The Ability to Question
A talmid chacham once told me that the beginnings of his studies had consisted primarily of staying silent and absorbing the words of his teacher without argument. This description surprised me, for when I began studying I was always encouraged to ask about, and even challenge everything I learned — be it Tanakh, Mishnah, or Gemara — both in school and with the tutors that that my parents hired to supplement my formal studies.One special moment remains engraved in my memory from the first time I learned Gemara at school, in the sixth grade. We were taught by a pleasant-mannered man by the name of Dov Parshan, an old-time Chabad chasid, clean-shaven and dressed in modern clothes. He opened with the Mishnah that begins Masekhet Berachot, “Me’eimatai [from when]” and Rashi’s commentary on the phrase. Rashi is bothered by the Ashkenaz minhag of davening Ma’ariv early and claims that, according to this custom, the recitation of the Shema before the Ma’ariv Amida comes only in order to precede Torah verses to the prayer, and that we rely on the Bedtime Shema to fulfill the obligation of Kriyat Shema by the reading of the first paragraph alone.
I raised my hand and asked Mr. Parshan whether one could indeed fulfill one’s obligation by reading the first paragraph alone. Mr. Parshan did not answer the question, but was very impressed and praised my it, for my question was the same one the Tosafot had posed. My question was innocent — and truthfully, not exactly the question Tosafot had asked (and it seems Rashi’s opinion has a basis later in the masekhet) — but this was a foundational moment for me. I understood for the first time that raising an objection about the words of our rabbinic predecessors was not a foreign idea in the study of Torah shebe’al peh, oral law, but rather an essential part of its character. Mr. Parshan’s response to my question gave me the clear feeling that critical thinking lies at the heart of Torah shebe’al peh. This insight has never weakened within me, and, in fact, has gained strength over time, as all of my teachers have encouraged thinking and related to every question with enthusiasm, as an essential part of study.
The original experience of absorbing truths that were passed down with mesirut nefesh [self- sacrifice] and cherdat kodesh [fear of the sacred] from generation to generation establishes a world different than mine. I am not judgmental of this world, because a person should not judge a world that he is not a part of and does not understand. For me, learning is an exalted struggle to understand the Torah through investigation and explication, questions and clarifications, in order to reach reasonable explanations. Although occasionally we must make do with far-fetched justifications or study that ends in “tzarich iyun gadol” — the topic requires further study — at the end, everything is happily accepted as part of the journey.
The tremendous tension between Sinai (received Torah) and oker harim (lit., uprooting mountains, or the interpretive process) is not easily solved, yet it is clear that neither side can exist on its own. It is impossible to move mountains until one has ascended Mount Sinai and seen the mountains that surround it, and one who has not done so remains in the depths of ignorance. On the other hand, one who does make the climb but is only satisfied with a kind of bird’s-eye view of spectacular vistas without ever descending into the depths of the matters does not understand the wisdom of Torah and has not even tasted with the tip of his tongue the sweetness of the Torah shebe’al peh, the geshmack. The joy of learning has been a significant factor in my connection with the Torah over the course of the years.
From Brisk to Meaningful Insights
But over the course of the years, two additional feelings began to gnaw at me and at my connection to learning. The first was the the oppressive sensation of a disconnect between the learning and life; and the second, that I was merely enjoying an intellectual game devoid of meaning. That same year, for a university course on twentieth-century European literature, I read Hermann Hesse’s great novel, Magister Ludi. The book recounts the story of a man who enters a monastery in which a mathematical game is being played. The protagonist is very successful at the game and rises to greatness in the monastery, yet he feels disconnected from real life and that he is playing a meaningless game. I felt that the book expressed well my own feelings and even strengthened them. Additionally, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the essence of Torah was good deeds, not theoretical learning.That sense of disconnect from life highly influenced my decision to separate for a while from intensive learning, both Torah learning and general studies, and take up the pioneering mission that the worldwide Bnei Akiva movement had impressed upon my friends — to help Kibbutz Ma’ale Gilboa, which was beginning to rehabilitate itself after its dissolution and the dispersion of its members.
The feeling of meaninglessness in learning also led me to search the history of Jewish thought. I went through a significant portion of the literature of the Rishonim and was deeply influenced by the work Chovot Halevavot. I began to learn Orot Hakodesh. At the recommendation of Avraham Oren from Sde Eliahu, I studied Likutei Moharan and Rav Yitzchak Hutner’s Pachad Yitzchak. I was intoxicated by the learning of machshava, while the standard learning of Shas and Rishonim remained for me a wonderful game, though still devoid of meaning.
For other reasons, I arrived at Yeshivat Merkaz HaRav and from there continued on to Yeshivat “Ramailis” Netzach Yisrael , where I began to learn Torah from Rav Yisroel Ze’ev Gustman. As a student in the beit midrash of Rav Gustman, my learning of the Torah underwent a revolution — in no small measure thanks to him.
During all my years, beginning with my entrance to the Skokie yeshiva led by Rav Ahron Soloveichik, I had been under the decisive influence of the Brisker style of learning, innovated by Rav Chaim Soloveitchik of Brisk. It’s true that I acquired from Rabbi Aryeh Leib Bakst a sensitivity to the language of the Gemara in the style of Yeshivat Mir: learning in his yeshiva in Detroit marked a sharp transition from engagement primarily with Rishonim to engagement with the Gemara itself. But, at the end of the day, the precise analysis of the language of the Gemara always led back to the analytical style of Brisk. My fellow classmates identified me in that manner as well, and when I completed my studies in Detroit and was ready to make aliyah, Rav Bakst wrote a letter of recommendation for me and suggested I join the yeshiva of Rav Dovid Brisker.
The main focus in Brisker learning is the legal abstraction used to describe the findings of a certain matter of study in question. The method works well to explain the disputes of Tannaim, Amoraim, and Rishonim, and particularly excels when the results of those disputes appear contradictory. Occasionally, the abstraction uncovers elements of the foundations of halakha and leads the learner to societal and value statements peeking through the cracks. However, this is not the concern of the learning. The Brisker method is frequently described as a kind of “natural science,” surveying empirical findings with the goal of putting forth a theory that fits those findings.
With Rav Gustman, I encountered a different type of learning altogether. As a distinguished disciple of Rabbi Shimon Shkop, Rav Gustman taught abstractions that reflected meaningful values by their nature, which never pretended to be pure and necessary scientific statements. Within a short amount of time, my learning went from being a beautiful and graceful game to a learning that leads to deep insights, saturated with significant cultural and social value. I felt I had arrived at a resting point after years of seeking the meaning of learning. The character of the new learning I had discovered filled my world. I was a step away from leaving my other areas of interest: literature, philosophy, art, music, and working the land. But, to my delight, all these areas continued to have a place within me, but not as a replacement for Torah study.
The Gemara Never Had a Gemara
Although the search for meaning had ended, my learning underwent another revolution. Rav Gustman opened my eyes to the Tosefta, Midrash halakha, and the Yerushalmi. In parallel, I attended shiurim of HaRav Professor Shlomo Zalman Havlin at “Machon Shvadron.” One observation he made was etched in my heart; he said that sometimes the give-and-take of the Gemara changes the simple meaning of the amoritic statement, and he provided an example of the phenomenon. This statement planted a seed that only sprouted after some time.I returned to Ma’ale Gilboa and worked in the orchard. During that time, I gave an intensive shiur once a week in Masekhet Mo’ed Katan, in which kibbutz members—chaverim, as well as some chaverot—participated. While preparing for the shiur, something clicked that changed my learning. The Gemara is a gloss on its sources: Mishnayot, Beraitot, and Amoraic statements. From that moment, the Gemara lay spread before me like a creative fabric, woven together by intergenerational arguments and developments. The far-fetched explanations of the Bavli took on new meaning. I discovered the secret that appears in the commentary of Rabbi Samson ben Abraham of Sens: Amoraim do not argue with the earlier Tannaim “in public” — that is to say, they do in fact disagree with the views of their predecessors but choose to express themselves indirectly through creative interpretation.
The Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud were revealed to me like a riveting plot. I continued to take things apart in a yeshivish manner in the style of Rabbi Shimon Shkop and Rav Gustman his student, but instead of dissecting one static picture, I began to notice the entire weave, which pointed to movements, developments, and changes, of cultural, societal, and ethical significance.
In spite of the revolution in my learning method, I felt I was continuing in the path of my teachers. Rav Bakst had spurred us to deal with the Gemara itself and not only through the eyes of the Rishonim. He used to say: “Rashi never had Rashi”; I, a dwarf on his giant shoulders, say: “The Gemara never had a Gemara” —also, the words of the Tannaim and Amoraim should also be learned on their own, not just by means of the mediation of the Stamma d’Shas, the editorial layer of the Gemara. It’s said that Rav Chaim of Brisk refused to answer to answer challenges from other sugyot while learning a specific sugya, and only after extracting all that was possible from the local sugya would he agree to draw comparisons. I began to conduct myself similarly: “Don’t ask me from the Gemara, right now I’m dealing with the Mishnah; don’t ask me from the Stamma, at the moment I’m learning the memra.”
A young Rav Gustman was once asked why he would learn the relevant Yerushalmi for each sugya, and he answered thus: “The Bavli is nothing but a gloss on the Mishnah, and the Yerushalmi too is a gloss on the Mishnah. I want to learn both glosses.” I add another reason: The Bavli and Yerushalmi are glosses on the words of the Tannaim and Amoraim of earlier generations, and this gloss weaves the statements into the broader fabric, determines the relationship among the statements, and often the appropriate relationship toward those statements. The essence of the learning is hidden in attentiveness to the words of the Tannaim and Amoraim in and of themselves, to the ways in which the Yerushalmi and Bavli Talmuds interpret their predecessors and their decisions; from this stems a way to penetrate the ethical contents and the formative meanings revealed in these interpretations.
Although I felt I was continuing the learning method of my teachers, when the dramatic shift in my approach occurred, I naively thought I was the only one who was learning in this manner. Later, I discovered that, here and there in academia and in the yeshiva world, there were talmidei chachamim whose learning method was close to mine (happily, their numbers have grown substantially since then). At the same time, I met certain people who had grown up in a more rigid yeshiva world, who, upon being first exposed to the original words themselves, experienced a crisis. I, in contrast, experienced this is positive manner. My new learning method integrated well with my yeshiva background, which had praised the dimension of innovation in Torah learning. It did not surprise me that Tannaim, Amoraim, and the Stamma d’Shas introduced new Torah insights. I enjoyed every stage of the learning, every layer that was added. I was happy to discover the Torah innovations of earlier generations.
Often, people who experienced the encounter as a crisis would cope by tilting to extremes: on the one hand, I saw tenuous attempts to explain all of the developments in the Gemara by mistakes in its different girsa’ot (versions), in the transmission, and in the explanations of the words only; on the other hand, I encountered attempts to create entire aesthetic systems as was customary in certain yeshivot of the past, even after the new insights. Sometimes, I found that my friends were reluctant to point out new trends or insights, lest they err according to Chazal. From this perspective, I am not a “pure” scholar. Indeed, the desire to thoroughly understand the words of Chazal drives me when necessary to utilize different girsa’ot and investigate the linguistic meanings of words, but for me this is only an aid in learning, rather than its essence. I feel as though I am a small link in the commentaries that continue to increase through the ages, a small link in the majestic chain of the Torah shebe’al peh. I do not shy away from translation into concepts of the contemporary world, but I attempt a plain reading as often as possible and avoid wherever I can placing later constructs onto the words of Chazal. I refrain from initial use of Brisk, modern or feminist readings of the sources. Despite an awareness of my own time and place as I interpret, I try to give a stage to the sages of the generations and bestow upon them the authority to speak. At times, when students do not notice the “plot” of the Gemara, I add subtitles, but I try to reduce the translation to the minimum required for understanding the value messages that guide the movements of Chazal in a transparent manner.
Collecting Treasures
During our journey to the “palace of the sugya,” along the way we collect a number of treasures that are not the main purpose of the learning but still have broad significance, both within the learning experience and outside of it. First, the attempt to listen to the various voices arising from the sugya in the most honest manner, without subordinating ourselves to our own preconceptions, imparts skills of attentiveness that have significance beyond the study of Talmud. The skill of attentiveness that is acquired influences the student’s learning abilities in the entire span of Torah literature throughout the ages — in Tanakh, in machshava and in the halakhic realm. It influences the way we relate to other cultures and even our attentiveness to people in our daily lives.Second, the unique fabric of the Talmudic sugya softens the tendency toward sharp and binary thinking. The sugya is revealed to us as a convoluted, dialectical and not unequivocal creation. This point stands out in such a method of study, in contrast to other approaches whose primary purpose is to place the Rishonim into distinct and sharp categories. This way of thinking has the power to make a significant contribution to humanity at a time when sharp thinking and the search for conclusive truths have led to a dead end. In our Talmudic study, we note that the sugya does not convey unequivocal messages that are destined for superficiality, but it also does not leave us in utter confusion. It delivers significant messages to us, but in a soft, complex and non-rigid way.
Third, the sugya teaches us a wonderful lesson about the relationship between the preservation of what already exists and revolutionary new insights. The sugya manages to be subversive toward earlier positions yet, at the same time, takes care with great strictness to preserve them, with the new interpretation presented beside the original one rather than replacing it. Still, these are just the treasures that we gather while touring the palace. The purpose of the tour is to be impressed by the palace itself. The palace is built of precious stones: Mishnayot, Beraitot, memrot and the give-and-take of the Sages. Each of these stones is valuable in-and-of itself, each is a reflection of God's word, each is an expression of Chazal's creation, flowing from a search for the truth and the proper way to apply the dictum, “The way of God is to do righteousness and justice." But the crowning glory is the edited sugya, in which "all these stones were assembled into one place," the fruits of the labor of the anonymous editors of the last generations of the formation of the Talmud, the Stamma d’Shas. They assemble the precious stones into a meaningful structure, and reveal to us a different and special direction of thought that is highly sensitive to the needs and desires of human beings and human society, and to the nuances required to fulfill “tikkun olam be’malchut Shaddai.”
Thank you to Aviad Evron for editing and bringing the original Hebrew article to print. Thanks also to my students Jake Brzowsky and Daniel Gutkind for translating the article into English, and to Sara Brzowsky for the editing.
