PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

Is Pirkei Avot prejudiced against pride?  It is universally accepted by our ancient Sages that גַאֲוָה (ga’avah, pride) is a damaging and negative quality that should be eliminated from the personality of every individual. Yet Pirkei Avot, the closest we have to a practical handbook on how to improve our behaviour, is strangely coy about it. Jealousy, lust and the desire for honor head the list of bad qualities, but pride is another matter.

The word גַאֲוָה is not mentioned at all, while the word that comes closest to it גְּבוֹהָה, is semantically similar but unrelated. So the closest that Avot gets to condemnation of pride is this anonymous mishnah at 5:22 (with proof verses omitted):

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

…אֲבָל תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע יוֹרְשִׁין גֵּיהִנֹּם וְיוֹרְדִין לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת…

Whoever possesses these three traits is from the disciples of our father Abraham; and whoever possesses three other traits is from the disciples of the wicked Balaam. The disciples of our father Abraham have a good eye, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The disciples of the wicked Balaam have an evil eye, a haughty [גְּבוֹהָה] spirit and a gross soul. What is the difference between the disciples of our father Abraham and the disciples of the wicked Balaam? The disciples of our father Abraham benefit in this world and inherit the World to Come […] The disciples of the wicked Balaam inherit Gehinnom and descend into the pit of destruction […].

This does not mean that we should encourage pride. Both the Tanach (in Mishlei) and the apocrypha (in Ben Sira) explicitly condemn it. So does our oral Torah: the Gemara at Sotah 5b makes that clear. Rav Nachman bar Yitzchak argues for the zero option:  a person must totally eliminate pride. Rav Chiyya bar Ashi is prepared to tolerate “an eighth of an eighth” of pride on the part of a talmid chacham, just enough to preserve his dignity to the point at which others will not think less of his teaching.

So why is Avot so quiet about this middah? If any reader of this post has an explanation, I invite them to share it here.

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GROWTH OPPORTUNITY AND TOXIC POSITIVITY

Last week I came across a striking sentence in Rabbi Mordechai Ginsbury’s book, The Jigsaw Puzzle of Life: a Rabbi’s Perspective. In his chapter bearing the title “From Bitter to Better: Silver Linings and Positive Outcomes” he writes:

It would be an extremely foolish and unfeeling person who would try to extend comfort to an individual suffering in the grip of a painful, traumatic episode by suggesting that “this is a growth opportunity and you should be grateful for it”.

On the face of it, suggestions of this nature do seem brutal. But are they? And should they be?

One of the most popular genres of literature in our times is the inspirational book. This genre, which clearly sells well in airport terminal bookshops, directs its advice to that morsel of personality that occupies a space in our psyche and tells us that, one way or another, we simply don’t have what it takes to conquer the challenges that face us. These books start by telling us that the solution to our problems lies within ourselves. Once we understand our power to overcome adversity, all we have to do is identify our problems, face them fair and square, declare that nothing is going to get the better of our indomitable spirit and then, quite simply, succeed.

Turning the pages of these inspirational texts, it is hard to miss stories and anecdotes describing the courage and the determination of our fellow humans who have overcome their disadvantages and indeed their personal tragedies, turning the minuses in their lives into glorious pluses. The tradition of telling these stories is probably as old as time themselves, and many are embedded in our own Jewish tradition. Even apart from that, in my own childhood I was told many times of the courage of Douglas Bader, a heroic fighter pilot even after he suffered the amputation of both legs, and Helen Keller, who overcame the loss of her sight and hearing as a baby yet refused to be beaten by these crushing disabilities. I sometimes felt not so much inspired by these stories as inadequate and intimidated.

What does Pirkei Avot have to offer the scenario depicted by Rabbi Ginsbury? Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar (Avot 4:23) addresses the issue thus:

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ, וְאַל תְּנַחֲמֵֽהוּ בְּשָׁעָה שֶׁמֵּתוֹ מֻטָּל לְפָנָיו, וְאַל תִּשְׁאַל לוֹ בְּשַֽׁעַת נִדְרוֹ, וְאַל תִּשְׁתַּדֵּל לִרְאוֹתוֹ בְּשַֽׁעַת קַלְקָלָתוֹ

Do not appease your friend in his moment of rage; do not comfort him while his dead still lies before him; do not question him about a serious commitment at the moment he is making it; and do not try to see him in his time of degradation.

It would be shortsighted to regard this teaching as pointing to four isolated instances in which one should keep one’s mouth shut and refrain from saying anything. Rather, there is an overarching principle: when dealing on any occasion and under any circumstances with other people whose feelings are likely to be strained, stop yourself and think whether it is wise to say anything at all.

If we look at the four situations in Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar’s mishnah, what do we see? There is something of a pattern:

·         Placating someone who is angry is the pursuit of peace, a policy endorsed by Hillel at Avot 1:12;

·         Comforting the bereaved, nichum aveilim, is not just a mitzvah but an established practice in every civilized society;

·         Questioning the wisdom of a friend’s vows and commitments is one of the responsibilities of any true friend towards another. We should not allow ourselves to be without such a friend and should make an effort to acquire one (Yehoshua ben Perachyah, Avot 1:6);

·         Supporting someone who has just suffered shame or humiliation is a true measure of friendship, as indicated immediately above.

Each of things listed is good in itself. However, the benefit of each of these actions is conferred not by its performance alone but by the combination of the action and the right time for performing it.

Going back to Rabbi Ginsbury’s example, the advice to a friend who has experienced a personal disaster, that “this is a growth opportunity and you should be grateful for it”, may well be perfectly true. The skill is in knowing when to say it—just as it is important to know when to tell a person, “Don’t worry, everything that happens is for the best” and when to refrain from doing so. Interviewed in Gila Ross’s new book, Unbroken, mental health counsellor Rachel Tuchman warns against the phenomenon of what she calls “toxic positivity”—a term I’ve not previously encountered in the writings of commentators on Avot. This she describes as going one step beyond healthy optimism, effectively denying that people are permitted to grieve and to experience pain. The principles of Pirkei Avot, though expressed very differently, would appear to be in agreement.

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WORDS, MEANINGS AND MIDDOT

Many readers of the writings of Lewis Carroll will be familiar with the following dialogue in Through the Looking Glass:

Humpty Dumpty: "When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less."

Alice: "The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things."

Humpty Dumpty: "The question is which is to be master—that's all."

At the heart of this exchange are some serious issues. Should a word have only one meaning? Is a word’s meaning the same as its definition? Should the intention of the speaker or the context in which he speaks govern the meaning of a word? Is the function of communication compromised by the speaker’s imposition upon a word of a meaning that is not shared by its addressee? And so on.

We depend on sharing meanings of words with those around us. Where there are no shared meanings, there is no way of communicating an idea, a request or an order to someone else. In our complex and technologically advanced society, new words are constantly coined and old words repurposed, which in turn can cause uncertainty and confusion. Primo Levi points out (“The Scribe”, in Other People’s Trades) that there has been a shift in the way we give meaning to words. Definition used to involve the identification of a new or unfamiliar word and the use of familiar words to convey its meaning. More recently we have taken to the redeployment of familiar words (‘mouse’, ‘window’, ‘notebook’) in contexts where the words that explain them may be less familiar to the enquirer after their meaning (e.g. ‘hand-operated computer device used to control an on-screen cursor’).

Hillel, at Avot 2:5, teaches the Tannaitic position on the meaning of words:

אַל תֹּאמַר דָּבָר שֶׁאִי אֶפְשַׁר לִשְׁמֽוֹעַ שֶׁסּוֹפוֹ לְהִשָּׁמַע

Do not say something that it is impossible to understand, when its objective is to be understood.

Ironically, this teaching—despite its brevity, simplicity and apparent lack of ambiguity—is taken to mean different things by different scholars. The understanding preferred by the Chabad website, for example, is “Do not say something that ought not to be heard …, for ultimately it will be heard” (an interpretation supported by the Me’iri). Another surprising interpretation is that of Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner (Ru’ach Chaim): one shouldn’t say of one’s friend’s words that they cannot be understood in case they later come to be understood.

Hillel’s teaching implicitly incorporates an understanding of the context and the nature of the addressee. This is because שֶׁאִי אֶפְשַׁר לִשְׁמֽוֹעַ (“impossible to understand”) suggests that the possibility of understanding is determined by the level of the addressee’s comprehension. Thus an explanation of Einstein’s theory of relativity might reasonably be understood and appreciated by an audience of scientists but not by a troupe of kindergarten kids.

In his teaching, Hillel is conveying a further message: that there is no point in wasting one’s breath on an uncomprehending audience. This can be annoying and vexatious for the speaker and might cause not just frustration but a loss of temper. If you’re not going to make your words count, don’t say them. This fits in with the advice of the first of the two Rabban Shimons who populate the end of the first perek:

כָל הַמַּרְבֶּה דְבָרִים מֵבִיא חֵטְא

Everyone who increases speech brings sin.

In the sixth perek we also have the lengthy baraita (Avot 6:6) that lists the 48 ways to acquire Torah, of which the third is בַּעֲרִיכַת שְׂפָתַֽיִם (“by articulate speech”). This term is broad enough to cover almost anything one can think of, which takes us back to Alice’s question: are we really entitled to make these words mean whatever we want? Since the baraita gives us no indication of who spoke these words to whom, and we have only the wide and general context of acquiring Torah, arguably it is open to each of us to be the “master” of בַּעֲרִיכַת שְׂפָתַֽיִם and give these words whatever meaning we want.

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TREASURE BEYOND PRICE AND NON-TRANSFERABLE ASSETS

 The lengthy baraita at Avot 6:9, or at least the first part of it, makes for entertaining reading. The baraita reads like this:

אָמַר רַבִּי יוֹסֵי בֶּן קִסְמָא: פַּֽעַם אֶחָת הָיִֽיתִי מְהַלֵּךְ בַּדֶּֽרֶךְ, וּפָגַע בִּי אָדָם אֶחָד, וְנָתַן לִי שָׁלוֹם, וְהֶחֱזַֽרְתִּי לוֹ שָׁלוֹם, אָמַר לִי: רַבִּי, מֵאֵיזֶה מָקוֹם אָֽתָּה, אָמַֽרְתִּי לוֹ: מֵעִיר גְּדוֹלָה שֶׁל חֲכָמִים וְשֶׁל סוֹפְרִים אָֽנִי. אָמַר לִי: רַבִּי, רְצוֹנְךָ שֶׁתָּדוּר עִמָּֽנוּ בִּמְקוֹמֵֽנוּ, וַאֲנִי אֶתֵּן לָךְ אֶֽלֶף אֲלָפִים דִּנְרֵי זָהָב וַאֲבָנִים טוֹבוֹת וּמַרְגָּלִיּוֹת. אָמַֽרְתִּי לוֹ: אִם אַתָּה נוֹתֵן לִי כָּל כֶּֽסֶף וְזָהָב וַאֲבָנִים טוֹבוֹת וּמַרְגָּלִיּוֹת שֶׁבָּעוֹלָם, אֵינִי דָר אֶלָּא בִּמְקוֹם תּוֹרָה, וְכֵן כָּתוּב בְּסֵֽפֶר תְּהִלִּים עַל יְדֵי דָוִד מֶֽלֶךְ יִשְׂרָאֵל: טוֹב לִי תוֹרַת פִּֽיךָ, מֵאַלְפֵי זָהָב וָכָֽסֶף. וְלֹא עוֹד, אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּשַֽׁעַת פְּטִירָתוֹ שֶׁל אָדָם, אֵין מְלַוִּין לוֹ לְאָדָם לֹא כֶֽסֶף וְלֹא זָהָב וְלֹא אֲבָנִים טוֹבוֹת וּמַרְגָּלִיּוֹת, אֶלָּא תּוֹרָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים בִּלְבָד, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: בְּהִתְהַלֶּכְךָ תַּנְחֶה אֹתָךְ, בְּשָׁכְבְּךָ תִּשְׁמוֹר עָלֶֽיךָ, וַהֲקִיצֽוֹתָ הִיא תְשִׂיחֶֽךָ. בְּהִתְהַלֶּכְךָ תַּנְחֶה אֹתָךְ, בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה. בְּשָׁכְבְּךָ תִּשְׁמוֹר עָלֶֽיךָ, בַּקָּֽבֶר. וַהֲקִיצֽוֹתָ הִיא תְשִׂיחֶֽךָ, לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא. וְאוֹמֵר: לִי הַכֶּֽסֶף וְלִי הַזָּהָב, נְאֻם יְיָ צְבָאוֹת

Rabbi Yose ben Kisma said: Once I was going on my way and I encountered a man. He greeted me and I returned his greetings. He said to me: "Rabbi, where are you from?" I said to him: "I’m from a great city of sages and scholars”. He said to me: "Rabbi, would you like to dwell with us in our place? I will give you a million dinars of gold, precious stones and pearls." I said to him: "If you were to give me all the silver, gold, precious stones and pearls in the world, I would not live anywhere but in a place of Torah”. Indeed, as it is written in the book of Psalms by David, King of Israel: “I prefer the Torah of Your mouth over thousands in gold and silver”. Not only that but, when a person passes from this world, not silver, nor gold, nor precious stones, nor pearls accompany him—only Torah and good deeds, as it is said: “When you go it will direct you, when you lie down it will watch over you, and when you awaken it shall be your speech. “When you go it will direct you”—in this world; “When you lie down it will watch over you”—in the grave; “and when you awaken it shall be your speech”—in the World to Come. It also says: “Mine is the silver and Mine is the gold, so says the Lord of Hosts".

This baraita is routinely put forward as a mashal, a parable to illustrate the value of Torah. It does indeed make the point that Torah—and the opportunity to learn it and share it with others—is qualitatively worth more than all the gold, silver and precious gems in the world.

Quite reasonably, commentators learn this mashal from the viewpoint of Rabbi Yose ben Kisma and his noble refusal to be bought, since it is he who is teaching it. But it’s worth looking at it from the perspective of the man whom he encountered too. This man presumably also recognized the value of Torah—and of those whose lives embody it—since we learn that he was prepared to pay an astronomical price to acquire the chance to learn it with a first-class rabbi. Indeed, his high valuation of Torah is even more impressive. Rabbi Yose ben Kisma knew the value of Torah at first-hand, since he was a scholar, steeped in its wisdom and its deeper meanings. The traveller who meets him on the way, lacking that intimate personal knowledge and understanding, is willing to break the bank to pay for it, even though he is taking it on trust.

Another interesting point raised in this baraita is the notion that, when a person leaves this world, his Torah learning and good deeds go with him בִּלְבָד (bilvad) –a word that means ‘only’ or ‘alone’. We normally assume that what this means is that we can’t take anything with us, as it were, on our way to Olam HaBa—and that we certainly can’t take our worldly wealth. However, we can bring with us the intangible benefits that we have accrued in our lifetimes through our Torah learning and our ideally good behaviour.

Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ferber however has another explanation, which is found not in Higionei Avot, his commentary on Pirkei Avot, but in Sichot Tzvi, his commentary on the siddur, in the first volume in a discussion of the words דבקנו במצותיך (“attach us to your commandments”). There he writes that, when our baraita speaks of our Torah learning and good deeds accompanying us “alone”, it teaches that our learning and our good deeds come with us only if it is they who are “alone”, that is to say, that they are not conjoined to ulterior motives for doing them.

This will be a disappointment for those of us who find it difficult to disentangle their Torah and good deeds from the myriad motives that trail in their wake: these include the wish to avoid disapproval for falling behind in one’s daily daf, the choice of a pleasurable good deed in order to skip attendance at a less than inspiring shiur, and the giving of a charitable donation to a collector in order to be expeditiously rid of him.  Ultimately, it may be fair to say that we set ourselves high, and in some instances uncomfortably high, standards but hope that God will judge us more leniently than we might feel obliged to judge ourselves.

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OUR CHOICE TO REJOICE

At the the heart of a short mishnah by a small rabbi lies a big question, one that should have been resolved centuries before Pirkei Avot was compiled: Is it permissible to rejoice over the downfall of our enemies?

The mishnah (Avot 4:24), taught by Shmuel HaKatan (“Samuel the Small”), reads thus:

בִּנְפֹל אֹיִבְךָ אַל תִּשְׂמָח, וּבִכָּשְׁלוֹ אַל יָגֵל לִבֶּֽךָ, פֶּן יִרְאֶה יְיָ וְרַע בְּעֵינָיו, וְהֵשִׁיב מֵעָלָיו אַפּוֹ

When your enemy falls, do not rejoice; when he stumbles, don’t let your heart be gladdened—in case God sees and it will be displeasing in His eyes, and He will turn His wrath from him [to you]"

This teaching is centuries older than the era of the compiling of the Mishnah, since it is cut-and-pasted straight from the Book of Proverbs (Mishlei 24:17-18). One would have thought that everything that needed to be said about it would be found in the commentaries on the Tanach, but this is manifestly not so.

An ongoing issue presents itself for solution: when and how to rationalize the onset of a feeling of happiness, so as to know when to maximize it and when to keep it under control. We are hard-wired to be happy when things work out for us, regardless of whether our good fortune is at another’s expense, but our Sages—taking their lead from the author of the Book of Proverbs—challenge us to examine and evaluate its cause.

The easy way out is to remind ourselves that everything that happens to us, whether we perceive it as good or bad, is the product of God’s hashgachah peratit, His personal supervision of our lives on earth. When something happens to us that makes us happy, we should then give Him our grateful praise.

In general the situation is more nuanced when we were expecting something bad to happen to us through our own fault, and that bad outcome was to be delivered through the agency of an enemy. This expected outcome is however averted. We are happy, but our consciences may be telling us that this happiness is somehow undeserved. In this situation, our mishnah invites us to ask how deserving we really are.

Next, i if our happiness corresponds to the downfall of our foe, rather than merely to being saved, we should be careful: praise of God while suppressing our jubilation may be the only appropriate response, especially if that foe is down but not out and may therefore rise again. Ultimately, as our mishnah, indicates, we should pause to recollect the possibility that God, displeased at our unworthy rejoicing, may turn His wrath from our worsted enemies, restore their previous fortunes and direct His anger towards us instead.

Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ferber, in Sichot Tzvi—his commentary on Tefillah—cites the verse from Proverbs in the course of his explanation of the final two verses from one of the Tehillim that we recite in the Shabbat and Yom Tov pesukei dezimra:

תְּמוֹתֵת רָשָׁע רָעָה וְשֹׂנְאֵי צַדִּיק יֶאְשָׁמוּ

פֹּדֶה יְהוָה נֶפֶשׁ עֲבָדָיו וְלֹא יֶאְשְׁמוּ כָּל-הַחֹסִים בּוֹ

Evil shall kill the wicked; and they that hate the righteous shall be held guilty.

God redeems the soul of His servants; and none of them that take refuge in Him shall be desolate (Psalms 34:22-23).

The crucial point here is that evil kills the wicked, who are taken to be our enemies. Once they are dead, they are not in a position to have their fortunes restored at our expense as a consequence of our jubilation, so we can rejoice to our hearts’ content. And it is on the basis of this logic that the Children of Yisrael were entitled to celebrate the drowning of the Egyptians in the Reed Sea by singing Shira.

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LEARNING LISHMOR: WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose (Avot 4:6) has something to say about why we learn:

הַלּוֹמֵד תּוֹרָה עַל מְנָת לְלַמֵּד, מַסְפִּיקִין בְּיָדוֹ לִלְמוֹד וּלְלַמֵּד, וְהַלּוֹמֵד עַל מְנָת לַעֲשׂוֹת, מַסְפִּיקִין בְּיָדוֹ לִלְמוֹד וּלְלַמֵּד לִשְׁמוֹר וְלַעֲשׂוֹת

One who learns Torah in order to teach is given the opportunity to learn and teach. One who learns in order to do is given the opportunity to learn, teach, guard and do.

This mishnah does not appear to pose too many interpretational problems, but there is one question that leaps off the page at us. What does לִשְׁמוֹר (lishmor) mean in the context of learning Torah? We can learn Torah and we can act it out by performing its commandments—but לִשְׁמוֹר literally means “guard” or “keep”, not something that has an obvious meaning in the context of learning Torah.

Early commentators must have had a clear understanding of what lishmor meant, at least to them, since Rambam, Rabbenu Yonah, the Me’iri, the Bartenura and the commentary ascribed to Rashi make no reference to that word, quite possibly because that they worked from copies of Avot in which it did not appear.

Lishmor does appear in the text of Avot that lay before Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda, since he mentions it in his classic compendium Midrash Shmuel. For him, לִשְׁמוֹר וְלַעֲשׂוֹת (lishmor vela’asot) are to be taken together: lishmor means “to keep the negative mitzvot” while la’asot means “to perform the positive precepts”. This explanation is neat, memorable. And founded on a well-known and long-established distinction between positive and negative mitzvot, which is likely why it was cited by so many subsequent commentators.

Not everyone found the Midrash Shmuel’s explanation palatable. Affirming that the word lishmor should be included in the text, not omitted, Rabbi Yaakov Emden attacks it in his Lechem Shamayim, in terms so immoderate that only a true talmid chacham would dare using them:

“To keep and to perform." Here too the commentators stumbled; their feet slipped from the firm rock of the mishnah's plain meaning, and they wandered on to a crooked path. It is astonishing beyond measure how such a strange notion could ever have occurred to them—that although one's intention was only to perform the commandments, and not to guard oneself from transgressions, this is what the Tanna took the trouble to discuss.

In truth, this seems to me sheer nonsense. With due respect, the one who proposed this interpretation wished to display ingenuity and novelty in every single word, so that none should appear superfluous, but in doing so he produced many distortions. For "anything added is as though taken away." Concerning such a case it was said: "Do not be overly clever." He erred greatly in thinking that this "keeping" (shemirah) alludes to the negative commandments. Nor is the expression "to keep oneself from transgressions" linguistically appropriate, for the essential word is missing.

Rather, this is a very common biblical expression, referring to guarding something in one's heart, as in: "His father kept the matter" (Genesis 37:11); "Keep heed"; "You shall keep to do"; "You shall keep and do"; "To keep and to do"; "You shall keep and do." These are numerous instances of "keeping" that refer to positive action, and there are many more like them. All of them signify remembering, so that one may fulfill and perform the commandments.

Moreover, refraining from transgression is itself included within "doing," for whoever sits idle and does not commit a sin is rewarded as though he had performed a commandment, as we learned at the end of tractate Makkot.

In any case, it is obvious that the "keeping" mentioned here in the Mishnah means exactly what it means in the biblical verses cited above: namely, preserving the commandment in one's thought and memory [במחשבה ובזכרון ], as it is written: "For it is pleasant if you keep them within you" (Proverbs 22:18). There can therefore be no doubt about this.

Heaven forbid, then, that the word "to keep" (lishmor) should be deleted, as appears in the version of the text that came into the hands of the Tosafot Yom Tov. The copyist of that manuscript wrote it defectively—although he derived it from there—and the scribe inadvertently omitted it. But in our case the error belongs to the copyist. Our version was certainly written with precision by an accurate scribe”.

Is Rabbi Emden right? I believe so, but with one caveat. We now have a wider range of concepts in play than existed in his time. He chooses to equate lishmor with “preserving the commandment in one's thought and memory” because there was no more appropriate term at his disposal, and Rabbi Yishmael could have used the regular words for thought and memory if that was what he specifically intended. But, around a century after Rabbi Emden’s birth, the concept of internalization began to gain traction and I believe that, had he been familiar with it, he would likely have employed it to explain lishmor in our mishnah: a person who learns in order to do is given the opportunity not just to learn and to teach but to internalize his learning—to make it part of his very being—and to perform it.

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OUT OF SIGHT

“Seeing is believing” is a mantra that has been repeated so often that many people, myself included, often forget to think about what it means. But recently I was jolted out of my intellectual somnolence on this point by a small and (in the great course of things) trivial occurrence.

One of my grandkids, aged 6, was watching a sports program that featured highlights of soccer games from the FIFA World Cup. The program showed some of the goals—not just once but a second time as action replays. This juvenile spectator, seeking to make sense of what he viewed, believed that each of what we know to be action replays was in reality an additional goal, though identical to the goal that preceded it.

At first I thought this was an amusing mistake based on an inadequate perception of what the child had seen. On further reflection I concluded that this inference—though fallacious—was not in itself illogical. After all, if we watch traffic lights go several times through their sequence of changes, we recognize that the second and subsequent changes are not “action replays” but separate, if identical, events. From this it seems that the value we derive from what we see with our eyes depends not only on what we see but what we know or infer when we see it.

This led me to ask: what does Pirkei Avot have to say about how we should see things? I was surprised by what I found.

My first port of call was the all-embracing baraita at Avot 6:6, which lists the 48 things that facilitate the acquisition of Torah. This baraita has something to say about what one hears, says, feels, understands and even thinks—but is silent concerning what one sees. Working my way back into the five chapters of mishnah, I gradually realized that sight, despite its significance in our daily lives, was a subject from which Avot appears to consciously distance itself.

While sight is a regular human faculty for which most of us are grateful, we are warned how dangerous it can be for us to use it. Thus at Avot 3:9 Rabbi Yaakov cautions that someone who breaks off from his learning to admire a beautiful tree or field is regarded as having forfeited his soul. Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar adds (Avot 4:23) that we should not seek to look at a person at the time of his degradation. Indeed, even when we do look at something, we should not accept the evidence of our eyes at face value: Rabbi Meir says as much in Avot 4:27 when he teaches:

אַל תִּסְתַּכֵּל בְּקַנְקַן, אֶלָּא בְּמַה שֶּׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ, יֵשׁ קַנְקַן חָדָשׁ מָלֵא יָשָׁן, וְיָשָׁן שֶׁאֲפִילוּ חָדָשׁ אֵין בּוֹ

Don’t look at the vessel, but at what it contains. There are new vessels that are filled with old wine, and old vessels that don’t even contain new wine.

These negative teachings with regard to human sight stand in sharp contrast to Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi’s mishnah at Avot 2:1, when he references a higher form of vision:

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 you: a seeing eye, a listening ear, and all your deeds being inscribed in a book.

The message here is unambiguous. We cannot see this “seeing eye”. It is a quality possessed by God alone. This is the ability to perceive that lies above us and which lies normally well beyond our reach. It is metaphorically speaking, the eye of God and it is only this eye that truly comprehends what it views. When someone has this gift, having been touched by Ru’ach haKodesh (a spirit of holiness), we have a special word for that person. He is a ro’eh—literally a “seer”.

There is an allusion to the seer in Avot itself. Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel, when asked at Avot 2:13 to identify the ideal path to which a person should cling, answers הָרוֹאֶה אֶת הַנּוֹלָד (haro’eh et hanolad, “one who sees the outcome of that which has yet to emerge”). In other words, he is one who sees, or foresees, that which is not yet visible—something that falls within the capabilities of the seer.

Is seeing then to be relegated to playing a relatively insignificant role in our lives as practising Jews and in our relationships with God and man? Yes, according to Rabbi Dr Jonathan Sacks who has repeatedly and consistently argued that Judaism is fundamentally a religion of sound over sight. While the Greeks and other ancient civilizations viewed seeing as a form of knowledge, Judaism takes the contrary view. God cannot be seen, only heard, which is why the Shema, a declaration of faith based on listening, not seeing, provides us with the supreme means of linking us to God and to our fellows.

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BEE IN THE BATHROOM

A few days ago we had an uninvited visitor. A bee found its way through our insect-proof netting and into our bathroom. If we were unhappy at this intrusion, the bee was apparently even more so, emitting a harsh and unremitting buzz as it furiously circled the confines of its prison in search of a way out.  It took a day or so before the bee had calmed down, settled on a handtowel in sullen silence, allowing me to trap it inside a drinking glass and ease it gently out of the window.

I do not know whether bees actually feel anger, though in human culture it is easy to label their frenetic buzz as a sign of anger. Indeed, “angry buzzing” is something of a literary cliché. What I do know is that this episode resonates with my understanding of Pirkei Avot.

While our sages, the foremost of whom is Rambam, are unanimous in condemning anger, and we learn that it is even a form of avodah zarah (Shabbat 105b), the Tannaic authors of the mishnayot in Avot accept both that anger exists and that we feel it. This is why Rabbi Eliezer does not demand us never to be angry but instead urges us (at 2:15) אַל תְּהִי נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס (“Don’t be easy to anger”). Going well beyond that, the anonymous author of Avot 5:17 teaches:

אַרְבַּע מִדּוֹת בְּדֵעוֹת: נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא הֶפְסֵדוֹ בִּשְׂכָרוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא שְׂכָרוֹ בְּהֶפְסֵדוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, חָסִיד. נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, רָשָׁע

There are four types of temperaments. One who is easily angered and easily appeased—his loss cancels out his reward. One whom it is difficult to anger and difficult to appease—his reward cancels out his loss. One whom it is difficult to anger and is easily calmed down is a chasid. One who is easily angered and is difficult to calm down is wicked.

This clearly acknowledges that even a chasid will feel anger. But he is not alone. Earlier in the fifth perek, at Avot 5:2-3, we learn that God too gets angry—and that He is able to restrain His anger for generation after generation.

All of this points to a principle that emerges from Rambam’s Moreh Nevuchim: we can’t stop having feelings, ideas and emotions entirely. If we could, we would no longer be functionally human. However, what we can do is control them once we have them.

The bee coming into my bathroom and buzzing around in apparent rage and desperation is analogous to a powerful surge of anger that comes into one’s head. At this point we may not be amenable to rational thought. This is why Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar teaches (Avot 4:23)

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ

Do not appease your friend at the height of his anger.

But once we have controlled our anger and composed ourselves we can view things, including our own feelings and the circumstances that generated them, in a more reasonable manner.  Once the bee calms down, its problem can be addressed with a happy outcome for bee—and me.

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WHO WILL LEAD THE FOXES?

At Avot 4:20 Rabbi Matya ben Charash teaches:

הֱוֵי זָנָב לָאֲרָיוֹת, וְאַל תְּהִי רֹאשׁ לַשֻּׁעָלִים

Be a tail to lions, rather than a head to foxes.

Both lions and foxes appear elsewhere in Avot and it is safe to say that, since both animals were far more commonly found in the Middle East at the time of the Tannaim than they are today, allusions to them would have been mor meaningful to the Mishnaic sages of 2,000 years ago and to their audience than they are to us today.

Be that as it may, in this mishnah it is probable that Rabbi Matya ben Charash had in mind not the real animal but the symbolic one, the creature of the proverb and the parable. That sort of lion represents strength, intelligence and dignity, coupled with an element of noble self-restraint, while his companion represents deviousness, cunning, sharp observation and a dash of the instinct for self-sufficiency and survival in a world of bigger, stronger animals.

 If this is so, the message of the mishnah is clear. We are advised to keep the company of our betters, whom we can trust and from whose superior qualities we can learn. We should also avoid the company of low-lives, even if we can demonstrate that we are better at being low-lives than they are. According to Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) this mishnah is actually a teaching on the topic of self-image. Those who associate with the foxes do so because they insufficiently value their capabilities and their potential to better themselves. I doubt that the earlier commentators would take issue with this.

But there is one issue raised in this mishnah that troubles me. We are told to be a tail to lions, not a head to foxes—but what does this mean for the foxes themselves? With no-one to lead them in the face of such explicit instruction not to do so, what will be their fate? It cannot be expected that the foxes will cease to be foxes just because they don’t have a leader or that, in the absence of a leader, they will all commit themselves to follow the (head of the) lions. So what is their fate?

I think the answer may be found within Avot itself. Hillel at Avot 1:14 teaches:

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי, וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי, וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁו, אֵימָתָי

If I am not for myself, who is for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

This mishnah has been so overused in recent years, regardless of its context, that one can easily disregard that it might have had a context when Hillel first taught it. At any rate, the first two propositions—if I am not for myself and if I am only for myself—place it firmly within the category of Avot teachings that deal with interpersonal relationships and the need to strike a balance between one’s personal needs and the needs of others.

By identifying and criticizing the polar opposites of absolute selfishness and total altruism, Hillel foreshadows the Maimonidean golden mean that forms a central plank of Hilchot De’ot in the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah. And as a pair of general maxims for life, Hillel’s guidance casts a clear light on our case of the foxes. We must not devote ourselves utterly to those who may live their lives at a lower standard than our own, and with lower expectations. But nor must we ignore them. We must take our inspiration from the lions and aspire to spread it among the foxes, even though both the lions and the foxes may ridicule our ethics and our efforts.

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FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!

At Avot 4:14 Rabbi Yochanan HaSandlor teaches:

כָּל כְּנֵסִיָּה שֶׁהִיא לְשֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם סוֹפָהּ לְהִתְקַיֵּם, וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ לְשֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם אֵין סוֹפָהּ לְהִתְקַיֵּם

Every gathering that is for the sake of Heaven will endure; that which is not for the sake of Heaven will not endure.

This is not the only mishnah in Avot that refers to a person’s motivation being לְשֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם (Leshem Shamayim, “For the sake of Heaven”) so it is worth our while to reflect on what this term means.

Literally, since Heaven is the notional abode of God, we can reasonably assume that any act that is done for Heaven’s sake is done for God’s sake. It is axiomatic that an incorporeal, omnipotent and omniscient deity does not actually need anything from us since He is self-sufficient. We therefore usually take “for God’s sake” to mean “in fulfilment with God’s commandments” and not for any other reason. We are not entitled to determine for ourselves what God wants from us. King Saul’s erroneous assumption that God would prefer animal sacrifices to the execution of His explicit instructions led directly to his downfall (1 Samuel 15).

Assuming that “for Heaven’s sake” bore this meaning I was surprised to read the following passage in Ruchi Koval’s inspirational lifestyle rendering of Pirkei Avot, Soul Purpose:

“How would you define an altruistic motive? Don’t we all get some sort of satisfaction when we do good things? The term used in Hebrew for this is l’shem Shamayim—literally ‘in the name of Heaven. In the words of Rabbi [Shimshon Rephael] Hirsch, this means ‘any endeavor for the promotion of a good thing for its own sake without any ulterior motive’”.

Here is a definition of “for Heaven’s sake” that omits God entirely. Feeling that this surely could not be right, I checked my copy of The Hirsch Pirkei Avos and found the quote, somewhat disappointed when I realized that I had read and noted it some time ago and then forgotten it. Reading on from the quote, I saw that Rabbi Hirsch’s short commentary carried on in the same vein, citing Abarbanel to the effect that any well-motivated organization will succeed because all its members bear allegiance to a good cause. Again, there is no mention of God.

This God-free exposition is not new. On this mishnah the Me’iri’s first explanation is much the same, though a further explanation draws on the Avot deRabbi Natan (40:10), where the denial of God’s Will is cited with regard to the gathering that is not LeShem Shamayim.

Not all modern commentators adopt the Hirschian approach, even in his native Germany. Thus Rabbi Marcus Lehmann goes straight to the Me’iri’s citation of the Avot deRabbi Natan, while the contemporary psychology-based commentary Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski in his Visions of the Fathers reverts to the literal approach we described above. Summarizing a generality of explanations and building on the God-free approach, Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) seems to suggest that LeShem Shamayim is understandable in negative terms: if an assembly is not selfish (i.e. altruistic) and does not actually cross God’s will, it will succeed even if it is not in any sense spiritual or holy.

Is it right to regard LeShem Shamayim as a motivation that is neutral in terms of an appreciation of God and His will? I think so. Rabbi Ovadyah Bartenura (at Avot 1:1) famously asserts that the inclusion of Avot in the canon of Mishnayot is to distinguish our approach to middot from that of the nations of the world: we and they may share the same guidance on good behavior, whether as individuals or collectively. However, the nations of the world have worked the guidance out on the basis of their philosophies, while ours are derived from Torah miSinai. The notion of promoting altruistic collective action is therefore always to be encouraged, whether driven by an understanding of what God wants us to do or by a recognition of the inherent good of charitable and chesed-based conduct.

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SCATTERED RESOURCES

Hillel’s final mishnah in Avot is quite a catchy one. It opens with five things we should think twice about before desiring them because they’re not as beneficial as one might initially imagine:

מַרְבֶּה בָשָׂר מַרְבֶּה רִמָּה, מַרְבֶּה נְכָסִים מַרְבֶּה דְאָגָה, מַרְבֶּה נָשִׁים מַרְבֶּה כְשָׁפִים, מַרְבֶּה שְׁפָחוֹת מַרְבֶּה זִמָּה, מַרְבֶּה עֲבָדִים מַרְבֶּה גָזֵל

The more flesh, the more worms; the more possessions, the more worry; the more wives, the more witchcraft; the more maidservants, the more immorality; the more manservants, the more theft (Avot 2:8).

As for the second of these give items, the basic idea is that of a proportionality between one’s material wealth and the anxiety that accompanies it. This concept is beautifully illustrated by a story told by the Netivot Shalom about a king who suffered from an ailment that could only be remedied by wearing the coat of a man who was perfectly happy and had no worries. Eventually the king’s agents tracked down such a man and asked to borrow his coat so that the king might put it on and be cured. Said the man, who was blissfully contented with his lot: “But I don’t even have a coat”.

Rabbi Ovadyah from Bartenura adds a little story of his own. He relates that a chassid—a pious person—once prayed that God should spare him from pizur hanefesh, a scattering of his soul. This was because his wealth and material assets were spread across many places and it was consequently necessary to spread his nefesh, his serious attention, over all those places in order to pay attention to them.

Citing the Arve Nahal of Rabbi Dovid Shlomo Eibenschutz, another Hillel—Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai)—contends that the possessions to which our mishnah refers are not merely material but embrace a person’s physical, mental and spiritual talents and energies too. These are given to us to help us fulfil the mission that God has designated for us. We can concentrate these special resources on the performance of mitzvot and the learning of Torah, or we can dissipate them—and that is pizur nefesh. Rabbi Hillel writes:

“If we disperse our energies heedlessly, wasting them on trivial or mundane pursuits rather than concentrating them on serving Hashem and perfecting our soul, we have ‘scattered our soul’. The choice is ours. It can be real estate, the stock market, wardrobes and cruises, or it can be Torah, chesed, mitzvot, and good mlddot. Will we choose this world, gone before we can even savor it, or the next world, which lasts forever?”

Rabbi Hillel backs this up by citing Tehillim 90:9 ( כִּי כָל-יָמֵינוּ פָּנוּ בְעֶבְרָתֶךָ; כִּלִּינוּ שָׁנֵינוּ כְמוֹ-הֶגֶה, “For all our days passed by because of your fury, we consumed our years like a fleeting thought”) and, referencing the Chida, adds

“If we scatter our words thoughtlessly, they are lost forever, along with the energy they consumed”.

This is a powerful notion. We do indeed often use up our physical resources in vain. But I am certain that this has nothing to do with Hillel’s teaching in our mishnah and that, if I am wrong and his words did once mean this, it is hard to imagine how it applies today. It makes sense to speak of anxiety being induced by material wealth because we see this all around us: it’s not the poor of this world who fret over share prices, purchase electronic security devices, bar their windows and keep guard dogs. But most people today expend their physical energy willingly and happily in the pursuit of social and leisure activities: going on holidays, working out at the gym, chatting with friends, and generally killing time in a manner that few find worrying and many find pleasurable.

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SELF-BELIEF AND DISBELIEF

We are supposed to believe in God. It is a fundamental axiom of Judaism, incorporated within the very fabric of the Thirteen Principles of Faith. Man is made in God’s image. Does this mean that we have to believe in man too?

No, says Hillel at Avot 2:4. Not only are we not supposed to believe in others; we are not even to believe in ourselves:

אַל תַּאֲמִין בְּעַצְמָךְ עַד יוֹם מוֹתָךְ

Do not believe in yourself till the day you die.

Since we don’t know the day we expect to die—a theme on which Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus elaborates at Avot 2:15—we should not believe in ourselves at all.  Many commentators, led by the Bartenura and Rashi, illustrate this point by citing the case of Yochanan Kohen Gadol, who served faithfully in this capacity for many decades before defecting to the Sadducees.  The Meiri endorses this citation but goes further, warning that one should not put oneself at risk of temptation and assume that one would be able to resist it, citing the tragic case of King Solomon who was led astray by his many wives.

Yochanan Kohen Gadol and Shlomo HaMelech provide extreme examples, but it seems to me that none of us can get through a single day without believing in ourselves one way or another. We believe in our capacity to live in accordance with our daily routines and in our ability to discharge the many simple, mundane functions that make up most of our day. They may be little episodes in the great scheme of things, but they are important to us: relying on ourselves to lock the front door, charge our cell phones, return borrowed objects, get to work on time, and so on. Perhaps we take ourselves for granted, but we do berate ourselves when we forget or fail to do them.

There is another way in which we have to believe in ourselves. In his sefer Shomanu Avoteinu, Rabbi Shimon Abo offers a plausible ground for distinguishing between what we have done in the past and what we still have to do. We cannot rely on our past performance as proof that we will continue to perform well, and we cannot even be confident that we will be credited for our past good deeds since we are not the judge of them. But we must believe in ourselves when we face tasks we have yet to perform for, if we did not, we might never attempt to undertake them.

R’ Abo offers no proof for this proposition, but it seems to me that Yehudah ben Teyma supports it at Avot 5:23 where he 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 strong as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven.

It makes no sense to tell a person not to have any confidence in their ability to achieve an objective or perform a task and then expect them to wield the qualities listed in that mishnah.

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MUSSAR: DOES MOTHER KNOW BEST?

Parents don’t get much exposure in Pirkei Avot. Though God is described as our Father in Heaven (Avot 5:23), biological parents are not explicitly mentioned at all. Since Avot means “fathers”, many commentators across the generations have explained its content by the occasion reference to fathers—but of mothers there is just one small, oblique trace. This is found in Avot 2:11, where Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, praising each of his star talmidim in turn, says of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya אַשְׁרֵי יוֹלַדְתּוֹ  (ashrei yoladeto, “happy is the one who birthed him”).  This can only refer to his mother.

How did Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya make his mother happy, and why is this facet of his existence singled out for praise? The commentary ascribed to Rashi, supported by Yevamot Yerushalmi 1:6, explains that his mother, while pregnant, made the rounds of all the local Batei Midrash and asked each of those who learned Torah there to pray for her unborn son to become a chacham. Following his birth, she would place his cradle within earshot of chachamim who were learning, so that he might imbibe the sweet incantation of their Torah learning even before he could understand it. This seems to be the most frequently cited explanations, but I want to look at another.

According to Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda (Midrash Shmuel), Rabbi Yehoshua’s mother taught him mussar, those principles of morality and good conduct that complement the mitzvot of the Torah. This explanation clearly appealed to Rabbi Tvi Hirsch Ferber (Si’ach Tzvi, vol.2) who wove it into his commentary on Eshet Chayil (“A Woman of Worth”)—the famous acrostic at Mishlei 31:10-31 that concludes the Book of Proverbs.

Writing on the verse קָמוּ בָנֶיהָ וַיְאַשְּׁרוּהָ בַּעְלָהּ וַיְהַלְלָהּ (“Her children rise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her”) Rabbi Ferber references our mishnah of Rabbi Yehoshua’s mother and the explanation of Midrash Shmuel, which is itself based on another verse in our chapter of Mishlei, the line that opens it:

דִּבְרֵי לְמוּאֵל מֶלֶךְ מַשָּׂא אֲשֶׁר-יִסְּרַתּוּ אִמּוֹ

The words of king Lemuel [a.k.a. Solomon]; the mussar with which his mother corrected him (Mishlei 31:1).

I have two problems with the explanation of our mishnah based on these verses in Mishlei. First, the words ashrei yoladeto seem quite remote from the meaning taken here and are not obviously allusive to the case of the mother who taught her son mussar. Secondly, elsewhere in Proverbs there is a far better-known verse than 31:1 which suggests something quite different. At 1:8 we encounter a verse that is known to many as the lyrics of a song:

שְׁמַע בְּנִי מוּסַר אָבִיךָ וְאַל-תִּטֹּשׁ תּוֹרַת אִמֶּךָ

Hear, my son, the mussar of your father, and do not forsake the Torah of your mother.

This verse suggests, at the very least, that it is the mother’s job to teach Torah, that mussar is a task for the father, and that we should not imbue the Lemuel verse cited above with too much meaning.

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Here are some sample versions of “Shema Beni Mussar Avicha”:

·       Idan Dahari: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaQozNe4tZg

·       Eli Herzlich: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCGOYpY_hIg (animated version)

·       Shlock Rock: https://www.zemirotdatabase.org/view_song.php?id=878

·       Mendy Worch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WDcUFK4qB4

A FRACTAL MISHNAH?

In geometry, a fractal is a never-ending pattern that looks the same at any scale. Whether you zoom in or zoom out, you will see smaller or larger replicas of the exact same shape repeating itself infinitely. But, in a metaphorical sense, is there such a thing as a fractal mishnah? I think so.

At Avot 1:14 Hillel famously teaches

…אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי, וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי

If I am not for myself, who is for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? …

In the Shavuot issue of Torah-To-Go, Rabbi Avi Berman cites this teaching and comments:

“This is often read as a tension to be balanced. But perhaps …it is a statement  that these two truths are not opposites, at all, but mutually dependent. If one lives for the klal in a way that is disconnected from one’s authentic self, the contribution will not endure. It will be performative, unsustainable, and ultimately untrue. And if one turns inward alone—engaged only in self-definition without outward purpose—that, too, collapses into a kind of spiritual superficiality, a life of endless self-reflection without meaning”.

To put it another way, when being for others, one should also be a little bit for oneself—and, in being for oneself, one should also be a little bit for others.

Now for the fractal bit. When being for others and also a little bit for oneself, a bit of the self that one dedicates to others should also be for oneself while a bit of what one does mainly for oneself but also a little bit for others should also be a bit for others and mainly for oneself. And so on, ever after.

In practice this is nonsense, but it works very well in theory and underlines Rabbi Berman’s point: investment in oneself and in one’s community are not mutually exclusive; they are complementary.

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BEST PRACTICE, THE KITE RUNNER AND STEALING FROM GOD

We have just been celebrating the festival of Shavuot—initially linked to Israel’s harvest cycle but which now commemorates Matan Torah, the giving of our divine law.  One of the big moments in our celebration of Shavuot comes in our Torah reading, with the recitation of the Aseret HaDibrot—the Ten Commandments.  Among these is the command לֹא תִּגְנֹב (lo tignov, “Do not steal”). As with almost every other word in the Torah, the precise parameters and nuances of meaning of לֹא תִּגְנֹב are extensively analysed, but the basic principle underlying this command is plain: it’s wrong to take something that belongs to someone else.

The tractate of Avot makes a number of allusions to taking something that belongs to another but never says so outright. This is not strange. The prohibition of taking things from others, whether by force or by stealth, is already expressly covered by the Torah. What Avot does is not to prohibit actions but to shape our attitudes towards them. Thus, for example, it stigmatizes antisocial activity such as borrowing an item and failing to return it (2:14) and helping oneself to gifts set aside for the poor, where there is no identifiable victim (5:12). Other people’s property should be as dear to a person as one’s pwn (2:17). And claiming ownership over another’s property is condemned even if the person doing so has no objection to others doing the same to him (5:13). All of this reflects a drive towards establishing principles of best practice when living in a world that is full not only of other people but of things that belong to them.

So respecting the property of others is clearly important in Jewish tradition. But how important? It is not bracketed with idolatry, bloodshed and sexual immorality as a cardinal sin for which one should preferably let oneself be killed rather than be forced to commit it. But is it less important than violating the prohibition of working the land during the Sabbatical year, something that Avot (at 5:11) ranks together with the other three as a cause of exile from the land of Israel?

There is some anecdotal evidence that, in contemporary Islamic thought, theft of another’s property is the foundation of all sin. I came across it a few years ago in The Kite Runner, Khaled Hossaini’s moving and at times provocative account of Afghanistan and the twin threats of the Soviet Union and the Taliban. In this tale, accessible both in printed format and as a movie, the protagonist’s father tells him:

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life... you steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... there is no act more wretched than stealing.”

The point is made powerfully and, like the examples referenced in Pirkei Avot, focuses on human interpersonal relationships. But what about God? Judaism is not merely about how we should deal with one another: it’s far more nuanced. As the Maharal explains in Derech Chaim, at his commentary on Avot 1:1, we relate in three ways—not just to other people but also to God and to ourselves. Little mileage can be got by focusing on whether each of us can steal from ourselves, but what about stealing from God?

Perusing the commentary of Rabbi Gedaliyahu Schorr, the Or Gedalyahu, on Parashat Naso, I found something that addressed this point. That commentary references a citation by the Sefat Emet of a teaching by the Chiddushei HaRim that addresses the fundamental importance of prohibiting theft. According to the Chiddushei HaRim, theft is indeed the basis of all wrongdoing. We should recognize that our capabilities are not inherent within us but are only lent to us by God for the purposes for which He created us. If we put these assets to wrongful use, we are misappropriating them, and this is effectively theft.

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