Artificial intelligence (AI) has quickly become a part of daily life, influencing the information we consume and the decisions we make. And the process is just starting. This places significant responsibility on the AI builder. Designing an AI system is not merely a technical challenge but also a moral and religious one. What information is included, how it is presented and what assumptions shape its worldview all affect the end user. AI is a broad term and we speak here of any AI system that provides information or recommendations to the public, even if this is just a small subset of AI that is already integrated into systems. Judaism has long wrestled with analogous challenges, especially in the realm of publishing, where books and ideas shaped communities and beliefs. The precedents we find in halakhic literature offer guidance on the ethical responsibilities of those building AI systems today.

I. Book Publishing

When you boil the issues down to their basics, in a sense AI systems resemble book publishers. They gather, process and distribute information, often with little distinction between fact and opinion, or between traditional and secular perspectives. Of course, there are differences. Publishers determine the actual words used while AI systems have more independence in expressing ideas. However, the similarities are important. The dangers are obvious: inaccuracies can harm reputations, mislead the public and cause damage to individuals, groups or institutions. Additionally, the dissemination of a secular worldview can significantly undermine religious convictions. Judaism has a lot to say on these subjects.

But a fundamental question arises: who is the judge? Many issues cannot be conclusively proven. What counts as heretical, misleading or damaging? Who decides what is acceptable and what must be avoided? These questions, which arose in the age of the printing press, return with new urgency in the age of artificial intelligence. 

There are two ways to approach the ethical dangers of information technology: as policymakers and as citizens. Policymakers can regulate markets and restrict harmful products. Citizens, lacking that power, must find other ways to protect themselves and their communities. Halakhah addresses publishing issues from both perspectives, which can inform our discussion of AI ethics.

II. Improper Content

AI systems, even the most advanced, can generate errors. However, this is not a new challenge. Authors can include mistakes and misinformation in books, newspapers and magazines.

The Torah demands reliability. The Sages teach, chazakah she-ein chaver motzi mi-yado davar she-eino mesukan, it is assumed that a scholar does not release something that is defective and unreliable (Eruvin 32a). Your product, your words, your teaching must be accurate and responsible. This principle applies no less to an AI builder than to an author or teacher. If you release a system that frequently misinforms, you have failed the Torah standards expected of you. You might also be violating prohibitions against slander (lashon ha-ra) against individuals, groups and institutions. AI builders bear an ethical duty to ensure accuracy, reduce harm and constantly refine systems to prevent the spread of falsehoods.

But inaccuracies are not the only danger. AI can spread not only errors but also perspectives foreign and contradictory to Torah. By default, most AI systems are trained on vast libraries of secular writing, much of which reflects assumptions inconsistent with Jewish tradition. Some of these relate to unacceptable social behaviors and others relate to fundamental Torah beliefs. Presenting such perspectives as neutral fact and normative behavior and beliefs is spiritually dangerous. Books, likewise, present similar challenges.

III. Jewish Approaches to Regulating Publishing

How have Jews historically dealt with similar challenges? There are two possible perspectives: policymakers and citizens. As mentioned above, policymakers wield control and can regulate markets. But for most of Jewish history, Jews lacked such power. Indeed, Jews often utilized Christian book publishers. Instead, Jewish communities had to assert religious responsibility as citizens, finding creative ways to protect their members without market control.

Given that Jewish publishing houses have existed for centuries, it is surprising how few responsa have been published about their ethical responsibilities to the public. There is one mention of book publishers in Shulchan Arukh (Orach Chaim 307:16) declaring that the publishers of romance novels cause people to sin by thinking improper thoughts. In the 1970s, Rav Moshe Feinstein addressed the case of publishing heretical works. He famously insists that the commentary of R. Yehudah He-Chassid on the Torah is a heretical forgery. Significantly for our purposes, Rav Feinstein rules that it is forbidden for a Jewish publisher to print heresy. More strikingly, he adds that even if the overt heretical passages are removed, the publisher may not publish the rest of the work which might still contain confusing or misleading ideas. Even subtly non-traditional ideas are forbidden (Iggeros Moshe, Yoreh De’ah, no. 115).

In the AI context, this is particularly pressing. A model that offers secular or non-traditional interpretations of morality, halakhah or faith can easily mislead the unwary. The risk is not only false information but distorted frameworks of thought. AI builders must ask: what perspectives are we embedding? What worldview does the system normalize? Policymakers must consider: what perspectives can we, as a society, tolerate and what can we not? How do we enforce minimal standards to prevent dangerous views from proliferating? The first step is generating agreement that there should be minimal standards. The second step is deciding what they are. Neither step is easy. 

Even when the information comes from a reputable source, it might be improper to provide to the public. For example, the Talmud (Shabbos 30b) discusses whether certain biblical books should have been removed from circulation. There was no doubt that they were written under divine inspiration. The problem was their confusing and contradictory natures. If the objectionable passages could be explained, then there would be a basis to allow their circulation. However, responsible authorities cannot allow the circulation of a theologically confusing and misleading book, even one written under divine inspiration.

I remember when Tipper Gore led the fight against violent and profane lyrics in music. To society’s great detriment, her team’s partial win consisted only of labeling such music as explicit and nothing beyond. In my opinion, AI builders are ethically bound to ensure that AI avoids violent, profane and otherwise destructive output. And regulators are ethically bound to ensure that unethical AI systems do not enter society. However, even if this fight is won in the US, unethical AI systems will certainly be built in other countries that do not regulate their technology. Perhaps this is overly pessimistic, but it seems almost impossible to prevent those AI systems from being used in the US. In other words, no one really controls the markets. Therefore, we need to look at another model for responsible publishing.

To be continued…

I. AI and Transformation

Artificial intelligence (AI) is changing the world and already beginning to transform the workplace, a process that is widely expected to be dramatic. Will Torah study face the same fate? Some anticipate that AI, once it overcomes its current accuracy problems, will transform how we learn: whether replacing the rebbe (teacher) or chavrusa (study mate), reimagining what a text is and looks like, or offering individualized courses of study based on ability and interests. Perhaps more deeply, some think that not just the form of Torah study but the very goal will change also. Do we need to study texts carefully when we can easily obtain all our answers from AI? Maybe the curriculum should change to more about personal growth and less about textual mastery.

Yet history teaches us that the core of Talmud Torah does not bend so easily to technological disruption. Torah is not simply information to be processed. Advanced Torah learning is itself a spiritual discipline, a form of avodas Hashem. The connection with a rebbe and the yegi’ah and amalah, the effort and toil, are part and parcel of personal growth as a Torah Jew. These are not incidental features of Torah study; they are the essence of it. Without the sweat, the back-and-forth argument, the human relationship and the process of internalizing Torah’s values, the words remain external, unintegrated into one’s mind and heart. No machine can substitute with the process of becoming a part of the chain of Torah transmission throughout the generations.

To understand AI’s place in the future of Torah study, it helps to recall a much earlier and far greater technological disruption: the writing down of the Talmud.

II. The First Great Disruption

For centuries, Torah She-Be’al Peh, the Oral Torah, was transmitted exclusively through memory and speech. Students learned by listening, repeating and reviewing constantly. A Torah scholar was, above all, a living library. Mastery meant knowing vast bodies of material by heart and being able to recall them instantly in debate or judgment. When the Talmud was redacted and committed to writing, this world changed. The act was unprecedented and far more revolutionary than AI is today because it fundamentally altered how Torah was accessed and preserved. What had been stored in the minds of sages could now be stored on parchment.

This shift also affected the halakhic requirements for Torah knowledge. The Sages speak intimidatingly about the prohibition against forgetting the Torah. The Mishnah says: “whoever forgets even one thing of his learning, Scripture considers him as if he is liable for his life” (Avos 3:8). Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi (19th cen., Russia) discusses this prohibition at length, expanding on the details (Shulchan Arukh Ha-Rav, Hilkhos Talmud Torah 2:4-8). However, his contemporary, Rav Chaim Volozhiner, argues that this is no longer applicable. This prohibition was for a time when the continuity and very existence of the Oral Torah required people memorizing and retaining their learning. A failure to remember posed a danger to the tradition itself. Nowadays, with the material preserved in writing, forgetting a detail no longer carries the same consequence, since it can be recovered from the text (Keser Rosh, no. 67).

The emphasis of learning also shifted, to a degree, from memorization to textual and abstract analysis. Scholars still value broad knowledge, but the primary skill has become understanding and interpreting texts, rather than holding every line in memory. A good memory is still held in esteem but more as a curiosity than a requirement. The change lessening the value of memorization did not diminish Torah study; it enriched it.

III. AI as the Next Step

Seen against this backdrop, AI is not an existential threat but a continuation of the same trajectory. Just as the written Talmud shifted the center of gravity from memory to analysis, and just as digital search tools made it easier to locate sources, AI will enable certain tasks that previously were unavailable to the average student. It will not, and cannot, change the process of learning itself.

The ways in which AI can serve as a tool in Torah study are still being discovered as the AI revolution begins. Here are at least three important ways AI can be used in learning:

1) Source Discovery and Mapping – Imagine an app with which you take a picture of a text and AI instantly locates relevant sources across texts, commentaries and codes, tracing where they are cited in Talmud and later literature, and identifying modern texts, articles and responsa on the same topic. This allows a learner to see not only the origin of an idea but also its development and application over centuries.

2) Topic Summarization – AI can produce concise overviews of any sugya or halakhic topic, linking directly to the primary sources for deeper study. A student attempting to review and digest a large topic can quickly obtain an organized view of the relevant material he has learned.

3) Historical Context – AI can provide background on the era, geography and culture referenced in a source, helping clarify difficult passages that assume familiarity with ancient realities. This will particularly enhance the study of Aggadata (non-legal narratives) but also help students understand Talmudic, medieval and early modern texts about economic and social activity.

Tools like these offer exciting opportunities to enhance the learning of students and scholars who have already mastered the basic textual skills necessary for learning. They will not replace classical Torah learning but supplement it.

IV. Breadth of Knowledge in the AI Era

With AI able to find and retrieve almost any text in seconds, one might conclude that broad knowledge will become obsolete. But just as in the post-redaction period, breadth will remain indispensable. The student needs to learn and master the entire Torah in order to internalize it, to allow it shape his thinking and worldview. Doing so allows you to recognize patterns, draw connections and respond instinctively through a Torah lens.

AI retrieval mirrors the historical shift: it reduces the practical necessity of memorizing every detail, but it raises the bar for broad knowledge, deep reasoning and analysis. A related discussion appears in the Talmud about the relative value of perfect recall versus penetrating analysis. The Gemara (Horayos 14a) describes a debate whether the great yeshiva in Pumbedisa should choose Rabbah or Rav Yosef as its rosh yeshiva. Rav Yosef had a phenomenal memory and knew all Tannaitic literature by heart. He was a “Sinai.” Rabbah did not have a similarly encyclopedic knowledge but was a brilliant analyst, an “oker harim” (uprooter of mountains). Who is a more appropriate choice for rosh yeshiva? Rav Yosef, the Sinai, was selected but he declined and Rabbah took the position. Twenty two years later, after Rabbah’s death, Rav Yosef assumed the position.

Rav Shlomo Kluger explains that this conclusion reflects the time before the Oral Torah was written, when a Sinai’s memory was indispensable. Once the texts were committed to writing, the advantage shifted toward the oker harim (marginal note to Pri Megadim, Orach Chaim, Eishel Avraham 136). In our day, with Google, Bar Ilan and digitized Jewish libraries, this argument becomes even stronger: analytical skill may be more critical than encyclopedic memory. Still, as Rashi notes (Horayos 14a s.v. u-mar), an oker harim must also possess some Sinai, i.e. familiarity with all the sources, even if not instant recall. The novice analyst is no substitute for the seasoned scholar. A sound analytical thinker must know the entire Torah to internalize the concepts and attitudes.

V. The Unchanging Core

In the end, AI will be an additional tool, not a new method. The essential elements of Torah study will remain. Technology can help us find the material and arrange it neatly on our desks, but only human effort can turn it into wisdom and holiness. Evidence of this minimal impact can be found in the growth in popularity of Daf Yomi textual study and even memory retention skills, which took place at the same time that the Internet grew and a variety of websites and apps for Torah study became available. There is a draw to classical Torah learning that supersedes the availability of technology, even as technological aids are used to assist with and supplement the classical study of Torah texts with a rebbe or chavrusa.

While the printing press, the Internet and now AI have had great impacts on Jewish society and Torah learning, the greatest transformation in Torah study already happened some 1,500 years ago when the Talmud was written down. Every other development since has been a smaller step in the same direction. AI is no different. It will accelerate research, open up new connections and make some kinds of work easier. But the heart of Talmud Torah remains exactly where it has always been: in the discipline and hard work of those who choose to engage in this sacred act of worship. AI will enhance the hard-earned learning obtained through yegi’ah and amalah, supplementing our classical learning with new tools.

I. The Non-Binding Vow

Great thinkers convince people and do not try to intimidate them. In the introduction to his Guide for the Perplexed, Rambam issues a command to the reader, invoking God’s name. This demand is puzzling on two levels. First, it fails as a command because it does not bind readers. Second, it has been repeatedly ignored by Torah sages throughout the generations. What did Rambam write and what did he mean? Different solutions have been offered to this strange puzzle.

In his introductory remarks to the Guide, Rambam writes:

”I demand (mashbi’a), in God’s name, of anyone who reads this book of mine, not to explain even a single word nor to explain to others except what is explicit and clear in the words of previous, famous Torah sages. He must not teach others anything that he understands from it that has not been said by our famous sages. Nor may he be quick to raise objections against me because it is possible that what he understands from my words is different from what I intended. He will cause me injury in response to my desire to cause him good; he will return evil for good.”

Rambam makes readers swear (mashbi’a) two things: 1) not to explain anything in the Guide that is original or even just not explicit in the writings of prior generations and 2) not to critique him for saying things that he did not mean. We can only speculate as to the reasons for this. Perhaps Rambam wanted people to read the Guide at their own level, finding meaning appropriate to their level of scholarship. Or maybe he did not want to risk commentators putting words into his mouth that he did not say.

Regardless, this vow is astounding on multiple levels. You cannot bind someone to a vow without his consent. Just because Rambam says he is binding people to the vow does not mean it actually binds us because we do not necessarily consent to it. Rambam himself, in his great halakhic work Mishneh Torah, writes that one person is not bound by another’s vow unless he responds “Amen” (Hilkhos Shevu’os 5:2). Additionally, people have been writing commentaries to the Guide ever since it was published. Not only does Rambam forbid commentaries, he also forbids teaching classes or even individuals about the Guide. Perhaps the first question answers the second. The vow is not binding and that is why people felt comfortable explaining the Guide. If so, why did Rambam bother issuing that warning when he certainly knew it was not binding? Rambam, in that very introduction, notes how carefully he worded and structured the Guide. Where is the care in writing this seemingly, but not really, binding vow?

II. Curses and Approbations

Rav Moshe Hagiz (18th cen., Amsterdam) was asked about this by someone who wanted to teach the deep meanings within the Guide. Is he allowed to do so, since he never consented to Rambam’s vow? Rav Hagiz explains that Rambam is not invoking a vow but rather a decree, a cherem. Effectively, Rambam curses with a cherem anyone who would explain the Guide. Rav Hagiz was careful himself to abide by this command and cautions others to do so, as well (Responsa Shtei Ha-Lechem, no. 35).

More recently, Rav Chaim David Halevi (20th cen., Israel) was asked the same question in 1986 and rejects Rav Hagiz’s explanation because only a community or its leader can issue a decree, not an individual (Aseh Lekha Rav, vol. 8, no. 54). Rather, Rav Halevi suggests that Rambam was harshly expressing his desire and request of readers. There is no actual prohibition in explaining the Guide but it violates the great author’s wishes.

It is unclear to me why Rav Halevi so quickly dismisses Rav Hagiz’s view. I compare this to the purpose of publishing rabbinic approbations for a book of Torah scholarship. Reportedly, the first work to be published with a rabbinic approbation was Sefer Ha-Agur, by Rav Ya’kov Landau. It was published in 1486 with an approbation at the end by Rav Nesanel Ben Levi of Jerusalem. This approbation informs potential readers that the work is worthy of their time and money. With the publication explosion due to the relatively recent innovations with the printing press, consumers needed a way to identify worthy works of Torah scholarship.

In 1517, Rav Eliyahu Levitas published his classic grammar work, Sefer Ha-Bachur. In the 1518 edition, he added an approbation from three prominent rabbis in Rome forbidding others from violating the author’s copyright. They declare that anyone who republishes the book without the author’s permission or who buys such a forbidden publication is subject to a curse of cherem. (Below is the 1518 approbation as published in the 2019 Zichron Aharon edition.)

Effectively, Rambam — who wrote the Guide at the end of his life when he was one of the most prominent rabbis in the world — published his own approbation in which he admonishes readers not to misuse the book. This was, indeed, a cherem of the sort later used to protect authors’ copyrights.

III. Making Many Books, There Is No End

We are left with the question of how great Torah sages have, in fact, published commentaries explaining the Guide, sometimes themselves with approbations (below is the approbation for the Givas Ha-Moreh commentary on the Guide, published in 1612).

More recently, Rav Shlomo Aviner (cont., Israel) has published three volumes of commentary on the first two sections of the Guide and Dr. Yochai Makbili heads a religious team of translators and commentators who published the excellent Mifal Mishneh Torah edition of the Guide which is full of commentary intended for a popular audience. Additionally, many great Torah sages throughout the generations include citations and explanations of idea from the Guide within their independent works. How can they do this, contrary to Rambam’s explicit instruction not to do so?

Rav Avraham Kook (20th cen., Israel) says that Rambam objected to people teaching obscure ideas from the Guide. If something is already well-known, it does not fall under Rambam’s vow. What is obscure and what is common knowledge varies by time and place. Over the centuries, what was groundbreaking and perhaps shocking in Rambam’s time became commonplace. Therefore, the vow no longer prevents us from discussing and exploring Rambam’s views (Iggeros Ha-Ra’ayah 2:414). On one level, this seems a bit unsavory. Because others violated Rambam’s instruction and publicized his views, we can now discuss them publicly? We are benefitting from their bad faith actions. On the other hand, what point is there in trying to keep a secret that is well-known? Additionally, even without Rambam, as these philosophical ideas gained traction through other thinkers, Rambam’s views became more publicly palatable.

Rav Ya’akov Ariel (cont., Israel) adds that there are commentaries of the Guide which attribute to Rambam a variety of non-traditional beliefs. They violated the second part of Rambam’s vow by suggesting that he denies creation, miracles and the uniqueness of the Jewish people. There seems to be no end to the outrageous “hidden beliefs” some claim to find in the Guide, which can mislead people who are searching for faith in this confusing age. Therefore, there is a need to properly explain the Guide in order to dispel these false claims about his beliefs. This is in addition to the need for Rambam’s thought to serve as a guide for us today. Rambam continues in his introduction that his justification for writing the Guide are the verse “It is time to act for the Lord for they have voided Your law” (Ps. 119:26) and the rabbinic saying “Let all your actions be done for the sake of Heaven.” Rav Ariel says that these apply today to those who explain the Guide in a traditional way (quoted in Rav Yonason Blass, Mi-Nofes Tzuf, vol. 1, p. 18).

I. A Man of Books

In honor and commemoration of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ fourth yahrtzeit, the Rabbi Sacks Legacy organized a global day of learning on the subject “People of the Book.” I consider myself a student and devotee of Rabbi Sacks and am honored to participate in this year’s theme by discussing Rabbi Sacks’ attitude towards books and specifically the citation of sources.

Anyone with even a passing familiarity with Rabbi Sacks’ writings immediately recognizes that he quotes from a wide variety of sources. His earlier writings contain a plethora of references to, and studies of, Jewish scholarship on the issues of modernity and religion. His later writings add a growing number, reaching a dizzying level, of citations from the social sciences. It is hard to find anyone who was more well-read on the latest ideas than Rabbi Sacks. He always managed to find lessons about people and society that help us better understand the Torah and find in it guidance on the best path forward. Rabbi Sacks’ writing is a veritable bibliography of conservative social science and related Jewish sources.

Interestingly, one exception to that is his Siddur commentary. Presumably due to the extreme space limitations, Rabbi Sacks omitted most of his sources in his Siddur commentary, both in his 2007 revision of the classic Singer Siddur and in his 2009 Koren Siddur. For example, in the commentary to the Singer Siddur (p. 277), Rabbi Sacks explains that “Shema” does not mean merely “to hear” but, more actively, “to listen, understand, internalise, respond and obey.” Rabbi Sacks explains further, “Secular terms for understanding are permeated with visual images. We speak of insight, foresight, vision, observation, perspective; when we understand, we say ‘I see’. Judaism, with its belief in an invisible, transcendent God, is a culture of the ear, not the eye. The patriarchs and prophets did not see God; they heard Him. To emphasie the non-visual nature of Jewish belief, it is our custom to cover our eyes as we say these words.” This is a fascinating insight, albeit one made by Rav David Cohen (“the Nazir”) in his Kol Ha-Nevu’ah (1:20). Rabbi Sacks does not mention the source of his insight in his Siddur commentary but he cites this in detail in his 2009 book, Future Tense: A Vision for Jews and Judaism in the Global Culture (p. 190).

II. To Cite or Not to Cite

Rabbi Sacks offers a creative resolution to a distinct problem within Rambam’s literary output. Rabbi Sacks quotes Rambam’s introduction to his commentary on Avos: “We can now resolve the apparent contradiction between a famous saying of Maimonides and another by the sages. Maimonides declared, ‘Accept the truth, whoever said it.’” (Future Tense, p. 221). In contrast, Rabbi Sacks says, the Sages took a very different approach: “The sages said, ‘Whoever recites a teaching in the name of the one who said it, brings redemption to the world.’” This poses a contradiction which requires resolution. Let us unpack the problem and then we will explore Rabbi Sacks’ answer.

At first reading, there does not seem to be any contradiction at all. Accepting the truth from any source does not pose any opposition to quoting the source’s name. Quite the opposite, these two sayings are complementary. Utilize any source but make sure to cite it. This seems to be an excellent combination of ideas that serves as the basis of much of Rabbi Sacks’ literary activity. We could reframe the question in a way that deals with practice, halachah le-ma’aseh. In his introduction to his commentary on Avos, Rambam says that he will not cite his sources. Not long after his important, timeless statement to accept the truth from whoever says it, Rambam adds: “I also will not say, ‘So-and-so said this’ or ‘So-and- so said that’ because that would be unnecessarily wordy. Furthermore, it might make a reader who does not accept the author concerned think that what he said is harmful or has an untoward meaning that he is unaware of. Therefore, I decided to leave out the author’s name, for my aim is to help the reader and explain what is hidden away in this tractate” (Translation from R. Yaakov Feldman, The 8 Chapters of the Rambam, p. 23). This declaration seems to directly contradict the saying of the Sages, that you should quote a teaching in the name of the person who originally said it. What should we do in practice — cite the name of the source no matter what as the Sages instruct or omit the name of the source as Rambam himself acted?

Rabbi Sacks does not ask this question. Instead he frames the problem differently. He writes: “Maimonides was interested in the truth of a proposition, not its author. For the sages, the reverse was true. Who said it is not irrelevant, but essential” (ibid.). Rabbi Sacks does not discuss practice here but ideas. Should we focus on the individual who originated an idea, who first thought it or at least who first told us about it? Or should we focus on the idea itself? This is not primarily about literary styles but about learning styles, which only indirectly affects how we write. There is a logical flaw, or a false argument, known as the “genetic fallacy” or the “fallacy of origins.” In this argument, you dismiss or accept an argument based solely on the idea’s origin rather than its content. It seems that Rambam would accept that the genetic fallacy is a flaw while the Sages would reject it because they consider the origin important. It is to this problem of thinking rather than writing that Rabbi Sacks brings our attention and to which he offers an original solution.

III. Torah and Wisdom

In the past, I have answered this contradiction by distinguishing between the gavra and the cheftza, the person and the item (see my recent book, Articles of Faith: Traditional Jewish Belief in the Internet Era, ch. 14). Rabbi Sacks offers his own, original resolution by distinguishing between wisdom, chokhmah, on the one hand, and Torah on the other. He writes:

“Chokhmah is the truth we discover; Torah is the truth we inherit. Chokhmah is the universal heritage of humankind; Torah is the specific heritage of Israel. Chokhmah is what we attain by being in the image of God; Torah is what guides Jews as the people of God. Chokhmah is acquired by seeing and reasoning; Torah is received by listening and responding. Chokhmah tells us what is; Torah tells us what ought to be. Chokhmah is about facts; Torah is about commands. Chokhmah yields descriptive, scientific laws; Torah yields prescriptive, behavioural laws. Chokhmah is about creation; Torah is about revelation.” (ibid.)

Chokhmah refers to philosophy in its classical sense — all the categories of science and thought. Chokhmah constitutes original human thought, discoveries, pure reason and evidence. Within Rabbi Sacks’ list, we can see three broad categories of distinctions between chokhmah and Torah:

1) Chokhmah comes from human discovery and innovation while Torah comes from revelation and tradition
2) Chokhmah is primarily descriptive of the world while Torah is prescriptive about how we should act and think
3) Chokhmah is available to all people while Torah is uniquely Jewish

Rabbi Sacks suggests that when the Sages instruct us to cite the source of a statement, they refer to Torah. Torah is about tradition, transmission of sacred information, participation in a religious act of study. The identity of the source of a statement is crucial in weighing its reliability, whether it is part of that tradition. In contrast, chokhmah is a factual matter and must be replicable. It must stand on its own regardless of who first discovered or expressed it. Rabbi Sacks explains:

“Maimonides and the sages were talking about different kinds of truth. Truth as chokhmah has nothing to do with its author. Had Einstein not discovered the theory of relativity, eventually someone else would have done [so]. But when we speak of a revealed truth, it is vital to know the chain of transmission. Was the person who said it reliable? Was he part of the chain of tradition, from Moses across the generations? That is an essential difference between the truth we discover and the truth we inherit.” (ibid., pp. 221-22)

Rambam was discussing philosophy and ethics, chokhmah, and not content that is inherently Torah. When Rambam explains the ethical implications and obligations in Avos, he builds his approach on the ideas of both rabbis and scholars, sages and philosophers, in the spirit of chokhmah. According to Rabbi Sacks’ approach, the Sages never said that it is important to cite ethicists and philosophers by name because their ideas must be able to stand on their own. However, when it comes to halakhah, Jewish law, you must cite sources because the ideas are Torah, part of the tradition.

IV. Lessons from Literary Styles

It is interesting that while this theory satisfactorily explains Rambam’s approach in his commentary to Avos, it seems to fail with regard to other works within Rambam’s oeuvre. In his magnificent summary of halakhah, the Mishneh Torah, Rambam almost never cites his sources. Indeed, there is an entire secondary literature of commentary attempting to identify Rambam’s sources in Mishneh Torah. In regard to philosophy, Rambam quotes a number of philosophers in his major philosophical work, Moreh Ha-Nevukhim. When it comes to Torah, Rambam does not quote his sources; when it comes to philosophy, he does. This poses a significant challenge to Rabbi Sacks’ approach.

Perhaps we can suggest that both of these works are exceptions to Rambam’s approach, not counterproofs. Rambam explains in his introduction to Mishneh Torah that his goal with that work is to provide a clear and concise halakhic guide. Sources and names would complicate the text and confuse the reader. Ideally, a halakhic work should quote sources by name but Mishneh Torah would fail as a popular text if it did so. Indeed, most halakhic codes in subsequent generations likewise omit names and sources as a general rule (e.g. Shulchan Arukh, Chayei Adam, Kitzur Shulchan Arukh).

In Moreh Ha-Nevukhim, Rambam quotes sources in order to sharpen the contrast between different approaches. Ideally, a work of philosophy would not need to cite sources. However, Rambam wanted to contrast the different views in order to better demonstrate their lessons and their relative strengths and weaknesses. Therefore, he made an exception for Moreh Ha-Nevukhim. Rav Yitzchak Shilat offers precisely this explanation in his analysis of Rambam’s introduction to Avos: “In his great analytical work, the Moreh, which is intended for someone ‘who has delved into the philosophical wisdoms and knows their subjects’ — Rambam quotes the different opinions in their sources’ names in order to sharpen the explanation, to address the different views explicitly, to embrace the truth and reject the falsehood” (Hakdamos Ha-Rambam La-Mishnah, p. 261).

This last step of reconciling Rabbi Sacks’ explanation with Rambam’s other works is important for another reason. As we mentioned earlier, Rabbi Sacks himself was a tireless bibliographer. His books and essays are filled with stories and lessons from scholars of a broad spectrum of subjects. If sociology and psychology, economics and physics, and all the other wisdoms Rabbi Sacks utilizes in his teachings fall within the domain of chokhmah, why does he bother to cite his sources? According to his own approach, the truth must stand on its own! Chokhmah does not need support.

I believe there are two answers. First, contemporary rules of writing require proper sourcing of ideas. Even if Rabbi Sacks artfully worded his writings to avoid committing what we today call plagiarism, he still would have been an ungrateful and ungracious author by failing to quote his sources. Much more importantly, by citing his sources, both sacred and secular, Rabbi Sacks teaches his readers how to live a life of constant learning. He quotes books to show that a true scholar is a lifelong student who always reads. Not only does he read but he brings the full resources of everything he learns into his thought process, even into his Torah learning. A good educator teaches students facts. A great educator teaches students how to learn. In his writings, Rabbi Sacks educates on two levels. On one level, he teaches us his inspiring and insightful ideas. On another level, he teaches us how to learn, how to read, how to think and how to apply those lessons to life. In that sense, Rabbi Sacks’ citation of sources is his greatest lesson of all.

The Permissibility and Purpose of the Tzadik v’Ra Lo Query

I. INTRODUCTION

The mysterious problem of evil in the world is a perpetual one.^[1]The use of the word “perpetual” here is intended bidirectionally. The problem of evil exists from time immemorial and may persist for all eternity. Though we are promised a clearer, more holistic … Continue reading Judaism struggles ceaselessly with the enigmatic incongruity of the tzadik v’ra lo phenomenon.^[2]The parallel opposite phenomenon of rasha v’tov lo is equally incongruous and, in some ways, even more prevalent. This question is dealt with in tandem with its abovementioned counterpart … Continue reading Why do the righteous undergo such cruel suffering? How can a benevolent God allow for the existence of wickedness? What justice lies in punishment of the innocent? Jewish thinkers throughout the ages have grappled with theodicy, the “Question of Questions.”

Though, in every instance, the answer is at best incomplete, many titans of philosophy have presented thoughtful theories. Ramban authored a fundamental essay on this topic, included in the “Shaar HaGemul” section of his greater work, “Toras HaAdam.” There, he suggests an organized model, culling from and juxtaposing many statements of Chazal to form a comprehensive approach to this perennial issue. Though Ramban admits to the impossibility of complete comprehension (or, “the Answer of Answers”), he does present an approach which addresses many of the relevant considerations.

A thorough analysis probing the depths of Ramban’s treatise is beyond the scope of my capabilities. However, this essay will culminate with a condensed summary and overview of his approach in the hopes of making a dense medieval work more accessible to the reader.^[3]Of course, the obligation then devolves upon the reader to utilize this mere overview in subsequently studying Ramban’s work carefully, armed with a basic familiarity with the terms and concepts … Continue reading In advance of said overview, I will put forth two insights related to the study of this topic, namely: what license do we have to probe these intellectual depths; and what purpose is there in studying an incomprehensible subject?

II. QUESTIONING THE QUESTION OF QUESTIONS

R. Soloveitchik’s Rejection of “Why”

Before engaging in the enduring question of “why,” we must note R. Yosef Dov Soloveitchik’s famous dismissal of this question. In his timely, timeless essay, Kol Dodi Dofek, R. Soloveitchik presents the problem of tzadik v’ra lo and proceeds to explain why investigation thereof is as inappropriate as it is ineffective.

Judaism determined that man, entrapped in the depths of a frozen, fate-laden existence, will seek in vain for the solution to the problem of evil within the framework of speculative thought, for he will never find it… Finite man, with his partial vision, cannot uncover the absolute good in the cosmos… In a word, the “I” of fate asks a theoretical-metaphysical question regarding evil, and this question has no answer. It is insoluble.

In the second dimension of human existence, destiny, the problem of suffering assumes a new form… The man of destiny is highly realistic and does not flinch from confronting evil face to face… His approach is an ethico-halakhic one, devoid of the slightest speculative-metaphysical coloration. When the man of destiny suffers he says to himself: “Evil exists, and I will neither deny it nor camouflage it… I am concerned about evil from a halakhic standpoint, like a person who wishes to know the deed which he shall do; I ask one simple question: What must the sufferer do so that he may live through his suffering?” In this dimension, the center of gravity shifts from the causal and teleological aspect of evil… to its practical aspect… The fundamental question is: What obligation does suffering impose upon man?… We do not inquire about the hidden ways of the Almighty, but, rather, about the path wherein man shall walk when suffering strikes. We ask neither about the cause of evil nor about its purpose, but, rather, about how it might be mended and elevated. How shall a person act in a time of trouble? What ought a man to do so that he not perish in his afflictions?^[4]Quotations in this essay are from the English translation of Kol Dodi Dofek, Fate and Destiny (Ktav Publishing House, 2000). The above excerpt is found there (pp. 5-8).

R. Soloveitchik expresses emphatic disdain for the question of “why,” favoring instead the question of “for what.” The innocent victim upon whom seemingly unbefitting suffering is visited is better served by deep introspection and self-examination in the hopes of identifying a character flaw which the divinely ordained miseries might motivate him to improve upon. In so asking, the victim transforms himself from “subject” to “object,” from “man of fate” to “man of destiny” – actively repurposing his afflictions as tools for his spiritual improvement.

This is the underlying theme throughout Sefer Iyov. Iyov is rebuked by God for asking “why,” until he eventually receives the message and pivots to the question of “for what.”

Consider: This was precisely the answer that the Creator gave to Job. As long as Job philosophized, like a slave of fate, regarding the cause of and reason for suffering, as long as he demanded of God that He reveal to him the nature of evil, as long as he continued to question and complain, asking why and wherefore afflictions befall man, God answered him forcefully and caustically, posing to him the very powerful and pointed question, “Dost though know?”… However, once Job understood how strange and inappropriate his question was, how great was his ignorance… the Almighty revealed to him the true principle contained in suffering… [Y]ou will never understand the secret of “why,” you will never comprehend the cause or telos of suffering. But there is one thing that you are obliged to know: the principle of mending one’s afflictions. If you can elevate yourself via your afflictions… then know full well that these inflections were intended as a means for mending both your soul and your spirit.^[5]Fate and Destiny, pp. 11-12

The Precedent for “Why”

Compelling and inspiring as his thesis may be, Rav Soloveitchik’s contention seems to be at odds with many millennia of Jewish philosophy. Rambam dealt with the question of evil at length. Ramban, as noted, toiled to systematically address the issue. In truth, prophet after prophet seems to have asked the burning question of “why,” perhaps none more prominently than the prophet of prophets, Moshe Rabeinu. In the immediate aftermath of the cheit ha’egel, Moshe pleads with God:

And now, if I have indeed found favor in Your eyes, make Your way known to me, so that I may comprehend You, so that I may find favor in Your eyes; and see that this nation is Your people… He said, “Show me Your glory.” He said, “I shall make My goodness pass before you… I shall show favor when I choose to show favor, and I shall show mercy when I choose to show mercy.”^[6]Shemos 33:13-19

The Gemara (Berachos 7a) elucidates that this encounter was a conversation about the Question of Questions. R. Yochanan says in the name of R. Yossi that Moshe requested that God reveal His ways to him and that God, in fact, acquiesced:

אמר לפניו: רבונו של עולם! מפני מה יש צדיק וטוב לו ויש צדיק ורע לו, יש רשע וטוב לו ויש רשע ורע לו? אמר לו: משה, צדיק וטוב לו – צדיק בן צדיק, צדיק ורע לו – צדיק בן רשע, רשע וטוב לו – רשע בן צדיק, רשע ורע לו – רשע בן רשע

Moshe begs God to reveal to him the mystery of the seemingly incongruous system of reward and punishment in this world. Why do some righteous individuals experience good, while others suffer? Why are some wicked people tortured, while others prosper? ^[7]Fascinatingly, Moshe Rabeinu does not only ask about tzadik v’ra lo and rasha v’tov lo. Rather, he inquires as to each and every permutation, including the righteous who are rewarded and the evil … Continue reading And Moshe was not the last to question divine providence in this manner. Ramban lists no less than four subsequent prophets who grappled with the matter: Yirmiyahu (12:1), David HaMelech (Tehillim 73:13), Yeshayahu (63:17), and Chabakuk (1:3-4).^[8]Shaar HaGemul, #68-71 (Chazon Yoel [Sperka] edition). Ramban notes that Iyov, himself a prophet, engages in an extended dialogue about this problem with his contemporaries, as recorded at length in … Continue reading

Does not the historical fact that many prophets posed the Question of Questions run counter to R. Soloveitchik’s vigorous rejection of the validity of the query?

Resolving the Tension: Judaism’s Dichotomous Reaction to Suffering

In truth, R. Soloveitchik’s seeming attack on theodicy is characteristically nuanced, in no way denying a tradition of the philosophical study of this subject. To explain, we must pivot momentarily to a related question.

In the course of his remarks, R. Soloveitchik points to a common intellectual trend in the philosophical quest of the sufferer, summarily discarding it as unsuitable for the Jewish approach.

After the psychic upheaval of the sufferer as the immediate reaction to evil has passed, there follows an intellectual curiosity which endeavors to understand the cosmos and thereby undergird man’s confidence and security… He tracks the intellectual foundations of suffering and evil, and seeks to find harmony and balance… and to blunt the sharp edge of the tension between the thesis – the good – and the antithesis – the bad – in existence… [H]e formulates a metaphysics of evil wherewith he is able to reach an accommodation with evil, indeed to cover it up. The sufferer utilizes his capacity for intellectual abstraction, with which he was endowed by his Creator, to the point of self-deception – the denial of the existence of evil in the world.

Judaism, with its realistic approach to man and his place in the world, understood that evil cannot be blurred or camouflaged and that any attempt to downplay the extent of the contradiction and fragmentation to be found in reality will neither endow man with tranquility nor enable him to grasp the existential mystery.^[9]Fate and Destiny, p. 4

While these words pose no inherent problem, the viewpoint which R. Soloveitchik seems to be rejecting belongs to none other than Rambam himself.

You know that he who removes the obstacle of motion is to some extent the cause of the motion… in this sense we say of him who removed a certain property that he produced the absence of that property, although absence of a property is nothing positive. Just as we say of him who puts out the light at night that he has produced darkness, so we say of him who destroyed the sight of any being that he produced blindness, although darkness and blindness are negative properties, and require no agent. In accordance with this view we explain the following passage of Isaiah: “I form the light and create (boreh) darkness: I make peace, and create (boreh) evil” (Isa. 45:7), for darkness and evil are non-existing things. Consider that the prophet does not say, I make (oseh) darkness, I make (oseh) evil, because darkness and evil are not things in positive existence to which the verb “to make” would apply.^[10]Moreh Nevuchim 3:10, trans. Friedlander, 1903

According to Rambam, there is no reality of evil. Rather, what we perceive as evil is simply the privation of good. Much like darkness is defined as the absence of light, perceived ra is simply the absence of tov; suffering, the lack of blessing. Could it be that R. Soloveitchik was dismissing out of hand the philosophical stance of his great hero, Rambam, in these few lines?

On many occasions, my rebbe, R. Mayer Twersky, explained that this is certainly not the case. R. Soloveitchik can wholeheartedly embrace Rambam’s argument for the nullification of suffering, while simultaneously advancing his prescription for acknowledging and engaging with an extant evil. The question is one of perspective.

There is certainly a place for theodicy in the study halls and classrooms of Jewish thought. In that setting and from that angle, one can posit theories which quash evil, relegating it to the world of imagined perceptions, inaccurate and incomplete in the grand scheme. God is wholly good. His world is entirely tov. Any evil which is experienced is a human misperception stemming from a deficient view of world history.

This, however, is only true in the realm of philosophy. The question of “why” has its place in the philosopher’s classroom, as well as in the machshavah works of Rishonim and contemporary thinkers alike. But when we enter the plane of human experience, when we encounter evil as it is perceived by living, breathing people, the question of “why” is no longer appropriate. In fact, on the experiential plane, the question of “why” is not even accurate. Here, R. Soloveitchik explains, the question mark on the existence of evil is removed and replaced with an exclamation point. The suffering certainly exists; painfully so. The only thing one ought to wonder is, “for what?” What message is being sent? Where must the victim improve and progress, using this tragedy as his motivation?

This clarification is crucial in our initial quandary, as well. We noted that R. Soloveitchik’s approach seems to fly in the face of a hallowed tradition of asking “why.” Ostensibly, he spurned what the prophets and philosophers of old embraced. However, upon further consideration, we realize there is no inconsistency at all. Moshe, the prophets, Ramban, Rambam, and so many great Jewish minds throughout the generations were grappling with theodicy in their intellectual writings and lecture halls. They were theorizing and philosophizing purely in the realm of intellectual academia, divorced of any connection to reality.

R. Soloveitchik does not criticize this intellectual pursuit. He merely notes that the question becomes moot, nay, unacceptable when applied in the realm of human experience. When living, breathing people endure hardships, their quest cannot be to solve the insolvable. Rather, they must seek out the cure, the spiritual mend which their divinely ordained suffering is intended to inspire. When sitting in the study halls of Jewish thought, we may ask “why.” But when standing in the hospital corridor, processing depressingly tragic news of some cruel affliction, the question of “why” is rendered inapplicable and inappropriate. When man faces the reality – as opposed to the theory – of evil in this world, he must engage with it, learn from it, and repurpose it for growth. Outward probing is frowned upon. Inward reflection is lauded.^[11]After developing this perspective, I discovered that R. Soloveitchik himself explicated and elaborated upon this sharp, nuanced distinction, encouraging both the philosophical pursuit and the … Continue reading

Precedent for this Distinction in Shaar HaGemul

Amazingly, Ramban himself appears to have drawn this very distinction between theory and practice, philosophy and reality.

וענין השאלה הזאת לא תקטן בהיות נכשליה מועטין, ולא תגדל בהיותם רבים, כי לא לאדם שיחנו, שנזכה מעשיו בהיות רובם טובים ולא שגה ולא טעה אלא במועט, אין טענותינו אלא על הצור תמים פעלו כי כל דרכיו משפט אין בהם נפתל ועקש

The significance of this query (i.e. – tzadik v’ra lo) is neither diminished by the scarcity of its victims, nor is it magnified should [its victims] be numerous. For our discussion [revolves] not around [any given] man, that he should merit if the majority of his actions are good and he made very few mistakes. Our inquiry is only regarding the Rock, perfect in His ways (i.e. – the benevolent God), since all His ways are just, devoid of any twisting or perversion.^[12]Shaar HaGemul, #132, translation my own.

Here, Ramban emphasizes that the quest for comprehending evil within the framework of divine providence is by no means an attempt to solve the problem on the plane of human experience. An increase in cases of tzadik v’ra lo would not intensify the question; a decrease thereof would not reduce its import. The question is not on the experiences of any given individual. Rather, it is a study of hashgachah, an endless search for a deeper understanding of God’s mysterious ways.

Manifestation and Reflection of the Dichotomy in Tanach and Chazal

This distinction – now seen in the writing of R. Soloveitchik as well as Ramban – is perhaps most clearly manifest in God’s reaction to various attempts at theodicy by the prophets. When Moshe Rabeinu requests an answer to the Question of Questions, his request may or may not have been granted, but he certainly was not rebuked for asking.^[13]See Gemara Brachos 7a for two opinions as to whether God heeded his request. We will, God willing, return to this later. Yirmiyahu, David, Yeshayahu, and Chabakuk were likewise not admonished for seeking a solution to the age-old enigma of tzadik v’ra lo.

It is only Iyov who is reprimanded for his line of questioning. Why? Did not Iyov make the very same inquiry of God as Moshe and the subsequent prophets? Why the harsh response to his attempt at uncovering a metaphysic of suffering? The answer, now, is obvious. Moshe asked about the idea of evil. The other prophets, too, focused not on any given individual’s suffering, but rather on the concept of tzadik v’ra lo. This is an appropriate, even encouraged pursuit of philosophical truth. It is only Iyov who asked about the human experience of evil. Iyov was not philosophizing about the existence of suffering in the thematic sense. Rather, Iyov was asking “why” on the human plane, when confronting real, raw evil. On this level, the question is never “why,” the question is only “for what.”

Case in point: Tradition has it that Moshe Rabeinu himself poses the identical question to God yet again when he witnesses Rebbe Akiva suffering a painful martyr’s death.

חזר לאחוריו, ראה ששוקלין בשרו במקולין, אמר לפניו: רבש”ע, זו תורה וזו שכרה? א”ל: שתוק, כך עלה במחשבה לפני. ^[14]Gemara Menachos 29b

Moshe Rabeinu sees Rebbe Akiva’s flesh being flayed by the enemy and he cries out, “Ribono Shel Olam, is this the reward he receives for his great devotion and mastery of Torah? Why would such evil befall such a righteous person?!” Here, God does not entertain the question. In fact, He does not even tolerate the question. “Silence! This is My divine plan! You have no understanding. You are not privy to My thoughts and intentions. Do not attempt to understand the mystery of tzadik v’ra lo.”

When Moshe asked God to “show me Your way,” God tolerated the question. He may even have acquiesced. When Moshe inquired as to the philosophical system – the inquiry was warranted. But when the very same Moshe asked the very same question of “why” about a particular human experience, he was rebuked and shut down. Here, the question of “why” is misplaced. Theodicy belongs in the study hall. When one enters the realm of human experience, in which the cold reality of evil is not denied but engaged, the “why” question may no longer be posed. In such situations, topical Halakhah steps in, prodding the sufferer and the onlooker to seek out practical, active responses to the great motivator, evil.

(continued here)

War is full of tragedy. Soldiers, civilians, society — nothing remains the same. People suffer injury, loss, death and displacement. Israelis today are experiencing not just war but trauma from the horrifically brutal October 7th attacks and the ongoing mobilization, as well as the displacement from the south and the north. Why is there war? This is not to ask what sins, if any, caused this war or why some people died and not others, but something bigger. What purpose in the divine plan does war play? Because war is explicitly part of the divine plan.

I. War Is Destiny

Rambam writes: “If a king will arise from the House of David who diligently studies Torah and observes its commandments as prescribed by the Written Law and the Oral Law like David, his ancestor, will compel all of Israel to walk in the way of the Torah and rectify the breaches in its observance, and fight the wars of the Lord, he may be presumed to be Mashiach.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Melakhim 11:4) Part of the role of Mashiach is fighting the wars of the Lord. Similarly, the prophets Yechezkel and Zechariah discuss the messianic war of Gog and Magog (Eze. 38; Zech. 14).

In discussing the order of blessings in the weekday Amidah prayer, the Gemara (Megillah 17b) says: “Why did they institute the blessing of redemption as the seventh blessing? Rava said: Since there is a tradition that the Jewish people are destined to be redeemed in the seventh year of the Sabbatical cycle. But doesn’t it say: In the sixth year, there will be heavenly sounds; in the seventh year there will be wars; and at the end of the seventh year Mashiach will come? The war is the beginning of the redemption (aschalta di-Ge’ulah).” The idea of a war before Mashiach is built into the structure of our daily prayers.

Of what purpose is this war? On the one hand, it is presumptuous for us to attribute reasons and purposes to divine handiwork, whether we are discussing creation, commandments or prophecies. We can only speculate, not state with certainty, why anything has happened or will happen. On the other hand, we cannot function like unthinking robots, failing to probe further and attempt to make sense of our world. War is part of our world. We would be remiss if we did not try to understand it to the best of our abilities.

II. The Message Of War

In 1973, the Yom Kippur War caught Israel by surprise. The country that had won so quickly and decisively in the Six Day War faced the realistic threat of total destruction. The country experienced fear and depression. Even the eventual victory felt like a loss, because so many had died and so much had been lost. The country lost its pride and self-confidence. During the war, Rav Menachem Kasher published a book titled Milchemes Yom Ha-Kippurim, arguing that the war could be identified as the prophetic war of Gog and Magog. He characteristically based himself on a large number of midrashic texts and commentaries, but also largely on the work Kol Ha-Tor, which is controversially attributed to the Vilna Gaon. According to Rav Kasher, the disastrous Yom Kippur War, which spread fear and loss throughout the country, was part of the divine plan. However, he failed to explain its purpose beyond its place in the divine plan.

The Yom Kippur War began on Shabbos, October 6, 1973. Because Yom Kippur was on Shabbos, the previous Shabbos (September 29) had the Torah portion of Ha’azinu, and the next new Torah portion of Ve-Zos Ha-Berakhah was not read until Simchas Torah (October 18 in Israel). Sometime in those 12 days between Yom Kippur and Simchas Torah, Rav Shaul Yisraeli gave a speech on Ha’azinu in which he pondered the difficult elements of the Yom Kippur War. These include the unnatural human failings to predict the attack, to pay attention to the warning signs, to heed the military intelligence; the inexplicable complacency and the fact that the victims were cream of the crop. Rav Yisraeli says that the take-away has to be the need “to choose life,” to repent, to return to good standing in God’s graces. In the divine plan, the war is intended to spark teshuvah (Siach Shaul, pp. 551-553).

Rav Chaim David Halevy, later the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv, expands on this idea. He steps back somewhat from Rav Kasher’s identification of the Yom Kippur War with the war of Gog and Magog. We do not have to go that far. We can find a purpose for the pre-messianic wars even without identifying them with a specific prophecy (Aseh Lecha Rav 1:21, 4:6). While he does not mention this, it is worth noting that Rav Yisrael Meir Kagan, the Chafetz Chaim, repeatedly said that we live in times of Ikvesa Di-Meshicha, the footsteps of Mashiach. His student, Rav Elchanan Wasserman, published a booklet of that name making the same claim. They died in 1933 and 1941, respectively. They detected the footsteps of Mashiach over 80 to 90 years ago. What’s the delay? On the one hand, the divine clock moves slower than we do. God is not in a rush to make things happen in our lifetime. But there is another element.

Rambam writes that the Jews will not experience the final redemption until we repent. Teshuvah is a necessary pre-condition (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Teshuvah 7:5). However, as we saw above, Rambam writes that Mashiach will compel the Jews to be Torah observant. Do we have to repent in order for Mashiach to come or does Mashiach come before we repent? There are different ways to answer this apparent contradiction. I suggest that most people have to repent first; then Mashiach will come and bring the remaining minority to Torah observance. Regardless of the specific order of events, repentance is part of the redemptive process. The Gemara (Sanhedrin 97b) quotes a debate between R. Eliezer and R. Yehoshua whether the Jews must repent in order for redemption to come. R. Eliezer (and later Rav) say we must. R. Yehoshua (and later Shmuel) say we need not. But even R. Yehoshua says that G-d will force us to do teshuvah by creating the circumstances in which we choose to do so (an oppressive, antisemitic king). The end goal is teshuvah, a life in harmony with God and observance of His commandments.

Like Rav Yisraeli, Rav Halevy suggests that these wars — those mentioned in various texts and those experienced in tragic life (and, we can add, antisemitism in general) — are part of the divine plan for repentance. We are supposed to see that we cannot rely on our strength, on our armed forces, intelligence or technology. We need all of those but we can only succeed with God’s help. The wars of the Amidah, of Gog and Magog, of our lived reality of the last 80 years, are supposed to bring us to fear, anxiety, a loss of self-confidence. The next step, the most important step, is the realization that we are not the masters of our fate. The Mishnah (end of Sotah) says of the pre-Messianic period, the key message is: “On whom can we rely? Only our Father in heaven.” When enough of us accept this reality and take it to its intended conclusion of teshuvah, we will reach the final stage of history.

On April 8, 2024, parts of North America will experience a total solar eclipse. Many enthusiasts are traveling to locations where they can experience the darkness that occurs when sunlight is not visible (don’t ruin their fun by telling them about nighttime). In all seriousness, this is a rare natural phenomenon. What does the Torah have to say about solar eclipses?

I. Blessing on Eclipse

The Mishnah (Berakhos 54a) lists phenomena on which someone who sees them recites a blessing. Among these are incredible sights such as mountains, seas and lightning. There is no mention of a solar eclipse. Should someone who sees a solar eclipse recite a blessing such as “Oseh ma’aseh bereishis, Who performs acts of Creation”?

Dr. Jeremy Brown has an article on this subject in the journal Hakirah (vol. 23). Dr. Brown quotes the Rav Menachem Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, as saying that you should not recite a blessing on a solar eclipse (Iggeros Kodesh vol. 15 p. 260). He offers two reasons. First, the Talmud does not mention a blessing on a solar eclipse and we must follow that precedent. Second, which is really an explanation of the Talmudic omission, is that a solar eclipse is a bad omen, as we will discuss shortly. We should pray for the bad omen to be annulled rather than bless the occurrence.

Dr. Brown also quotes Rav Chaim David Ha-Levi (Responsa Aseh Lecha Rav, 150) as ruling similarly based on the first reason. While he cannot approve a new blessing, he suggests saying the verses of “Va-yevarech David” (1 Chron. 29:10) and adding to the end “Who performs acts of Creation.” Dr. Brown quotes Rav David Lau, current Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of Israel, who suggest reciting Tehillim 19 and 104 on seeing a solar eclipse (She’al Es Ha-Rav, 7 Nissan 5766).

II. Allegorical Meanings of Eclipse

The Gemara (Sukkah 29a) says two things about solar eclipses. The first is that solar eclipses are a bad omen for whole world. Another opinion is that they are a bad omen for gentiles while lunar eclipses are a bad omen for Jews (since the Jewish calendar is lunar while the Gentile calendar is solar). Additionally, the Gemara says that four things cause solar eclipses: 1) a deceased head judge who is eulogized insufficiently, 2) a betrothed woman who is attacked and not saved, 3) homosexual relations and 4) twin brothers killed at the same time.

The Rema (Toras Ha-Olah 1:8) asks how the Sages can attribute reasons to a solar eclipse, which is a natural occurrence. Whether or not people sin, the solar eclipse will happen. What are these reasons? He quotes the Akeidas Yitzchak (Vayechi, ch. 32) and Yesod Olam (3:17) who each interpret this passage allegorically. The Akeidas Yitzchak explains that solar eclipse really refers to the death of the righteous, the lights of our community who are extinguished. Yesod Olam goes in the other direction. He understands the four reasons for a solar eclipse as allegories for the movement of the moon. For example, the two brothers who die refer to the sun and the moon who both lose their light, so to speak, during a solar eclipse. Rema offers a different allegorical interpretation, connecting the four reasons to the movements of the astrological signs relating to a solar eclipse.

Centuries later, Rav Chaim Elazar Shapiro (Divrei Torah 6:93) offered an additional allegorical interpretation. He compares the moon’s receipt of light from the sun to the Jewish people’s receipt of divine attention or overflow. When that is blocked in any way, it signifies a distance from God.

Significantly, Rema explains that a solar eclipse can be a bad omen even though it is a natural phenomenon. The basic premise of astrology is that there are times of the year that are good for certain things and bad for other things, which can be understood by examining the stars. While great rabbis debated the legitimacy of astrology (e.g. Rambam was against, Ibn Ezra was in favor), Rema explains that a solar eclipse is no different. It is a natural phenomenon like the movement of the stars, which those who accept astrology recognize as meaningful to people. Centuries later, the Aruch La-Ner (Sukkah 29a) and Ben Yehoyada (Sukkah 29a) explained the bad omen similarly, as a time when bad things happen naturally.

III. Other Explanations

Maharal (Be’er Ha-Golah, ch. 6, p. 106) explains that the Gemara is offering reasons why God established nature in such a way that there would be solar eclipses. If people did not sin, we would merit eternal light. However, because God knew people would sin, He created the world in such a way that solar eclipses would happen. The Gemara is not offering the reason for a solar eclipse (which is nature) but the reason behind the reason (why nature is that way). The Shelah (Hagahos to Bereishis, quoted in Sedeih Tzofim, Sukkah 29a) explains similarly.

Some authorities believe that the Gemara is not talking about solar eclipses. Rav Yonasan Eybeschutz (Ye’aros Devash 2:10) suggests that the Gemara is referring to sunspots. While solar eclipses can be predicted, sunspots cannot and are caused by sin.  Rav Yehosef Schwartz (Divrei Yosef 1:9) suggests that the Gemara is discussing unexpected atmospheric phenomena. He says that on 28 Iyar 1838 in Jerusalem at 4pm, the sun turned dark red for about an hour. Everyone was amazed by the sight. Over the next three months, Jerusalem experienced a terrible plague with many deaths. Rav Schwartz says that this was an example of the Talmudic phenomenon.

Dr. Brown quotes the Lubavitcher Rebbe (ibid.) as explaining that the Gemara refers to weather patterns.  He also quotes Rav David Pardo (Chasdei David, Sukkah 2:6) who claims that while eclipses are natural in general, they can occur supernaturally, as well. Those eclipses are caused by sin.

(reposted from Aug ’17)

Genocide, the targeted killing of a people, is not a modern invention. Many have tried to kill the Jews, the biblical Haman being perhaps the most famous ancient example. Other nations have also faced genocide, some even suffering from extinction. We live in a time of great hypocrisy, when people who explicitly intend to destroy all the Jews falsely claim that they are victims of genocide. Putting that aside, we can ask: Why does genocide happen?

I. Genocide and Sin

Rambam (Moreh Nevukhim 1:54) explains many tragedies as resulting from divine punishment of sin:

God’s actions towards mankind also include great calamities, which overtake certain individuals and destroy them, or some universal event annihilating whole tribes and even entire regions, destroying generation after generation, and sparing nothing whatsoever. Hence there occur inundations, earthquakes, destructive storms, military expeditions of one nation against another for the sake of destroying it with the sword and blotting out its memory, and many other evils of the same kind…. God performs acts similar to those which, when performed by us, originate in certain dispositions, in jealousy, desire for retaliation, revenge, or anger: [when God performs them,] they are in accordance with the guilt of those who are to be punished…

Rambam says that God uses natural disasters, such as earthquakes and terrible storms, as instruments of punishment for sins. The suffering and death that these events cause are punishment for individual or communal sin. This does not mean that every specific individual deserves his suffering or death. Rather, that the community deserves it in total and each individual is punished as a member of this community. Even righteous people die as part of an unrighteous community. Rambam includes genocide in his list of divine punishments, “military expeditions of one nation against another for the sake of destroying it with the sword and blotting out its memory.”

Understandably, this is difficult to read. We will shortly soften and revise this explanation. But first we should note that blaming the victim does not exonerate the perpetrator. Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Teshuvah 6:3) asks why the Egyptians were punished for enslaving the Jews when God had decreed the slavery (Gen. 15:13). People are punished for their bad choices, whether individually or as a group. They are not punished for actions they are forced to undertake when those actions are decreed by God. Rambam explains that the decree did not specify who would enslave the Jews. Each Egyptian made his own to choice to do bad. In other words, the justification of the evil (in this case, enslavement decreed by God) does not exonerate the perpetrators. Even Ramban (Gen. 15:4) who disagrees regarding the Egyptians because there was a prophecy about the enslavement would not disagree in general. Even when the victim bears some blame, the perpetrator is not justified in his actions and suffers punishment for his own guilt.

From what we have seen so far, Rambam seems to say that every victim of a genocide or a natural disaster is suffering punishment for his sins. Everyone sins. We see in the Torah that the punishment for sin includes terrible suffering (e.g. Lev. 26, Deut. 28). Sometimes God punishes us in this world and sometimes in the next. War and disaster are tools of God’s punishment in this world, freeing their victims from punishment in the next. That is what Rambam seems to be saying from a quick read of the passage above. However, elsewhere he says something else which forces us to read more closely.

II. Genocide and Nature

Later in Moreh Nevukhim (1:72), Rambam writes:

The same force that originates all things, and causes them to exist for a certain time, namely, the combination of the elements which are moved and penetrated by the forces of the heavenly spheres, that same cause becomes throughout the world a source of calamities, such as torrents, harmful rains, snowstorms, hail, tempestuous winds, thunder, lightning, and the putrefaction of the air, or other terrible catastrophes by which a place or many places or an entire country may be laid waste, such as landslips, earthquakes, hurricanes and floods issuing forth from the seas and from the depths.

Here Rambam says that natural disasters are, quite literally, natural. They are not tools of divine punishment but merely the ways of the world. People who suffer and die due to natural disasters are not necessarily guilty of any sin. They are just human beings living in a dangerous world. Are natural disasters punishments or merely nature at work? While Rambam does not include genocide in this list because it is not natural, the answer to the contradiction about natural disasters may apply to genocide, as well.

Perhaps we can explain based on a later discussion of earthquakes. The Talmud Yerushalmi (Berakhos 9:2) attributes earthquakes to a variety of spiritual causes. R. Nehorai says they happen because people fail to separate terumos and ma’asros, the portions of produce that must be given to Kohanim and Levi’im. R. Acha says that they are due to homosexual activity. Other rabbis say that they are due to machlokes, disunity. Another view is that earthquakes come when God sees theaters and circuses operating peacefully while the Temple in Jerusalem lies in ruins. Rav Shmuel Yaffe Ashkenazi (16th cen., Turkey; Yefeh Mareh, Berakhos 9:14) asks how we can understand this in light of scientific explanations of earthquakes. We know that earthquakes are natural events. How can they also be instruments of divine punishment? Additionally, according to R. Nehorai, why are there earthquakes in times when there is no biblical obligation to separate terumos and ma’aseros?

III. God and Nature

Rav Ashkenazi distinguishes between nature and divine intervention. God created the world and designed the course of nature. Within this creation, earthquakes will happen for natural reasons. However, God also intervenes in nature to reward and punish people. Some earthquakes are natural while others are the result of divine intervention. This can also explain the apparent contradiction within Moreh Nevukhim. Rambam never says that natural disasters and genocide are only tools of divine punishment. Perhaps generally they are part of nature, due to the ways of the world and choices made by other people. And sometimes, God causes unnatural disasters in order to punish people in this world.

If so, how do we interpret the events we see in the world and sometimes we experience ourselves? If a tragedy can be a punishment or a natural occurrence, what do we gain from this explanation? The assumption underlying these questions is that knowledge must be useful in order to be valuable. Maybe the value in this explanation is a somewhat greater understanding of the workings of the world. At the very least, we should see tragedy as a prompt for introspection and evaluation. What are people doing wrong that might have caused the tragedy? Without assigning blame, we look for meaning in the suffering, for improvements we can implement in the wake of tragedy, for an opening to reach out to God. At the same time, we also note what we did wrong on the natural level and how we can prepare better to avoid disasters that occur naturally.

If genocidal attacks may be a divine punishment or a natural event caused by evil choices, we must prepare for both. We must improve our religious stations to free us from divine punishment. We must also enhance our military defenses and take actions that will prevent such attacks in the future. Rambam’s double message teaches us that we must operate on two levels — the natural and the supernatural. In that way, we improve our places in both this world and the next.

I. Praying for a Soldier

We pray for a time when there will be no more war. We also pray that until that time arrives, our soldiers return from the battlefield to their families and their lives. Is this prayer allowed? On a theological level, does the prayer make sense?

Every soldier has loved ones who care deeply about his safe return. Whether a mother or father, spouse or sibling, uncle or cousin, family or friend, they all worry about the soldier who puts himself in harm’s way in service to his country and his people. Who can sleep when a young family member is in the middle of a deadly war? We pray, we cry, we say Tehillim. That is for individuals and is certainly proper and appropriate. We translate our deepest desires and our belief in how the world works into prayers and requests. However, when it comes to soldiers in general, things get more complicated.

During Chanukah, we add to our prayers the “Al Ha-Nissim” passage thanking God for the Chanukah miracles. We add this to the Amidah prayer and to bentching, the grace after meals. However, because Chanukah is not a biblical holiday, if you forget to say Al Ha-Nissim, you do not repeat the prayers. Rav Moshe Isserles (Rema, gloss to Shulchan Arukh, Orach Chaim 187:4, 682:1) says that if you remember after the appropriate blessing in bentching, you can add Al Ha-Nissim afterwards in the Ha-Rachaman section, which consists of additional requests after all the blessings are finished. The text is: “May the Compassionate One perform for us miracles and wonders like He did for our ancestors in those days, at this time. In the days of Matisyahu, son of Yochanan,…” Mishnah Berurah (682:4) adds that something similar can be done at the end of the Amidah.

II. Praying for a Miracle

While this seems like an elegant solution to the problem of forgetting Al Ha-Nissim, Rav Sender Shor (18th cen., Poland; Bekhor Shor, Shabbos 21b) points out a difficulty. The Mishnah (Berakhos 54a) says that if a man prays that his pregnant wife give birth to a boy (or a girl), he has said a tefillas shav, a prayer in vain. The baby’s gender is already a fact. Any prayer about it is too late. The Gemara (ibid., 60a) points out that when Leah was pregnant with a seventh boy, she prayed that it turn into a girl so her sister, Rachel, could give birth to two of Ya’akov’s twelve sons. In other words, miracles happen. Can’t a pregnant father pray for a miracle? No, the Gemara concludes, we do not account for miracles. A prayer for a miracle is a tefillas shav, a prayer in vain.

If so, asks Rav Shor, how can someone who forgets Al Ha-Nissim pray for a miracle by saying, “May the Compassionate One perform for us miracles…?” We do not pray for miracles. We live within the natural world and ask God to protect us and provide for us within the rules of nature. While we believe that miracles sometimes happen, we do not expect them or hope for them.

Similarly, the natural way is that during war, soldiers are injured and die. Even during the Six Day War, which was incredible in both its brevity and its success, over 700 soldiers died and many more were injured. Each death is a tragedy that devastates family and friends. We hope for minimal deaths but is it realistic to expect it? After the unexpected devastation of October 7, dozens of soldiers have died. Thankfully it has not been more but we want no deaths, no sorrow, no tragedy. Can we pray for this miracle going forward? Or is that an unreasonable and improper prayer, and instead we should focus on the safety of specific individuals we know?

III. Different Kinds of Miracles

Rav Yosef Shaul Nathanson (19th cen., Ukraine; Divrei Shaul, Gen. 43:14) suggests that the Al Ha-Nissim prayer for miracles refers to the final redemption. We can ask God for miracles that He already promised us. This does not contradict the Gemara that disallows asking for miracles in our daily lives. According to this approach, we should not pray for miracles in war.

Rav Sender Shor offers two answers for his question. First, he differentiates between individuals and a community. No individual can presume to deserve a miracle. God created the world with laws of nature and only breaks through those laws in the rarest of occasions. However, a community — and particularly the entire Jewish people — can expect a higher level of divine guidance and exception. You are not supposed to pray for a personal miracle but you are allowed to pray for a communal or national prayer. When we say Al Ha-Nissim as a request, we ask for miracles on behalf of the entire Jewish people which merits special divine providence. Similarly, according to this approach, we can ask on behalf of the Jewish people for a successful and safe war of self-defense.

Rav Shor further distinguishes between a supernatural miracle and a miracle within nature. When the sun stops for hours, contrary to its natural path, that is a supernatural miracle. When a female fetus is changed to male (or vice versa), that is a supernatural miracle. We are not allowed to pray for such miracles. However, the miracle of Chanukah was for an unexpected military victory. That falls within the laws of nature and therefore is allowed. Similarly, praying for IDF military strategy to succeed completely so that casualties are avoided is asking for a miracle within the laws of nature. According to this approach, not only are we allowed to pray for no military casualties and injuries, the Al Ha-Nissim request seems to be that very prayer.

Someone who prays in a mature fashion does not merely put together a wish list into word form. God is not Hanukkah Harry who bestows gifts on unworthy children. Rather, a prayerful person understands the complexity of our existence and asks for divine assistance in the struggles of life. Some prayers are appropriate and some are not. When it comes to the safety of our soldiers in the IDF, there is ample to room to pray for their overall safety even though it may require a miracle. Rav Avigdor Nebenzahl (Yerushalayim Be-Mo’adeha, Chanukah, p. 73) takes a view similar to the second approach above. While we do not pray for miracles in our own lives, when we are dealing with Klal Yisrael, we can assume that the Jewish people as a whole merits miraculous treatment. Until the time that peace is with us, we pray for the safety of Klal Yisrael’s soldiers who are safeguarding our country and our people.

I. Great Rabbis and Divergent Beliefs

I have been asked many times whether the act of defining lines of acceptable beliefs pushes some great Jewish thinkers outside of normative Judaism. Can we really declare that some great rabbis were heretics? Can we take away their place in the World-to-Come? If not, then we have to say that any view ever articulated by a great rabbi is within the bounds of acceptable beliefs.

This seems like a reasonable approach. While the average rabbi may veer off course, great rabbis can be assumed to remain committed to traditional Judaism. Therefore, it makes sense to accept any view articulated by a great rabbi. However, historically there have been significant variations of beliefs that can make many uncomfortable. Some great rabbis have questioned cherished beliefs, at least on the margins. If you accept that anything that any great rabbi ever said is acceptable, you will have a hard time defining the fundamental principles of Judaism within the classical framework.

Put differently, anyone who claims that Rambam’s thirteen fundamental principles of faith are binding has to say that some great rabbis were heretics. Exactly how many is a matter of interpretation and debate, but that is beside the point. Who is bold enough to declare even one great rabbi a heretic?

II. Confused But Not Rejecting

This question is so strong that it is easy to answer — because it was asked over 800 years ago. The most famous person to make this point was Ra’avad (12th cen., Provence). Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Teshuvah 3:7) lists five people who are considered sectarians (minim):
1) Someone who says that there is no God and there is no being guiding the world (atheist)
2) Someone who says that there are multiple beings guiding the world (polytheist)
3) Someone who says there is one God but He has a body and a form
4) Someone who says there is a God but He did not precede the universe
5) Someone who worships an intermediary between man and God (idolator)

Regarding those who say that God has a body or form (#3), Ra’avad asks in a gloss how Rambam could call such a person a sectarian. While Ra’avad does not himself accept this belief, he says that great Jews have said it based on their (mis)understanding of confusing biblical verses and rabbinic passages. In other words, if someone accepts that there is a God and that He gave us the Torah, and he follows the proper way to understand God by studying classical religious texts but misunderstands them, he cannot be faulted and declared a heretic. He might be wrong but he is not blameworthy.

According to Ra’avad, some great rabbis may have reached incorrect theological beliefs. They may have crossed a line on a fundamental belief. That does not make them a heretic even if one of their beliefs is heretical. (We will return later to Rambam’s view on this subject.) However, Ra’avad does not name names. Roughly two centuries later, Rav Shimon Ben Tzemach Duran (Rashbatz; 15th cen., Algeria) named names.

III. Well-Intentioned Heresy

Rashbatz is known primarily as a halakhic authority. His responsa are widely quoted and respected. He was also a philosopher, although his primary philosophical work — the three-volume Magen Avos (which he called an introduction to his much shorter commentary to Pirkei Avos) — is rarely quoted. The custom in Algeria was to learn Pirkei Avos in the long Shabbos afternoons between Pesach and Shavuos. After Shavuos, in the same time slot, they learned the biblical book of Iyov (Job). Rashbatz published a commentary on Iyov titled Ohev Mishpat, with a lengthy philosophical introduction. In chapter 9 of his introduction to Ohev Mishpat, Rashbatz expands on Ra’avad’s point.

Rashbatz notes that Rambam (Moreh Nevukhim 2:26) quotes the Tanna R. Eliezer who says that the world was created from pre-existing matter, not something from nothing (Bereishis Rabbah 3:7). The Gemara (Sanhedrin 99a) quotes R. Hillel (not the same person as Hillel) who says that there will be no mashi’ach. Are we willing to label these sages as heretics?

Rashbatz continues that Rav Levi Ben Gershom (Ralbag; 14th cen., France; Milchamos Hashem 6:17) says that the world was created from eternal matter. Rambam (Moreh Nevukhim 2:42) says that the donkey did not actually speak to Bilam, contrary to the plain meaning of the verse. Rashbatz considers this a heretical view, also. However, he shudders to think of calling Ralbag and Rambam heretics.

Rather, Rashbatz says, they believe in God and the Torah. They try to understand it all and make a mistake. As long as you believe in the Torah and intend to interpret it faithfully, you do not qualify as a heretic even if you hold heretical views. Rashbatz writes, “[T]he great principle in all of this is that one ought to believe what is included in the Torah concerning these matters. He who denies something included in the Torah, knowing that it is the opinion of the Torah, is a denier and is not included in the community of Israel” (translation from Menachem Kellner, Dogma in Medieval Jewish Thought, p. 88). According to Rashbatz, really the entire Torah is a fundamental principle of Judaism. As long as you accept the entire Torah, you might be mistaken on a key belief but you are not a heretic. On the other hand, he points out that Elisha Ben Avuyah rejected the premise of God and the Torah, and therefore was considered a heretic (Chagigah 15a). ^[1]Rav Yosef Albo, Sefer Ha-Ikkarim 1:2) says something similar but Menachem Kellner, ibid., pp. 104, 155 argues they have somewhat different approaches. Rav David Ibn Zimra (Radbaz; 16th cen., Egypt; … Continue reading

IV. Accepting the Torah

Rashbatz’s approach can be applied to any great Torah scholar in history (including the present). Even if you believe that the scholar is mistaken on key beliefs, as long as he accepts the basic premises of the Torah then he is not classified as a heretic. On the other hand, if a scholar believes that the Torah is mistaken — whether factually, morally or otherwise — then it is not at all clear whether that scholar even accepts the Torah. Certainly, that view is heretical. I would argue additionally that a scholar who hold such a view qualifies as a heretic even according to Ra’avad and Rashbatz.

But what of the Rambam’s approach? Ra’avad disagrees with Rambam. Does that mean that Rambam would consider Ralbag and others like him to be heretics, without a place in the World-to-Come? The textual problem with this suggestion lies in Rambam’s approach to the children of Karaites. Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhos Mamrim 3:3) writes that while Karaites qualify as sectarians for rejecting the Oral Torah, their children are not sectarians because they did not reject the Torah. Someone raised with faulty beliefs is a tinok she-nishbah, a child who is captured and raised outside the community of believers. He is not at fault for his untraditional beliefs and therefore he does not qualify as a heretic. Is that not very similar to the approach of Ra’avad and Rashbatz?

I do not have a good explanation for Rambam’s view. Rav Netanel Wiederblank, in his Illuminating Jewish Thought: Faith, Philosophy, and Knowledge of God, devotes chapter 11 to exploring four possible approaches to answering this question within Rambam’s approach. I’m not sure if any of those approaches offers a satisfactory explanation. However, it seems clear that Rambam’s view is not as straightforward as it may appear. Regardless, someone who wants to believe that we are not bound by any view ever articulated by a Torah scholar, can look to Rashbatz as a precedent for accepting the scholar while rejecting his view as out of the theological bounds of traditional Judaism.