קאווע שטיבל

[left]I argue that the rabbinic acceptance of confrontation was, in part, fueled by a radical conception of God that was distinctive of the late rabbinic period. Assuming a humanlike body and emotions, the rabbinic God was not understood to be an unapproachable being, but a relational character who participates as a member in society, albeit a privileged one. Indeed, the divine is not reflected upon in isolation as in medieval Jewish philosophy or mysticism, but rather characterized as an entity yearning to be in direct relation to others. Going beyond the moderate anthropomorphism of the Hebrew Bible, the rabbinic God suffers, laughs, cries, kisses people, studies Torah in a yeshiva, follows the commandments (mitzvot), and even spends His time matchmaking and sporting with Leviathan, the monster of the sea. In short, this study proposes that the late rabbinic valorization of theological protest is animated by a distinctive rabbinic theology that reflects the heightened humanity and personality assumed by the rabbinic God

Finally, this book posits that some sages in the late rabbinic period took the theology of divine humanization to its extreme. They did not automatically assume a morally perfect deity. While fundamentally good, God, like His human creations, does not always make the correct ethical choice. Hence, the act of protest was not deemed a futile expression but one that, in the imagined biblical period at least, could propel God to recognize His ethical shortcomings. Indeed, the widespread motif of divine moral concessions, particularly in the midrashim of Tanḥuma-Yelammedenu, suggests that scholars ought to consider modifying and nuancing their assumption that the sages always imagined God to be morally perfect. For example, in the first half of the twentieth century, Arthur Marmorstein argued that the tannaim (early rabbis) adamantly defended the existence of an ethically infallible God to counter the Marcionite heresy that viewed the Hebrew Bible’s God as ruthless and unjust. Here, Marmorstein does not take into account the possibility that this rigid Jewish attitude may have waned over time. Similarly, David Weiss Halivni asserts that the rabbis never consciously set their own sense of morality above a straightforward reading of a “difficult” biblical law since that would have implied that God’s morality was in error — and the “Perfect Law Giver” could never err. And, as noted above, Halbertal has argued that the ancient rabbis conceived of God in perfectly righteous terms. For Halbertal, even those early sages who granted interpretive weight to their own moral convictions did so only because they confidently believed their ethical values intuited God’s perfect morality.

However, as some late rabbinic passages show God acquiescing to a number of moral critiques, they present a radically different conception of God from the rabbinic texts adduced by Marmorstein, Halivni, and Halbertal. Constructing a “human” God who is not morally perfect, these images sharply contrast with the unchanging and morally infallible God championed by much of ancient Greek philosophy, early Christian thought, and medieval Jewish philosophy. In some aggadot, although God is concerned with and committed to justice and morality, He also recognizes His limitations and fallibility. Most radically, in some of these aggadot, God is willing to reform His methods of governing the world after receiving human input. Thus, in this study, I suggest that, unlike the image of God presented throughout most of the Bible, this late rabbinic God is not the ultimate moral sovereign. Rather than imitating God’s own actions, the rules of ethical conduct now emerge through dialogues between God and various biblical heroes. In addition, while these texts imply a profound lesson about divine morality and the possibility of change, they also point, in accordance with the thinking of the late religious humanist David Hartman, to human dignity and empowerment. God, according to some rabbis, reaches the pinnacle of ethical action through His dialogues with mortals. In this way, they grant significant religious value to human moral sensibilities

[left]I argue that the pro-protest position was nurtured and fueled by a distinctive rabbinic theology, one that culminated in the post-amoraic period. And that theology can be described as the humanization of God. It is only against this conceptual backdrop that some sages could comfortably accept the protest motif

. . .

In the 1990s and 2000s, however, revisionist scholars such as Michael Fishbane and Moshe Idel sought to break Maimonides’ philosophical hold on rabbinic theology. As part of their larger projects treating Jewish myth and mysticism, respectively, they stressed the discontinuities between early rabbinic and later philosophical thought. Reading talmudic and midrashic texts without the guiding hand of Maimonides, Fishbane and Idel have shown that the rabbis of old conceived of God as an evolving, mythical, and corporeal deity who is a player in the world’s events rather than merely its determiner. In these moments of divine transformation, what Idel calls “theurgy,” God not only affects humans via His decisions but, like the mythic gods of antiquity, God is also deeply affected by the actions of humans. Fishbane and Idel argue that the rabbinic God is not an unchanging, transcendent, and omnipotent being like the God of Maimonides, but a highly protean and vulnerable God who seeks and yearns for acts of human righteousness to solidify His power. Because they refuse to sideline vivid anthropomorphic imagery or reinterpret it as metaphor, Fishbane and Idel designate the rabbis as mythmakers rather than philosophers. As such, they reject Gershom Scholem’s famous assertion that medieval mystical “Kabbalism” represents a sharp break from the anti-mythic stance of “Rabbinism.”[/left]

[left]Not surprisingly, in over two dozen cases the rabbis appropriate parables when crafting their challenges to God. In these instances, the King of the World is often compared to a human king who abuses his power, applies disproportionate justice, or, in a general sense, acts irrationally and capriciously. But God is likened to other characters as well, such as a hypocritical teacher; an absent-minded father or husband; an insensitive creditor; or an incompetent owner, watchman, or craftsman. According to [David] Stern, these parables and analogies serve as the “best index of standards by which to measure God’s deeds” as the problematic nature of God’s actions emerges more vividly and concretely when presenting them in human terms.[/left]

[left]God is astonishingly described as being corrected on moral grounds, admitting his mistake, and righting the morally flawed situation for which He was responsible . . . Leah’s confrontation is cited as a model of religious conduct. According to the Tanhumah, one is not supposed to suppress prayers of anguish, or to always accept the dreadful as the work of a perfect judge. On the contrary, God, the Tanhumah all but states openly, is simply not the all-perfect judge, and should not be treated as such by anyone! To act in supreme religious righteousness is to act like Leah, and call God to task whenever one suspects He has ruled wrongly[/left]

[left]The use of [moral protests] . . . reveals a decidedly ethical, normative conception of God and of His relationship to man, predicated on the assumption of a stable ethical order in the universe that was established by God and is sustained by Him. Justice is the fundamental concept in the Jewish ethico-religious worldview[/left]

[left]Of course, it is very likely that a deeper sociological concern (whether conscious or not) also played a role: a rabbinic concern for protecting their own power and authority. Were critiques of God an acceptable act, the rabbis themselves might be exposed to critiques as well. We have already seen this teaching in BT Sanhedrin 110a: “Rabbi Abahu said: Whoever critiques his Rabbi, it is as if he critiques the Shekhinah [God]. Could one not make the reverse claim as well: Whoever critiques God it is as if he is critiquing the rabbis? Indeed, the rabbinic project to establish and heighten their authority in the centuries after 70 Ce has recently received an abundance of attention

. . .

Beyond entertaining the synagogue audiences (rhetorical dimension), rabbinic protest narratives also serve to bolster rabbinic authority (sociological function). The rabbis, to varying degrees, saw themselves as successors to biblical heroes and prophets. Accordingly, the exegetical move to intensify the dialogical power of biblical characters in relation to God might also serve to heighten the sages’ own power in the eyes of the masses. This claim — that human challenges to God elevate the challenger in the eyes of the people — is offered by Rabbi Judah bar Ilai (second century) in the context of Moses’ dialogues with God: “In order that the people may hear when I speak with you [Exod. 19:9]: Rabbi Judah [bar Ilai] says: From where can you say that the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moses, ‘Behold I will say something to you, and you will challenge Me, and I will accede to you, in order that Israel will say, “Great is Moses, for God acceded to him.”’ As it is said: And so trust you ever after (Exod. 19:9)” (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Baḥodesh, 2 and 4). According to Judah bar Ilai, God and Moses at Sinai were engaged in a fake debate in order to bolster Moses’ authority in the eyes of the people. In each of these staged give-and-takes, God ultimately “concedes” to Moses’ point of view. Similarly, the rabbis themselves may generate protests as a means to strengthen their own authority[/left]

[left]What is clear is this: the book of Job insists that suffering may be left unexplained. If we hope to offer actual justifications of God's justice, we are bound to fail. We are forced, if we follow the Jobian direction, to be agnostic with respect to the matter of theodicy.

But Job's narrative raised another problem: How are we to respond to apparent injustice? Does piety require absolute acceptance, or is it legitimate to question and challenge?In the end, it is the Lord who answers this question by affirming the position of Job: "I am incensed," the Lord says to Eliphaz, "at you and your two friends, for you have not spoken the truth [or, better, "properly"] about Me as did my servant Job" (42:7, 8). So, whatever the nature of God's substantive answer to Job's plight, we are left with the unambiguous realization that the explanations offered by Job's colleagues were not necessary! God does not require that we blindly defend the divine system of justice. The pious individual may legitimately challenge and question, and God approves of doing so. Whether or not later Jews would agree, the canonical status of this view meant that protest would never again have to be judged unacceptable[/left]

[left]while recognizing the prohibition of hirhur, some rabbis deeply desired to engage with God in hirhur. While defending the absurdity of critiquing God conceptually, some rabbis yearned to do so emotionally[/left]

[left]On the rabbinic reception of transgenerational punishment, see Arthur Marmorstein, The Doctrine of Merits in Old Rabbinical Literature (London: Oxford University Press, 1920); Schechter, Aspects of Rabbinic Theology, 185–89. Whereas Schechter attempts to accentuate the rabbinic denial of transgenerational punishment, Marmorstein attempts to show the punishment’s acceptance. (One can see that each author had an agenda, for rarely do they cite the same texts[/left]

[left]As Michael Fishbane has thoroughly documented, this doctrine posed serious theological problems to subsequent Israelite exegetes. Within the Bible itself, Israelite authors struggled with, revised, or rejected outright the earlier doctrine. For example:

The author of Lamentations (5:7) accentuates the injustice of transgenerational punishment when declaring, in light of the destruction of the First Temple, that “our fathers sinned . . . but, as for us, the punishment of their iniquities we must bear.”

The prophet Ezekiel openly rejects the problematic doctrine altogether. Justifying its abrogation through a revelatory experience, he declares: “A child shall not share the burden of a parent’s guilt, nor shall a parent share the burden of a child’s guilt” (Ezek. 18:20). According to Jon Levenson, by innovating this new theology Ezekiel communicates to the Judeans “that the guilt of the ancestors which caused the destruction of the Juhadite kingdom and the ensuing exile does not condemn their current descendants to unending misery.”

Jeremiah (31:28–29) also abrogates the theology, although he argues that the abrogation will take place at some future time

Deuteronomy 7:9–10, which scholars date to the exilic period, has Moses rejecting transgenerational punishment, positing that those who hate God will be punished immediately

As Michael Fishbane and Bernard Levinson have shown, these inner-biblical rejections of transgenerational punishment are quite subtle, if not subversive, as they never openly admit revoking the older authoritative dictum. Ezekiel rhetorically draws on language from Deuteronomy 24:16, which rejects transgenerational punishment only in human courts and simply extends it to the divine realm. On this move, see the contrasting formulations in Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation, 338–39; Levinson, “You Must Not Add,” 33, 34. Moreover, Ezekiel only claims to abrogate a well-known folk saying (“fathers eat sour grapes and their children’s teeth are set on edge”) rather than a previous divine revelation. As Levinson puts it, “Ezekiel . . . uses the proverb as a strategic foil to the far more theologically problematic act of effectively nullifying a divine law.” Levinson, “You Must Not Add,” 33. And, quite cleverly, as Fishbane notes, the exilic author of Deuteronomy 7:9–10 camouflages its radical rejection of the earlier doctrine of Deuteronomy 5 by citing that very verse, Deuteronomy 5, but citing it incorrectly. Fishbane puts the point this way: “With one stroke, later tradition thoroughly controverted an earlier revelation, and authenticated its novel viewpoint by means of a presumptive misquote”[/left]

[left]God is astonishingly described as having produced a morally deficient early draft of the Torah, [and then] Moses is portrayed as having refused to comply, and having challenged it on moral grounds. . . . [The theology] is subsequently described as having been happily revised by virtue of God accepting Moses’ superior moral judgment[/left]

[left]Why would the rabbis reject the notion that innocent children are punished for the sins of their parents when interpreting Exodus 20 but at the same time produce new teachings that promote ancestral guilt? While this inconsistency might point to differences of opinion among individual rabbis, it more probably reflected internal tensions within rabbinic culture at large. Indeed, the rabbis privileged individual responsibility as a default position, but they also argued for familial responsibility, even for the innocent, when responding to certain impulses, pressures, and concerns, such as those mentioned above: theodicean, polemical, rhetorical, and hermeneutical. These varying rabbinic agendas naturally generate inconsistent teachings. Competing rabbinic voices and values inhere comfortably within the literary discourse of nonlegal Midrash, which, by its very nature, is terse, fragmentary, and unsystematic[/left]

[left]One is reminded of a story by Eli Wiesel about a trial of God by three Talmudic scholars at Auschwitz. They listened to witnesses and weighed evidence for several evenings, finally issuing a unanimous judgment. "The Lord God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, was found guilty of crimes against creation and humankind.” And then, after what Wiesel calls an infinity of silence, the Talmudic scholars looked at the sky and said, 'It's time for evening prayers,' and the members of the Tribunal recited Maariv, the evening service[/left]

[left]In the end, theoretical treatments of theodicy do not suffice, for concepts of God that do not accord with reality, however inspiring, amount to little more than proverbial whistling in the dark[/left]

Obviously, there were those Jewish scholars at and after 500 bce who were inclined to defend God against this accusation. They wanted to protect God at all cost, sort of like an abused child wants to protect the parent at all cost, because if the parent is bad what does the child have left? That means that where he or she is plugged into the universe, things are flawed. Hence, it shapes the child's own image of self. The scholars trying to protect God wanted to write a theodicy that kept God pristine and perfect, even if they needed to blame humans, indeed themselves, for the rise of evil in this world. So they found an old fertility myth in Babylon and turned it into the fall story in Genesis 3.

What a really dumb idea, because that does not get God off the hook. Either the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent God, who is the creator and cause behind everything, caused evil or he let it happen. He willed it or did not will its prevention. He permitted it, at least. There are no other options. In either case the issue goes all the way back to God. As President Harry Truman said, “The buck stops with the big guy.”

[left]Here a protest against the severity of the punishment seems implicit, inspired by the Torah's pervading vision: it is wrong to punish the innocent

. . .

The central thesis of this paper is that an analysis of the sources dealing with the punishment of Amalek will enable us to reach conclusions regarding the status of morality in the Jewish tradition. These conclusions rest on two assumptions, which at times are made explicit and at times are accepted implicitly. First, it is not assumed that a normative conflict prevails between morality and religion, and no attempt is made to justify Amalek's punishment in terms of this conflict. Second, it is not assumed that morality is dependent on religion, and no attempt is made to claim either that the punishment was morally justified because God commanded it or that God determines morality.

God's command is assumed to rely on moral reasons, and these moral
reasons endow the command with moral value and determine its normative, halakhic articulation. In other words, Jewish tradition acknowledges the autonomy of morality and assumes that divine commands abide by moral considerations.

. . .

In other words, not every religious obligation necessarily expresses a moral good to which we should aspire, and therefore a religious obligation is not necessarily a criterion for what is morally right

. . .

evidence points to the presence of a trend seeking to reformulate halakhic norms so as to bring them in line with morality[/left]

[left]The moral approach is preferred by its supporters on the grounds that a literal reading may at times cast doubts on the notion that God is a good God. Advocates of the literal trend take issue precisely with this point. Although they accept that the text is usually read within a broader context, they do not believe that this context — including an assumption of God's goodness — can be used to change the text's clear meaning. The context might be useful in instances of textual ambiguity, they argue, but the punishment of Amalek is an explicit command and, therefore, we must assume that it is also morally correct

The difference between the moral and literal trends is not that one endorses a thesis claiming that morality depends on religion while the other endorses moral autonomy. Both trends argue that the Torah's commands must accord with moral considerations, but whereas the literal trend strives to justify the text as is, the moral trend strives to reinterpret the text in the light of moral assumptions. Echoes of this dispute can be detected not only in canonical talmudic texts; this is a polemic that, not surprisingly, continues to be relevant today. When believers are committed to the canonical text as well as to their own moral understandings, this dialectic process is inevitable. While all approaches agree in assuming that the instructions of the Torah correspond with morality and that morality is independent of religion, they reflect different views of the relevance of moral consciousness to the interpretation of the text and to the norms compelled by it[/left]

[left]It has frequently been observed that whatever their purely philosophical successes, classical theodicies sometimes seem to have little relevance in the lives of many religious believers, even philosophers, whose faith, so far as I can tell from reading and experience, seems untouched by their philosophical subtleties[/left]

[left]In Judaism, he [Soloveitchik] writes, the fundamental question is: What obligation does suffering impose upon man? This question is greatly beloved by Judaism, and she has placed it at the very center of her world of thought[/left]

[left]while authenticity may be a virtue, speculation per se is hardly a vice. It may very well be that speculation will yield no authentically satisfying human response to the problem of evil and suffering. But why isn't speculation itself considered an active, creative response to the human condition? Why isn't the courageous human effort to understand the mysteries of the cosmos itself a reflection of the undauntable human intellect — a point Soloveitchik himself makes in his essay "U-Bikashetem Mi-Sham"?

. . .

If there is good evidence against God's existence, traditionally conceived, then simply asserting that Judaism provides reasons for sticking my head in existentialist sand does not get me very far[/left]

[left]the atheologian maintains that belief in an omni-benevolent, omnipotent, omniscient being is inconsistent with empirical evidence that evil exists. The usual strategies for solving this problem, as noted above, have been to deny the existence of evil on metaphysical grounds, or to qualify in some way one or more of God's "omni-" attributes. Are these the only strategies available? Might there not be resources, beliefs, or attitudes within a particular faith tradition that themselves eliminate the purported inconsistency? The argument of the atheologian will work only if he or she demonstrates an inconsistency among beliefs that the theist in fact holds. If the theist doesn't hold those beliefs, then the atheologian has failed to demonstrate any irrationality. Consider, for example, the following imaginary atheological argument against Judaism: Judaism must be false because it maintains that God maximizes aesthetic pleasure, but empirical evidence shows that aesthetic pleasure in our world is not maximal. Now it is perfectly obvious that this argument fails, since one of its premises is false. Judaism does not, after all, maintain that God is an aesthetic plea- sure maximizer. Therefore we have no evidence that Judaism is false

In an important essay, Marilyn McCord Adams, who developed and popularized this way of thinking about the problem of evil, formulates the point this way: "Where the internal coherence of a system is at stake, successful arguments for its inconsistency must draw on premises internal to that system or obviously acceptable to its adherents.” While the strategy limned here, which might be called "internalist," is designed specifically to address the atheologian, it highlights an important feature of religious belief systems generally: they provide a comprehensive picture of the world to their adherents. Canons of logic are surely relevant to those who are both religious and rationalist. Nevertheless, what counts as problematic for the system depends upon what the system itself teaches. While this might seem a truism, its implications are far reaching

The internalist strategy outlined thus far appears promising enough as a strategy, and indeed it is by now widely acknowledged. Troubles arise, however, when the Jewish philosopher reads on. For the applications of this strategy in the literature smack strongly of Christian values and beliefs, altogether foreign to Judaism. Thus, McCord Adams, who in her essay addresses the problem of horrendous evils like the Holocaust, argues that certain goods "engulf horrendous evils and are incommensurate with them. These include the good of identifying with Christ, who himself, Christians believe, suffered horrendous evil for all humankind; the good of heavenly beatitude that is the reward for suffering horrendously; and the vision of God that may come by way of horrendous suffering. Based on the autobiographical writings of Simone Weil, Diogenes Allen likewise argues that suffering can yield the most perfect experience of Godly love to which humans have access, and that this good is incommensurate with the evil of suffering. Eleonore Stump suggests that evil is what she calls the mirror of good, that it is only the experience of evil that yields the most profound appreciation and experience of God's very goodness

All of these approaches share a common Christian appreciation for suffering following upon the model sufferer, Jesus himself. For exactly this reason, all of these approaches might seem problematic to the non-Christian, just as it is foreign to the spirit of Judaism, in which the predominant view is that suffering is bad, as Soloveitchik himself observes along with many others. But if the approaches developed by Marilyn McCord Adams, Diogenes Allen, and Eleonore Stump are Jewishly and — some might even wish to argue — morally problematic, the overall strategy is not. In fact, I think that the best way to read "Kol Dodi Dofek" is as a precursor to, and a Jewish version of, internalism

Halakhocentric
Judaism teaches, according to Soloveitchik, that to be truly human is to act to make oneself and the world better, and not to ponder fruitlessly the metaphysical mysteries of the cosmic economy. The very posing of the question in metaphysical terms betrays a profound misunderstanding of what it means to be a human being, indeed, makes no human sense at all. But, the atheologian might object, this is irrational. For, on the one hand, you admit that evil exists, and, on the other, you affirm belief in an omniscient, omnipotent, omni-benevolent God. These propositions are inconsistent. If you accept the basic standards of rationality, then you must qualify or deny one or more of these beliefs

To this objection Soloveitchik would respond: Judaism teaches that to require a rational resolution of this inconsistency is itself irrational. For human rationality — the only sort to which humans have access — mandates a behavioral, not a metaphysical, response. The formulation of the problem as metaphysical rather than experiential is, according to Judaism, a profound category mistake. Therefore, there is no irrationality to the Jewish belief system. But, the atheologian would in turn object, haven't you committed a logical fallacy here by begging the question against theistic belief through appeal to a Jewish, and therefore theistic, value? To this objection Soloveitchik would respond in true internalist spirit: Your atheological argument rests on the claim that the theistic system is irrational, either because it affirms inconsistent beliefs or because it begs the question. But I have just shown you that the Jewish belief system neither affirms inconsistent beliefs nor begs the question, and is not irrational for the reasons you adduce. No one requires me to accept the Jewish belief system. But if I do, for reasons of my own, then I am not guilty of your charge of irrationality[/left]

[left]How does one construct a Jewish theodicy? A simple and tempting answer goes like this: One takes Jewish sources – Bible, Talmud, Midrash, medieval and modern Jewish philosophies – and extracts from them the dominant opinion about why there is evil. Voilà – there is your Jewish theodicy

The task, unfortunately, is hardly this simple. First, there are many theodicies in Jewish tradition, and it is difficult if not arbitrary to isolate one as dominant. Jewish theodicies contradict one another with respect to such major questions as the extent of divine intervention in the world and the correctness of divine approval theories of goodness. Second, numerous traditional sources despair of ever coming up with a correct theodicy. Third, the method I described seems to be purely historical and interpretive, rather than philosophical. The Jewish philosopher wants not only to describe and interpret what Jews have thought (both formidable tasks, to be sure), but also to do normative work – to assess whether what they have thought is convincing

I propose that, for a Jewish philosopher, a Jewish theodicy should satisfy two desiderata: (1) overlap or at least connectivity, or at the very least, compatibility with Jewish tradition, and (2) philosophical cogency. There is no guarantee that the theodicy that is the most cogent philosophically is dominant in Jewish tradition, or even connected with it at all, or even compatible with Jewish theological ideas; in the last two cases, it is not clear in what sense it is a Jewish theodicy. If a theodicy is constructed as a fusion, however cohesive, of scattered elements in the tradition, its Jewishness is diminished because the theodicy per se is not in the tradition. Thus, whereas many philosophers look for explanations of evil that “work” without asking whether they can work within particular religious traditions, the Jewish philosopher’s task would be to either find a theodicy with a reasonably loud voice in tradition and show it is philosophically cogent, or take a cogent theodicy and locate it reasonably well in the tradition, or build a theodicy out of elements in the tradition. The “Jewishness” of the theodicy will be a matter of degree, and the Jewish philosopher might compromise on Jewishness for the sake of cogency[/left]

[left]even if Judaism has no special answers to the challenge of theodicy, it carries the burden of a special question. Time after time, God announces that He has a special relationship and covenant with the Jewish people; time after time, as the prophets and the psalmist and innumerable later authors painfully bemoan, He seems to break His promises and renege on the covenant. Over and over the Jewish people endure large-scale persecution and destruction. For Judaism, therefore, the problem is dual: one, evil to individuals and groups, whether Jewish or non-Jewish, and, two, evil to Jewish communities in particular. Post-Holocaust Jewish thought is especially rife with theologies that focus not just on evil per se (sufferings, deaths, and murders), but on the seemingly broken promise, and Jewish thought in general deals heavily with Jewish communal suffering and death[/left]

[left]the ancient sources that classically were, and still are, vital in assessing Jewish authenticity – Bible, Talmud, and Midrash – generate a pool of approaches to evil that were elaborated and treated more rigorously in subsequent times. The classic sources are not philosophical treatises. Theological views often have to be teased out of stories and anecdotes, and explicit theological statements in the classic sources tend to be pithy, aphoristic, ambiguous, cryptic, tantalizing, and contradictory – which makes interpretation immensely challenging and interesting[/left]

[left]Finally, while knowing that some Jewish sources say otherwise, I will assume here that there is a standard of goodness independent of God’s will and God’s approval, a position effectively argued for by Leibniz (Discourse on Metaphysics, 2). To add to Leibniz, “God saw that all He made was very good” (Genesis 1:31), says more than “God saw that He very much approved of what He had made.”[/left]

[left]The Bible and the Sages thus observed that the retributivist theodicy does not coordinate with experience. In addition, retributivist theodicy can become an exercise in blaming the victim

. . .

Nevertheless, we must ask: How would a Jewish thinker who rejects retributivism explain the many texts in the Talmud and countless later sources that mandate that, when people or communities are struck by suffering, they must “examine their deeds” and repent (e.g. Berakhot 5a)? How can sufferers be so sure they have sinned, if we reject the retributivist theodicy? In reply, recent Jewish thinkers maintain that these sources are not urging the sufferer to find a causal account of his or her suffering, but to use the suffering as an opportunity for spiritual repair and improvement (e.g., Hartman 1985, 196). The person acts as if the suffering were punishment, and therefore scrutinizes his or her faults. I have dealt with this approach elsewhere – it is not easy to elucidate, and is not the texts’ obvious meaning – and touch on it later here (Shatz 2009a, 294–297; see also Stump 1997). Note, though, that Jewish texts which presuppose that suffering is retribution deal with self-examination. Talmudic sages strongly tend to attribute sins to others only if the sufferer asks them to explain the cause of the suffering. (See, e.g., Avot de-Rabbi Natan 2, 38. See also Cohen 2000[/left]

[left]The axiological-shift theodicy, however, does not readily apply to children, nonhuman animals, and adults lacking certain capacities; furthermore, it would make evils that destroy the capacity for morally significant behavior even more difficult for a theist to explain. Thus, the axiological-shift theodicy cannot be a comprehensive one; it must be complemented by other theodicies[/left]

[left]Perhaps the most startling Talmudic statement on theodicy is that “Length of life, children and sustenance depend not on one’s merit but on mazzala [astrological influence]” (Moed Katan 28a). Here the sage Rava removes these three important types of goods or tribulations from the realm of direct divine activity and places them in the hands of what were in his time considered the laws of nature. Rava came to his view by contrasting the radically different lives of two equally righteous sages with regard to the three goods he named. Although Rava here provides a causal explanation of tribulations, his view is not a justification of God’s ways. For he does not explain, as a theodicist would, why God runs the world in this way – why does He not distribute longevity, children, and sustenance based on merit, instead of letting nature take its course? Like the aforementioned Rabbi Jacob, who saw an innocent child fall and die, Rava was persuaded by experience to abandon (in certain areas) a retributivist theodicy

Most likely discomfited by Rava’s semi-naturalistic approach, and buttressed by another Talmudic discussion (BT Shabbat 156a), some commentators posit that a righteous person can override the constellations by good deeds. But if good deeds override the constellations, why did not the two sages whose lives Rava compared enjoy identical boons? Both Rava’s and Rabbi Jacob’s dicta open up space in Judaism for a theodicy that views God as an infrequent intervener in this world – even though neither sage explains why God restrains Himself, but only gives evidence that He restrains Himself, and even though their views do not entail that He does not intervene much in nature. A metaphysics that allows little divine intervention gains considerable Jewish authenticity from the large degree of naturalism in medieval Jewish philosophy, for example, in Maimonides. Some thinkers restricted direct divine reward and punishment in this world to a small group – the exceptionally righteous and the exceptionally wicked – and even those exceptions were explained in a sense naturally[/left]

[left]Reading and judging God’s thoughts, even challenging God, are not per se objectionable. What a theodicist should also say in response to the arrogance objection is this: there are cases and there are cases. The arrogance objection is right that one’s approach to theodicy can sometimes reflect a religiously objectionable attitude, for example, judging God. But others might be humbly seeking understanding of His ways, just as they do by trying to find teleology in the physical universe. There is no good across-the-board objection to producing theodicies – it all depends on attitude. Theodicists must approach the project with a consciousness of human fallibility and a measure of trepidation. Establishing the religious permissibility of trying to read and judge God’s mind requires that the theodicist privilege some sources over others, but privileging is inevitable in a rich and complex religious tradition[/left]

[left]What we walk away with from our survey-cum-analysis of classic Jewish sources is that, although retributivist themes are very common, there is precedent for all of the following:

Denying that all suffering and death is punishment for sin

Explaining evils (some or perhaps many) by reference to laws of nature. (Of course human free choice is another recognized explanation)

Embracing the core claim of the Soul-Making Theodicy that evil promotes certain virtues. Philosophers argue that evil is logically necessary for the development of certain virtues[/left]

מי אני האט געשריבן:ער מאכט א חילוק צווישן 4 סארטן טעאדיסיס:

‏1). יוּניווערסאליסט - וואס די הנחות דערפון וואלטן אפילו אטעאיסטן אָנגענומען [צב״ש אז די טוב פון בחירה חופשית איז מער ווי די רע פון די צער בעולם; דאס דערמאנט נישט בעצם ״ג-ט״ אין די הנחה]

מי אני האט געשריבן:עס איז אויך מערקווידיג אינעם שמועס צוצוצייכענען צום מאמר העולם, ״אויב די וועלט וואלט געווען פּערפעקט וואלט עס נישט געווען פּערפעקט.״

ברוינשטיין האט געשריבן:

מי אני האט געשריבן:ער מאכט א חילוק צווישן 4 סארטן טעאדיסיס:

‏1). יוּניווערסאליסט - וואס די הנחות דערפון וואלטן אפילו אטעאיסטן אָנגענומען [צב״ש אז די טוב פון בחירה חופשית איז מער ווי די רע פון די צער בעולם; דאס דערמאנט נישט בעצם ״ג-ט״ אין די הנחה]

אטעאיסטן גלויבן אין בחירה חופשית?

ברוינשטיין האט געשריבן:ווי אויך פארשטיי איך נישט די חשבון אז די טוב פון בחירה חופשית איז מער פון די צער בעולם, אפשר איז ער מסביר מער באריכות אין ענגליש, אבער ס'איז מיר שווער צו ליינען ענגליש אויף אזאנע קאמפלעצירטע טעמעס.

ברוינשטיין האט געשריבן:

מי אני האט געשריבן:עס איז אויך מערקווידיג אינעם שמועס צוצוצייכענען צום מאמר העולם, ״אויב די וועלט וואלט געווען פּערפעקט וואלט עס נישט געווען פּערפעקט.״

וואס הייסט?

[left]Nevertheless, Nahmanides was forced by the Bible, the halakhah, and intuitions influenced by philosophy or common sense or both, to recognize that natural law often does operate — even for Jews and probably even for the Jewish collective. Consequently, a careful examination of the totality of Nahmanides’ comments on this issue reveals nature in operation ninety-nine percent of the time, and it is perforce nature without providence, since “natural,” indirect providence is a contradiction in terms. Nahmanides’ world is therefore exceptionally — extraordinarily — naturalistic precisely because of his insistence on the miraculous nature of providence[/left]

ודע כי הנסים לא יעשו לטובה או לרעה רק לצדיקים גמורים או לרשעים גמורים אבל הבינונים כדרך מנהגו של עולם יעשה בהם טובה או רעה כדרכם וכעלילותם

כי ידיעת השם שהיא השגחתו בעולם השפל היא לשמור הכללים וגם בני האדם מונחים בו למקרים עד בא עת פקודתם אבל בחסידיו ישום אליו לבו לדעת אותו בפרט להיות שמירתו דבקה בו תמיד לא תפרד הידיעה והזכירה ממנו כלל כטעם לא יגרע מצדיק עיניו (איוב לו ז) ובאו מזה פסוקים רבים כדכתיב (תהלים לג יח) הנה עין ה' אל יראיו וזולת זה.

[left]The whole of natural reality is religiously irrelevant — “the world pursues its course”... God is not revealed in natural reality, and the claim of “God’s hand” in a natural event bears traces of pantheism or polytheism... No meaning should be sought in history that, like nature, is meaningless... and no religious aura should be attached to the course of history[/left]

[left]Another traditional theodicy that potentially requires libertarian free will is that God brings about or allows evil as punishment for sin. Now no feature of hard determinism per se rules out a deterrence theory or a moral education theory of punishment, but retributivism, as it is usually conceived, would be precluded. What is lost as a result? It is implausible to think that in William Rowe’s example, the five-year-old girl deserves to be punished by being raped and beaten by virtue of anything she has done. Does an ordinary person, never having committed a serious crime, and who is not in any other respect an extraordinary sinner, deserve to suffer from a lengthy, painful, and fatal disease as punishment for the wrongs he has done? Our judicial system would regard punishment of this sort for serious crimes as monstrous. Imagine if we were to punish murderers by inducing such suffering – who would find that conscionable?

Someone might reply that because each of us deserves an eternity of torture, a fortiori each of us also deserves suffering of this sort. But because it is doubtful that anyone genuinely understands why we all might deserve punishment of this degree as a matter of retributive justice alone, this line of thought does not promise a plausible theodicy. Let me emphasize that even thinking of ordinary people as deserving a long and painful disease, for example, would constitute a serious revision in our moral practice, for in that practice, sympathy without reservation is the appropriate response[/left]

[left]The starting assumption of the theodicean discourse is God’s characterization as a good God. Since God is perceived as morally good, an evil reality is perceived as a contradiction to God’s existence. In this discourse, the good is apprehended as a “common attribute” of God and humanity, and this partnership enables the theodicean discourse. Goldman, however, argues that the good is not necessarily a common feature:

When we speak of a red house, a red book, red wine, and so forth, the term “red” appears as a common attribute of various objects... By contrast, when we speak of a good book, a good cobbler, or a good teacher, the attribute leading us to claim that a particular one is good is different in each case. The term “good” is evaluative. In each of the contexts we use it, we assume a criterion that we generally use in that particular context and serves us to evaluate objects or actions positively or negatively. The use of the term “good” in two different contexts does not prove that we are using the same criterion in both cases

This analysis attests that the shared component of these modes of use in the term “good” is merely formal and therefore entirely empty: “good” is an expression of judgment and evaluation but not necessarily moral judgment and evaluation. What, then, is the meaning of the term good in regard to God? Is it a moral evaluation? Goldman answers: “In the context of metaphysical methods used by classic theologians, the term [good] was intended as some kind of unique metaphysical perfection in God. Classic theology always stresses the metaphorical character of the term ‘good’ in reference to God”. Indeed, the use of the concept good in the sense pointed out by Goldman is prominent already in Platonic tradition: good is self-containment and independence from external elements. Plato formulates this as follows: “The good differs from everything else in a certain respect . . . A creature that possesses it permanently, completely, and absolutely, has never any need of anything else; its satisfaction is perfect.”

This analysis, however, does not entirely undermine the theodicean discourse because religious traditions in general, and Jewish ones in particular, abound with moral value statements about God. Even if Greek tradition and classic theology used “good” concerning God as denoting perfection and wholeness, we could still claim that religious traditions use “good” concerning God in its common moral denotation. To reject this option, Goldman engages in a series of moves. First, if we do indeed adhere to the language of Jewish tradition, assigning God only the quality of moral goodness would not fit the tradition itself:

This is a matter of choosing the convenient verses. Other descriptions could be cited— “jealous and vengeful” “full of wrath” “puts no trust in his servants”— showing an entirely different attitude of the Creator to his creatures. A suitable choice of biblical verses could even support a description of a cruel despot that Christians and liberal critics sometimes wish to present as the prophets’ description of God[/left]

[left]the criterion for evaluating the metaphysical theory is not the measure of its rationality or sophistication, but its ability to respond to true human needs. Its acceptance is contingent on its therapeutic powers, its “remedial energy.”[/left]

[left]In this text, Hartman lays the foundation for what will become a dominant element of his philosophy — the test of theodicy is not theoretical but practical. Theodicy cannot provide an absolute speculative solution to the problem of evil in the world; its ability to provide an answer is contingent upon the particular disposition of those who need it. Theodicy, then, has a socio-political rather than a metaphysical role. Hartman illustrates this approach with an analysis of various solutions that Maimonides proposes for suffering and pain. In his view, Maimonides was aware of the socio-political role of theodicy. Therefore: “In addressing the sufferer, one must be sensitive to the specific needs of the person in question. Because Maimonides [in the “Epistle to Yemen”] is trying to comfort and encourage a suffering community, he uses multiple models and suggestions directed at the different types of people comprising his audience.” This functional perception of theodicy enables Hartman to make two moves. The first is to explain the existence of a tradition endorsing theodicy in Judaism, and the second is to dismiss the metaphysical value of this approach and reexamine it. His conclusion is that theodicy is a cognitive answer to the problem of evil, whose sole test is the measure of its acceptance:

A constant gap between our perception of our relationship to a personal God and the reality of the world that we believe He created and rules is liable to give rise to repeated frustration. The question then is: How long can any attempt to cope with the frustration succeed in containing it? How long is it before we decide that the relationship no longer exists or that it is not worth having? To this question there is no single universal answer applicable equally to all human beings

Hartman can now argue that the various rabbinic responses to suffering, relating to it as “chastenings of love” or calls to repentance, can hardly be considered decisive answers to this question. In principle, we can hardly predict what response will comfort a suffering soul, and this is a matter contingent on the difference between human dispositions:

Some find the unpredictable dimensions of reality to be [so] overwhelming... For them, suffering is bearable if it results from the limitations of finite human beings, but it becomes terrifying and demonic if it is seen as part of the scheme of their all-powerful Creator. Others would find life unbearably chaotic if they could not believe that suffering, tragedy, and death were part of God’s plan for the world feeling that there is meaning and order in the world and that God in His wisdom decided to terminate the life of their loved ones makes their tragedy bearable

This approach continues the programmatic line that Soloveitchik had set originally, but is expressed more coherently in Hartman’s thought. From a pragmatic-empirical vantage point, the traditional theological discussion of the problem of evil is merely a “disruption,” since human beings do not opt for faith (or the alternative) as a function of theological or theodicean propositions. We can handle evil only by shifting the center of gravity to a life of actual faith. Hartman speaks of this displacement as a transition from “philosophical theology” to “religious anthropology”. The crucial question is not the one bearing on theology and theodicy but the religious-existentialist question. In this discussion, the key issue is the person’s ability to go on believing when faced with evil, not the justification of God. In Hartman’s terms, the main question is not theodicy, but the modes of response to suffering

Existentialist faith assumes that, structurally, the relationship with God resembles human interactions. Human relationships are constantly tested and contingent on real events, as well as on the baggage borne by each individual. Individuals have expectations from God, and relate to God as loving and just. The rift of evil casts doubts on the possibility of sustaining this view. People do not ask themselves whether God is right, but “how can I sustain commitment to a way of life predicated on God’s covenantal love and justice?” This question is doomed to remain open, since no universal, metaphysical single solution can provide answers to human distress

For Hartman, the practical-existential shift of the problem of evil and suffering is anchored in two mutually related considerations: one is human responsibility and freedom, and the other is covenantal theology. The theodicean view of suffering could hinder human readiness to act — if suffering, evil and pain are justified, why struggle against them?: “If we are to uphold the dignity implied by the notion of the covenant, with its full respect for ourselves as rational and moral beings, we must reject attempts to see all of nature and history as mediating God’s personal will”. This consideration is based both on the primary affirmation of human rationality and of our value as human creatures, and on the appropriate theology. The primary affirmation of human value is embodied in the refusal to adopt a disposition of constant guilt. This disposition is imperative for the endorsement of a theodicean view — if the God that is the cause of suffering and evil is right, human beings are guilty. Relentless guilt is a deep injury to a sense of worth, to the possibility of experiencing ourselves as free agents allowed to operate according to our own understanding. This theodicy, then, “in no way fits what we know about ourselves in reality”. In sum, a theodicy that justifies God humiliates human beings, affronts their dignity, their understanding of reality, and their freedom

In Hartman’s thought, this incongruence between human worthiness and a theodicean viewpoint conveys a deep incompatibility between theodicy and covenantal theology. Hartman’s philosophical endeavor is an attempt to reframe covenantal theology, which allows to present evil and suffering in religious-existentialist terms rather than in a theodicean context

Covenantal theology is based on the assumption that God and human beings act as partners entering a covenant — on the one hand, God as a personality, and on the other, the Jewish collective. Hartman clarifies in his analysis the meaning of this interpersonal partnership. The God of the covenant is not the “Aristotelian God” but a personality, meaning that causality categories are irrelevant: as a personality is multifaceted and unresponsive to this category, so is God

Similarly, the human partner also deserves dignity and respect: “the covenant encourages human dignity and initiative”. The covenant, wherein God enters into a partnership with human beings as creatures who are at once limited and free, is an affirmation of human existence in its finitude

Covenantal theology is based on a limitation of God’s role in the natural and historical world on the one hand, and on the imposition of responsibility on human beings on the other. The displacement of the burden of responsibility is evident, above all, in God’s removal from nature and history:

We do not have to seek a personal manifestation of God in the events of nature or of history. Suffering and human tragedy are not signs of divine rejection or punishment. God’s providential concern is manifested in the guidance provided by the Torah. God is present as a personal reality through the hearing of mitzvot

The meaning of this displacement implies a recognition of history’s and nature’s neutral character. Human beings are sovereign agents in history, and historical events are within the realm of human responsibility. The world has the regularity of nature, in which God never interferes. For Hartman, this approach is fully evident in Maimonides’ philosophy, which he analyzes at length. The neutralization of history and of nature is a full affirmation of reality: the only reality is immanent reality. It is neither justified by invoking a theodicy nor is it a stage in an eschatological outlook[/left]

מי אני האט געשריבן: דאס גייט סתם אזוי אין איינקלאנג מיט דר. עריק קאַלדעק׳ס טענה אז דאס׳ן הרג׳ענען איינעם איז מיניה וביה די גרעסטע צער וואס מ׳קען טוהן איינעם אפגעזעהן פון די טובה וואס קומט ארויס דערפון פאר אים דערנאך. .

He [R. N. Smart] also dispenses with the generally known fact that all people (with a few exceptions in extreme situations) like to live and would consider being killed not a benefit but as the greatest evil done to them

ווי קען א מענטש גיין אין זיך שיסן? רוב מענטשן זענען גרייט צו דורכגיין געוואלדיגע צער, און וועלן דאך זיך נישט נעמען דאס לעבן. טראץ אלע צער האבן זיי עפעס א געוויסע רוח חיים.

לאמיר אייך מיטטיילן א בדידי הוי עובדא: מיט א צען יאר צוריק האב איך עוסק געווען אין ראטעווען א אידיש קינד וואס איז געווען אין א סכנה פון טויט שטראף. איך האב געברענגט צום עולם'ס אויפמערקזאמקייט די געשיכטע פון הירש ברוך, א אידישע נשמה פון לאנג איילאנד וואס האט זיך דערקייקלט צו זינד און געווען פארמישט אין א מארד געשיכטע און איז געווען אין א סכנה פון טויט שטראף. מיר האבן געשאפט דאס געלט פאר די גוטע אדוואקאטן וואס האבן אראפגענומען די סכנה פון טויט שטראף. ער זיצט לאנגע יארן אין א טורמע אין קאליפארניע.

איך האב בשעתו אסאך גערעדט מיט אים. ער פלעגט מיר רופן גאר אפט פון די טורמע און רעדן וועגן זיין קעיס און בעטן הילף. ער האט געבעטן אידישע ספרים און א קשר צו אידישקייט, און געזוכט אור אין זיין פינסטערניש. רעד איך אמאל מיט אים און איך דערצייל אים איבער איינער וואס איז באגאנגען זעלבסטמארד. זיין רעאקציע איז געווען גאר נעגאטיוו אויף איינער וואס נעמט זיך דאס לעבן. ווי קען א מענטש טון אזא זאך! עס איז אזוי סעלפיש! ברוטאל!

איך האב מיר נישט געקענט איינהאלטן און איך האב אים געפרעגט: אזוי פילסטו? די פארשטייסט נישט א מענטש וואס באגייט זעלבסטמארד? קוק דיר אן, די ביסטו אין דיין דרייסיגער יארן, פאר'משפט פארן לעבן אין די שרעקעדיגע טורמע. די ביסטו שטאקן אונטער די ערד אין א מאקסימום סעקיוריטי תפיסה. פארשפארט און איזאלירט אין ד' אמות מיט ווילדע מענטשן און פארברעכער? זיין ענטפער איז געווען: לעבן איז פיל מיט סופרייזעס. זאכן טוישן זיך. מען גייט נישט עס ענדיגן דאס לעבן וועגן יעצט איז שלעכט. אלעס טוישט זיך, נייע צייטן וועלן קומען... איך וויל נישט ענדיגן מיין לעצטע האפנונג. און איך האב די ליבשאפט פון מיין מאמע וואס האלט מיר ביים לעבן, ווי קען איך איר וויי טון? דיין געשיכטע ענדיגט זיך נישט פאר זיי ווען די גייסט. זיי בלייבן דא מיט די ברוכווארג! ווי קען מען דאס טון?

לפי שאי אפשר שתהיה תורת השי״ת שלמה באופן שתספיק בכל הזמנים, לפי שהפרטים המתחדשים תמיד בעניני האנשים במשפטים והדברים הנפעלים הם רבים מאד משיכללם ספר, על כן נתנו למשה בסיני על פה דרכים כוללים נרמזו בתורה בקצרה, כדי שעל ידם יוציאו החכמים שבכל דור ודור הפרטים המתחדשים.

[left]The basic difference between the Torah’s and Maimonides’s view is the way in which providential care works. In the Torah, religious and ethical behavior is the basis for God’s involvement. For the Rambam, on the other hand, the criterion is human intellectual attainment. From Maimonides’s perspective, God does not distinguish between the righteous and the wicked, but rather between the wise and the foolish. The closer someone has come to reaching rational perfection, the greater is God’s providential concern for that person

Furthermore, reason is not just the cause of God’s involvement in a person’s life; it is also the medium through which one receives God’s providence. God saves the rational individual by penetrating his consciousness: “Providence is consequent upon the intellect and is attached to it” (Guide, 3:17)

How, then, is the work of providence accomplished? Not by preventing disasters from happening in the rational person’s vicinity. If, according to circumstances and the laws of physics, a particular building is “supposed to” fall down, it will. If meteorological conditions are such that a certain ship is going to sink at sea, it will sink. But God’s providence is manifested by preventing a person from deciding to enter the shaky building or board the doomed vessel. God does not uproot the laws of nature. Rather, He protects the wise through their minds

This concept of providence begs many questions. First, it does not stand up to the test of experience. We see in life that wise people are not immune from tragedies and disasters. In addition, the theory raises problems of consistency within the Rambam’s writings. By implying that God restricts the free choice of the enlightened individual in order to protect him from harm, the Rambam seems to be contradicting what he writes in other places: that God never interferes in human decisions. Maimonides makes this claim when explaining Moses’s educational role after the Exodus from Egypt. Four hundred years of immersion in Egyptian paganism had left their mark on the Jewish people. The forty years in the desert were a kind of therapy that served to erase the fingerprints of idolatry. Maimonides asks why God needed to lead the people on such a long and arduous journey in order to free them from the after-effects of idol worship. Couldn’t He have simply performed a psychological miracle? Why didn’t He simply enter the Israelites’ souls and wipe out the remaining tendencies toward idolatry? Maimonides then lays down an important rule: God does not take away our free choice

A person’s consciousness is his autonomous realm. Within it, he alone is sovereign. Here is the textual problem: According to part 3, chapter 17 of the Guide, human consciousness is a domain in which God intervenes, whereas in part 3, chapter 32, it is not. We have here a “contradiction of the seventh kind,” which, as we discussed earlier, aims to conceal from the reader profound and sometimes radical ideas

Rabbi Moses Ibn Tibbon, a medieval commentator on the Guide, made one of the earliest attempts to resolve this contradiction. He understood part 3, chapter 17 not as saying that God interferes in our thought processes but rather that human thought processes themselves are our divine, providential protection. The wise man is protected from harm because he knows how to avoid getting into dangerous situations like unstable buildings and ships during storms. Reason, the godly part in each of us, is what protects us from harm. This naturalistic reading finds support in the next chapter [18] of the Guide

Just as vision protects one from stumbling on obstacles along the way, so reason acts as an inner eye guarding against danger. Someone who orders his life rationally, maintains his emotional equilibrium, doesn’t smoke, and eats in a healthy way is much less likely to be exposed to pain and suffering. The eyes of reason will protect him from many of life’s traps

Ibn Tibbon’s point is that rather than God protecting us, we protect ourselves. Our intellect, the godly within us, saves us from danger. This approach resolves the contradiction with part 3, chapter 32 of the Guide. Providence does not limit human freedom. On the contrary, it is a consequence of our choice to develop intellectually

However, Ibn Tibbon’s reading turns out to cause other problems. While his answer resolves the tensions between the chapters that we have seen so far (part 3, chapters 17 and 32), it contradicts what Maimonides writes in part 3, chapter 51, where he returns to the question of how God watches over the enlightened

Providence confers protection upon the enlightened one. On a battlefield, thousands may fall, but the perfect man will walk away safe and sound. This is clearly different from part 3, chapter 17, where the Rambam says that a wise man should stay out of dangerous situations. Part 3, chapter 51 claims that even if wise people place themselves in peril, they will be protected. This is a big problem for Ibn Tibbon’s naturalistic understanding of providence. Can one really argue that wise people who walk on to a firing range will be saved because they have learned rational techniques for dodging artillery shells? Naturalistic approaches to providence simply do not cover graphic, miraculous descriptions such as “a thousand shall fall at your side and ten thousand at your right hand, but they shall not come close to you. With your eyes you shall behold and see the recompense of the wicked.”

We seem to have reached an impasse. The idea of providence advanced in chapter 17, where God intervenes in human consciousness, contradicts the theory of freedom in chapter 34. The possible solution to this tension — full naturalization of providence — contradicts chapter 51, in which the enlightened are literally protected in extreme circumstances. What is the secret teaching about providence that these multiple contradictions conceal?

The key to resolving these contradictory ideas about providence lies in our earlier discussion of evil. It is not that the enlightened ones never encounter harmful events. Rather, they do not experience such incidents as being harmful. The thirst for knowledge of God frees them from dependence on this world; the spiritual life is their shield. People who love God with their whole being will enjoy total protection from the painful vicissitudes of this world

Absolute love of God saves a person from emotional dependence on anything else in the world. As we saw from Maimonides’s explanation of Job, much of our suffering is subjective. Job’s suffering ends when he stops experiencing the disasters of his life as disasters. Personal redemption comes from love of God. The more we love God, the more we will be freed from the pain and distress of this world. Providential protection, then, is a human cognitive achievement[/left]

אַךְ טוֹבַת הַסִּבּוֹת הַמִּקְרִיּוֹת אֵינֶנָּה נִמְנַעַת מִן הָרָשָׁע, כָּל שֶׁכֵּן מֵהֶחָסִיד. וְטוֹבַת הָרְשָׁעִים הִיא בַּסִּבּוֹת הָהֵם הַמִּקְרִיּוֹת וְהַטִּבְעִיּוֹת, וְאֵין דּוֹחֶה לְרָעָתָם כְּשֶׁתָּבוֹא, אֲבָל הַחֲסִידִים יַצְלִיחוּ בַסִּבּוֹת הָהֵם, וְהֵם בְּטוּחִים מֵרָעָתָם.