The Jewish Power Blog: The Limits of Pluralism

When Korach questioned Moses’ and Aaron’s authority (Num. 16:3), even though it is possible to see his claim as a reasonable appeal for a more democratic governance, no civil discussion ensued.  His and his followers’ demand was dismissed as a raw – and dangerous – quest for power, and the troublemakers were quickly neutralized, swallowed up by the earth.

The Mishnah relates that once, Rabbi Joshua disagreed with the ruling of Rabban Gamaliel, the head of the community, regarding witnesses’ sighting of the new moon – resulting in a disagreement on the dates of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  After some soul-searching, Rabbi Joshua gave in; recognizing that disunity regarding the dates of festivals would be disastrous, he publicly affirmed Rabban Gamaliel’s ruling.  Rabban Gamaliel kissed his forehead, saying, “My master and my student! My master in wisdom, my student in that you accepted my authority.”  (Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 2:9)  That is: your position may be objectively true – but I have the power to determine what is true for the community.

And in the famous episode of Achnai’s oven, in the Talmud (Baba Metzia 59b), Rabbi Eliezer found himself a minority of one in a legal debate.  He called in divine reinforcements, performing several miracles to prove his authority.  But to no avail, as Rabbi Joshua responded that the law is “not in heaven” (Deut. 30:12), but rather must be humanly determined, according to the principle of majority rule.  And R. Eliezer was ostracized, as punishment for his attempt to undermine the system.

However, elsewhere in the Talmud (Eruvin 13b), the possibility of divine intervention seems to be accepted:

Rabbi Aba said in the name of Samuel: For three years the schools of Shammai and Hillel argued, each claiming that the law was according to their view.  A heavenly voice came forth and said: “Both are the words of the living God – and the law is according to the school of Hillel.”  But why?  Because the school of Hillel are humble and modest, and always present both sides and even present the house of Shammai’s views first.

So how should disputes be resolved?

It would be convenient if the earth would open up and swallow the “wrong” side; failing that, a recognized hierarchy whose authority would put an end to the debate; and if not that, then a majority vote.  But the final text seems to suggest that the best solution is a civil back-and-forth, leading to some kind of consensus.  Respectful listening.  Nice guys finish first.

And of course there’s the joke about Reuben who presents to the rabbi his case against Shimon; the rabbi says, “You’re right!”  Then Shimon presents his side; the rabbi says, “You’re right!”  And when a bystander challenges, “How can they both be right?” the rabbi says, “You’re right too!”  We value debate, we recognize that truths sometimes collide and that simple answers may elude us.  So we extol pluralism, and the coexistence of conflicting views, and an approach that is “humble and modest, and always presents both sides and even presents the other side’s views first.”

But what to do when the other’s views seem so to violate what we thought was a central consensus value that we simply can’t force ourselves to listen respectfully?  Pinchas doesn’t debate intermarriage; he just kills the mixed couple (Num. 25:6-8).  Elijah doesn’t engage in dialog with the 450 prophets of Baal, he slaughters them (1 Kings 18:40).  Mattathias doesn’t discuss theology with the Jew sacrificing to Zeus; he runs him through (1 Maccabees 2:24).  The rabbis didn’t just outvote Rabbi Eliezer, they excommunicated him (as above, Talmud B. Metzia 59b)…  also Spinoza.

So what are the limits of pluralism?  How do we decide what views are “beyond the pale?”  Are there opinions that I am not required to listen to respectfully?  And even worse: what if we decide to resolve the matter by majority vote and the majority votes for a position which flat-out conflicts with my most deeply held moral convictions?  How democratically civil must I continue to be when the other side is unapologetically violently authoritarian?

Perhaps what makes pluralism possible in a particular context is the commitment of all sides to a substrate of shared values.  Hillel and Shammai differed on many matters, but they shared a commitment not just to their ethnic Jewish identity but to halakhah and to the deliberative process itself.  Today, in the division between, say, me and the Kahanists like Itamar ben Gvir, or  between me and the extremist settlers engaged in explicit ethnic cleansing in the West Bank, we are reduced to a shared identity that is purely ethnic or national – without a set of common values holding us together, even if we recite the same prayers.  Indeed, we each believe that the other’s actions represent “chilul hashem,” the profanation of God’s name, a moral stain on our own Jewish identity.  Nothing to talk about here – it feels like the very act of talking grants legitimacy to the other, which I cannot bring myself to do.  Why can’t the earth just swallow them up?

Identifying the limit of pluralism is a perpetual challenge; arguing over that limit often is, itself, the very substance of the debate.