The Practice of Quieting Judgment
"These and those are the words of the living God"
I’m not going to talk about Israel, because if I did, everything else I’m about to write would feel hypocritical. As a Jew, I have a deep love for Israel, and I’ll leave it at that.
What I want to explore is the idea that “these and those are the words of the living God.” It’s a well-known Talmudic phrase suggesting that opposing views can both carry truth, and even something of the divine.
To me, this suggests that reality is not singular or fixed. It is larger than any one perspective. Each of us may touch something real, but because of our limitations, we experience, express, and understand it differently.
Each of us already has a relationship with the world—one that, in some ways, predefines what we see.
This is one reason I love the practice of Aikido. My goal in the practice is to be with my partner without judgment. Because it is a physical practice, that judgment shows up as a lack of fluidity.
Aikido constantly lets me know when I am acting from a world I’ve already created, rather than responding to what is actually happening now.
And maybe that is the practice, to stay present enough to let “these and those” become something closer to us
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Elu v'Elu
Scott, I find the phrase you've elicited from the Talmud not only of special interest to you in your practice of Aikido, but also to anyone of us as we face life and the world at large. So let's first parse the meaning of that phrase, as you understand it, to begin our discussion.
The English rendition of the Hebrew is exactly as you've stated it. Here it is again "these and those are the words of the living God.” Further, you state its meaning, as you understand it: "that opposing views can both carry truth, and even something of the divine."
In your elaboration of the above, I will take the liberty of interposing a word or phrase of my own (which I will place in brackets) to further extend its meaning. "Each of us may" [experience Reality differently] "because of our limitations"... Scott, you go on to say "Each of us already has a relationship with the world—one that" [defines who we are at that moment in time]...
Then, Scott, you relate the above to your practice of Aikido in the following manner: "This is one reason I love the practice of Aikido. My goal in the practice is to be with my partner without judgment. Because it is a physical practice, that judgment shows up as a lack of fluidity. Aikido constantly lets me know when I am acting from a world I’ve already created, rather than responding to what is actually happening now" [Or, to put this another way, the "lack of fluidity" in your dealings with your partner necessitates changes in yourself so as to augment the fluidity between you and your partner.]
"And maybe that is the practice, to stay present enough to let 'these and those' [to realize that what was once regarded as distinct is, in fact, only apparently so. Wittingly or unwittingly, we are all searching for the same Truth, progressing to the same end: to be closer to the living God.]
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Now, Scott, I'm going to take up a new theme, this one is based on a narrative in the Talmud, one of my favorites, which I first encountered in rabbinic school. As I describe it here, perhaps you and others will share my appreciation of this narrative which had profound significance not only during the second century of the Common Era when it was first created, but also in our twenty-first century world which is filled with so much strife and violence.
This narrative is about the famous Oven of Akhnai, (תנור עכנאי, Tanur shel Akhnai). To place it in its textual context, it is found in the Talmudic tractate Bava Metzia 59a- 59b. There is a sugya (a sugya is a self-contained passage of the Talmud that typically discusses a legal dispute that may extend over several extra-large pages of the Talmud) over whether a newly constructed oven, an innovation at that time, is susceptible to ritual impurity. To place it in its historical context, this purported event occurred in the second century CE.
I should pause to explain why ritual impurity or its opposite was so important to the ancient sages. Ritual impurity (tumah) was crucial to the Talmudic rabbis because it defined the boundary between life and death, managed sacred spaces, and fostered a distinct, daily spiritual identity. Rather than physical dirt, ritual impurity represented a state in which one was disqualified from being in sacred areas (the Holy Temple, for instance) or utilizing sacred items, terumah (the Torah Scroll, for instance) forcing Jews to maintain heightened awareness of holiness and the need for purification rituals such as immersion in the mikveh (the bath in which one is cleansed of ritual impurity (to be distinguished from contemporary spas which focuses on physiological restoration). Until cleansing oneself of ritual impurity, one could not enter the Holy Temple of Jerusalem (before its destruction in 70 CE) or handle the Torah Scroll (the Sefer Torah).
(Scott, because of your exquisite attention to the proper attitude and behavior during the practice of Aikido, you may well appreciate the similar attention the rabbis devoted to ritual purity. In neither case is the matter trivial.)
To continue, a new type of oven is brought before the Sanhedrin (The Sanhedrin (Hebrew and Middle Aramaic סַנְהֶדְרִין is a loanword from Koine Greek: transliterated as synedrion, meaning 'assembly.' It was a Jewish legislative and judicial assembly in ancient Israel).
The rabbis debated whether or not this specific oven is susceptible to ritual impurity. Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus argued that the oven is ritually pure, while the other rabbis, including the nasi (the president of the Sanhedrin), Rabban Gamaliel, argued that the oven is impure. When none of Rabbi Eliezer's arguments convinced his colleagues, he says that if he's right, the trees will give him a sign. At this point, the tree leaps from the ground and moves far away.
The other rabbis tell Rabbi Eliezer that the movement of the trees was not evidence of what he was arguing. Rabbi Eliezer then says if the halacha (legal ruling) is according to him, an irrigation canal will give them a sign. The canal begins to flow backwards, but again the other rabbis are not convinced. Rabbi Eliezer cries out, "If the halakha is in accordance with my opinion, the walls of the study hall will prove it." The walls of the study hall are about to fall by leaning forward, but are then scolded by Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah who reprimands the walls for interfering in a debate among scholars. Out of respect for Rabbi Joshua, they do not continue to fall, but out of respect for Rabbi Eliezer, they do not return to their original place (elu v'elu). In frustration, Rabbi Eliezer finally argues that if the halakha is according to his opinion, God himself will say so. God then speaks directly to the arguing rabbis, saying that Rabbi Eliezer's opinion is correct. Rabbi Joshua responds, "It [the Torah] is not in heaven." Upon hearing Rabbi Joshua's response, God laughed and stated, "My children have defeated me!"
The story highlights the triumph of a human legal ruling over a divine ruling. It is epitomized by the aphorism, Lo bashamayim hi: לא בשמים היא ("It, (the legal ruling), is not in heaven")—Rabbi Yehoshua's response, asserting that the Torah is decided by majority rule among human scholars, not through divine intervention.
One final note. Reverting back to your initial mention of the rabbinic aphorism, Elu v'elu divrei Elohim chayim, "these and those are the words of the living God. This referred to the frequent Talmudic disputes between the school of Hillel (the progressive school) and the school of Shammai (the conservative school). Though the Talmudic ruling more frequently favored the school of Hillel, nonetheless, "these and those" implies that each has equal legitimacy in the eyes of God.
Moving forward in the development of the ongoing legal disputes among the sages, we have this: Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus represented Beit (school of) Shammai. He was known for a conservative, literalist approach to the law that relied heavily on received tradition rather than human innovation. His stance in the debate reflected the Shammaite view that focused on the literal meaning. Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah, on the other hand, represented Beit Hillel. His approach was more innovative and emphasized the human role in interpretation. By invoking the majority rule and declaring that the Torah is "not in heaven," he championed the Hillelite principle of communal consensus and legal flexibility. In essence, Beit Hillel, following the stance of its originator, moved with the changing times rather than adhering to the status quo. (This bears striking overtones, Scott, to the distinction you were making in your approach to Aikido.)
This debate between Eliezer and Joshua is often seen as the final "showdown" where the Hillelite majority definitively overruled the Shammaite minority, establishing that human rabbinic authority and majority rule—not miracles or heavenly voices—would be the final word in Jewish law. In this, one can hear the rumblings of a fledgling democracy.
Belvedere!