A GOOD TELLING-OFF

The baraita at Avot 6:6, which lists the 48 things by which a scholar can acquire a full understanding of Torah, contains a subsidiary list of five things that such a person should love:

אוֹהֵב אֶת הַמָּקוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַצְּדָקוֹת, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַמֵּישָׁרִים, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַתּוֹכָחוֹת

Love of God, love of fellow humans, love of charity, love of justice, love of rebukes.

Of these five, none is an obvious adjunct to the acquisition of scholarship in terms of Torah or any other field of study. However, the first four reflect a degree empathy on the part of the person embarking upon the pursuit of Torah. The student who recognizes that Torah is a precious gift will value it more when he considers the identity of its Giver. Likewise, since the Torah teaches love for others, the need to act charitably and the imperative to see that justice is done, the pleasure both given and taken from acting in accordance with these values provides both a reward for Torah already learned and an incentive to take one’s learning further.

Loving rebuke is different. If a rebuke is deserved, it can be painful to one’s feelings and one’s self-esteem. Every mature adult accepts that rebuke is sometimes necessary, but in terms of popularity it usually ranks about the same as a visit to the dental hygienist.

Perhaps the very fact that we don’t like being rebuked is the reason why it is in the list of Torah acquisition devices in our baraita. When we are properly told off for what we are doing wrong—or in the case of a serious Torah student what we are doing less well than we might—we should strive to appreciate the rebuker, to accept the rebuke and to love the fact that we have become somehow better people for it.

Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) makes an interesting observation. When the Baraita says אוֹהֵב אֶת הַתּוֹכָחוֹת the word הַתּוֹכָחוֹת (rebukes) is in the plural. Why is this? Ever practical, Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff (Lev Avot) says that, if the first rebuke doesn’t work, one should repeat the process. But there may be more to this curious plural.

There are actually three types of rebuke: (i) when someone rebukes me, (ii) when I rebuke myself, and (iii) when I rebuke someone else. Of these three, it is apparent that the first is usually quite uncomfortable and one seeks to avoid it. The second is uncomfortable too, since no-one likes to recognize that they are in need of correction—but this species of rebuke is quite rare since, as Rav Lau points out, it is often difficult to acknowledge one’s errors. Rav Lau does not add, as he might have done, that the third, administering a rebuke to someone else, can be extremely enjoyable since it can engender a feeling of moral or intellectual superiority over another. This is clearly not what the baraita means when it urges us to love rebukes.

How can one love administering a rebuke to a fellow human in the right sense? This means suppressing any gloating or feeling of personal gratification from giving it. More than that, it means focusing instead on the thought that, by preventing another doing wrong or helping that person to do something right, one is acting as a junior partner with God in improving the lot of humanity as a whole. Anyone who can do this is clearly capable of self-improvement on a grand scale and a fit recipient for Torah.

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JEALOUS OF WHAT’S ALREADY OURS

According to Rabbi Yose HaKohen (Avot 2:17):

יְהִי מָמוֹן חֲבֵרָךְ חָבִיב עָלֶֽיךָ כְּשֶׁלָּךְ. וְהַתְקֵן עַצְמָךְ לִלְמוֹד תּוֹרָה, שֶׁאֵינָהּ יְרֻשָּׁה לָךְ. וְכָל מַעֲשֶֽׂיךָ יִהְיוּ לְשֵׁם שָׁמָֽיִם

The property of your fellow should be as precious to you as your own. Perfect yourself for the study of Torah, for it is not an inheritance for you—and all your deeds should be for the sake of Heaven.

The bit of this compound mishnah that interests me is its opening, the instruction to hold the property of others as being as dear to us as our own. This looks at first sight like a mishnah that is not searching for any interpretation or amplification. Rambam’s commentary is silent on this issue, as are those of the Bartenura and Rashi, while Rabbenu Yonah adds somewhat cryptically that it means that one should treat the property of others as they would wish. Some Rishonim are more adventurous, though. Thus the Me’iri delves into the Avot deRabbi Natan and explains Rabbi Yose’s words within the context of competing businesses: we should not give a bad name to another trader’s goods in order to drive trade away from him. If his produce is of high quality, we should praise it; if it is not, we should stay silent—as we would wish others to do to our own merchandise. Machzor Vitry treats the mishnah quite differently by tying it to another’s lost property: you should help him look for it to the same extent that you would have looked for it if it had been yours.

As usual, modern commentators can be relied upon to have something fresh to say, whether by embellishing the words of the Tanna or by pointing to applications of them that might not immediately occur to us. Thus Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) reminds us that the chaver whose property should be precious to you as if it were your own is a wide enough concept to include your employer. This mishnah therefore teaches: “If I were the employer, how would I want my employees to act?”

Perhaps the most imaginative cadenza on the theme of respect for another’s property comes from Gila Ross (Living Beautifully), where she writes:

“Often we look at what other people have—whether it’s their pictures on social media that depict their perfect life, whether it’s the vacations they’re taking, their car or their house—and that can leave us feeling lacking. We want what they have. We have to be sensitive regarding what we share with others, and we also have to be mindful of how much time we spend looking at what other people have. Also, we should take as much joy in our own stuff as if it were our neighbor’s or our friend’s—whether it’s your health, your talents, your family, your house, whatever it is you have—and take as much joy in it as if it were someone else’s possessions”.

At base, Ross is telling us to address any natural tendency we have towards covetousness and envy and turn it into an emotional asset by making it work for us and training us to be happy with what we have, in compliance with Ben Zoma’s maxim in Avot 4:1 (“Who is fortunate? The one who is happy with his lot”). This is a powerful idea, but I wonder how many of us have the strength of character to discipline our acquisitional urges and be as “envious” of our own possessions as we are of those of others.

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THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE EXCLUDED MIDDLE

One of the most fascinating mishnayot in the fifth perek of Avot contrasts the disciples of the righteous Avraham with those of the wicked Bilaam. We read at Avot 5:22:

כָּל מִי שֶׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ שְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים הַלָּלוּ, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים אֲחֵרִים, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ: עַֽיִן טוֹבָה, וְרֽוּחַ נְמוּכָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ שְׁפָלָה. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע: עַֽיִן רָעָה, וְרֽוּחַ גְּבוֹהָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ רְחָבָה. מַה בֵּין תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ לְתַלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע, תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ אוֹכְלִין בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְנוֹחֲלִין הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: לְהַנְחִיל אֹהֲבַי יֵשׁ, וְאוֹצְרוֹתֵיהֶם אֲמַלֵּא. אֲבָל תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע יוֹרְשִׁין גֵּיהִנֹּם וְיוֹרְדִין לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאַתָּה אֱלֹהִים תּוֹרִידֵם לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, אַנְשֵׁי דָמִים וּמִרְמָה לֹא יֶחֱצוּ יְמֵיהֶם, וַאֲנִי אֶבְטַח בָּךְ

Whoever possesses these three traits is of the talmidim of our father Avraham; and whoever possesses these three different traits is of the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam. The talmidim of our father Avraham have a good eye, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam have an evil eye, a haughty spirit and a gross soul. What is the difference between the talmidim of our father Avraham and the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam? The talmidim of our father Avraham benefit in this world and inherit the World to Come, as it states, "To bequeath to those who love Me there is, and their treasures I shall fill". The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam shall inherit Gehinnom and descent into the pit of destruction, as it states, "And You, God, shall cast them into the pit of destruction; bloody and deceitful men, they shall not attain half their days. And I shall trust in you".

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky (the Netivot Shalom) observes that, while the difference between the two sets is vast, it can be almost impossible at a glance to tell the one from the other since these three differences—though of monumental significance—are invisible. The two may dress alike, live identical lifestyles and be apparently indistinguishable. Only their attitudes distinguish them.

Rabbi Avraham Sabba (the Tzror HaMor, cited in MiMa’ayanot HaNetzach) takes a binary view of these disciples. Every person who comes into the world, he asserts, is either a talmid of Avraham or a talmid of Bilaam. There is nothing in between.

At first sight, this teaching appears to be both false and unhelpful. How can anyone assert that everyone in the world is either righteous or wicked? Is there no-one in between? The Netivot Shalom himself points out, in relation to the correspondence of the Four Species on Sukkot with four different types of Jew, that the same individual may actually be several different types of person on the same day, which indicates the impossibility of categorizing anyone as good or bad, committed or apathetic in his attitude towards the Torah. I would guess that this is something we all experience quite regularly without even noticing it.

My feeling is that Rabbi Avraham Sabba is not stating a fact. He is giving advice. When we navigate each day and make decisions regarding ourselves and others, it often happens that we face a choice between a good act and a bad (or less good) one. At this point we should first ask ourselves: are we talmidim of Avraham, or of Bilaam? We have to identify as one or the other since this question cannot be escaped or bypassed. Once we have answered it, we can then explore the possibilities that lie in the grey area between these two poles.

One of the most fascinating mishnayot in the fifth perek of Avot contrasts the disciples of the righteous Avraham with those of the wicked Bilaam. We read at Avot 5:22:

כָּל מִי שֶׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ שְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים הַלָּלוּ, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים אֲחֵרִים, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ: עַֽיִן טוֹבָה, וְרֽוּחַ נְמוּכָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ שְׁפָלָה. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע: עַֽיִן רָעָה, וְרֽוּחַ גְּבוֹהָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ רְחָבָה. מַה בֵּין תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ לְתַלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע, תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ אוֹכְלִין בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְנוֹחֲלִין הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: לְהַנְחִיל אֹהֲבַי יֵשׁ, וְאוֹצְרוֹתֵיהֶם אֲמַלֵּא. אֲבָל תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע יוֹרְשִׁין גֵּיהִנֹּם וְיוֹרְדִין לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאַתָּה אֱלֹהִים תּוֹרִידֵם לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, אַנְשֵׁי דָמִים וּמִרְמָה לֹא יֶחֱצוּ יְמֵיהֶם, וַאֲנִי אֶבְטַח בָּךְ

Whoever possesses these three traits is of the talmidim of our father Avraham; and whoever possesses these three different traits is of the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam. The talmidim of our father Avraham have a good eye, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam have an evil eye, a haughty spirit and a gross soul. What is the difference between the talmidim of our father Avraham and the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam? The talmidim of our father Avraham benefit in this world and inherit the World to Come, as it states, "To bequeath to those who love Me there is, and their treasures I shall fill". The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam shall inherit Gehinnom and descent into the pit of destruction, as it states, "And You, God, shall cast them into the pit of destruction; bloody and deceitful men, they shall not attain half their days. And I shall trust in you".

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky (the Netivot Shalom) observes that, while the difference between the two sets is vast, it can be almost impossible at a glance to tell the one from the other since these three differences—though of monumental significance—are invisible. The two may dress alike, live identical lifestyles and be apparently indistinguishable. Only their attitudes distinguish them.

Rabbi Avraham Sabba (the Tzror HaMor, cited in MiMa’ayanot HaNetzach) takes a binary view of these disciples. Every person who comes into the world, he asserts, is either a talmid of Avraham or a talmid of Bilaam. There is nothing in between.

At first sight, this teaching appears to be both false and unhelpful. How can anyone assert that everyone in the world is either righteous or wicked? Is there no-one in between? The Netivot Shalom himself points out, in relation to the correspondence of the Four Species on Sukkot with four different types of Jew, that the same individual may actually be several different types of person on the same day, which indicates the impossibility of categorizing anyone as good or bad, committed or apathetic in his attitude towards the Torah. I would guess that this is something we all experience quite regularly without even noticing it.

My feeling is that Rabbi Avraham Sabba is not stating a fact. He is giving advice. When we navigate each day and make decisions regarding ourselves and others, it often happens that we face a choice between a good act and a bad (or less good) one. At this point we should first ask ourselves: are we talmidim of Avraham, or of Bilaam? We have to identify as one or the other since this question cannot be escaped or bypassed. Once we have answered it, we can then explore the possibilities that lie in the grey area between these two poles.

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THE POWER TO SAY “YES”, "NO"--AND "BETTER NOT"

Pirkei Avot opens with a recital of how the Torah was passed down from Moses on Har Sinai to the Anshei Knesset HaGadolah (the Men of the Great Assembly), who kick-started the real content of Avot—mussar and middot—with three foundational teachings:

הֱווּ מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין, וְהַעֲמִֽידוּ תַּלְמִידִים הַרְבֵּה, וַעֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

Be deliberate in judgement, and establish many pupils, and make a fence around the Torah.

To be מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין (metunim badin, deliberate—or careful—in judgement) was traditionally seen as advice given by judges, since the Great Assembly served as a sort of Supreme Court, to judges.

More recently, this teaching has been given wider scope. After all, we all act as judges, in an informal extrajudicial manner, when evaluating and assessing the behaviour and the worth of our friends, our families and even ourselves. An interesting example of this can be found in Ruchi Koval’s Soul Purpose (a recent Mosaica publication that has the look and feel of an inspirational “women-for-women” text but has plenty to offer men too). After pointing out that our personal judgements can affect others, Koval writes:

“As a parent, I find it so much easier to say “no” than “yes”, so I really have to work on myself to check that urge. Usually the easiest thing is to strike down someone else’s idea, but we need to be more measured than that. Are we saying no because it’s the path of least resistance? Because we are protecting ourselves? Or because it is truly right and good for society? Leaders must be deliberate in their judgements and truly consider all sides before making a decision that impacts the world”.

It is tempting to generalize from one’s own experience because it is at least something that we can subjectively verify. Yet its limitation is obvious. In a disciplined religious environment where respect for parents and teachers prevails and children are not conditioned to get their own way, it may well be easier to say “no”. But observation of humanity in general uggests that, particularly for parents, it is easier to say “yes” than “no”, since a “yes” will end the dialogue and buy time, space and relief for a parent—and it is the temptation to give in, to yield to children’s persistent demands, that must be resisted.

Nonetheless there is good reason to open a debate on the point that Koval raises. In several places the Talmud enunciates the principle of shev ve’al ta’aseh—choose the course of inaction where it is not clear whether one should do something or not. This position may have much to commend it when what is done cannot be undone, while that which is not done can still be done later. However, there are many situations in which action must be taken immediately, particularly in the case of medical matters.

Elsewhere in Avot we are cautioned to avoid a situation of doubt (Rabban Gamliel at 1:16). Taking careful thought ahead of making a decision and acting upon it is the way to remove doubt—or at least to reduce the size of its penumbra).  

For me, the area in which the need to proceed with caution before taking a decision, the need to remove a doubt and the maxim of shev ve’al ta’aseh come together is that in which a rabbi is asked to give a halachic ruling on whether something is permitted or prohibited—but receives the answer “better not”.  This answer complies with the principle of shev ve’al ta’aseh but only to the extent that it discourages action, but the doubt remains unless “better not” is interpreted as a reluctant “yes”.  A “better not” answer can have big consequences for others though. Think of a situation in which the question is “Can I rely on the kashrut of this shop, or restaurant, or licensing authority?” To say “better not” is quicker and easier than to investigate and weigh up the issues, and it may not be possible for a rabbi to gain access to the facts that enable an in-depth analysis to be made before giving a true and honest answer. But it is an answer that can have financial repercussions for a business or Beit Din that was not involved in the Q-and-A process.

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OUT OF ORDER

An anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:9 raises a curious conundrum. It reads like this:

שִׁבְעָה דְבָרִים בְּגוֹלָם וְשִׁבְעָה בְּחָכָם, חָכָם: אֵינוֹ מְדַבֵּר לִפְנֵי מִי שֶׁגָּדוֹל מִמֶּֽנּוּ בְּחָכְמָה וּבְמִנְיָן, וְאֵינוֹ נִכְנָס לְתוֹךְ דִּבְרֵי חֲבֵרוֹ, וְאֵינוֹ נִבְהָל לְהָשִׁיב, שׁוֹאֵל כְּעִנְיָן וּמֵשִׁיב כַּהֲלָכָה, וְאוֹמֵר עַל רִאשׁוֹן רִאשׁוֹן וְעַל אַחֲרוֹן אַחֲרוֹן, וְעַל מַה שֶּׁלֹּא שָׁמַע אוֹמֵר לֹא שָׁמַֽעְתִּי, וּמוֹדֶה עַל הָאֱמֶת, וְחִלּוּפֵיהֶן בְּגוֹלָם

There are seven things that characterize a golem, and seven that characterize a wise man. A wise man does not speak before one who is greater than him in wisdom or age. He does not interrupt his fellow's words. He does not hasten to answer. His questions are on the subject and his answers are to the point. He responds to first things first and to later things later. Concerning that which he did not learn, he says "I did not learn." He concedes the truth. With the golem, the reverse of all these is the case.

The mishnah starts by mentioning the golem—an unpolished, uncultivated individual who does not know how to behave—and then the wise man, the chacham. Would it not therefore be logical for the mishnah to list the characteristics of the golem first and then contrast them with the chacham? Indeed, the mishnah itself says that dealing with first things first and to later things later is one of the tests of the chacham, so why does its author not follow his own advice? Alternatively, if the qualities of the chacham and not the golem are to be listed, should not the mishnah have started by saying: “There are seven things that characterize a wise man, and seven that characterize a golem”?

The commentators have less to say about “first things first” than about the other six tests of a person’s status, and there seems to be a general feeling among them that dealing with things in the order in which they are raised is a general guideline and not in any sense a binding rule: Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) points out that there are perfectly respectable exceptions to it. Rabbenu Yonah, for example, notes that it may be necessary to deal with the later matter earlier in order to make it easier to deal with the first one.

Perhaps the last word should be left with the Tiferet Yisrael. At base, any sign of organization of a person’s thoughts indicates the presence of a degree of wisdom. But we may not be in a position to judge whether there is any sort of order.  I tried to explain this in my book, Pirkei Avot: A Users’ Manual, in the following manner:

Why did God issue commandments in the order He did, rather than sorting them out the way we now do? Presumably He gave them in the order which, in His wisdom, He deemed most appropriate under the circumstances in which they were first revealed, bearing in mind the capabilities of the people to whom they were revealed. We actually do the same ourselves. A parent might be heard to instruct a young child in the following manner before he steps foot outside the family home: “Have you got your hat and gloves? Do take some spare tissues with you. Your lunchbox is on the middle shelf of the fridge. Don’t forget your keys! Do you have your travel pass? If you want an apple, there are some in the fruit bowl. You are not going out in your socks: put those shoes on!” These instructions are not categorized by subject-matter (i.e. clothing, food, travel logistics) and look quite random to us. However, a thoughtful parent may have headed the list with those things the child was least likely to bother with (hat and coat, spare tissues) and finished it with those things the child was least likely to forget (apple, shoes).

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MAN – MADE IN THE IMAGE OF MAN

One of the mishnayot in Avot that superficially appears to have nothing to do with middot and mussar—advice that guides our behaviour and addresses our less noble thoughts—is a teaching by Rabbi Akiva that starts like this (Avot 3:18):

חָבִיב אָדָם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לוֹ שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי בְּצֶֽלֶם אֱלֹהִים עָשָׂה אֶת הָאָדָם

Beloved is man, for he was created in [God’s] image; with even greater love is it made known to him that he was created in the image, as it says, "For in the image of God, He made man" (Bereishit 9:6).

Knowing how much God love His human creations, a category to which we all belong, may inspire a warm feeling inside us, but it is hard to pinpoint a way in which this knowledge, of itself, is a game-changer in our daily lives.

Many scholars accept the view of Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda, in his commentary-cum-compendium Midrash Shmuel, that this teaching constitutes a warning that the act of murder is deserving of capital punishment. Since every human being is created in the image of God, the killing of any human is a form of erasure or diminution of the image of God—whatever that term might mean in relation to an incorporeal deity.

But there are other approaches which make up with their originality for what they lack in terms of literal accuracy. Thus, citing the Venetian scholar Rabbi Moshe Chafetz, Rabbi Norman Lamm (Foundation of Faith, ed. R’ Mark Dratch) takes a slight liberty with the mishnah—part of the Oral Law—by shifting a comma of which Rabbi Akiva would surely have been unaware, since he lived around 600 years before any form of punctuation was introduced into Hebrew. Nevertheless, what he writes is thought-provoking.

In short, by shifting the comma so that instead of following Elokim it follows b’tzelem, the meaning of the verse from Bereishit shifts from the usual

“for in the image of God, He made man"

to

“for in [his, i.e. man’s] image, God made man”.

Rabbi Akiva is now taken to say that God creates each man in his own individual image, with his own essence, his own characteristic being. It is each person’s own tzelem that gives him or her their own metaphysical value, their differentness and their absolute uniqueness.

Now we can ask what is our take-away message in terms of middot and mussar? Arguably it is that, if God has gone to the trouble of creating each person as an individual, we should be careful to recognize their unique personal qualities and should take care not to commoditise them or judge them in general terms. Each person must be assessed on the basis of their individual qualities—and respected because those qualities and their potential to use those qualities are hard-wired into them by God.

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WHEN THE CHATTING HAS TO STOP?

Pirkei Avot speaks twice about what we might call ordinary day-to-day conversation. At Avot 1:5 Yose ben Yochanan Ish Yerushalayim cautions men engaging in too much casual chatting even with their own wives—and how much more so should they not converse overmuch with other people’s wives. The consequences, which are grim, are listed in this mishnah:

כָּל הַמַּרְבֶּה שִׂיחָה עִם הָאִשָּׁה, גּוֹרֵם רָעָה לְעַצְמוֹ, וּבוֹטֵל מִדִּבְרֵי תוֹרָה, וְסוֹפוֹ יוֹרֵשׁ גֵּיהִנֹּם

One who excessively converses with one’s wife causes evil to himself, neglects the study of Torah and ultimately inherits Gehinnom.

Responses to this teaching range from bristling hostility at its attitude towards women in general to warm endorsement of the need for a man to respect boundaries in his dealings with his own and other people’s wives. Some also focus on the word שִׂיחָה (sichah, here meaning “chatter”), urging men to treat women with respect as their intellectual equals rather than refuse to engage them on matters of a more serious nature.

Conversation also features in a later mishnah that focuses not so much on quantity as on quality. At Avot 3: Dosa ben Horkinas teaches

שֵׁנָה שֶׁל שַׁחֲרִית, וְיַֽיִן שֶׁל צָהֳרָֽיִם, וְשִׂיחַת הַיְלָדִים, וִישִׁיבַת בָּתֵּי כְנֵסִיּוֹת שֶׁל עַמֵּי הָאָֽרֶץ, מוֹצִיאִין אֶת הָאָדָם מִן הָעוֹלָם

Morning sleep, noontime wine, children's talk and sitting at the meeting places of the ignoramus drive a person from the world.

I believe that the children’s talk referred to here is children’s talk between adults, not between adult and child. Speaking to a child in a childish manner is so often a vital part of the child’s education in the use of language, the art of communication and the gradual acquisition of cognitive and conceptual understanding. But it can be an embarrassment to listen to adults speaking with one another as though they were children.

Avot returns to the theme of conversation in a context that is neither age- nor gender-specific, in the lengthy Baraita at 6:6 that lists the 48 boxes that an aspiring Torah scholar is to tick if he is to obtain and then retain his Torah learning. One of these is to practise ְּמִעוּט שִׂיחָה (miyut sichah, minimizing ordinary conversation). From the context it is plain that the problem with sichah is not one of inviting greater sexual intimacy or of grooming a prospective sexual partner, but rather of bitul zeman—wasting time that might otherwise be spent on more productive activities in the pursuit of Torah.

Some of the more serious Torah scholars of bygone generations took the limitation or even the avoidance of ordinary conversation to extremes. Thus Rabbi Asher Weiss (Rav Asher Weiss on Avos vol.2) states, citing Midrash Shir HaShirim Rabbah, that for every piece of unnecessary speech that enters a person’s ear, a Torah matter leaves. But Rabbi Weiss then tempers this extreme position with an observation about life in the real world:

“…[T]his is not the way for most people. We may infer from Chazal’s expression “limited conversation” that we are only to lessen our involvement. … Human nature dictates that we cannot completely withdraw from light conversation and the way of the world”.

The need to speak to other people cannot be denied but, like so many other things in Avot, the difficulty lies not in the principle but in the practice. Here it is difficult to draw firm guidelines. One person’s being polite or friendly is another person’s being flirtatious or suggestive. And I would not be as brave as Rabbi Weiss as to write the words “human nature dictates…”, bearing in mind that so much of the challenge that we face in our own lives lies precisely in the battle to resist what human nature dictates.

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"YOU'RE A WASTE OF SPACE!"

One of the messages that Pirkei Avot most persistently hammers home is that it is unwise to judge other people—whatever we may be tempted to think of them. We can’t know why they do what they do unless we are standing in their place (Hillel, 2:5). If we do judge them, we should look at them favourably if at all possible (Yehoshua ben Perachyah, 1:6). In any event, judgement should be a collective exercise, not the prerogative of the individual (Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose. 4:10).

A further encouragement not to judge others, one that is not couched in the vocabulary of judgement but of vilification or scorn, is found in the words of Ben Azai (Avot 4:3):

אַל תְּהִי בָז לְכָל אָדָם וְאַל תְּהִי מַפְלִיג לְכָל דָּבָר, שֶׁאֵין לָךְ אָדָם שֶׁאֵין לוֹ שָׁעָה, וְאֵין לָךְ דָּבָר שֶׁאֵין לוֹ מָקוֹם

Do not scorn anyone, and do not disdain any thing, for there is no one who does not have his hour, and no thing that does not have its place.

Scorning other people, writing them off as what Basil Fawlty would call “a waste of space”, is in essence a judgmental process. We size someone up, we write them off as being worthless, we deem them to be literally “useless”.

In the real world, where humans are trained or expected to perform a multitude of functions, every one of us—if we are honest—is in most respects useless. A person may be generally useful as a spouse, a parent, a friend or community member, but useless if what you are seeking is a dentist, a plumber or a fourth hand for bridge.  We do not write each other off for being useless in this sense and it is fairly certain that this scenario is not what Ben Azai had in mind.

I believe that Ben Azai’s message comes to reinforce that of Ben Zoma at Avot 4:1, that a person is wise who learns from everyone. If everyone has something to teach you, you can hardly point to anyone and declare them to be “a waste of space”.

We do however have a problem. Let us suppose that someone appears to be useless. Ben Azai tells us that everyone has their hour. But what if that hour has already passed, and their usefulness has been spent, as it were? What happens if they have nothing left to offer?  May we not write them off even then? Or are we supposed to take them seriously and treat them with respect in case they still have another hour to come, another moment of significance? And how can we assume that they can no longer teach us anything?

These are not, possibly with justification, issues that trouble our commentators—but the Torah narrative in Sefer Bereishit may furnish us with an answer. After the Flood and the episodes that take place shortly after it, we hear no more of Noach, though he lives for hundreds of years. He is often characterized as a spent force, a man who had his moment but never succeeded in building upon it, a sad soul who sunk into an abyss of alcoholic obscurity from which he could not emerge—or chose not to.

But maybe Noach’s inactivity was itself teaching us a lesson. His sons and subsequent generations took up the story of human life on Earth, but Noach did not take any steps to interfere with them. For many if not most parents it is very difficult to let one’s children grow in terms of taking the reins of responsibility and leading their lives in directions that they have chosen for themselves. Yet this is what Noach did. Perhaps his apparent inactivity was the result of a conscious decision to trust his descendants to take their own decisions and to decide for themselves whether they wished to obtain his advice or not. And that is an important lesson for us all.

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WICKED!

Considering how few words the Tannaim used when teaching, it is hardly surprising that their teachings have generated so many comments and explanations. From our own experience, we see how words that are taken out of context—or which are never given a context in the first place—can be twisted, misunderstood or merely interpreted in so many different ways that the impact of their brevity is lost. In modern times, two “classics” come to mind. The first is the instruction “To avoid suffocation keep away from children”—which only carries a useful meaning when printed on a polythene bag. The second, “Stand in boiling water for two minutes”, requires a different context entirely, being a cooking instruction for a canned pudding. Fortunately, the words of our Mishnaic sages are less extreme cases but, even so, they demand some form of context or background—and may attract several competing explanations.

At Avot 2:18 Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel says:

אַל תְּהִי רָשָׁע בִּפְנֵי עַצְמֶֽךָ

Do not be wicked bifnei atzmecha (“before yourself”, “inside yourself”, “on your own”)

The precise meaning of this injunction, and of the words bifnei atzmecha, is unclear, as we see from our commentators. No context is supplied and the Tanna points to no particular objective. For the Rambam, this teaching means not judging oneself as a wicked person. The Bartenura (with whom the commentary ascribed to Rashi agrees) says it means not doing something today if tomorrow you will regard yourself as being evil for having done it. Rabbenu Yonah, author of the Sha’arei Teshuvah, puts a teshuvah-related spin on it: don’t regard yourself as being wicked since you always have the option to repent. He then adds, with an eye on Yom Kippur and Divine judgement, that you should regard yourself as half-guilty and half-innocent: your next action might then lead either to acquittal or condemnation. As for the Me’iri, his take on Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel’s words is that, if you regard yourself as being wicked when you are not, you may come to do things that are wicked. More recently, the Ru’ach Chaim reads here a caution against looking righteous and wrapping yourself in tallit and tefillin when you are inwardly seething with evil thoughts.

One can travel even further in a quest for an explanation. Thus Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics From Sinai) picks up on a Gemara (Berachot 8a) that teaches that anyone who has a synagogue in his city but prays by himself is a shochen ra, a bad neighbour. Perhaps this then is the clue: since bifnei atzmecha can also be understood as meaning “on one’s own”, Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel must have been cautioning against praying at home by home. Alternatively, according to Rabbi Hillel, a person who brazenly defies our Sages by praying by himself is automatically deemed “wicked”. Rabbi Yehoshua Heschel of Monstritch turns this idea on its head: one is only allowed to view oneself as wicked, sinful and downright inadequate if one prays with other people, by analogy of the blend of spices and herbs that made up the ketoret—the incense offering in the Temple—which would be invalidated by the absence of the foul-smelling chelbanah. In such a case, one can feel wicked in the safe knowledge that one’s wickedness is cancelled out by the company one keeps.

How much of this speaks to us today? These analyses do not reflect our way of looking at the world—or ourselves—in an era in which the vocabulary of obedience and deviancy has so greatly changed. Words like ‘sin’ are marginalized and have faded from daily parlance; ‘evil’ is now a convenient epithet for someone with whom one has a major disagreement and ‘wicked’ is now a popular musical-turned-movie (run the word through your favourite browser if you don’t believe me).  But our mishnah is not lost.

Coming to the rescue is Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of The Fathers), who examines the Tanna’s pronouncement from his own perspective as a psychiatrist.  Do not think of yourself as an inherently bad person, he counsels. Rather, view yourself as a person who is fundamentally good but who has done bad things. Condemn the act, not the actor. This explanation might even be what Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel had in mind, and it is closer to his words than some of the explanations we reviewed earlier.

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A REWARD IN HAND

An anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:17 assesses and contrasts four categories of individual who have (or lack) pretentions to be engaged in Torah learning. It runs like this:

אַרְבַּע מִדּוֹת בְּהוֹלְכֵי בֵית הַמִּדְרָשׁ: הוֹלֵךְ וְאֵינוֹ עוֹשֶׂה, שְׂכַר הֲלִיכָה בְּיָדוֹ. עוֹשֶׂה וְאֵינוֹ הוֹלֵךְ, שְׂכַר מַעֲשֶׂה בְּיָדוֹ. הוֹלֵךְ וְעוֹשֶׂה, חָסִיד. לֹא הוֹלֵךְ וְלֹא עוֹשֶׂה, רָשָׁע

There are four types among those who attend the study hall. Someone who goes but does nothing has gained the rewards of going. Someone who does [study] but does not go to the study hall has gained the rewards of doing. One who goes and does is a chasid. One who neither goes nor does is wicked.

This is not one of the red-hot mishnayot that make Avot so exciting; it looks almost like a rote exercise in patting people on the head for going out to learn Torah in public, whether they can be seen and can share their learning with others, rather than sit with their books before them at home—where for all we know they might be playing Minecraft on their iPads.

Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezrich gives this teaching a Chasidic make-over in his inimitable manner by focusing on the second of the four stereotypes described in our mishnah, the הוֹלֵךְ וְאֵינוֹ עוֹשֶׂה (oseh ve’eino holech, who “does but doesn’t go”). This person earns a reward for the learning he does, but he fails to “go”, to progress from the level he has already attained to a higher level as a result of his learning.  His reward is therefore בְּיָדוֹ (beyado, literally “in his hand”), meaning “from the action of his hand” rather than being a reward for the internalization of his thoughts and his understanding of what has been learned—and for his growth in Torah.

This is a neat and elegant way to convey the message that the value of learning is in what understands rather than in the time spent sitting in a shiur, a lecture theatre or a library, going through the motions but emerging quite unchanged by that exercise. However, this meaning of לֵךְ וְאֵינוֹ עוֹשֶׂה and בְּיָדוֹ cannot be what the author of our mishnah intended. If it were, it would be impossible to comprehend the first part of the mishnah which speaks of the opposite case, the הוֹלֵךְ וְאֵינוֹ עוֹשֶׂה (holech ve’eino oseh, the one who “goes but does not do” any learning). By Reb Dov Ber’s reckoning this would be the person who rises in his level of learning and still receives a reward even though he has done nothing.

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WHERE—AND HOW—SHOULD WE LOOK FOR OUR HAPPINESS?

At Avot 4:1 Ben Zoma teaches (among other things):

אֵיזֶהוּ עָשִׁיר, הַשָּׂמֵֽחַ בְּחֶלְקוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: יְגִֽיעַ כַּפֶּֽיךָ כִּי תֹאכֵל, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Who is rich? One who is happy with his lot. As it states (Tehillim 128:2): "If you eat of the effort of your hands, you are fortunate and it is good is to you"; “you are fortunate" in this world, "and it is good for you" in the World to Come.

The notion that happiness and the feeling that one is wealthy are contingent on being happy with what one has is a popular truism that seems to be expressed in many different ways and in every culture with which I am familiar. Jewish literature is rich in teachings that support it. We all know, as humans, that we want more than we have and that, once we obtain the object of our desire, we begin to want something else, something better or more appropriate for our needs. We know this because, if we are honest with ourselves, at one stage or another in our lives we have personally experienced it.

The party line is eloquently expressed by Rabbi Yisrael Miller (The Wisdom of Avot) where he writes, citing Rav Yerucham Levovitz:

… [W]e can all find happiness and success inside ourselves, and need not—and should not—allow our happiness to depend on external factors or circumstances; and with this understanding, “thank Hashem, I am happy always”.

A baraita in the sixth and final perek emphasizes this notion with specific reference to the Torah scholar and citing the same verse in Tehillim. At Avot 6:4 we learn:

כַּךְ הִיא דַּרְכָּהּ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה: פַּת בְּמֶֽלַח תֹּאכֵל, וּמַֽיִם בִּמְשׂוּרָה תִּשְׁתֶּה, וְעַל הָאָֽרֶץ תִּישָׁן, וְחַיֵּי צַֽעַר תִּחְיֶה, וּבַתּוֹרָה אַתָּה עָמֵל, אִם אַתָּה עֽוֹשֶׂה כֵּן, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Such is the way of Torah: Bread with salt you shall eat; water in moderation you shall drink, and upon the ground you shall sleep. Live a life of deprivation and toil in Torah. If so you do, "If you eat of the effort of your hands, you are fortunate and it is good is to you"; “you are fortunate" in this world, "and it is good for you" in the World to Come.

It is possible to employ an objective test in order to establish that a person is fortunate. However, prima facie it seems both unnecessary and wrong to tell a person that they are happy or to prescribe in blanket terms that they will be happy. Happiness is experienced by every individual in a unique manner and to a unique degree.

One can go further in questioning the utility of the teachings in Avot concerning happiness, since there are a number of unstated assumptions that underpin the notion of true happiness being the feeling of being happy with one’s lot. For example:

If I want something that I do not have, I am discontented.

If I want something and God does not provide for me to obtain it, I am criticizing God’s assessment of what I am entitled to have and therefore implicitly consider Him unfair.

My being happy is a conscious choice, an exercise of my free will.

My lot consists of what I have or can access for myself, and not what I should have or need to have—but do not.

These assumptions, like the notion that one should be happy with one’s lot, are important because they play out in a person’s behaviour and response to factors that go beyond personal contentment. They therefore affect middot, norms of behaviour, and are not absolutes. This means that, while we can cheerfully endorse the idea that it is good to be content with one’s lot, we can drill it full of exceptions. Thus we can recite all 13 of the bakashot, the requests that form the heart of the weekday tefillah, without fear. We can seek to make provision for the needs of our family and, to a lesser extent, our wider community even if, in doing so, we make demands for things that we do not want.

Rabbinical thought does not challenge these teachings of Avot, but it does examine them in a variety of ways that make them less sententious and more appealing. Thus, for example, the Ben Ish Chai (cited in Mima’ayanot Netzach) explains that the “lot” (chelek in Hebrew) with which a person is happy is the chelek of his assets that he allocates to the benefit of the poor. He can rejoice in the fact that, by giving away this portion, he increases his own portion in the world to come.

I would like to suggest that there is a practical use for the concept of being happy with one’s lot. 

In our lives we inevitably find there are things we don’t have but would wish to acquire, as well as, less often, things we do have but which we neither need nor want.  Why not use the criterion of happiness with one’s lot as a sort of yardstick by which to measure our position regarding what we do and don’t want.  When contemplating whether to acquire or indeed pray for something, we should ask: “can I honestly say that it will make me happier?”  Likewise, when retaining or hoarding something, or dealing with another person’s requests that are made of us, we should ask: “can I honestly say that the loss of this article or acceding to this request will make me less happy?” This mental audit of our wish lists may not bring us to a state of permanently radiant happiness, but it will force us to confront the question of how much our happiness means to us in material, social, emotional and intellectual terms.

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WHEN IT’S RUDE TO ANSWER THE PHONE

In terms of modern etiquette, making and taking calls—particularly on smartphones—has developed its own set of behaviours. Often we can identify a caller, which gives us the option of letting the phone continue to ring, dismissing the call or answering it. Video calls can be accepted as such or only as audio calls, depending on one’s mood, location and respectability of appearance. We can put one person on hold while we speak to someone else, and so on. If we guess why the caller is trying to contact us, we can decline the call but send an instant message by text or voice in order to anticipate the need to talk at all.

Sometimes a caller is offended by the response of the person called, where it is not the hoped-for one. One such situation arises when the recipient answers the phone, only to tell the caller that he or she is far too busy to speak and then terminating the call. Many people find this behaviour unacceptably rude. “Why bother answering my call,” they complain, “when they don’t have the time to deal with me?” It’s insulting and suggests that the caller is of no worth at all.  Rabbi Shimshon Dovid Pincus (introduction to She’arim beTefillah) tells us that there is no greater honour that we can bestow upon others than the gift of our time. To deny another person one’s time is therefore the greatest snub one can administer. All this means that it is better not to answer at all than to answer with the “I’ve no time” response.

The position described in the previous paragraph is understandable—but is it best practice?

In the first place it is not correct to assume that, if giving another one’s time is the greatest honour, then not giving one’s time is the greatest insult. The opposite of giving honour (more accurately its negative) is simply not giving honour, ust as the opposite of giving someone an ice-cream is not giving someone an ice-cream. In each case, whether the negative of a particular act is good, bad or quite neutral is a value judgement based on other criteria.

Secondly, in Pirkei Avot we learn from Yehoshua ben Perachyah that we should not be inclined to presume the worst in other people. He teaches (Avot 1:6):

הֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת

Judge every person on the scale of merit.

This means giving others the benefit of the doubt in situations in which their behaviour, though objectively unacceptable or even inexcusable, may in fact be justified by circumstances of which we have no knowledge.  This principle is underlined by a teaching of Hillel later in the same tractate (Avot 2:4):

אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרָךְ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּֽיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ

Do not judge your fellow until you have stood in his place. 

If we are honest with ourselves we will concede that, however annoying it is when others have answered your call only to tell you they can’t deal with you now, it is something we have quite likely done to others without feeling any sense of guilt. Common instances of this are where, for example,

The caller is phoning at a time other than one which you have told him you are free to talk;

You know that the caller will call repeatedly if you don’t answer the call or dismiss it;

The call is coming in just before Shabbat and you are frantically juggling a set of immediate commitments;

You know that the caller seeks to repeat a request that you have already refused and that nothing will come from discussing the matter again until there is a change in circumstances.

If we feel quite justified do this ourselves, we should be prepared to accept that others may feel exactly the same way.

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LET’S HANG ON TO WHAT WE GOT…

At Avot 3:10 Rabbi Dostai ben Yannai teaches in the name of Rabbi Meir a lesson that most of us would regard as easy to understand but extremely hard to apply:

כָּל הַשּׁוֹכֵֽחַ דָּבָר אֶחָד מִמִּשְׁנָתוֹ, מַעֲלֶה עָלָיו הַכָּתוּב כְּאִלּוּ מִתְחַיֵּב בְּנַפְשׁוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: רַק הִשָּֽׁמֶר לְךָ וּשְׁמֹר נַפְשְׁךָ מְאֹד פֶּן תִּשְׁכַּח אֶת הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר רָאוּ עֵינֶֽיךָ. יָכוֹל אֲפִילוּ תָּקְפָה עָלָיו מִשְׁנָתוֹ, תַּלְמוּד לוֹמַר: וּפֶן יָסֽוּרוּ מִלְּבָבְךָ כֹּל יְמֵי חַיֶּֽיךָ, הָא אֵינוֹ מִתְחַיֵּב בְּנַפְשׁוֹ עַד שֶׁיֵּשֵׁב וִיסִירֵם מִלִּבּוֹ

Anyone who forgets even a single word of this learning, the Torah considers it as if he had forfeited his life. As is stated, "Just be careful, and very much guard your soul, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen" (Devarim 4:9). One might think that this applies also to one who [has forgotten because] his studies proved too difficult for him; but the verse continues "and lest they be removed from your heart, throughout the days of your life." From this we see that one does not forfeit his life unless he deliberately removes them from his heart.

For any Jew learning Torah today, the task is in many respects incomparably harder than it was for the Sages of the Mishnah: Rabbi Dostai and his contemporaries had ‘only’ to master the canonical books of the Tanach plus the Oral Law that Rabbi Yehudah eventually organized into the Six Orders of the Mishnah and the accompanying teachings that became known as baraitot, toseftot and midrash. They never had to face the task of conquering what was to become a possibly exponential growth of literature ranging from the commentaries and codifications of the Rishonim through to the generally far more voluminous output of the Acharonim.  On the other hand, without the convenience of the printed text and the luxury of online data retrieval, anything they failed to commit to memory or were able to explain cogently to others was liable to be lost forever.

The Chasid Yavetz places this mishnah within the context of the arrangement of teachings in the third chapter of Avot. There it follows a series of six mishnayot that deal with different aspects of Torah: sharing it with others, not turning away from it but adhering to it, the importance of studying it with others and the need to resist the temptation to be distracted while learning it.  Once we have mastered these matters, we are all set for a promising role as a talmid chacham—someone who is wise in the ways of the Torah—but there is still one thing left to address.

Explains the Chasid Yavetz, there is a parallel between the pursuit of Torah and the pursuit of profit in the business world. Most of us are probably familiar with the types of businessmen that inhabit our commercial world. Discounting those poor souls who really don’t have a clue, there are three other personalities in the business world: those who make money and don’t know how to hang on to it, those who know exactly how to hang onto it but never seem to be able to make it, and those happy folk who possess the knack of making money and the wherewithal to safeguard it. So too in the world of Torah, we see those who know how to learn but can’t retain it, those who would retain it well if they could but remember it, and those who are not only good at learning but keep their knowledge and their understanding secure. The Chasid Yavetz bases his categorization on the proof verse from Devarim and the two verses that precede it, though he could equally have treated it as an echo of the -authored “four types of Torah student” mishnah at Avot 5:15.

The obvious line of protection against forgetting one’s Torah is the principle of “let’s hang on to what we got”, this being the practice of regularly revising what we have learned. Curiously, this important learning technique is not explicitly mentioned anywhere in the tractate of Avot—though there is something of a tradition that incorporates it. We learn Avot from Pesach to Shavuot, the period of sefirat ha’omer (this being 49 days), but only 48 elements of acquiring Torah are listed in the baraita of Avot 6:6. Each day of the sefirat ha’omer corresponds to one of those 48 elements, leaving the 49^th and final day for chazarah (“revision”). I heard this from Rabbi Eli Brunner zt’l, who heard it from Rabbi Elya Lopian. If anyone has an authentic source drawn from our earlier Sages, can they please let me know.

I don’t suppose that many, and perhaps any, serious and sincere contemporary Torah scholars would ever go about deliberately forgetting any part of their Torah learning except possibly where they had mis-learned it in the first place and had to put it right out of their minds before seeking to re-learn it properly. But there may be another form of forgetting that is more than merely accidental but certainly not malicious. An argument in Jewish law may be complex, built on the interrelationship of several different propositions—and sometimes when we apply layers of halachic propositions one after another we reach a result that is so absurd or self-evidently wrong that we deliberately reject it and start again. It may be that, in this process of rejection, a valid Torah proposition is set aside too and is subsequently forgotten. I like to think that our God, being all-knowing and merciful, would not condemn this form of forgetfulness.

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TALKIN’ ABOUT OUR GENERATIONS…

There is a pair of mishnayot in Avot that look totally out of place in a tractate that is concerned with the criteria that our Sages lay down for good behaviour. They read like this (Avot 5:2-3):

עֲשָׂרָה דוֹרוֹת מֵאָדָם וְעַד נֹֽחַ, לְהוֹדִֽיעַ כַּמָּה אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם לְפָנָיו, שֶׁכָּל הַדּוֹרוֹת הָיוּ מַכְעִיסִין וּבָאִין, עַד שֶׁהֵבִיא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת מֵי הַמַּבּוּל

עֲשָׂרָה דוֹרוֹת מִנֹּֽחַ וְעַד אַבְרָהָם, לְהוֹדִֽיעַ כַּמָּה אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם לְפָנָיו, שֶׁכָּל הַדּוֹרוֹת הָיוּ מַכְעִיסִין וּבָאִין, עַד שֶׁבָּא אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ וְקִבֵּל שְׂכַר כֻּלָּם

There were ten generations from Adam to Noah. This is to teach us the extent of God's tolerance; for all these generations angered Him, until He brought upon them the waters of the Flood.

There were ten generations from Noah to Abraham. This is to teach us the extent of God's tolerance; for all these generations angered Him, until Abraham came and reaped the reward for them all.

Since the Mishnah is not a work of history, it is implicit that there is more to these teachings than the transgenerational narrative suggests.  Much attention is paid to important philosophical issues such as the withholding of punishment from generations that were deserving it or the fairness of giving Abraham the reward for meritorious acts of others, as well as theological issues relating to the imputation of human qualities such as forbearance and anger to an inscrutable Deity whose characteristics are beyond human comprehension. But there is one topic that is generally ignored: the counting of generations.

The problem these mishnayot raise is this. Counting Adam as 1 and Abraham as 20, as the genealogical chronology of the Torah suggests, there are only 19 generations (you can try this yourself with a box of matches: if you lay out 20 in a row, the number of gaps, representing the generations, will only total 19).

Paul Forchheimer (Maimonides’ Commentary on Pirkey Avoth) asserts that Noah belongs only to the first mishnah. He brings no support for this assertion, but Tosafot Yom Tov, the Maharal in his Derech Chaim and the Anaf Yosef see provide it for him. The Torah itself challenges this view, though since, though the first mishnah ends with God bringing his punishing Flood, we discover at Bereshit 9:28 that Noah lived for another 350 presumably quite unrewarding years—thus taking him well beyond that cataclysmic event and placing him firmly in the second mishnah.  Another reason for including him in the second grouping is that, at the end of this period, God is not in punishment mode but is distributing rewards. Noah, whom the Torah describes as a tzaddik and who is the instrument through which God saves humanity, would appear to belong more to the generations that earned rewards—even if they were withheld—than the generations that deserved to be wiped out.

Ultimately the question that should concern us is not which mishnah or mishnayot contains Noah but, rather, what the anonymous author of these teachings is trying to teach us. This should not be hard to establish. The main actor in each mishnah is God. It is an oft-repeated axiom that we are supposed to emulate His ways. Just as He is merciful, so too should we be merciful, and so on (Shabbat 133b). Transposing this axiom to our pair of mishnayot, the lesson is clear: just as He is patient and tolerant, we too should be patient and tolerant; and just as He is not hasty to hand out rewards to those who are not fit to receive them, so too should we exercise the same caution.

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BEFORE YOU OPEN THAT GEMARA, GET YOURSELF AN ATTRACTIVE WIFE

Sitting quietly in the middle of a string of more apparently profound or provocative teachings of our Sages in Avot is that of Rabbi Yose at Avot 2:17:

הַתְקֵן עַצְמָךְ לִלְמוֹד תּוֹרָה, שֶׁאֵינָהּ יְרֻשָּׁה לָךְ

Prepare yourself to study Torah, since it is not an inheritance for you.

This is scarcely rocket science. Preparation is so often a prerequisite for what we do that the advice to prepare oneself seems quite unnecessary. Preparing oneself is what we do when we are planning to go out in the rain, play a game of tennis, embark upon a shopping expedition or go to bed. Why should learning Torah be anything else?

Over the years, commentators such as the Bartenura and ‘Rashi’ have focused less on the need to prepare than on the tail-end of this teaching—that Torah is not our inheritance. From our earliest youth we learn by rote that Torah is the inheritance of the Jewish people as a whole (Devarim 33:4). Be that as it may, it still has to be learned, and this is an instruction for us as individuals, for it is we who are individually tasked with the responsibility to learn, absorb, understand, comply with its guidance and ultimately transmit it (Midrash Shmuel; Rabbi Marcus Lehmann).

Rabbenu Yonah takes a strict view of the preparation one must undergo in order to learn Torah. This involves the diminution of one’s physical pleasures as well as some serious perfection of one’s character, with a special emphasis on humility. The Maharal cites humility as the prime preparation for learning Torah in his Netivot Olam and this middah also makes the list of 48 activities and attributes that make a person a Talmid Chacham at Avot 6:6.

In Berachot 57b is a statement that seems to support Rabbenu Yonah. There the Gemara states:

“Three things are marchivin a man’s mind. This is what they are: an attractive home, an attractive wife, and attractive kelim [clothing and utensils]”.

Morris Simon’s translation in the Soncino Talmud renders marchivin in this context as “increases a man’s self-esteem”. The Maharsha takes a stern view of this Gemara. Linking the word marchivin to the nefesh rechavah of Balaam’s disciples which takes them from the world (Avot 5:22), he cautions us that these three things are symbols of worldly pleasure. If we possess them for our personal gratification, we are lost.  

Surprisingly, contrary and far less austere view is expressed by Rabbi Yaakov Hillel in his generally ascetic and often acerbic commentary, Eternal Ethics from Sinai. There he observes:

“At first glance we would not imagine that factors such as these would contribute to our development as Torah scholars. And yet, would the Sages provide advice like this as a tip for success in business or… for deriving maximum enjoyment out of life in this world? It can only mean that these circumstances will help us grow in Torah.

If we use these gifts for the sake of Heaven, as a means to spiritual growth, they are positive and beneficial, and they will give us the peace of mind we need to learn Torah”.

This view is favourable for those of us with hedonistic tendencies, though it is hard to reconcile it with Avot 6:4, where an anonymous mishnah opts for a hair-shirt approach:

כַּךְ הִיא דַּרְכָּהּ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה: פַּת בְּמֶֽלַח תֹּאכֵל, וּמַֽיִם בִּמְשׂוּרָה תִּשְׁתֶּה, וְעַל הָאָֽרֶץ תִּישָׁן, וְחַיֵּי צַֽעַר תִּחְיֶה, וּבַתּוֹרָה אַתָּה עָמֵל, אִם אַתָּה עֽוֹשֶׂה כֵּן, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Such is the way of Torah: Bread with salt you shall eat, water in small measure you shall drink, and upon the ground you shall sleep; live a life of deprivation and toil in Torah. If you do so, "you are fortunate and it is good is to you" (Tehillim 128:2): fortunate in this world, and it is good to you in the World To Come.

Rather than grumble about mixed messages and inconsistency, I think it is preferable to conclude that the various views reflected in these teachings are inconsistent only because they are addressing different personality types and people who are at different stages of their lives. Our task is then to work out which of these competing messages is the one for each of us.

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