Knowing Through Negation

By: Yochanan Gordon

I’m often asked—usually by people unfamiliar with my multicultural upbringing—why we chose not to send our children to Chabad yeshivos. Somewhere deep down, I must have known this question would come, because I long ago prepared an answer that still feels right.

My response is this: I would much rather my children encounter the imperfections of the “mainstream” yeshiva system than those of Chabad. If they ever become disillusioned with the mainstream, they can always move toward Chabad. The reverse, however, is far less likely to work. There is a certain luxury in what remains unknown.

There is knowledge that is measurable and definable, and then there are truths so vast that language simply fails. The only way to approach them is by saying what they are not. This idea finds classic expression in the Rambam’s description of the messianic era. In the final chapters of the Yad HaChazakah, he tells us that in those days there will be no hunger, no war, no jealousy, no competition. He does not describe what will be—only what will not be.

Why frame redemption in the negative? Because that era is so far beyond our lived experience that our vocabulary cannot capture it. All the Rambam can do is define it through elimination. This method is known as yediat ha’shlilah—knowing through negation.

Perhaps that was always my quiet hope: that the old-world mystique of Chabad would live within my children’s imagination, unsullied by the inevitable imperfections that attach themselves to any system—especially one that was once proudly antisystemic.

It felt like the right idea to revisit this just before Purim, the festival defined by ad delo yada—transcending knowledge itself. There is an irony here: the deepest connection to Hashem emerges precisely when definitions collapse, when knowing gives way to not-knowing.

That tension came alive for me through a story that unfolded this very week.

A group of local women embarked on a three-day journey to Hungary and Poland to daven at the resting places of great tzaddikim—Reb Shayele Kerestirer; the Yismach Moshe; The Rebbe, Reb Elimelech of Lizhensk; among others. I had made this very trip before with our shul, K’hal Mevakshei Hashem, led by our rebbe, Rav Yussie Zakutinsky. This time, the trip was organized by Miriam Schiller and Mrs. Faygie Blumstein.

From the moment I heard about it, I wanted my wife to go. I remembered how inconvenient it had been when I went—the cost, the spontaneity, the sheer logistics. This time, it would have meant that I would be left with the full weight of six children and everything that comes with them, and I was prepared for that. But she ultimately decided not to go. It is never convenient to run toward kedushah—but perhaps that is precisely why such journeys bring blessing home.

My wife, far more grounded and structured than I, felt that despite how much she wanted to go, the timing was simply impossible. Wanting to honor her judgment without pressing too hard, I let it go, hoping that next time she would choose differently.

The trip left motzaei Shabbos. By Monday, the real beginning of the week, we were buried under twenty inches of snow. Schools were closed. Contractors couldn’t come. I was working from home. The cleaning lady canceled. The house was in chaos. At some point, my wife and I looked at each other and knew, without words, that Reb Shayele b’Reb Moshe was sending a message too clear to ignore.

And then it struck me: we are always connected to tzaddikim. Sometimes that connection is forged through the self-sacrifice of physically being there. And sometimes it reaches us exactly where we are. There are people who travel to tzaddikim and feel inspired, yet don’t immediately see the blessing they anticipated. In our case, the message came precisely because we stayed home. We felt the cost of not going—and in that absence, the connection revealed itself.

Once again: knowing through negation.

This tension appears in a famous dispute between Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yishmael. When the Torah was restated in the Plains of Moav, how did the Jewish people respond? Rabbi Yishmael held that they affirmed the positive commandments and rejected the negative ones. Rabbi Akiva maintained that they responded affirmatively to both.

Perhaps Rabbi Akiva saw what others could not: the positivity embedded within the negative framework itself. This is the same Rabbi Akiva who laughed where his colleagues wept, who perceived redemption where others saw only desecration.

So while it may be difficult to hold all of this in mind on Purim itself while fulfilling chayav inish levesumei b’Puraya ad delo yada, it is worth reflecting beforehand. The realm of negation is powerful. When understood properly, it does not diminish meaning; it deepens it.

Because sometimes, the truest knowing begins precisely where words fall silent. 

Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.