The Principle of Humanity vs. Emunas Chachamim

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Artwork: Compulsive Researchi, by Kristina Collantes

The Principle of Humanity vs. Emunas Chachamim

At the beginning of Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation, Jonathan Lear mentions the Principle of Humanity: “that we should try to interpret others as saying something true – guided by our own sense of what is true and of what they could reasonably believe.” The very short Wikipedia article has a different formulation:

[When] interpreting another speaker we must assume that his or her beliefs and desires are connected to each other and to reality in some way, and attribute to him or her “the propositional attitudes one supposes one would have oneself in those circumstances.”

A third formulation, stated in the Wikipedia article on the nearly identical Principle of Charity, includes negatives: “to avoid attributing irrationality, logical fallacies, or falsehoods to the others' statements, when a coherent, rational interpretation of the statements is available.”

Compare all of that to “emunas chachamim,” which the braisa (Avos 6:6) identifies as one of the 48 qualities through which the Torah is acquired. Some might explain "emunas chachamim" to mean “faith in the wisdom of the Sages,” which suggests an uncritical acceptance of the truth of the Sages’ words. According to my understanding, it would be more accurate to render “emunas chachamim” as “faith that the Sages are chachamim.” In Darchei ha’Talmud, the relatively unknown Talmudic methodology manual by R’ Yitzchak Kanpanton (1360 – 1463 C.E.), the author expounds in detail on what emunas chachamim looks like in action:

At the outset of your analysis, you should establish as a premise of your thinking that each of the speakers – the one who asks and the one who answers – that both of them are intelligent, and that all their words [were spoken] with wisdom, understanding, and knowledge, without anything twisted or distorted. This is what [the Sages] mean when they [rhetorically] exclaim: "Are we dealing with idiots?!" (Shevuos 48b). Therefore, you must analyze all their statements and see if they are statements with sound reasons, "as strong as a molten mirror" (Iyov 37:18) or whether [they are] weak statements, [like] "bland food without salt" (ibid. 6:6), and whether they are intellectually probable or improbable. One must strive to make their words probable and to adjust their ideational content so that [the statements] will be beautiful and acceptable and intellectually feasible; [one must also strive] not to ascribe to them the guilty iniquity of a tenuous or weak sevara (theory). None of their words should fall to the earth, for they are all "the words of the living God." And if they are "empty," [the "emptiness"] is from you. (Darchei ha’Talmud 1:3)

There are clear similarities between the Principle of Humanity and emunas chachamim. Both prompt the reader to grant the text in question the benefit of the doubt, interpreting it in the best light possible. Both effectively counteract the “strawman” fallacy by encouraging a “steelman” approach.

It is the differences between these two principles which interest me. The Principle of Humanity dictates that our interpretation of the text should be guided by “our own sense of what is true” as the first version has it. The second goes further and says that we must “attribute to him or her the propositional attitudes one supposes one would have oneself in those circumstances.” In other words, we interpret the words in light of our own ideas. In contrast, emunas chachamim prompts us to move outside of our current understanding, recognizing that we are dealing with superior minds who will expand our horizons of understanding.

The limitation, of course, is that whereas the Principle of Humanity can and should be applied to everyone, emunas chachamim applies on a sliding scale based on the extent to which the author is deemed a chacham. This necessitates a prior judgment to be made by the reader – one which, unfortunately, the reader is not always equipped to make. At least the Principle of Humanity can act as a failsafe for when emunas chachamim misfires.

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Mortimer Adler's Kryptonite

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Mortimer Adler and his wife with Pope Paul VI

Mortimer Adler's Kryptonite

Readers of this blog will be aware of my love and admiration of Mortimer J. Adler (1902 - 2001). To him I owe my knowledge and familiarity with a host of philosophical ideas. Not only did he introduce me to the fundamentals, but he also steered me away from some pretty severe philosophical mistakes. He taught me how to read a book, and introduced me to The Great Books of the Western World. He greatly influenced my writing style, and his essay on learning and teaching became the foundation of my approach to teaching. 

And yet, like all superheroes, Adler had his weakness. Unfortunately, that weakness was religion. Specifically, Thomistic Catholicism.

This post is not intended to be a comprehensive treatment of Adler's views on Catholicism, or on theology in general. If that is of interest to you, read his book Truth in Religion: The Plurality of Religions and the Unity of Truth (1992), which will be discussed later in this blog post.

Instead, in this post I will present an email which I wrote to one of my rabbeim (whom we'll refer to as RJM) ten years ago, at the height of my Adler odyssey, inquiring about Adler's fall into Catholicism. 

Here is my email and RJM's response, minimally edited for publishing on this blog. Links and transliterations were added by me.

[Note: even though I say so clearly in my email, I want to emphasize that the third question was not asked by me, but by one of the younger yeshiva guys; I, myself, would have phrased the question differently - in a decidedly less "Christian" manner.]

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Kol ha'Seridim to RJM

Dear [RJM],

As a fellow reader of Mortimer J. Adler, I have three question about Adler and religion that I'd like to hear your thoughts (or opinions) on.

Question #1: What's up with his conversion to Christianity? I was just rereading the passage at the end of his second autobiography, which details his conversion: 

In March of 1984, after a trip to Mexico in February, I fell ill, probably from a virus that I had picked up there. The illness was protracted. I was in the hospital for five weeks and, after leaving the hospital, was in bed at home for several months or more. Though I underwent all the diagnostic tests and procedures that the physicians could think of, the illness was never adequately diagnosed; and the cure, when it finally came, involved numerous antibiotics and two blood transfusions that brought my red corpuscle blood counts back to normal.  

During this long stay in the hospital, I suffered a mild depression, and often when Caroline visited me I would, unaccountably, burst into tears. Father Howell, the Rector of Saint Chrysostom's Church, also visited me, and once when, at my bedside, he prayed for my recovery, I choked up and wept. The only prayer that I knew word for word, was the Pater Noster. On that day and in the days after it, I found myself repeating the Lord's Prayer, again and again, and meaning every word of it. Quite suddenly, when I was awake one night, a light dawned on me, and I realized what had happened without my recognizing it clearly when it first happened.  

I had been seriously praying to God. But had I not said at the end of How to Think About God, that no one who understood the God of the philosophers as well as I thought I did, would worship that God or pray to him. Only if, by the gift of grace, one made the leap of faith across the chasm to the God of religious Jews and Christians, would one engage in worship and prayer, believing in a morally good, loving, just, and merciful God.  

Here after many years of affirming God's existence and trying to give adequate reasons for that affirmation, I found myself believing in God and praying to Him ...

In your opinion, is this just another example of an otherwise rational mind being overcome by a powerful religious emotion at a time of insecurity and proximity to death? Or did Adler himself commit a severe philosophical mistake - no doubt originating in his preoccupation with Thomas Aquinas - of which we he was unaware? At the end of this chapter in the autobiography, Adler makes some statements about "the mystery of the Trinity." I find it baffling that the same mind who wrote How to Think About God can simultaneously embrace faith in the Christian doctrine, all on the basis of "grace" which was "received" during a bout of illness and a period of depression. 

Again, perhaps this is just another example of how we humans can compartmentalize, shutting off our minds in certain areas of our lives, no matter how rational we are in everything else. 

Question #2: What about the Torah mi'Sinai argument? From How to Think About God, it appears that Adler was completely unaware of the Sinai argument: 

A third point to be noted follows directly on what has just been said. In the three monotheistic religions of the West - Judaism, Christianity, and Islam - the proposition that God exists is not an article of faith or religious belief. The first article of faith in all three religions is that God has revealed himself to us in Holy Writ or Sacred Scripture. This, of course, entails the affirmation that God has revealed himself to us in Holy Writ or Sacred Scripture. This, of course, entails the affirmation that the God who has revealed himself exists. But it goes far beyond that proposition to something that can never be proved, or even argued about, something that is always and only an article of faith or religious belief: namely, the fact of Divine revelation ... 

It is in no way improper to argue about whether belief in God's existence can be established by reason alone, or at least thereby made reasonable. But it would be quite improper to argue about the reasonableness of the first article of religious faith, that Sacred Scripture represents God's revelation of himself to us. That belief can be neither proved nor disproved, nor is it really a proper subject of argument pro and con. 

Did he just not encounter Torah mi'Sinai in his reading? Does he have some argument against Torah mi'Sinai of which I am unaware? If so, I would love to hear it.

Question #3: What is the state of Adler's soul? This is a question that one of the other guys in yeshiva asked me. I don't really know enough about the soul to be certain that I understand the question, which is why I have turned to you. 

Any thoughts on these questions would be most appreciated. 

- [Kol ha'Seridim]

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RJM to Kol ha'Seridim

Dear [Kol ha'Seridim],

Great to hear from you. I hope you are well.

Response to Question #1: I think Adler had an unusual attitude to religion, inasmuch as he accepted the Thomistic distinction between matters of faith and matters of reason. He seems to have systematically excluded theological doctrines from genuine philosophical scrutiny, because of his assumption that their acceptance or denial is premised on faith and not rational analysis alone.

Adler has a whole book on the subject of religion, called "Truth in Religion", which, in my opinion, is the worst volume he ever produced, poorly reasoned and very obviously a "set up" designed to lead the interested person to the "leap of faith" into Catholic Christianity.

The book starts out rationally, seeking to demonstrate that we must reject relativism and seek objective truth even in the realm of religion. Nowadays, this is a major point that needs to be stressed, so kol ha'kavod to him for making it clear. He summarily dismisses polytheistic religions for good reason, but these are about the only meritorious aspects of the text. It is all downhill from there.

Adler argues, for example, that the mysteriousness of a religion is evidence for its veracity, because a purely rational religion wouldn't require revelation for its establishment. In these passages he is clearly arguing in favor of Christianity and against Judaism, although he is never so explicit. All in all, it is not an objective I don't recommend the book, although I am confident that you would not come to any harm in reading it ...

By the way, it is well known that a disproportionate number of Adler's Jewish students in the University of Chicago converted to Catholicism after studying Aquinas with him, although he waited till much later to do so.

Response to Question #2: I doubt if he was aware of the argument. Most philosophers aren't. For example, David Conway (ironically, a student of Antony Flew) authored a book called "The Rediscovery of Wisdom", in which he argues that the ultimate goal of philosophy should be the contemplation of God, and that generations of philosophers have been misled by the gross distortions of later thinkers. He basically shows that the purpose of philosophy was classically understood as a process of achieving yediat Hashem (knowledge of God) and ahavat Hashem (love of God), and also argues that many of the supposed "debunkings" of proofs for God's existence are fatally flawed and should never have gained the currency they now have in academia. He therefore reestablishes the existence of God as a fact and the goal of knowledge of God as the raison d'etre of all rational creatures.

Amazingly, he brings Judaism into this, looking at the varied interpretations of Maimonides and Spinoza vis a vis the purpose of mitsvot. Conway concludes that the Torah's objective is indeed what Maimonides states - the same as the objective of philosophy, to enable the Jewish nation to dedicate their lives to the contemplation of God. Keep in mind that this guy is a secular academic, so this is all pretty amazing already.

The problem emerges when he compares the relative merits of philosophy and Judaism, and questions the basis for belief in the revelation claim. He literally totally misreads the story and misrepresents the tradition, claiming that Jews themselves believe that the events were not written down until hundreds of years after the fact, etc. He doesn't even mention the mass revelation component because, as he states in the text, his impression is that Moses went up onto a mountain by himself to receive the laws!!! (I tried to contact and correct him, but I was unsuccessful and kind of gave up).

BTW, I also penned a letter to M.J. Adler, which he received and which was read to him, literally days before his death. The response I got from his assistant was that matters of religion are very personal. But I did argue for the rationality of belief in Judaism as opposed to Christianity quite passionately. Perhaps he had hirhurei teshuva (thoughts of repentance) before he died.

Response to Question #3: Ultimately, I don't think anyone but the Ribbono Shel Olam (Master of the Universe) can know the answer to this question in a definitive manner. We have no access to the recesses of anyone's soul, how they truly conceive of God, etc. So speculation is all we have.

Adler accepted an idolatrous religion but his sophisticated version of that religion precluded him from the gross philosophical materialism, emotionalism and infantile God-concept normally associated with it. So it would seem that the possibility exists that Adler's soul was sufficiently actualized and thus distinct from matter such that it could have survived his physical death. And from the standpoint of halakha he was certainly a tinoq shenishba (a "captured baby" i.e. a Jew who was raised without knowledge of Judaism) par excellence, so a halakhically mandated karet (spiritual excision) wouldn't be an issue. Plus, the remote chance exists that he may have recognized his error and repented in his last moments of life.

On the other hand, it is possible that his conception of God (the foundation of his understanding of reality) was not sufficiently purified of its material elements and thus his soul remained imprisoned in the shackles of physicality and perished.

In the end, whatever he was zocheh (meritorious) to, we can be sure he received it! 

I hope this speedily composed response is helpful. Feel free to continue the correspondence as you see fit.

Best Regards,

RJM

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I found RJM's response to be enlightening, since it provided a greater context for Adler's theological misstep. I was particularly intrigued by RJM's attempt to contact Adler on his deathbed, and the latter's response (via his assistant) that "matters of religion are very personal" - an uncharacteristic response from a man who was so committed to truth and precision in thinking.

In writing this blog post I came across an article by Deal Hudson about Adler's conversion, entitled The Great Philosopher Who Became Catholic. Hudson writes:

The more we talked the more I realized Mortimer really wanted to be a Roman Catholic, but issues like abortion and the resistance of his family and friends were keeping him away. I tried to show him that his own Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics of act-potency led him to understand the necessity of protecting unborn life. But just at that moment, Mortimer would uncharacteristically mutter, "It's all too complicated," and change the subject. But I knew that he knew he was being inconsistent. I didn't have to press him – because I knew he knew, and it was only a matter of time before he acquiesced.

At several of our seminars was the Catholic prelate of San Jose, Bishop Pierre DuMaine. The bishop and I would sometimes tag-team the philosopher on the Catholic Church, and we would all end up laughing about how Mortimer deflected the inevitable conclusion.

These reports of inconsistency and evasiveness on Adler's part in matters of religion are consistent with RJM's testimony about Adler's response to his letter. 

It would be easy to pass judgment on Adler and condemn him for this severe intellectual / philosophical / epistemological shortcoming. Indeed, when I first learned of this truth, I held it against him, and was almost angry at him for this failing. I felt: "How could MY Adler, whose views on all philosophical matters are backed by airtight reasoning and solid arguments - how could he hold such a stupid view? Arriving at a false conclusion through a mistake in reasoning is one thing, and I realize that no human being is infallible, but to accept an irrational belief system on the basis of an irrational 'faith experience'? That is unforgivable." 

Looking back at my reaction, I am reminded of one of my favorite passages from John Steinbeck's East of Eden:

When a child first catches adults out - when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just - his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.

Now, ten years after this email exchange, with an additional decade's worth of learning, maturity, and self-knowledge under my belt, my judgment of Adler has softened considerably. I have come to realize that we ALL have our blind-spots. Some people go through their entire lives without becoming aware of their blind-spots. Others, like Adler, actively resist the distortion in thinking which arise from these hidden biases, but ultimately succumb in moments of weakness. None of us is immune to this type of blindness, and we can never be sure that we won't succumb. 

Now I am at the point of maturity where I realize that it is possible to acknowledge that a great thinker can make a childish error, without this diminishing the emunas chachamim I have when reading his works, "for there is no man so wholly righteous on earth who does [only] good and never sins" (Koheles 7:20).

Every superhero has his kryptonite. 

What is Emunas Chachamim?

Originally published in July of 2007 - and, if I may say so, you can tell it was written then because my style of writing has changed quite a bit. 

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Artwork: Cryptic Command, by Jason Rainville

What is Emunas Chachamim?

The Baraisa in Avos 6:6 lists the 48 qualities through which the Torah is acquired. #23 is emunas chachamim – usually translated as “faith in the Sages.” We must answer two questions: (1) What is the definition of emunas chachamim? and (2) What makes emunas chachamim essential to the acquisition of Torah?

At first glance one might think that emunas chachamim refers to blind faith in the words of the Sages - that we must believe what the Sages say, despite what our minds tell us. This notion of emunas chachamim is incorrect for a simple reason: it is impossible to have blind faith in the words of the Sages. Why? Because whenever we are faced with the words of the Sages we must answer the question: "How do I know what the Sages mean?" In order to have blind faith in a statement of the Sages, you must have some understanding of what that statement means, and that understanding must ultimately come from your own mind. Even you depend on your teacher's interpretation, you must still rely on your own understanding of what your teacher said. 

Rather, emunas chachamim is the conviction that the Sages are chachamim – that they reached the highest levels of abstract thinking and intellectual perfection; that they did not make casual statements, but only spoke or wrote after due contemplation and deliberation; that their ideas are not expressions of personal taste, psychological biases, or cultural trends, but are the products of rigorous intellectual analysis; that their words contain deep concepts and cannot be grasped through a superficial reading, but only after much thought, effort, and training; that they were humble, intellectually honest, and would never say or write anything for egotistical or self-indulgent reasons; that they were aware of the facts in front of them as well as the other conceptual possibilities, and nevertheless concluded as they did because they had a conviction in the mind's ability to grasp the truth. A person who learns the words of the Sages with these assumptions has emunas chachamim. [1]

Does this idea of emunas chachamim imply the Sages were always correct? No. The Sages were human, and even the greatest humans occasionally make mistakes. But this idea of emunas chachamim demands that if we see what appears to be a mistake or a nonsensical statement in the words of the Sages, there is a high probability that it is due to a deficiency in our own minds rather than in theirs. In such a scenario, we should think into their words with all of our resources to come up with a rational explanation. If we are correct, wonderful; if we are incorrect, then at least we will end up with a good idea, even if it wasn't want the Sages intended.

Does this idea of emunas chachamim mean that we cannot form our own opinion, siding with one Sage over the other? No. It is natural for the mind to favor one position over the other. But we should be intellectually honest and ask ourselves, "Do I favor this position because it appeals to my intellectual intuition, or because it appeals to my emotions?" Even if we are fairly certain that we are being drawn by our intellectual intuition, we must knowing how much weight to attribute to it - based on our years and experience in learning - and we should know when it is appropriate to suspend judgment until we reach the position where we are truly able to judge.

Does this in any way relieve us of the task (and burden) of thinking with our own minds? No. If anything, emunas chachamim forces us to work harder - to go beyond our first impressions, gut interpretations, and intellectual and emotional prejudices, and to learn from the words of the Sages themselves, rather than using the words of the Sages as a platform to say our own ideas and confirm our preconceived notions.

By now it should be clear why emunas chachamim is essential to the acquisition of Torah. A person who lacks this type of emunas chachamim will never advance beyond his own, limited way of thinking, and will miss out on the opportunities we have to learn from the greatest intellects who have walked the earth.

Emunas chachamim not only enables us to gain from the ideas of the Sages, but by subordinating our untrained and underdeveloped minds to their superior intuition - all while continuing to think critically and independently - we are sure to improve and perfect our intellectual faculties as well.

[1] Some might find it ironic that the source of this definition of emunas chachamim is my own mind. I've looked and looked in many places, and although I've seen glimmers of it in the works of the Rishonim (Ibn Ezra on Shemos 20:1, the Rambam in the Peirush ha'Mishnayos: Introduction to Perek Cheilek when he talks about the "3rd group" and also at the very end, and several other places), I have yet to see anyone explicitly state a solid definition of emunas chachamim. If anyone has any sources which talk about emunas chachamim, please share!

Neglecting the Thinkers of the Past

Yesterday's post on "the Academic Approach" reminded me of a piece I wrote in November, 2008, which hasn't yet been published on this blog. I had planned to write a sequel to that post, but never got a round to it. I figured that it was time to re-post and complete what I started then. 

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Artwork: Ancestral Vision, by Mark Poole

Neglecting the Thinkers of the Past

Part 1: Neglecting the Ancients in Western Thought

"The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold." This statement, made by Aristotle, is the basis of a book written by Mortimer J. Adler called Ten Philosophical Mistakes (1985). Adler’s thesis is that many of the philosophical problems, perplexities, and distortions of the modern era are the consequences of errors made by prominent post-16th-century philosophers. 

According to Adler, these errors "are extremely simple mistakes, capable of being stated in a single sentence or two. The truth that corrects them is correspondingly simple and similarly capable of a brief statement." Adler explains these errors were the philosophical consequences of subtle but mistaken premises: 

[T]hey are mistakes in a long train of thought, leading from erroneous premises through many steps to the false conclusions or consequences that those premises ultimately entail. At the very beginning, before the consequences are discerned, the mistake appears innocent and goes unnoticed. Only when we are confronted with the repugnant conclusions to which cogent reasoning carries us are we impelled to retrace our steps to find out where we went wrong. Only then is the erroneous premise that at first appeared innocent revealed as the culprit - a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Adler writes that there is one guiding principle which might have saved them from their errors. That principle was stated by Aristotle, in more or less these terms: “It is necessary to call into council the views of our predecessors in order that we may profit by whatever is sound in their suggestions and avoid their errors.” According to Adler, if these modern philosophers had diligently studied the works of the ancients - whom I refer to here as "the Baalei Mesorah of Western Thought" - they would have realized that the questions which they believed that they had discovered anew had actually been asked, discussed, and answered (whether correctly or incorrectly) many centuries earlier: 

We cannot find in their writings the slightest evidence of their sharing Aristotle’s insight that no man by himself is able to attain the truth adequately, although collectively men do not fail to amass a considerable amount; nor do they ever manifest the slightest trace of a willingness to call into council the views of their predecessors in order to profit from whatever is sound in their thoughts and to avoid their errors. On the contrary, without anything like a careful, critical examination of the views of their predecessors, these modern thinkers issue blanket repudiations of the past as a repository of errors. The discovery of philosophical truth begins with themselves. 

Proceeding, therefore, in ignorance or misunderstanding of truths that could have been found in the funded tradition of almost two thousand years of Western thought, these modern philosophers made crucial mistakes in their points of departure and in their initial postulates. 

Adler maintains that if only these modern philosophers had made a concerted effort to learn from the questions, answers, and discussions of the ancients, they might have saved themselves from many philosophical embarrassments and problems which resulted from their misguided attempts to answer the philosophical questions which they believed they were the first ones to think of. 

If Adler is correct in his claim that the well-known post-16th-century philosophers did not study the works of their ancient predecessors, we are justified in asking the follow-up question: "Why not?" Surely these men were aware of the unparalleled intellectual reputations of men like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Why wouldn't they make it their priority to learn as much as they could from these great minds before attempting to develop their own theories? 

Adler answers that "The commission of these errors can be explained in part by antagonism toward the past, and even contempt for it." He explains: 

The explanation of the antagonism lies in the character of the teachers under whom these modern philosophers studied in their youth. These teachers did not pass on the philosophical tradition as a living thing by recourse to the writings of the great philosophers of the past. They did not read and comment on the works of Aristotle, for example, as the great teachers of the thirteenth century did. 

Instead, the decadent scholastics who occupied teaching posts in the universities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries fossilized the tradition by presenting it in a deadly, dogmatic fashion, using a jargon that concealed rather than conveyed the insights it contained. Their lectures must have been as wooden and uninspiring as most textbooks or manuals are; their examinations must have called for a verbal parroting of the letter of ancient doctrines rather than for an understanding of their spirit. 

It is no wonder that early modern thinkers, thus mistaught, recoiled. Their repugnance, though certainly explicable, may not be wholly pardonable, for they could have repaired the damage by turning to the texts of Aristotle or Aquinas in their mature years and by reading them perceptively and critically. 

That they did not do this can be ascertained from an examination of their major works and from their intellectual biographies. When they reject certain points of doctrine inherited from the past, it is perfectly clear that they do not properly understand them; in addition, they make mistakes that arise from ignorance of distinctions and insights highly relevant to problems they attempt to solve. 

With very few exceptions, such misunderstanding and ignorance of philosophical achievements made prior to the sixteenth century have been the besetting sin of modern thought. Its effects are not confined to philosophers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. They are evident in the work of nineteenth-century philosophers and in the writings of our day. We can find them, for example, in the works of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who, for all his native brilliance and philosophical fervor, stumbles in the dark in dealing with problems on which his premodern predecessors, unknown to him, have thrown great light. 

Modern philosophy has never recovered from its false starts. Like men floundering in quicksand who compound their difficulties by struggling to extricate themselves, Kant and his successors have multiplied the difficulties and perplexities of modern philosophy by the very strenuousness – and even ingenuity – of their efforts to extricate themselves from the muddle left in their path by Descartes, Locke, and Hume. 

The post-16th-century philosophers were exposed to the words of the ancients, but in a "fossilized," "dogmatic" fashion unilluminated by the light of understanding. While this doesn't entirely excuse these philosophers from their neglect of the wisdom of the ancients - since they should have returned to these works and examined them firsthand, rather than relying on the inadequate presentations of their teachers - it certainly explains why they viewed these works as repository of superficial explanations and simple errors.

What is the solution to this problem? Adler answers:

To make a fresh start, it is only necessary to open the great philosophical books of the past (especially those written by Aristotle and in his tradition) and to read them with the effort of understanding that they deserve. The recovery of basic truths, long hidden from view, would eradicate errors that have had such disastrous consequences in modern times. 

Part 2: Neglecting Our Predecessors in Jewish Thought

Unfortunately, the problem identified by Adler in the world of Western Thought has struck the Torah world with equal force and equally devastating consequences. Just as the modern secular philosophers have neglected their predecessors (i.e. the classical philosophers and thinkers of antiquity), the modern Jewish philosophers have neglected our predecessors (i.e. the Baalei Mesorah), and for similar reasons.

Before we go any further we must first define the vague term "Baalei Mesorah" as used in this context. My usage here is intended to be extremely broad. I am including in this category Chazal (i.e. the Tannaim and Amoraim), the "Kadmonim" (i.e. the Geonim, Rishonim, and early Achronim) [1], and many of the later Achronim and contemporary Jewish thinkers as well. 

If we left things there, this definition would be too broad. What unites the Baalei Mesorah of whom I speak? Who is excluded from this large group? How can we tell the difference between someone who is considered a Baal Mesorah by this definition and someone who is not? To answer this question, I'd like to borrow another concept from Adler - one refers to as "the Great Conversation": 

What binds the authors together in an intellectual community is the great conversation in which they are engaged. In the works that come later in the sequence of years, we find authors listening to what their predecessors have had to say about this idea or that, this topic or that. They not only hearken to the thought of their predecessors, they also respond to it by commenting on it in a variety of ways.

To my mind, the Baalei Mesorah are those who are united by their participation in the Great Conversation of Torah with each other. Throughout the ages these chachamim have been engaged in asking, answering, and debating the same fundamental questions, such as: Who is Hashem? What is avodah zarah? What is emunah? What is the soul? What are mitzvos? What is hashgachah and how does it work? How and to what extent can we understand God's justice? In other words, the Great Conversation of Torah revolves around yesodei ha'Torah (the foundations of Torah). 

But I would like to emphasize the key part of my definition which allows us to distinguish those who are Baalei Mesorah from those who are not: "the Baalei Mesorah are those who are united by their participation in the Great Conversation of Torah with each other." We do not maintain that the Mesorah is a rigid set of fixed teachings handed down from generation to generation. Rather, the Mesorah is a living dialogue between the great thinkers of the past, present, and future, united in their pursuit of truth, guided by the light of revelation and reason. Although the earlier thinkers cannot receive communications from the later thinkers, these later thinkers can join the Great Conversation of Torah by "calling into council the views of our predecessors in order that we may profit by whatever is sound in their suggestions and avoid their errors." 

Those thinkers who attempt to address these fundamental questions without consulting (or adequately consulting) the Baalei Mesorah have excluded themselves from the Great Conversation of Torah. They may discuss the same topics and questions, but their refusal to meet the great minds of the past precludes their inclusion in this conversation - just as two individuals cannot be involved in a conversation if one of them shuts his hears to the voice of the other. 

By this criterion it should be clear which types of people I would exclude from the group of Baalei Mesorah. Among them are:

• "Bad Academics" who do not look to the Torah, Chazal, and the Kadmonim as a source of wisdom, but approach these texts with other agendas - many of whom, like the post-16th-century philosophers criticized by Adler, harbor "antagonism toward the past, and even contempt for it"
• members of the Reform, Conservative, Karaite, Reconstructionist, or any of the deviant breakaway "Jewish" movements which have consciously decided to sever ideological ties with the Mesorah community of Rabbinic Judaism and reject its fundamental teachings
• mystics who claim to have received divine revelations and have sought to change or augment Judaism with new teachings that have no basis in the Mesorah
• neophyte "Jewish philosophers" who speculate on the yesodei ha'Torah without doing their intellectual due diligence; also in this category are intelligent laypeople who fancy themselves scholars but don't actually learn
• unqualified rabbis and educators who, like the "decadent scholastics" criticized by Adler, have "fossilized the tradition by presenting it in a deadly, dogmatic fashion, using a jargon that concealed rather than conveyed the insights it contained." 

The members of these groups might have valuable insights to offer - just as Adler would concede that the post-16th-century philosophers have what to offer. But since they have cut themselves off from the Great Conversation of Torah, then I cannot consider them to be Baalei Mesorah on par with Chazal, the Kadmonim, and those Achronim who form links in the Mesorah-chain. 

As a Jewish educator, the last group I mentioned causes me the most grief. I have had so many students who have asked their teachers good, powerful, important questions about Judaism, only to be given vapid off-the-cuff answers, answers laden with meaningless jargon, fluffy emotional answers with no substance, sound-byte summaries of real answers which warp their meaning - all because their teachers never bothered to seek out the answers to these questions in the writings of the Baalei Mesorah. After years of asking these questions and receiving poor answers, many students give up and conclude that there are no answers. In the worst case scenario, these students leave Judaism altogether, since they feel they must turn elsewhere for truth and guidance. 

I have spoken to students who have received this type of Jewish education. It brings to mind Adler's description of the poor education received by the post-16th-century philosophers is exactly how these students describe their formative years of education to me: "Their lectures must have been as wooden and uninspiring as most textbooks or manuals are; their examinations must have called for a verbal parroting of the letter of ancient doctrines rather than for an understanding of their spirit."

A student recently wrote the following thank you note at the end of her Chumash final - with my underlines for emphasis. I quote it here as an example of what students are looking for, and what I think teachers need to do in order to prevent the problems we've been discussing:

I really enjoyed this class this year. I love that you give us the opportunity to think for ourselves and come up with our own ideas and possible answers before telling us what the meforshim say. I also really like that you share your own ideas, knowledge, and stories. I also love that you have a strong focus on learning the pshat. I have been in so many classes where we just mindlessly read through the pesukim and they immediately told us the meforshim and dictated what we should write in our notes. I really appreciate the fact that you teach us for life instead of just teaching us for the final at the end of the year. 

Note the points that this student made. She feels (a) that I am enabling her to gain a real knowledge of the pshat, (b) that she feels connected to the Baalei Mesorah in a living, dynamic, intellectually exciting way, (c) that she is thrilled with the fact that she gets to think for herself before learning from the Baalei Mesorah, and (d) that her learning is "for life" - not merely "for the test."

If we hope to overcome this epidemic of Baalei Mesorah neglect, we must introduce our students to the Mesorah as a vibrant, living intellectual heritage which offers answers to their questions and guidance in their lives. We must train our students in the type of thinking that enables them to take part in The Great Conversation - not to be passive receptacles for dead words on dead parchment. Most importantly, we must inculcate in their minds and hearts - by guiding them through example after example after example - that the Baalei Mesorah were the greatest thinkers, and that if we hope to become thinkers ourselves, we must become their students and gain as much as we can from what they have to teach. 

[1] These Kadmonim include, but are not limited to: Rambam, R' Avraham ben ha'Rambam, Rav Hai Gaon, Saadia Gaon, Ramban, Ibn Ezra, Ralbag, Rabbeinu Bachya ibn Paquda, Rif, Sforno, Rashba, Rashi, Baalei Tosafos, Ritva, Radak, Rashbam, R' Yosef Albo, R' Yehudah ha'Levi, Meiri, Avudarham, Raavad, Ran, Rabbeinu Yonah, Sefer Ha'Chinuch, Abravanel, Chazkuni, Rabbeinu Bachye ben Asher, Rosh, Tur, and more.