Echo Chamber

Sanhedrin 9

Our Gemara on amud aleph discusses the status of a person’s ability to testify about himself. We have a general rule that close relatives are disqualified from serving as witnesses for each other. Extending this logic, a person is considered his own close relative and, therefore, cannot give testimony about himself.

The Maharal (Gur Aryeh, Bereishis 46:15) expands on this idea, offering a profound insight into the role of the opposite gender in human character development.

The verse states: “These were the sons whom Leah bore to Yaakov in Paddan-aram, in addition to his daughter Dina.” Chazal and various commentaries have noted a shift in how lineage is attributed in this verse. The sons are described as Leah’s children, while the daughter, Dina, is described as Yaakov’s child.

Psychologically speaking, it is common across many cultures to see this cross-identification, where fathers often have a special bond with their daughters, and mothers have a similar bond with their sons. This is reflected in familiar expressions like “Daddy’s little girl” and “Mama’s little man.” The Maharal (ibid.) suggests that this pattern reflects a deeper, axiomatic truth: The encounter with the opposite gender rounds out and completes a person. It evokes a particular kind of connection, rooted in an intuitive recognition of one’s own incompleteness.

This concept connects back to the principle that a person cannot testify about himself. Certain truths can never be fully grasped without exposure to a perspective beyond oneself. Metaphorically and metaphysically, a person cannot develop beyond their own incompleteness without encountering something other. This encounter is necessary for growth, self-understanding, and wholeness.

On a deeper level, this idea extends to the nature of creation itself. All creativity ultimately arises from the encounter of opposites. The very existence of the universe reflects this principle. Despite Hashem’s infinite presence, He “made space” for existence to emerge. This act of tzimtzum – Divine self-contraction – is a pattern that repeats throughout creation. It reflects a fundamental truth: Just as G-d “made room” for the world, so too must creativity, life, and growth stem from the encounter with something other. Without this dynamic, there is no new creation, no development, and no true completion.

Simple Piety Versus Calculated Piety

Sanhedrin 13

Our Gemara on amudim aleph and beis recounts the heroic martyrdom of Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava, who defied a Roman decree against ordaining judges, risking his life to ensure the chain of semicha (ordination) originating from Moshe Rabbeinu would not be broken. The Gemara tells the story as follows:

That man will be remembered favorably, and Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava is his name, as had it not been for him…the laws of fines would have ceased to be implemented from among the Jewish people, as they would not have been able to adjudicate cases involving these laws due to a lack of ordained judges. This is because at one time the wicked kingdom of Rome issued decrees of religious persecution against the Jewish people with the aim of abolishing the chain of ordination and the authority of the Sages. They said that anyone who ordains judges will be killed, and anyone who is ordained will be killed, and the city in which they ordain the judges will be destroyed, and the signs identifying the boundaries of the city in which they ordain judges will be uprooted…

What did Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava do? He went and sat between two large mountains, between two large cities, and between two Shabbos boundaries: between Usha and Shefaram – a desolate place that was not associated with any particular city so that he would not endanger anyone uninvolved. There he ordained five elders: Rabbi Meir, Rabbi Yehuda, Rabbi Shimon, Rabbi Yosei, and Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua. Rav Avya adds that Rabbi Nechemya was also among those ordained.

When their enemies discovered them, Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava said to the newly ordained sages: “My sons, run for your lives!” They said to him: “My teacher, what will be with you?” Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava, being elderly and unable to run, replied: “In any case, I am cast before them like a stone that cannot be overturned; even if you attempt to assist me, I will not be able to escape due to my frailty. But if you do not escape without me, you too will be killed.”

People say about this incident: The Roman soldiers did not move from there until they had pierced him with three hundred iron spears, making him appear like a sieve riddled with holes.

Ben Yehoyada raises a compelling question: Why is Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava given all the credit for this heroic act? Did not the other sages he ordained also risk their lives by attending the clandestine ordination? Ben Yehoyada offers two answers. First, unlike Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava, the students were able to flee and escape, as the story shows. Second, even had they been caught, they might have had plausible deniability, as they could claim to have merely been bystanders. By contrast, Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava, as the leader and elder, was clearly the one orchestrating the event. His role was undeniable, and his vulnerability as an elderly man made it clear that he was not an innocent observer.

I would like to offer an additional perspective. It is certainly admirable to risk one’s life for a principle – especially since our tradition requires mesiras nefesh (self-sacrifice) in response to decrees specifically aimed at uprooting our religion (Sanhedrin 74a). However, this type of sacrifice, while noble, is also obligatory in such cases. Performing an obligation, even at great risk, is indeed praiseworthy but not necessarily outstanding.

What sets Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava apart is his role as a leader. It took a unique type of courage and devotion to conceive of the plan in the first place. The students acted with bravery, no doubt, but Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava displayed a higher level of initiative. It is one thing to follow the orders of a revered master; it is quite another to be the one who bears the responsibility for crafting the plan and accepting the full burden of the consequences.

Moreover, sometimes the more intellectually sophisticated a person is, the harder it is for him to accept emotional and spiritual sacrifices. Intellectuals often overthink, rationalize, and find reasons to avoid drastic action. The logic-driven mind might argue, “Surely there is another way,” or “Perhaps we are misinterpreting the necessity of this risk,” or “Let’s not act rashly.” This phenomenon is not merely theoretical.

There is a controversial, but frequently cited, observation about the response of different Jewish communities to the horrors of the Holocaust. It has been noted that Polish chassidic communities tended to retain their religious observance post-Holocaust, while a greater percentage of the Lithuanian yeshiva community struggled with belief in a just G-d and, in some cases, drifted from religious observance. Whether this historical claim is accurate is a matter of debate, and it could be seen as an unfair generalization. Nevertheless, the underlying point contains a kernel of truth. A simple Jew may relate to G-d with the trust and naïveté of a child toward a father, while a highly intellectual, analytical scholar may face more significant struggles in maintaining faith in the face of suffering. As the mind attempts to “make sense” of the incomprehensible, it can lead to existential doubt.

This brings us back to Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava. He was not a naïve follower; he was a sage and scholar of the highest order. Yet he overcame the potential paralysis of intellectual doubt, choosing action and self-sacrifice when it was most needed. He bore the weight of responsibility and did not hesitate. His greatness lies not only in his courage but also in his clarity of mind. He did not succumb to the temptation to rationalize inaction or create halakhic “loopholes” to avoid danger. As an elder sage, he had all the tools to be “too smart for his own good.” But he chose the path of the simple servant of G-d – and in doing so, became truly great.

This distinction between simple piety and calculated piety is subtle but profound. It is one thing to follow the command of a trusted leader; it is another to be the leader. It is one thing to risk one’s life in a moment of passion or zeal; it is quite another to endure the slow, methodical process of planning, knowing all the risks, and still choosing the path of courage. Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava’s legacy is that of calculated piety. He made a decision fully aware of the risks and did not retreat.

The students, on the other hand, did what was asked of them. That, too, was courageous, but it did not require the same level of personal initiative. Rabbi Yehuda ben Bava conceived the plan, led the effort, and remained behind to face the consequences. His greatness lay in his ability to balance deep thought with decisive action. This is the piety we aspire to: not simplicity born of ignorance, but simplicity born of clarity. The more we know, the more reasons we might find to hesitate. But the truly wise know that sometimes, all the logic in the world must give way to action and faith.