WHERE EAGLES DARE TO LEARN

Rabbi Yishmael’s teaching at Avot 3:16 has been transmitted through the generations for a couple of millennia without attracting anything that might be described as consensus as to what it means. It’s a three-part mishnah and the final segment is quite intelligible. The problem lies with the two bits that appear ahead of it.

The mishnah goes like this:

הֱוֵי קַל לְרֹאשׁ, וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת, וֶהֱוֵי מְקַבֵּל אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם בְּשִׂמְחָה

A rough idea of what it might mean in full can be obtained by reading two contemporary translations by organizations dedicated to spreading the word, as it were: Chabad and ArtScroll:

Be yielding to a leader, affable to the black-haired, and receive every man with joy (Chabad).

Be yielding to a superior, pleasant to the young, and receive everyone cheerfully (ArtScroll).

Some idea of the other translations and meanings that have been ascribed to it can be found in an earlier blogpost, “Playing With Power”, here.

One thing that almost all the diverse explanations on this mishnah have in common is that they relate them to how we get on with, or deal with, other people. But, given the diverse and imaginative manner in which mishnayot in Avot are understood, it’s odds-on that an exception will appear somewhere or other—and I’ve just found one.

The commentator in question is Rabbi Shalom Hedaya, whose Seh leBet Avot was extracted by his son Rabbi Ovadyah Hedaya from his VaYikach Ovadyah and published in 1971.  Seh leBet Avot is notable for two things. One is its question-and-answer format; the questions are set out in the inside column of each page and the answers he gives appear next to the outer margin, giving the reader a chance to read the questions and have a stab at answering them himself before reading the suggested solution.  The other is the author’s passion for relating each mishnah in Avot to another one—very often the one preceding it. This sometimes leads to explanations that seem somewhat contrived, but it also leads to some unexpected connections between teachings that might otherwise be missed, as well as coming up with something completely different—as happens here..

How does Reb Shalom tackle Rabbi Yishmael’s teaching? He fastens on to the word קַל (kal, meaning “light”) and instantly senses a tie-in with the only other occasion קַל appears in Avot, at 5:23 where Yehudah ben Teyma teaches:

הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם

Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer and mighty as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven. 

For Reb Shalom, this is a clue that Rabbi Yishmael is not talking about interpersonal relations; he is talking about learning Torah. Just as the eagle is קַל, soaring into the sky, so too should the serious talmid chacham be קַל with regard to his head (לְרֹאשׁ), letting his thoughts ascend to the lofty heights. Not only that; he will be וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת (no’ach letishchoret), able to plumb the darkest recesses of Torah wisdom, the root of being שְׁחֽוֹרֶ, dark, which also suggests the early morning before daybreak).  Once he has reached the heights of Torah study and mined its profundities, he is ready to greet all others with simchah, true happiness, knowing that he is fully equipped to learn from each person he meets—this being the message of Ben Zoma at Avot 4:1.

I wonder how Rabbi Yishmael would have viewed this line of thinking.

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DO WE HAVE A TRULY PERCEPTIVE EYE?

One of the teachings that open the second perek of Avot deals with the idea that we are under constant observation:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה, דַּע מַה לְּמַֽעְלָה מִמָּךְ, עַֽיִן רוֹאָה וְאֹֽזֶן שׁוֹמַֽעַת, וְכָל מַעֲשֶֽׂיךָ בְּסֵֽפֶר נִכְתָּבִים

Contemplate three things, and you will not come to the grip of transgression: Know what is above from you: a seeing eye, a listening ear, and all your deeds are inscribed in a book.

This teaching, by Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, may be the subject of more blogposts on Avot Today than any other mishnah in Avot. Yet there is always more to be said about it.

I recently found myself reading a profound comment by Rabbi Norman Lamm, quoted in Foundation of Faith, a compendium of Avot-related thoughts by Rabbi Lamm compiled by his son-in-law Rabbi Mark Dratch. The quote opens by framing the mishnah within humankind’s quest to restore itself to the state of blissful spiritual innocence that existed before we tasted sin and the knowledge that flowed from it:

“When our first ancestors sinned, they lost their spiritual vision and instead were confined to their material views. If we are to live lives that are decent and blameless and genuinely Jewish, then we must reverse the process”.

This is a magnificent ideal for which to strive—but the question remains: how to achieve this? Rabbi Lamm answers this by listing the three means of surveillance spelled out in our mishnah. Focusing on the seeking eye, he continues:

“Perhaps what [the Rabbis of the Mishnah] referred to is not, as is the usual interpretation, a heavenly, angelic or divine eye, but a higher human eye They perhaps meant to tell us that there is something lema’alah, something higher and nobler mimkha [literally ‘from you’], which issues from the deepest recesses of our selfhood, and that it: an ayin ro’ah, a seeing eye, a spiritual vision, a new way of looking at the world”.

The idea that the “seeing eye” that watches and assesses our every word and deed is actually our own heightened perception of ourselves is profound. But is it valid?

People who act badly, commit crimes and fail to confirm to basic standards of morality do not normally regard themselves as being bad in themselves, and it is a common human reaction for a person, when faced with his or her wrongful act, to seek to excuse or justify it. This suggests that the heightened perception of ourselves which Rabbi Lamm describes is something that we can all switch off when we wish to do so.

Another challenge to the heightened perception hypothesis is that it assumes that we are fully aware of what we do any why we do it. This denies scope to the operation of the human subconscious. Can we meaningfully perceive and respond to our own assessment of elements of our actions and thoughts of which we are unaware?

Having said all this, there remains something deeply appealing about Rabbi Lamm’s idea with respect to our own rational thought processes regarding acts as yet uncommitted and words as yet unsaid. The thought of how we might view them objectively, and measure them against higher standards than those imposed by our own desires and preferences, might well deter us from committing a wrong—which after all is what the mishnah is about.

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THE PRICE OF PEACE, OR JUST THE COST?

No, this is nothing to do with the Iranian War and its possible outcomes. This is all about three people who were leading figures in their respective generations—Aharon HaKohen, Hillel and Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, the Chafetz Chaim.

Peace, we know from Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel at Avot 1:18, is one of the three values that keep the world going, along with truth and justice. Although there is relatively little express support in the Tanach for the proposition that Moshe Rabbenu’s elder brother Aharon was a man dedicated to the establishment of peace, midrash is replete with stories of his selfless commitment to this value. Aharon is taken as the epitome of peace; he is the role-model whose example we are encouraged to follow. This is beyond dispute.

Another icon of interpersonal peace was Hillel the Elder, who is portrayed in the Babylonian Talmud as a man who was averse to conflict and practised the skills of friction-free interaction with his fellows. A kindred spirit to Aharon, Hillel picks up on this topic at Avot 1:12 where he teaches:

הֱוֵי מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן, אוֹהֵב שָׁלוֹם וְרוֹדֵף שָׁלוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, וּמְקָרְבָן לַתּוֹרָה

Be of the disciples of Aharon—a lover of peace, a pursuer of peace, one who loves people and draws them close to the Torah.

The principle is clear. If you are truly committed to peace, you should be proactive and seek to establish it. But how? Hillel does not offer practical tips. As for Aharon, the examples given in midrashim reflect noble aspirations that sadly are often impossible to implement in practice. If you have ever tried making peace between two people who are really angry with each other, or between yourself and someone with whom you are on bad terms, you will not need any further explanation of this.

Now what does the Chafetz Chaim have to add? Here we turn to Ruchi Koval’s Soul Purpose, where she credits him with the following idea:

“[A] person should create a ‘Shalom Fund’, a peace fund. This is a set amount of money that’s designated per year, allocated for the sake of peace.

Neighbor ran over your grass? Pay the gardener to repair it out of your Shalom Fund instead of creating discord. A classmate borrowed your kid’s sweatshirt and never returned it, and now it’s lost? Buy a new one out of your Shalom Fund. We have budget items for food, shelter, vacations, education, and entertainment. Let’s be proactive pursuers of peace and budget for harmonious relationships, too”

It’s a great idea—even if it is somewhat limited in that its main sphere of application is in preventing disputes that the owner of the Shalom Fund might otherwise be initiating. But does it really come from the Chafetz Chaim?

Rabbi  Yisrael Meir Kagan did not write a pirush on Pirkei Avot, but there are several cut-and-paste collections of “Chafetz Chaim on Avot” in circulation, including Rabbi David Zaretsky’s The Hafetz Hayyim on Pirkey Avoth (1975) and Shmuel Charlap, Chafetz Chaim al Masechet Avot (1962). None of these works mention anything about a “Shalom Fund” in the commentaries on our mishnah. Have they missed something?

The origin of the “Shalom Fund” is a sentence in the Chafetz Chaim’s book Ahavat Chesed, where he writes:

וְיֵשׁ לִקְבּוֹעַ קֻפָּה מְיֻחֶדֶת לְשָׁלוֹם בַּיִת, לְסַיֵּעַ לַאֲנָשִׁים אֲשֶׁר נִתְרַעֲעוּ יַחְסֵיהֶם מִפְּנֵי דֹּחַק וְחֶסְרוֹן, כִּי עַל־יְדֵי זֶה יִתְיַשְּׁבוּ הַדְּבָרִים וְיָבוֹא הַשָּׁלוֹם

“One should establish a designated fund for peace in the home, to assist people whose relationships have deteriorated because of pressure and lack (of means) for, through this, things will be settled and peace will come”.

The author explicitly references marital discord as the sort of situation he has in mind, where the peace that is so bady needed is shalom bayit—domestic peace. It is most improbable that Hillel had this in mind when citing Aharon as the epitome of a peace-seeker, but it cannot be denied that the concept of the “Shalom Fund”, appropriately expanded, fits in neatly with the thrust of Hillel’s mishnah and it is surprising that other Chafetz Chaim devotees did not make the connection earlier.

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GET IT RIGHT—OR ELSE!

Jewish law is a complex body of rules that have different qualities: some are written and can be found in the canon of books that constitute the Jewish bible. Others, initially handed down orally, were later set down in writing. Each of these sets of law is interpreted, and extrapolations derived from it, through different rules of logic and inference. It goes without saying that expounding and developing rules of Jewish law, applying them in situations for which there is no precedent, is a highly skilled task best suited to the well-trained and rigorously educated mind of a suitably qualified rabbi.

Having said that, it is unusual to find a Jew familiar with the Torah who does not privately nurse his or her own opinion on what the law really is, or indeed what the law really should be. One is always entitled to one’s own opinions, but we are not encouraged to share them in any situation in which a listener might believe and accept as law a “ruling” that is plausible, reasonable—but wrong.

Pirkei Avot addresses the all-too-human urge to apply and interpret laws the way we want to. Thus in Avot we find two somewhat veiled warnings against coming up with one’s own rulings that, however sane and sensible they seem, are not in accord with the consensus position reached by halachic jurists. The first, in Avot 3:15, is a mishnah in which Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i lists five types, including

הַמְגַלֶּה פָנִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה

The one who reveals aspects of the Torah that are contrary to halachah.

whose fate is spelled out in no uncertain terms:

אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיֵּשׁ בְּיָדוֹ תּוֹרָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים, אֵין לוֹ חֵֽלֶק לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

… although he may possess Torah knowledge and good deeds, he has no share in the World to Come.

Then there is an anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:11 which focuses on the wider consequences of making up one’s own version of the law which reads like this:

חֶֽרֶב בָּאָה לְעוֹלָם, עַל עִנּוּי הַדִּין, וְעַל עִוּוּת הַדִּין, וְעַל הַמּוֹרִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה

The sword comes to the world on account of justice delayed, justice denied, and because of those who reveal aspects of the Torah that are contrary to halachah.

So the consequences of informal and literally unorthodox interpretation of Torah laws are serious not just for the individual but for the wider community.

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 99a-b) quotes the mishnah at Avot 3:15 but does not drill down deeply into its possible meanings. There it seems to be understood as a general admonition not to be impudent towards Torah scholars. Rabbis Shimshon Raphael Hirsch and Shlomo P. Toperoff (in his Lev Avot) adopt this meaning of the mishnah.

Some early commentators did not need to offer detailed explanations of this principle since its thrust was clear to them, but their understanding was not one that we would find obvious: for them the word הֲלָכָה (halachah) in these mishnayot did not just mean “law” but also the way that an aggadic passage might be learned. So for Rashi and Bartenura this was a warning not to give the Torah’s narrative passages strange meanings by casting its words as metaphors when they were not, or by interpreting them literally when they are not to be taken as such. The Meiri applied this principle much more widely. For him, in the extensive explanation of Avot 3:15 in his Beit HaBechirah,

Also in this category is one [who] portrays himself as one who knows the secrets of the Torah which he “reveals” to contradict the halachah. He does this by completely denying the revealed part of the Torah, saying that this was “not God’s intention but was an allegory to something else, and the revealed part is not at all true”. This is one of the toots of heresy, for though some mitzvot do contain esoteric aspects, the actual commandment of each mitzvah is undoubtedly its revealed aspect.

The Meiri continues in this vein for page after page, giving many examples.

Since the earliest days of the Reform movement, this mishnah has been seen as the appropriate attitude to take towards those who would modernize not merely Jewish lifestyles but fundamental principles of Jewish law for the sake of conformity with contemporary society or in the intellectual conviction that laws without an apparently rational basis could be discarded. Thus Rabbi Dr Marcus Lehmann invoked it when he thundered against “so-called Mendelsohnians” who used their knowledge to fight, and then distort and ridicule traditional Judaism. This sentiment was echoed by Rabbi Eliezer Liepman Prins who, commenting on Avot 5:11, added:

The nations believe that law is a variable, a social factor which can be determined by the views of any given society at any given time, based on what they see as their needs. That is why the law and social order of other nations are constantly changing and have no enduring basis.

But the need to change, and to adapt to change, has always been accepted by Jewish law—so long as it is done within the bounds of Jewish law itself. Flexibility within limits is axiomatic. As Nechama Leibowitz put it: there are 70 faces to the Torah—not 71. I shall leave the last word to Ruchi Koval (Soul Purpose), who comments (at Avot 1:11):

The Torah is a document that transmits the will and values of God, so tread carefully here. The Torah is here by means of unbroken transmission from one generation to the next from Sinai. Those who transmit it must check and double check that they are sharing correctly.

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HOW TO HATE OTHERS: JUST TICK THE BOX?

I recently came across a fascinating passage in one of Reb Elya Lopian’s commentaries in Lev Eliyahu on Parashat Vayigash that has both nothing and everything to do with Pirkei Avot.

In the Book of Proverbs (Mishlei 8:13) we are taught יִרְאַת יְהוָה שְׂנֹאת-רָע (“Fear of the Lord is the hatred of Evil”), which Reb Elya takes to mean that we should hate the wicked. But the Torah (Vayikra 19:17) commands us לֹא-תִשְׂנָא אֶת-אָחִיךָ, בִּלְבָבֶךָ (“Do not hate your fellow human in your heart”). This looks like a mixed message. Do we hate a wicked person or do we not?

Reb Elya supplies an answer drawn from an idea of Rabbi Yitzchak Blazer: hating a wicked person is not a continuous mitzvah: it’s a one-off thought process. Once you have identified a person as being wicked and therefore hate him, you have fulfilled the requirement of hatred. There is no requirement to continue to hate or to increase the intensity of that hate. Effectively, you can move on in life and not let your hatred persist.

This notion may of application to Pirkei Avot, for example at 1:7 where Nittai HaArbeli teaches this:

הַרְחֵק מִשָּׁכֵן רָע, וְאַל תִּתְחַבֵּר לָרָשָׁע, וְאַל תִּתְיָאֵשׁ מִן הַפּוּרְעָנוּת

Distance yourself from a wicked neighbour, do not join up with a wicked person, and do not abandon belief in retribution.

Does this mean that one should only keep one’s distance from a wicked person initially, but then remain his neighbour—or join up with him, secure in the knowledge that you have deemed him evil and will therefore presumably take whatever precautions are necessary? This conclusion might seem doctrinally unsound, but it probably accords more closely with what we do in our own lives: how many of us have either relocated our homes or leaving a good position at work because of the present threat of remaining in proximity with someone who is bad?

We might also consider whether what applies to hatred also applies to love and, again, this is relevant to Avot. Twice in the sixth perek (Avot 6:1 and 6:6) mention is made of being אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת  (“a lover of other people”), both as a reward for learning Torah for its own sake and as a step towards acquiring Torah knowledge. How much love need one experience or demonstrate? The injunction to love other humans (Vayikra 19:18, ואהבת לרעך כמוך, “love other people as yourself”) is not qualified by any limitation in time or intensity, but in practice our love for others in general is a sort of entry-level love which in practice goes little further—if at all—than not acting injuriously towards them.

I’ve not come across any literature on this line of thought, but would be most grateful for any pointers that lead to a better understanding of it.

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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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