Does the Study of the Hypothetical Have Practical Value and More Sanhedrin 14-16

14

Turning Over a New Leaf

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph discusses an incident where Rabbi Zeira initially declined to accept Rabbinic ordination out of humility but later changed his mind based on a particular teaching:

Rabbi Zeira would habitually hide himself so that they would not ordain him. He did this because Rabbi Elazar said: “Always be obscure and remain alive,” meaning the more humble and unknown you make yourself, the longer you will live. However, when Rabbi Zeira heard Rabbi Elazar also say, “A person does not rise to greatness unless all his sins are forgiven,” he understood that there are benefits to greatness as well. He then presented himself to the Nasi so that he would be ordained.

How can we understand this concept—that rising to greatness somehow indicates, or even induces, forgiveness?

There is a Teshuva of Rashi (252) that I believe offers a clue. Rashi states:

“It is said in the Sanhedrin that no one rises to greatness unless his sins are forgiven. There is a Midrash: ‘Three obtain forgiveness [via their change in status]: a wise man, a chief, and a groom.’ As it is written, ‘And if a stranger dwells with you’ (Vayikra 19:33), and the juxtaposed verse, ‘You shall arise before a sage’ (ibid. 32), draws a comparison between the sage and the convert. Just as a convert is forgiven for his past, so too a sage when he is ordained.

“We can read a verse in regard to King Saul (I Shmuel 13:1): ‘Saul was one year since he became king.’ Could Shaul truly have been a one-year-old? Rather, since he became king, he became like a one-year-old. A person promoted to a position of authority—whether through ordination or coronation—is conferred a new status, as if he is reborn.

“Regarding a groom, it is written, ‘And he took the machalas for a wife’ (Bereishis 28:9). Could her name truly have been ‘machalas’ (which means sickly)? Rather, by virtue of his marriage, Esav came to mechila (forgiveness).”

There is a concept that a convert is considered as if they are a newborn person, which has halachic implications (Yevamos 62a) and apparently spiritual implications as well. Each of the above—the chief, the groom, the sage, and the convert—undergoes a radical change in status. How does this confer forgiveness?

There are teachings in rabbinic literature that seem to promise formulas or “cheat codes” for obtaining forgiveness. For example (Moed Kattan 25a): “Anyone who cries and mourns over an upright person who has died is forgiven for all his transgressions.” Or (Berachos 12b): “One who commits an act of transgression and is ashamed of it is forgiven for all his transgressions.”

These teachings are not, logically speaking, “get-out-of-jail-free cards.” Rather, they indicate that if these life circumstances are encountered with the proper attitude and introspection, they will lead to forgiveness. Once again, we must ask why.

The key lies in the following teaching (Nedarim 41a): “A sick person recovers from his illness only when the heavenly court forgives him for all his sins.”

The idea is that a change in status helps stimulate both a resolve to make changes and, because of the introduction of new relationships and circumstances, it becomes easier to alter patterns and start new ones. This is because the behavioral cues and provocations of one’s prior life are now different. This sick person who had a close brush with death and recovered is obviously primed to reconsider his priorities. 

Imagine going from being relatively impoverished to becoming someone with esteem, power, and wealth. Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. If the person utilizes these newfound opportunities to empower himself and break out of old routines, he truly merits forgiveness because he is becoming a new person.

The sage, the convert, the chief, and the groom are individuals who have undergone dramatic life changes. These changes can be harnessed to transform—but only with the right intentions.

15

Does the Study of the Hypothetical Have Practical Value?

Our Gemara discusses how many judges are required to preside over the case of an animal that gores, determining that it requires 23 judges, similar to a human capital case. The Gemara then poses a hypothetical question: What would be the status of an animal that ascended Mount Sinai during the time it was forbidden?

The relevant verses describe the temporary sanctity conferred upon Mount Sinai prior to the revelation and the giving of the Torah (Shemos 19:12-13):

“You shall set bounds for the people round about, saying, ‘Beware of going up the mountain or touching the border of it. Whoever touches the mountain shall be put to death.
Do not touch it—by being either stoned or thrown; beast or person, a trespasser shall not live.’ When the ram’s horn sounds a long blast, they may go up on the mountain.”

Since such an animal would also be sentenced to death, the Gemara wonders whether its case would likewise require a court of 23 judges.

Tosafos is perplexed by this question, as it appears to have no halachic relevance. Unlike laws such as those of sacrifices, which might become relevant in the future, the sanctity of Mount Sinai was explicitly temporary. The verse even takes pains to desacralize Mount Sinai, emphasizing that it is not to remain a holy site: “When the ram’s horn sounds a long blast, they may go up on the mountain.” This likely underscores a central tenet of our faith: there was only one revelation, and there will be no “New Testaments.”

Returning to the discussion, Tosafos questions why it matters to discuss a halacha that will never occur again. Tosafos ultimately suggests that the purpose may be to enhance our understanding of the verses.

What shifted in Tosafos’ reasoning from his question to his answer? Initially, Tosafos seems to consider something to be Torah only if it has a practical halachic outcome, whether in the present or future, but not the past. From this strict logical perspective, Tosafos struggles to see the value of studying a case with no practical implications. Yet Tosafos concludes that understanding each verse in the Torah is itself a mitzvah, and thus the practical outcome of this study is the comprehension of the verse.

However, Tosafos’ answer appears tautological: If the purpose of studying Torah is to derive practical outcomes, how can the practical outcome be merely understanding the Torah itself? Furthermore, Tosafos seems to reinvent the wheel by positing that understanding the verse is intrinsically valuable, despite numerous Gemaras stating this very idea explicitly. For example, the Gemara (Sanhedrin 51b, 71a; Zevachim 45a) teaches that one should “expound upon new understandings of the Torah and receive reward for your learning.” Indeed, the Ran on our Gemara addresses Tosafos’ question by invoking these sources. Why, then, does Tosafos neither quote these Gemaras nor adopt their language?

I believe Tosafos perceives a nuanced distinction. Those other Gemaras involve discussing laws derived from Torah texts, even if the actual cases may never occur—such as the laws of a leprous house, a condemned idolatrous city, or a rebellious son. These are deemed worthy of study because they are written in the Torah. Even if they never occurred and tradition asserts they never will, their inclusion in the Torah compels us to engage with them as if they might occur. In fact, one might argue that these laws have served as deterrents or provided moral insights that shaped society, preventing their occurrence.

In contrast, Tosafos struggles with our Gemara because it explores a hypothetical past event. No animal ever ascended Mount Sinai, and such a scenario will never happen again. Therefore, Tosafos concludes that the value of studying Torah extends beyond the practical halachic realm to the implications of its verses, even in hypothetical cases.

Why is this valuable? Because internalizing the ethos and morality of the Torah extends beyond the specifics of any individual law. For example, it is meaningful that an animal is treated with the same judicial rigor as a human in a capital case. It is also significant that an animal ascending Mount Sinai during a moment of spiritual intensity for the nation would still be accorded the highest level of due process, even in such a mundane context. These ethical principles, while speculative, illustrate the Torah’s broader moral messages. The particulars may vary, but the overarching idea, that Torah study fosters moral and spiritual growth by its principles, is undoubtedly valid.

16

Due Process 

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph describes the process by which the Davidic monarchy determined whether to engage in warfare, once the king proposed this course of action:

“The Sages immediately sought advice from Ahithophel to determine whether or not it was appropriate to go to war at that time and how they should conduct themselves; and they consulted the Sanhedrin in order to receive the requisite permission to wage a war under those circumstances; and they asked the Urim VeTummim whether or not they should go to war, and whether or not they would be successful.”

War has been a constant throughout human history. Despite its immense pain, bloodshed, and the devastating waste of life and property it causes, war recurs with alarming regularity. Even in the 21st century—an era when technology and wealth could likely ensure that every human being is fed, clothed, and sheltered with dignity—billions upon billions of dollars, yen, and rubles are instead spent on destruction. Is this insanity? One might wish to call it so, yet by definition, we cannot label a normative human behavior as insane. The necessity of war, however bewildering, must at times be acknowledged, even as its horrors are avoided whenever possible.

Our Gemara describes a fascinating system of checks and balances that ensure sober, deliberate decision-making about this terrible human condition called war. This framework was designed to ensure that war occurs only when absolutely unavoidable:

1. The Leader’s Intuition: The king, as leader, senses that the nation’s territorial or existential rights are at risk and that action may be required.
2. Strategic Counsel: The Sages consult Ahithophel, a key adviser and military strategist, to assess whether the timing and strategy for war are appropriate.
3. Halachic Approval: The Sanhedrin is consulted to align the king’s intuition and the military assessment with halachic principles, ensuring the war complies with Torah law.
4. Divine Guidance: Finally, they seek divine confirmation and blessing by consulting the Urim VeTummim, asking Hashem whether they should proceed and whether they will succeed.

This meticulous process reflects the Torah’s care to ensure that war is waged only when absolutely necessary, avoiding conflicts driven by politics, petty rivalries, or the thirst for dominance.

Rav Shalom Schwadron, as quoted in Sefer Daf al Daf, applies this process metaphorically to our personal battles in service of God. When we feel inspired to take on a spiritual challenge or embark on a new path, we can follow a similar framework:

1. Begin with inspiration, the initial spark that motivates us.
2. Evaluate the idea intellectually, ensuring it is practical and feasible.
3. Assess its halachic implications, confirming that it aligns with Torah values.
4. Pray for divine guidance and blessing, asking Hashem to help us succeed in our efforts.

This multilayered approach, whether applied to literal warfare or personal spiritual struggles, underscores the importance of careful deliberation, alignment with halacha, and reliance on divine guidance in navigating life’s most challenging decisions.