legitimacy of Abraham’s arguments, to the obedient Abraham of the story of the Akedah. Those who are faithful to tradition must behave like the Abraham of the Sodom story, who acts in accordance with reason and morality and protests the divine command. In this way they will be able to establish a dialogue with the secularists, who are guided by general ethical principles, not religious ones. Along the same lines, when universal reason and morality are opposed to tradition, it is necessary even today to reinterpret the texts so as to reconcile the two sides: Just as Abraham does not doubt his own moral sense of justice in arguing with God so we in the modern world must not sacrifice our moral intuitions on the altar of loyalty to our particular religious traditions. We must not be intimidated by a “My ways are not your ways” argument when we feel critical of the moral teachings of our tradition. I believe that God’s confirmation of Abraham’s understanding of justice is analogous to Maimonides’ encouragement to people not to repress their intellectual curiosity and sense of honesty but to accept knowledge and truth whatever the source. Maimonides was prepared to reinterpret the entire biblical tradition had Aristotle demonstrated the truth of the doctrine of the eternity of the universe. The analogy between Maimonides’ willingness to reinterpret his tradition on the basis of Aristotelian philosophical demonstration and the legitimacy of our reinterpretation of the Jewish tradition in light of our moral knowledge is an important one. [. . .] I would argue that many of our moral beliefs that are universally acknowledged by people of goodwill, such as not inflicting undeserved suffering on another, respecting the sacredness of all human life, and not arbitrarily discriminating between persons in the administration of justice, are as intellectually and humanly compelling to us as Aristotelian demonstrative truths were to Maimonides. For Maimonides, nothing was sacrosanct if it entailed a conflict with truth. 45 Ibid., 126. 46 Ibid., 122.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four We today must not suppress our deepest moral intuitions when evaluating the moral and legal claims of our tradition. Love of God as mediated by our particular traditions must always remain a critical love because God’s acceptance of our humanity—which is the basis of our covenant with God—includes our understanding of justice.47

Hartman explains his vision of the unique character of Judaism in the sovereign state of Israel and the nature of the relations between the religious sector and the secular sector: Israel is not a return to a religious or political ghetto where Jewish particularity and universality conflict, where symbolic religious ritual and the passion for social justice are unrelated expressions of loyalty to traditional Judaism. Israel represents the birth of a healthy society that seeks to create a nation like all other nations. [. . .] If we fail to help these Israelis [who are committed to the cultural and intellectual traditions of liberal democratic societies but wish to retrieve the vitality of their own Jewish heritage] become intellectually adequate to reconnect with their tradition, we will further aggravate the religious-secular polarization that poisons the political climate of Israeli society, threatening its future stability. In responding to this issue I offer an approach to traditional Judaism that is less authoritarian and intimidating and more supportive of Israelis who wish to integrate the Jewish tradition with modernity. [. . .] In spite of their rejection of many of the values and institutions which traditional Jews regard as sacred and their radically secular interpretation of Jewish history, secular Israelis continue to participate in the body politic of the Jewish people. They have revived the sacred Hebrew language into a living language of everyday life and literature, and they share many of the traditional texts, symbols, and festivals that are essential features of the Jewish tradition. We must never forget that secular Israelis perceive themselves as members of the family of the Jewish people. [. . .] I now share Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s skepticism about the positive influence of Israel on the future of Judaism. I also share his fear that the Jewish people are on the verge of losing their covenantal identity by becoming a secular people. [. . .] I fear that the secularization of the Jewish people is a real possibility—and the disappearance of the Jewish

47 Ibid., 141–143.

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Between Religion and Reason people as traditionally understood is equally possible.48 Because of my belief in the serious challenge secularization poses to the continuity of the Jewish tradition and the Jewish people, I recognize the need to interpret Judaism in a way that would empower Israelis and Jews throughout the world to reengage with their tradition. [. . .] Given the deep fragmentation of the Jewish community, we need to be wary of solutions that demand a coherent, monolithic understanding of Judaism. Instead we must recognize that there is a tradition waiting to be addressed and waiting to speak to us. The question is how to speak to and how to listen to that tradition.49

In conclusion, Hartman suggests paths for action that would integrate the cultural world of the secularists with that of the traditionalists by joint intellectual exploration of texts of “Torah.” The texts of “Halakhah” would be studied together as an educational rather than legal framework—one that is inviting and flexible, not authoritative, obligatory, or threatening: Presenting Judaism as a closed system with a fixed menu prepared exactly according to divine requirements can stifle and inhibit genuine engagement with the tradition. I therefore make the following distinction in order to counteract this dogmatic and naïve understanding of Judaism and, more important, to create an inviting atmosphere, so that even those who are indifferent to revelation and Halakhic practice can participate in and enhance Judaism’s interpretive tradition. I shall distinguish between the concepts of Torah and Halakhah, two distinct categories that are often conflated by those who lack an understanding of the rich, multidimensional nature of Judaism as an interpretive culture. The term Torah, in its broadest sense, can best be understood to include both what was considered the revealed word of God and the long history of interpretation. The Torah, therefore, is comprised of the written Torah (biblical literature), and the oral Torah (midrash, talmud), legal and haggadic works, medieval and modern responsa literature, Kabbalah, hasidism, medieval and modern Jewish philosophy, theology, poetry, and literature. The Torah spans generations of different religious sensibilities, offering the broadest possible 48 I think if he wrote this today, Hartman would be more worried about the shift back toward the religious and political right, in fundamentalist, messianic, and mystical directions, than about the shift toward secularism. Indeed, he notes this change in his introduction to his book Love and Terror in the God Encounter, 3–4. See below. 49 Hartman, Israelis and the Jewish Tradition, 148–159.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four definition of the scope of Jewish spirituality. [. . .] Just as the possibilities of raising legitimate questions are enormous, so too are the directions and paths a Torah discussion can take. [. . .] The mitzvah of talmud torah, studying the Torah, is not fulfilled only by studying law in its final, authoritative form. The benediction recited every morning, “Blessed are You Lord our God who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to be engaged in the words of the Torah,” is valid even when the texts studied are not considered to be the revealed word of God or do not convey the accepted halakhic practice of the community. [. . .] In the context of a Torah discussion I am concerned not only with final decisions and accepted practice but with whatever conjectures and ideas have been articulated even tentatively during the course of Jewish intellectual history. Modern talmudic scholars and Jewish thinkers should uncover the different directions available for the engagement with the biblical and talmudic traditions. It is also important to show how traditional texts can make room for new possibilities. [. . .] The concept of Halakhah differs from this notion of the Torah insofar as it refers to the accepted authoritative body of law that governs and regulates community practice. [. . .] Living within the confines of Halakhah presupposes an advanced stage of religious commitment to conform to the weight of authority of the halakhic tradition. An exploration of the Torah, however, does not require or presuppose such a commitment. [. . .] Viewing Halakhah from an educational, experimental perspective need not threaten the legal integrity of the halakhic system. [. . .] When Halakhah becomes an invitation to listen to and explore traditional forms of Jewish spirituality, it becomes more inviting and inclusive, less authoritarian. Halakhah could be understood less in terms of a legal system with enormous, weighty claims of authority and more as an experimental educational system that suggests rather than dictates the forms of Jewish spiritual living. Halakhah would thus be understood as a more inviting and flexible mode of discourse. Many Israelis are disturbed and angered by the dangerous polarization between a ghetto vision of Judaism that repudiates modernity and a radical secularism that ridicules the tradition. In relaxing the language of the Jewish tradition, we would empower those who are drawn to the Jewish tradition but who nonetheless feel intimidated or repelled by the traditional authoritarian mode of religious discourse. Inviting Jews to reconnect with the Torah is especially important at this time in Jewish history because the crucial problem for the majority of Jews today is not Halakhah but the lack of identification

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Between Religion and Reason with and appreciation of their Jewish heritage. [. . .] New halakhic decisions will not change the direction of Jewish history unless we first rehabilitate the meaning of being a Torah-covenantal community. Halakhah and the rabbinate will change when people concerned with egalitarianism, human rights, and social justice view the Jewish tradition as the natural context in which to express their concerns. This will only come about, however, when we develop a compelling, intellectual, and moral vision of what it means to be an interpretive, text-centered community.50

It is therefore evident that it is the fear of contradiction that leads Hartman to a dramatic upheaval in the reach of Halakhah. In his proposal, Halakhah would have to be secularized in order to extricate it from the hands of the rabbis and halakhic decisors and to open it up to ethical and educational interpretation rather than the traditional legal interpretation. But by doing this he actually loses the tradition that he so loves and pours out the baby with the bathwater.

A HEART OF MANY ROOMS The fourth book by Hartman that I wish to discuss here was published in English in 1999, just one year after his lectures at Yale. In this book one first sees a certain tendency toward the resolved dialectical approach, resolution being achieved through interpretation of the statements of revelation, but as the book continues he gives priority to the compartmental approach. He presents several insights with regard to the kind of interpretation that is necessary nowadays if we wish to heal the rupture between tradition and modernity—an interpretation that, in his opinion, must be based on contemporary notions of pluralism. Meanwhile, he stretches his own lofty pluralism as far as it can possibly go. At the beginning of chapter one of the book he describes his personal difficulties in the struggle between tradition and modernity: I myself feel this kind of paradoxical relationship to modern culture, this complicated alternation between attraction and repulsion, affinity and estrangement. On one level, I embrace modern culture; on another level, I am often critical of and repelled by it. I relate to modernity with both openness and reservation. Both moves define my soul. I am very deeply rooted in the classical talmudic tradition, which was perpetuated in the 50 Ibid., 161–165.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four modern world by the yeshiva (talmudic academy) Torah culture. I thus can be a kindred spirit with the Orthodox Haredi community in Jerusalem, the “black hat community” who have chosen the culture of the shtetl over modernity. At times, I can truly say that I share their love of and devotion to Torah, their music, their spiritual yearnings. Yet, at other times I can join the ranks of the Zionist rebels who have rejected traditional Judaism. My soul moves in multiple and diverse directions.51

Hartman now makes a distinction between Maimonides’s medieval world and our modern world, which is open to a variety of cultures and moralities that confront and compete with each other. He struggles with whether we can still follow the path recommended by Maimonides: to interpret tradition according to secular knowledge and philosophy, which were understood in Maimonides’s day to be absolutely decisive: This situation differs dramatically from the medieval world, where Aristotelian philosophy was considered the most perfect intellectual tradition available to human beings. Maimonides felt no qualms about reinterpreting all anthropomorphic biblical texts as metaphors. [. . .] Our moral discourse today is filled with ambiguity, conflict, and uncertainty. And this is what makes the issue of reinterpretation of the tradition in light of modern moral insights so problematic.52

Hartman discusses the Jewish interpretive tradition and chooses that which prefers the Abraham of Sodom over that which prefers the Abraham of the Akedah. This means that the divine law must correspond to his own moral understanding. He suggests for our contemporary age a rational, critical interpretation that will allow for a multiplicity of disputing voices and opposes absolutism, parochialism, and dogmatism: The strict traditionalists might have shot back [in response to claims made on the basis of reason]: “How dare you question God’s wisdom?” only to be countered by an equally earnest statement of religious commitment: “God’s laws must reflect, in some way, my understanding of reality and morality. Not sacrificing what I believe to be fair and just is not a violation 51 Hartman, Rooms, 3–4. 52 Ibid., 4–5.

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Between Religion and Reason of any belief in God or in divine authority. My moral intuitions have been nurtured by the study of Torah!” [. . .] There is a beautiful metaphor in the Tosefta that describes the kind of religious sensibility the Talmud tried to nurture: “Make yourself a heart of many rooms and bring into it the words of the House of Shammai and the words of the House of Hillel, the words of those who declare unclean and the words of those who declare clean” (Sotah 7:12). In other words, become a person in whom different opinions can reside together in the very depths of your soul. Become a religious person who can live with ambiguity, who can feel religious conviction and passion without the need for simplicity and absolute certainty.53

Here is another formulation of his on the same topic: To the person of faith, living according to the majority opinion is significantly different from accepting the one and only authoritative opinion. If your tradition is based on learning, interpretation, and disagreements among scholars, rather than on the absolute word of prophetic revelation, you cannot escape the haunting uncertainty of knowing that alternative ways are religiously viable and authentic.54

All the same, there remain today uncertainty and controversy with regard to the appropriate moral insight. Therefore, the modern traditional interpreter need not worry that his position might not be acceptable to all who hear him, as long as it matches his own critical moral insight: As I have argued throughout this discussion, loyalty to tradition need not suspend critical intelligence. One should not feel paralyzed because of doubt or inhibited from entering an interpretive process because of the realization that one’s moral intuitions are not self-evident and universal. The legacy of the interpretive community requires its contemporary heirs to be fully awake to the possibility that the interpretive strategies they adopt may not be shared by all, and that diversity and disagreement are not signs of inauthenticity. If we can rid ourselves of the obsession with certainty and finality—if we can internalize the spirit of the covenantal idea—then the

53 Ibid., 20–21. 54 Ibid., 150.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four uncertainties of the modern world will not deter us from renewing the vital interpretive processes that define our religious heritage.55

Another of Hartman’s insights stems from the ambiguity, conflict, and uncertainty that pervade the general culture. In his opinion, we have an obligation to devote ourselves to the study and teaching of contemporary, rational, non-religious culture, despite the tension and doubts that this is liable to arouse. After all, Maimonides too underwent this struggle before he wrote the Guide of the Perplexed. It seems to me that Hartman once again follows Strauss’s interpretation with regard to the uncertainty, perplexity, and “anguish of doubt”56 in Maimonides’s thought. All this in order that we may be able to adopt correct ideas and interpret revelation in accordance with them, in order to forge a correspondence between the two realms: In suggesting that students in our traditional educational system engage in dialogue with Jews who live according to different lifestyles and value systems, we, too, realize that such encounters may create serious doubts and questions. Previously accepted certainties may have to be rethought. Recognizing this, we must help our students overcome such potentially paralyzing doubts by providing them with tools that will sustain them through periods of intellectual struggle. What educational approach will help our students realize that a religiously committed person can live with conflict and doubt? What insights can turn the turmoil of encountering others to creative use? How can we convince students that doubt can contain the seeds of new insights into untapped depths of the tradition? [. . .] Instead of viewing the tradition as immune to novelty, the student must be taught to appreciate the profound dialectic between continuity and innovation in the rabbinic tradition. A religious education that provides an appreciation of the thought processes of the rabbinic mind and the dynamic tension between continuity and novelty in our foundational texts would encourage today’s students to continue in the tradition of bold yet loyal parshanut (commentary, interpretation) without fear. [. . .] A generation that has to grapple with intellectual challenges and to grow spiritually within a pluralistic society that is often indifferent to its deepest commitments must 55 Ibid., 36. 56 Ibid., 96. I demonstrated this above, in connection with Hartman’s attempt to solve the problem of evil.

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Between Religion and Reason be provided with models of how creative possibilities can emerge out of doubt and uncertainty. We pay a heavy price for not revealing the struggles of faith. The dropout rate from religious circles into pluralistic secular society reflects the weakness of an educational approach that hides the reality of religious confusion.57

Hartman for the first time suggests a kind of resolved dialectical approach, in the spirit of his teacher Rav Soloveitchik. All the same, Hartman thinks Soloveitchik resolved the tension in the synthesis (as it were) in the direction of submission to one extreme—revelation. But this approach entails complete annulment of the other extreme, that of reason. Hartman now suggests his own solution, a synthesis in the direction of reason. (This too is not really a synthesis, since there is no suggested dialectic process for sublation but rather a process whereby revelation is interpreted rationally.) The dialectic tension between reason and revelation, the uncertainty, the ambiguity, and the struggle, lead to a synthesis of certainty and faith via reinterpretation of revelation. A study of the variety of reasons for the commandments, a recognition of the various approaches of the mystics, Maimonides, and Halevi, of the pluralistic teleology of the Aggadah and of the various paths to halakhic decision-making will strengthen our ability “to accommodate many different spiritual sensibilities,”58 enabling students to find a “richness in their spiritual lives”59 that can lead to this synthesis. Hartman also suggests, in line with Maimonides, a dialogue between believers and non-believers, Jews and non-Jews, through finding a spiritual language that both sides share. This language would not be based on faithfulness to Halakhah but on approaches to fulfillment of the commandments that do not stem from an Akedah mindset: rational explanations for those commandments whose rationale is ethical and ideas that align with faith in God and oppose modern idolatry. According to Hartman, Maimonides already demonstrated that the Ethics of Aristotle and the halakhic framework share a common conception of moral health. Although they do not share a common Halakhah, Maimonides indicates that to a great extent they share common goals. [. . .] If one were to follow in the spirit of Maimonides, 57 Ibid., 84–85. 58 Ibid., 97. 59 Ibid., 98.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four one could argue that today, individuals can share halakhic aspirations without sharing the same halakhic guidelines for their implementation. A student trained in this spirit could share a spiritual language with people without sharing common theological presuppositions. Halakhah would thus expose its students to the possibility of aggadic discourse independent of halakhic practice. [. . .] If our educational system were to emphasize the character traits that emerge from faith in God, and educate toward an appreciation of the contemporary meaning of the struggle against idolatry, we might alleviate the sense of cultural isolation that frequently oppresses the committed student of Halakhah, and begin to create a theological language that would be intelligible to various sectors of the community.60

Hartman harbors anxiety about dialectic tension. But such tension dissipates once he has suggested a solution based on the Maimonidean approach. Nonetheless, the fear of genuine, unresolvable contradiction is still strong in him and it leads him to apologetic, illusionary syntheses. Hartman believes, naively, that the syntheses he suggests are within easy reach and that all the apparent contradictions can be resolved in a simple way. But it is not only the pole of reason and culture that is complex and varied. The pole of revelation is, too. Here Hartman adopts an extraordinarily bold pluralistic insight, which I am not aware of in any other thinker who calls himself Orthodox. It is even bolder than the approaches of Rosenzweig, the younger Rav Kook, and Rabbi Heschel, and it resembles that of Bergman (who was a believer but not an Orthodox one).61 Here Hartman is very close to the compartmental approach of Mendelssohn and Leibowitz.62 According to this 60 Ibid., 104–110. 61 On Rosenzweig’s approach to Christianity, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 313–314. On the younger Rav Kook’s approach to Christianity and Islam, see ibid., 480–485. On Heschel’s approach to this topic and Hartman’s surprise that Heschel had not taken the next step, see Hartman, Rooms, 83–91. On Bergman’s approach see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:62–63. 62 All the same, it is important to emphasize that there is profound disagreement between Hartman and Leibowitz on the essence of Judaism. One expression of it is Leibowitz’s argument that there is a profound dichotomy between Judaism and Christianity. “Whereas Christianity promises to serve human needs, Judaism calls upon the individual to strive to worship God within the world as it is” (Hartman, Rooms, 285). An additional expression of it is Leibowitz’s claim that there is a similar gap between religious Jews and secular ones: “Leibowitz insisted that there could be no real dialogue between religious and nonreligious Jews” (ibid., 294). From the quotation cited below it clearly emerges that Hartman thinks the complete opposite. In this way Hartman broadens the compartmental approach

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approach, the sources of authority for the propagation of truth to humanity— revelation on the one hand and their own rationality on the other—are distinct parts of one all-encompassing truth. Neither source can question the other, and there can be no contradiction between them. Each source is oriented toward a different aspect of truth and has its own language. Hartman argues that alongside the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle on the side of reason, which is God’s revelation by means of the human intellect, divine revelation, in the Jewish tradition, comprises just part of the complete divine revelation. The divine revelations to other religions, the profound divergences between them notwithstanding, are not merely legitimate but true, and each of them is part of a greater revelation. They too must be included, and the intellectual path as well, with the aid of ongoing interpretation of each source of authority in its own right, in order to attain the revelation in its fullness. This will make it possible to include all of them without leading to any recognition that they are identical: Revelation expresses God’s willingness to meet human beings in their finitude, in their particular historical and social situation, and to speak to them in their own language. All these constraints prevent one from universalizing the significance of a particular revelation. Revelation in history, therefore, is always fragmentary and incomplete. Divine-human encounters cannot ever exhaust the divine plenitude. New human situations demand reinterpretation of the content of revelation. That is why interpretation of and commentary on the content of revelation are continuous activities. While the commentator does not create an original, independent work, he or she plays a creative role in determining the normative content of revelation. The Greek Neoplatonists believed that human reason could ascend to the level of divine thought and thus liberate the individual from the limits of human finitude. When Christian, Islamic, and Jewish theologians adopted this Greek concept of participation, they abandoned an essential feature of biblical religion, namely, creature consciousness. Subsequently, medieval philosophers went to great lengths to justify the need for revelation, given the belief that human beings could participate in the divine mind through reason. Revelation need not be understood as a source of absolute, eternal and transcendent of Leibowitz from religion and secular learning and morality to additional topics, like the relations between religious and secular people, and between Jews and adherents of other religions. Hartman explains the great differences between his own approach and that of Leibowitz at the end of the book (ibid., 290–295).

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four truth. Rather, it is God’s speaking to human beings within the limited framework of human language and history. Reason and revelation are not rival sources of knowledge. Revelation is not unique by virtue of its cognitive content. The Bible does not compete with Plato or Aristotle. Revelation is an expression of God’s love and confirmation of human beings in terms of their finitude and creatureliness; it is God’s speaking to human beings for their own sake and not in order to reveal the mysteries of the Divine mind. In Judaism, human beings become susceptible to the sin of idolatry when they believe they can transcend the limits of the human condition. There is nothing more efficacious for restoring humility to the human spirit than confronting people who do not share your “self-evident” truths. Because Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism are distinct spiritual paths, they bear witness to the complexity and fullness of the Divine reality. The lack of unity within Christianity and Judaism testifies to the radical diversity within human consciousness and to the rich mosaic of views and practices inspired by the quest for God in human history. Consciousness of the existence of multiple faith commitments can be spiritually redemptive. It can help you realize that your own faith commitment does not exhaust the full range of spiritual options. When the particularity of revelation is recognized, biblical faith does not have to seek to universalize itself. We may be living in a redemptive period of history precisely because religious pluralism has acquired legitimacy in the eyes of so many. Even though ecumenism is often driven by political considerations, the very fact that people feel the need to appear tolerant and committed to pluralism, whatever their inner convictions, indicates how deeply pluralism has become ingrained in the spirit of the age. In modern societies, people have little patience with exclusive, doctrinaire religious attitudes. Notwithstanding its problems and limitations, secular liberal society has created conditions for the emergence of religious humility by constraining the human propensity to universalize the particular.63

63 Ibid., 159–160. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 186–191; D. Dishon, “Pluralism Beyn-Dati: David Hartman al Du-Siaḥ Yehudi-Notzri,” in Sagi and Zohar, Meḥuyavut, 1:107–120; A. Sagi, “David Hartman: Hagut Modernistit—Pirkey Mavo,” in Sagi and Zohar, Meḥuyavut, 1:479–484.

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In a conversation that Hartman had with Jonathan Ben-Dov there emerged (among other things) the question of Hartman’s attitude to other religions. His lofty egalitarian and pluralistic approach was expressed concisely and clearly: The Christian context constructs its conception of divinity, Islam fashions God in its mold, and the Jewish people fashions God in its mold. That is, there is one God who gets different forms in human history. It is a single God, but one who takes shape in different forms throughout history.64

Hartman’s writings express his intellectual and critical, universalistic and pluralistic, open Orthodox thought. This must be said in his favor. To be sure, Rosenzweig noted the importance of Christianity in history for those who are not Jews. The younger Rav Kook defended Christianity and Islam, both of them born (in his words) from Judaism and helping it eradicate idolatry; he argued that Jesus and Muhammad had attained the Holy Spirit, albeit at a low level. Rabbi Berkowitz admitted that Orthodoxy has no proof that Torah comes from heaven; hence there is a theoretical possibility that the Conservative and Reform Jews are right and that he himself is mistaken. But none of them admits what Bergman and Hartman say: Judaism’s revelation, along with other religions and with philosophy, has just one slice of the “cake” of truth. All the same, it appears to me that Hartman’s overall thought, despite this last admission of his, is naïve, apologetic, and illusionary. Disappointingly, what he says is sweeping, theoretical, and rhetorical, and it can therefore be read with pleasure and with sympathy by the intelligent, non-fundamentalist, believing reader. Unfortunately, he has not yet touched on almost any of the specific, real problems that come up in the relationships between reason, science, philosophy, and ethics, on the one hand, and tradition, religion, and faith on the other. The problems he does write about, like the problem of suffering, he does not actually solve. Hartman does not deal whatsoever with a host of important problems—belief in the divine origin of the Torah, biblical criticism, specific differences between ethics based on Torah and Halakhah versus Western, rational ethics, the place of women, of children born of forbidden relations (mamzerim), of converts, of abandoned wives and of those with alternative sexual identities, the death penalty for Sabbath violators, homosexuals, 64 D. Hartman, Aseh Libkha Ḥadrey Ḥadarim, trans. Ya. Zohar (Tel Aviv, 2005), 240 (this interview does not appear in the English edition). See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 59–61, 93–95.

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adulterers, and those who commit incest—all of them topics that no interpretation can possibly either ignore or resolve. In the rest of our discussion here, Hartman will try to evade some of them. The reason for this is his uncompromising approach against any possibility of true dialectic tension and irresolvable contradiction.

LOVE AND TERROR IN THE GOD ENCOUNTER Hartman’s fifth book, Love and Terror in the God Encounter, was published in English in 2001, a year after his previous book. Hartman devoted this book to a detailed analysis and interpretation of the thought of his teacher, Rav Soloveitchik, and to a refutation of the interpretation of Soloveitchik’s thought by other scholars. His new explanations of the ideal person paint a completely different picture than the one that had described a submissive and obedient man. Now Hartman assents to the assumption that halakhic Judaism has contradictory states, acceptance and creativity, that are in dialectic tension with one another. “Halachic Man,” who studies Torah and fulfills the commandments, is still in a framework of obedience to the legislative authority of God. But the driving, dominant principle in his life is to act, within the framework of Halakhah, with joyful, intellectual independence, innovative and creative, involved in changing the world, to such an extent that God Himself (as it were) will acquiesce in his halakhic assertions.65 For the first time, Hartman emphasizes the distinction, which Soloveitchik makes in his book Halakhic Man, between homo religiosus, who lives in dialectic tension, and Halakhic man, who successfully overcomes this tension and resolves it: This vacillation between self-affirmation and total self-negation is the lot of homo religiosus. Halakhic man, by contrast, has a way of liberating himself from this painful tension within the human condition. R. Soloveitchik insists that, by placing mitzvah at the center of religious consciousness, Judaism offers the possibility of overcoming the paradox that perplexes homo religiosus. The commandments make sense only if we see them as reflecting God’s confidence in the capacities of human beings to take responsibility for building a holy kingdom on earth.66

65 See Hartman, Love and Terror, 40–43, 64. 66 Ibid., 69–70.

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Now Hartman turns to an analysis of Soloveitchik’s Lonely Man of Faith. Here the spirit of self-assurance is completely missing. The man of faith faces defeat from time to time. Where does this deficiency originate? Unlike his assumption in A Living Tradition—that the man of faith is a Jewish type expressing a Jewish experience—Hartman now explains that the man of faith is a universal phenomenon that appears in other faith communities as well. In his earlier interpretation Hartman says that the origin of the man of faith is in the tribal experience that was normative in Judaism, and therefore he paints it in an especially flattering, even apologetic light when he defends the despised tradition. But in his later interpretation Hartman maintains that the man of faith illuminates the existential situation of every modern person of faith, “who often feels alien and misunderstood in a world that celebrates technological success, scientific achievements, and total confidence in human adequacy.”67 After briefly describing the difference between Adam the first, who seeks to rule the world, and the defeatist Adam the second, Hartman argues that there is no contradiction between Halachic Man and the man of faith, for the author has a different concern with each of them. “In Halakhic Man, he is concerned with intellectual creativity, with halakhic man’s uncompromising allegiance to truth, with the profound trust of halakhic man in rational argumentation. The master halakhist does not require illumination from a transcendental source in order to develop the Halakhah. In The Lonely Man of Faith, by contrast, Rav Soloveitchik is concerned with the way the Judaic tradition is fully awake to the way intimacy is expressed within the covenantal relationship with God.”68 If Adam the first represents “the collective human technological genius,” in Hartman’s interpretation of Soloveitchik, Adam the second “refers to a universal human religious type.”69 There is a dialectic tension in the world of the modern man of faith, who belongs to the covenant community and to the community of “majesty” simultaneously: R. Soloveitchik’s typology and phenomenology of Adam the first and Adam the second are meant to illuminate the essential tension between living, on the one hand, in the framework of majesty, dignity, and control and, on the other, in the framework of relational passion, love, and sacrificial action. The oscillation between these two modes of making sense 67 Ibid., 102. See also ibid., 123. 68 Ibid., 110–111. 69 Ibid., 118. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 55–59.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four of God and reality is the permanent fate of the man of faith. [. . .] Since the dialectical role has been assigned to humankind by God, it is God who wants the man of faith to oscillate between the faith community and the community of majesty, between being confronted by God in the cosmos and the intimate immediate apprehension of God through the covenant. It is rather the current widespread refusal to countenance this oscillation that gives rises to the special loneliness of men of faith today.70

Hartman goes on to discuss Jewish prayer according to Soloveitchik’s formulation, which includes also a dialectic situation of one who recites the Amidah prayer. On the one hand, petitional prayer is subject to the discipline of intellect, an experience that “leads toward the pole of self-acquisition, selfdiscovery, self-objectification, self-redemption.”71 This is a halakhic prayer that is “philosophic and analytic and close to the reflective learning experience found in Halakhic Man.”72 From this description Soloveitchik leaps to the opposite pole, noting an additional aspect of prayer, that of giving away: “Prayer means sacrifice, unrestricted offering of the whole self, the returning to God of body and soul, everything one possesses and cherishes.”73 This is the opposite pole, “an act of casting oneself down before the Lord and acknowledging the unlimited rule of the divine and the complete feebleness of humankind. In petitional prayer, we urgently seek out God’s grace and help because we are overwhelmed by feelings of insignificance and helplessness.”74 Does Soloveitchik remain in constant dialectic tension, or does this tension collapse toward one of the poles and vanish? In Hartman’s opinion, and to his chagrin, it is obvious that, just as in A Living Tradition the tension that Soloveitchik presents vanishes, here too in the analysis of the meaning of prayer the tension resolves and leans in the direction of withdrawal, submission, and terror. According to R. Soloveitchik, the agonizing dialectic between the desperate necessity of prayer and the total unworthiness of human beings to pray accompanies the worshiper throughout the whole Amidah experience. [.  .  .] Although the dialectical movement in the Amidah expresses both 70 Hartman, Love and Terror, 119–120. 71 Ibid., 179. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid., 179–180; these words are Soloveitchik’s. 74 Ibid.

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Hartman does not like Soloveitchik’s approach to prayer and criticizes it sharply: “Just as one regularly fulfills the mitzvot without terror, so also one prays regularly without terror, since prayer is part of the mitzvah life.”76 As for me, I have already made it clear that I do not accept this interpretation of Hartman’s. To me, in his last works Soloveitchik rejects any possible synthesis within Judaism and remains with unresolved tension. Submission and sacrifice come only with the necessity to declare how to act in a case of practical Halakhah. Then the will of God is determinative, overcoming the unresolved tension. Despite this sharp criticism, Hartman offers us a gentler supposition, according to which Soloveitchik suggests two ways in which individuals might experience the presence of God: the way of prayer, in absolute terror and submission, and the way of Torah study: One is mediated through Talmud Torah, mitzvah, and Halakhah, the other through prayer. When the focus is on learning, mitzvah or Halakhah, the covenantal Jew feels bold, creative, assertive, and fully accepted by God. Human existence is experienced as ontologically legitimate because of one’s being commanded by God.77

That is to say, Hartman interprets Soloveitchik unequivocally to avoid the experience of constant contradiction. He says that in Torah study the tension is released in the direction of Halakhic Man, the autonomous person who builds worlds in love, and in prayer the tension is released in the direction of fear and submission of the “man of faith.” I disagree with Hartman about this. To me, Soloveitchik is not liberated from dialectic tension; it does not disappear at any level or in any dimension. In his opinion, in every human being there are two different Adams who by their very nature, and by divine intent, struggle inconclusively with each other. As a modern believer, Soloveitchik does not want to give up on either of the two 75 Ibid., 183–184, 205. 76 Ibid., 191. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 61–62. 77 Hartman, Love and Terror, 200–201. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 63–64.

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extremes. Halakhic Man and the Lonely Man of Faith will continue to fluctuate between these two poles until the end of days. Nor can they succeed in reaching any kind of synthesis, since there are no syntheses in Judaism, just constant tension. In part 1 of this book, in my chapter on Soloveitchik, I suggested two possibilities: Either his opinion about this crystallized as it matured in his later writings, or he had a stormy temperament, not a dogmatic one, whose profound religious feelings pushed him now this way and now that, in his various writings.78

THE GOD WHO HATES LIES Hartman’s last book was published in English in 2011, ten years after his previous book and two years before his death. In this daring book, The God Who Hates Lies, he discusses, among other things, the problem of Halakhah that conflicts Western morality, with admirable frankness. His starting point is love and esteem for Halakhah and the tradition, but also sharp criticism of the stagnation and helplessness of the national-religious Orthodox framework and the nature of the Halakhah that it upholds in the sovereign state of Israel. Even at this stage Hartman is not ready to accept the possibility of contradiction as an answer, so he continues to hold on to the interpretive solution. But since there is a limit to interpretation within the existing halakhic framework, Hartman is now looking for halakhic creativity and innovation. He admits that this is something of a tightrope act, since there is a very thin line that separates Modern Orthodoxy from Conservatism and even Reform. Like the young Leibowitz, he is disappointed by the rabbis and wants the Zionist religious public in Israel to respond to the opportunity offered by the establishment of the sovereign state of Israel. He is not prepared to be satisfied with a slow evolution in the development of Halakhah. That is, the cost of his giving up on

78 See Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:54–55. In Sagi and Schwartz’s new book I find that they too lean toward the same interpretation that I am suggesting—that for Soloveitchik the dialectic is unresolvable and that his approach to this subject developed during the course of his life. I was delighted to see such great scholars changing their interpretation so that it is now similar to mine. See Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 155. In the past Sagi, indeed, categorized Soloveitchik’s dialectic as unresolved, but he did not observe then that Soloveitchik’s approach developed over his lifetime. Schwartz had previously suggested a different solution to the contradictions in the writings of Soloveitchik with regard to the question of whether the dialectic tension is resolved or not. For the previous approaches of Sagi and Schwartz, see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:43–48.

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contradiction as a fact of life is an abandonment of the principle of faithfulness to traditional Halakhah, which was always a lamp unto his feet. In the introduction to the book, Hartman recounts his personal journey, first as a yeshiva student faithful to the closed world of the Talmud Torah, through Yeshiva University with Rav Soloveitchik, to his academic studies in the Christian environment of Fordham University. His relationship with the world outside Torah gradually altered until he became a human being with a universalistic ethical nature. When he immigrated to Israel after the Six-Day War, he hoped to find a common language with religious Zionism, but he could not identify with its messianic nationalism or with the “vile apologetics”79 of viewing secular Jews as unwitting instruments of redemption. He developed an idea of covenant in which the relationship between the Holy One and the Jewish people is based on intimacy and partnership, not on the religious person’s submission and self-abnegation before God. In this sort of covenantal framework obedience is accompanied by an activation of human ethical and intellectual independence, enabling the Jew to evaluate the halakhic system. With the establishment of the state there was an expectation that “[t]he Jewish people, energized by the halakhic system’s inventive capacity to apply the aspirational ethics of biblical mitzvah to any socio-historical reality in which Jews find themselves, would expand that category to include social and political functions of which two thousand years of exiled wandering had stripped them.”80 During his years as a congregational rabbi, a teacher, and a lecturer, he would sometimes encounter intimate religious questions, which he deferred due to more pressing concerns. But eventually he understood that it was precisely these questions that were the important, powerful, vexing questions that had to be asked and had to be answered: How do I justify maintaining a commitment to the Jewish religious tradition in the places where it demands I violate what I intuitively feel and know? What place, if any, does my personal, subjective intuition have in a halakhic system—not just abstractly, but for someone who wants to live, day to day, within that system? [. . .] What does it mean for my religious struggles, for the conflicts I encounter between morality and halakha? What does it mean for an individual who finds that certain cherished moral 79 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 4. Hartman alludes here to Rav Kook’s relationship with secularists. See D. Schwartz, “Al Hasofiyut Umekoroteha Ha’eksistentsialistiyim Behaguto shel Hartman,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 1:493–516. 80 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 7.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four values are being uprooted by the same tradition that in other areas manages to inspire great love, loyalty, and faith? What does it mean for the individual who stands committed to that tradition, yet at the same time knows what he or she knows, and cannot manage to be other than who he or she is?81

Hartman goes on to count the troublesome areas, in which existing Halakhah conflicts with morality: the marriage of a cohen (a descendent of the Levite priests) to a convert, marriages of children born from illicit sexual relations, non-Orthodox conversion, the status of women, a liturgy that contradicts reality, defining one’s Jewishness through one’s sense of a shared fate and of solidarity with the Jewish people. Anyone who wants both tradition and morality must seek an answer to the questions, “What is the weight of tradition when it conflicts with one’s deep moral sense? How does one maintain membership in the halakhic community while acting against the authoritative tradition? Is making choices that favor moral convictions equivalent to stepping out of the tradition? Conversely, to yield to the tradition, squelch the ethical impulse [. . .] what is lost? What is lost personally, what is lost to the community, and what is lost to the religion itself?”82 Hartman ends his introduction with a detailed history of his growing estrangement from the yeshivas in which he grew up and from the Orthodox religious leadership that so disappointed him. The dehumanizing trend in the halakhic attitude to women undermined his loyalty to the religious principles accepted in Orthodoxy. He concluded, he writes with rare courage, that “my male-dominated religion was shot through with deep immoralities. I could no longer hide within the four cubits of Halakha, no matter how comfortable, energizing, and inspiring that life might often be.”83 He took a stand against an Israeli reality that had not realized, in his opinion, the potential latent in it for a profound renaissance and a rethinking of Jewish values such as attitudes toward the stranger, all of which was for him an intriguing challenge. He understood that anyone who grew up in Orthodox religious society in Israel, which was not exposed to alternative points of view, was an incomplete person. He therefore found himself intellectually isolated from religious society in Israel, with its failure even to attempt to lead the members of the new Jewish state into a higher moral stance, a more serious encounter 81 Ibid., 8–9. See T. Ross, “Beyn Sedom Lehar Hamoriyah: Kama Hirhurim legabey Metzukato Hahilkhatit shel David Hartman,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 2:709–745. 82 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 13. 83 Ibid., 22.

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with God and the mitzvot; with its overwhelming emphasis on sexual modesty, kashrut, and a host of miscellaneous trivia, as the ultimate carriers of authentic Judaism—simply lost any significance for me. I was repulsed by its authoritarian, dogmatic thinking and its refusal to encounter alternative spiritual and intellectual traditions with the potential to cast a different light on the meaning of being a committed Jew.84 Hartman would admit that his relationship to Orthodox Halakhah is reminiscent of the arguments of Conservative and Reform Jews against it. But this does not bother him. He is even happy about it: “Some of my critiques of the halakhic system may mirror critiques that have been made by non-Orthodox Jewish denominations. If the reader finds such similarities, these are choruses I am happy to join. Personally, I remain deeply appreciative of the traditional framework of the home I grew up in and the schools in which I studied.”85 Wanting to attract secular Jews to Torah study, Hartman offers the deliberating believer a detailed proposal, based on the one at the end of his book A Living Covenant. Here, he employs slightly different wording, to get past the problem posed by the universalistic morality of the modern believer confronted with halakhot that are incompatible with morality. The Halakhah can be viewed not as an authoritative framework of obligatory norms, but as a flexible educational framework which permits choice, providing believers with a richer religious experience and so drawing them nearer to a rewarding connection with God. To be sure, anyone who relates to Judaism from the perspective of the Abraham of the Akedah—like Soloveitchik, Leibowitz, Lamm, and Lichtenstein—must oppose this point of view. But Hartman, of course, prefers the perspective of the Abraham of the Sodom story, whose faith is characterized by intellectual and moral independence. This is the situation in which God partners with him in the covenant that is made between them. Relying on his interpretations of several midrashic sources, Hartman asserts that, as an educational framework, Halakhah enables everyone to suit his own moral judgment and to reject halakhot that he cannot in good conscience accept, and to do so out of a thoughtful faith that this is exactly how God wants him to act, no matter what the straightforward sense of the text may say. For example, in Leviticus Rabbah 32:8, a character called Daniel the

84 Ibid., 23. See N. Zohar, “Ortodoksiyah, Historiyah Ve’aḥrayut Datit,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 2:597–605. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 166–171. 85 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 24.

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Tailor86 discourses on Eccl. 4:1. According to this midrash, “the tears of the oppressed, with none to comfort them” in that verse pertain to mamzerim, children born of illicit sexual acts. And who oppresses them? The Sanhedrin, which removes them from the community by virtue of the authority that comes to them on account of Torah, though the mamzerim themselves have done nothing wrong. The Sanhedrin simply relies on the words of the Torah that state, “No mamzer shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord (Deut. 23:3).” Since there is no one to comfort them, the Holy One responds that the obligation to comfort them falls on Him, and tells them that, indeed, in this world they are tainted. But He promises them that in the world to come they will have no taint. Hartman understands this midrash to support his perspective. In his words: According to the midrash, God Himself endorses Daniel’s stinging critique of the moral apathy of the Rabbinic leadership, thus presenting a complex theological picture in which God is bound by the human interpretations of Torah law—even though God knows the law is immoral. Here the midrash places God in sympathy with the sense of human impotence religious people may feel when confronted by (perhaps otherwise brilliant) religious leaders who seem to deactivate their moral conscience in deference to the “plain meaning” of biblical verses—the halakhic status quo. What may seem at first blush like piety, this midrash suggests, is actually the opposite, a form of behavior despised by God. To live by halakha, in this instance, is to perpetuate immorality and oppression. To emulate God is to allow particular moral perspectives to surface and in turn allow those perspectives to critique and correct the tradition in places where its ethical sensibility has perhaps come to lag behind the tradition’s core values, ideals, and end goals (which, it bears repeating, the midrash identifies with God, the God Daniel insists upon worshipping). The affirmation of halakhic immorality and bold identification of its source at the highest levels of Jewish spiritual leadership thus create an opening to a moral critique of the tradition.87 86 In the London MS of Leviticus Rabbah this tailor character is called Hanina, in the Paris MS Havtza, but in the other MSS and in Ecclesiastes Rabbah 4:1 the character is called Daniel. 87 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 64. I have seen a similar approach to this in Y. Cherlow’s book Beyn Mishkan Le’egel ( Jerusalem, 2000). Cherlow is much more careful and nuanced than Hartman. He argues that the phenomenon of Reform demanding changes stopped the development and modernization of Halakhah out of concern that this would lead to abandoning the covenant (this is the egel, the Golden Calf, of his

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I am somewhat dubious about Hartman’s interpretation of this midrash. If God thinks that this law is immoral and abominable, why did He write it that way in plain Hebrew, thus enabling such a horrible mistake to be made? According to Hartman, God relies on the Sages to uproot the law, or amend it, because of its immorality. Since they have not done so, He criticizes them harshly. God Himself is, as it were, fettered by their interpretation (“it is not in Heaven”), which is hampered by punctilious, pedantic obedience to the language of the text, which after all is God’s direct word to Moses. But He comforts the oppressed mamzerim only when they reach the world to come; in the meantime, He leaves them to their groaning and their horrible suffering in this world, all due to transgressions committed by their parents. In Hartman’s view, this midrash is enough to warrant those who are torn between Halakhah and morality to amend and even uproot immoral laws, even those that are stated explicitly in the Torah—because this is God’s will. I would interpret the midrash differently. Its rabbinic wording bears affinity, wittingly or unwittingly, to the dual truth approach. The religious truth here is that a mamzer has a metaphysical taint due to the abomination committed by his parents which prevents him from entering the congregation. This is also the wording in the Torah, God’s revelation. By contrast, rational, moral truth tells us that this person did nothing wrong, harmed no one, caused no damage, and therefore if he is removed from the congregation, having himself committed no wrong, that would be an abomination. The same goes for other verses in the Torah in which a sentence of death is decreed by the Torah on those who have, in a religious sense, defiled their humanity—as in cases of incest, samesex relationships, adultery, Sabbath violation, and idolatry—but who actually have caused no harm to anyone else. These two truths contradict each other, and there is no possible way to reconcile them in our world. We, like those who make halakhic decisions, must be aware of both truths and make our peace title). But Reform simultaneously stopped the positive kind of modernization, both from the spiritual side and from the outside (this is the mishkan, the Tabernacle, of his title) because of the justified fear of what change might lead to. Therefore, Cherlow suggests that modernization proceed freely on the spiritual and theoretical side, and carefully on the external, practical halakhic side, as long as modernization in the broad sense does not annul the existing Halakhah. What he means is that externally, that is, in terms of practical Halakhah, for anything that is not already included in the accepted framework, innovations should remain theoretical. On the practical level, we must wait for the reestablishment of the Sanhedrin, in the rapidly approaching messianic era, which will enable new interpretation of the relevant verses (in accordance with the thought of Rav Kook). By contrast, Hartman seeks innovative change here and now.

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with them. Nonetheless, we must decide how to act in each of these cases. Therefore, and despite what the straightforward Hebrew of the Torah says about the religious truth, the wise decisor must know that there is also another truth, that of morality. So it is not right for those who make halachic decisions to impose stern halakhic discipline, simply by virtue of their authority and by perverse, Akedah-style arguments. Rather, like Abraham in the Sodom story, they must help the oppressed person with all their might, using every possible halakhic artifice. For example, it may be possible, first, to make it virtually impossible for the situation to occur, as the Sages did in the case of the rebellious son of Deut. 21:18, by adding conditions that are impossible to fulfill, so that no one could ever be punished for this; second, to find some taint in the parents’ marriage; and third, to advise the mamzer to move to some other community and conceal his status. Are they really authorized to uproot a prohibition from the Torah in this way? It could be that when there is no other alternative, the Sages of the Talmud should indeed have uprooted the explicit Torah teaching that demands he be excluded from the community, just as they indeed did in other rare cases. It is common knowledge that they have the power to do this. But not in the simple, sweeping way recommended by Hartman, who simply disregards the religious truth in situations of contradiction.88 Ultimately, since the Sages of the Talmud did not act as they were required to do and did not exert themselves to help (as the scholars of the modern era are trying to do), the midrash vilifies them as oppressors and can only offer mamzerim comfort at some indeterminate point in the future (the end of days, the messianic era, the world to come) when they will be cleansed. Indeed, according to the dual truth approach the two truths can be unified only at the end of days, or in the world of the Holy One, who takes pity on His creatures. Hartman devotes chapters three and four of his book to specific topics. He turns first to the subject of agunot, “chained wives.” The rabbis recognize the ethical problem in existing Halakhah and have made all kinds of suggestions to solve it, most of which have not been accepted. The law sets severe punishments for husbands who refuse to give their wives a divorce. But when the husbands evade their responsibility and disappear, we find out that the law grants the wives no judicial relief. Generations of halakhic 88 The Sages do in fact have the power to uproot words from the Torah, thereby forbidding or permitting something (BT Yevamot 89b, 90b), like circumcision, blowing the shofar, or taking the four species on the Sabbath, and even to permit a man to sleep with a woman married to someone else (under extreme circumstances).

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decision makers who follow the Akedah approach have taken theological shelter in the mystery of divinity and shirked their responsibility for this ethical transgression by invoking the silent obedience of Abraham. By doing so, they ignore other aspects of the image of God, and they also ignore the bold intellectual enterprise of their colleagues over more than a thousand years. Hartman asserts that Rabbi Yonatan long ago warned that such problems must be solved, not ignored, in his response (on BT Sanhedrin 71a) to a question and a claim that were brought before him. Rabbi Jose the Galilean asked: Why do we stone the rebellious son, who has not yet sinned? One of those sitting in judgment responds: The case of the rebellious son never occurred and never will occur. Rabbi Yonatan says about this that he himself saw such a case and even sat on the boy’s grave. According to Hartman’s interpretation, at bottom of Rabbi Yonatan’s words is an accusation against the halakhic decisors who preceded him, who did not really struggle with the plain sense of these immoral scriptural verses. They acquiesced in stoning the son, despite the fact that he had harmed no one, because that is what the Torah explicitly says should be done to him. To Hartman, the agunah problem is just one sore point in the framework of feminist ethical critique of Halakhah, whether on the status of women in family life, in ritual life, or in the public life of the community.

Women and Family Life To Soloveitchik’s flowery apologetics with regard to the spiritual nature of the covenant of Jewish marriage—the shared responsibility, the equality and mutuality between two sides each with his or her own independent personality—Hartman counterposes the halakhic image of woman as a slave who serves her husband, under his authority and ontologically subordinate to him. This sad state of affairs is obvious when we examine the halakhot and the talmudic approach to this subject. The medieval interpreters and halakhic masters, like Maimonides and the author of Sefer HaḤinukh, advocated treating halakhic marriage as a case of the man’s “acquiring” the woman. They argued that the woman was a helpmate, placed under the man’s authority by the mechanism that God enshrined in the fundamental fabric of this world. The new theological creativity with regard to the metaphysical mutuality of the married couple in Judaism is apologetic, a traditionalist defense “designed to appease a more contemporary moral sensibility and bolster the tradition’s moral credibility without actually changing halakhic practice in any way. It is this kid of intellectual

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gamesmanship that gives apologetics their connotation of bad faith.”89 The halakhic approach to the family restricts the woman almost always to nurturing her husband and tending to their children—she must always be available to take care of their needs. The role of shaping the culture was given exclusively to the husband. The woman’s great achievement is in stifling her own needs and desires so that her husband can indulge himself in as much Torah study as possible. In Hartman’s view, the argument of Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits that, in the course of history, there has been a positive ethical development with regard to how the Sages relate to women does not stand up to critical scrutiny. Berkowitz himself (says Hartman) was endowed with moral sensitivity and courage, and he described in detail the ethical problems of the status of women in Halakhah. But he thinks that the original source of women’s low status was outside of Judaism, and in the course of time there entered into Halakhah Jewish-derived developments that were more ethical and more egalitarian than the older rules. Hartman himself thinks that when the Sages enthusiastically adopted Hellenistic and Roman attitudes, they felt that they were expressing in this way the spirit of the Torah, as something done for idealistic reasons, not merely as something to be tolerated. “By not acknowledging a moral critique of the tradition, Berkowitz has convinced himself that halakha is essentially moral. I fundamentally question both the truth of, and the need for, this claim. It is possible to morally correct the tradition without making claims of moral purity.”90 I do not agree with Hartman’s assertion—that Berkowitz denies any moral criticism of Halakhah—and I believe that Berkowitz found the harm done to women in halakhic Judaism quite distressing. Berkowitz thought that important parts of the halakhic corpus had been developed by creative halakhic decisors. But this process had been stopped, disastrously, when the Oral Torah was written down in books. He therefore preferred to solve ethical questions by basing the solutions on the same creative meta-halakhic principles that the Sages had employed, rather than searching for solutions in the Shulḥan Arukh, in order to make it possible for Halakhah once again in our own day to flourish organically. In contrast to Hartman, who also recognized development in the Halakhah, Berkowitz did not recommend a comprehensive cancellation of everything that did not fit in with Western morality, but rather a return to 89 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 80. It seems to me that this defensive apologetic began with Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch. See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 2:152–166. As I wrote there, and as Hartman writes below, Hirsch tried very hard to assert that in Judaism the woman was always superior to the man. 90 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 88. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 204.

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creative halakhic decision-making. For example, with regard to the status of women, he thought that, if in rabbinic times the status of women changed for the worse, both halakhically and in real life, due both to social and to ideological realities, today the situation is the exact opposite. Therefore, in his opinion, the principle of “nature has changed” can be employed, and we can argue that modern woman is not the same as the woman of the rabbinic period (just as the non-Jew is no longer the corrupt idol worshipper he once was), and in this way annul her exclusion. In the same way he employs the principle that Halakhah is suspended in cases of extreme need (and certainly when life is in danger) and recommends annulling the sabbatical year in the sovereign state of Israel.91

Women and Ritual Life Hartman explains that as a direct result of the woman’s role in the family, which enslaves her to the needs of her husband, the Sages prevented her from fulfilling the commandment of Torah study or any of the timebound commandments, such as putting on phylacteries or joining a prayer quorum—and in fact they excluded her from any participation in synagogue worship. This spurred criticism among reformers and feminists ever since the Enlightenment. As could be expected, religiously observant scholars have responded with apologetics. They insist that the exclusion of women from ritual and from a wider public role reflects positively on their nature. Such arguments are intended to justify the Halakhah and not, God forbid, to change or amend it. Rabbi Hirsch insisted that women were actually worthier than men: “The Torah understands that women are not in need of these [positive, time-bound] mitzvot.”92 Hartman thinks Rabbi Aaron Soloveichik went even further in this direction when he asserted that women’s being exempted from these commandments reflects their spiritual superiority over men, the holy spark unique to their female nature, and their having in fact an “innate spiritual advantage.”93 I disagree with Hartman on this. In my analysis, Aaron Soloveichik’s stance on this topic is identical with that of Rabbi Hirsch.94 Hartman thinks what is guiding Aaron Soloveichik is a certain view of the purity 91 See Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 423–428, 443–447. All the same, Berkowitz followed the apologetic idea of Hirsch, in which the woman in Judaism is superior to the man. 92 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 92, cited from Hirsch’s Torah commentary (to Lev. 23:43). 93 Ibid, 94; these words are Aaron Soloveitchik’s. 94 For my analysis of Rabbi Hirsch’s approach, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, and n. 88 above.

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of Halakhah and a determination that it not be changed. I agree with him, but would add that this all stems from the fundamentalist idea that the vast majority of the halakhic corpus was given directly by the Holy One at Mount Sinai; all these same arguments guided Hirsch in his day as well. It is even possible that we see here some evidence of Hirsch’s influence on Aaron Soloveichik. For example: Hartman cites Aaron Soloveichik’s apologetic words, that since the man is innately disposed toward conquest, exploitation and greed, having the lowest of instincts, he must be controlled, restrained, and morally educated by means of Torah study and commandments that he must perform. Woman, by contrast, is naturally endowed with compassion and thoughtfulness, lacking the instincts that men have, and she is therefore freed from observing some of the commandments. This is also the reason, according to Aaron Soloveichik, that men bless God for not making them a woman, while women bless God for making them according to His will. Hirsch, to be sure, says the identical thing about time-bound commandments, from which women are exempt.95 As Hartman explains, Hirsch gives a more modest explanation for the men’s blessing “who has not made me a woman.” According to this explanation, the comparison with woman was intended to inspire the man making this blessing to try to fulfill his obligations with these extra commandments. Hirsch does not employ the claim of women’s superiority with regard to this blessing, as Aaron Soloveichik does, since that explanation makes no sense. If woman is superior, she should be the one to say “who has made me a woman,” and the man should say “who has made me according to His will”!

Women and the Public Life of the Community According to Hartman, given that the woman’s position in the family as her husband’s acquisition establishes halakhically that she is relegated to the home, she is disqualified from holding any public position. A woman cannot give valid testimony, cannot serve as judge, and cannot hold any high position in public service. He notes, with bitter irony, “Her role is not to evaluate or contribute to the culture in which she lives. She is an onlooker, not a shaper, of her social reality, and this is something to be encouraged and prized.”96 As the psalmist says, “All the abundance of a princess accompanied her to her chambers” (Ps. 45:14). For the sake of domestic peace and to fulfill the needs 95 See n. 90 above. See also Chamiel, The Middle Way, 2:161, 170. 96 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 103.

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of her home and family, the woman is lowered to an unequal, inferior status; even this she receives, as it were, only out of the good of her husband’s heart. She is excluded from any other role and from any ability to exert autonomous influence on her own fate. Hartman justifies the liberal and feminist critiques of this ideology. According to him, these critics advocate an egalitarianism that reflects the correct understanding of what creation in the image of God really means. We must base our religious-spiritual vision on the aspiration for egalitarianism and it must be embraced by and integrated into the halakhic system. We will thus bring into effect a “halakhic process [. . .] driven by a quest for God-consciousness” that would encapsulate “the ethos of the God of Creation—that ‘the Lord is good to all, and His mercy is upon all His works’” (Ps. 145:9).97 This will enable a renewed, profound interpretation of the sources on which the laws of marriage and divorce are based and of the development of the Halakhah itself. In this way we will exchange a stagnant meta-halakhic image of God for a meta-halakhic image of a God who is “good for to all.” It seems to me that here Hartman is backing off his previous recommendation— to immediately annul all the commandments that contradict morality—and prioritizing interpretation of the sources in a new spirit and with new imagery; his interpretation now essentially resembles that of Berkowitz. Now Hartman turns to the subject of conversion to Judaism. Here too he identifies immoral halakhot, such as the law that asserts that a cohen (a descendent of the Levite priests) is forbidden to marry a convert to Judaism. When he served as a congregational rabbi, he had to deal with a case of this kind, and he intuitively decided to marry the couple. Eventually, after having examined the relevant traditions, he found support for his moral intuition. Hartman acted in accordance with the general insight that he had formulated, according to which a Judaism conscious of a covenant with a good and merciful God is to be preferred over a Judaism of submissive obedience to authority. In his research he found that Halakhah has always had two attitudes toward conversion. According to one view, someone who undergoes conversion and accepts that he is to live as a Jew in his faith and in his way of life is as if born again into the covenant between God and the Jewish people; his past is wiped clean. The chosenness of the Jewish people is spiritual and moral and is not any sort of special, immanent, internal quality. The other view says that one who undergoes conversion does indeed become a member of the Jewish people, but his biological past is not completely erased. Some 97 Ibid., 106. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 204–206.

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taint therefore remains in him, which makes it impossible for him to fulfill certain commandments that necessitate “holy seed.” Hartman finds both views in the writings of Maimonides. Nonetheless, the existence of the first view makes it possible for us, based on the meta-halakhic principle we have chosen, to adopt it and to act and to rule halakhically in accordance with it alone, even in the face of halakhot based on the other view and on a different meta-halakhic principle. Here is what Hartman concludes with regard to conversion: Now that the halakhic and theological issues around conversion are even clearer to me, having examined the relevant traditions, I find my initial moral intuition supported. No more now than then am I prepared to live, and insist that others live, according to a mythologized genealogy. I cannot be bound, or insist that others be bound, by a halakhic theology that privileges certain kinds of sperm, wombs, and genes and stigmatizes others, when everything I understand about the root of Judaism points to its essence as a spiritual system grounded in behavioral norms and theological insights open equally to everyone. I did not believe then, nor do I now, that “chosenness” is a result of ontological uniqueness. In this I stand firmly with Maimonides’s heartening exhortation to Ovadiah: all are potentially the children of Abraham, whom God appointed as the carrier of a covenantal vision for history. Thus, I cannot speak to any potentially negative spiritual-biological consequences resulting from my decision to encourage Peter and Susan to follow through on their plans to marry or my decision to officiate at their wedding. I can only attest that it was an extremely joyful occasion.98 98 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 129–130. See also ibid., 185 n. 5. See A. Shermer, “Haparshanut Ha’okeret Veha’akirah Hameforeshet,” in Sagi and Zohar, Mehuyavut, 2:747– 769. It is worth emphasizing and clarifying here that, to the best of my knowledge, there is in Halakhah in general no recognition of “holy seed” or of any ontological, racial uniqueness for Jews; Halakhah is largely innocent of mythology. In the marriage of a Jewish woman and a non-Jewish man, the children are considered Jews in every way. The seed of a non-Jewish man in the womb of a Jewish woman does not in any way taint the Jewishness of the child. In cases of artificial or in vitro insemination of a single mother, it is actually preferable to use the semen of a non-Jew in order to eliminate any suspicion of mamzerut. In the realm of conversion likewise, when a pregnant woman converts, any children she was pregnant with are Jews. The Sages who designed the Halakhah certainly wanted to establish boundaries and to keep the Jewish people unique. Most halakhic decisors, basing themselves on rabbinic interpretation, have established the womb (not even the ovum) and the moment of birth as the (non-genetic) criteria, simply because this gives a 100% guarantee of the “diagnosis,”

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Hartman is perfectly aware that his approach, according to which it is possible to amend and even to annul accepted halakhot that conflict with accepted morality and with reason, is completely unacceptable to the rabbis and halakhic decisors of Modern Orthodoxy. At a conference of the Union of Orthodox Rabbis in 1975, a dispute about this erupted between Rabbi Emanuel Rackman and Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik. Rackman suggested a solution to the problem of “chained wives” by retroactively annulling the original marriages on the basis of the meta-halakhic principle of mekah ta’ut, a transaction made by mistake. The Talmud (BT Bava Kamma 110b) recognizes that this presumption (hazakah) may be validly applied even to a woman who is required to enter a levirate marriage with a leper, in order to free her from an unwanted marriage. But in that case the Talmud prioritizes the halakhic presumption according to which a woman prefers to be married no matter what, and thus to prevent the bitter fate of a life of loneliness. In a document that was published just before the beginning of the conference, Rackman suggested that in our time the other presumption should be given preference. In his words, the presumptions that are mentioned in the Talmud were time- and place-dependent. The presumption that a woman would rather be married no matter what is no longer correct in our contemporary social reality, since women are independent and no longer either socially or economically desperate. Rackman maintains that this is the way to preserve halakhic credibility, and that responsible halakhic rulings must respond to the suffering of the “chained” women: “For him, the halakhic ruling is guided by the reality of the human situation—the moral and psychological considerations at play, historical and social context—rather than the other way around.”99 It is obvious that Hartman very much identifies with Rackman’s approach. Soloveitchik’s response came sooner than expected. He interrupted his planned speech at the conference with a harsh attack on Rackman’s position. He argued that Torah study was an ecstatic, metaphysical performance in which one sacrifices one’s own human thought process to the logic and the will “from Sinai” of revelation. Halakhah is: biologically and technically. It is true that Judah Halevi, in the Kuzari, introduced distinct ontological characteristics. Such characteristics can be found in mysticism and kabbalah, but these have not in general penetrated Halakhah elsewhere than in the realm of conversion. The only explanation I can think of with regard to the idea of “holy seed” when it comes to conversion (which is already found in the Talmud) is the incursion of mysticism into the realm of Halakhah. 99 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 137. Rackman’s position resembles that of Berkowitz.

Rabbi Prof. David Hartman    Chapter Four a hermetic, self-affirming system, its truths exclusively “obtained from within, in accordance with the methodology given to Moses and passed down from generation to generation.” No new approach could possibly add any relevant knowledge to what already has been discovered by the great minds of Rabbinic tradition. [. . .] To allow what he classifies as a “secular system of values” to guide a halakhic critique spells, for him, an interruption in the self-affirming, revelatory dimension of Torah study. [. . .] Anyone who might attempt to question or even contextualize either these Rabbis’ values [. . .] has already transgressed a theological redline. [. . .] Soloveitchik [makes] the acceptance of Talmudic presumptions as “permanent ontological principles” essentially into a criterion of membership in the halakhic community—and labeling anyone who would question them a heretic.100

Soloveitchik therefore declares that the presumption established by the Sages—that a woman prefers to be part of a couple no matter what—has no connection to the social and political status of women in ancient times. It stems rather from the metaphysical curse that was inflicted on the woman in the story of the Garden of Eden, and has been an innate part of her, from birth, ever since. Solitude to the male is not as terrible an experience, as horrifying an experience, as solitude to a woman. And this will never change [. . .] ‘cause it’s not a psychological fact, it’s an existential fact. It’s not due to the status of the woman, but it’s due to the difference, to the basic distinction, between the female personality and the male personality.101 Historical trends, when it comes right down to it, are capricious, but those expressed in the Talmud reflect eternal metaphysical truths. According to Soloveitchik, if reality as human beings see it collides head-on with the ontological fact that female humanity has not changed, as the Sages decreed on the basis of a tradition from Sinai—then “it is your perception of reality that

100 Ibid., 148–149. See 65-67 above. 101 Ibid., 150. It is interesting to note that Rackman himself tells us: “I once had a debate with ha-Gaon Rav Joseph Ber Soloveitchik, in which I argued that perhaps the claim of this presumption (ḥazakah) needs to be reviewed in our time [. . .] He responded that this presumption (ḥazakah) is not factual but metaphysical, though he also admitted that he might be mistaken and not me.” See E. Rackman, “Be’ayot Ha’ishah Ha’yehudit Bizmanenu Vehaderakhim Lefitronan,” in Hapenina, ed. D. Rapel ( Jerusalem, 1989), 187.

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is to be sacrificed.”102 Hartman views Soloveitchik’s interpretive stance with bitter irony and finds in it absurdity and blind zealotry, since according to it: In reality, every powerful, yet-unmarried CEO would prefer a man who has the stature of an ant to the howling pain of singlehood; the professor of history would just as soon live with a cabbage-head or a degenerate. Within this halakhic theology, simply allowing ourselves to acknowledge the reality of what we see is to undermine the foundations of Torah itself. The Torah can only survive if it is based upon what we know not to be true. The infallibility principle effectively extends divine legitimacy to everything in the Talmud, which becomes no longer the dynamic product of human creativity but a secure, permanent, God-given system that can be relied upon forever. And here we find the deep attraction of the meta-halakhic approach advanced so passionately, and aggressively, by Soloveitchik. Within his paradigm, received halakha constitutes an eternally valid system, offering the security of one who stands outside of history. But it is a security born from blindness, an abnegation of one’s subjective experience of reality and a denial of what one sees and knows.103

Hartman wonders at the inhumanity of his teacher’s attitude. For Soloveitchik taught his students that one must employ critical and intellectual creativity when learning and must be willing to stand fearlessly against the great scholars of all generations. He even encouraged them to study philosophy and other ideas foreign to the Jewish tradition and opened for them the doors to Western culture. Hartman disagrees completely with the conception of woman in Soloveitchik’s thinking. He is dubious about the idea that talmudic presumptions are immutable and completely denies Soloveitchik’s interpretation, which characterizes modern women on the basis of those presumptions. Such an approach, to him, “stretches credibility to a breaking point”;104 it is simply unthinkable. To me, this approach is destructive of halakhic culture. It demands of the halakhic Jew Akedah-like commitments to structures of law that are foreign to his consciousness. It is a prescription for disaster, since we repress our own reality and values and rate ourselves as spiritually empty. Perhaps Soloveitchik was afraid of a struggle with Western culture from which 102 Ibid., 151. 103 Ibid., 151. 104 Ibid., 153.

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Orthodoxy would emerge the loser. Perhaps he thought that Orthodoxy could only survive if it enclosed itself with a hermetic seal, so that comparative research and historical criticism could not get in. From his own perspective, says Hartman, bringing our humanity into the process of halakhic deduction is precisely what God asks the Jewish people to do in a Halakhah that is based on the covenant. Only in this way can it survive in an open society. Really being in the image of God requires that we not employ the authority of the past to lie about the present. The halakhic guidance of a God who demands that we be true is preferable to that of a God who relies on the infallibility of the Sages. Hartman sums up his position with regard to the status of women in Halakhah decisively: Is the woman we see walking the streets today the woman of the Talmud? No authority in the world can convince me that she is; no past authority can make it into a reality. If that sacrifice is what loyalty to tradition means, there is no person who can trust his or her own eyes.105

I find Hartman’s criticism of Soloveitchik correct and legitimate. But the wonder that this evokes in him is somewhat naïve. There is no comparison between the Sages of the Mishnah and Talmud and the halakhic decisors, whether early or late. In Soloveitchik’s opinion, the laws and even the presumptions that the Sages established in their halakhic interpretation fall into the category of Oral Torah that was transmitted at Sinai. They are eternal and ontological, because these teachings have been passed down orally from that generation to this. This is what the Geonim thought, and so did Nahmanides, who disagreed with Maimonides on this matter.106 Yet Soloveitchik also thinks it possible, even worthwhile, to contend and debate with the subsequent decisors of the Halakhah. If this is so, then in my opinion it is possible to conclude that, despite Soloveitchik’s acute sense of dialectic, both internally with regard to what is happening in one’s soul facing God and externally with regard to the believer facing modernity, in one area Soloveitchik was not ready to remain in unresolved tension between the truths of reason and revelation—the area of practical Halakhah. In part 1 of this book I expressed my opinion about his 105 Ibid., 156. See also Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 70–75, 196–200. Sagi and Schwartz find three stages in the development of Hartman’s critical relationship to his teacher’s thought. On this see Sagi and Schwartz, Ne’emanut, 75. 106 See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 158–172.

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thought: that he perhaps originally believed that Halakhic Man could repair the rift between revelation and reason, but later changed his mind and understood that no such synthesis was possible in Judaism. Ultimately, when the time would come to make decisions on various subjects of practical Halakhah, it would be obligatory to maintain the Halakhah as it was. The dialectic does not disappear at this stage, but it is stifled and suppressed, and human will and reason must submit, Akedah-style, to the will of God. The restrictive approach of Judah Halevi (which of course was not dialectic), according to which the true reality is identical to the Halakhah fixed at the revelation at Mount Sinai, remains victorious at this stage. If morality, reason, and science teach otherwise, we must restrict them, since they after all are limited and transitory, and we must adhere to God’s word. For Soloveitchik, nevertheless, the dialectic tension remains unresolved. Hartman (like Rackman) remains faithful to the Maimonidean approach, which interprets revelation and Halakhah according to morality, reason, and science. For this is how identicality is preserved between them. This approach recognizes no possibility of contradiction; when, therefore, cases of contradiction do occur, they remain firmly attached to the side of reason. When push comes to shove, this approach will sometimes seek to completely uproot tradition. For in general, interpretation cannot successfully reconcile the contradictions, and the claim that it is possible to reconcile them is illusory. Against these two approaches, the dual truth approach accepts the possibility of contradiction and recognizes the existence of two true sources of authority that sometimes contradict each other. When decisive action is necessary, we are not necessarily yoked to one pole or the other, but may discuss each problem individually and conclude now this way, now that way. We should simultaneously recognize that there exists another, contradictory truth—and that perhaps it is indeed correct. In the last chapter, Hartman brings up other examples of contradictions between Halakhah and reality that arise from the establishment of the state of Israel. Life in the young country requires a comprehensively new kind of halakhic reasoning. Some examples: The traditional prayers for the rebuilding of a destroyed Jerusalem are not appropriate in a sovereign Jewish state, whose capital is a rebuilt and flourishing Jerusalem. A pure Jewish pedigree is demanded as a condition of burial for IDF soldiers who sacrifice their lives for the Jewish people and nation. When the fallen have no such pedigree, the refusal to bury them in a regular military cemetery has a terrible impact on the soldiers, their family, and their friends. Haredim belittle official ceremonies like standing at silent attention when the siren sounds on Memorial Day, do

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not recite Hallel on Independence Day, and refuse to fulfill civic obligations such as army service, or find employment. These contradictions are the result of alienation from the historic and religious unity of the State of Israel, of the invalid principle of denying the influence of this historic reality on the religious conscience—and a rejection of the change that this reality is generating and reinforcing. Hartman himself believes deeply that we are living in an era when personal identity combined with a commitment to the continuity of Jewish history constitutes a decisive criterion of Jewish identity, and that it is necessary to find a way to incorporate this recognition into the halakhic system in such a way as to give everyone a sense of belonging. “I assign serious religious weight to the willingness to stay in history, to build and to cultivate and defend and die in order to sustain a nation’s vitality and survival. This lived commitment itself carries major religious significance from a covenantal perspective.”107 Hartman therefore maintains that we need innovative ways of defining Jewish identity in the laws of conversion; halakhic attention must be transferred from questions of purity and authority to questions of the health and well-being of the living community. The reality of life and the measure of identification with the Jewish people must serve as our main criteria for conversion, as Maimonides thought. The harsh demand that a convert accept the yoke of all 613 commandments instantly is unacceptable; this is a live option for very few today. It is simply irrelevant to most Jews in our time and gets in the way of a prolonged and gradual educational process. It serves the needs of the arrogant Haredi minority, which arrogates to itself sole authority in this area as the unique legitimate representative of Halakhah in the Orthodox rabbinical spirit. “The fact that the Law of Return, with its majestically inclusive premise, has become a mechanism of the Orthodox Rabbinate’s attempt to delegitimize three-fourths of diaspora Jewry is simply perverse.”108 At the end of his book, Hartman explains his position with regard to the religious meaning of the events and turning points of history, even the contradictory ones, like the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel, and what the halakhic response to them should be. He sensibly does not intend to give a theoretical report on God’s actions in history, but to evaluate how we must respond to these events. The Holocaust is inexplicable, and God’s plan for history is unknown to us:

107 Hartman, The God Who Hates Lies, 168. 108 Ibid., 175.

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Between Religion and Reason I have no way to make sense logically or rationally of a God who remains indifferent to evil perpetrated on such an overwhelming scale. It destroys all rational coherence when one attempts to imagine a God passively supervising the events of the Holocaust. There is no metaphysics that can grasp this howling absence. The logic of description withers and breaks down. [. . .] I do not base the imperative of halakhic response upon intimations or predictions about which stage of spiritual history Israeli state-building occupies on the path to messianic redemption. There is no predetermined master-narrative of Jewish historical destiny into which I can neatly slot our current era, using this descriptive claim as a justification for halakhic change. To the contrary, I have absolutely no access to the divine plan in history, no way to explain any of God’s actions, and no reassuring sense of an inevitable redemption. Even the physical survival of the Jewish people, much less their eventual triumph, is far from guaranteed. [. . .] Historical developments, while not descriptive of a divine plan, should also not be considered immune to this type of spiritual opportunity. An event took place that marked an amazing change in the Jewish condition of history. The religious significance of this event is rooted not in a metaphysical truth-claim about its place in God’s unfolding historical scheme, but in an existential mood: how do I, along with my community, express our joy and gratitude for this remarkable change in our fortunes? When I sing grateful prayers it is not with the intention of thanking God for intervening in history to bring about the Jewish state, but because this momentous event awakens in me an existential response, and the tradition provides me with a spiritual language in which to express it. This is my frame of mind as I recite these prayers.109

In conclusion, I must admit that I greatly admire Hartman’s theological approach. His bold, courageous stances are close to my heart. It is regrettable that he did not manage to enter the core contemporary religious discourse in Israel but, like a foreign implant, remained on the margins of a sector that prefers the Abraham of the Akedah to the Abraham who argued with God about Sodom. In almost every area he touched, he represents a religion without illusions about using the messianic era or the onset of redemption to explain God’s action in history. Nonetheless, the main criticism I have of Hartman touches on his theological perspective. He was suspicious of any approach that 109 Ibid., 176–177.

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recognizes the possibility of contradiction, and therefore could not keep hold of both extremes. On the one hand, in cases of a clash between reason and revelation, he sought for a defensive, conciliatory interpretation of the statements of revelation, Maimonides-style, to make them identical to the statements of reason. This kind of apologetic interpretation cannot, in many cases, avoid illusion and naïveté, and it reaches a dead end when Hartman discusses suffering and the Holocaust. On the other hand, he is forced to abandon the traditionally accepted Halakhah in cases of severe clash between it and Western reason and morality, since he did not succeed in interpreting them on a new meta-halakhic basis of covenantal Judaism. This approach inclines toward the Reform, but in opposition to the principles of Reform, he deeply loves Halakhah and believes in revelation. I confess that it is difficult, almost impossible, to educate youth for faith on the basis that contradictions are possible. But even Maimonides, who interprets biblical verses that contradict science allegorically, thought that his approach was good for the elite, not for the masses. I believe that every young person reaches a point of reflective, critical observation at some stage in his life. Maybe then it is necessary to make him face up to the contradictory truths to which he will have to reconcile himself.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein

R

abbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein (1933–2015) was born in France. In 1940 his family fled to the United States in fear of the Nazi invasion. He was educated at Yeshivat Rabbi Chaim Berlin and at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary, studying with Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner and Rabbi Aaron Soloveichik. Lichtenstein’s father–in–law, Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who was his principal teacher, gave him rabbinic ordination in 1959. Meanwhile, he attended Harvard University, where he earned a doctorate in English literature in 1957, writing a dissertation on Henry More, a seventeenth–century theologian and philosopher. He taught Talmud and served as Rosh Kollel at Yeshiva University for ten years. In 1971 he acceded to the request of Rabbi Yehuda Amital to move to Israel and join him as joint Rosh Yeshiva at Yeshivat Har Etzion, a Hesder yeshiva in Alon Shvut. Through this institution he educated thousands of students. He also served as rector of the yeshiva’s associated Herzog College. He retired from teaching at the yeshiva in 2011. He was one of the senior spiritual leaders of the religious–Zionist sector in Israel, primarily identifying with the moderate faction of that movement. With the assistance of his students, he published many articles, collections of essays, and books on Halakhah and Jewish thought, in Hebrew and in English. I note here the most important of his books: By His Light: Character and Values in the Service of God (English 2003, Hebrew 2005); Leaves of Faith (English 2003 and 2004, Hebrew 2016); and Seeking His Presence: Conversations with Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein (Hebrew 2011, English 2016), written by Haim Sabato.

REVELATION AND THE STUDY OF TORAH AND THE COMMANDMENTS Lichtenstein spent most of his adult life teaching Talmud and Halakhah in yeshivot. He wrote his sermons, articles, and books for the Modern Orthodox

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public in the United States and for his students at Yeshivat Har Etzion. He strove in his teaching (primarily of Talmud) to cultivate and reinforce his students’ faith, their learning, and their observance of the commandments. His writings are suffused with intense belief in God and complete faith that the Written and Oral Laws were composed and transmitted to us by Him. He understood the covenant God made with His people to have assigned them the task of implementing the divine plan in history. Accordingly, serving God through Torah study and full observance of the commandments was for him of primary importance. For him this was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There are certainly other areas of life that are worthwhile, even important, but they are secondary and subordinate to the service of God. One who learns Torah is in a dialectic encounter with God, who is distant and yet simultaneously close, at once the object of love and of fear. Studying Torah and Halakhah is in fact a continuation of revelation at every moment. This assertion dismisses the claim of academic scholars that Halakhah actually developed through legislation produced by the Sages themselves. For Lichtenstein, laws made in this way are a continuation of revelation, not a human initiative. Torah norms are ethical by their very nature, since the will of God is rational. The commandments set us apart as a people and characterize our national purpose. There is no hint of racial superiority connected to this notion. Lichtenstein was emphatic about this in a response addressed to the American Jewish public, its rabbis and lay leaders, when Commentary asked him about it in 1966: The Torah, both the written text and the oral law, constitutes divine revelation in three distinct senses. It was revealed by God, it reveals something about Him, and it reveals Him. [ . . .] [I]nasmuch as it is not merely a document delivered (salve reverentia) by God but composed by Him, it constitutes in its normative essence an expression of His will. As such, it affords us an indirect insight into what is otherwise wholly inscrutable. He who is hidden in His numinous “otherness”—E-l mistater be–shafrir hevyon, ha–sekhel ha–ne’elam mi–kol ra’ayon—or transcendent in His luminous majesty—(Milton’s “Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear”)—has chosen, mutatis mutandis, to condense His infinite will in the very act of its expression. Finite man is thus enabled, though ever so haltingly, to grasp it somewhat. Hence, as the Tanya emphasized, the tremendous importance of the study of Torah for traditional Judaism. It is the one means of embracing and absorbing, as it were, God’s presence as manifested through His revealed will. It becomes, therefore, not only an intellectual

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Between Religion and Reason exercise but a religious experience. [. . .] It [revelation] is the occasion, exalting and humbling both, for a dialectal encounter with the living God. Revelation is not only a fixed text but, in relation to man, an electrifying I–and–Thou experience. [. . .] The rapture and the awe, the joy and the tremor of Sinai were not of a moment. They are of all time, engaging the Jew who truly opens himself to the divine message and God’s call. “Every day let them [the words of the Torah] be in your eyes as if newly given.” The experience of revelation is repeated through response, be it study or action, to its content, and conversely, the awareness of its content is sharpened through an intensive sense of its experience. [. . .] At its core, the Torah is a body of law, Halakhah, its heart and soul. To respond to the Torah, at whatever level, is not just to undergo mystical or even prophetic trauma, but to heed a command. Or rather, to heed God as the giver of commands. [. . .] From this perspective, it is obvious that all 613 commandments are equally binding. [.  .  .] Whether a particular commandment has “ethical or doctrinal content” is not the heart of the matter. The crucial point is that it is a commandment, that it elicits a response to the divine call. To put it more sharply, there always is ethical or doctrinal content. In the age–old controversy—dating from Plato’s Euthyphro—as to whether things please God because they are good or they are good because they please Him, traditional Judaism has certainly held with Socrates that the divine will is not arbitrary but rational. As regards commandments, however, even if we ignore the intrinsic content, perhaps hidden from us, of a specific mizvah, its merely being such has moral and religious import. It widens the scope of religious awareness. It inculcates the habit of acting in response to the divine will in all areas of endeavor. It develops a sense of the divine presence. It integrates all of human life into a normative and purposive existence. It enables the Jew to attain not only dignity but sanctity. This normative existence is the key to Israel’s election as God’s chosen people. [. . .] Moreover, the normative element is not only the genetic historical sources of our election. It defines, in large measure, the heart of the concept proper. In what does our chosenness consist? It consists in being singled out as a unique instrument for the fulfillment of God’s purpose in history. This, in turn, entails commitment to unique responsibilities and special obligations. [. . .] The concept of Israel’s chosen status is therefore substantively different from the theories of racial and national superiority formulated by Gobineau, Treitschke, and their confreres. Chosenness, as we understand it, resides in our covenantal relation with God rather than

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five in any inherent superiority. [. . .] We do not boast of our prowess. We lay no claim to aboriginal merit. Rather, we humbly thank God for assigning us a unique destiny, and we strive to fulfill the responsibilities of the covenant which he proffered and we accepted. To the relativist, this will no doubt still sound naïve. But the believing Jew can assume no less. [. . .] The Halakhah, through its numerous laws concerning various areas, directs the Jew in the sanctification of himself and his environment. It suffuses his life with spiritual significance, and integrates his activity into a divinely ordered whole. It gives the Jew a sense of purpose.1

In the same year, he elsewhere stated his opinion on the truly unique essence of Judaism and its mission in the following absolutely Orthodox declaration: However, as interpretations of revelation and the tradition that explicates it, heterodox [Conservative and Reform] versions are quite invalid. If we take seriously the idea of an objective revealed divine will, then no matter how charitably or tolerantly we may wish to regard our fellow Jews, we cannot treat all readings of it equally. Beyond a certain point, sincerity and goodwill are not enough. We have a responsibility not only to preserve our own moral integrity but also to see that the revealed will of God prevails. [. . .] Yet Special Revelation, paradoxical a doctrine though it may seem, is the core of Judaism. It assisted at our birth, it defined our essence, and it molds our destiny. To constitute, in some particular sense, a “dwelling” for the suffusive Presence of the Shekhinah, to testify to a singular divine message, received, on the one hand, and to be borne, on the other: this is the essence of Jewish history. Covenants ago, in a land by rivers bounded, two roads diverged in a wood. We took the one as yet untraveled—and that has made all the difference.2

For Lichtenstein, revelation has but one single meaning—the Orthodox one. Lichtenstein also insists that secular learning, including academic study, are not merely necessary but actually valuable. He considers Western culture   1 A. Lichtenstein, Leaves of Faith: The World of Jewish Living ( Jersey City, 2003–2004), 2:338– 342; and see also 2:3–4. His teacher Rabbi Soloveitchik described this dialectic well in his books Halakhic Man and Uvikashtem Misham. See Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:25–31.  2 Lichtenstein, Leaves of Faith, 2:28–29.

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positive within certain limits (to which I will return). One might say that he is a decisively neo–Orthodox thinker, influenced both directly and indirectly by Rabbi S. R. Hirsch and by Rav Soloveitchik.

RELIGION AND STATE Lichtenstein’s position on the relationship between reason and revelation, autonomous morality and Torah morality, the secular and the sacred, was constructed on the basis of the abovementioned principles. A 1966 article was his first opportunity to discuss the complex realms of human existence for the modern believer, among other things the separation of religion and state. This topic stood at the heart of the dispute between religious and secular Jews in Israel in the second half of the twentieth century. Here we can see his fundamental position on the subject of revelation and reason. He first dismisses the compartmental approach decisively, as well as the full or harmonized identicality approach; he takes both of these approaches to conflict with halakhic Judaism. Instead, he recommends an interactive separation or “moderately compartmental” approach: In addressing ourselves to the question of separation in its contemporary setting, we encounter formidable claims—I am speaking, of course, of religiously valid claims—on both sides. To begin with the arguments for separation, these are of two types: theological and practical. It may be contended, first, that there should be no link between religion and the state because they relate to wholly diverse areas of human experience, the sacred and the profane, and between the two there can be no real relationship. As a citizen, man lies within the order of nature; as a communicant, within the order of grace; and between the two there lies an unbridgeable chasm. If one adopts this dichotomy, holding that nature and grace are not only distinct but disjunct, then, of course, there is little basis, if any, for the interaction of the political and the religious. [. . .] If we should reject this position, we are still confronted by a number of options. One is to assume the virtual identity of the sacred and the profane; or at least to assume it sufficiently so as to have both ruled by a single power. This is the basis of the institution of the king–priest prevalent in so many primitive societies. A second is to assume that the sacred and the profane are neither identical nor disjunct but distinct on the one hand and integrated on the other [. . .] “two powers” that rule separate realms independently but, in theory at least,

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five sustain and assist each other, so that their relations are governed by perfect concord. From a Jewish point of view, none of these solutions is truly adequate. Judaism certainly has not espoused either the renunciation of the secular or its severance from the religious. On the contrary, the whole thrust of the Halakhah lies in its demand that all of life be redeemed and sanctified. Nor does Judaism identify the sacred and the profane. Havdalah (“Separation”) is no less a mizvah than Kiddush (“Sanctification”). [. . .] The Halakhah is not content with the integration of the secular and the religious into a single harmonious scheme. It demands their interpenetration. The sacred must not only relate to the profane but—even as the two remain distinct—impregnate it. [. . .] Hence the concept of the two realms, suggesting, as it does, the parceling out of spheres of influence to political and religious authority respectively, does not satisfy the radical demands of the Halakhah. The halakhic ideal would seem to call for a more organic relation. From a Jewish standpoint, therefore, the interaction of religion and state is theologically not only possible but desirable.3

It is worth noting that, from Lichtenstein’s perspective, the possibility that some of the goals of the secular institutions of the state find themselves in conflict with the goals of religion does not arise. He goes on to discuss the separation of the two and emphasizes that a situation in which religion and state are isolated from each other would put Judaism in danger. For that would destroy the Jewish people, which has a spiritual mission and religious–historical obligations. But an interaction between the two realms of the kind that he envisages would also require caution, since that too is likely to endanger Judaism. Lichtenstein sees one danger in government supervision of religion, and a second in the threat that citizens would lose their religious freedom. In his model, a state separated from religion could not defend religious freedom due to the limits on its power and authority. On the other hand, political groups could, by means of the state, enforce religious compulsion on secular citizens and public institutions, which could also harm Judaism. Still, Lichtenstein prefers religious compulsion to state control of religion, since he sees a state with a religious character as a desirable goal. But in the current situation, unfortunately (as he sees it), where there is a secular majority in control, one must be careful lest the opposite situation, government control of religion, comes to

  3 Ibid., 2:7–9.

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pass. Therefore, the situation must be changed by means of the educational system: Moreover, in the generally libertarian climate of modern Western society, attempts at coercion are usually not only ineffectual but destructive. Inasmuch as they generate resentment, they do not simply fall short but backfire. In the present context, therefore, coercion, as a technique of stimulating positive religious observance, cannot generally succeed. Lest I be misunderstood, let me emphasize that I am not suggesting that all religious legislation is now ipso facto out of court. Some laws may aid in preserving our public national character even if they do not materially promote individual observance. And for others there may be general basic acceptance. I simply point out that by and large, coercion is no longer a feasible and justifiable modus operandi; and that now more than ever, our main thrust must be educational. This does not mean that we should introduce total separation of religion and state, a step that could entail the gravest consequences. The modern state has many other means at its disposal besides coercion. The schools are no less a part of its apparatus than the courts. I think it would be a great mistake to totally sever the state from religion. From both a moral and a pragmatic point of view, however, we need to be most careful about the stress and scope of its involvement.4

SECULAR STUDIES, ACADEMIC LEARNING, AND WESTERN CULTURE As noted, Lichtenstein earned a doctorate in English literature at Harvard University. His studies there had a great influence on his positive attitude toward Western culture, and especially to secular studies and academic learning. Lichtenstein was perfectly aware of the problem that halakhic Judaism has with secular learning. But he recognized no possible contradiction between religious and secular studies. He understood that being open to the cultures of the West would contribute to the full development of a believer’s personality and to the formulation of one’s worldview—on condition that he would employ the necessary amount of caution and would filter out the heretical things veiled within them. In 1985 he gave a talk to the Educators’   4 Ibid., 2:19–20. This is reminiscent of Goldman, who also looks forward to better days.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

Council of America called “Centrist Orthodoxy: A Spiritual Accounting.” He begins by explaining that the Modern Orthodoxy of “Torah and” is in conflict with the Haredi Orthodoxy of “Torah only” on two major points. In the Diaspora, the main litmus test is the connection between religious studies and secular culture; in Israel it is mainly the relationship between religion and state. He adds: Starting with the question of general culture, I wrote a brief essay in the 1960’s setting forth my position with respect to the validity and value of such culture and its relation to the dual problems of bittul Torah (taking time from Torah study) and potentially pernicious influences. In certain respects, the piece is unquestionably and clearly dated. [. . .] Nevertheless, in conceptual and axiological terms, the fundamental problem of general studies remains. That being the case, I want to stress one point. The piece was published at a time when I was fresh out of graduate school and still engaged in a modicum of collegiate teaching. After moving to Eretz Yisrael, I heard occasional rumors that, now being firmly established in an institution wholly devoted to Torah, I had recanted.5

He goes on to admit that confidence in Western culture has been shaken in the years since his earlier essay, for at least three reasons: interest in the humanities has waned, the Holocaust has called into question the refinement of civilization, and contemporary culture has become more vulgar, more permissive, and more violent. He is nonetheless persuaded of the importance of the general culture and of advanced academic studies, for they enhance one’s personal flourishing and add to one’s spiritual and religious experience: Nevertheless, I wish to reiterate emphatically that I continue to subscribe wholeheartedly to the central thesis of that early essay: the affirmation that, properly approached and balanced (and the caveats are there; there is need for much care and much caution), general culture can be a genuinely ennobling and enriching force. I am not talking, mind you, about going to college per se (in Eretz Yisrael, even going to high school is an issue). Much of what now passes in many placed for collegiate education is little more than sophisticated plumbing—at most, sharpening the mind and entitling its   5 A. Lichtenstein, By His Light: Character and Values in the Service of God ( Jersey City/Alon Shevut, 2003), 225–226.

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Between Religion and Reason owner to a sheepskin and a union card, but barely affecting the spirit, barely touching the soul. I am talking about the spiritual value of general education, not just education for the sake of earning a living. In this respect, my fundamental position, the affirmative position, has not changed. Quite the contrary, my personal experience over the last two decades has only reinforced an awareness of the spiritual significance of “the best that has been thought and said in the world.” For what is it that such culture offers us? In relation to art—profound expressions of the creative spirit, an awareness of structure and its interaction with substance and, consequently, the ability to organize and present ideas; in relation to life—the ability to understand, appreciate, and confront our personal, communal and cosmic context, sensitivity to the human condition and some assistance in coping with it; in relation to both—a literary consciousness which enables us to transcend our own milieu and place it in a broader perspective. Above all, culture instills in us a sense of the moral, psychological and metaphysical complexity of human life. [. . .] If I were pressed to encapsulate what I learned in graduate school, my answer would be: the complexity of experience. “The rest is commentary; go and study.” With respect to the whole range of points enumerated above, I say again that my life experience, in the States or in Eretz Yisrael, within the public or the private sphere, has only sharpened my awareness of the importance of these qualities. These elements—particularly the last—constitute, if you will, Centrist virtues. Centrism is as much a temper as an ideology, as much a mode of sensibility as a lifestyle. It is of its very essence to shy away from simplistic and one– sided approaches, of its very fabric to strive to encompass and encounter reality in its complexity and, with that encounter, to seek the unity which transcends the diversity. [. . .] I can emphatically state that my general education has contributed much to my personal development. I know that my understanding of Tanakh would be far shallower in every respect without it. I know that it has greatly enhanced my perception of life in Eretz Yisrael. I know that it has enriched my religious experience.6   6 Ibid., 228–230; emphasis added. See also H. Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha: Siḥot im Harav Aharon Lichtenstein (Tel Aviv, 2011), 86–95. There Lichtenstein says (among other things), “I feel a need to supplement my learning with that which has been created by others. I believe these compositions are legitimate, because they provide insight and inspiration which I cannot derive from the Shulḥan Arukh. [. . .] There is a type of inspiration that I can draw from Milton’s work which I do not find in Jewish sources. It is a type of inspiration that soothes the soul. Sometimes I find things there that border on the sacred.” (H. Sabato, Seeking His Presence: Conversations with Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein [Tel Aviv, 2016], 107–117).

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

Lichtenstein is speaking here for the first time of a unity that transcends diversity. Is he hinting at a dialectic process between contradictory extremes, or merely at a unity that is greater than the sum of its parts? The possibility that he is hinting at dialectic contradiction deviates from what he has said up to now, which made it seem as if he held the moderate compartmental approach. (I will discuss this later.) I want to introduce a different quotation here, one in which Lichtenstein praises the study of the wellsprings of foreign culture—literature and philosophy, their utility for the development of one’s personal sensibility, and their contribution to reading the Torah differently. Here Lichtenstein the literature PhD offers his readers some very rich language: General world literature affords one the possibility of learning about the spiritual nature of man, about his bond to the Creator, and about his role in the world. There are compositions written by gentiles that sharpen our understanding of the Torah itself. Anyone who reads Søren Kierkegaard’s writing on the binding of Isaac, even if he does not agree with all that is written there—as I do not—will admit that he offers an insightful perspective into fundamental questions. Anyone who reads Augustine’s commentary on Psalms will find wonderful things there. Of course, everything is seen through Christian eyes, but it is a fascinating encounter between a great soul and the sacredness of the book of Psalms. I think that any sensitive person who reads Shakespeare’s King Lear will be moved to tears. The play grapples with the extent of respect due to one’s parents, with the generation gap, and with the relationship between parents and children. Its lines touch both the heart and the mind. Similarly, one need not share Dostoevsky’s worldview in order to benefit from his piercing insight into the human soul in Crime and Punishment.7

Let me now resume my analysis of the speech to the educators. Lichtenstein argues, in my view correctly, that since the right–wing Haredim insist on “Torah only” and reject the foundations of Western culture, they suffer from psychological insensitivity and historical myopia. Their interpretation of whole sections of the Torah and its characters is therefore mistaken, even distorted, their understanding of the Torah sources is deficient, and their awareness of the challenge of Zionism and of reality in general is defective. Moreover, they pay a high price for their belligerence toward the secular public. A less complicated perspective on the human situation and a less civilized attitude frequently lead  7 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 90; idem., Conversations, 111–112.

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to cultural and spiritual impoverishment that does not grasp human complexity and tends toward superficiality. This is not the situation of Modern Orthodoxy, which wants to hold on to both sources of authority—revelation and reason— and to integrate what they both produce, religious and secular studies: Centrism at its best encourages a sense of complexity and integration, and this in several respects. First, inasmuch as a person of this orientation looks to the right and to the left, he is more likely to reject the kind of simplistic, black–and–white solutions so appealing to others. Second, again by dint of his basic position, it is more complex, because it encompasses more of reality. It relates to more areas of human life, to larger segments of our communal and personal existence. Third, not only in quantitative terms but qualitatively, a Centrist approach is more inclined to perceive shadings and nuances, differences between areas and levels of moral and spiritual reality; more inclined to understand, for instance, what the concept of devar ha–reshut is all about; more inclined to reject the popular myth that the answer to every single problem can be found in the Shulchan Arukh if only one knows how to deal with it. For those who lack a certain exposure, these insights are often more difficult to come by.8

Lichtenstein sums up his position on the desirable relationship between sacred studies and general education, and between religion and the secular, sovereign, Jewish state: Both issues that I have mentioned, that of general culture and that of Medinat Yisrael, have in a very real sense—although they are diverse—a common denominator. It may be summed up by the phrase, “Torah ve–,” Torah with something else. [. . .] Now, of course, the question is: What does one require besides Torah? Here there is room for different perceptions.9

Before he begins to discuss the question of what is required beyond the Torah, he once again warns: Now, of course—and this cannot be reiterated too strongly—there are all kinds of caveats: the proper balance must be maintained, great care needs  8 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 232. By devar hareshut (“the realm of the permissible”) he means the service of God outside the scope of the commandments.   9 Ibid., 237.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five to be taken that improper or pernicious influences do not seep in, and we must always approach general culture critically, from a Torah perspective. But when that is done, the ability to incorporate something of general culture into the Torah world clearly exists.10

That is, religion does not endanger culture. It is Western culture that poses a genuine threat to religion. Lichtenstein makes clear that he is not issuing a warning about such illegitimate areas of the surrounding culture as vulgarity, permissiveness, and violence. What he wants to sound the alarm about are those aspects of the pervasive ideological environment—such as biblical criticism,11 historical criticism of Halakhah, atheistic or deistic philosophy—that stand in unresolvable contradiction to religion and are therefore pernicious falsehood, harmful to religion, which is the primary domain. Lichtenstein tries his best not even to mention them. One must therefore adopt only those aspects of them that can be incorporated into a religious, Torah worldview. Now he answers the question: There is Torah proper, and there is that which, properly integrated and related, can become nigrar [as rice is “incorporated” into wheat for certain halakhic purposes]. Not everything can be nigrar, but there are things which can be. Here there is “Torah and,” but that “and,” to the extent that it is related to Torah, is metzuraf [attached] to it. [. . .] Thus, the key issue distinguishing our approach from that of our colleagues on the Right is the question of whether to adopt an attitude of “everything is in the Torah,” or to append, balance and round out. With respect to this issue, I think that we stand on solid ground. [. . .] On some issues, there is no question that the kind of position that I have outlined here has been a minority view. The question of general culture is, after all, quite old, and it is true: this position was in the minority at the time of the Rishonim and certainly in recent centuries in Eastern Europe. But no one questions that it is legitimate. In other areas, with regard to the fullness of life as opposed to constriction, I think we stand on the high ground: historically, ours has been the majority view. Those who now present constriction as an ultimate ideal represent the minority view. Be this as it may, I believe that the light by which we 10 Ibid., 239. 11 On Lichtenstein’s uncompromisingly negative attitude toward biblical criticism see Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 199; idem., Conversations, 250–251.

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Between Religion and Reason walk is a reliable guide—not the sole guide, but a thoroughly legitimate one. Our question, then, is: How well and how faithfully do we, as a community, walk by it? Our problem is not on the conceptual level, but rather on that of implementation, both operational and experiential. We will turn next to this question, the second component of our cheshbon ha–nefesh. Ideally, vibrant centrism should issue from the dialectical tension between diverse and, at times, even divergent values. Centrist Orthodoxy, specifically, can be powerful only when the concern for Torah remains passionate and profound, but is then supplemented by other elements. It can succeed when we can honestly state, by analogy with Byron’s statement (in “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”), “I love not man the less, but nature more,” that, in comparison to others, we love not Torah less, but derekh eretz—in the full, rich sense of that term – more. It is precisely here, I am afraid, that our cheshbon ha–nefesh begins. How much of our Centrism indeed derives from dialectical tension, and how much from tepid indifference? Is our commitment to talmud Torah truly as deep as that of the Right, but only modified in practice by the need to pursue other values? Do our students devote as much time and effort to talmud Torah, minus only that need to acquire culture or build a state?12

No true dialectic tension exists between values that are different, only between values that are contradictory. Lichtenstein does not employ the term “contradiction,” since in his view there is only a transitory disagreement between the two realms, on legitimate topics, but no permanent contradiction between them exists. For him, the reconciliation, the reunification, the perfection of the two realms by integrating them cannot pose a problem. This is a shift away from the compartmental approach to the resolved dialectical approach. But it is merely a slight shift, since this transitory disagreement does not bother Lichtenstein at all. As long as Torah study remains primary, passionate, and profound, and it continues to be supplemented by Derekh Eretz in the full, rich meaning given to that expression by Samson Raphael Hirsch, then as far as he is concerned everything will link together perfectly well. He considers integration of this kind preferable to the Haredi approach that sanctifies “Torah alone.” For him, such integration of opposites can be achieved with relative ease. Yet from

12 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 240–242; my emphasis.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

the writings of his principle teacher, Rav Soloveitchik, a true dialectic tension emerges, permanent and unresolvable, between two contradictory extremes.13 Here is how Lichtenstein concludes his talk on this important topic: “Excellent is Torah with derekh eretz, for exertion in them both will eliminate the thought of sin” (Avot 2:2). The point of the mishna is precisely that one’s commitment to Torah should be of the sort which obtains within a multiple context. Of course, within that context, we need to differentiate between the flour and the Torah: while it is true that “If there is no flour, there is no Torah, and if there is no Torah, there is no flour” (Avot 3:17), this is not a reciprocal relationship, axiologically speaking. The flour subserves the Torah, irrespective of the famous dispute of Rabbeinu Tam and Rabbeinu Elchanan whether Torah or derekh eretz is the primary component (Tosafot Yeshanim, Yoma 85b, and elsewhere). This dispute revolves around the question as to how one ordinarily is to arrange his life; but as far as values are concerned, no one could suggest that derekh eretz is primary as opposed to Torah. [. . .] One of the shibboleths constantly raised is whether our position is le–khatchila or be–di’avad (an ideal choice or a pragmatic default). I hear this all the time in Eretz Yisrael with regard to Hesder. If you ask me: Is our position be–di’avad or le–khatchila?—the answer is that it can be either. If one lapses into it, and certain compromises are made by default, then indeed it is be–di’avad. If it is the result of a rich, meaningful, profound and comprehensive commitment, if it grows out of the dialectical tension of trying to relate to the full gamut of spiritual goals which confronts us, if it is part of an effort to build intensively and extensively a worldview and a reality within our community—then indeed it is in every sense le–khatchila. And those who engage in it “shall go from strength to strength and shall appear before the Lord in Zion” (Tehillim 84:8).14

Once again, Lichtenstein is talking about a dialectic process between a variety of things, but he avoids discussing the contradictions that are to be found in the details. Without contradictions, there is no tension and there will not be a true, dialectic process that could end either in synthesis or in separation. There will just be unity in multiplicity or multiplicity in unity, resulting 13 On the unresolved dialectical approach of Soloveitchik see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, part 1, ch. 3. 14 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 247–252. By Hesder (“arrangement”) is meant the reduced military service for yeshiva students.

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in a combination that will sometimes be greater than the sum of its parts. It is therefore difficult to decide whether Lichtenstein sides with the moderate compartmental approach, according to which there can be no conflict between the two realms, or the resolved dialectical approach, according to which there do seem to be conflicts and contradictions, but these are resolved easily enough when the two realms are properly combined.

AUTONOMOUS ETHICS AND TORAH ETHICS In 1975 Lichtenstein published an essay called “Does Jewish Tradition Recognize an Ethic Independent of Halakhah?”15 He asks, among other things, “whether the demands or guidelines of Halakhah, quite apart from the ground common to natural and halakhic morality, are both so definitive and so comprehensive as to preclude the necessity for—and therefore, in a sense, the legitimacy of—any other ethic.”16 The phrasing of the question, he writes, is based on two assumptions: “I assume, first, that Halakhah constitutes or at least contains an ethical system.”17 This assumption invalidates the notion (also associated with Leibowitz) of an absolute separation between religion and ethics, which he claims is fundamentally irreconcilable with Jewish tradition: In either case, the religious and the ethical are here inextricably interwoven; and what holds true of religious knowledge holds equally true of religious, that is, halakhic, action. This fusion is central to the whole rabbinic tradition. From its perspective, the divorce of Halakhah from morality not only eviscerates but falsifies it. Second, I assume that, at most, we can only speak of a complement to Halakhah, not of an alternative. Any ethic so independent of Halakhah as to obviate or override it clearly lies beyond our pale.18

Any ethic that overrides Halakhah (by virtue of being contradictory to it) is therefore simply not taken into consideration. This approach is opposite to that of Hartman, who finds many such contradictions but does not regard such a contradictory ethic as “beyond the pale.” To the contrary—Hartman proposes 15 Lichtenstein, Leaves of Faith, 2:33–56; originally published in Modern Jewish Ethics, ed. M. Fox (Columbus, 1975), 62–88. 16 Ibid., 37. 17 Ibid. 18 Ibid., 38.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

that we uproot the contradictory Halakhah. Lichtenstein would undoubtedly maintain that Halakhah is not indifferent to morality. He supports an ethical system outside of Halakhah, to the extent that it completes Halakhah with what is missing from it. Halakhah does not provide an answer to every question and every ethical dilemma. “Who has not found that the fulfillment of explicit halakhic duty could fall well short of exhausting clearly felt moral responsibility? [. . .] [E]ven the full discharge of one’s whole formal duty as defined by the din often appears palpably insufficient. [. . .] Halakhah itself mandates that we go beyond its legal corpus.”19 Lichtenstein considers such cases legally binding, based on the principles “And thou shalt do the right and the good” (Deut. 6:8), “Ye shall be holy” (Lev. 19:2), and the rabbinic injunction to act lifnim mi–shurat ha–din, “inside the letter of the law.” He nonetheless emphasizes that the precise definition of these expressions and the extent to which they are halakhically obligatory are in dispute. So the question of how encompassing the morality of Halakhah is remains open. Lichtenstein concludes by saying that his intent was to shed light on the extent to which this dispute depends on how broadly or narrowly one construes the scope of ethics. In 1985 Lichtenstein published an article called “Halakhah Vehalakhim Ke’oshyot Musar: Hirhurim Maḥshavti’yim Veḥinukhi’yim” ( Jewish law and life as the basis for morality: Intellectual and educational reflections).20 He begins with Socrates’s question in Plato’s Euthyphro, a question already familiar from his earlier work, to which he has given a decisive answer: “There is certainly a framework of truth and of values that could and to a large extent did serve as the basis for the will of the Holy One in general and for its expression in the Torah and commandments in particular.”21 He asks the following probing questions: If, once the Torah was given, all of morality is contained within Halakhah, does this leave morality outside of Halakhah with no purpose? Or, perhaps, does it find its place among those subjects that are halakhically “permissible”—cases that are not discussed in Halakhah, or that are on the formal level permitted by Halakhah? Lichtenstein presents rabbinic views that legitimize the perspective that “at the root of Torah is a recognition of ethical criteria that make it possible to evaluate a phenomenon ethically even when purely

19 Ibid., 39–42. 20 In A. Lichtenstein, Musar Aviv: Al Musar, Emunah, Veḥevrah ( Jerusalem, 2016), 37–52; originally published in the collection Arakhim Bemivḥan Milḥamah:Musar Umilḥamah Bere’i Hadorot ( Jerusalem, 1985), 13–24. 21 Ibid., 40.

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halakhic tools do not apply.”22 With regard to the role of these ethical criteria, Lichtenstein says the following: Criteria of morality and truth are intended to play an important role in understanding the Halakhah and its extent. But a Jew is obliged to respond “Here I am” when presented with the command, “Offer him there as a burnt offering”; but before unsheathing the knife he is permitted, and even obligated, to make absolutely certain that he was really commanded to do this, that the command was unequivocal, and whether the ethical dilemma that confronts him is in fact so direct. To the extent that there is a necessity and opportunity for interpretation—and this requires clarification—a sensitive and sagacious conscience is one of the factors that must be taken into consideration. As Maimonides quite consciously made use of metaphysics to plumb the depths of certain biblical verses, so too an ethical perspective can be employed in order to fully understand the Halakhah and, at times, to limit its application. Obviously this process demands maximal caution and responsibility. It is necessary to ensure—and this demands a profound attachment to Torah and a deep–seated fear of Heaven—that these efforts are directed toward understanding the Halakhah, not toward shaping it or, God forbid, distorting it. “Does an ax boast over him who hews with it, or a saw magnify itself above him who wields it?” (Isa. 10:15). And it is also important to know—and this demands tremendous erudition and a solid connection to rabbinic tradition—how far the cord can be stretched and to recognize that the dangerous incursion of forbidden subjectivity is always present. True, someone conceited who has not studied Bible or Talmud or been a disciple of the Sages might in this way ruin the vineyard of Torah—and not only that, but in doing so might invalidate the chain of tradition leading from the Sages to our own day. We must constantly remain on guard against perversions of this kind. But the principle remains.23

That is, extra–halakhic ethical criteria are a device that must be used to clarify laws that seem at first glance to be morally problematic. Every effort must be made to reconcile the dilemma by use of such criteria. But this must be done with great care, and by erudite scholars, faithful to the tradition, to ensure that the halakhic tradition in question will not be harmed or distorted. But if no 22 Ibid., 47. 23 Ibid.

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exegetical, metaphysical, or allegorical solution is discovered, revelation outranks reason and must be considered determinative. Lichtenstein explains further the dialectic tension that stands between the faithful, religious approach and the autonomous, rational approach: According to the former, everything can be found in the limited Halakhah of revelation; we must, therefore, focus only on it and the study of it. According to the latter, there is an objective morality, or at least an overarching halakhic morality, and we are therefore obligated to define it, to develop it, and to develop tools to implement it. He specifies: There are weighty considerations on either side of this question that confront us with a conceptual dialectic from which stems an educational dilemma. There is a clear humanistic thread deeply rooted in the Jewish world, reflected both in the metaphysical description of humanity as created in the image of God and in the halakhic designation of the human being as a commanded creature. By its very nature, this thread highlights the value of humanity and emphasizes the development of all its spiritual and intellectual powers, focusing especially on the human capacity for independent judgment. In its religious formulations, as in its secular incarnations, it emphasizes the need to deepen the human dimension in our lives, to give the human being within us—expressed in the moral realm by responsibility freely accepted—control over the ordinary guy whom we normally resemble. This is completely consistent with the nature of Halakhah as a framework that demands awareness, judgment, and decision with every step we take. However, a humanistic perspective that encourages the individual to put his own powers into action in order to accept the sovereignty of the moral law and put it into practice clashes with a different fundamental principle: accepting the yoke of the kingdom of heaven. This acceptance must of course be the cornerstone of any religious framework, but for Judaism it is absolutely central—from a certain point of view, it is the only thing that is central.24

Does this dialectic tension point to a possible contradiction between revelation and reason? Lichtenstein answers: By accepting the yoke of the kingdom of heaven, a Jew as it were disconnects from the possibility of free will, which Pico della Mirandola correctly 24 Ibid., 49.

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Between Religion and Reason defined as focused on the uniqueness of the individual, and even more so from the ethical autonomy of Kant, and therefore despises the ethical–religious humanism that the two of them advocated. One who is obligated to blind, a priori obedience may be superior to the humanist, or inferior to him—but certainly not on the same level. [. . .] On the intellectual level, it is possible to deal with the problem. Dialectic—yes; contradiction— no. From the religious perspective, it is precisely by self–denial, by sacrificing their free will and their consciences to the Holy One, that human beings express their own personalities to the fullest.25

That is, when a commandment is appraised by non–halakhic ethical criteria, there may theoretically be some dialectic tension. But even if no rational resolution can be found for this tension, a situation of contradiction remains impossible. People must renounce their own powers of reasoning and yield to divine revelation; they must sacrifice their own free will, Akedah–style, to the divine will, and annul themselves before Him—that is the synthesis that rises above the level of autonomous morality and its tensions (as Soloveitchik demanded). To me, Lichtenstein (like Hartman) is not quite accurate here. After all, even if self–sacrifice is demanded of you and you succeed in achieving it, you still do not achieve a synthesis, and so the unresolved tension remains unresolved. You merely suppress it and force it out of the way. According to Lichtenstein, this same educational process is fraught with educational dangers, since the willingness to submit and to sacrifice oneself is liable to be stifled as a direct result of it: But the educational dilemma is obvious. It is present to some extent on the spiritual level in general. It is discernible, for example, in everything connected to the question of faith and logic, when the cultivation of intellectual and sometimes critical faculties, though essential if we are to understand inside and out, is liable to undermine the basis of its acceptance. However, the dilemma is especially aggravated in the realm of morality. A sensitivity to the values of human dignity and the obligation to care for others is liable, for example, to make students think twice about Torah commandments that in their understanding do not correspond to such values. A sharpened 25 Ibid., 50. We have here much more than an allusion to Soloveitchik’s approach, according to which the achievement to which we must aspire is a total sacrifice of the human will to the divine will; a sacrifice that entails much suffering. See also Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 237–240; idem., Conversations, 298–302.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five conscience may rebel against the One who designed it, like the golem who attacks its own creator. Sometimes, the educational question—how to present things—may even be mixed with the essential problem of understanding and grasping them.26

If this is so, how can we keep from worrying that a student will rebel against the synthesis that (as it were) recommends that he stifle his own power of thought? After all, if he understands that the contradiction is real, he is liable, God forbid, to align himself with the side of reason and spurn that of revelation, since intrinsic contradiction is impossible to live with! This complicated situation is fraught with danger. Lichtenstein concludes as follows: There are undoubtedly educational challenges, potentially quite serious ones. We must act wisely, piously, and energetically to ensure to the extent possible that a moral conscience is combined with an effort to understand the word of God rather than, Heaven forbid, to pass judgment on it. But invalidating one’s conscience is not a suitable solution. Those who advocate this are genuinely off the mark, for there is an element of white–washing, bordering on distortion; and they miss the mark because a spiritual personality, who can distinguish between good and evil in the realm of the permissible, is incalculably richer than one who adheres strictly to what is explicitly written in the traditional sources with regard to specific areas of existence. True, one must carefully weigh whether, when, and to what extent questions can be raised and difficulties and even conflicts pointed out, or whether it is preferable to instill moral values and foster a general awareness of them and deal with problems only when they arise. Often, perhaps most of the time, taking certain variables into consideration, it is appropriate to adopt and implement Rabbi Abraham ben David [Ra’avad] of Posquières’s criticism of the way Maimonides dealt with the question of human free will and divine knowledge: “Says Abraham: this author has not written wisely, for no one should begin something he does not know how to finish. But he insisted on bringing up the problem and left it unsolved, simply returning to the religious answer. It would have been better for him to leave everything as it was, in perfect innocence, and not stimulate people to think about something which would subsequently leave them in doubt, perhaps even suspicion” (to Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 5:5). But 26 Lichtenstein, Musar Aviv, 51.

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Lichtenstein concludes that the proper educational method requires educators to implement a careful, prudent approach. They must make their decisions based on existing educational circumstances, especially when problems that raise ethical contradictions crop up. The pedagogical method must be appropriate to the circumstances, the nature of the students, their maturity, and their faith. In most cases it is desirable, if possible, not to bring up questions of this kind. Lichtenstein generally gives priority to the disingenuous perspective of Ra’avad over Maimonides’s audacity. Maimonides, after all, did not in fact leave the contradiction between free will and divine foreknowledge unanswered, as Ra’avad claimed he did. Maimonides’s answer is that there is a contradiction on the level of human reason, but God’s knowledge and reason are obviously different from ours. God knows what will happen in the future because past, present, and future are all one to Him. He knows all three of them just as we know the present. The fact that we are observing some event does not interfere with the free will of the one who is enacting it. It works the same way for God, except that for Him the future is the same as the present. From our point of view, if the event has not yet occurred, we know nothing about it, but from God’s point of view that is not how it works. For Him, “all [past, present, and future] is foreseen [observed by Him], but free will is given [to man]” (m. Avot 3:15). Maimonides was not concerned about there being any permanent contradiction between free will and God’s foreknowledge at the level of our reason. For Maimonides, human reason is incapable of grasping how all time is unified from God’s perspective. But for Lichtenstein the possibility of contradiction does not even come into play. In 1986 Lichtenstein gave a lecture to ordainees of RIETS called “Being Frum and Being Good: On the Relationship between Religion and Morality.” He first distinguishes between the sociological definitions and the philosophical definitions of the two terms. In doing so, like Hartman and Sacks,28 he invalidates the apologetic approach, which says that religious people are

27 Ibid., 52. 28 See the previous chapter, 70-71 [61 in the Hebrew], and the next chapter, 180-182 [147–148 in the Hebrew].

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automatically moral, and offers his perspective on the desirable relationship between the two: Popularly or sociologically defined, frumkeit (loosely, “religiosity”) and goodness are neither quite the same nor opposed. We all know people who are absolute apikorsim (disbelievers) and whom we would nevertheless define as being “good” by virtue of their high moral standards. Conversely, we also unfortunately know others whom we would surely designate as frum (observant)—they keep Shabbat and are scrupulous in their kashrut— but who are nevertheless ruthless or dishonest in personal and commercial relations. That, of course, hardly fits our conception of goodness. So, although popularly defined, these two terms are simply independent of one another, we are concerned with philosophical rather than sociological definitions, and on that level the relation between these two terms is less certain. [. . .] We understand goodness to be that which is intrinsically morally good; not something which factually is desired, but something inherently valuable and desirable. Likewise, the term “frumkeit” or “religion” has to be thoroughly analyzed. Here, too, for our purposes I will content myself with a general concept. But even in dealing with very general terms, we surely need to differentiate between several strands. The term signifies first an existential and experiential connection to God—emuna (faith), and beyond that, yira, ahava, devekut (fear, love, cleaving). Second, and this is particularly true within a Jewish and halakhic context, that relation to God needs to translate into an obedient and obeisant response to His normative demands.29

Lichtenstein returns to his assertion in answer to Socrates’s question— does God arbitrarily decree what is good and what is evil, or is His will guided by preexisting criteria on which He bases His commands? According to Judaism, the second alternative is the correct one: I think that the Jewish position is absolutely unequivocal. We indeed hold that God’s will, His being, is moral and rational; that He does act, and will, in accordance with certain standards. By virtue of His very essence, certain

29 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 101–103.

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Between Religion and Reason things not only shall not but cannot be willed by Him. God and moral evil are simply and purely incompatible.30

We thus understand why Jews have always sought for the ethical reasons for the commandments, even if the details of the commandments do not always have obvious moral or ethical content. Moreover, obedience constitutes an acknowledgment that one was created by God and is returning to Him in repentance. The habit of obedience to the commandments is good in and of itself. The conclusion is clear: Now, if we understand that God’s will and His mitzvot are grounded in goodness, rationality and morality, then if we also submit that frumkeit means doing God’s will, and that goodness is an integral component of that will—then of course ideal and comprehensive frumkeit includes goodness. It is not synonymous with goodness; it includes it, it comprehends it. To us, certainly, this is a davar pashut, a simple, obvious matter.31

Now Lichtenstein turns to a discussion of religious people who are not good and good people who are not religious. With regard to the religious people who are not good, he says this: Devoting all one’s strength to the commandments that are performed for God and insensitively disregarding those that govern relationships between people is legitimate, even if it is not advisable. But: Were a person, however, to be evil in an active sense—he wrongs others, injures them knowingly, willfully, viciously—then he surely could not be defined as a tzaddik in any sense, and of him it is said that his mitzvot “are thrown back in his face.” He buys Rabbeinu Tam tefillin and he has kaful shemoneh tzitzit, “and they are thrown back in his face.”32

About those who are good but not religious, Lichtenstein maintains that such secular ethical idealism should not be dismissed or denigrated, even though the morality of such a person does not attain that of a good religious person (a sweeping and illusory contention, to my mind). To Lichtenstein, 30 Ibid., 108. See also Lichtenstein, Musar Aviv, 37–40. 31 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 111. 32 Ibid., 117.

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such a dismissal is not correct, nor is it worthwhile, for it leads to severely unethical consequences: Thus, returning to our original question, we surely should not dismiss nor denigrate moral idealism simply because it springs (in certain cases) from secular sources. Certainly, we believe deeply that a moral idealist would be at a much higher level were his morality rooted in yirat Shamayim, were it grounded in a perception of his relation to God and of the nature of a man as a respondent and obedient being. But that surely is not to say that we therefore ought to dismiss totally the possibility or the reality of secular morality. First, we should not do this because it is simply untrue—there are genuinely moral people within the secular community. Second, we ought not to do this because, after all, the results are not what we should be seeking. Whether we score points here or there is not crucial. In the process of “scoring points,” we increase sinat achim (fraternal hatred), we sharpen divisions, we heighten tensions; and this, in and of itself, a moral and ethical problem.33

Now Lichtenstein (ibid.) turns to a discussion of the question in which I am most interested—what is to be done when religion and ethics clash? He begins this way: I emphasized before that frumkeit and goodness are not synonymous; rather, goodness is ideally to be included within frumkeit. But if they are not to be regarded as synonymous, is there a possibility that frumkeit and goodness can sometimes be antonymous?

Lichtenstein answers that there is indeed such a possibility, and that we must confront it. He rejects the argument, popular among Christians, that the quest for morality somehow clashes with one’s religious commitments, since it constitutes an independent human initiative that undercuts one’s submission to the Creator. There is no place for such an attitude in Judaism, which highlights the element of free will in its conception of religious life. In Judaism, he points to another problem: However, there is a second kind of conflict, a different sort of tension. I mentioned before that the quest for goodness is an integral component of 33 Ibid., 121.

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Between Religion and Reason frumkeit. Generally speaking, this is true. But regarding certain particular tzivuyyim (divine commands), surely we find instances in which obedient response to God’s normative demands stands in apparent opposition to what we conceive to be good and, if you will, to what we understand that God conceives to be good. Here, a problem arises: How do we relate to this? What makes this problem more acute is the fact that it arises particularly in individuals who are morally and spiritually sensitive. Those who are relatively coarse are not concerned with these issues. Who is troubled by the command to wipe out Amalek? Those people who have succeeded in developing the kind of moral sensitivity that is important to us.34

Lichtenstein also brings up a case study, the conflict faced by Abraham when commanded to sacrifice his son. One is obligated to try one’s best to understand such a command and to strive with all one’s strength to avoid the conflict. The Sages describe in detail Abraham’s thoughts and the misgivings he experienced at receiving such an order during the three days of the journey to the mountain where the sacrifice would take place.35 Having found no solution to the conflict, the decision he had to make was clear: One has to obey such an order, recognizing that it must be good even if it is not clear how. Lichtenstein here is following his teacher, Rav Soloveitchik. When one takes this route, submission to the divine command supersedes one’s own rational, moral voice. As I have shown in the previous chapter, Hartman sharply criticized this path. Yet neither Lichtenstein nor Hartman took note of the two levels of Soloveitchik’s thought. For Soloveitchik, as I understand him, on the theoretical, theological level, the tension between the divine command and human morality remains unresolved. This tension continues to exist on the practical level as well, but one must suppress it and submit to God. Man must always sacrifice his own free will to the word of God as expressed in the tradition—as Abraham did at the Akedah—even if this contradicts basic human morality. For Lichtenstein, revelation comes first on every level: But even when one has walked the last mile, at times the conflict may remain, and—as in the akeida—the decisive element is clear. It was only a tzav of God, or of the angel sent by God, which was able to countermand the command to sacrifice Yitzchak. The task before us is multifaceted. As 34 Ibid., 122–123; my emphasis. 35 See Midrash Hagadol (Margaliot ed.), 346–347; BT Sanhedrin 89b.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five those who educate towards yirat Shamayim, we must communicate the message of the akeida—boldly, loudly and clearly. On the other hand, as those who do seek to ingrain moral sensitivity in ourselves and in our children, we need not dismiss the ambivalences, the difficulties and contradictions (at the initial level, surely). We need not wish away Avraham’s three days of spiritual groping. We need not dismiss the wrestling and grappling as being a reflection of poor yirat Shamayim, of spiritual shallowness, or of a lack of frumkeit. Inasmuch as goodness itself is an inherent component of frumkeit, the goodness which is at the root of the problems, struggles and tensions is itself part of yirat Shamayim—and a legitimate part. If the sense of moral goodness is legitimate, then the questing and the grappling are also legitimate. But, of course, the resolution must be clear, and the grappling must all be done within the parameters of the understanding that, however much I wrestle, I do not for a moment question the authenticity or the authority of the tzav. I do not judge God. I assume, a priori, that “His deeds are perfect, for all His ways are just; a faithful God, without iniquity, righteous and upright is He” (Devarim 32:4). If He commands, “Take your son and offer him as a sacrifice,” then it must be good (in a sense which perhaps, at the moment, I do not understand). But within the context of my a priori obedient submission, I may try to understand. I may grope, I may ask, and I may ultimately seek resolution.36

Lichtenstein sees certain risks in this solution. The first is this: If people are sensitized morally and ethically, they will then encounter additional difficulties with certain areas of Halakhah. The second risk is an opposite one: if the connection between morality and religion is emphasized, people are liable to think that moral principles are important only because they constitute part of the divine command, with the result that the inherent significance of goodness will be lost. A third risk is the educational one. People speak about a clash between demands based on the fear of Heaven and the demands of morality and say that Abraham was commanded to do something that would ordinarily be considered immoral. Even if saying so is accompanied by the reservation that Abraham received a divine command, which intrinsically means it somehow partakes of God’s goodness, there is nonetheless a concern that the command might be considered immoral.

36 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 123–124. See 66-70 [Hebrew pages 58–61] above.

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What conclusion does Lichtenstein draw from the existence of such risks? Here is what he says: So what we need to do, I think, is not to weaken our moral sense or that of our children and students. Rather, we need to deepen and to intensify our commitment, our faith, our sense of obedience, our yirat Shamayim. We need to deepen our sense that God has nothing in this world besides yirat Shamayim, and that our moral conscience needs to develop within its context.37

Lichtenstein concludes indecisively: How ought Modern Orthodox institutions allocate resources between the ethical commandments that deal with relationships between people, and the ritual commandments that deal with the relationship between people and God? If we emphasize the latter, that stems from our weakness in this area. But in such an emphasis, the danger exists that there will be a bifurcation between frumkeit and goodness within their minds and personalities. They might regard these areas as being not only distinct but disjunct. This could lead them to identify the world of Torah with only Yoreh De’a, Even Ha–ezer and Orach Chayim (the largely ritual areas of Halakha), while ignoring all the rest. Unfortunately, this danger is sometimes reinforced by the fact that, at times, there are indeed communities within which this impression seems to be the correct one. Certainly, we need and want to avoid this.38

Lichtenstein adds that dividing resources between the two areas is especially important for the Modern Orthodox public, since the moral issue is directly related to their worldview. The Modern Orthodox public is involved with the values of the surrounding universal community and is sensitive to areas in which the service of God comes into play in the realm of permissible behavior, outside of the fulfillment of this or that specific commandment. So we must be aware of the danger that is posed by our awareness of the conflict, the identification and ranking of the two areas, besides the danger that awareness of the disconnect between the two areas will conflict with a

37 Lichtenstein, By His Light, 129. 38 Ibid., 130.

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consciousness of the unity of the Torah that enables reciprocity between its components: First, we must avoid the notion that—broadly and generally speaking (whatever may be true of a particular instance)—there can be any kind of antithesis between frumkeit and goodness. On the other hand, we must learn to avoid the notion that the two are simply synonymous. They are not; one is included within the other. Likewise, we must avoid the sense that we need to bifurcate these areas and therefore to grade them: this is more important and this is less. We need to have and to impart a very profound sense not only of the centrality but of the unity of Torah. “One thing God has spoken; two things I have heard” (Tehillim 62:12). There are many components, but one overriding message, and for us one overriding duty—to emphasize the interconnection between these two components. [. . .] Our sense of the truth and vitality of Torah is sharpened and deepened through our recognition of its total unity. This means conceiving of the areas of bein adam la–Makom and bein adam le–chavero not as different or conflicting elements, but rather as one central unity, albeit subdivided into various components.39

I ask about these assertions: morality is included entirely within religion, and religion and Halakhah include other things as well. That is, they are supposed to be identical with respect to that part of religion in which morality is to be found. Yet Lichtenstein opposes this approach. Moreover, if morality is contained within Halakhah, why does Lichtenstein speak of the need for external principles of morality to supplement our own?

SEEKING HIS PRESENCE Lichtenstein was a Torah educator and a humanist. Haim Sabato’s 2011 book Seeking His Presence (published in English in 2016) includes conversations between them on subjects that top the Modern Orthodox agenda. Among them is the question of the desirable relationship between humanism, which puts man at the center of existence, and religion, which puts God there. Lichtenstein considers humanism a very positive phenomenon. At the end of a conversation on this subject Sabato asks: “If you had more influence over the 39 Ibid., 131–132.

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religious educational system, would you try to swing the pendulum in religious high school education to emphasize the humanities more?”40 Lichtenstein replies: If it were up to me, I would support such a move. But I remember that about twenty-five years ago there was a meeting of roshei yeshiva of yeshiva high schools that discussed this matter. The person who was in charge of literature study told me that there was no chance. He said that the teachers and rabbis didn’t want it and the parents didn’t want it. The parents don’t want more liberal arts because they prefer that their children learn subjects that will help them earn a living, and the rabbis don’t want it because they are afraid of the religious pitfalls. I do not deny the fact that there are problems that arise in studying the humanities. There are questions that might lead to challenges to faith, raising philosophical and ethical problems. There are all sorts of challenges that might arise. For a person to derive benefit from studying the humanities without faltering, he must be deeply rooted in Torah, and he also needs teachers—both in Talmud and in literature—who are suffused with Torah and faith.41

Lichtenstein rightly feels that such people are outstanding, rare individuals. In a quotation that Sabato appends to this conversation, Lichtenstein explains what makes Judaism humanistic. But he also clarifies that Judaism distinguishes itself from humanism due to the need to achieve a balance of values between it and theism: Yahadut ( Judaism), is, in some sense, profoundly humanistic. This quality is reflected in at least three distinct areas. Perhaps foremost among them is the esteem accorded man, whether considered independently, as expressed in the doctrine of zelem E-lokim (that man was created in the image of God), or as regards his position within the created cosmic order. Second, we note the centrality accorded human needs and aspirations within the core halakhic corpus. Finally, the sensitivity to human welfare is manifested in the criterion for defining exigencies which warrant deviations from that corpus. As the Rambam explains with regards to pikuah nefesh (saving 40 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 139; idem., Conversations, 172. 41 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 139; idem., Conversations, 172–173.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five lives) overriding Shabbat: “Hence you have learned that the ordinances of the Torah are not [meant to serve] vengeance in the world, but, rather, [to serve] mercy, lovingkindness, and peace in the world” (Hilkhot Shabbat 2:3). And yet, that humanism, fraught with possibly dangerous overreaching, is guarded. Esteem is tempered by the contrast of frailty bordering on nothingness with transcendental majesty and power; and the danger of anthropomorphism is proactively anticipated by the preventive prohibition against graven images. Regard for human welfare, for its part, is constantly pitched within the context of man’s servitude to God. And so the axiological balance is struck, charting a course subsequent generations would do well to follow.42

It is interesting that Lichtenstein is in fact speaking here of the overweening “majestic man” and the submissive homo religiosus, of whom his teacher Rabbi Soloveitchik spoke. But in contrast to his teacher, who saw a dialectic contradiction and an unresolvable tension between humanistic and religious extremes, the student is concerned with the contradiction and its unresolvability, and speaks about compartmentalization, reciprocity, balance, and resolved tension. If we carefully examine what Lichtenstein has to say about the relationship between religion and morality, we will reach a different conclusion than that about the relationship between religion and Western culture, where, as noted, dialectic tension can possibly exist but is resolvable. Between religion and morality there is no possibility whatsoever of contradiction and dialectic tension between the realms outside of a few of the commandments, and even then, only at the very first stage at which the question arises. Morality is included within religion and constitutes a part of it, even though religion also includes additional realms of commandments involving a person’s relationship with God and fearing, loving, and cleaving to God. Can we conclude from this that in the part of religion in which morality is found they overlap and are identical? It seems to me that Lichtenstein would answer this question in the negative. Lichtenstein is concerned that any comparison of religion with other realms would cast doubts on its superiority. Are the realms of religion and morality actually completely separate? Lichtenstein rejects this possibility too, since for Judaism the will of God, as embodied in the commandments, is ethical and rational. As with the question of the relationship between religion and the state, 42 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 140; idem., Conversations, 173–174.

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we are left with the compartmental approach in which the two realms interact, both being included within a comprehensive unification of the one great truth. As for the particular commandments written in the holy books that raise moral difficulties and have no rational explanation, we must submit when we stand before the divine command, recognizing its essential goodness, even if we do not yet understand it. That is to say, when an apparent contradiction between revelation and rational morality crops up, the former overrides the latter if we do not succeed in finding any adequate explanation for the conflict. Let it be said in Lichtenstein’s favor that, despite his deep religious faith, and his devotion to the God of Israel and His direct revelation to the Jewish people in the Written and Oral Torahs, he has no inclination to the rightwing Haredi model of “Torah alone” and even criticizes it harshly. Like Norman Lamm, he too recognizes its legitimacy, but nonetheless does not depart from the Hirschian tradition of “Torah with Derekh Eretz.” Yeshiva University, the stronghold of Modern Orthodoxy in the United States, adopted that tradition and therefore advocates a centrist position and recognizes the values and importance of the best of general culture and its contribution to a well–rounded worldview. It is to Lichtenstein’s credit also that he criticizes the arrogant religious position according to which only religious people are really good. All the same, it seems to me that, because of his strong faith in God and in the heavenly origin of the two Torahs—even though these are just beliefs and therefore not logically defensible—Lichtenstein adheres to them despite the philological and historical studies indicating that it was mortals who fashioned, developed, and refined the Halakhah. This self–denial left him faithful to the modernists of the nineteenth century, who thought that there did indeed exist a single, overarching truth sought by everyone. Lichtenstein thinks this truth is made of two interwoven sources—revelation and reason. He is therefore not an “elevated pluralist.” That is, he is not troubled by worries that his truth may be mistaken, or that there may be more than one truth in the world of humanity. It is in the rational truth of secularity and of the other religious trends that he sees something mistaken, invalid, and illegitimate. To me, Lichtenstein’s attitude toward the relationship between morality and religion is nonetheless apologetic and illusory. I think it is impossible to educate someone to fulfill a command that is obviously immoral from a rational perspective simply out of fear of the Lord. Biblical scholars (employing tools developed intellectually) and believers in revelation also differ on the question of whether the commandments are divine at all, and not human. It is easy for Lichtenstein to deal with the Akedah, in which we all know in advance that we are dealing with a test. Abraham him-

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

self was in constant, direct dialogue with the Creator for many years and knew from his own personal experience that God’s absolute goodness could be relied upon. And, after all, this command was annulled before it could be carried out. The command that Abraham received was direct and personal and its authenticity could not possibly be doubted. The command to wipe out the Amalekites is much more problematic, and so Lichtenstein avoids dealing with it. True, God issued a command to wipe out Amalek and spoke directly to Moses and to Samuel about it; yet this command was carried out despite the fact that it contradicted universal, human morality. The message that God punishes the wicked was transmitted at the expense of children who had not sinned. The argument that there is some hidden good here does not stand up to scrutiny. The argument that today we do not know who the Amalekites are, leaving the command no longer observable in practice, does not legitimize the original command and its fulfillment. The death sentences in the Torah for homosexual relations, Sabbath violation, and adultery get no moral certification from the argument that there is no practical way to enforce them as long as the Sanhedrin is not in existence. There are halakhot that are still valid today, like those about women’s roles, conversion, children born of extramarital relations, abandoned wives, and the relationship to other trends within Judaism and to non–Jews that stand in contradiction to autonomous, rational, Western morality. Lichtenstein does not deal with any of these. I think modern believers can only extricate themselves from such a contradiction if they recognize it, make their peace with it, and accept the dual truth / unresolved dialectical approach. According to this approach, there are two contradictory truths, that of revelation and that of reason, which are one only in the world of God. I have written about this in greater detail in part 1 of this book.

SECULARISTS AND SECULARITY Sabato devoted one of his conversations with Lichtenstein specifically to the relationship between Modern Orthodoxy and the secularists who make up a large portion of the Israeli public. He asks whether Lichtenstein identifies with the view of Rav Kook, according to which the actions of secularists stem from an unconscious religiosity and they will eventually become religious; or whether he sides with the view of the Ḥazon Ish that they are to be categorized as “captive infant” who never had the opportunity to be brought up religious. Lichtenstein answers that he accepts neither of these two views. He chooses to accept some of the values that exist among the

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secular population and among Jews of other religious trends for the sake of national unity. But he hopes to eventually bring all the other trends into that of Orthodoxy: Regarding both categorizations that you cited, there is a judgment and determination being made, a singular definition being given to an entire community. I don’t know how one can think this way about such a large community. Some in that community manifest impressive spiritual values, which I believe are inherently significant, not merely historically so. Sadly, there is also another segment of the community that is devoid of these values, who have left behind not only the observance of ritual mitzvot such as tzitzit, tefillin, family purity and kashrut, but also basic values, both Jewish and universal. [. . .] [W] e may see certain things that are troubling, but there are certainly real achievements and values, too, and in some areas, I wish we would do as well as they do. [. . .] To say that theirs is an “empty cart” is to assert that they have nothing to offer, that there is nothing we do not do better in our community.43 I do not believe that to be true, and I would not wish to reach such a state of affairs. [. . .] There are many such people who devoutly perform acts of kindness. Many are deeply concerned about the future, about the direction and the existence of the Jewish people. And I am not just talking about the existence of the State of Israel but also of the Jewish people as a nation. Their vision is not my vision. But they have many accomplishments—and I am not merely referring to their diplomatic activities or the fact that they fill a certain historical role, as Rav Kook said. They manifest values which are inherently significant. To say that they are children taken captive is to infantilize the entire community. The expression ‘children taken captive’ means that they have nothing, but this is through no fault of their own, and thus they are not to be held accountable for this. I do not doubt that there are people like this, but I have no doubt that there are people like this in our camp as well. The halakha does recognize a category of “children taken captive.” The question is whether this is all that I can see in the secular community. Are they all to be regarded as children? Are they all to be regarded as religious captives? I recall that I heard someone giving a lecture on this topic, speaking about Camus in the French Resistance. Was Camus a child?! One can disagree with him and dispute his perspective, but he was no child. He was a serious thinker with a substantive ideology. The expression “children taken captive” also has an implication that I find not so much among the followers of the 43 See also Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 155–156; ibid., Conversations, 192-194. He resembles Sacks in this respect.

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Ḥazon Ish but rather among the followers of Rav Kook. I mean a mindset that says, you secular Jews think of yourselves one way, but we know that deep down you believe in something else, that ultimately your true essence will emerge. The day will come when this hidden belief will be revealed, when you will just remove one outer layer, and then another. That’s how they treat it, like the peel of an onion, with one layer after the next. This is an arrogant, condescending attitude. I would not want anyone to think of me in this manner, and I don’t think we should think of others in these terms, either. [. . .] [T]o make a sweeping statement that this is how to view either an individual or the entire community, seems to me condescending, disrespectful of the divine image in man, even one who does not act exactly the way we might want. I understand Rav Kook’s perspective. Occasionally I am even jealous of it, but only occasionally. I am troubled by the perspective he expressed—and please do not misunderstand me—because I see it as giving certain preeminence to history over morality. This perspective praises these people’s accomplishments, and the role they play, on the political scene, in the context of history. But how can one ignore the spiritual component? [. . .] These are God’s calculations. I have no reason to denigrate a community of people whose worldview differs from mine by saying that they are only vessels in the hands of the Almighty. [. . .] I believe that to negate to the degree that they do is an error. I reiterate that much of what they do is laudable, morally, spiritually, and religiously. But here, it is worth considering the perspective that the Rav raised, namely the shared fate and destiny of the Jewish people as a nation. Aside from all that, on a personal level, I would have difficulty isolating myself from the rest of the Jewish people, to connect only to my own community, narrowly or broadly defined. We are a family. [. . .] I believe that a proper Jewish, moral, Torah perspective recognizes and appreciates partiality. Certainly, if I am developing an ideology, a personal or communal platform, I will try to develop a maximalist, all-inclusive Torah-based system. [. . .] The question of relating to the partial commitment of others arises with regard to the Conservative and Reform communities throughout the world. Let me reiterate that I have great esteem for partial commitment, and I hope and pray that I can help people internalize more values from our world. [. . .] The Conservative and Reform movements sometimes seek control in religious venues, which is why the relationship with them is sometimes more fraught than it is with the secular community. But this is an incidental problem. If I ask myself whether I prefer a person who believes that God exists in the world, and that the Jewish people has the Torah, even if he does not believe in the divinity of the Torah—a

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position which poses serious educational challenges for us—or one who does not share these fundamental beliefs, the answer is clear.44 Sabato sums up their discussion with another quote: Just as we need air to breathe, we need—both nationally and personally, both practically and morally—to create real bridges between the communities, to know and recognize the good and positive in the other, rather than constantly seeking out the faults and the problems. We need—morally, nationally, and societally—to understand and recognize the challenges of the other, now and in the future. This is the task that has been laid upon us. Each of us is charged to act, each one of us from his own perspective, and based on his outlook and worldview.45 This being the case, Lichtenstein distinguishes between the ideological and educational issue, according to which one must protect the purity of holiness and the faith that God the Creator gave us the two Torahs directly from Sinai, and the practical question, from a national and ethical concern for Jewish unity, for which partial satisfaction is enough of a prerequisite. By this criterion, what we need is cooperation between the Orthodox and the other religious trends to ensure the prosperity and the unity of the Jewish people. All the same, it is clear that, for Lichtenstein, all the non–Orthodox trends are fundamentally mistaken, so every effort must be made to set them straight. Lichtenstein is patronizing to these trends even though he has no decisive proof that the truth is on his side. He does not take into consideration the possibility that there is more than one truth, and that there is an unresolvable contradiction between the various truths. When all is said and done, he takes liberal positions that do not completely cancel out the values of the secularists and even sometimes finds among them sublimities that “we” do not have. Nevertheless, I still consider his views and his approach apologetic and illusionary. He ignores situations and subjects in which real contradiction appears between the differing values of reason and revelation, and he avoids dealing with them either ideologically or practically. The question that must be asked is: Do I admit the contradiction between the two values, recognize the value that conflicts with my personal belief as a possible truth, and still choose my personal belief? Or do I abrogate the value that opposes my belief in the name of revelation or in the name of reason? 44 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 142–153; idem., Conversations, 178–190. He resembles Goldman in his expectation that they will all eventually become Orthodox. 45 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 156; idem., Conversations, 193–194.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

THE STATUS OF WOMEN Sabato also had a conversation with Lichtenstein on the status of women,46 which addressed the question of women’s Talmud study. Lichtenstein was involved in starting the Migdal Oz Beit Midrash for Women. Sabato wonders what Lichtenstein thinks about this development and whether he is concerned about bringing women into advanced Torah study (as other Orthodox rabbis are). Lichtenstein replies that Rav Soloveitchik thought it was good for women to study Torah. In 1977, he actually gave the inaugural lecture of the women’s Talmud program at Stern College, founded by Soloveitchik’s son. Soloveitchik thought that the evil inclination is operative in women no less than in men. If women were sent to university, they, too, would have to be given the tools to deal with it. “Since he was in favor of women getting a broad education and being integrated into high culture, he therefore thought it was very important that they study Torah intensely. In any event, even without the cultural risks and dangers, he supported their learning Torah.”47 Lichtenstein recounts that in 1964 Rabbi Copperman founded Michlalah Jerusalem College for women, in advance of Soloveitchik’s undertaking, and quite successfully. Sabato objects, citing the talmudic texts that reject women’s learning. Lichtenstein answers that, as Maimonides would have said, there are three legitimate ways to respond to this: you read such texts literally (which is difficult for us), you say that the Halakhah does not align with them, or you say that times have changed. Lichtenstein pays no heed to the fact that Maimonides could have suggested all three of these answers, because he believed that most of the halakhot included in the Mishnah and the Talmud were created by the Sages, so in principle it is possible to disagree with them and to change them. By contrast, Orthodox Jews like Soloveitchik and Lichtenstein, who believe that most of these laws were given at Sinai—and are therefore eternal—cannot make these suggestions. Sabato asks whether there is not, God help us, some danger that a feminist ideology might develop among the students. Lichtenstein replies: Ultimately, I do not believe that teaching Gemara to women in Migdal Oz or anywhere else strengthens the agenda of feminist groups. [. . .] I firmly believe that even if there is some price paid for such learning, the gain far surpasses any loss. I know many women whose learning gives them a bond to the service of God, to the Torah, at a depth that I doubt they can attain in any other 46 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 165–178; idem., Conversations, 205–221. 47 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 171; idem., Conversations, 212.

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way. [. . .] Do I think there is a cause for concern? I think there is. But there are many different women, across the entire spectrum, with many different desires and interests. Some rabbis live with a perpetual concern for what is known today as the slippery slope. [. . .] There are certain cases where there is some element of concern, but anyone who is familiar with the Shulhan Arukh, who knows what leniencies emerge from the Talmudic dictum of “in order to gratify the women” (BT Hagigah 16b), is not concerned. I think this dictum ought to be accorded greater weight in discussions of this type. I certainly do not think that one can permit everything based on this, but it should lead us to consider such matters with greater sensitivity and in a more positive light.48 This kind of discussion about Talmud study for women would never have occurred to anyone in the nineteenth century, not even Rabbi Hirsch, in whose school girls studied only Bible and Mishnah. From that perspective, the position that Lichtenstein is espousing here is a bold one. But this is a world view that is only apparently progressive, since it does not yet afford women equal rights. According to Lichtenstein, it is only women’s sexual inclination that is the equal of men’s. He is still concerned about giving full equal rights to women. Lichtenstein is mainly afraid that women will rebel against the halakhot that do not treat women equally in the many realms outside that of Torah study, and even that they will take advantage of their learning to find semi– legitimate ways of circumventing or overriding these laws, which were given— according to Lichtenstein, of course—by God Almighty. These laws stand in opposition to the liberal values accepted in Western culture, which oppose discrimination of any sort, including gender discrimination. Sabato does not ask Lichtenstein which laws he is afraid these learned women will nullify. Would Lichtenstein here also employ the alternatives that Maimonides suggests? I am afraid that the answer is no. For Lichtenstein does not accept the notion that Halakhah developed historically, but Maimonides does. That, as noted, is why he is still concerned. Lichtenstein prefers to avoid a discussion of these subjects in order not to admit the contradiction between Halakhah and reason.

WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE: RELIGION AND THE HOLOCAUST The question of divine reward for the righteous and punishment for the wicked is a complicated one. Religion speaks both of free will and of reward and 48 Sabato, Mevakshei Fanekha, 173–174; idem., Conversations, 215–217.

Rabbi Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein    Chapter Five

punishment. Yet reason can discern no such reward and punishment, instead identifying good people to whom bad things happen and bad people to whom good things happen. After the Yom Kippur War, Lichtenstein gave a lecture at a convention for educators from the national–religious school system, reworked as the article “Hen Yikteleni Lo Ayahel” (Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him), published in 1975.49 After the speech he was asked a number of questions whose answers were appended to the article. One of the questions touched on his understanding of the expression yissurin shel ahava, “chastisements of love.” Lichtenstein replied: With regard to this concept, the fundamental question is whether it is possible for one to suffer without having transgressed. Our sages disagree on this matter, going back as far as Chazal and the Rishonim. The Maharal believes that yissurin shel ahava are indeed a form of punishment. I tend to understand “chastisements of love” as forms of suffering that come to purify a person. We begin with the assumption that there exist individuals who are purified by suffering, just as there exist those who are broken by suffering. One does not know how he or she will perform until the suffering actually takes place. Nevertheless, the experience of suffering is one which can contain an aspect of human refinement. For example, what was accomplished at the akeida (binding of Yitzchak)? We cannot regard it as an exercise that reveals any facts to God, since He knows all at the outset. Rather, the akeida is a creative act that stands by itself. Avraham after the akeida is not the same Avraham as before the akeida, because the experience of suffering purified him.50

Lichtenstein does not accept contradiction as a possibility, and it is therefore possible to ask him questions that were not asked after this talk: Are children chastised in order to punish them, or to purify them? Why must someone who cannot bear his suffering and is tormented and destroyed by it nonetheless be refined and purified, even though he did not sin? Abraham’s suffering lasted three days, and it was not physical. Why then is someone who is capable of being purified condemned to physical suffering, sometimes for many years?

49 A. Lichtenstein, “Bittachon: Trust in God,” in By His Light, 134–161. The phrase is from Job 13:15. 50 Ibid., 159.

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An additional question, which was asked after the talk: “Is it not more effective educationally to present students with an optimistic approach? And can’t we explain the suffering of the righteous simply by pointing out that reward is granted in the World–to–Come?” Lichtenstein gave a non– apologetic, non–illusionary, awe–inspiring answer. He completely rejects adopting such an educational approach exclusively and claiming that “It will be OK.” He adds, We can certainly stress the positive aspects of a given difficult situation, but only on two conditions: a) we are being honest with ourselves, and b) we do not consequently ignore the second aspect of loving trust. Even if a person finds himself in Paradise, he must be prepared to cleave to God even, Heaven forbid, under hellish circumstances. It seems to me that it does not suffice to explain to our students that the righteous may suffer in this world, but that in the next world they enjoy goodness. This is just one response to the problem of human suffering, but certainly not the only one.51 Does Lichtenstein consistently interpret “chastisements of love” as a suffering that purifies, even when faced with a historic occasion of suffering as harsh as the Holocaust? It is clear that in the face of the Holocaust his attitude toward suffering completely collapses. The destruction of the Jews of Europe erected a severe contradiction between these events, more horrible than anything the human race had ever known, and religion, which presents its believers with a “God Full of Mercy.” The more sensitive the believers are to moral issues, the harsher this question gets. In 1985 Lichtenstein spoke on the Holocaust to students from Yeshivat Har Etzion. He offered them three basic approaches in an attempt to respond to the dilemma posed by the Holocaust to the idea that God is good. How could a God who is good let the Holocaust take place? In the first approach, the Holocaust is the result of our sins. The second approach maintains that free will was granted to man when he was created, and ever since God has refrained from intervening in the actions of humanity. The third approach is a combination of the first two: As a result of secularization, we sinned by severing our connection with the Creator, who hid His face from us, not as a punishment but as a natural result of our deeds. This made the Holocaust possible. Evil was able to act without hindrance. Lichtenstein rejects all these answers. Adopting the first answer, he says, requires that we see European Jewry as a terribly wicked community, to the extent that it brought the Holocaust upon itself, or alternatively 51 Ibid., 160.

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we must adjust our standards and say that such terrible punishments are the appropriate response to very ordinary sins. Yeshayahu was punished for saying, “I dwell amongst a nation of unclean lips” (6:5). For us to make such a serious accusation against the previous generation is certainly more serious than the accusation made by Yeshayahu; who would dare say that there is even some comparison between the victims and the perpetrators? Among the victims were people of the highest spiritual attainments, saints from birth and childhood. On the other hand, if we change our standards of sin and punishment, then we have to see the God of the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy in a completely different light. The second answer—maintaining that God’s hands were tied, as it were—we must also reject, for this would imply that we deny Him any role in the course of history. The third answer, that of “hiding His face,” leaves us with a question: Why? Was the situation so dire that we really deserved for God to hide His face from us? For those of us who are believers, it is preferable to live with the question and with the faith surrounding it rather than to try and grasp at explanations of one kind or another. We cannot nor will we ever be able to provide an adequate explanation for what happened. [. . .] The question remains, but we are unable to supply an explanation for even smaller details of history’s course because we cannot see the entire picture; how much greater, then, is our inability to explain an event of this magnitude!52 Lichtenstein admits that he has no reasonable answer to the question of the Holocaust. In his view, at this point the contradiction between the pole of rationality and morality and the pole of religion and faith becomes unresolvable. To me, the second answer is the only possible one—man is free to act as he wills. There is a saying in the Talmud that expresses this idea: “The world pursues its natural course” (BT Avodah Zarah 54b), that is, God, for various reasons, does not interfere in the world.53 But anyone who, like Lichtenstein, thinks that God does intervene in history, despite the problem that this poses for the idea of free will, must remain without an answer in the specific case of the Holocaust. Moreover, when righteous, ordinary, and wicked people are all swept up together by a natural disaster like an earthquake or a flood, there can be no explanation found for why God does not intervene. Here, of course, free will does not help us, since we are not talking about human actions and there is no reason for God not to intervene. He could certainly have created a world 52 Lichtenstein, “I Am with Him in Distress: The Challenges of the Holocaust,” in By His Light, 163–164. 53 Leibowitz often repeated this expression. See Zivan, Dat Lelo Ashlayah, 102–103.

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without earthquakes or floods. As for the dialectic tension between Western morality and the Jewish laws that contradict it, here too Lichtenstein found no synthesis, since submission and Akedah–style sacrifice mean suppressing the tension, not resolving it. Nonetheless, Lichtenstein’s sincerity is praiseworthy. He did not suggest as one of our pre–Holocaust sins that of immigrating to Israel against the will and providence of God, nor the opposite sin—the decision of most of the Jewish people and the rabbis not to immigrate to Israel despite the opportunity created by providence for them to do so. Neither of these two sins could justify a punishment as horrible as that of the Holocaust. Anyone who gives breath to them does so out of ideological or political motives, whether Haredi or Zionist. Moreover, the question of where the boundary lies between chastisements that purify and the incomprehensible suffering of the Holocaust raises difficulties for Lichtenstein’s approach. Six million murdered? One million? A thousand? One child? Lichtenstein himself asserts that we have no explanation for even the slightest details of historic events. He concludes his discussion of the Holocaust problem preferring to leave it unresolved and to cling to his faith. To me, this is an erroneous conclusion. These questions are interdependent! If people continue to struggle with this problem, they may come to the conclusion that there is no God, or that God does not intervene in the world. If that is true, why should anyone adhere to faith in God at all? To me, faith in God can continue to exist after the Holocaust only if we accept that reality contains two contradictory truths—that of revelation and that of reason—and we live in peace with them. The bottom line is that Lichtenstein cannot express a coherent position about the relationship between revelation and reason. He changes his position to fit the topic under discussion. At one moment he holds the moderate compartmental approach; at another he holds the resolved dialectical approach; and in extreme cases he resorts to the unresolved dialectical approach. All the same, in general he does not like genuine, permanent contradictions, and he has trouble recognizing them. That is why he holds the compartmental approach, an approach that Hartman described as illogical and intellectually dishonest. So Lichtenstein, in my opinion, is an illusionary thinker, in need of apologetic solutions.

CHAPTER SIX

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks

R

abbi Sacks was a British Modern Orthodox Jewish thinker, principally engaged in ecumenical dialogue in the United Kingdom and in the significance of religious faith in the modern West. Sacks was born in 1948 in London and attended Christian primary and high schools (which Jewish students also attended) in his North London neighborhood. In 1966 he began his studies for a degree focused on moral philosophy at Gonville & Caius College of Cambridge University. He earned his undergraduate degree in 1969 and an MA in philosophy in 1972. During a two-month visit to the United States in 1968 he met Rabbi Soloveitchik and the Lubavitcher Rebbe in what he described as life-changing encounters. He received rabbinic ordination in 1976 from Jews’ College, London, where he studied with Rabbi Nachum Rabinovitch, and from the Etz Chaim Yeshiva. He earned his doctorate from the philosophy and theology department of King’s College London in 1981. He was appointed rabbi of the Marble Arch Synagogue, a Modern Orthodox congregation in London, in 1983. In 1991–2013 he served as Chief Rabbi of the British Commonwealth. He was knighted in 2005 and awarded a life peerage in 2009. Since 2013, he taught at King’s College London, New York University, and Yeshiva University. He wrote about thirty books, including Crisis and Covenant: Jewish Thought after the Holocaust (1992), A Letter in the Scroll (2000), The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations (2002), To Heal a Fractured World: The Ethics of Responsibility (2005), Not in God’s Name: Confronting Religious Violence (2015), and the Covenant and Conversation series on the weekly Torah portion (2009–2019). Sacks passed away in 2020. His book The Great Partnership: God, Science and the Search for

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Meaning (2011) centers on my subject for discussion in this chapter—the relationship between the truths of reason and of revelation in Sacks’s thought.1 Sacks’s purpose in this latter book is the opposite of Norman Lamm’s purpose in his book. As I showed in chapter three, Lamm directs his efforts primarily at yeshiva students, to show such students that they are mistaken in dismissing the importance of studying science and philosophy. Lamm argues that the study of science and philosophy, if done properly, has a great deal to contribute to the development of the students’ personalities and to broadening their outlook. Sacks’s book, by contrast, is directed at the atheistic scientist or philosopher who considers religion and faith primitive, even dangerous, trying to persuade them to recognize their error. He writes that faith and religion complete one’s personality and the society in which one lives and, indeed, give life its meaning. Neither of these two thinkers directs his book at Modern Orthodox thinkers like themselves. Both are bursting through an open door as far as that community is concerned, since this perspective is their perspective. Modern religious Jews are, by definition, interested in both realms—the best of Torah and the best of enlightened, Western culture. Their difficulty is to overcome the problems and contradictions between the two realms. All the same, these fundamentally problematic issues have the highest priority in the thought of Lamm and of Sacks. The impetus for writing each book was different as well. Lamm says that only after finishing his yeshiva studies and beginning his studies at Yeshiva University did he recognize the importance and value of secular studies and how they contribute to a modern religious person’s building a whole, sound world view. He also found that, despite “Torah Umadda” being the motto of Yeshiva University, the university offered no systematic explanation of the proper relationship between the two realms. His book was intended to give an answer to students of all ages who were beginning to wonder why secular studies were important and how they related to Torah learning. Sacks, though, describes a different cause that impelled him to write his book: In January 2009 the British Humanist Association paid for an advertisement to be carried on the side of London buses. It read, “There’s probably no God.” It was that advertisement which finally persuaded me to write this book, because it raised the greatest of all existential choices: How shall we live our lives? By probability? Or by possibility? What has transformed humanity has   1 Biographical details are from Sacks’s Internet site, rabbisacks.org.

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks    Chapter Six been our capacity to remain open to the unlikely, the improbable. Never has this been more true than in the scientific discoveries of the past century.2

That is, the emergence of the “new atheism,” which denies the existence of God and considers religious faith its enemy, led him to attempt to persuade them in the name of all the Abrahamic, monotheistic religions to change their thinking. For they (metaphorically) employ only the left side of their brains and fend off everything that might give them the opportunity to make use of the right side of their brains. In his introduction, he writes: I want, in this book, to argue that we need both religion and science; that they are compatible and more than compatible. They are the two essential perspectives that allow us to see the universe in its three-dimensional depth. The creative tension3 between the two is what keeps us sane, grounded in physical reality without losing our spiritual sensibility. It keeps us human and humane. The story I am about to tell is about the human mind and its ability to do two quite different things. One is the ability to break things down into their constituent parts and see how they mesh and interact. The other is the ability to join things together so that they tell a story, and to join people together so that they form relationships. The best example of the first is science, of the second, religion. Science takes things apart to see how they work. Religion puts things together to see what they mean. Without going into neuroscientific detail, the first is a predominantly left-brain activity, the second is associated with the right hemisphere. Both are necessary, but they are very different. The left brain is good at sorting and analysing things. The right brain is good at forming relationships with people. [. . .] One of the most difficult tasks of any civilisation—of any individual life, for that matter—is to keep the two separate, but integrated and in balance.4

Sacks makes two assertions here that are relevant to my discussion. The first is that there is no contradiction between the two realms—religion and science, or revelation and reason—and that they are compatible. This asser  2 J. Sacks, The Great Partnership: God, Science and the Search for Meaning (New York, 2011), 267–268.   3 It is not clear what tension is meant here. These are two angles of vision, different but compatible! From which does the tension stem? See below.  4 Sacks, Partnership, 2–3; emphasis original. Sacks asserts that “religious faith [. . .] does not rest on contradiction and paradox. [. . .] It involves a mode of engagement with the world significantly different from that of science, but not incompatible with it.” See ibid., 293.

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tion leaves us with just two possibilities. In one, the two realms are in principle identical. The path in each realm that leads to true conclusions does differ, but the results are generally identical. If conflicts arise on the way, we must interpret religious tradition in the light of reason. In the other, the two realms are compartmentalized. They deal with completely different issues and express themselves in different discourses, so it is quite impossible for either realm to interrogate the other. In this quotation, and throughout the book, the second possibility rules. This is the compartmental approach grounded in Mendelssohn, Rosenzweig, Leibowitz, and perhaps Heschel as well.5 But none of these thinkers is mentioned in the book. Sacks prefers to quote mainly non-Jewish philosophers, apparently because it is with them and their followers that he is debating.6 In the introduction, Sacks briefly adds that he has found the reason for the mistake of all these people who think that religion and science contradict each other. He does indeed discuss this subject in detail in the rest of the book. In the introduction he contents himself with this: In the first part of the book I give an analysis I have not seen elsewhere about why it is that people have thought religion and science are incompatible. I argue that this has to do with a curious historical detail about the   5 On Mendelssohn, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, 357–361; on Rosenzweig, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 328–332; on Heschel, see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:68–78.   6 Here are a few examples of the citations and approaches that Sacks presents as his own ideas or as the work of non-Jewish thinkers, disregarding previous Jewish thinkers who held these positions. (1) In Partnership, 130, Sacks states that the plagues were to show Pharaoh that God rules the world; see the Exodus commentaries of Rabbi Joseph Bekhor Shor (to 4:6, 7:3), Nahmanides (to 7:3, 101, 13:15), and S. R. Hirsch (to 7:2, 16:2). (2) On the next page (ibid., 131), Sacks claims that Abrahamic monotheism is based on a free God who wants free human beings to worship Him of their own free will; see Hirsch’s commentary to Exod 15:11 and 28:38; and Lev 4:14, 11:43–44, and 19:2–3. (3) Sacks further states (ibid., 217 and 231) that Darwinism has huge implications for religion and that the biblical story of humanity begins with the discovery of monotheism 6,000 years ago, see Hirsch, Writings, 7: 257–259, 263–264; Rabbi A. I. Kook, Linevukhey Hador (Tel Aviv, 2014), chs. 4–5, 34–44. (4) Next, ibid., 247, Sacks maintains that the Torah devotes special attention to the building of the Tabernacle, giving it fifteen times more space than it does to the creation of the world, to teach us that our deeds are precious to God; see Y. Leibowitz, He’arot Leparshiyot Hashavua ( Jerusalem, 1988), 55–56; idem., Sheva Shanim shel Siḥot al Parashat Hashavua ( Jerusalem, 2000), 368–369, 429–430. (5) Further, ibid., 276 and n. 10 there: according to Sacks, Vico argues that civilizations are subject to a law of rise and decline, but that religion survives the extinct superpowers. Such a law is found (though later) also, mutatis mutandis, in N. Krochmal, Moreh Nevukhey Hazman, chs. 7–11.

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks    Chapter Six way religion entered the West. It did so in the form of Pauline Christianity, a religion that was a hybrid or synthesis of two radically different cultures, ancient Greece and ancient Israel.7

I will discuss this as the chapter continues.

THE COMPARTMENTAL APPROACH Here I present several quotations in which Sacks describes the great and distinctive difference between the religious, revelatory realm and the scientific realm, and of man’s need—humanity’s need—for both of them. They cover the entire length of the book. I am not aware of any formulations of the compartmental approach that are more detailed and unequivocal: 1.

Science is about explanation. Religion is about meaning. Science analyses, religion integrates. Science breaks things down to their component parts. Religion binds people together in relationships of trust. Science tells us what is. Religion tells us what ought to be. Science describes. Religion beckons, summons, calls. Science sees objects. Religion speaks to us as subjects. Science practises detachment. Religion is the art of attachment, self to self, soul to soul. Science sees the underlying order of the physical world. Religion hears the music beneath the noise. Science is the conquest of ignorance. Religion is the redemption of solitude. We need scientific explanation to understand nature. We need meaning to understand human behaviour and culture. Meaning is what humans seek because they are not simply part of nature. We are self-conscious. We have imaginations that allow us to envisage worlds that have never been, and to begin to create them. Like all else that lives, we have desires. Unlike anything else that lives, we can pass judgement on those desires and decide not to pursue them. We are free. All of this, science finds hard to explain. [. . .] Throughout the book, it may sometimes sound as if I am setting up an either/or contrast. In actuality I embrace both sides of the

 7 Sacks, Partnership, 3–4.

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2.

3.

4.

5.

dichotomies I mention: science and religion, philosophy and prophecy, Athens and Jerusalem, left brain and right brain.8 [W]hether it registers in the form of cognitive differences between East and West, different reasoning styles between women and men, the nature of autism, or the difference between systems and stories, we are faced with a fundamental duality in the way we, as humans, relate to the world. This is rooted in biology, in the assymetrical [sic] functioning of the right and left cerebral hemispheres, and mediated through culture—through philosophy and the sciences on the one hand, through narrative, the arts and religion on the other.9 What I have tried to show in this chapter is the profound difference between two modes of thinking, of which science and religion are the supreme exemplars. Science takes things apart to see how they work. Religion puts things together to see what they mean. This fundamental difference, between atomisation and integration, explanation and interpretation, between separation and detachment on the one hand, connection and attachment on the other, goes deep into who we are and how we think. Ultimately it is the difference between impersonal and personal knowledge, between understanding things and understanding people.10 It is as if from the outset Jews knew that science—what they called “wisdom”—was one thing, and religion another. Science was about natural law, religion about moral law. Natural laws are laws that predict and explain, moral laws are laws that command or constrain. Science was about things, religion about people and their freely chosen acts.11 Science cannot, in and of itself, give an account of human dignity, because dignity is based on human freedom. From the outset, the Hebrew Bible speaks of a free God, not constrained by nature, who, creating man in his own image, grants him that same freedom, commanding him, not programming him, to do good. The entire biblical project, from beginning to end, is about how to honour that freedom in

  8 Ibid., 6–10. Note that Sacks uses the word “dichotomies” but avoids using “contradiction.” And though he uses the term “science,” he does not mention the term “philosophy” alongside it. I will discuss this below.   9 Ibid., 54. 10 Ibid., 55. 11 Ibid., 68.

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personal relationships, families, communities and nations. Biblical morality is the morality of freedom, its politics are the politics of freedom, and its theology is the theology of freedom. Freedom is a concept that lies outside the scope of science. Science cannot locate freedom, because its world is one of causal relationships.12 6. Science is not religion; religion is not science. Each has its own logic, its own way of asking questions and searching for the answers. The way of testing a scientific hypothesis is to do science, not read Scripture. The way of testing religion is to do religion – to ask, in total honesty and full understanding, is this really what God wants of us? It is not to make assertions about the truth or falsity of some scientific theory.13 7. By setting his image on humanity, he gave us too the power to defy probability, to stand outside the taken-for-granted certainties of the age and live by another light. That belief gave the West its faith in the great duality charted by science and religion, the orderliness of the universe on the one hand, the freedom of humanity on the other. [. . .] [The demand for proof] came from the strange combination of events in the first century when two very different cultures, ancient Greece and ancient Israel, came together in the form of a synthesis that eventually encouraged people to believe that science and religion, explanation and interpretation, impersonal and personal knowledge, were the same sort of thing, part of the same world of thought. [. . .] [I]t is precisely because they are not the same sort of thing that the counterpoint between them gave and still gives human life its depth and pathos. We can no more dispense with either than we can with one of the two hemispheres of the brain. [. . .] Science—linear, atomistic, analytical—is a typical left-brain activity. Religion—integrative, holistic, relational—is supremely a work of the right brain. This is meant only as a metaphor, but it is a powerful one. The mutual hostility between religion and science is one of the curses of our age, and it is damaging to religion and science in equal measure. The Bible is not proto-science, pseudo-science or myth masquerading as science. It is interested in other questions entirely. Who are we? Why are we here? How then shall we live? It is to answer those questions, 12 Ibid., 124. 13 Ibid., 214.

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not scientific ones, that we seek to know the mind of God. But there is more to wisdom than science. It cannot tell us why we are here or how we should live. Science masquerading as religion is as unseemly as religion masquerading as science.14 8. Speaking personally, I do not think any real problems are soon solved. The way is always long and hard. But the only way is together. Religion and science, believer and sceptic, agnostic and atheist. For, whatever our view of God, our humanity is at stake, and our future, and how that will affect our grandchildren not yet born.15

HISTORY OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN RELIGION AND SCIENCE/PHILOSOPHY This is a suitable place to present a detailed explanation of the “curious historical detail” to which Sacks alludes in his introduction—that is, the answer to the question of what caused the apparent contradiction between religion and science in the course of history and what prompted the attempt to forge a synthesis between the two realms. The Hebrew alphabet (as Sacks explains in chs. 2–3) is read from right to left without vowel letters, and therefore it activates the right side of the brain. But other languages, read from left to right, do have vowel letters and therefore activate the left side of the brain. Hence science and philosophy developed in Greece; the Bible, religion, and faith in Israel. “The Greeks worshipped human reason, the Jews, divine revelation. The Greeks gave the West its philosophy and science. The Jews, obliquely, gave it its prophets and religious faith.”16 The event was fortuitous, but it influenced the whole further course of Western culture and its understanding of the relationship between religion and science. “The West owes its development to two cultures, ancient Greece and ancient Israel, Hellenism and Hebraism, the heritages respectively of Athens and Jerusalem. [. . .] They were the first two cultures to make the break with myth, but they did so in different ways, the Greeks by philosophy and reason, the Jews by monotheism and revelation.17 At one and the same time—the turn of the Christian era—Christianity’s messiah, Jesus, spoke Hebrew and Aramaic, but all the books of the New Testament were written in Greek and they are a completely Greek document in every respect. That is the 14 15 16 17

Ibid., 283–285. Ibid., 296. Ibid., 46. Ibid., 58.

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extraordinary event that changed the world. When religion, philosophy, and science all speak the same language (Greek), and from the same left side of the brain, it leaves the impression that there is no separation, no difference, no gap between the realms. But simultaneously an apparent contradiction came into being. Since the Hebrew and Greek languages represented civilizations and ways of thought that were completely opposite, apparently even contradictory, Western civilization was born of the synthesis between thesis—Athens— and antithesis—Jerusalem—translated into Greek. The synthesis brought into the world, as noted, Pauline Christianity, which emerged from the limited arena of Jewish Palestine into the broader Mediterranean world, especially when it became the official religion of the Roman Empire. This new religion, different from Judaism in so many ways, adopted only certain components of it as a part of the synthesis. Sacks notes the fundamental differences that distinguish the two religions, like universalism, the dualism of body and soul and heaven and earth, original sin, the severance of faith and deeds, and the uninvolved God. Here is how Sacks puts it: Christendom drew its philosophy, science and art from Greece, its religion from Israel. But from the outset it contained a hairline fracture that would not become a structural weakness until the seventeenth century. It consisted in this, that though Christians encountered philosophy, science and art in the original Greek, they experienced the religion of their founder in translation. [. . .] But it contained one assumption that would eventually be challenged from the seventeenth century until today, namely that science and philosophy on the one hand, and religion on the other, belong to the same universe of discourse. They may. But they may not. It could be that Greek science and philosophy and the Judaic experience of God are two different languages that—like the left- and right-brain modes of thinking we encountered in the last chapter—only imperfectly translate into one another. Recognising this now might leave science freer to be science, and religion to be religion, without either challenging the integrity of the other.18

Granted, the difference between philosophy and the revelation at Sinai is so great that Christianity was forced to bridge it with the help of a being who was simultaneously both human and divine—the son of God. The Christian 18 Ibid., 61–62.

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synthesis between Athens and Jerusalem gave birth to a new discipline— theology. This synthetic edifice held together from the fourth century to the seventeenth. It was a wondrous creation that merged philosophical proofs of the existence of God and the fundamentals of Platonism and Aristotelianism, the concepts of natural law and teleology, with the spirituality, revelation, and Torah of Judaism. But there is a difference between wisdom and Torah. Wisdom tells us how the world is. Torah tells us how the world ought to be. Wisdom is about nature. Torah is about will. It is about human freedom and choice and the way we are called on to behave. Wisdom is about the world God makes. Torah is about the world God calls on us to make, honouring others as bearers of God’s image, exercising our freedom in such a way as not to rob others of theirs.19 Yet, starting with the seventeenth century, this synthesis began to fall apart, once more revealing an apparent contradiction between the two realms. Science and philosophy declared their independence from theology. But Sacks thinks the contradiction erupted specifically between Christianity, based on Greek thought, and the new science. Descartes, Newton, Hume, Kant, and Darwin undermined all the Greek scientific and philosophical conceptions that had constituted the synthesis. But biblical religion was unharmed, nor did it contain anything that contradicted science. Judaism is a creation of the right brain (in Sacks’s metaphor), and it never thought in Greek terms or linked itself to any particular scientific theory: For religious knowledge as understood by the Hebrew Bible is not to be construed on the model of philosophy and science, both left-brain activities. God is to be found in relationship, and in the meanings we construct when, out of our experience of the presence of God in our lives, we create bonds of loyalty and mutual responsibility known as covenants. People have sought in the religious life the kind of certainty that belongs to philosophy and science. But it is not to be found. Between God and man there is moral loyalty, not scientific certainty. [. . .] Elokim, the God of creation whose signature we can read in the natural world, is common ground between the God of Aristotle and the God of Abraham. These two great conceptions came together for almost seventeen centuries in Christianity and for a short period between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries in Islam (Averroes) and Judaism (Maimonides). But since the seventeenth 19 Ibid., 70–71.

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks    Chapter Six century science and religion have gone their separate ways and the old synthesis no longer seems to hold.20

Sacks even goes so far as to express the cautious hope that perhaps now, when the difference between the realms has become so clear, and scientific research has moved into areas where we never previously imagined it could— cosmology, the brain, genetics—there is a real possibility of a new kind of synthesis. “Right-brain thinking may reappear, even in the world of science, after its eclipse since the seventeenth century. Right and left may be in closer alignment than they have been.”21 Let me note here that Sacks does not speak about Islam, but according to his explanations it appears that the process developed by Averroes and Maimonides was not a dialectic process of the kind developed by Christianity, but an interpretive process. Both of them learned religion and science in Semitic languages belonging to the right brain (philosophy in Arabic, and religion in Hebrew for Maimonides and Arabic for Averroes), so the two realms could in principle be identical. In problematic cases, the statements of revelation could be reinterpreted in such a way as to make them fit Islamic-Aristotelian philosophy. Christian theology, by contrast, was the product of a dialectic synthesis by the end of which, in the fourth century, a new religion—Christianity—was created in place of the thesis and antithesis, Athens and Jerusalem. That is, as we understand him at this point, Sacks foresees that in the future there will not be a dialectic process between polar opposites (which would result in our having a new religion based on the new science), but a further interpretive process of the existing revelation and religion with regard to the new science. Only then will we find ourselves in a new identicality approach in place of the compartmental approach.

THE GREAT IMPORTANCE OF THE TWO REALMS Sacks does not accept the existing separation between religion and science, which is the result of the enmity between the two. He aspires to make peace between these two so different and distinct parts of the one great truth. At the present stage of the discussion he hopes that each will make up for what the other is missing. He never tires of telling us how important 20 Ibid., 73. 21 Ibid., 76.

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both realms, religion and science, are for the individual to achieve a wellrounded world view, for civilization to progress, and for advanced societies to be well-run—something that is self-evident to every modern believer, but completely contrary to the perspectives of the atheists and the fundamentalists. At the same time, he takes pains to let us know how much science misses when it lacks religion and how deficient religion is without science. Sacks is influenced by a few modern rabbis—representing the modern believing public among whom he counts himself—who were influenced by the scholars of medieval times: My own views have long been influenced by the Jewish philosophical tradition of the Middle Ages—such figures as Saadia Gaon, Judah Halevi and Moses Maimonides—as well as their modern successors: Rabbis Samson Raphael Hirsch, Abraham Kook and Joseph Soloveitchik.22 My own teacher, Rabbi Nachum Rabinovitch, and an earlier Chief Rabbi, J. H. Hertz, have also been decisive influences. Common to all of them is an openness to science, a commitment to engagement with the wider culture of the age, and a belief that faith is enhanced, not compromised, by a willingness honestly to confront the intellectual challenges of the age.23

Here are two more quotations from Sacks’s book on the importance of science. His intent is to draw the attention of fundamentalists to this issue: 1. For if science is about the world that is, and religion about the world that ought to be, then religion needs science because we cannot apply God’s will to the world if we do not understand the world. If we try to, the result will be magic or misplaced supernaturalism. We will rely on miracles—and the rabbis ruled, “Don’t rely on miracles.”24 2. Science fulfils three functions that I see as central to the Abrahamic faith. It diminishes human ignorance. It increases human power. And it exemplifies the fact that we are in God’s image. God wants us to know and understand. He wants us to exercise responsible freedom. 22 Is Sacks aware that each of the thinkers he mentions here takes a different approach to the correct relationship between religion and science? I daresay he is not. 23 Ibid., 9. 24 Ibid., 214. The citation is from BT Shabbat 32a, BT Ta’anit 20b.

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And he wants us to use the intellectual gifts he gave us. These are not reasons why scientists should become religious. They are reasons why religious people should respect scientists.25 But his main emphasis, as noted above, is to persuade atheists of the importance of religious faith. His language is beautifully poetic. Here are a few examples: 1. A civilisation that had space for science but not religion might achieve technological prowess. But it would not respect people in their specificity and particularity. It would quickly become inhuman and inhumane. Think of the French Revolution, Stalinist Russia and Communist China, and you need no further proof. The world of science is an arena of causes and effects. The world of people in their glory and frailty is a domain of hopes, fears, dreams, anxieties, intentions and aspirations, all of them set within frameworks of meaning through which we discover, if we are fortunate, our purpose in life, that which we are called on—by God, by nature, by the still small voice—to do.26 2. Revolutionary politics [that of the French and Russian revolutions] bears all the hallmarks of left-brain thinking, with its preference for abstractions over the concrete men and women, with their specific histories and loyalties, who make up society. Abrahamic politics, by contrast, is politics with a human face, the politics that knows the limits of power, as well as the transformative effect of free persons freely joining together to make social institutions worthy of being a home for the divine presence. Abrahamic politics never forgets that there are things more important than politics, and that is what makes it the best defence of liberty.27 3. God is the voice of the other within the self. It is God who teaches us to love our neighbours as ourselves, to welcome the stranger, care for the poor, the widow and the orphan, heed the unheeded, feed the hungry, give shelter to the homeless, and temper justice with compassion. It was Nietzsche, Darwin’s younger contemporary, who saw 25 Ibid., 292. 26 Ibid., 55–56. 27 Ibid., 142–143.

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most clearly how unnatural these things are. Nature is the will to power. Faith, in the Judeo-Christian tradition, is care for the powerless. Religion is the prime example of how, for Homo sapiens, culture overrides nature. [. . .] There are three ways of getting individuals to act in a way that is beneficial to the group. One is power. [. . .] The second is wealth. [. . .] The disadvantage of both these is that they leave selfishness untouched. [. . .] The third alternative is to educate them to see that the welfare of others matters as much as their own. No system has done this more effectively than religion, for an obvious reason. Religion teaches us that we are part of the whole, a thread in the fabric of God’s creation, a note in the symphony of life. Faith is the ability to see ourselves as joined to others by God’s love. Not only does it teach us this, through story and ritual, celebration and prayer, it weaves it into our personalities, affecting all parts of the almost infinitely complex labyrinth of the human brain. No wonder then that religion has survived, and that we need it if we are to survive. And it was Charles Darwin who pointed the way. Religion binds people into groups. It creates altruism, the only force strong enough to defeat egoism. Selfishness is good for me and my genes, but bad for us and therefore bad for my descendants in the long run. In Homo sapiens a miracle of nature meets a miracle of culture: religion, which turns selfish genes into selfless people.28 4. [When a powerful, affluent society begins to decline,] only a countercultural force can revive flagging energies, renew institutions, defeat cynicism, generate trust and restore altruism. The Abrahamic monotheisms are the most powerful countercultural forces the world has ever known because they speak to something indelible in the human spirit: the dignity of humanity as the image of God.29 5. [T]he religious people—Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists and others—I have come to know [. . .] told stories and practised rituals and prayed and thus made real the things worth making real: love and loyalty and marriage and parenthood and membership in a community and doing acts of kindness to others. They created oases of meaning in the wilderness, places where others could rest and find shade and shelter, friendship, help and hope. 28 Ibid., 155–156. 29 Ibid., 161.

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[. . .] I have argued in these five chapters what we stand to lose if we lose faith: the dignity and sanctity of life, the politics of covenant and hope, the morality of personal responsibility, marriage as a sacred bond, and, in this chapter, the meaningfulness of life. Faith is not magical. It reveals meanings because we work at making them real in our lives and in the communities we build.30 6. [S]cience needs religion, or at the very least some philosophical understanding of the human condition and our place within the universe, for each fresh item of knowledge and each new accession of power raises the question of how it should be used, and for that we need another way of thinking.31 Sacks concludes that we cannot do without either religion or science. Humanity must find a way to keep them both, so that each can hold the other to account: We need a strong, vigorous, challenging dialogue between religion and science on the massive problems confronting humanity in the unprecedentedly dangerous twenty-first century. Each needs the other if it is to avoid hubris and intellectual imperialism. Bad things happen when religion ceases to hold itself answerable to empirical reality, when it creates devastation and cruelty on Earth for the sake of salvation in heaven. And bad things happen when science declares itself the last word on the human condition and engages in social or bio-engineering, treating humans as objects rather than as subjects, and substituting cause and effect for reflection, will and choice. [. . .] The answer [to the dangers of religion as a closed, totalizing system] is not no religion, which is impossible and undesirable since we are meaning-seeking animals, but the critical dialogue between religion and science, the necessary conversation between the twin hemispheres of our bicameral brain that alone can save us from danger and despair.32

A REVERSAL—AND ITS SOLUTION I have presented Sacks’s decisive position on the relationship between religion and science, and I have shown that it is the compartmental approach. 30 Ibid., 204. 31 Ibid., 214. 32 Ibid., 265–266.

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Yet I find in Sacks’s book a surprising and problematic renunciation of this approach. Having stated that science is not religion and religion is not science, and that each of them has a logic of its own and its own way of asking questions and searching for the answers,33 he completely dissociates himself from the compartmental approach: This is not an argument for compartmentalisation, seeing science and religion as did Steven J. Gould as “non-overlapping magisteria,” two entirely separate worlds. They do indeed overlap because they are about the same world within which we live, breathe and have our being. It is instead an argument for conversation, hopefully even integration.34

In my view, there are two possible ways of understanding Sacks’s perspective in its entirety. 1. Rosenberg35 can help us distinguish between the idea that revelation and reason are two separate realms and the idea that they must be completely compartmentalized. The absolute compartmental approach sees science as characterized by thought and observation, while Torah is a system of laws and commandments. If this is so, then dialogue between the two realms is impossible. This is the approach of Mendelssohn and Leibowitz. But the moderate, dialogical compartmental approach, though it does characterize science as using rational thought (represented by the left brain), sees Torah as emotional (and represented by the right brain) rather than as an arid legal system. Each realm points us to half of the truth. Only if we keep hold of both of them and join them together can we attain the larger truth. This is Sacks’s approach. The young S. D. Luzzatto also took this approach.36 2. It is possible to argue that in fact Sacks has retreated to the embrace of the interpretative identicality approach established by Maimonides. True, the paths taken by science and by religion to the greater truth are completely different. But ultimately the truth that 33 See above, 165-166. 34 Ibid., 214. 35 Rosenberg, Torah Umadda, 32–40. 36 Ibid., 34–35. See a detailed discussion of this position of Luzzatto’s in my book The Dual Truth, 85–92.

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each will attain—aided by whatever interpretation of the more problematic statements of religion is necessary—is identical. Here the adjective “congruent” would serve us well. It denotes two things that are distinct but identical. Hegel (as Yirmiyahu Yovel understands him) followed this approach, as did Hermann Cohen—both of whom preceded Sacks.37 I incline to the first possibility, but I leave my readers to make their own choice.

A DIALECTICAL APPROACH? The dialectical approach cannot be a suitable criterion for interpreting Sacks at this point, since according to it there is a true contradiction between the statements of religion and those of reason and philosophy. Those who take that approach disagree only on the question of whether the dialectic process will end in a synthesis, with the contradiction resolved, or whether the contradiction will remain without resolution. But to my great astonishment I found Sacks also expressing ideas that seem to come from an approach of unresolved contradiction, which we must live with, a contradiction by virtue of which we must even grow. Expressions of this kind appear in what he writes about materialism, atheism, and evil.

1. Atheistic, Secular Materialism How shall we argue this case? We are faced here with two incommensurable philosophies of life. For one, there is nothing special about humanity, nothing that sets us qualitatively apart from other life forms. We are bodies not souls, matter not spirit. Nothing of us survives. Dust we are and to dust we return. What conceivable reason could there be to deny people the choice to die if, because of pain or incurable disease, they feel they have no reason to live? For the other, yes, we are dust of the Earth, but within us is the breath of God. To be moral is to recognise that right and wrong are not of our choosing. We are answerable to God, to the universe, to life itself. To be morally mature is to 37 On the position of Hegel and Cohen, see Chamiel, Between Religion and Reason, 1:58–61. “Congruent” is a term from geometry referring to figures which coincide perfectly when they are superimposed; the metaphor implies that they are perfectly identical.

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recognise that there are limits to what we may legitimately do. The world does not always yield to our will. Sometimes our will must yield to the world. There are certain things that are holy, sacrosanct, non-negotiable, lines drawn in the sand. For the Judeo-Christian tradition the most significant is life itself, which we see as belonging to God, not to us.38

2. Atheism I do not regard atheism as an untenable stance towards the world. I have known some of the great atheists of our time, admired them deeply, and—as I hope I have shown in one or two places in this book—learned much from them, not least about religion itself. We disagreed, but I would not wish to live in a world in which people did not disagree. Disagreement is how knowledge grows. Living with disagreement is how we grow.39 I will discuss the problem of evil later.

SACKS’S RESERVATIONS ABOUT APOLOGETIC, ILLUSIONARY ARGUMENTS The Great Partnership is a book that will be read with great pleasure by all intelligent modern religious readers. It will make them feel good about themselves. It is especially important for me to note that Sacks tries to distance himself from some apologetic and illusionary arguments, and even to refute them: an example is what he says—reminiscent of Hartman and Lichtenstein in the previous chapters—about the argument that only religious people lead moral, happy, and live meaningful lives. All the same, he does not forget his “however.” For him, a life and a society that lack religion and faith are missing an essential component: I do not believe that you need to be religious to be moral: I take that as a slander against humanity. What happens, though, is that words that once meant a great deal begin to lose their force—words like duty, obligation, honour, integrity, loyalty and trust. If you can do it and get rewarded for it and other people do it anyway, you will be regarded as odd if you do not on the grounds that it is dishonourable or would betray a trust or “that’s not 38 Sacks, Partnership, 153. 39 Ibid., 293–294.

Rabbi Prof. Lord Jonathan Sacks    Chapter Six how decent people behave”. People may respect you, but they will think you an odd survival of an earlier age. [. . .] There are people who are completely secular and live happy and purposeful lives. More than that: they often live altruistic and heroic lives. Human goodness is widely distributed, and I have no respect for religious people who cannot see this. There are also religious people who live miserable and guilt-haunted lives. There are secular societies, many of them, in which there is far greater freedom than in religious societies. In fact, our image of a religious society in the twenty-first century is of a repressive, rights-denying, even brutal regime, and I have nothing to say in defence of such societies. They break the rule of Abrahamic faith [. . .] that religion should never wield power. Religion, as I explain it there, is a principled opposition to the will to power. Faith is about the forms of gracious coexistence that abjure the use of power. [. . .] To be sure, religion has done a great deal of harm. On that I am in complete agreement with the atheists. It is a point that must trouble every religious conscience, and it cannot be glossed over. But Europe has been through a nightmare in the twentieth century, a barbarism without precedent or parallel, and it happened not inadvertently, but in the very spirit of its most profound anti-religious thinker. Of course, Nietzsche was not a Nazi. He condemned antisemitism. He broke with Wagner because of the latter’s antisemitism. All this is true and important. But Nietzsche, together with Schopenhauer—who really was an antisemite—provided Nazism with its intellectual foundations. That may never be forgotten as long as human beings care for the future of humanity. [. . .] The Judeo-Christian ethic is not the only way of structuring a society and ordering a life. But it is the only way that has succeeded in the long run in the West. [. . .] We stand to lose much if that ethic is lost. We will lose our sense of human dignity, our distinctive politics of the common good, our morality of obligation and responsibility, our respect for marriage and parenthood as a covenantal bond, and our best hope for a meaningful life.40 I am going to argue in this chapter that religion is important to morality, vitally so. But the relationship between them is neither simple nor superficial. Religious people can easily slide into the belief that only we are good; the others, the unbelievers, are either immoral or amoral. That is arrogance, not humility, and it is, in any case, simply untrue. We are social animals, we 40 Ibid., 103–110.

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Between Religion and Reason have social intelligence, and we have the instincts and skills that allow us to survive as groups, often putting the welfare of others ahead of our own. We have a moral sense, and this has nothing to do with religion or faith. That is the short answer. But there is a longer one. [. . .] [R]eligion holds societies together as moral communities. The fear of God makes people think twice before defrauding or deceiving others. Conscience, the voice of God within the human heart, would, without religious faith, be more and more easily ignored. People would take advantage of one another whenever they thought they could avoid detection, and there would be a slow but inevitable breakdown of trust.41

APOLOGETICS AND ILLUSION IN THE CENTRAL CONTENTION— IGNORING THE CONTRADICTION BETWEEN REASON AND REVELATION Having said all this, I cannot help but insist that, in my view, on the main topic of discussion—the relationship between religion with its revelation and science and philosophy with their reason, or between Torah and Halakhah, on the one hand, and Western civilization, on the other—Sacks’s approach is deficient insofar as it is, after all, apologetic and illusionary. His claim that there is no contradiction between the two realms does not even glance at the objection that there are many aspects of religion that directly contradict science and philosophy. This leads me to think that Sacks is evading them too elegantly. I noticed that when Sacks speaks about his (metaphoric) theory of two halves of the brain and about the history of the relationship between the two realms, he frequently and happily yokes philosophy to the side of science and assigns them to the left side of the brain. He sets them opposite religion and faith, which belong to the right side of the brain,42 because Greek philosophy, Aristotelian and Platonic alike, is an important component of these discussions. By contrast, when he discusses all the factors that differentiate the two realms, the significance of each of them and of the two of them together (as in the many texts I have already quoted extensively), he generally omits philosophy and mentions only science. He does this because religion and science are genuinely different from each other. When he discusses the natural sciences, 41 Ibid., 145–146. See also ibid., 158–159. 42 See, for example, ibid., 56, 61, 66, 74.

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which are experimental and deal with the material world, and religion, which is spiritual and deals with God and the soul, it is naturally to consider them two realms that are completely different from each other. But philosophy actually is concerned with God and the soul, with morality and spiritual matters, like consciousness, the meaning of life, the nature of the world and man’s place in it. It asks, “Who are we? Why are we here? How should we live?” in such a way as to create a conversation between the two realms, which share the right side of the brain. Clearly, then, the wall that separates philosophy and religion is a shaky one. True, the answers that philosophy gives to the basic questions—the meaning of life, the nature of God, free will, morality, and so forth—are completely different from those that believers are given by their religion, but this does not make philosophy belong to the left brain. So we have a number of important subjects in which, to my mind, there is a definite contradiction between the realms, to which Sacks pays no attention or which he, at least, neglects to analyze.

1. Biblical Criticism According to biblical studies as an academic discipline (philology, archaeology, history, literature, and so forth), not only do chapters 1–3 of Genesis not come from the same source, the entire Pentateuch is a combination of four or five principal documents or sources. These documents were written by different people, with different ideologies, in different eras.43 Traditional religious faith, which says that the Pentateuch was a revelation that God wrote for, or dictated to, our master Moses, cannot withstand such critical analysis. According to philosophy, God does not write or dictate texts, does not interfere at all in history, whether in particulars or in universals. Here is what Sacks says about this contradiction: People have often noticed, yet it remains a very odd fact indeed, that there is not one account of creation at the beginning of Genesis, but two, side by side, one from the point of view of the cosmos, the other from a human perspective. Literary critics, tone deaf to the music of the Bible, explain this as the joining of two separate documents. They fail to understand that the Bible does not operate on the principles of Aristotelian logic with its 43 On the critical study of the Bible see, for example, A. Rofé, Mavo Lesifrut Hamikra ( Jerusalem, 2006), 117–121.

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Between Religion and Reason either/or, true-or-false dichotomies. It sees the capacity to grasp multiple perspectives as essential to understanding the human condition.44

Sacks dismisses all of academic Bible scholarship with a stroke of the pen. He calls all the Bible scholars of the last 250 years uncomprehending, tonedeaf to the music of the text. To me, this smacks of fundamentalist arrogance. He offers us the “aspects theory” from the school of Rabbi Mordechai Breuer and Rabbi Soloveitchik and spices it up with the cosmic (elohim) and human (the Tetragrammaton) names of God as a solution to the problem. What will Sacks do with all the rest of the Pentateuch, as full of problems and contradictions as a pomegranate is of seeds, if one does not separate it into documents? Soloveitchik apparently understood the problems of this “aspects theory” and its application to the rest of the books of the Pentateuch, and therefore he ceased to bother with it. But for Breuer this method is comprehensive, and every non-fundamentalist reader who looks into the interpretations based on this method and grasps its principles cannot but be astonished at this fantasy, which cannot possibly stand up to criticism.45

2. Difficult Texts With regard to the canonical texts of the Abrahamic religions, Sacks admits, “There are passages in the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament and the Koran that, taken in isolation, are radically inconsistent with the larger commitments of Judaism, Christianity and Islam to the sanctity of life and the dignity of all persons as bearers of God’s image.”46 To extricate himself from the difficulty, he explains that these texts demand interpretation; ergo the Oral Law of each of these religions, which, according to the sages of each religion, is of equal authority to the written text. Only with its help and mediation is it possible to reconcile the contradictions and to follow the commandments of the written text as a practical system of law. A fundamentalism yoked solely to the written 44 Sacks, Partnership, 10. We may assume at this stage of the discussion that Sacks is not thinking of the details of the contradiction between the two versions of the creation story, but about large-scale differences, of which we need both, since they complement each other. Even though Sacks mentions the concepts of truth and falsehood in the manner of Aristotelian logic, he does not necessarily find the two stories contradictory. I shall demonstrate below that Sacks’s discussion of the problem of evil is more complex. 45 On the details and principles of Breuer’s aspects theory see part 1 of this book, ch. 9. 46 Sacks, Partnership, 252.

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text is considered a virulent heresy. “In all of these systems the task is to relate the infinite Word to a finite world, to spell out details unspecified in the text, and to resolve seeming inconsistencies between one passage and another.”47 According to Sacks, the new atheists love to quote biblical verses like those about “the wars against the Midianites and Amalekites, with their mandate for total destruction of populations, and Joshua’s wars of conquest.”48 These are of great assistance to them when they attack the Bible as an immoral text. Sacks considers them mistaken, since they ignore the interpretation of these verses in the oral tradition. Sacks asserts as well that none of the commandments and prohibitions in the written text about the destruction of the neighbors and enemies of Israel are practical or in force any longer, by ruling of the Sages, since Sennacherib mixed up all the peoples and there is no way to tell who is who. It is impossible nowadays to identify anyone as an Amalekite, and Joshua preceded his war against the peoples of Canaan with a call for peace. Amalek has become a metaphor for radical evil; aggressive war has become a metaphor for internal struggle. It will never be enough simply to read the text of the sacred scriptures. Rather, we must always seek to know “how they were understood by the community of faith and how in practice they were applied. The difference is often great.”49 Some objections can be raised to what Sacks says here. First, he must admit that the divine commands existed literally, in writing, long before the Sages. Moses wiped out the Midianites along with their wives and children. Joshua exterminated the seven nations of Canaan, along with their wives and children. Joshua’s unanswered summons to them before the fighting started to submit peacefully, if it really happened,50 does not justify this. Saul wiped out all of the Amalekite males, along with their women and children. All these commands were brought down directly from the mouth of the good and eternal God. Second, even interpretation of such texts, whether rabbinic, medieval, or modern, does not always help us reconcile the contradiction between Torah morality and Western morality. The basic attitudes and assumptions about women in the Abrahamic religions—in the rabbinic period, in the Middle Ages, 47 48 49 50

Ibid., 252–253. Ibid., 253. Ibid., 254. There is a major dispute among the commentators about whether Joshua really offered peaceful submission to the people of Canaan. See E. Chamiel, To Know Torah: To Understand the Weekly Parasha, Modern Reading in the Peshat of the Torah and Its Ideas, 5 vols. (Herzliya, 2018), Deuteronomy, 100–101 and n. 122 there.

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and up to our own day, just as with the Greeks and the Romans—have offered them nothing but denigration and denial. Since the nineteenth century, the nations of Europe and the United States have changed their attitude to women and have given women back the place of equality with men that they had in the time of the Torah. Our own Sages have not yet done this. Sacks’s emphasis on “marriage as a sacred bond” cannot conceal this. I would call this a completely apologetic pronouncement, in the spirit of Soloveitchik, harshly criticized by Hartman. And I have not yet mentioned the problems of chained wives denied a divorce, and others who are forbidden to marry, of conversion and illegitimate children, of puritanical education, or of masturbation. The attitude to homosexuality remains as it was in biblical times, and no interpretation, medieval or modern, has changed that. Homosexual sex is still halakhically considered an abomination deserving of the death sentence, which would in fact be carried out if only we had a Sanhedrin. The same applies to Sabbath violators, adulterers, and idolaters. Third, the fact that the Sages assigned equal authority to the Written Torah and the Oral Torah does not suffice to turn this into a historical fact. Sacks certainly knows that not a few Modern Orthodox rabbis think (as Maimonides did long ago) that the laws in the Mishnah and the Talmud are mostly the fruit of legislative activity by the Sages themselves, and their authority is not identical to that of the word of God in the Written Torah. I daresay that Sacks himself thinks this. I do not know a single scholar of the Mishnah or the Talmud who does not. The claim by some of the Sages that the entire halakhic corpus comes from Sinai is, at worst, an error, and at best, a metaphor about the significance they wished to attribute to the words of their predecessors. Moreover, it seems to me that Halakhah, for all its positive qualities, does not have freedom, equality, and democracy as its primary concerns. Women, nonJews, and LGBT people are inferior in the eyes of Halakhah. Such an attitude stands in sharp contrast to the Western morality, philosophy, and culture amidst which we live, with all its shortcomings. Halakhic Judaism sees in Halakhah an obligatory, external authority represented by halakhic scholars, whereas secularists and atheists profess humanism, supporting democratic rule in which laws are enacted by representatives of the public, popularly elected. There is no contrast greater than this one, and ignoring it is like throwing dust in our eyes.

3. Evolution Another scientific subject Sacks discusses is the theory of evolution, from the school of the English researcher Charles Darwin. Darwinism stands in

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contradiction to the straightforward sense of the biblical description of creation. Sacks thinks these two perspectives can be reconciled and we can say that Darwinism tells us to begin to think about creation and the design of the natural order differently.51 The word “to do” in Genesis 2:3 can be interpreted as “to develop,” giving us a hint in the Torah about evolution. Darwinism enriches religion, since it teaches us that God takes pleasure in diversity, that God created a creative world, that all forms of life have a common origin, and more. The Sages long ago asserted that “faith must be compatible with the facts as we know them. This itself follows from the conviction that the God of creation and the God of redemption are one.”52 Rabbi Kook relied on “an ancient rabbinic teaching that at the dawn of time, God ‘kept creating universes and destroying them [Genesis Rabbah 3:7].’ [. . .] The idea that there were ages and extinct species before ours is one that should not trouble the theistic imagination.”53 God designed the world in advance on Darwinian lines. Does God interfere in the direction of evolution? Here Sacks contradicts himself. On the one hand he writes: “Any system is made up of rules that govern events within the system. Those rules explain how the system works, but not why it was created or evolved. That is why Darwinism fulfils an important function for Abrahamic monotheism. It tells us that God, having created the conditions for life, transcends life as he transcends the universe.”54 On the other hand he writes: “God, like evolution, operates in and through time. Humans act, God reacts, humans respond to divine response, and so on in ways that are often surprising and unpredictable.”55 If we are to reconcile these two statements, we must apparently understand Sacks to claim that once the world has been created, God is transcendent, but only in relationship to nature and animal life. But God remains in connection with rational human beings, those who 51 Sacks, Partnership, 209–231. 52 Ibid., 220. Here once again appears an expression suitable for the interpretative identicality approach established by Maimonides, and not the compartmental approach. This is a conspicuous inconsistency. After the interpretation the identicality between science and religion becomes clear, and all the differences that Sacks labors so hard in his book to specify and explain simply disappear. 53 Ibid. Reliance on this rabbinic saying to support evolution is anachronistic. Even David Zvi Hoffmann completely relied on it as identical to Darwinism, whereas S. Hirsch saw in this statement just a possible option that might fit geological discoveries. He thought that, if it became clear Darwin was right, and this rabbinic saying was aggadic, the theory of the development of species would strengthen belief in God manifold. See the more detailed discussion of this in my book The Dual Truth, 357–358. 54 Sacks, Partnership, 229. 55 Ibid., 228.

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discovered monotheism in a burst of self-awareness 6,000 years ago—Adam and Eve. “The biblical story begins at that moment at which humans developed sufficient self-consciousness to become aware of themselves as deliberating, choosing, free and responsible moral agents.”56 To me, this is how Rabbi Hirsch and the young Rabbi Kook interpret the story of creation and of Adam and Eve at the beginning of Genesis. Sacks’s interpretation is precisely identical to that of Hirsch; according to Rabbi Kook, human history did not begin until Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden. Up to that point, the story is a metaphor about what the world was like before humanity attained reason.57 One may ask about these assertions: Did religious people not understand the biblical story until the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, after the discoveries of Darwinism and of the Big Bang, when the contradiction finally disappeared? Why should we stop the metaphor here and not continue it further in the story? I wonder. It seems to me that what we have here is neo-fundamentalism. These Modern Orthodox thinkers are making the same mistake that Maimonides did: He tried to make the principles of Aristotelian physics identical with the Torah, but failed utterly once that physics ceased to be valid.

4. Philosophy The Greek philosophy of Plato and Aristotle believed in one God. But this was a god who did not intervene in the world that existed because of him, and the world of this god was not intended to fulfill any purpose. Modern philosophy, since the eighteenth century, in Europe and America, has sought a single, overarching truth that explains all phenomena. There have been many suggestions, all amounting to one big failure. The postmodern philosophy that is so widespread in our time has given up the search. It thinks that there is more than one truth, and advocates moderate liberalism and pluralism. Throughout history, philosophy has never accepted the possibility of revelation and moral guidance from an external, divine cause (heteronomous, deontological). It advocates humanism and autonomy for human beings to decide on the morality that suits them best and to enact laws in accordance with this morality. All this stands in complete contradiction to what religious people teach their 56 Ibid., 231. 57 On Rabbi Kook’s interpretation and my explanation of his Linevukhey Hador, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 465–468. Hirsch was not as daring as the young Rabbi Kook. According to his commentary on the Bible, the events recounted at the beginning of the book of Genesis were all historical events.

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students today. In my opinion, Modern Orthodox students who are seeking to keep hold of both these contradictory extremes—revelation and Western culture—often discover a conflict between religion and the general culture in which they encounter it. Sacks argues that philosophy is on the side of science, in the realm of the left brain, when we talk about the relationship between them and religion. But he nonetheless thinks that there is no contradiction between the two realms and thereby ignores all the problems that I have just raised. As noted, when he speaks of the vast difference between the two realms, he is talking principally about science, which is indeed different from religion. But, as I have shown, in this respect too Sacks does not successfully answer all the difficulties that I raised. He is afraid to admit that there is a contradiction, and to adopt the dual truth approach, as his hero Rabbi Soloveitchik did courageously and without hesitation. His fear stems from this: if there really is a contradiction, he would have to choose one of the two realms. As far as he is concerned, there can only be a single truth, so this is a great danger. It is as obvious to Sacks as to any modern believer, and this is what his whole book is about, that both realms are important, and that we must hold on to both of them. Yet, it is hard for him to admit any possibility of contradiction between them. He is afraid that his students too will find it difficult to live with this contradiction, which can be resolved only in the world of God or at the End of Days, even though we are living in a postmodern age.58 But in his discussion of evil we have a surprise in store.

5. The Problem of Evil The existence of evil in the world poses a great problem for believers. Sacks explains that the rational, philosophical position on this contradicts faith. If God cannot prevent evil, then he is not all-powerful. “How does a good God permit evil to deface and defile his creation?”59 If he can prevent evil but chooses to refrain from doing so, then he is not all good. It is clear to me that Sacks sees in philosophy a factor additional to science that also clashes with the Torah. And I can prove it. Here, Sacks is dealing with a problem from the realm of philosophy: the problem of the existence of evil in a world created by 58 For a brief historical survey of the topics in which religion has contradicted science and philosophy up to our own day, see my book Between Religion and Reason, 1:1–4. 59 Sacks, Partnership, 234.

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a good god. This is absolutely a philosophical problem. Moreover, the world is full of suffering and disease, plague, famine and drought, the death of children, and natural disasters like earthquakes and tsunamis. Sacks asserts that the existence of such evils in God’s world is the ultimate question that undermines faith. Theologians answer it by saying that we cannot understand the deeds of God but, Sacks says, this response is not found in the Bible. The question arises over and over, including the book of Job, but remains completely unanswered. Biblical heroes seek no explanation of it. What they seek is meaning. Atheistic philosophers, thinking with their left brain, say that the reality of evil is proof that there is no God. The answer of the Greek philosophers, adopted as well by the Sages, is that the true reward will be given in the World to Come. But this is not a satisfying answer, since the Bible never employs it to answer those who ask this question. What we suffer in order to be able to flourish morally, to give charity, to act kindly, this too does not constitute a sufficient answer. A world without poverty and suffering is better than a world without charity and kindness. The idea that one person must suffer in order for another person to prosper is in no way, shape, or form a humane one. But the answers of the atheists—there is no god, there is no judge, there is no divine morality, that is the way of the world, life is a struggle for survival—are unacceptable to religious people. The religion of Abraham is a religion of protest against evil, which never reconciles itself to evil and never excuses it. The argument of Leibniz, that our world is the best of all possible worlds, and theodicy, which tries to justify God, neither comfort the afflicted nor cry out against evil. How then are we to extricate ourselves from this dilemma, which appears to be impossible to solve? Here Sacks is forced to admit what he has up to this point avoided saying anywhere in the book: there is a contradiction between the realms. The religious perspective Sacks proposes with regard to the two realms being compartmentalized so that one complements the other (“not only this but also that”), and the religious perspective according to which it is possible to conclude that the two realms are identical and to achieve a synthesis, suddenly change into a theory that does recognize and sustain contradiction, thereby acknowledging that there can be no resolution. Now, this is the answer of the theologians, which Sacks has already dismissed! But at this point he admits: [F]aith does not operate by the logic of the left brain and the law of the excluded middle. It feels both sides of the contradiction. God exists and evil exists. The more powerfully I feel the existence of God, the more strongly I protest the existence of evil. [. . .] Given their history of suffering, Jews were rarely optimists. But they never gave up hope. That is why, when the prophets

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saw evil in the world, they refused to be comforted. For that is what theodicy is: a comfort bought too cheaply.60 Though Sacks has given an answer to the problem of evil, the answer is not good enough for him, since it forces him to admit that there is a contradiction between religion and reason on the question of evil, a contradiction that cannot be resolved. He therefore offers (whether in addition to it or instead of it is not clear) the answer of Maimonides in Guide 3:12 to the question of suffering in the world. According to Maimonides, there are three kinds of evil: the evil of the natural world, the evil people commit against each other, and the evil people commit against themselves. The explanation for the two latter categories is simple, which is why I did not bother even to list them among the varieties of suffering that are problematic. Sacks rightly argues, as did Hirsch before him,61 that the evils we commit against ourselves and others exist because humanity was granted free will. When there is no free will, the human race is empty of content and lacking in challenges. It has no responsibility, for it operates mechanically. That is also the reason why I did not include the Holocaust as a problematic phenomenon from the point of view of faith. Unfortunately, the Holocaust was the greatest abyss to which people have sunk in human history, but this was humanity’s own cursed choice. In order to explain the first of the three categories, natural evils, Maimonides answers that they are due to the fallibility of matter. In fact, this is the same answer that Leibniz later gave, the answer that Sacks dismisses because it neither offers comfort nor protests—the assertion that, due to the fallibility of matter, this is the best of possible worlds. Now, however, Sacks accepts this argument and adds a contemporary example: that earthquakes occur due to the movement of tectonic plates, which were necessary if life was to appear. Sacks does not explain why it had to be this way. Errors in replication of the genome double the chances of disease, but without them there would have been no evolution and no Homo sapiens. “To seek a world without floods and droughts, diseases and deaths is to seek a world that could not be. Contemporary science has shown us why it could not be.”62 To me, the answer of the dual truth approach is far better. It is clear why God preferred human beings that have free will. We should be happy about it. But was an omnipotent God really unable to create 60 Ibid., Partnership, 241–242. 61 Hirsch, Writings, 2:110, 7:139, 281, 304, 425–427; Hirsch, commentary to Gen 2:16, Lev 16:10, and Psalms 19:8. See quotations from some of these sources in my book The Middle Way, 281–283. 62 Sacks, Partnership, 244.

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some method of evolution, on a planet without shifting tectonic plates, without floods, with genes that would cause only good mutations? Sacks’s answer seems to me apologetic and post hoc.

CONCLUSION I found Sacks’s book to be unique and fascinating. Though the question of the relationship between revelation and reason is central to it, all sorts of problems and contradictions lie beneath the surface. It will provoke modern believers to think and broaden their perspectives. There is much to learn from it about the differences between religion and science and about the importance of learning from each of these two realms. We need them both. There are significant areas in which he refrains from apologetic, illusory, fundamentalist religious approaches. But the most important topic in the book—the nature of the relationship between the two realms—remains unclear. For most of the book, Sacks sides with the compartmental approach, and denies that Judaism has any room for contradiction between them. He even presents a comprehensive explanation for why some people did find contradictions between Judaism and science/philosophy, and why they sought, and eventually attained, a synthesis between them. Apparently this is Sacks’s main approach. But my analysis reveals that Sacks also sides with the interpretative identicality approach. These two approaches, neither of which recognizes the possibility of contradiction between the realms, are, to my mind, illusory and apologetic. All the same, it is surprising to discover that on certain topics Sacks boldly comes out in favor of the dual truth approach, according to which the realms do indeed contradict each other and the tension between them remains unresolved. It is therefore impossible to refrain from questioning the coherence of Sacks’s approach to the central topic of the book, or from asserting that his methodology, like that of others whom I discuss in this book, is not completely clear. Rather, it is tainted with apologetics and illusion.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rabbi Dr. Michael Abraham

M

ichael Abraham was born in Haifa in 1960. As a child, he moved with his parents to Elkana, and today he and his family live in Lod. He studied at the Midrashiyat Noam yeshiva high school in Pardes Hanna and at Yeshivat Har Etzion. While earning a degree in electrical engineering at Tel Aviv University and a PhD in theoretical physics with Prof. Moshe Kaveh at Bar-Ilan University, he learned in a number of Haredi yeshivot in Bnei Brak. He completed a post-doc at the Weizmann Institute, in the department of chemical and biological physics, with Prof. Itamar Procaccia, and another in the physics department at Bar-Ilan, with Prof. Moshe Gitterman. He subsequently taught at the Hesder yeshiva in Yeruham and has lectured at the law school of the Hebrew University and elsewhere. He now serves as head of the doctoral program at the Institute for Advanced Torah Studies at Bar-Ilan University. Of his many books and articles, I note four here: Shtey Agalot Vekadur Poreaḥ: Al Yahadut Vepostmodernism (Two wagons and a hot-air balloon: On Judaism and postmodernism, 2002/2007); Et Asher Yeshno ve’et Asher Eynenu (What is and what is not, 2005); Enosh K’hatzir: Al Ha’adam: Guf Vanefesh, Regesh, Sekhel Veratzon (Man’s days are like grass—On humanity: body and soul, emotion, intellect, and will, 2007); Elohim Mesaḥeq Bequbiyot (God plays dice, 2011). Here I will focus mainly on his thought as expressed in God Plays Dice, in which he discusses several perspectives on the relationship between reason and revelation.1

EVOLUTION AND RELIGION Abraham is a Modern Orthodox scientist. As such, not only science but also Torah and religion are important to him. On the one hand, he considers   1 The biographical details come from Abraham’s Hebrew Wikipedia page and from his CV on the Bar-Ilan University web site.

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invalid the creationist and fundamentalist Haredi perspective that dismisses the statements of science and reason as heretical. On the other hand, he finds the assumptions of the materialistic, neo-Darwinian scientists, who reject any possibility that soul or spirit or even God exist, equally invalid. It is common for secularists to assume that by virtue of neo-Darwinism, which apparently explains how the world could have developed by natural means, any attempt to prove the existence of God through the wonders of nature has fallen by the wayside. Those who hold these two positions are both certain that there is a contradiction between reason and revelation, between the evolution of species and religious faith. Each side is therefore entrenched in its position and does not hesitate to beat up on its opponents’ position and express the distaste it feels for them. Abraham tries in his book to show that both sides are mistaken—there is no contradiction between evolution and religion, and it poses no problem to believe both in a Creator and in evolution, which he says has continued for some fifteen or twenty billion years, since the Big Bang (the current scientific estimate puts it at some thirteen or fourteen billion years). Abraham’s main argument is that there is not only no contradiction between the two realms, but that Darwin’s theory of the origin of species and Mendel’s theory of heredity only strengthen the argument for the existence of a God who administrates the world. In this, Abraham largely shares the neo-fundamentalist approaches to evolution of S. R. Hirsch and Rav Kook.2 I must emphasize that Abraham is not prepared to uphold both science and Torah despite the contradiction that sometimes exists between them. Like the two groups with whom he is contending, he too does not accept the possibility of a contradiction that is resolved only in the world of God: “Believers are not supposed to live in conflict with their rational side.”3 I will examine whether he maintains this stand consistently and whether he succeeds in resolving all the contradictions between reason and Torah in such a way as not, God forbid, to have to live with his rational side in conflict with his religious side. Abraham shows, through a series of reasonable calculations and claims, that the chance of something inanimate coming to life and subsequently developing through a chance evolutionary process into a rational human being is   2 See, for example, M. Abraham, Elohim Mesahek Bekubiyot (Tel Aviv, 2011; henceforth: Abraham, Dice), 115–117, 355–359. On Hirsch’s neo-fundamentalist position, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, 412–422, and on that of Rav Kook, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 465–468. This usage of “neo-fundamentalism” is based on that of James Barr. See Chamiel, The Middle Way, 149–154.  3 Abraham, Dice, 15.

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infinitesimal. Ever since the first living cell was created there have been an infinite number of mutations that could not possibly succeed, and a minute number of viable ones. Abraham is not opposed merely to the randomness aspect of the theory. He likewise rejects the argument that deterministic natural laws have acted blindly and without plan: We therefore reach the conclusion that everyone agrees the process of the creation of life was not due to chance, but was governed by deterministic natural laws. This is the hardware on which evolution runs, not to mention the creation of life that preceded it. This whole process operates via the laws of nature, an inflexible system in which there is actually no random element. What we must ask ourselves here is this: Who created and designed these laws of nature, through which a random process of this kind would ultimately succeed in creating such a complex and coordinated world, including the creation of life? Who planned and built this “computer hardware” in which the genetic, evolutionary “software” could operate? [. . .] When we see that there is a set of algorithms that direct an amazingly complex system precisely at its objective, and that the probability of all this being done by chance is infinitesimally small, the inevitable conclusion is that there is a rational cause directing this performance. The laws of nature are nothing but God’s way of operating this “random” process and ensuring that it attains its objective.4

Abraham goes on to argue that the incredible possibility the neoDarwinians suggest—namely, that the first molecule of RNA or DNA capable of reproducing itself arose from lifeless primordial soup just once, and that from this molecule life developed in a blind process following deterministic laws, without any dead ends that would kill off the whole process, and with entropy constantly diminishing order—is completely implausible from a probabilistic standpoint. The chance that this process happened is essentially zero, says Abraham, unless “there was someone who tended the process all along the way.”5 The combined existence of all six of the universal physical   4 Ibid., 166.   5 Ibid., 174. My friend Haim Cedar (professor emeritus of biochemistry, Israel Prize laureate for biology) explained to me (in a personal communication) that every DNA molecule in a living cell carries an enormous number of mutations, something that is both necessary and sufficient for the process of evolution. The DNA of Homo sapiens that we see today, therefore, differs from that of the Homo sapiens who lived five thousand years ago. That

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constants (the strong nuclear force, the force of gravity, and so on), which must all be calibrated to particular precise values in order to make the creation of life possible, testifies to the existence of such a designer. To the astrophysicist Tsevi Mazeh, these assertions are misleading. For Abraham assumes that, according to neo-Darwinism there is, as it were, a kind of lottery in which there are a vast number of chances, only a small number of which could make the existence of the universe possible, evolution successful, and life able to develop. But this assumption is not inevitable. It could be that if we were able to test other combinations of mutations and constants, we would find that there exists some law of nature of which we are unaware, according to which all the possible combinations would produce the situation that we in fact see today. In any case, Abraham is convinced that his arguments prove that those at both extremes are mistaken: If in the process of evolution life and human beings were in fact created, that is the best possible proof of the existence of a design directed by a guiding hand. The fundamentalist, creationist faith that evolution never happened, and likewise the atheistic faith in the blindness of this successful evolutionary process, are both dogmatic beliefs, not rational ones. What we see here is that the creationist denies facts, and the neo-Darwinist believes in miracles.6

What, then, is the correct approach to the relationship between science and religion with regard to evolution? Abraham’s answer is this: the is an extremely short period of time in relation to the length of time since life was created. The change in this molecule, which continues to exist successfully, is swift and significant. My friend Tsevi Mazeh (professor in the department of astrophysics at Tel Aviv University) thinks that no mathematical, probabilistic calculations can even come close to scientifically confirming or disproving the various scientific theories about the length of time necessary for the process of evolution. These two religious scientists, therefore, think that between the two beliefs—a blind, deterministic miracle or an intelligent, transcendent enterprise—they, like Abraham, would choose the latter. On their view, God certainly established the laws of nature and the physical constants, and implanted in primordial matter the potential to come into being as inanimate, in such a way that the first living cell developed from it, followed by the whole process of evolution. But they (like me) do not accept Abraham’s contention that God continued to intervene, to administrate, and to guide the process during this whole long period, for there was no need to do so. Rabbi Hirsch and Rav Kook explain things the same way. Abraham would say that the facts adduced by Cedar are the product of divine administration of the process; Cedar would respond that they were implanted in advance.  6 Abraham, Dice, 176.

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compartmental approach, with each realm answering different questions and explaining a single part of the greater truth. But unlike others who set science and philosophy up against religion, he sets philosophy and faith up against contemporary experimental science: The conclusion is that these two frames of reference are parallel. God is irrelevant to a scientific theory of biology, and ought to be, precisely as a biologically causal explanation is irrelevant to philosophical questions. Philosophy and science ask different questions, and they obviously get different answers. An answer from one area does not prevent the search for an answer in the other area, or vice versa. [. . .] The truth is that these two frameworks exist side by side, and it is possible (and in fact quite reasonable) to adopt both explanations in tandem. As we have seen, the existence of a causal explanation only strengthens the need for an intelligent designer to supervise the process. Organized rules that coordinate the emergence of a purposeful goal of any kind testify with the voices of a thousand witnesses that there was a designer in charge. A purpose lay at the foundation of the planning, and it was brought into existence deliberately. The explanation that we receive depends on the questions that we ask, on our own inclinations, and on our areas of interest. Just as an engineering explanation does not contradict a physics explanation and is likewise of no use to a physicist (and vice versa), so too the teleological, theistic explanation for the processes of evolution does not contradict the rational, scientific explanations for them (and vice versa).7

Later on, Abraham reemphasizes this: The question of whether evolution is correct or not is a scientific question, and apparently the answer to it is (in general) a positive one. The question of the existence of God is a philosophical question, and apparently, based on the considerations that we have seen here and on those we will see below, the answer to it is also a positive one. The tension between these two answers is fictitious, and we ought therefore to get rid of it. Science should deal with scientific questions and try to find out how the world works. Philosophy should help us formulate a world view, in light (among other things) of scientific facts. There is not merely no tension   7 Ibid., 131.

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Abraham does acknowledge that neither the scientific approach nor the religious approach is free of unresolved difficulties. The scientific claim that the process of evolution was gradual does not always match the archaeological facts. The fossils that archaeologists discover are always of fully developed creatures and never occur in intermediate stages of development. The neo-Darwinians respond that, yes, there are steps in the process that are still unexplained, and that such fossils or such explanations may in the future possibly be found. They also attempt to explain these missing steps by implausible processes, including temporary flaws that came into being in the past but have now disappeared. The religious side has difficulty explaining why God needed such complicated,   8 Ibid., 193–194.

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interminable laws of evolution in order to create the world as it is today (laws in whose course there were also experiments that ended in failure, such as the vestigial tailbone that today’s humans still retain . . .), rather than simply creating the world as described in the book of Genesis. Furthermore, why does God not run the world directly, rather than by means of the laws of nature? I think the second question is easy to answer. Direct divine supervision of the world would eliminate free will, without which human superiority over the animals would perish and existence, lacking challenges, would be meaningless. Abraham responds to these questions this way: “I am not ashamed to admit that I have no good answer for this.”9 He explains that these perplexities are not sufficient to abrogate the conclusion that the process of evolution does indeed occur and is indeed administrated by God. Sometimes we understand the goal of this or that step in the divine plan, and sometimes it is beyond our comprehension. Such questions must be turned over to theologians to discuss, and scientists must be kept away from them. Here, in my view, Abraham retreats from his insistence that there is no contradiction between science and religion, at least until the theologians and the scientists answer the questions that have been turned over to them, each in their own realm. Abraham does not care that he has no reasonable answer to the questions that cast doubt on his scheme. In my opinion, the “dual truth” response—that the contradictions between the truth of science and the truth of revelation and faith cannot be finally resolved except in the world of the Holy One—work well here too. There is no reason to worry about the contradiction. Even though we are confronted with two truths that sometimes contradict each other, we must hold on both to science and to religion. What Abraham himself says is sufficient to justify the dual truth approach: “There is a hand directing this process, even if its plan is not always clear to us.”10 This is how Abraham sums up the argument—a clear and correct one— with which he has spent an entire book demolishing the claims of Dawkins (one of the radicals among the neo-Darwinists) on the left and the claims of the religious fundamentalist radicals on the right: After the scientific revelations of evolution and the Big Bang, these options [that the world has existed eternally or was created in a once-off coincidence] are no longer up for discussion. It is now clear, scientifically, that   9 Ibid., 195. 10 Ibid.

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In the last sentence Abraham opines that if we should discover contradictions between science and faith we could not hold on to both of them and would be required to choose between them. Those who maintain the “dual 11 Ibid., 226–228; my emphasis.

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truth” approach think that the limited human intellect cannot reconcile the contradictions, which can be unified only in the world of God. To me, what Abraham calls “non-fundamentalist creationism” is actually more like neo-fundamentalist creationism. According to the latter, the truth of revelation is always correct. Any assertion that contradicts this truth is either mistaken or hypothetical. Only when the truth of the scientific assertion that contradicts the truth of revelation is proven beyond all doubt must we turn, for lack of any other alternative, to reinterpreting the contradictory scriptures in such a way that they fit the scientific conclusions. But the principle that the sacred writings are inerrant is not impacted. Abraham says so explicitly: When we encounter solid evidence against our original premise, it is advisable to display enough intellectual integrity to relinquish it or strictly limit it. Anything that is practically tautological [an assumption we are almost forced to make], as opposed to logically tautological [an assumption we are forced to make], is of limited validity, [. . .] and it is not advisable to adhere to it without limit.12

What do we do, then, with the sacred texts that contradict scientific results? Abraham admits that, from his non-fundamentalist creationist perspective, “Evolution is a process that is always occurring, and apparently occurred in the past as well. Even if this demands creative exegesis of some of the sacred texts, that is inescapable.”13 That is, in order to defend against contradiction between the eternal scriptures that were transmitted via divine revelation (and in contrast to Abraham’s advice to view the Bible as a text that tells us “who” created and not “how” He created) and any convincing new scientific conclusions, we still do not accept the possibility of contradiction in our world. Instead, we deviate from the traditionally accepted interpretation of the text and interpret it, for the first time, not as what it plainly says but as allegorically describing the process of evolution. It is as if, until Darwin, we did not understand what the Torah was in fact saying, and only now do we understand it at last. This mistake was made long ago by Maimonides, when he gave the Torah an allegorical interpretation because he wanted to make it fit Aristotelian physics, as interpreted by the Muslim neo-Platonic philosophers. This theory was shaken with the arrival of Newtonian physics. But this is not a fundamentalist approach. 12 Ibid., 334. 13 Ibid., 358.

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Rather, it is a decidedly neo-fundamentalist one. In this, Abraham follows the views of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, who already put this method to general use and applied it specifically to evolution, and Rav Kook’s views on evolution as well. All the same, it is important to note that Abraham goes much further in this direction than did his predecessors. Maimonides, who knew nothing about evolution but wanted to explain miracles scientifically, was forced to argue that the laws of nature established by God at creation included in advance the potential occurrence of the miracles that would take place in the course of history. Rabbi Hirsch and Rav Kook, likewise, made do with the laws of nature established by God at the time of creation. These laws supplied all the evolutionary potential necessary for what we see today in the world and for what we will see in the future. The fact that embedding this potential in matter and in the first single living cell deterministically brought about the vast, amazing variety of flora and fauna that now exist in the world is evidence that strengthens faith in an omnipotent God outside of nature (according to the transcendentalism of Maimonides and Hirsch) or in a God who includes within Himself all of existence (in the panentheism of Rav Kook). Moreover, Abraham has an additional suggestion to offer us: God not only initiated creation and established the laws of nature, including the laws of physics and of evolution; He also manages, leads, oversees, intervenes, and administrates the process at every moment, aiming it in advance at His desired end. Why does Abraham add extra stages to God’s activity that his predecessors had no need of? According to Occam’s razor (of which Abraham makes copious use) they are most certainly superfluous and therefore perhaps incorrect. I think it is reasonable to assume that, to Abraham’s predecessors, Rabbi Hirsch and Rav Kook, it was obvious that God regularly directed the course of human history. They therefore had no need of such additional stages—God’s prearrangement and direction of the evolutionary process—in order to reinforce this. But the post-modern theories that circulate in today’s philosophical world attempt to anchor philosophically God’s absolute separation from His world and to assert that He did not predetermine any purpose whatsoever for the world or for humanity. Here Abraham scurries to the defense of the believers, intent on showing them that these assertions that the statements of revelation and the discoveries of science are contradictory are due to incorrect exegesis of the biblical texts, on the one hand and, on the other, to misunderstandings of Darwinism that are not in fact anchored in confirmed scientific data. On the contrary, says Abraham, scientific revelations confirm the religious claim: God intervenes in the world at every moment and directs it toward His goal. Without direction of this kind, evolution could

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not occur. My own opinion is different. From an approach like Abraham’s, it is a very short step to a God who imposes laws and to illusionary apologetics. In his scheme, God directs human history, and Jewish history, to a tranquil, moral era, perhaps even to a messianic era, one that transcends our current existence. Abraham concludes his discussion of evolution with a surprising declaration: “There is no better way to end this chapter than with a quotation from Monsignor Georges Lemaître, the Belgian priest and astronomer, who came up with the theory of the Big Bang: ‘There are two pathways to reach the truth, and I have chosen to tread both of them.’”14 Abraham was not, however, careful to 14 Ibid., 228. It would be reasonable to assume that Abraham’s approach would be similar to that of his teacher, the Bar Ilan physics professor (and former president of the university) Moshe Kaveh, but an examination of Kaveh’s approach reveals that it is not so. In his book Between Worlds (Moshe Kaveh and Shaʼul Maizlish, Beyn olamot: Shaʼul Maizlish Mesoḥeaḥ im Prof. Moshe Ḳaṿeh al Madda Ṿe’emunah, Yahadut, Tarbut, Ḥinukh Veḥevrah [Rishon Letzion, 2017]), 17–70, Kaveh presents an approach that integrates the moderate compartmental approach with the restrictive identicality approach—two approaches that both reject any possibility whatsoever of contradiction. He claims that religion and science are intrinsically identical. But since science is always developing and discovering new theories, the realms remain separate for the time being, though they are not completely detached from one another (a suggestion like that of Leibowitz for absolute severance of the two is rejected; ibid., 40–41). In the future it will become clear that science proves the eternal, unchanging truth of the Torah, and the identicality of the two will be confirmed: “The information given us by faith is fixed in the past. By contrast, scientific truth is found in the future. Science flows forward. There cannot, therefore, be any contradiction between the two of them, since they are found at two different ends of the timeline” (ibid., 36). [. . .] “There cannot be any contradiction between religious faith and science, since they move in opposite directions on the timeline and represent approaches that do not overlap” (ibid., 62). [. . .] “Scientific truth is never completely attained but is approached closer and closer as time passes, while religious, Torah truth was given in the past, at Mount Sinai, and is true in such a way that the overlap and the mutual understanding between the two truths broadens and deepens with the passage of time” (ibid., 40). [. . .] “Scientific progress ultimately leads to the discovery of scientific truth, which is identical to the truth described in the Torah” (ibid., 42). In my opinion, Kaveh is inconsistent in his opinions in his book, since there is a gap between his declaration that the Torah is eternal, unchangeable, and constitutes the standard of truth and that the progress of history is proof of its truth, and the many examples that he presents that are intended to show exactly the opposite happening in the course of history. We are always reinterpreting this or that biblical truth in order to make it fit with some novel but contradictory discovery made by Western science and culture, such that the meaning of the biblical “truth” is completely changed. This is a distinctly neo-fundamentalist approach out of the school of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch. From this angle, the approaches of the teacher (Kaveh) and his student (Abraham) are not far apart. Even with regard to God’s providential care for what happens in the world that He created, without which human reason and the beginning of life are inexplicable, the student’s views resemble those of his teacher. On this, see ibid., 43, 45, 52–53, 68. A similar neo-fundamentalist approach was

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note that Lemaître has a different approach than he does. Abraham follows the compartmental approach, according to which each realm teaches us a different part of the one great truth. But Lemaître follows the identicality approach, according to which the conclusions of the two realms are identical and present us with the same truth, even though the path to it differs in each of the realms (and this is Hermann Cohen’s position as well).

TORAH MORALITY AND RATIONAL MORALITY At the beginning of the book, Abraham addresses the following questions to atheists and materialists: How could spirit, soul, free will, thought and emotion have been created? How can we explain the existence of an ethical realm in a physical, chemical world? He also discusses the fact that even atheists believe in behaving properly and face the same kind of moral dilemmas that religious people do. He is arguing with Richard Dawkins, who claims that our moral presented even earlier by Prof. Yehuda (Leo) Levi, who taught physics in New York and then from 1970–1982 at the Jerusalem College of Technology. He devoted chapter seven of his book Torah and Science (Yehuda Levi, Yahadut Umadda [ Jerusalem, 1987]) to the conflicts between science and religion. He too asserts that, since the creator of the world was also the one who gave the Torah, there could not be any real contradiction between Torah and science. Each of them complements the other. If certain seeming contradictions appear, the explanation must be one of the following three possibilities: the scientific statement is in error (restrictive identicality); we have not properly understood the meaning of the Torah (interpretative identicality); if we examine them carefully, we will discover that there is in fact no genuine logical inconsistency (this is the full identicality of Saadia Gaon). That is, if the scientific statement is not proven, it may perhaps be mistaken. If it is proven, we can reinterpret the biblical text. If this text does not lend itself to reinterpretation, we must look more and more closely until we can determine that there is actually no contradiction. By Levi’s method it is therefore possible, for example, to say: It is not certain that the world has existed for billions of years; God, as the Sages say, built many worlds and destroyed them, and fossils are from these previous worlds; the laws of nature changed at the time of creation, six thousand years ago. He would similarly maintain that evolution is far from persuasive and even to some extent unfounded, and that there must be some direct divine influence on the process. Levi is more zealously on the side of religion than Kaveh or Abraham and leans toward the restrictive identicality approach of Judah Halevi. Relying on Maimonides, he maintains (in my view, mistakenly) “that the goals and aims of our lives must come from the Torah, and that science, for all its significance, must be viewed purely as a tool for achieving those aims. He [Maimonides] therefore hints to us that we must not disparage science but must nevertheless view it as no more than a ‘handmaiden’” (ibid., 21–22). All the same, Levi sides (ibid., 189) with Rackman’s position as against that of Soloveitchik, and accepts that we must alter the presumptions accepted in talmudic times with regard to the position of women to presumptions that fit the contemporary world, even though the Talmud rejected them. Abraham thinks this as well (Mekor Rishon, October 4, 2013).

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sentiments are the result of an evolutionary process. Based on this argument and relying on additional data from behavioral research in situations posing moral dilemmas, Abraham says that it is God who gave us the principles of morality through the revelation at Mount Sinai, or implanted within us— through the laws of evolution that He established—the ethical inclination and the ability to distinguish between good and evil: “What emerges from these data is that there is actually a transcendent source of some kind that obliges us to be moral, and it is that source which created, or gave us, the principles of morality (whether through revelation or through implanting them in our souls). It is precisely for this reason that we can make theoretical, abstract distinctions about impulses and modes of action—not just about outcomes— and use them as ethical yardsticks. This is the result of religious thought or Kantian ethics (a secularized form of religious ethics). So even those who have abandoned religious faith think the same way, for even they are not built differently. The framework implanted in them by the Creator (in whom they do not believe, or at least think they do not believe) is still found in them.”15 He writes further: To the best of my understanding, there must be some kind of external authority that establishes and validates the ethical obligation, at least as an obligation that can rightfully be demanded of everyone and made compulsory for all, both those who acknowledge it and those who do not. But everyone agrees that there must be some such external norm, and even if it does not stem from God, it cannot exist in a materialist-evolutionary picture. [. . .] The true argument against atheism is that without God the ethical obligation is meaningless, and it is therefore illogical to accept its existence at all. [. . .] In sum, we must distinguish between God as policeman (that is, the faith that acknowledges God as the basis for morality, whether out of fear of Him or in hope of reward), and God as legislator (of the moral laws) and creator (of us and of our inclinations as well as of the ethical norms). In the theistic picture, God created the very category of obligations and judgment, since this category can have no existence in 15 Abraham, Dice, 69. It is interesting that Abraham maintains (ibid., n. 57) that Kant has two ways of referring to God’s role with regard to ethics. In one, God is merely the anchor of ethical validity, though He does not necessarily exist. In the other, Kant considers the validity of ethical norms and the categorical imperative to prove the existence of God. To Abraham, the second formulation is much more reasonable. Many scholars would disagree with him on this.

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Between Religion and Reason a completely material world, and by virtue of this, believers (and, unconsciously, non-believers as well) maintain it. It is precisely because God is the one who created us and our inclinations that the ethical inclination can be considered not merely a fact, but indirect guidance from the creator of the world about how we ought to behave. Dawkins attacks God the moral policeman, but does not understand that the real problem he must deal with is God the legislator and creator, not God the policeman. That is a different aspect of the naturalistic fallacy.16

I admit that Abraham’s claim that God created the ethical norms surprised me. It would then seem just a short distance (via Socrates’s question, of which Lichtenstein spoke above) to the assertion that whatever God arbitrarily established as good would indeed be good, rather than its contrary, that God legislates according to what is good. I will come back to this point. Abraham goes on to explain that evolution does not contradict faith in God but actually confirms it. He then returns to the topic of religion and morality. He launches into a rebuttal of Dawkins’s arguments, according to which religion is a catalyst for discrimination, intolerance, cruelty, violence, murder and war, and that the foremost cause of bloodshed is religious fundamentalism. Abraham counters these arguments with the argument that there are mass murderers of all kinds, religious and secular, and their motivations are quite varied. There is no reason for one person to give up his values just because some other person commits murder in their name. Abraham continues his rebuttal by dealing with the question of sacred scripture and the behavior of the various religious groups who treat these texts as sacred and follow the norms that they establish. He introduces the discussion by explaining that in every normative framework, including that of Jewish law, there are situations where the value of obeying the law conflicts with ethical values, and it is necessary to establish a hierarchy of values to let us know how to act in such situations of conflict. He then turns to a discussion of the halakhic teachings in sacred Jewish texts that instruct us to kill: A religious person may say, for example, that there are indeed certain situations in which his religion commands him to kill other people, and may himself recognize that it poses an ethical problem (and for the sake of argument we will suppose for the moment that this problem would not exist in 16 Ibid., 86–87.

Rabbi Dr. Michael Abraham    Chapter Seven a secular or atheistic society). Nonetheless, he is ready to pay this price in exchange for other values. As we have seen, such conflicts can arise even in a non-religious context, but in a religious context they are more intense, since the values at play in the halakhic arena can be religious values that are not specifically moral ones. In extreme circumstances, the death penalty can be considered morally cruel, yet the justification for this cruelty is the price paid (not necessarily in the moral realm) for the alternative. In a halakhic context Sabbath violators are killed (if they are given, and accept, a warning by two witnesses). Desecration of the Sabbath is not necessarily a moral transgression, even from a religious perspective. In halakhah, and in religion, there can be values other than moral ones, and they, too, play a role in the halakhic arena, and these obviously are part of the dilemmas posed by conflicting values. [. . .] From his [the atheist’s] perspective it is quite natural to evaluate every person, every society, every situation through, and only through, the lens of morality. In his eyes, there is no possibility that an ethical value can be rejected for the sake of a value of some other kind, since in his world there are no other values. But from the religious point of view, that in general there are additional (religious) values alongside those of generally accepted morality, is itself a problematic assumption. As we have seen, even if a particular action does not cohere with accepted moral values, it is not to be automatically judged as negative or immoral. It could be that there is a moral price to be paid for performing this action, but that it would be helpful in furthering other valued goals. In a religious context there could be a situation in which a religious value outranks a moral value. For example, there is a commandment to kill Amalek, which would appear to be an expressly immoral commandment. Traditional religious apologetics finds various explanations for why this deed is nonetheless moral, but I find them quite unconvincing. My assumption is that we have here a religious value (which I do not completely understand, but rely on God who commanded it), and that outranks the moral value of preserving human life.17

Abraham is to be praised for rejecting the apologetic interpretations that try to find some moral justification for the expressly immoral commandments in the sacred writings. He is likewise to be praised for his admission that he does not understand the religious value he so staunchly defends. In doing so, he in fact understands that sometimes a contradiction between reason and religion 17 Ibid., 324–326.

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reveals itself, though he is not prepared to admit this. He relies on God’s word even when it commands him to perform a deed that is in conflict with his own rational understanding of morality. Were God to come to him in a dream and command him to kill So-and-so the Amalekite and his whole family, would he blindly obey it? If someone else were to tell Abraham that he had such a dream about the Amalekite, or about Abraham and his own family, what then? If there were a Sanhedrin in existence today, would Abraham drag out the greater part of the Jewish people—with the requisite warnings and witnesses, of course—to be killed for Sabbath desecration, adultery, and homosexuality, as is written in the Scriptures? Would he justify the implementation of the decrees of ISIS and of the Saudi religious courts (and their like) for religious transgressions against the Quran and the Sharia? Would he manage to successfully educate his students to fulfill expressly religious commandments that violate their consciences and their own internal sense of morality, by asserting that he was relying on God? I daresay he would not. As I see it, we have two truths that sometimes contradict each other, and they can unite only in the world of the Holy One. In such cases, it is of course possible to implement just one of the two. I would implement the truth that I understand, which defends the value that I can identify with. The truth that conflicts with my conscience and with generally accepted morality, the one I do not understand, I cannot implement. I believe that this is how my God would want me to act, and that it is for this purpose that He granted me reason and a conscience through the process of evolution. Next, Abraham turns to a discussion of the relationship between religion and ethics. Here, too, he maintains the compartmental approach, which he shares with Leibowitz: The attempts to justify every religious deed or religious norm (or divine action) in ethical terms (theodicy), as we have seen with regard to the commandment to “wipe out Amalek,” and even to extract ethical values from the sacred writings, subordinate religious values to ethical ones and sometimes even recognize them as identical. But this implicitly submits to playing the game by the atheists’ rules. For example, it might be that the halakhic instruction to destroy Amalek is not in fact moral, but there is no escape from it, and we must implement it in order to fulfill other values (which the atheists do not have). Moral justifications of religious thought sometimes themselves fail through the same fallacy as does Dawkins’ criticism. Yeshayahu Leibowitz often remarked that morality is an atheistic category; I would like to present here a slightly weaker assertion: that the monopolistic claim of moral

Rabbi Dr. Michael Abraham    Chapter Seven superiority is an atheistic stance (but moral obligations are by no means so). [. . .] We find in the Bible, argues Dawkins, severe punishments for sinners and, especially, collective punishment. There are examples of historic events that elicit such divine conduct as drowning the entire world with the Flood, the readiness of Lot “the righteous” to hand over his daughters to be abused by the men of Sodom in exchange for his guests’ safety, the episode of the concubine in Gibeah (and the responses to it), handing Sarah over to the king of Egypt, the binding of Isaac for slaughter by his father Abraham, G-d’s jealousy about the worship of idols (akin to the jealousy over a concubine— for example, His response to the sin of the Golden Calf), the conquest of the land of Canaan and the razing of Jericho. There are also halakhic norms of this kind, like the death penalty for Sabbath desecration, the commandment about killing Amalek, and the like. Dawkins proceeds to assemble further examples from the New Testament; even Buddhism receives similar comments from him. But in light of what we said above, it is clear that if we judge the events of the Bible, God’s conduct or that of the believers, we cannot do this solely on the basis of generally accepted moral values. Of course, anyone who has already inflexibly determined that moral values are the one and only set of values that are obligatory will judge the Bible according to them (and with no small measure of justification as far as he is concerned). But believers, who start from a different premise—that there are additional obligatory values beyond those of morality—need not reach a similar conclusion. Dawkins recognizes the possibility of interpreting sacred scriptures otherwise than by their plain sense and adapting them by this means to moral principles. He argues that doing so means that we do not actually derive our moral principles from the text, but rather the reverse: we subordinate the text to our moral principles. We take the moral principles for granted, explain the text in accordance with them, and then create the impression that this is what is written there. His conclusion is that in every case we ought not to see in sacred scriptures a source from which it is possible to draw moral principles. To the question that Dawkins raises, whether we indeed derive our moral principles from sacred scripture, my answer is identical to his: definitely not. They may be influenced by them, but definitely sacred writings (at least the traditional Jewish ones) are not the direct source of moral values.18 18 Ibid., 326–328. It is interesting that Abraham himself, who here accepts Dawkins’s assertion, has earlier admitted that we cannot avoid creative exegesis of the biblical text when it comes to evolution. As for Leibowitz, in contrast to what Abraham says here, his own obligation to general moral values requires no proof. See Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 288 and n. 72 there.

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Abraham goes on to explain his own approach: When the Torah commands us, “You shall do what is right and good,” “and You shall follow His ways,” it does not specify how to carry this out. It relies on our understanding that we must follow our consciences, our intuition, and our own moral interpretation, and it commands us in this way to be moral. He concludes by saying that he is in complete agreement with Dawkins with regard to the latter’s assertion that religious values and moral values are not identical, but he comes to the opposite conclusion: Even when we see that God’s conduct, or that of some other exemplary biblical figure, is immoral, this at most points to the fact that other (religious) values beside the values of morality are involved. This is not to say that this amounts to an indifference to morality, just as one who eats chocolate is not necessarily indifferent to health.

If this is so, then Abraham remains faithful to Leibowitz’s compartmental approach and to an Akedah kind of life, according to which the commandments of the Torah are religious values and that is all there is to say. They have nothing whatsoever to do with general ethical norms—each realm has completely different priorities. There is therefore no basis for asserting any possibility of contradiction between them. The problem I see here is that the Torah itself gives ethical reasons for the commandments. The commandment to wipe out the memory of the Amalekites is explained by their extraordinary nastiness: “Undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear” (Deut. 25:18). The destruction of the seven nations of Canaan is explained by their profound moral degeneracy.19 When Abraham (the patriarch) hears about God’s intention to wipe out Sodom and Gomorrah, he does not hesitate to ask that the decree be rescinded, offering an ethical reason for his request: Perhaps there are some righteous people there. Could it possibly be that “the Judge of all the earth would not deal justly?” (Gen. 18:25). God does not tell Abraham that there is a religious value that supersedes the ethical one. He informs him that there are not even ten righteous people in the two cities to 19 See Chamiel, To Know Torah, Genesis, 65–66 and nn. 56–57 there. The corruption of the Canaanites has already been prefigured through Ham the father of Canaan in Gen. 9, again in the instructions given by Abraham to his servant in Gen. 24, and again through the Canaanite women who married Ishmael and Esau, and whom Issac and Rebecca abhorred, and finally by Judah, who married Shua’s daughter in Gen. 38.

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salvage them; it will take Abraham’s own merit simply to rescue his nephew Lot miraculously from there. Lichtenstein constructs his persuasive argument with regard to Socrates’s question about morality and divine commandment on precisely this verse. He asserts that Judaism considers God subordinate to the basic, rational laws of morality, which are eternal and constitute part of His own essence. So He cannot do anything that would conflict with them (see above in the chapter on Lichtenstein). It follows that the distinction made by Leibowitz and Abraham is not a correct one; it does not correspond to the biblical tradition itself. As I have shown above, Hartman says this approach is inappropriate and not intellectually honest. No one would claim that all the commandments in the Torah have an ethical basis. But a great many of them, especially those focused on relationships between people, do have such a basis, usually quite an obvious one. These commandments were not intended to teach the basic principles of morality, but to steer us toward being better. The aim of these commandments is to get believers into the habit of thinking about the details of the ethical principles that should be applied to our daily lives, and how to carry them out. Another group of the commandments have ritual value, which poses no conflict with morality. Admittedly, there is an additional group of commandments that do contradict basic moral principles. In those cases, we are obliged to live with the contradiction and this “dual truth,” and to understand that there is an explanation for the contradiction only in the world of God or in some ancient world whose time has passed. But in our world we are obligated to evaluate every issue on its own and to act in accordance with rational morality, our consciences, and our intuition, as Hartman says, and as Abraham himself admits when he cites the obligation to “do what is right and good in the sight of the Lord” (Deut. 6:19). Why are we all so outraged when a woman who commits adultery is stoned to death by order of the religious courts in Saudi Arabia? If God should appear and give us an order that we considered immoral, He would have to explain it to us. As Lichtenstein said—even God is subordinate to reason and morality, which are of His own very essence.

ACADEMIC RESEARCH AND RELIGIOUS FAITH In one of the appendices of his book, Abraham discusses the conflict between traditional religious faith and scientific research, sometimes called the Torah Umadda problem. His aim is “to show that, despite it sometimes appearing that these two methods of study reach different conclusions, perhaps even contradictory ones, there is nothing that compels us to choose one

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or the other.”20 Abraham explains that the contemporary conflict between religious faith and the natural sciences is more peaceful than in ages past and is conducted serenely, since there is a general understanding that the two realms are to be compartmentalized. Science deals with facts, Torah with norms, and so rather few contradictions erupt between them. On the other hand, the conflict between religious faith and the social sciences is a fierce one. There, science and Torah compete in the same arena. The questions are the same, but the answers given by the two are very different. The discussion, the methods, and the data embodied in the research all have the potential to develop Torah learning in a very fruitful way. The general term “science” is used to refer to all areas of research for Abraham’s convenience. He first presents us with a model of the different possible relationships between Torah and science that resembles the model presented by David Hartman: 1. Reason is completely ruled out as a source of authority; we can rely solely on divine revelation, which may not be subjected to any intellectual evaluation whatsoever, as a criterion for truth. 2. Reason is the sole criterion and source of higher authority for establishing the truth. Such an approach has precedents in our tradition as well. 3. Fashioning a synthesis between the two realms. Now Abraham presents a schematic, somewhat historical, description of the progression of the relationship between Torah and science in the modern era: 1. The antagonistic approach between two extreme positions. When the conflict ended, modern science had supplanted fundamentalist religious tradition. 2. The apologetic, neo-fundamentalist approach, which tries to interpret the statements of Torah in such a way as to reconcile them with the conclusions of science and resolve the contradictions. This is the identicality approach, which interprets the Torah on the basis of reason.

20 Abraham, Dice, 414. Every religious academic in fact follows this approach.

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3. The parallel approach. According to this approach, these are two separate realms that are not in contact with each other. Each of them deals with phenomena from a different perspective—science with the “what” and Torah with the “why.” So neither can pose a problem for the other, and there is no need to reconcile them. Since they are completely separate, there can by definition be no contradiction between them. This is the method Abraham uses to resolve the apparent contradiction between evolution and faith (and also between rational morality and the commandments). This is the compartmental approach. 4. The subjective, post-modern approach. According to this, religion and science are subjectively equivalent. Every choice is arbitrary, and every narrative has an equal place in the circle. There is no need for apologetics even if there is no reconciliation between the two realms. This is the dual truth approach. 5. The synthetic approach. According to this, science not only does not contradict tradition, it actually has positive value and can be used as a significant component of Torah study and of faith without blurring the boundaries between the two realms. Some have gone as far as to declare the two realms identical. This is the identicality approach. Abraham does not like the fourth approach. In his opinion, this is the approach of Rav Shagar and of many thinkers, rabbis, and Orthodox scholars who do academic research in Judaic studies and the humanities, who cannot successfully reconcile the conflict between the religious way of life and their scientific perspectives. The parallel narratives make it possible for them on the one hand not to have to apologize for their faith but on the other to relinquish the objectivity of their faith in God. So they regard faith in “Torah from Heaven” as a myth whose historical or metaphysical truth is neither obvious nor significant. In his opinion, this actually constitutes acquiescence to the atheistic approach, according to which God as a Supreme Being becomes a mere idea, a feeling or a paradigm. “They espouse a religion that does not deal with facts, nor does it make factual claims about the world, and it is therefore not susceptible to scientific criticism.”21 These scholars, though committed to Halakhah, reach conclusions in the study of Halakhah from which it emerges that the sources of Halakhah are not in heaven but are the work of human hands 21 Ibid., 421. But this is what Abraham himself says about evolution!

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from the mishnaic and talmudic eras and therefore implicitly nonbinding. The parallelism makes a practical solution to their confusion possible. Among these scholars he names Avi Sagi, Gili Zivan, Moshe Halbertal, Roni Meron, and Moshe Meir. According to him, this phenomenon is even more extreme among Judaic scholars who also serve as rabbis, like Rabbi Prof. E. S. Rosenthal and Rabbi Dr. Benny Lau. Since I consider myself to belong to the group of scholars who are not rabbis (the group being attacked by Abraham), and am even proud of it, I would like to clarify several points. In the first volume of my book, I devoted a chapter to analyzing the approaches of Rav Shagar and of Moshe Meir following the Shalom Rosenberg model, and I explained their different approaches. Rav Shagar advocates an approach that is perfectly aware of the dialectic tension and the contradictions. He solves the problem through the transcendental approach, influenced by Kantianism and mysticism, according to which the modern believer has two parallel planes of existence. There exists a genuine, spiritual world parallel to our world of reality. In the spiritual world there is an objective truth determined by the divine Torah and Halakhah, a Ding an sich, and providence and miracles exist as well. In our world, however, there is a subjective truth, determined by reason and science, based on the knowledge obtained by sense perception. We must live in both these separate worlds in parallel in order to unite them in our minds and, by so doing, to resolve the contradiction between them—a demand that appears to me patently impossible. Meir too follows a dialectical approach that recognizes the contradiction, which is resolved by the secular-religious person who lives in both worlds. But there is nothing transcendent or mystical about this approach, for both of Meir’s worlds have concrete existence in reality. The other academic scholars whom I discuss in my aforementioned book side with the dual truth approach or, to use its modern name, the unresolved dialectical approach. Indeed, there is a resemblance between the transcendental approach of Rav Shagar and the approaches of all the others. Like them, he too is aware of the smallest details of the contradiction that Abraham is unwilling to recognize. That is at the root of Abraham’s anger at the other scholars, Meir among them. But there is nonetheless a definitive difference between them. According to the regular, resolved dialectical approach of Meir and the unresolved approach of the others, there is only one world, the world of concrete reality. In this world, based on doubt and dilemma, we must reconcile ourselves to the two contradictory truths and uphold them both as best we can—with a patchwork solution (which, in my view, does not exist in our world), or without resolution—but to know that the

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truths are actually unified only in the supernatural world, the world of the Holy One, which we are barred from living in. The contradictions between scholarship and tradition include such subjects as Torah from heaven and biblical criticism, the historical development of Halakhah, peshat and derash, Halakhah and morality, evolution and Torah, and many others. In my humble opinion, believers must reconcile themselves to this reality and not cling to the illusion of neo-fundamentalist views, which philosophy ever since Kant has completely rejected. When such views encounter academic scholarship, they give rise to fantastic theories, which cannot stand up to critical analysis. Incidentally, Abraham’s argument against the approach of these scholars, as given in the quotation above, is actually the same claim that he himself makes with regard to evolution. With regard to the facts in the story of creation he himself insists that we must distinguish between religion, which deals with philosophy and theology and the “why?” question, and science, which deals with facts and the “how?” question. I would like to ask Abraham, who criticizes the confused scholars’ amorphous image of the divine, how he himself understands the divine image. Does this God write books or dictate them to someone? Does He hear our prayers and answer them? Does He reward good deeds and punish transgressions? Does He take providential care of everyone at every moment, directing our history and that of all humanity toward some kind of happy ending? Does He worry about our souls after we die and treat them in accordance with our deeds and beliefs while here on earth? And I could add many more questions of the same kind. Abraham relies here on the compartmentalizing approach of Leibowitz—a man of the natural sciences down to the bone. I suppose Abraham would admit that Leibowitz answered all these questions with a definite No. I further understand that Abraham does not line up with such an orthoprax, rather than orthodox, approach. But who died and left him in charge? What gives him the right to judge others’ beliefs so intolerantly, and to criticize them for not following his own neo-fundamentalist orthodox criteria? Abraham devotes the conclusion of his appendix to an explanation of what he calls the synthetic approach, which in his view has developed in recent years. He offers three examples of this approach. But first, he explains that in the humanities and Judaic studies, scholars tend to examine various approaches and test them against each other. One who is familiar with traditional study and thought feels that it is easily possible to reconcile the conflicts and to turn all these approaches into a single theory. But when one suggests to academic researchers the possibility of resolving the contradiction, or of making

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“a synthesis of the apparently contradictory approaches, the academic scholar takes this as speculation (or unfounded harmonization). The scholar focuses on analysis, that is, on differentiating the methods or the sources in question, and he does not tend to make a synthesis between different sources or methods. Traditional thought, by contrast, is inclined to harmonize. The most useful means of showing this is by way of several general examples (some of them a bit hackneyed, at least to the religious reader).”22 I admit that here Abraham touches on the point of the contention between us, and between him and the other scholars he mentions, which I have analyzed above. I will therefore subject his examples to close scrutiny. The first example has to do with the traditional thirteen hermeneutic principles by which the Torah is interpreted, according to the halakhic midrashim of the Oral Torah, especially by the Tannaim (see the Baraita d’Rabbi Ishmael in petiḥa 1 of the Sifra). Midrashic interpreters apply principles of inference like gezeira shava (verbal analogy), kal va-ḥomer (inference a fortiori), kelal u-ferat (generalization and specification), and binyan av (categorization), by whose aid they arrive at laws that plain-sense interpretation of the text would not find. But scholarship on midrash takes it for granted that these midrashic interpretive rules are not early. Hillel the Elder first formulated them in the Tannaitic period, with seven rules; Rabbi Ishmael listed thirteen, as did Rabbi Akiva; and Rabbi Eliezer came up with thirty-two of them. The lists of the halakhic interpreters only grew (in fact, evolved) in the course of time. By contrast, Abraham contends, all traditional interpreters up to our own day agree that these interpretive rules are a halakhah lemoshe misinai, a tradition that goes back to Moses. That is, “an ancient tradition that was transmitted to Moses at Mount Sinai, at the time when the Holy One revealed Himself to him and gave him the Torah. That is to say, in their opinion these rules are extremely ancient and not the result of evolutionary development. There would appear to be an obvious contradiction here, and in general that is exactly how the two sides of this dispute view it. But a further look, a more synthetic one (that is, a perspective that achieves a synthesis between the dichotomous sides), makes it possible to explain that the rules of midrashic interpretation were given to 22 Ibid., 426–427. I cannot agree with his assertion that the distinctions made by scholars are a new phenomenon. As I have argued, the compartmental approach to resolving contradictions was already exhibited by Mendelssohn, Rosenzweig, the young S. D. Luzzatto, and Leibowitz. Both older approaches, like the full, restrictive, or interpretative identicality approaches, and newer approaches, like the transcendental and resolved dialectical approaches, found ways of avoiding contradiction by means of integration or synthesis.

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Moses in embryonic form, only later undergoing conceptualization and formalization, at which time they were cast in fixed, canonical forms. The historical development of which scholars speak is about this process of conceptualization. There is no contradiction in this to the tradition that the tools of midrash were given, in some basic form, to Moses at Sinai.”23 As far as Abraham is concerned, this example illustrates the difficulties that keep academic scholarship and traditional learning apart. His proposal of a synthesis between their different approaches can resolve these difficulties: As a rule, the “archaeology” that investigates the historical and geographical layering of talmudic texts is mainly interested in dismantling them. The scholars find the characteristics that differentiate the various schools in various periods, while the traditional learner sees all of talmudic literature as a series of harmonious texts. Academic scholarship is analytic and traditional learning is synthetic.24

I do not think either traditional scholars or modern academics would accept Abraham’s proposal. Traditional scholars are persuaded that the laws of Mishnah and Talmud were transmitted to Moses at Sinai directly from the mouth of the Almighty, either before the Written Torah or together with it. On that same occasion the thirteen hermeneutic principles were transmitted to Moses, as an assistive device for students and teachers, and as a kind of decoder, so that the laws that were not inscribed in the Written Torah would not be forgotten. Their basic, “embryonic” form would be of no help here; it would never cross their mind. Even Maimonides, who thinks that the laws in the Mishnah and the Talmud were largely formulated and enacted by the Sages, wrote that the hermeneutic principles came from Sinai.25 Moreover, even academic scholars, who have found no written evidence for the original form of these principles in texts predating the era of Hillel the Elder, would reject this synthesis, saying that it is unfounded and impossible. The opposition to the possible existence of contradictions leads to a dead end. The difference between the kind of learning that goes on in yeshivot and that conducted in university 23 Ibid., 428. 24 Ibid. 25 Examples of various traditional approaches to the halakhic corpus and to the thirteen hermeneutic principles can be found in my book The Middle Way, ch. 2. Especially interesting in this context is the approach of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch; see ibid., 220–273. On Maimonides’s approach, see ibid., 160–163.

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departments of Talmud is not a new discovery by Abraham. In my opinion, his synthesis proposal has nothing to contribute to any possible integration of them or to any true resolution of the contradiction. When someone is studying a canonical text purely for the sake of learning, or for the purpose of determining the Halakhah, there is no need for historical or philological research. By contrast, if we do want to learn about the history of that text—how it took shape, and how the Halakhah included in it developed—historical and philological research are imperative. As far as I am concerned, students in rabbinical seminaries ought to learn both in the traditional way and using critical, contemporary methods, but not to fabricate what Abraham calls syntheses, which are completely unfounded and have no basis whatsoever. The second example that Abraham presents has to do with Bible scholarship, where scholars distinguish between various sources in the Torah (what is called the Documentary Hypothesis), and reach the conclusion that the different documents stem from different sources, and that some redactor or other combined them and created the Pentateuch as it has come down to us. By contrast, the traditional view is that the entire Pentateuch is a single, harmonious unit. Here too the scholar works principally to distinguish the various sources, but a synthetic approach makes it possible to argue (as did Rabbi Mordechai Breuer of blessed memory) that the different “documents” are no more than different perspectives on the topics under discussion, and that all of them were given to Moses at Sinai. Here too the scholar is more concerned with an analysis that dismantles the sources, and the traditional outlook suggests a synthesis between the things that the scholar differentiates.26 In part 1 of this book I devoted an entire chapter to a discussion and detailed analysis of the “aspects theory” proposed by Breuer. For an Orthodox rabbi, this was indeed a daring theory, one that accepted the results of academic biblical criticism without reservation. He nevertheless presented conclusions quite contrary to those the biblical scholars reached from the same set of data. Breuer proposed an alternative synthesis whose aim was to retain a unified Torah that had been given at Sinai, integrated within which were a number of different points of view or “aspects” that the Creator and Legislator had implanted in it. To me, and to many others whom I noted in that earlier chapter, this synthesis cannot stand up to criticism. My thorough analysis of the 26 Abraham, Dice, 428–429. On the history of biblical criticism and the negative attitude toward it on the part of modern religious thinkers in the nineteenth century, see Chamiel, The Middle Way, ch. 1.

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theory showed just how unfounded it is. Moreover, it presents everyone who had studied and interpreted the Torah throughout the ages as not understanding the text, until Breuer came along and clarified it for all of us. I once again show how the fear of contradiction, which might (God forbid) lead believers to take heresy to the extreme, leads to an unfounded synthesis. Abraham’s third example concerns the contradictions between peshat and derash—plain-sense interpretation of the text and midrashic interpretation. This example does not discuss the hermeneutic principles used in midrash. “The accepted perspective in the scholarly world on midrash is that it is eisegesis, removing the text from its plain sense and making it conform to the values or needs of the midrashic writer or those of the society in which he is working. For example, the biblical commandment “an eye for an eye” teaches us to punish the offender by removing his eye. But the Sages reinterpreted the verse and established that the offender must make financial restitution, thereby extracting the verse from its plain sense. But in this case as well, as in other cases in which the midrash appears to contradict the plain sense, it is possible to synthesize these two interpretations in such a way that the full halakhic picture is comprised of both layers together.”27 Abraham suggests that we read the “instructive” articles of David Henshke on peshat (the plain sense) and derash (the midrashic sense) in Hama’ayan 17, nos. 3–4 (1977); and 18, no. 3 (1978). I studied them and understood that Henshke thinks that Halakhah derived from the plain sense of the text does not contradict Halakhah derived midrashically—both of them are correct. If the individual laws contradict each other, then the plain sense gives us the true, essential, intrinsic limit of the original law, so we must indeed study it. Nonetheless, the contradictory law derived midrashically is the practical, external expression of the law that can be fulfilled in reality. Since other Torah rulings that do not belong to this law contradict the original law, the midrashic interpretation takes the place of the law in the plain text. This synthesis too does not convince me, since the Giver of the Torah, who is the ultimate source of all the laws, certainly recognized the contradictions between the laws before giving us the Torah and could have offered us a better solution than this one. For example, the Torah could have written explicitly that one who destroys someone else’s eye most certainly deserves to have his own eye removed, measure for measure. But for this or that reason he is instead required to pay the price of the eye. Why sow confusion among the scholars and cause them to think, mistakenly, that the laws in the Talmud were 27 Abraham, Dice, 429.

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created by the Sages rather than given at Sinai? Once again, the fear of contradiction leads to implausible solutions. I would like to note here additionally that the use Abraham makes here of the term “synthesis” is liable to be misleading. Synthesis is the last stage of the dialectic process of sublation (Aufhebung in Hegel’s terminology), in which two contradictory extremes—thesis and antithesis—are unified at a higher level, becoming something new that is quite different from either of the two original components. But Abraham’s examples actually once again use the compartmental approach, in which it becomes clear that the contradiction was only an apparent one, and in fact what stands before us is two parts of one greater truth. We can easily accept both of them and thus fashion a complete truth. This has nothing whatsoever to do with synthesis; rather, it is integration. The conclusion is as follows: Abraham maintains the compartmental approach in every area where he finds religion and scholarship in tension. This approach saves him from the fear of contradiction, but forces him to offer apologetic, illusionary, neo-fundamentalist solutions, which mostly cannot stand up to rational analysis. To conclude, let me quote him once more: “Believers are not supposed to live in conflict with their rational side.”28 So the solutions that he recommends are bad ones even by his own lights.

28 Ibid., 15.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Summary and Conclusions

I

n part 2 of this book I have presented you, dear readers, with a number of religious Jewish thinkers who worked in the twentieth century and in the first two decades of the twenty-first century. Their approach to the world of Judaism, to the experience of the modern believer and to the relationship between reason and revelation, between religion and science, was a conciliatory position opposed to any possibility of contradiction. Though they might hold the restrictive identicality approach, the interpretative identicality approach, the compartmental approach, the transcendental approach, or the resolved dialectical approach, they could not accept the dual truth approach—the unresolved dialectical approach. For this approach contains within it the possibility of a contradiction that is resolved by unification only in God’s world or at the End of Days. Sometimes it turns out that the same thinker has moved from one conciliatory approach to another, without noticing that his approach is inconsistent. Sometimes it turns out that he employs one approach with certain problematic issues and a different approach with others. Some of these thinkers were forced to admit that they had found no solution or explanation for one or two of the issues. They preferred to remain silent and leave them unresolved, refusing to recognize that ongoing contradiction was within the realm of the possible. In any case, as one who dares to take a bold dual truth approach, I think that those other approaches are illusionary, apologetic, and naïve. At the same time, I completely identify with, and even praise, their approaches, when on certain topics they exhibit liberal, pluralistic, universal, anti-messianic and anti-fundamentalist thought. My examination of Goldman led me to conclude that it is difficult to extricate one particular approach to our topic from his essays. I would say he maintains the interpretative identicality approach, relying on his hero Maimonides, or the transcendental approach. But from time to time the compartmental approach of Leibowitz, his dialogue partner, who influenced him greatly,

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suddenly bubbles up. Some of my fellow scholars think that the latter is indeed Goldman’s approach. Perhaps they are correct. I very much identify with his restrained piety, which gives expression to anti-messianic, pluralistic, non-illusionary, humanistic ideas. My study of Lamm, a student of Soloveitchik, was challenging, fatiguing, and sometimes frustrating. He cites many texts, offers interesting new ideas, and details various new approaches of his own to the subject, but I found him mistaken in his understanding of the thought of others, and completely inconsistent in his own various approaches. To me, the compartmental approach is central to his work. But often he manifests the various identicality approaches, the resolved dialectical approach, and even slides over temporarily to the unresolved dialectical approach. Hartman was a student of Soloveitchik as well, but criticized him and moved far away from his positions. He is much more consistent than Lamm. Studying his thought put me in a good mood. I got as angry as he was at the fundamentalist approaches that require modern believers to bind their own understanding of morality and offer it on the altar of God’s will as embodied in the traditional Halakhah (when the two contradict each other). I also really loved his fascinating attempt to propose a new meta-Halakhah for Judaism, in the spirit of the Abraham of the Sodom story, intended to upend the interaction of Halakhah with women, mamzerim, and converts. All the same, he too is not prepared to accept contradiction as a legitimate possibility, generally maintaining the interpretative identicality approach of Maimonides. He sometimes slides over to the resolved dialectical approach, likewise by means of Maimonides’s magic formula—reinterpretation of biblical verses in accord with reason. In his attitude to other religions, I think he moves to the compartmental approach, displaying a superior pluralism. When all is said and done, since he does not accept contradiction as a legitimate possibility, he too, like his predecessors here, expresses a certain naïveté. As a result, he is stuck with the illusion that all the difficulties can be settled by creative interpretation, which means that he sometimes shifts to a new kind of Reform, with a love for Halakhah and faith in revelation. The thought of Lichtenstein, yet another student of Soloveitchik, is traditionally devout, not liberal or universal like that of Hartman. Like Soloveitchik, his teacher and father-in-law, Lichtenstein favors the way of the Abraham of the Akedah, but he does not accept the approach of unresolved tension that his teacher presented. He sides with the compartmental approach, but as opposed to Leibowitz, who advocated complete separation between the realms, he proposes a moderate model of dialogue and reconciliation between

Summary and Conclusions    Chapter Eight

the realm of revelation and the realm of reason. He would invest his efforts in this dialogue because of his appreciation for secular studies, morality, and reason. But if this effort, rather than bearing fruit, creates any kind of threat to the halakhic tradition, then reason and morality must be restrained and the halakhic tradition must win, even if it stands in contradiction to them. When Halakhah is not involved, Lichtenstein chooses to be silent on topics in which contradictions between the statements of tradition and the statements of reason manifest themselves, and not to offer any solution for them. This amounts to an admission that, with respect to certain subjects, the contradiction must remain unresolved. But Lichtenstein refuses to admit it. Sacks’s book on religion and science is an exciting book that sheds additional light and presents new angles on the subject. All modern believers will greatly enjoy the book, and will feel drawn to the approaches on offer in it. Sacks presents the compartmental approach in the clearest and sharpest possible way. In his setup, what we have is two different parts of one truth. Like Lichtenstein, Sacks apparently maintains a moderate compartmentalized approach, which seeks to maintain dialogue and cooperation between the realms, in the hope of attaining the great truth. He thinks it is possible to do so. To me, the compartmental approach, offering no possibility of contradiction, is even in Sacks’s formulation naïve, illusionary, and apologetic, ignoring great difficulties and many contradictions, and even suggesting unacceptable solutions. Sacks asserts that the tensions and contradictions between religion and science exist only in Christianity, because of the historical circumstances of its founding. In the course of the generations, they were mistakenly transplanted into Judaism as well. Nevertheless, in the areas of atheism, materialism, and evil, he suggests, surprisingly, inconsistently, and apparently for lack of any alternative, an unresolved dialectical approach. Abraham’s book on religion and evolution continues, as I understand it, the apologetic, neo-fundamentalist approach initiated by Samson Raphael Hirsch. Those who take this approach generally follow Judah Halevi, to whom any contradiction between revelation and science was simply impossible. Revelation is the sole criterion for establishing the truth whenever conflicts pop up between it and science. But when a scientific theory turns from hypothesis to proven fact (as with evolution) we must reinterpret revelation, Maimonides-style, in accordance with the scientific discovery. The sacred, divine, revealed text, and the Halakhah established on the basis of that text, cannot turn out to have been mistaken. Abraham therefore admits that Darwin’s theory of the origin of species and Mendel’s laws of inheritance are true. But since this theory apparently renders any need for God absolutely superfluous, leading to the inference that

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He does not exist, its conclusions must be mistaken. Not only does God stand behind the Big Bang and the establishment of the laws of nature and the constants of physics, which explains why everything happened; but the vast amounts of time necessary for the process of evolution require a God accompanying, designing, and advancing the process all along the way, including the creation of life and of the human intellect. Evolution does not, therefore, weaken faith in God but strengthens it. On other topics where there seem to be contradictions between critical thought and tradition, like the antiquity of the thirteen hermeneutic principles, Torah from heaven, and peshat and derash, Abraham presents what he calls “syntheses.” But the truth is that these are proposals for combining the realms, and they too are apologetic and do not stand up to scrutiny. One subject that most of the thinkers in this volume of the book find difficult to resolve, despite their best efforts, is the problem of evil, and in particular the Holocaust. They confess that they have no answer for it, wrap themselves up in silence, and admit defeat—but they are not prepared to recognize the dual truth approach, which does admit the unresolved contradiction in our world. As I have said, the common denominator among all these thinkers is that they are afraid to admit the possibility of contradiction. Like modern Orthodox teachers and educators, they understand the difficulty of educating their students in light of such an approach—and rightly so. Nonetheless, every other approach presents fatal problems, and these remain unanswered. Ultimately, the student must come to grips with the contradiction, delve into it, and attempt to resolve it. He will have to deal with the possibility that sometimes he will not be able to resolve the contradiction, and he will have to tolerate it. The completely compartmental approach, or the moderately dialogical one, supposes that each realm has a different domain and a different discourse. But revelation and religion always strive for totality, whereas reason and conscience cannot be forced to remain silent. Hartman said of this approach that it is inappropriate and intellectually dishonest. Those who maintain the interpretative identicality approach, which Hartman sides with, generally suppose that it is possible to interpret any statement of revelation or divine deed in accordance with science and philosophy. But in reality there are difficult, complicated issues that cannot be explained away. Perhaps the majority of students will be persuaded and will accept the interpretation that their teacher offers them, but the intelligent student will discover that these interpretations are apologetic and illusionary and do not stand up to penetrating, rational analysis. In my opinion, only the dual truth approach, though hard to digest, can persist in its efforts to keep hold of both realms, and it will endure by virtue of its recognition of the possibility of contradiction in the human world and its reconciliation with that fact.

Epilogue

M

y own philosophic study, as a believer living in the post-modern age, and my study of the thought of those who maintain the unresolved dialectical or dual truth approach over the last two decades, helped me consolidate my personal approach. I think that in the world of every contemporary believer there are two sources of authority—revelation and reason—both of which are God’s gift, each of which generates statements of truth that sometimes contradict each other. One truth tends toward pious right-brain thinking, the heart and the emotions, religious faith and Halakhah. This is the truth of revelation, where religion and romantic thinking rule, and reason assists faith. The second truth, which tends toward rational left-brain thinking, is that of the intellect, reason, and logic, and it is directed by science and philosophy. Here rational thinking rules, and faith assists reason. I prefer this non-illusionary, non-apologetic approach to the other approaches, because it not only admits that we encounter contradictions and tension between the statements of revelation and the statements of reason, but also insists that we recognize that we cannot always resolve them. We must therefore reconcile ourselves to this reality by holding on to both contradictory realms at one and the same time, without giving up on either one of them. This kind of approach makes possible a holistic approach, broad enough to include other approaches and bountiful creativity. But it does not fit comfortably with traditional Orthodox Judaism and is even somewhat paradoxical. Even so, for a modern, rational believer there is no redemptive formulation other than in the unattainable world of the Holy One. Any other harmonistic solution of this or that kind, which tries to turn two truths into one, here and now, is apologetic, illusionary, doomed to fail, and takes away as much as it gives. Therefore, when I have a decision that I must make on any issue, whether practical or conceptual, I take both these sources of authority and both the contradictory truths that stem from them into consideration. I am also aware that

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I am considering both these truths just theoretically. For people have different personalities, leaning toward this side or that on the spectrum between the two contradictory truths. I for one tend to the left-brain, rationalistic side, and I take this fact into account as well whenever I must decide how to act. Every decision I make, I make wholeheartedly, and I likewise acknowledge, with regard to the contradictory truth that sometimes appears, that someone who chooses that truth instead is neither mistaken nor mendacious. All this, of course, is on condition that the contradictory approach is (1) linked to revelation or to reason, and (2) does not harm anyone else, psychologically or physically. I call this approach “the dual truth of elevated pluralism.”1

1

On superior pluralism, see Chamiel, The Dual Truth, 427–428, 539–540.

Bibliography

Abraham, M. Elohim Mesaḥek Bekubiyot. Tel Aviv, 2011. Barr, J. Fundamentalism. Philadelphia, 1978. Chamiel, E. Between Religion and Reason: The Dialectical Position in Contemporary Jewish Thought from Rav Kook to Rav Shagar. Trans. A. Kallenbach. Vol. 1. Brighton, MA, 2020. _______. The Dual Truth, Studies on Nineteenth-Century Modern Religious Thought and Its Influence on Twentieth-Century Jewish Philosophy. Trans. A. Kallenbach. 2 vols. Brighton, MA, 2019. _______. The Middle Way: The Emergence of Modern Religious Trends in Nineteenth-Century Judaism, Responses to Modernity in the Philosophy of Z. H. Chajes, S. R. Hirsch, and S. D. Luzzatto. Ed. Asael Abelman. Trans. Jeffrey Green. 2 vols. Brighton, MA, 2014. _______. To Know Torah: To Understand the Weekly Parasha, Modern Reading in the Peshat of the Torah and Its Ideas, 5 vols. Herzliya, 2018. Cherlow, Y. Beyn Mishkan Le’egel: Hitḥadshut Datit mul Reformah va-Azivat Adonai. Jerusalem, 2000. Dishon, D. “Pluralism Beyn-Dati: David Hartman al Du-Siaḥ Yehudi-Notzri.” In Sagi and Zohar, Meḥuyavut, 1:107–120. Fisch, M. “Mishnayim Le’eḥad Uvahazarah: Sippur(ei) Habriah Veantropologiat Habrit shel David Hartman.” In Sagi and Zohar, Meḥuyavut, 2:659–693. Goldman, E. Meḥkarim Ve’iyunim: Hagut Yehudit Be’avar Uvahoveh. Jerusalem, 1996. _______. Yahadut Lelo Ashlayah. Jerusalem, 2009. _______. “Hatsiyonut Hadatit Umeḥuyevutah Liklal Yisrael: Beḥinah Meḥudeshet.” Gilayon, 5757, 35–47. Hartman, D. Aseh Libkha Ḥadrey Ḥadarim. Translated by Y. Zohar. Tel Aviv, 2005. _______. The God Who Hates Lies: Confronting and Rethinking Jewish Tradition. With Charlie Buckholtz. Woodstock VT, 2011. _______. A Heart of Many Rooms: Celebrating the Many Voices within Judaism. Woodstock VT, 1999. _______. Israelis and the Jewish Tradition: An Ancient People Debating Its Future. New Haven CT, 2000. _______. A Living Covenant: The Innovative Spirit in Traditional Judaism. New York, 1985.

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Index 13 attributes of God, 161

A

adultery, 106, 153, 208, 211 Aggadah, 61–62, 92 agunah, chained women, 66, 107–108, 114, 186 Akedah, 66, 68, 70–73, 84, 89, 92, 104, 107– 108, 116, 118, 120, 140, 146, 152, 161, 210, 222 alchemy, 33n20 allegorical, 3, 27, 55, 62, 121, 139, 201 altruism, 176, 181 Amalek, 146, 152–153, 185, 207–210 antithesis (see thesis), 33, 66, 149, 171, 173, 220 anti-Zionism, 31, see Zionism apologetics, 22, 25, 102, 108–110, 182, 192, 203, 207, 213, approach, compartmental, 1, 3–4, 7, 12–13, 19, 29, 33, 37, 41, 52n3, 56n9, 57, 72, 88, 93, 126, 131, 134, 136, 151, 162, 166–170, 173, 177–178, 187, 190, 192, 197, 200, 203–204, 208, 210, 212–216, 220–224 dual truth, 22, 34, 43, 57, 73, 79n37, 106– 107, 118, 153, 189, 191–192, 199, 211, 213–214, 221, 224–226, see also unresolved dialectical full identicality, 1, 204n14, 222 interpretative identicality, 3, 7, 13, 27–28, 55, 57, 70, 83, 178, 187n52, 192, 204n14, 216n22, 221–222, 224 neo-fundamentalist identicality, 2, 30, 33, 44, 47, 194, 201–202, 203n14, 212, 215, 220, 222–223 resolved dialectical, 44–45, 47–48, 57, 72, 88, 92, 134, 162, 214, 216n22, 221–222,

restrictive identicality, 2, 25, 28–29, 38, 41, 44, 57, 203n14, 104n14, 221– 222 transcendental, 1, 4, 20, 57, 214, 216n22, 221 unresolved dialectical, 22, 57, 72, 79n37, 135n13, 136, 162, 214, 221–223, 225, see also dual truth archaeology, 183, 217 Aristotelianism, 55, 172 art, 8, 45, 130, 171 assimilationism, 66 atheism, atheistic, 17, 53n4, 72, 133, 164–165, 179–180, 190, 196, 205, 207–209, 213, 223 Athens and Jerusalem, 22, 82, 168, 170, 172– 173 authority, 14, 37, 53, 56, 59–62, 66, 68–69, 71, 78, 80, 82, 87, 90, 94, 97, 105, 107–108, 112, 117–119, 127, 132, 147, 184, 186, 205, 212, 225 autonomy, autonomous, 9, 23, 26, 40, 63, 73, 79, 100, 126, 136, 139–140, 153, 188 awareness, 8, 40, 42, 124, 130–131, 139, 141, 148, see also recognition

B

Bible, 3, 7, 15, 65n19, 70, 81–83, 95, 138, 158, 168–170, 172, 188n57, 190 criticism, scholarship, 39n29, 172, 183– 185, 201, 209, 218 Big Bang, 188, 194, 199–200, 203, 224 biology, 168, 195n5, 197 Buddhism, 95, 209

C

chemistry, 21 chosenness, 18, 112–113, 124 Christianity, Christians, 93n61–62, 94–96, 102, 131, 145, 163, 167, 170–173, 176, 184, 223

Index coexistence, 29, 32–33, 35, 42–44, 48, 181 combination, 12, 25, 44, 136, 160, 169, 196, see also integration commandments, 7–12, 14, 19–20, 25, 30, 37, 39, 52n3, 59, 71, 83, 87, 92, 97, 110–113, 119, 122–124, 132n8, 137, 140, 144, 148, 151–152, 178, 184–185, 207–208, 210– 211, 213 commitment, cleaving, 27, 45, 50, 52, 61, 63, 67, 69, 72–73, 87, 89, 91, 95, 102, 116, 119, 124, 134–135, 143, 145, 148, 151, 155, 174, 184 community, 15, 22, 28–29, 47, 56–59, 62–63, 69–70, 72–74, 76–79, 86–90, 93, 98–99, 103, 105, 107–108, 111, 115, 119–120, 134–135, 145, 148, 153–155, 160, 164, 176, 185 completeness, 46, 49, see also perfection compromise, 15, 17, 56, 135, 174 conflict, 22, 24, 32, 45–46, 84–85, 89, 91, 101–103, 114, 126–127, 129, 136, 141, 145–146, 148, 152, 156, 166, 189, 204n14, 206–208, 211–213, 215, 220, 223, see also dispute confusion, 8, 16, 18–19, 29, 92, 214, 219 conscience, 104–105, 119, 138, 140–141, 148, 181–182, 208, 210–211, 224 consciousness, 20, 47, 58, 74, 81, 94–95, 97, 112, 116, 130, 149, 183, 188 convert, conversion, 96, 103, 112–113, 119, 222 covenant, 50, 58, 63–65, 68–74, 77–80, 85, 88, 90, 98–100, 102, 104, 105n87, 108, 112–113, 117, 119, 121, 123–125, 163, 172, 177, 181 creation, 8, 16, 18, 38–39, 49, 52n3, 56, 65n19, 83, 112, 166n6, 172, 176, 183, 184n44, 187–189, 195–196, 202, 204n14, 215, 224 creationism, creationist, 194, 196, 198, 200–201 criticism, 2, 25–33, 39n29, 45, 59, 68, 73–74, 96, 101, 109–110, 117, 133, 141, 183– 184, 208, 213, 215, 218 culture, 7–8, 10, 22–24, 32, 34, 36, 42, 45, 51, 66, 70–74, 81–82, 86, 89, 91, 93, 109, 111, 129–134, 152, 151, 167–170, 174, 176, 189 modern, 64, 80, 88, 129 secular, 28, 48, 67, 74, 91, 129 Torah, 89, 116 Western, 22–23, 48, 66–67, 73, 116, 125, 128–129, 131, 133, 151, 158, 164, 170, 186, 186, 203n14

D

Darwinism, 166n6, 186–187, 187–188, 202 decision, halakhic, 88, 92, 106–108, 110, 118, 139 deistic, 53n4, 133 democracy, 24, 81, 186 derash, 215, 219, 224, see also midrash dialogue, 54, 84, 91–92, 93n62, 152, 163, 177–178, 200, 221–223 Ding an sich, 4, 26n8, 214 dispute, 80, 83, 89, 114, 126, 135, 137, 185n50, 216, see also conflict divorce, 66, 107, 112, 136, 186 DNA, 195 Documentary Hypothesis, 218 dogmatism, 74n30, 89 doubt, 38, 54, 90–92, 141, 151, 199, 214, see also uncertainty dualism, 51, 171 dual truth, see approach, dual truth dynamism, 32

E

education, 22–23, 28, 31, 78, 91–93, 104, 128–130, 132, 140–142, 150, 157, 186 egalitarianism, 88, 96, 109, 112 egoism, 176 Enlightenment, 36, 44, 110 equality, 24, 41, 108, 186 ethics, 8, 17, 64, 68, 72, 92, 96, 102, 136–137, 145, 163, 205, 208 evil, 75, 78, 91n56, 120, 141, 143–144, 157, 160, 179–180, 184n44, 185, 189–191, 205, 223–224 evolution, 28, 38, 73, 101, 186–187, 191–206, 208, 209n18, 213, 215–216, 223–224 exile, 36, 77, 102 existential, 23, 67–69, 74, 78–79, 98, 115, 120, 143, 164 experience, 7–8, 13, 15, 19, 26n8, 31, 35, 41, 66–67, 98–100, 104, 116, 124, 126, 129– 130, 152, 159, 171–172, 221

F

Face, hiding of the, 160–161 faith, 8–11, 18–20, 22–23, 28, 36, 45, 49, 63–67, 69–70, 73–74, 76–77, 80, 84, 90, 92–93, 95–104, 109, 112, 121–123, 140, 142–143, 148, 150, 152, 156, 161–165, 170–171, 174–177, 180–183, 187, 189– 191, 194, 198–202, 204n14, 205–206, 211–213, 222–225 faithful(ness), 15, 73, 84, 92, 102, 147

231

232

Between Religion and Reason falsehood, 48, 133, 184n44 family, 50, 85, 108–112, 118, 155, 208 fear, 33, 40, 42, 85, 88, 93, 100, 123, 138, 143, 147, 151–152, 175, 185, 205, 210, 219–220 fear and trembling, 33 feminism, 108, 110, 112, 157 fossils, 198, 204n14 free will, 65, 139–142, 145–146, 158, 160–161, 166n6, 183, 191, 199, 204 freedom, liberty 24, 58, 65, 81, 121, 127, 168–169, 172, 174–175, 181, 186 fundamentalism, 2–3, 3n5, 6, 14, 25, 37–38, 51n2, 86n48, 111, 184, 192, 194, 196, 199–200, 201, 206, 212, 221

G

Gemara, 157, see Talmud genetics, 173 gentile, 131, see non-Jew good, 26, 51, 74, 78, 112, 124, 137, 160, 168, 181, 189–190, 205–206 goodness, 141–149, 151–156, 158, 160, 181, 185, 210–211 Greece, Greek, Hellenism, 23, 61–62, 94, 167, 169–172, 182, 186, 188, 190

H

halakhah, 7–11, 25, 51, 56–57, 59–62, 64, 66, 68–72, 78–80, 86–88, 92–93, 96–114, 117–127, 133, 136–139, 147–149, 152, 157–158, 182, 186, 207, 213–219, 222– 223, 225 Haredism/zealotry/ultra-Orthodoxy, 2, 16, 37, 74n30, 80, 89, 116, 118–119, 129, 131, 134, 152, 162, 193–194 harmony, 28, 35–36, 46, 55, 69, 71n27 Hasidism, Hasidic, 30–31, 38–48, 86 hatred, 145 heresy, 185, 219 heteronomy, 9 history, 23, 25, 53, 62–63, 65, 70, 72–73, 75, 79–80, 82–83, 85–88, 94–96, 103, 109, 113, 116, 119–120, 123–125, 155, 161, 170, 182–183, 188, 190–191, 202–203, 215, 218 Holocaust, 65n19, 77, 119–121, 129, 158– 163, 191, 224 Homo sapiens, 176, 191, 195n5 homosexuality, 61, 96, 153, 186, 208 humanism, 28, 72, 140, 149–150, 186, 188 hypothesis, 2, 169, 218, 223

I

idealism, 26, 144–145

illegitimacy, 133, 152, 186 illusion, illusionary, 6–8, 14, 54, 68, 79n37, 121, 156, 180–182, 192, 203, 215, 220–225 Immanence, 40 imperative, categorical, 120, 205n15, 218 impulse, 70, 103, 205 inerrancy, 28 Infinite, the, 185 innovation, 10, 40, 69, 91, 101, 106 instrumental, 39, 41, 43 integration, 25, 28, 29n16, 43–44, 49, 53–57, 78, 80–83, 127, 132, 134, 168, 178, 216, 218, 220, see also combination intellect, intellectual, 7–8, 19, 26n8, 40–42, 54, 56–59, 63, 69, 82, 94, 99, 108, 175, 193, 201, 212, 224–225, see also reason intellectualism, intellectual, 23, 45–47, 51–54, 61, 82–89, 91, 96–99, 102, 104, 116, 123, 137, 139–140, 152 interpretation, exegesis, 3, 15, 23, 27, 42–43, 55–59, 61–66, 70, 83–84, 86, 88–92, 101, 104–106, 112, 117, 121, 125, 131, 138, 168–169, 184–188, 201–202, 207, 209n18, 210, 216, 219, 222, 224 intuition, 84–85, 90, 102, 112–113, 210–211 Islam, 93n61, 94–96, 172–173, 184 Israel (country), 14, 24, 31, 35–36, 50, 64, 74, 80–81, 85–86, 101–103, 110, 118–120, 122, 126, 129, 153–154, 162, 185

J

Jewish people, the, 16–17, 80, 85–86, 96, 102–103, 112, 113n98, 117–120, 127, 152, 154–156, 162, 208 jingoism, 31 Judaism, Conservative, 80, 96, 101, 104, 125, 155 Judaism, Reform, 80, 84, 96, 101, 104, 105n87, 106n87, 121, 125, 155, 222 justice, 8, 15, 72, 75, 77, 79, 84–85, 88, 175

K

Kabbalah, 30–31, 36, 39n29, 86 Kabbalah and mysticism, 20, 114n98 knowledge, 2, 19, 21, 26, 31, 41–42, 49, 51–55, 58–59, 61, 64–65, 78, 84, 89, 95, 107, 115, 136, 141–142, 168–169, 172, 177, 180, 214

L

law, 8, 13–15, 59–60, 62–63, 65–71, 83, 87, 89, 105–107, 112, 116–117, 119, 123–125, 128, 137–139, 157–158, 161, 166n6,

Index 168, 178, 184, 186, 188, 190, 196n5, 199, 202–203, 205–206, 211, 216–217, 219, 223 law, natural, 8–9, 51, 168, 172, 195–196, 199, 204n14 liberalism, liberal, 17, 81, 85, 95, 112, 156, 158, 188, 221 life, saving of, 110, 150 literature, 45, 83, 85–86, 122, 128, 131, 150, 183, 217 love, 10–11, 50, 54, 57–59, 64–65, 69–76, 85, 89, 95, 97–101, 104, 123, 143, 159–160, 175–176, 185, 222

M

marriage, 103, 107–108, 112, 113n98, 114, 176–177, 181, 186 materialism, 179–180, 223 messianism, messianic era, 6, 51, 57–58, 64, 80–81, 86n48, 106n87, 107, 120, 203 meta-halakhah, 222 metaphor, 36, 43, 89–90, 169, 172, 179n37, 182, 185–186, 188 metaphysics, metaphysical, 25, 60n13, 62, 67, 106, 108, 114–115, 120, 130, 138–139, 213 midrash, midrashic, 86, 104–107, 216–217, 219, see also derash miracles, 18, 62–63, 65n19, 174, 176, 196, 202, 214 Mishnah, 117, 157–158, 186, 217 Mitnagdism, 38–40 Modern Orthodox, 21, 23–24, 35, 122, 148– 149, 163–164, 186, 188–189, 193, 224 modernity, 6, 81, 85, 87–89, 105n87, 106n87, 117, 152 monotheism, 165, 166n6, 170, 176, 187–188 mutation, 192, 195–196, 198 mysticism, 6, 20, 30–31, 114n98, 214 myth, mythology, 52, 113n98, 132, 169–170, 213

N

narrative, 7, 83, 120, 168, 213 nation, nationhood, 15–16, 80–81, 85, 118– 119, 154–155, 160, 169, 185–186, 210 nationalism, nationalistic, 16, 24, 31, 34, 74n30, 80, 102 neo-Darwinism, 194, 196, 200 neo-fundamentalism, fundamentalist, 30, 33, 44, 47, 188, 194n2, 196, 201–202, 203n14, 212, 215, 220, 223 neo-Orthodoxy, 126 neo-Platonism, 201 non-Jew (ish), 15, 69, 92, 110, 113n98, 153, 166, 186, see also gentile

O

ordinances, rabbinic, 66, 150 Orthodoxy, 25, 30, 39n29, 96, 103, 117, 129, 134, 153

P

panentheism, 202 pantheistic, 39n29 partiality, partial, 3, 15, 28n12, 49, 155–156 particularism, 81, 83 paternalistic, 17 perfection, 51–52, 134 peshat, 215, 219, 224 philology, philological, 29, 152, 183, 218 philosophy, 6–7, 18–19, 24, 26, 28–31, 35, 40, 45, 47, 50–51, 52n3, 54–60, 62, 64, 70–72, 77–78, 81, 83, 86, 89, 94–96, 116, 131, 133, 163–164, 168, 170–173, 179, 182–183, 186, 188–189, 192, 197, 200, 215, 224–225 physics, 27, 31, 35, 48, 55, 61–62, 64, 188, 193, 197, 201–202, 203–204n14, 224 Plato, Platonism, 94–95, 124, 137, 172, 182, 188 pluralism, 7, 8n5, 24, 47–48, 74n30, 88, 95, 188, 222, 226 politics, 14, 30, 169, 175, 177, 181 post-modern, 6, 202, 213, 225 potential, 9, 104, 196n5, 202, 212 prayer, 63, 99–100, 110, 118, 120, 176, 215 pride, 66 proof, 28, 96, 156, 169, 172, 175, 190, 196, 203n14, 209n18 prophecy, 9, 12–13, 18n28, 60, 168 prophet, prophetic, 12–13, 18, 33, 51, 60–62, 81–83, 90, 124, 170, 190 providence, 18, 77–78, 162, 214 psychology, psychological, 22, 66, 82, 114, 130–131, 226

R

rabbis, rabbinate, 29–30, 41, 67, 76, 88, 101, 107, 114–115, 119, 123, 150, 157, 162, 174, 186, 213–214 rationalism, 9, 25, 226 recognition, 17n27, 92, 94, 113n98, 119, 137, 149, 224, see also awareness redemption, 18, 34, 63, 65n19, 102, 120, 167, 187 religion and science, 1, 13, 21, 23, 28n14, 30, 32–35, 38, 49, 165–166, 169–174, 177, 182, 192, 203n14, 213, 221, 223, see also Torah Umadda religious studies, 28n14, 31, 35, 45n38, 129, see also Talmud Torah

233

234

Between Religion and Reason research, academic, 211–215 resurrection, 18, 62 reward and punishment, 52, 57–59, 75, 77–78, 83, 158 rift, 36, 44, 47, 118 rights, human, 24, 81, 88

S

sacred and profane, sacred and secular, 16n24, 22–23, 32, 34, 39, 44, 126–127, see also religion and science sacred, sanctity, 16n24, 21–23, 28–34, 39–40, 44, 85, 124, 126–127, 130n6, 131–132, 177, 184–186, 201, 206–209, 223 secularization, 15, 85–86, 88, 160, 205 self-denial, 140, 152 Sinai, 58–65, 69, 79, 83, 111, 114–115, 117– 118, 124, 156–157, 171, 186, 203n14, 205, 216–218, 220, see also Torah, giving of the soul, immortality of the, 51 spiritual accounting, rethinking, 54, 103, 129 spirituality, 30–31, 41, 56, 68, 70–71, 87, 172 suffering, chastisements, 45, 57–59, 74–80, 84, 96, 106, 114, 121, 140n25, 159–160, 162, 190–191 simbolic, 3, 54–55, 85 synthesis, 22, 29, 32–33, 35–36, 42–45, 51, 56–57, 59, 66, 70, 92, 100–101, 118, 135, 140–141, 161, 167, 169–173, 179, 190, 192, 212, 216–220

T

Talmud, Talmudic, 36, 41–42, 49, 59, 70, 82, 86, 90, 100, 107–108, 114–117, 122–123, 138, 150, 156–158, 161, 186, 204n14, 217–219 Talmud Torah, 40–41, 87–89, 102, 134, 156– 157, see also religious studies teleology, 9, 92, 172, 197 tension, creative, 44–46, 165 tension, dialectic, 4, 13–15, 19, 22–24, 31, 33–34, 41n33, 42, 45n38, 51, 65, 74, 92–93, 97–101, 118, 134–135, 139, 145– 146, 151, 161, 214 tension, unresolved (see approach, dual truth), 66–70, 100, 117, 140, 151, 192, 197, 222 theism, theistic, 10, 76–78, 150, 187, 197– 198, 200, 205 theodicy, 75, 190–191, 208 theology, theological, 2–3, 13, 18, 66, 69 72–73, 75–76, 80, 82, 86, 93, 105, 108, 113, 116, 120, 126, 146, 163, 169, 172–173, 198, 215

theosophic, 39 thesis and antithesis, 33, 66, 171, 173, 220 tolerance, intolerance, 24, 42, 95, 125, 206, 215 Torah alone, 134, 152 Torah study, learning vs. secular, 22, 25n6, 39–40, 67, 104, 129, 134, 164, 212–213 Torah Umadda, 21–29, 31–32, 34–49, 51, 52n3, 164, 204n14, 211, see also religion and science Torah with Derekh Eretz, 28–34, 42, 45, 134– 135, 152 Torah, giving of the, 10, see also Sinai Torah, Oral, 86, 109, 117, 152, 186, 216 tradition, 28, 30, 39, 42–43, 50–64, 66–73, 77–91, 94, 96, 98, 101–105, 108–109, 112–125, 136, 138, 141, 146, 152, 166, 174, 176, 180, 183, 185, 211–217, 222–225 transcendentalism, transcendental, 1, 4, 9, 20, 57, 98, 151, 202, 214, 221

U

ultra-Orthodoxy, see Haredism uncertainty, 8, 29, 89–92, see also doubt unity, 35, 42, 45n38, 46, 48–49, 62, 67, 71, 95, 119, 130–131, 135, 149, 153, 156 universalism, universal, 23–24, 50, 55, 61, 73, 74n30, 81–85, 96, 98, 102, 104, 153, 171, 221–222

V

values, 9, 11, 16n24, 17–18, 22, 40, 43, 51, 55, 66, 72, 80–81, 85, 103, 105, 115–116, 122, 134–135, 137, 140–141, 148, 150, 152–156, 158, 206–210, 219 vision, 27, 30, 32, 43–44, 48–49, 64, 77–78, 85, 87–88, 112–113, 154, 165n3

W

women, status of, 24, 96, 103, 108–117, 153, 156–158, 186, 204n14 World to Come, 18, 57–59, 75, 105–107, 159, 190 world, this, 4, 6, 19, 36, 38–39, 75–76, 78, 97, 105–106, 108, 148, 160–162, 167, 171– 174, 187–188, 190–191, 199–200, 214 worship, service of the Lord, 40–42, 44–46, 57, 71–72, 93n62, 105, 110, 166n6

Z

zealotry, see Haredism Zionism, 14, 31, 80, 102, 131