Horiyos, Daf 2
Our Gemara on this daf, and many pages in this mesechta, discuss situations where the judges of the Sanhedrin make a mistaken ruling. All humans can make mistakes – even great sages, and even the entire supreme body of Torah law – though we shall soon see that this is a nuanced matter.
For example, we learn on our daf that an ordinary person who is told by the Sanhedrin that a particular kind of fat is permitted is exempt from a private sacrifice because he was innocently following the ruling of the Sanhedrin. However, a knowledgeable sage would have to bring his own private chattas offering because even though he was mistakenly obeying the Sages, it is considered an error on his part to trust them to that extent.
Rashi (Devarim 17:11) famously quotes the Sifri, based on the verse: “You shall act in accordance with the instructions given to you and the ruling handed down to you; you must not deviate from the verdict [of the Sanhedrin] that they announce to you either to the right or to the left.”
What is meant by the choice of words “right or left?”
Even if the judge tells you that what appears to you to be right is left, or that what appears to you to be left is right, you have to obey him. The question is: How literal is this? Is one to really doubt their own sense data and override it, relying on the Sages?
The Ramban (ibid.) implies that we should trust that the Sanhedrin is benefiting from Divine inspiration, and even if the ruling does not make logical sense, one should still follow it. The Ramban seems to stop one step short of expecting a person to actually believe it. Rather, he expects the person to humbly assume that even if the ruling doesn’t seem to make sense logically, this is the will of G-d.
Rashash asks on our Gemara: But indeed, it is a commandment to obey the Sages, as we are taught, “Even if they say that your right is your left hand, and your left hand is your right hand.” This applies even to the most learned sage. So why is he personally liable for following their ruling? He really had no choice but to obey!
Rashash suggests that the case in our Gemara is talking about a judge who was too obedient – meaning he simply went along with the ruling even though he had misgivings but did not express his dissenting logic. In that case, he is liable because he should have known better, and perhaps the other judges would have been swayed by his argument. However, if he expressed his arguments and his colleagues issued a ruling, he must follow it no matter what. Of course, then he would not be liable if the ruling turned out to be in error.
The author of Divrei Dovid on Rashi (who is also the author of the Taz on Shulchan Aruch) explains the parameters of the obligation to obey differently, thereby obviating the Rashash’s question. If a learned judge believes that the Sanhedrin is indeed in error, and it is something that he can passively abstain from without it being obvious that he is contradicting the ruling of the Sanhedrin, he may do so. For example, if the Sanhedrin rules that a certain kind of fat is permitted, without making any obvious objection he can simply avoid eating it. This would not be a sign of disrespect because people abstain from foods for all kinds of reasons. On the other hand, if it is a ruling such as to perform a commandment at a particular time on a particular day, then he must subordinate his own rational assessment and abide by the ruling.
The approach of the Divrei Dovid makes it possible to understand how in our Gemara a sage could be held liable. If it was a matter that he could have possibly abstained from, since he believed the Sanhedrin’s ruling was in error, he should have abstained. If he didn’t, then he is liable for a private chattas offering.
There are two other explanations of the obligation to obey the rulings of the Sanhedrin. These do not directly address our Gemara but offer nuanced distinctions regarding its limits. (They will still have to use either the Rashash’s or the Divrei Dovid’s answers above.)
Gur Aryeh (ibid.) takes the strictest approach: We must obey the rulings of the Sanhedrin even regarding a matter that literally tells us our left hand is our right hand. This is because the same Torah that forbids certain fats or actions can also obligate and override such prohibitions in service of maintaining order. Therefore, whatever the Sages of the Sanhedrin determine after good faith due deliberation and process is “right,” even if it is wrong.
If so, according to Gur Aryeh, the Sanhedrin’s sin offering discussed in this mesechta is ironically self-referential. In other words, if after their ruling they themselves determine that their reasoning was in error, they must bring a sin offering. If they maintain they are correct, then they do not, no matter who else offers proofs.
One final idea from the Meshech Chochma (ibid.), who looks at the matter more practically. It is G-d’s will that the Sanhedrin should have the final word, applying their good-faith attempts at arriving at the truth. As a practical matter, one must obey so that there won’t be anarchy, and this too is the will of G-d. Technically, says the Meshech Chochma, a specific ruling might be in error in its particulars and not be an accurate interpretation of the will of G-d, but G-d commands us to obey anyhow. This is subtly different than the Gur Aryeh, because according to the Gur Aryeh, such a ruling is not even considered wrong in its particular detail, while according to the Meshech Chochma it may still be wrong, but the general obligation to obey supersedes the particular.
In other words, the difference between the Meshech Chochma and the Gur Aryeh can be seen as similar to the hutra vs. hudcha chakira regarding overriding Shabbos to save a life. Is it hutra, that is, the entire laws of Shabbos do not exist in relation to lifesaving? Or is it hudcha, that Shabbos exists but is overridden by the higher imperative to preserve life? According to the Gur Aryeh, once the Sanhedrin rules, even if technically incorrect, it becomes the law – hutra – while according to the Meshech Chochma, it is still wrong, just hudcha – that is, permitted and even obligated due to the overriding need for order and law.
You might even say poetically that this too is a case of permissibility for a life-saving cause. Just that in this case, it is societal and spiritual pikuach nefesh that overrides the particular rule.
Don’t Mix the Pleasure of Business with the Business of Pleasure
Daf 3
Our Gemara on amud aleph references the verses that describe King Solomon’s inauguration of the Temple (I Kings 8:65). Although our Gemara uses these verses as proof for what constitutes a distinct “congregation,” the Gemara in Moed Kattan (9a) uses this as a proof text for the concept of “ein me’arvin simcha b’simcha” – we do not combine two joyous events. Solomon first celebrated the inauguration and then Succos, for a total of 14 days, instead of combining them into a single seven-day holiday. So too, a wedding should not be combined with Chol HaMoed.
Interestingly, Yerushalmi (Moed Kattan 1:7) uses a proof text from Lavan’s insistence that Yaakov wait one more week to wed Rachel, after his wedding to Leah.
This raises the question of what obligations we learn from practices prior to the covenant at Sinai. For example, this idea of not blending celebrations and instead keeping them distinct is one of many ancient practices that have been adopted by the Torah. The Ramban (Bereishis 29:27) observes that perhaps the ideas of sheva berachos and mourning were ancient spiritual traditions, as we see from Lavan and also the reference to shiva for Yaakov (Bereishis 50:1). The custom of refraining from marrying off the younger daughter before the older daughter (Shach YD 244:13) apparently is also learned from Lavan (Bereishis 29:26). Pardes Yosef (Bereishis 29:27 and 50:10) adds an interesting distinction: If the practice or custom evidently stems from a moral or ethical concern, it is learned from practices even prior to the covenant.
Pardes Yosef does not explicitly explain the reason for this distinction. I believe it is because the stories in the Torah are provided for moral instruction; therefore, any practice that stems from such a foundation is adopted. If it is a legal matter, we only adopt what was legislated via the covenant at Mount Sinai.
It is notable that all of these ancient practices – mourning, marriage, and cyclical celebrations – are about what anthropologists call liminal events. A liminal event is a moment in the life of a person, family, or community that is a transition point from one stage to another. Death, marriage, birth, and seasonal festivals often use the number seven and have ancient roots in many cultures throughout the world. Liminality brings anxiety and change, and people instinctively use rituals to signify transition along with safety.
Not mixing celebrations is an exercise in mindfulness, allowing the psyche to practice and adapt to changes that come from liminal events without blurring and bundling the issues.
Even the change of seasons for ancient man represented liminality and anxiety. In the winter, the day is shorter and it becomes colder – will there be enough supplies? In the spring, will the crops grow? Will there be locusts, blight, or drought?
The Gemara (Avodah Zarah 8a) relates the following aggadah:
When Adam, the first man, saw that the day was progressively diminishing, as the days become shorter from the autumnal equinox until the winter solstice, he did not yet know that this is a normal phenomenon, and therefore he said: Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned the world is becoming dark around me and will ultimately return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder. And this is the death that was sentenced upon me from Heaven…
Once he saw that the season of Teves, i.e., the winter solstice, had arrived, and saw that the day was progressively lengthening after the solstice, he said: Clearly, the days become shorter and then longer, and this is the order of the world. He went and observed a festival for eight days. Upon the next year, he observed both these eight days on which he had fasted on the previous year and these eight days of his celebration as days of festivities. He, Adam, established these festivals for the sake of Heaven, but they, the gentiles of later generations, established them for the sake of idol-worship.
The Torah, allowing for human nature and the need to mark liminal events and find stability via the recognition of life’s cyclical nature, adopts and observes various rituals that often involve the number seven – a marker of life and creation.