CUNNING LEOPARDS AND CONFIRMATION BIAS

In “Wisdom Unfettered by Divine Inspiration”, a piece authored by Andrew Levitt and published in the Jewish Press late last year, I came across a short passage that somehow wedged itself in my mind. I’ve finally got round to addressing it—and it runs like this:

Daniel has his own prophetic dream: He sees four beasts, the third being a leopard which is the most cunning of all the animals, as it says in Pirkei Avot (5:23), “Be cunning as a leopard.”

This stopped me in my tracks. The mishnah itself reads as follows, in relevant part:

יְהוּדָה בֶּן תֵּימָא אוֹמֵר: הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם.

Yehudah ben Teyma says: Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, fleeting as a deer and mighty as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven.

I have seen many translations and explanations of this mishnah and long ago concluded that the word עַז (az) means “bold”, “brazen” or “strong”, but certainly not “cunning”.  A quick consultation with Jastrow, followed by a somewhat longer consultation with Brown, Driver & Briggs supported this. So where does this notion come from? I thought I would ask ChatGPT. This is the answer I received:

Short answer: there is essentially no support in classical Jewish sources for translating “עַז כַּנָּמֵר (az kenamer)” as “cunning as a leopard.” “Bold,” “brazen,” or “audacious” is the correct sense.

Here is why.

1. The Hebrew word “az” (עַז)

The key adjective in the phrase is עַז. In Tanakh and rabbinic Hebrew, az consistently means:

• strong
• bold
• fierce
• brazen / audacious

It does not mean clever, sly, or cunning.

Examples:

• “עַז פָּנִים” = brazen-faced (impudent), not clever
• “עַז כַּאֲרִי” (Judges 14:18) = fierce as a lion

If the Mishnah intended cunning, it would have used words like:

•  עָרוּם  (crafty, shrewd)
• חָכָם  (wise)
• פִּקֵּחַ  (clever)

It does not.

2. Why a leopard (נָמֵר)?

In rabbinic literature, the leopard is associated with chutzpah, brazenness, and fearlessness, not cunning.

This fits the structure of the Mishnah:

עַז כַּנָּמֵר

קַל כַּנֶּשֶׁר

רָץ כַּצְּבִי

גִּבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי

Each animal represents a behavioral or motivational trait, not an intellectual one:

• Leopard → boldness / brazenness
• Eagle → alacrity
• Deer → speed
• Lion → strength

The list would be conceptually broken if “cunning” were suddenly introduced.

3. Classical commentators

All major commentators explain az kenamer as boldness in serving God:

• Rashi: overcoming embarrassment in mitzvot
• Rabbeinu Yonah: resisting social pressure and mockery
• Bartenura: not being ashamed to do what is right
• Rambam (in Shemonah Perakim): moral courage

None suggest cleverness or deception.

4. Where might “cunning” come from?

The translation you saw likely stems from non-Jewish symbolic associations where leopards (or big cats generally) are viewed as stealthy or crafty hunters. That symbolism simply does not govern rabbinic Hebrew usage.

Another possibility is confusion with:

• נִמְרָץ  (energetic, forceful)
• or with modern animal stereotypes rather than linguistic evidence

But linguistically and traditionally, it doesn’t hold.

5. Bottom line

• “Az kenamer” = bold, brazen, audacious
• “Cunning as a leopard” has no basis in Hebrew, the Mishnah, or classical Jewish interpretation
• The Mishnah is teaching moral courage, not cleverness

If you want, I can also show how this mishnah was understood practically in halakhic contexts (e.g., standing out in mitzvah observance despite social pressure).

ChatGPT gave me the answer I wanted—but I am not unaware of confirmation bias and I’m reluctant to let this issue rest without at least giving readers an opportunity to comment and, in particular, to let me know if they are familiar with any translation of Avot that endorses the use of the word or concept “cunning”.

Andrew Levitt’s article can be read in full here.

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SECRET SINS AND PUBLIC EXPOSURE

Rabbi Yochanan ben Beroka (Avot 4:5) cautions against the performance of even private actions that constitute a chillul Hashem, a desecration of God’s name, warning of the hugely embarrassing consequences:

כָּל הַמְחַלֵּל שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם בַּסֵּֽתֶר, נִפְרָעִין מִמֶּֽנּוּ בְּגָלוּי, אֶחָד שׁוֹגֵג וְאֶחָד מֵזִיד בְּחִלּוּל הַשֵּׁם

Whoever desecrates the Divine Name in secret will be punished in public. So far as chillul Hashem is concerned, it makes no difference whether it’s unintentional or deliberate.

Let’s leave aside the fascinating questions as to what actually constitute a chillul Hashem and, as the Me’iri asks, whether it is the case that every infraction of the Torah, whether public or private, is a desecration of God’s name.  If we start by assuming, as many do and the Gemara demonstrates, that there is a sliding scale in which, the more overtly religiously observant and learned a person is, the higher is the standard of behaviour expected. We can then ponder the following pair of questions:  why should  God be so worried about private chilluei Hashem that He effectively “outs” the perpetrator, thus publicizing the desecration of His own name. And how are we, as ordinary rank-and-file Jews, affected by any given chillul Hashem committed by another person in private?

Our capacity to seek to avoid embarrassment must constitute an important factor in the rationale for this teaching. If we truly believe not only that God is watching and recording our every private action (as we learn from Rebbi at Avot 2:1), and that we are punished for our misdeeds just aa we are rewarded for our good ones, no further deterrent should be needed. But in practice we live our lives in real time and do not always have the opportunity to reflect before deciding rationally what we should do or say. The ability of the yetzer hara, the inclination, to get the better of our good intentions is acknowledged throughout Jewish literature. So presumably more is needed if we are to improve our Torah compliance—and that is where this Mishnah invokes our deep urge to escape public humiliation or to be “found out”. Bearing this in mind, I would like to think that it is precisely because God does not want to see us shamed in public that He intimates that He is prepared to do so.

Moving on to our second question, are we really affected by the secret sins of others? At least one modern commentator believes so. In his Seh LaBeit Avot, Rabbi Shalom Hedaya considers an anonymous mishnah (Avot 5:17) that contrasts four types of individuals by reference to two variables: whether or not they go to the House of Study and whether or not they learn. The mishnah describes the fourth character, who neither goes to the Beit Midrash nor studies, as a rasha, someone who is wicked. Why? Rabbi Hedaya suggests that it is because by staying at home and failing to learn, he causes others to sin. This is a remarkable proposition. From the point of view of the public at large, if the person is staying home they won’t even know if he is grappling with a Gemara or playing with his cell phone. How can what he does, out of the line of human vision, affect anyone and even cause them to act in similar fashion?

Modern science, or at least parascience, has an answer to this: Professor Ruport Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance. This theory proposes that memory is not merely personal but is inherent in nature itself. All natural systems—molecules, cells, and organisms, including the human being—inherit collective memory from previous similar systems via "morphic fields". It suggests that nature is habitual rather than governed by fixed laws, meaning that behaviours or structures become easier to repeat over time, as more people repeat them. What this means, in the case of a Jewish community with its own collective memory, is that it becomes easier to repeat the behaviour of learning Torah when others in that community are learning Torah, and harder when they are not—even where there are no competing social pressures.

Sheldrake’s theories have attracted much attention and criticism over the years; indeed, he is one of a small, select band of scholars whose TED Talks have been banned. Yet here at least he offers a clue to the understanding of our mishnah: each time someone commits a chillul Hashem privately and out of the sight of man, he makes it easier for others to do likewise.

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TELLING IT STRAIGHT

At Avot 2:5 Hillel teaches a number of principles for guidance in one’s relations with others. Among them is this:

אַל תֹּאמַר דָּבָר שֶׁאִי אֶפְשַׁר לִשְׁמֽוֹעַ שֶׁסּוֹפוֹ לְהִשָּׁמַע

Depending on one’s preference, this can be translated in one of two ways:

Do not say something that is impossible to understand if it is meant to be understood

or

Do not say something where it is impossible that it should be heard, for ultimately it will be heard.

Aside from noting the irony that Hillel’s own words appear to be incapable of bearing a single meaning that can be immediately understood, there is much to be said about the notion of speaking plainly so that one’s words will always be understood.  Much if not most of then tractate of Avot focuses, whether directly or indirectly, on the process of imparting and acquiring understanding of Torah. Given this overarching context, the importance of teaching only that which can be understood is obvious and needs no further elucidation.

Of modern commentators, Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai) is among the most forthright in promoting the notion that plain speech is best. Say what you mean to say and leave no-one in doubt of the meaning of your words. He writes:

“If we have something to say, we should say it outright, clearly and plainly. Others should not have to work hard to plumb the depths of our meaning, because this can lead to grave errors, and even to the point of disaster, God forbid. If the issues are complicated and our words are ambiguous, there is a great risk that people will misunderstand. Especially when dealing with sensitive matters like faith and belief, this is very dangerous. There is no room for uncertainty here, and we should not be the unwitting cause of it, God forbid”.

This must be the ideal position, especially in matters of Torah instruction and matters of Jewish religious practice. Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) however explains that it must be qualified in the field of psychotherapy, where a patient is in denial and any attempt to get him to accept the truth of a proposition is bound to fail until the patient becomes capable of accepting it for himself.

There may be further limitations. The Yalkut Gershoni, Knesset Yisrael and Meir Nesiv all apply this teaching to the mitzvah of tochachah, rebuking others, and indeed it seems appropriate to do so—but this works best in the field of practical halachah. If you tell someone, for example, that they are not putting their tefillin on correctly, it is necessary to spell out explicitly both the error and its means of putting it right. However, there are other areas where a more indirect approach may be preferred both by the speaker and his addressee, particularly when others may overhear the conversation. Anyone who has had to let someone know that they smell and that either they or their clothing needs prompt attention, as I once had to do, will know what I mean.  

Sometimes a failure to say directly what one means will produce quite an unsatisfactory result. Let me cite here a relatively trivial incident drawn from my own experience. On one occasion, when visiting an aged relative in a retirement home, one of the other residents called out to me: “You make a better door than a window”. I had no idea what this cryptic comment meant until someone informed me that my addressee was complaining that I was standing between her and her television screen.

I have recently taken to listening to what I say, playing it back, and wondering how clearly, I am expressing myself in terms of Hillel-compliance. This exercise has led me to conclude that the meaning of much if not most of what I say is governed by context, not clarity. For example, I might come back from a fruit-and-vegetable shopping trip and announce, “the grapefruit today were quite reasonable”. To a third party, eavesdropping on my words, this message must have seemed quite baffling.  “Reasonable” is not a word that is usually paired with “grapefruit”—and is there such a thing as an unreasonable grapefruit?  But context is everything. If I have been shopping in a discount store where the goods are of variable quality, “reasonable” will be taken as “of reasonable quality”. However, if I have returned from an expensive upmarket store, “reasonable” will be understood as “reasonably priced”. Is there a point to this exercise? Yes. It shows that the standard of comprehensibility must be subjective, in keeping with the addressee’s knowledge, and not objective.

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MORE ON STICKING TOGETHER: THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE HERD

We recently discussed Hillel’s teaching at Avot 2:4 

אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

Do not separate from the community.

In doing so, we assumed that this advice was addressed to any individual who might otherwise wander off, break away from the community and do his (or her) own thing. This, after all, is how these words have been taken by generations of sages and scholars. But there may be more to them.

I have just come across a curious book, Lessons of Leadership from Pirkei Avot. This turns out to be, as its subtitle explains, “A collection of Divrei Torah from the Rabbeim and Students of Yeshivat Hakotel”.  These divrei Torah are mainly in English, though those relating to the baraitot that comprise the sixth and final perek are all in Hebrew. The contributions are of uneven quality, reflecting both the range of scholarship and comprehension of the writers and the fact that some of the mishnayot and baraitot of Avot are manifestly easier to explain in terms of leadership than are others.

While reading Ariel Axelrod’s short explanation of this mishnah, I found myself thinking about something that had not occurred to me before. Where a person breaks away from a Jewish community, this need not mean that he becomes a self-contained unit. In many, if not most cases today a person who breaks with a Jewish community frequently joins another community: this may even be the public at large, with all its virtues and, sadly, vices—and which is a community that in one sense embraces all the communities that lie within it.  Maybe it is the person who travels in the opposite direction, breaking off from a wider community, doing teshuvah or converting to Judaism, who is the real culprit in terms of אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

It is also not unknown for the tzibbur to split. This can happen in all sorts of scenarios. A large congregation which prays in accordance with Ashkenazi minhagim and traditions may also be home to a small number of Sefardim who eventually break away when their numbers are sufficient to sustain their own minyan. It would seem harsh to point an accusatory finger at them and complain that they were somehow in breach of Hillel’s precept.

A more difficult case might be where a group of shul members decide to set up an earlier Shabbat morning minyan rather than pray later with the rest of the congregation. This is often seen as divisive, especially where the depletion of the later minyan has an adverse impact on the enjoyment of its davening experience. But how divisive can this be said to be, when the ‘breakaway’ affects only one minyan out of an entire week’s worth?

Where does this leave us? It is axiomatic that unity is strength, and that the many can achieve what an individual cannot. We also not only tolerate but respect divergent paths that lead to the same destination, as is evidenced by the variety of religious practices we find between and within Ashkenazi, Sefardi and Temoni traditions and in the multifarious branches of chasidut. But these groups, so different on the surface, share certain fundamentals: these include belief in God, the primacy of His Torah and the notions of reward and punishment. Where different groups are travelling to the same destination, but taking different routes, we should not be hasty to shout out אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר.

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LET’S STICK TOGETHER. REALLY?

Hillel is quite firm on the point. At Avot 2:4 the first of his five teachings is

אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

Do not separate from the community.

In many (probably most) versions of Pirkei Avot these words are repeated verbatim by Rabbi Tzadok at Avot 4:7 as the first of his three teachings.

As happens so often in Avot, these few terse words are susceptible of an apparently unlimited range of meanings and practical applications. This is because they deal with a topic that is of universal relevance—the relationship of the individual to the group in philosophical, moral, religious, economic, psychological and sociological terms.

For us Jews, the obvious situation in this teaching applies is where an individual finds himself embedded within a community that is going astray. Maimonides has no doubts here. Separate yourself from wrongdoers who transgress the will of Heaven even if it means leaving town and finding yourself a convenient cave; anything and everything is better than remaining within a community that is actively defying the commandments of God. For Rabbi Eliezer Papo (a.k.a. the Pele Yo’etz) however, the opposite path must be taken: stick to the community wherever it goes and whatever it does. Even the wicked and idolatrous King Achav was rewarded with victory because he fostered achdut—unity—among his people, and the first galut lasted only 70 years, even though our forebears committed every sin in the book, because the people still stuck together. The second galut, however, in result of our lack of achdut, continues.

Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai, vol.2) suggests a novel view of Hillel’s teaching, based on the Arizal. For him, not separating from the community is an intellectual and spiritual response to the challenge of prayer. He writes:

The Arizal teaches that “before one begins his prayers in the synagogue … he should accept upon himself the commandment of  ‘Love your fellow man as yourself’. And he should have in mind to love each and every Jewish person as he loves himself because, through this, his prayers will ascend, linked to the prayers of all Israel”.

This does not address the issue of separation from the tzibbur, but redefines it in terms of making a positive effort to identify with the prayers of other Jews. But what if we know our fellows and feel intuitively that we are not straining to pray for the same outcomes? Is it permitted or even possible to detach our prayer from theirs?

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CONFRONTED BY HUMILITY? WHAT DO YOU DO?

This is a serious question. Every type of human behaviour either elicits or demands an appropriate response. If someone displays anger towards me, I know that this is a corrosive middah and that it is never right and generally wrong to respond with a display of anger of my own. Not just in Pirkei Avot (see eg Avot 5:14, 6:6) but throughout Jewish ethical writings, anger is regarded as a destructive personal quality, akin to avodah zarah—idolatry—because a person possessed by it is no longer in control of himself. Likewise, if someone greets me with a happy smiling face I should respond in like kind (Avot 1:15).  When a person displays boastful arrogance, I should not seek to compete or contradict: that is likely to cause anger. If someone is in a quiet, contemplative mood I should recognize the fact and give him time and space. And so on.

But what should we do when faced with a display of humility? The importance of this middah, which is emphasized in Avot (eg Avot 4:4, 4:12, 6:6), is further underlined by the Maharal in Netivot Olam, where he lists it as the foremost requirement for learning Torah, by Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Psishcha, who calls it a chiyuv de’oraita (a Torah obligation), by Rambam in his Pirush Mishnayot, and by many others. Do displays of humility call for any response at all?

I ask this question because of the superficial similarity between true humility from its evil twin, false humility (a.k.a. false modesty)—an annoying trait that our sages identify and which in reality is a form of boastfulness or conceit. A species of this middah that I have encountered several times over the years is found where someone who is giving s shiur cites a question, describes its difficulty, lists the various sages who have not offered a satisfactory answer to it, and then announces that, despite his relative insignificance when compared with these gedolim of previous generations, he is humbly submitting the answer. If the speaker was truly humble, would he really announce his humility?

Publicly one cannot say anything without running the likely risk of embarrassing the speaker in public, and this would be contrary to the teaching of Rabbi Elazar haModa’i at Avot 3:15. In addition, in the context of a shiur, whether the speaker is humble or not is less important—and less interesting—than whether the answer he has given is correct, or at least tenable.  Privately one might speak to him and tactfully rebuke him, but this in turn raises the question whether the Torah mitzvah of rebuking another (endorsed by Avot 6:6), applies only to the breach of mitzvot or also to a display of poor behaviour such as false humility.

My guess is that, in most situations, the correct thing to do is—nothing. At least that way one avoids giving positive offence, which itself is something.  Comments, anyone?

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WORK, EFFORT AND MONEY

Rabban Gamliel ben Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi tosses a familiar bone of contention to the pack of commentators at Avot 2:2 when he teaches:

יָפֶה תַּלְמוּד תּוֹרָה עִם דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ, שֶׁיְּגִיעַת שְׁנֵיהֶם מַשְׁכַּֽחַת עָוֹן, וְכָל תּוֹרָה שֶׁאֵין עִמָּהּ מְלָאכָה סוֹפָהּ בְּטֵלָה וְגוֹרֶֽרֶת עָוֹן

Beautiful is the study of Torah with derech eretz [taken here to mean some sort of day job or gainful employment by which to support oneself], for the toil of them both causes sin to be forgotten. Ultimately, all Torah study that is not accompanied with work is destined to be of no worth and to cause sin.

Reading through the sages over the ages, one can identify two camps. There are those, led by Rambam, who take this teaching at face value. Someone who doesn’t work and expects to be supported by others is in essence a parasite and his attitude is a chillul Hashem, a denigration of God’s name. On this theme, at Avot 4:7 where Rabbi Zadok teaches that one should not use the Torah as a spade to dig with, Rambam explains his position at extraordinary length, pulling no punches. In short, such a person forfeits his life in the World to Come—and anyone who argues otherwise has either misunderstood or disregarded the words of the sages on this matter.

Rambam however appears to be in the minority, just as much now as he was in his own times. The opposition has maintained, among other things, that Rambam didn’t mean his words to be taken literally, that Torah learning would suffer—and the Jewish world with it—if people were not supported in their full-time learning, that learning to the exclusion of working for a living is the optimal solution and that, if we all studied Torah full time, our work would be done by others. In the world today a very large number of scholars are supported in full-time Torah study, whether for life or a limited period, and they are unlikely to be militant supporters of Rambam’s position.

So much attention is given to the “work or not to work” issue that the last few words are sometimes overlooked. Living off the charity of others is said to be גוֹרֶֽרֶת עָוֹן (“goreret avon”, something that drags sin in its wake). Why should this be the case? After all, if Torah has the quality of being able to refine a person’s thoughts and conduct, learning Torah to the exclusion of everything else should have the opposite effect.

Rambam’s younger contemporary Rabbenu Yonah explains these words thus:

Idleness leads to poverty, which will inevitably lead to sin and many other evils. The poor man will be eager to receive gifts, and “only one who hates gifts will live” [Mishlei 15:27]. As a result, he will flatter others, wicked people included, in order to receive more gifts. When the gift money runs out he will resort to theft and gambling [based on Ketubot 58a], bringing home what he stole from the poor to ward off death by starvation. At this desperate stage he loses all restraint and will not stop until he has transgressed all of the mitzvot in the Torah, for one sin leads to another [Ben Azzai, Avot 2:1] (trans. Rabbi David Sedley).

This grim picture, based on impeccable primary sources, is hard if not impossible to reconcile with full-time learning today. Aside from the contentious notion that anyone in full time learning can be truly described as “idle”, modern Jewish society lives with a system that has greatly expanded since the end of the Second World War whereby full-time Torah study is mainly paid for and sponsored by Jewish communities themselves. Beyond the provision made by Jewish communities for the support of this sort of Torah scholarship, most countries today provide some sort of welfare support that covers at least the bare necessities of the unemployed, the unemployable and the seriously dedicated Torah scholar.

Does this mean that Rabban Gamliel is wrong and that full time Torah learning is no longer likely to cause sin? No. There are other ways in which a person can err. Theft, refusing to repay a loan and indeed “all the mitzvot of the Torah” are exactly that—statutory wrongs that are contained in the Written Law.  But Avot is a tractate that is addressed to middot, the qualities of a person’s character and the way one behaves, and this means looking beyond the Tanach, towards something more deeply ingrained in what we are and how we feel.

When a person works to support himself or supplement his income, he internalizes an important connection between three cardinal elements that shape his life: time, effort and money. If he needs money, he must expend effort and, in doing so, consume time that might be spent doing other things (in this instance, learning Torah). By working to secure money to support himself, he comes to appreciate the value of his effort and the cost to him in spending that effort which could have been put to good use in his studies. This should make his learning all the dearer to him because the time and effort put into to working are the price he pays for doing it.

The situation is quite different where a person’s support comes automatically from a source that is not contingent on his time and effort. He will not have had to “buy” his learning time, and this raises the danger that, since he has no personal commitment to raising his support, he will come to take it for granted. In short, he is at risk of forgetting to feel grateful. And that, in terms of one’s middot, can be called a sin.

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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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