Focusing on prayer: a curious irony

I have generally enjoyed the formal prayer routine prescribed by Jewish law, finding it both a useful way to clarify my thoughts and feelings and to utilise my three regular daily personal audiences with God. Usually I can focus on my prayers, on their meaning for me, for Jewish communities worldwide and for the world at large. There are however exceptions.

Earlier this week I found myself distracted and sailed through several of the 19 blessings in the weekday Amidah before realising that my mind was quite elsewhere. Where had it gone? By a strange irony the subject of my wandering mind was a search for the answer to an age-old question: how much thought and intention—if any—is needed if the words of a prayer are to be properly regarded as prayer?

The sages of the Mishnaic period were aware of this problem. At Avot 2:13 Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel urges us not to make our prayers keva(literally “fixed”), adding that they should instead be heartfelt supplications that are designed to trigger God’s mercy. This theme is echoed at Berachot 4:4 where Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel’s contemporary and fellow-student Rabbi Eliezer teaches that a prayer that is keva is not a heartfelt supplication.

Does this mean that there is no value in a prayer that is uttered from the lips only, rather than from the heart?

We are probably all familiar in our own experience of words that are spoken without feeling but which are essential to life in civilised society. Think of a situation in which a parent intervenes between two squabbling siblings or a teacher separates two pupils who are slugging away at each other. The prescribed solution to the dispute often requires one, or even two, of the combatants, to say the magic word “sorry” before they are absolved from their part in the spat and allowed to resume their daily lives. We all know in our hearts that children who are forced to say “sorry” rarely if ever do so because they are actually sorry, and we know this because we used to be children ourselves. The important thing is that the word “sorry” is spoken, regardless of the intention with which it is uttered. And now that we are grown-ups, we ask God for forgiveness three times a day in our prayers with possibly only as much sincerely-meant feeling as we did when we were children.

The gap between external conduct and inward appearance is reflected elsewhere in Avot. Shammai (Avot 1:15) tells us to greet other people with a cheerful countenance. This teaching presumably applies more to greeting those folk whom we don’t like, or at least to whom our feelings are neutral, rather than to our friends whom we would likely greet with a warm smile. And at Avot 3:16 Rabbi Yishmael tells us to greet other people with happiness. This is something internal, a feeling that we must learn to cultivate when we meet other humans who are created in God’s image. Ideally, we should feel happiness when meeting anyone and everyone but, when we can’t muster that feeling, we should at least put on a brave face and give them a smile.

Returning to prayer, we see that the same bifurcated approach exists in our own tradition. As Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner points out in his Nefesh HaChaim, one approach is to hold that the most important thing is to cultivate the right level of understanding of the words and the appropriate degree of sincerity of thought. If not, the prayer is empty and valueless. The other approach is to accept that the words of the template of the Amidah prayer, so carefully chosen and loaded with meaning by the Men of the Great Assembly, have a power and a cosmic significance of their own, a power that transcends man’s thoughts. All that need be done is to say the words.

Happily, it is possible both to vest one’s words with personal meaning and feeling and to acknowledge their inherent power, but we should not resign ourselves to a feeling of despair and believe that, if we do not manage to articulate each word from the bottom of our hearts and with full understanding, we have wasted our time.

The voice within

Rabbi Elazar ben Arach teaches (Avot 2:19) 

הֱוֵי שָׁקוּד לִלְמוֹד תּוֹרָה. וְדַע מַה שֶּׁתָּשִׁיב לְאֶפִּיקוּרוּס. וְדַע לִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָמֵל, וּמִי הוּא בַּֽעַל מְלַאכְתֶּֽךָ שֶׁיְּשַׁלֶּם לָךְ שְׂכַר פְּעֻלָּתֶֽך

In translation: “Be diligent in the study of Torah. Know what to answer a heretic. And know before whom you toil, and who is your employer who will repay you the reward for your labour”.

The first two parts of this tripartite teaching are often taken together, the idea being that it is only through careful and dedicated study that a believing Jew will be able to handle questions that a non-believer may aim at him in order to undermine his faith.

Rabbi Reuven Melamed, whose Melitz Yosher commentary on Avot I have often cited, makes reference to a sharp observation by the Ponevez mashgiach. We generally assume that the epikuros, the non-believer, poses an external threat to one’s faith in God and His Torah. We should not however discount the danger of the epikuros who lurks within. This is the power which every person possesses to challenge and undermine even a person’s deepest-held convictions. If we do not truly understand and internalise what we believe and our reasons for holding our beliefs, they are always potentially vulnerable to self-doubt.

As several scholars have pointed out, the quality of non-believers and heretics has changed greatly over the past two millennia. In the era of the Tannaim to whom we attribute our mishnayot, religion and religious rites played a far greater role in the lives of Jews and non-Jews alike. Any challenge by an epikuros was therefore far more likely to be made by a person who was knowledgeable and quite familiar with Jewish beliefs and who was therefore able to take issue with an individual’s faith on a detailed, granular level. Nowadays the challenge is more likely to come from those who have neither faith nor knowledge of how faith works, and who argue from more general philosophical or scientific principles. Such an epikuros cannot be impressed or fended off by one’s knowledge of Torah because that knowledge is not relevant to the sort of challenges that the modern epikuros might make. Torah knowledge and understanding will however remain relevant when a person faces his or her own internal doubts and uncertainties.

A seasonal reading suggestion

Chanukah is the Jewish Festival of Light. We celebrate the miracle of the Temple oil that burned for seven extra days following the Maccabees’ victory over the occupying Greek aggressors. Today we no longer have the Temple services but that does not stop us commemorating our success by singing Hallel, lighting our chanukiot, indulging our children with toys and games—and of course feasting on sufganiyot.

No festival in the Jewish calendar is more remote from the pursuit of mussar than is Chanukah. Most practising Jews put aside their copies of Pirkei Avot three months ago and it will be another three months before they open them again. But that does not mean that Avot has no message for us. Ethical behaviour in accordance with a moral compass is demanded of us all day, every day, come rain come shine. Three months without learning Avot taxes our memories as well as our middot.

In his commentary on Avot, the Bartenura observes that we Jews are not alone in having rules of good conduct. Non-Jewish cultures have them too—and their rules are often the same as ours. So what is the difference between us and them? We believe ours to have been handed down to us at Mount Sinai along with the written Torah, whereas theirs were the product of intellectual endeavour and not inconsiderable creativity. Does this make a difference? I suggest that history has shown that it does.

Some of the greatest works of ancient times address many of the same issues as Avot. Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics and Plato’s Apology guided not merely Greek thought but that of most of the Western world for centuries, while Seneca and Marcus Aurelius added significant contributions from Rome. But who reads them now? Only a small number of theologians, academics and philosophy students, most of whom may only access them in translation. Have you ever met anyone who admits to following the moral lead of these profound ancient thinkers? Almost certainly not, for the world has left them behind.

How different from Avot, which continues to drive the moral dynamo of contemporary Judaism even in its original Hebrew form!

Like Waze, Avot steers us gently and discreetly along the path we are to travel. It offers a variety of valid routes towards our destination since we, as individuals, have our own priorities and preferences, feelings and foibles. So here’s a suggestion for anyone who might be in need of a little push in the right direction: why not pour yourself a seasonally-appropriate beverage, grab a doughnut or two, then curl up in your most comfy chair, in full view of a cheerfully blazing chanukiah, and peruse a few pages of Avot?

Doing something wrong? Then go with the flow

One of the three teachings we learn in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel at Avot 2:18 is אַל תְּהִי רָשָׁע בִּפְנֵי עַצְמֶֽךָ. Most commentators and English translators take much the same view of the Tanna’s message. Typical of this consensus are the following:

• “Do not be wicked in your own eyes” (chabad.org; Rabbi Lord Sacks substitutes ‘evil’ for ‘wicked’)
• “Do not judge yourself to be a wicked person” (ArtScroll)

Some go further and incorporate further guidance. Thus:

• “Do not be wicked in your own esteem [lest you set yourself a low standard of conduct]” (Philip Birnbaum, HaSiddur HaShalem)
• “Do not consider yourself as wicked when left to depend on your own efforts” (Rabbi Shimshon Refael Hirsch, The Hirsch Pirkei Avos, tr. Hirschler/Haberman)

One aspect of this teaching that invites further discussion is the choice of the words “בִּפְנֵי עַצְמֶֽךָ”. This is the reflexive part of the mishnah. Rendered “yourself”, “in your own esteem” or “in your own eyes” in the translations quoted above, the words literally mean “before yourself” or “in front of yourself”—words that do not flow comfortably in English.

An interesting interpretation of these words in the context of this teaching appears in Rabbi Reuven Melamed’s Melitz Yosher. Here follows my expansion of his brief words.

We believe that, when a person performs a mitzvah or a generally meritorious act, this deed will attract a reward. Not all actions are equally rewarded. Those good deeds that are practised by everyone on a regular basis may be regarded as the products of good habits. They are unlikely to require a person to struggle against their yetzer hara, their evil inclination, in order to perform them. On the contrary, since everyone else around them is carrying on with the same conduct, there may even be peer pressure to continue do to those meritorious acts that attract rewards. This being so, since the effort involved in performing them is likely to be small, the reward for doing them will be small too. Only where the effort is great, and where a person exceeds the standards set by others, will the reward be great (“According to the effort, so is the reward”: Avot 5:26).

The same principles apply, mutatis mutandis, to averot (misdeeds) and generally poor conduct. Where a person’s breach of legal or social standards of behaviour is commonplace, shared by most or all fellow humans, it may have been the product of nothing worse than bad habits. All the miscreant is doing, after all, is to go with the flow. For such misdeeds, the punishment may be expected to be small. Indeed, as the Pele Yo’etz comments, a person who performs the same wrongful deeds as everyone else does at least have the virtue of respecting Hillel’s precept (Avot 2:5) of not separating himself from the rest of the community. However, if a wrongful act requires effort, initiative and individual action that goes beyond the norm of even bad behaviour, the punishment should be much bigger.

The teaching of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel is therefore a wake-up call to anyone who is contemplating the performance of any wrongful act. We should ask ourselves whether our behaviour is normatively bad or whether it is בִּפְנֵי עַצְמֶֽךָ, a stand-out deed that others are not also doing. If it is, we should seriously think twice before doing it since the prospect of severe punishment lies ahead. The fact that we are in effect "going solo" should be sufficient warning.

Keeping the kernel, discarding the peel

Last week my attention was caught by a striking paragraph in Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski’s popular commentary on Pirkei Avot, Visions of the Fathers, at Avot 4:27 (where Rabbi Meir teaches: “don’t look at the vessel but at what is inside it …”):

…R’ Meir accepted Torah teaching from Elisha ben Avuyah, and … came under criticism for this. The Talmud explains that R’ Meir had the unique capacity to “eat the fruit and discard the peel; i.e. he was able to take what was good from Elisha and reject everything that was tainted with his heretical concepts. R. Meir was unique in being given this latitude. For everyone else the rule remains intact: One does not accept Torah teaching from anyone who does not live a Torah-true life.

Is it really true that only Rabbi Meir was allowed to do this, and that no one else, in his generation or thereafter, might do the same? If so, it is arguably against the spirit of Pirkei Avot itself. Rabbi Meir’s mishnah comes almost at the end of the fourth perek, which opens with prima facie contradictory advice since Ben Zoma teaches: “who is wise? The person who learns from everyone”. This teaching is unqualified and is not restricted to learning Torah, while Rabbi Twerski’s statement that one does not learn from someone who does not live a Torah-true life would appear to apply only to learning Torah. In practice it can be difficult to delineate the two, since Torah is of all-embracing application and, in its widest sense, includes all the natural sciences and a good deal more.

If one assumes that Rabbi Twerski’s statement is correct, it is still appropriate to ask how far it applies in practice. Here are a few thoughts on the subject.

1.     1. In his commentary on the Jewish prayer book, Baruch She’amar: Tefillot Hashanah, Rabbi Baruch HaLevi Epstein addresses the issue of learning from the wicked (whom, we may assume, are not leading Torah-true lives). Theren he discusses whether it is proper to open one’s daily prayers with the verses of praise of the Jewish people first uttered by Balaam. In the course of this discussion—one of the longest in his book—he lists a considerable number of features of Judaism that have been learned from less-than-ideal sources. From this we might infer that it is proper to learn from these sources. It may be that the lessons we derive from the wicked, as recorded in Tanach, are somehow more acceptable because they are not the fruit of a personal relationship between teacher and talmid.

2.      2. Rambam, in the introduction to his Shemonah Perakim, explains why he has chosen not to cite the sources on which he draws: “By mentioning the name of an author of whom a particular author might not approve, I might cause him [to reject the concept, thinking] that it is harmful and that it contains an undesirable intent”. It is generally assumed that some of these sources are non-Jewish and, by definition, not leading Torah-true lives. If they were Jewish and were leading such lives, it is hard to imagine that Rambam would need to issue such a blanket exclusion.

3.    3.   There may be a distinction between learning halachah and middot. As I have often mentioned before, the Bartenura points out that many principles of good and moral behaviour which we hold dear are shared by other nations in the world. To the extent that Jewish ethical teaching runs in parallel with other cultures it may be possible to learn from such cultures, even though we should not seek to learn Torah from them. And if we can learn good middot by observing the behaviour of non-Jews (e.g. learning to honour one’s father from Dama ben Netina: Kiddushin 31a) and even animals (Eruvin 100b), should we not be entitled to learn the same thing from people who do not live Torah-true lives?

I should very much like to hear what readers have to say on this topic. Do please share your thoughts!

Good eye, good heart

In my previous post (“Finding that elusive good path”, 5 December 2022), I discussed the mishnah (Avot 2:13) in which Rabban Yochanan asks his five leading talmidim to “go out and take a look at the good path to which a person should adhere”. Rabbi Eliezer suggests a “good eye”, Rabbi Yehoshua “being a good friend”, Rabbi Yose HaKohen “being a good neighbour”, Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel offers “ability to see what’s coming” and Rabbi Elazar ben Arach proposes “a good heart”. Rabbi Elazar ben Arach’s answer is preferred to the other four on the basis that it is broad enough to embrace them too.

To the modern English reader, if the terms “good eye” and “good heart” are taken literally they convey no relevant meaning in this context. I therefore explained “good eye” as “generosity” and “good heart” as “spirit of magnanimity”.  Eagle-eyed reader Claude Tusk swiftly spotted that, in an earlier post, I had explained that the term “good eye” referred to "magnanimity".  I had indeed done this because I was struggling to find blanket terms both for “good eye” and “good heart” in such a way as to enable the first of these terms to fall within the scope of the second.

I’ve just been looking at what I wrote in my book on these two concepts. First, there is the “good eye”, which I describe in terms of both generosity and magnanimity:

The “good eye”

Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus’ recommendation for the good path was that a man should have a “good eye.” This phrase probably means that he should view others in a generous and magnanimous way, sharing their happiness at their good fortune rather than being jealous of it and, when judging their actions, giving them the benefit of the doubt. The opposite of this expression, a “bad (or evil) eye,” is the term used by Rabbi Eliezer’s fellow talmid Rabbi Yehoshua to indicate ill-will towards others. That same term is also employed in a later Mishnah to describe both the attitude of someone who wants to give to a charity but does not want others, by giving too, to share the reward for their generosity, and to someone who wants others to give so generously that he need not give at all. It is possible that, in making this suggestion, Rabbi Eliezer was looking not out into the wide world but deeply into his own soul. From what we know of him – which is a considerable amount more than we know of most Tannaim – magnanimity and generosity were not among his defining characteristics. Identifying this, he may have proposed the path of the “good eye” out of recognition that this should be his own personal route to redemption [emphases added; footnotes omitted].

 I then turn to the “good heart”:

A “good heart”

If the words of Rabbi Elazar ben Arach are to be given their literal meaning, they must be interpreted widely enough to embrace the words of all four other talmidim. On this basis, the “good heart” may refer to the heart as a metaphor for the focal point of a person’s disposition, just as in English one might describe a person as being “good-hearted.” Rabbi Elazer’s suggestion would therefore be a counsel of perfection: in short, the best path is to do what is right at all times in a warm, friendly and accommodating manner, being slow to anger, quick to forgive, willing to share, foresighted and prudent in all his dealings, and as happy at the good fortune of others as he would be at his own [footnotes omitted].

Rabbi Reuven Melamed (Melitz Yosher) mentions a comment of the mashgiach of Ponevez, who treats “good friend” and “good neighbour” as meaning having a good friend or neighbour rather than being one. If one wishes to maintain one’s relationship with such a person, one will be influenced by that person into following their path. In contrast, the advice of Rabbis Eliezer and Elazar appears to be to follow a path of moral excellence that is not determined by others. This is not however the case, he adds, since it is only by learning from the example of others—presumably good friends and good neighbours—that one is able to latch on to the virtues of generosity and magnanimity which those rabbis prescribe.

There should be no doubt that magnanimity is a broader category of good-heartedness than is generosity. For example, where two protagonists are engaged in a game of chess, if the loser can feel genuine warmth towards the winner and share the latter’s happiness at winning, he is said to be magnanimous in defeat. To say that he is generous might rather suggest that he gave the game away.

As ever, readers’ comments and perspectives are welcome.

Finding that elusive right path

At Avot 2:13, Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai gives five of his illustrious talmidim a task: “go out and take a look at the good path to which a person should adhere”.

All five give good answers. In brief, Rabbi Eliezer suggests a “good eye” (i.e. generosity), Rabbi Yehoshua “being a good friend”, Rabbi Yose HaKohen “being a good neighbour”, Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel offers “ability to see what’s coming” and Rabbi Elazar ben Arach proposes “a good heart” (i.e. a spirit of magnanimity). Rabbi Elazar ben Arach’s answer is preferred to the other four on the basis that it is broad enough to embrace them too.

In his Melitz Yosher al Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Reuven Melamed observes that this selection of answers is surprising. Each of these five talmidim is a giant of Torah, a man of immense learning. Yet not one of them gives the answer that probably most contemporary rabbis would be likely to give: “learning Torah”.

This omission, Rabbi Melamed suggests, is highly significant. Even at the highest level of Torah scholarship one is not a complete person until a further level is added. That is the level at which a person strives to perfect his relationship both with fellow humans and with God. Each of Rabban Yochanan’s five disciples was offering a pathway to achieve this end: for four of them that path was more narrowly defined. The fifth suggested not so much a pathway as a general attitude.

Avot in retrospect: a summary of last month's blogposts

 In case you missed them, here's a list of items posted on Avot Today in NOVEMBER 2022: 

Tuesday 29 November 2022: Out of sight. Why is it that the sages of Avot give so much more attention to what we hear and what we say than to what we see?

Friday 25 November 2022: Dayan Chanoch Ehrentreu: a Perek Man Personified. Avot Today recalls a great Torah personality.

Wednesday 23 November 2022: When Perek meets Pardes. A remarkable application by the Malbim of an apparently simple mishnah in Avot provides a chance to contrast two ways of learning a mishnah: extracting a meaning from it and injecting a meaning into it.

Tuesday 22 November 2022: Not just what his rebbe taught him. Avot Today takes note of a recent book on Pirkei Avot that is quite outspoken and provocative in places.

Sunday 20 November 2022: Ask no questions? How should we respond when someone asks us a totally unnecessary question?

Wednesday 16 November 2022: Pirkei Avot, politics and a job not yet done: does the use of maxims from Pirkei Avot in political speeches reduce them to mere platitudes?

Monday 14 November 2022: Dealing with insults. On the second anniversary of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks' passing, we recall one of his most Avot-friendly attributes.

Friday 11 November 2022: Cull, control or cultivate: what should we do about self-esteem? Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski and Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks appear to hold different views regarding self-esteem -- but these positions are not necessarily in conflict with one another.

Wednesday 9 November 2022: Psyched for Avot: a new series. Rabbi Dr Mordechai Schiffman launches a regular feature, to appear in the Jewish Press, which looks at Avot through the eyes of a Torah scholar who is also a licensed psychologist.

Monday 7 November 2022: Can we all be winners? Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks' predilection for zero-sum outcomes and cooperative action is gently reflected in a teaching of Ben Zoma at Avot 4:1.

Thursday 3 November 2022: After the event: what next? The Israeli general election is now over. How should the winners and losers behave--and by what standards should the incoming government be measured?

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Avot Today blogposts for October 2022
Avot Today blogposts for September 2022
Avot Today blogposts for August 2022
Avot Today blogposts for July 2022 
Avot Today blogposts for June 2022 
Avot Today blogposts for May 2022

Out of sight

Learning a mishnah over my breakfast this morning, I was struck by a sudden thought.

In the mishnah in question, Avot 2:6, we learn from Hillel that (among other things) an irascible, impatient person cannot teach. The consensus view of commentators over the ages is that we learn by asking questions and that a student will be inhibited from doing so if he or she fears that any defect in the question will be met with an angry, intimidating or embarrassing response.

This mishnah is quite capable of bearing a wider meaning than that. As Rabbi Reuven Melamed notes in his Melitz Yashar, a student who fails to develop a close relationship with a teacher and indeed feels alienated by hostile or unsympathetic behaviour will find it harder to absorb and accept the teacher’s lessons, even when there is no need to ask questions.

There is still more. Most of what human beings learn does not originate in the classroom, yeshivah, seminar or shiur. It is the result of watching others and doing one of two things: we either emulate them or we reject their actions and do the opposite. This is how we learn to behave at home and in company, as well as how to avoid danger. You don’t pick up a hot potato that has been painfully dropped by the person next to you.

Curiously, Pirkei Avot—which is full of advice about teaching and learning—has very little to say about learning by watching. The 48 measures through which one acquires Torah (Avot 6:6) mention both attentive listening and careful speaking but make no special mention of perspicacious viewing.  Attending on the wise is listed. Since this includes every form of service to chachamim, it presumably embraces the notion of watching them and learning to follow their ways, but that is about all. There is also a mishnah (5:22) which identifies the three good qualities of talmidim of Abraham and contrasts them with the three bad qualities of the talmidim of Balaam. As the Netivot Shalom points out, one cannot distinguish the two camps merely by looking at them since these qualities relate to their attitudes, not to their appearance.

Earlier in Avot (at 2:1 and 3:1) we encounter two mishnayot that contain the injunction histakel (“see clearly” or “consider”), but they do not refer to the human sense of sight since, in each case, the object to be seen is abstract and therefore invisible. The use of this word is comparable to the English words “I see”, spoken as a shorthand for “I understand”. We also find several uses of the word ayin (“eye”) within the context of ayin tovah (“magnanimity”) and ayin ra’ah (“mean-spiritedness”); once again, there is no sense of the word “eye” being used in relation to vision.

The dangers of sight are however noted. For example, one should avoid making any effort to see a person who is experiencing humiliation or embarrassment (4:23), and one should not look at the bottle in preference to its contents (4:27).

Why then do sight and the ability to learn by looking receive so little attention in Pirkei Avot?  Suggestions, anyone?

Dayan Chanoch Ehrentreu: a Perek man personified

Like so many people whose paths in life crossed that of Dayan Ehrentreu, I was greatly saddened to hear that he passed away yesterday morning. He was a great man with a great personality and it was my pleasure to work with him four four years in the early 1990s when I served as Registrar to the Court of the Chief Rabbi -- the court in which the Dayan was Rosh Bet Din.

In this capacity I was the effective CEO of the London Beth Din and had responsibility for its day-to-day running as well as for drawing up its budget. This gave me a wonderful opportunity to observe the Dayan at close hand and to appreciate his remarkable qualities.

My previous Avot Today post discussed the application of a mishnah in which Ben Azzai teaches:

Do not scorn any man, and do not discount any thing. For there is no man who has not his hour, and no thing that does not have its place (Avot 4:3).

This could have been the Dayan's motto since it was the principle by which he committed himself to his court's functions, both judicial and otherwise.

The Dayan's diary was always crowded, yet he made great efforts to accommodate the needs of all who sought to see him. No matter was too small, no person too insignificant, to gain an audience. Sitting in on some of his meetings, I could not fail to be impressed with the courtesy and attentiveness he displayed with people who might so easily and with justification have been dismissed as a waste of time. For him, every member of klal Yisrael had a place, a role in Jewish society and an entitlement to be treated with respect and dignity.

I was also responsible for maintaining the Dayan's extensive filing system. This included his notes and diagrams relating to electric circuitry for induction loops to aid those with hearing difficulties, the construction and operation of mikvaot (ritual baths), the flow of super-heated steam in the cooking of mass-produced food products and the properties of food additives. The Dayan, who was often called upon to make rulings on these and other technical topics, could lay his hands on the relevant materials at a moment's notice. Nothing was ever out of place.

It should not be thought that Ben Azzai's teaching was the only bit of Pirkei Avot to be reflected in the Dayan's life. He greeted people warmly with a smile (Avot 1:15); indeed, after attending one of his shiurim, I sometimes discovered that his smile, like that of the Cheshire Cat, remained in my memory long after the substantive points of his address had faded. He was also highly precise in his choice of words, particularly when giving advice or instructions, in order to minimise the possibility of being misunderstood (Avot 2:5). And of course there was much more.

The Dayan will be sorely missed by his family, friends, colleagues and congregants. May his memory be a blessing.

When Perek meets Pardes

How far dare one go when extracting a meaning from a teaching in Avot—or when injecting a meaning into it?

The main task of Avot Today is to look at ways of applying the precepts of Pirkei Avot in the context of our own 21^st century lives. Why? Because we learn from the Bartenura’s comment at Avot 1:1 that this tractate is devoted to mussar and middot—moral and ethical guidance in creating and maintaining a Torah-compatible lifestyle.

It is not always easy to work out what the teachings in Avot actually teach. This is because they can be divided into two approximate categories. In the first are teachings with meanings that are obvious on the face of things, but which we still have to analyse when we work out how to apply them today. Examples of such teachings include judging other people favourably (Avot 1:6), being extremely humble (Avot 4:3, 4:12), respecting other people’s personal space and need for privacy at times of crisis (Avot 3:15) and keeping one’s distance from a bad neighbour (Avot 1:7).  

The second category consists of teachings that have no obvious meaning or mode of application to our daily lives. These include maxims such as “one who does not increase will decrease” (Avot 1:13) and “everything is judged in accordance with the majority of the action” (Avot 3:19) and brief statements of biblical or midrashic narrative such as the recitation of the number of miracles wrought for our forefathers or plagues inflicted on the Egyptians (Avot 5:5) and the list of objects created on the eve of the first Shabbat (Avot 5:8). Regarding these teachings, it is up to us to mine them for mussar and middot-related content if we are to validate the Bartenura’s statement and also make them relevant to our own lives.

While this dichotomy can be useful when we want to know how to learn a mishnah or baraita in Avot, it is by no means a cast-iron rule, as the following example shows.

Ben Azzai (Avot 4:3) teaches as follows:

“Do not scorn any man, and do not discount the worth of any thing [or ‘word’], for there is no man who does not have his hour, and no thing [or ‘word’] that does not have its place”.

This is a simple, uncontentious category one mishnah with a plain meaning. Its advice, which is sage and prudent, is supported by texts from the written Torah. From the traditional commentators we learn that humans, things and words—however small or trivial they may appear to us—should always be reckoned as having some significance since they may have the capacity to help or harm us.

But we are in for a surprise. Neither simple nor uncontentious is a remarkable extended essay by the Malbim on the deeper significance of the service of the parah adumah, the red heifer that has the paradoxical effect of conferring taharah (a state of ritual purity) on those who are impure and tumah (a state of ritual impurity) on those who are pure. This essay, which appears in some printed editions of the Malbim at the beginning of parashat Chukkat under the title “Ner Mitzvah”, is impossible to describe in brief. Suffice it to say that it embraces a good deal of aggadic and kabbalistic material concerning the separation of the soul from the body, the nature of Torah as studied in this world and other worlds and the relationship between the generally normative halachic rulings of Bet Hillel and those of Bet Shammai.

In the course of his “Ner Mitzvah”, the Malbim cites the teaching of Ben Azzai that we quote above. He explains it thus:

“If you see that the halachah is not like Bet Shammai and Rabbi Shimon [bar Yochai], do not scorn them, and do not discount any words that are spoken in their names. This is because there is no man who does not have his hour since in future the halachah will be like them—and don’t say that, if this is so, the halachot of the Torah change. On this [Ben Azzai] answers that there is no word that doesn’t have its place, because there is a place] in the Supernal World for these halachot, which are spoken in accordance with a secret ruchaniut [spiritual nature]—and they will be said over in the future just as they are said now in the world of ruchaniut”.

This is a remarkable example of a category one mishnah being treated as a category two type. Plain and easy-to-apply meanings of Ben Azzai’s teaching are not actually rejected, but a further interpretation is found which has no real-world application at all.

What would Ben Azzai have made of the Malbim’s understanding of his teaching in Avot? While we are unlikely to know, Jewish aggadic tradition lists Ben Azzai as one of only four rabbis who entered the Pardes—a conceptual zone of esoteric Torah knowledge that transcended normal human perceptions of reality. The Malbim’s explanation of what Ben Azzai meant may be well removed from the sphere of mussar and middot, but it would not be inappropriate for a man with Ben Azzai’s kabbalistic leanings.

 

Not just what his Rebbe told him

I recently came across a copy of an unusual and idiosyncratic work on Pirkei Avot bearing the curious title Reflections on Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers): Not Just What My Rebbe Taught Me. The author of this work is Joseph G. Rosenstein, who impressively styles himself Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Mathematics, Rutgers University.

What's this book all about? According to the author's website, it differs from many other such books by:

     — writing in an informal, easily understood manner
     — comparing and contrasting different teachings that deal with the same topic.
     — relating the historic contexts of the teachings.
     — relating the teachings to contemporary events.
     — often challenging the assumptions of the ancient teachers.
     — pointing out when teachings may be faulty and when commentators misinterpret the teachings.
     — having separate chapters on major themes, such as life after death.

I would characterise the book somewhat differently. The author is in effect carrying on a dialogue with the ancient teachers and subsequent commentators which also incidentally describes or explains some of his own life experiences, thoughts and opinions. While it is difficult for anyone writing on Avot to exclude him- or herself from a discussion of its contents, I doubt that I have ever seen a book on the topic in which one encounters the author quite so often and I must admit that I sometimes found this presence quite obtrusive.

The book is certainly easy to read and understand. It addresses the modern educated reader; it also reflects the author's enthusiasm, sense of excitement and scholarship. As his description of the book above indicates, he is confident to challenge the wisdom of bygone ages and he states his case in trenchant terms. Readers will probably guess that he does not believe in the transmission of an oral Torah from God and down through the ages long before he states as much in a footnote on p 96 of this 400+ page work.

One unusual element of this book deserves a mention: the author makes a point of flagging and numbering each Ethical Principle as it appears in Avot. He finds a total of 69. I think this is helpful, since it is possible to read and engage with Pirkei Avot from one end to the other without identifying individual ethical principles and therefore without appreciating how many there are. 

Ask no questions?

A couple of damp and drizzly mornings ago I was returning from my daily morning prayers in Jerusalem’s Yeshurun Synagogue when I spotted a strikingly clear rainbow. In accordance with Jewish law I recited the blessing of זוכר הברית, ונאמן בבריתו, וקיים במאמרו (“…who remembers the covenant, is trustworthy in His covenant and keeps His word”). I was pleased to do so since rainy days, and therefore the opportunity to recite this formula, are not as frequent in Israel as in my native England. As I reached my apartment building a young man emerged. I excitedly told him of the rainbow and reminded him of the opportunity to say the blessing. Thanking me, he casually asked: “Where is it?”

Over the years I’ve seen many rainbows. Some have been faint and pale, others outstanding in their refracted glory. While they possessed differentiating qualities, they shared one common characteristic: they were all to be found in the same place: the sky. All my young friend had to do was to look up and, if he did not espy that rainbow instantly, swivel around a little till it came into his line of vision. If I had been told that there was a rainbow on display, it would not have occurred to me that it might be anywhere else, and I would certainly never have asked anyone else where it was.

This little episode troubled me. The question, for sure, was unnecessary. But was I being unduly harsh? My inquisitor might have been anxious to discover the precise location of the rainbow in order to save valuable seconds that might then be put to more productive use. Alternatively, his question might have been conditioned by the frustrating experience of trying to find a new moon amidst the dense foliage of Rechavia, an area graced with stately trees which by day provide magnificent shade. And do we not encourage our youngsters to ask questions? How else will they learn?

Pirkei Avot has something to say, of course. In general terms, silence is preferred to speech (Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel at Avot 1:17, Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:17). From this one might infer that if one can resolve a question without speaking to anyone else, this would be good. The tractate goes further. At Avot 5:9 we learn that asking questions that are to the point and answering them correctly are signs of a person who is cultured and educated in the ways of the Torah, and at 6:6 we find asking and answering, devoid of any conditions or qualifications, in the list of 48 qualities a person needs for the acquisition of Torah.

Avot is only a starting point. In the Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 31a) we find Hillel warmly welcoming a series of questions which, we learn, are deliberately calculated to anger him so that the person asking them can win a bet. I think that, in general terms, this is probably the best policy for me to adopt in future—though I shall continue to grit my teeth when two of my grand-daughters who refuse to wear watches will persist in asking me what the time is, even when we are sitting together in a room containing no fewer than three clocks.

Pirkei Avot, politics and a job not yet done

Readers of the Jewish Insider for 9 November will have come across a piece by Gabby Deutsch titled “Shapiro, citing Pirkei Avot, sails to victory in PA”. You can access this article here or on the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle for 10 November here.

The operative part of this piece reads as follows:

As anxious Democrats around the country waited for election results to come in on Tuesday night, a jubilant crowd of more than a thousand was in a celebratory mood from the moment they walked into Josh Shapiro’s election night party at a convention center on the far edges of the Philadelphia exurbs.

While vulnerable Democrats elsewhere in the state struggled in close races that remain undecided, Shapiro was declared the victor by the Associated Press shortly after midnight, leading Doug Mastriano by more than 500,000 votes.

“I spoke a lot about my faith in this campaign. My family and my faith call me to service and they drive me home,” Shapiro told a cheering crowd in a triumphant victory address. “You’ve heard me read Scripture before, that no one is required to complete the task, but neither are we free to refrain from it, meaning each of us has a responsibility to get off the sidelines, to get in the game and to do our part. And so I say to you tonight, that while we won this race — and by the way, won it pretty convincingly … the job is not done. The task is not complete”.

While I am always glad to see evidence that Pirkei Avot courses through the veins of any Jew, this report leaves me somewhat uncomfortable. I wonder if I am not alone in my discomfort.

The sentiment of not being required to finish the task but also not being free to refrain from it is a laudable one where the task in question is a meritorious though onerous one. But what is the nature of the duty in the quote before us? Rabbi Tarfon, who teaches this at Avot 2:21, was a Torah sage who sought both to live by the Torah’s precepts and to encourage others to do likewise. As that mishnah’s context shows, it has always been understood within the Jewish tradition of scholarship that Rabbi Tarfon was speaking about the task of learning the Torah and observing its many mitzvot. Once this teaching is detached from that objective, the task is whatever the speaker defines it to be and it is thereby reduced to the level of a simple platitude. If this is so, the words spoken here by the victor equally well be spoken by the vanquished, with reference to the task of persisting with his hitherto less popular policies and making a greater effort to persuade the electorate of their benefit.

The English language is rich in platitudes and cliches about not quitting and carrying on to the bitter end, as well as about it being more important to do the right thing than to secure the desired end. I think I would have greatly preferred it if one of them was used here.

**********

Another point arising from this speech is whether the speaker should have quoted this teaching in Rabbi Tarfon’s name (as mandated in Avot 6:6). While it is customary in Jewish learning circles to do just that, the citation of the name of so eminent a Torah scholar in the case before us might have created the false impression that the victorious candidate’s candidacy or policies were somehow in line with Rabbi Tarfon’s philosophy of life. On balance, therefore, it may be justifiable to omit any mention of Rabbi Tarfon’s name.

 

Dealing with insults

Last night Beit Knesset Hanassi held an event to mark the second yahrzeit of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks. In the course of an address in which he sought to place Rabbi Sacks’s within a broad social and communal context, Rabbi Berel Wein contrasted the deep and affectionate respect in which his memory is now held with the vituperative criticism Rabbi Sacks received while he was in office as Chief Rabbi to the United Kingdom’s United Synagogue.

This observation brought back memories for me, since I was responsible for running the Court of the Chief Rabbi in the first years of Rabbi Sacks’s term of office.

One of the things I clearly recall is that many of the people who criticised Rabbi Sacks in public were the same people who visited his office in private, to ask for his help in raising funds or to seek his advice on politically sensitive communal matters. His door was always open to them and he treated them with kindness and respect. Rabbi Sacks was a sensitive man who was not impervious to criticism and abuse, but he let neither his office nor his personal feelings stand in the way of his preparedness to entertain his adversaries and to engage with them where he could.

The first Baraita in the sixth chapter of Avot lists nearly 30 advantages to be derived by studying Torah for its own sake. These include patience and the ability to forgive insults. I believe that Rabbi Sacks displayed both those qualities. For him, public insults and criticisms splashed across the front pages of the Jewish newspapers were not just wrong in themselves: every time a disagreement leads to insult, this marks the end of dialogue—or “conversation”, as Rabbi Sacks would have preferred to call it. His way was characterised by conversation, by exchanging views and seeking to understand the other side’s perspective. He candidly recognised that not all dialogue leads to the peaceful resolution of differences, but he did believe that it was the best available means of doing so.

May his memory be a blessing to us.

Cull, control or cultivate: What should we do about self-esteem?

Many of my most interesting thoughts come to me through the medium of my breakfast reading materials. In the course of this unusually long repast, I usually have six or seven books on the go at the same time. Some, like Sefer Chafetz Chaim, are visited daily. Others are taken down and returned to the shelf every day but may not be opened more than three or four times in any given week. Much depends on a whim, and whether I stumble across something that retains my fancy or not.

It is the juxtaposition of books and authors that provides so much food for thought. A classical example earlier this week came from two modern “heavyweights”, Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski and Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks. Within two pieces of toast and marmalade I found Rabbi Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) stressing the importance of self-esteem and the damage suffered by those who lack it, followed by Rabbi Sacks (Morality) pointing to the adverse effects of inflated self-esteem on society as it apparently drifts inexorably from a “We” to an “I” culture.

It is not hard to synthesise these two superficially contradictory views of self-esteem. Taking every individual separately—as Rabbi Twerski did when he treated them as patients—the absence of an adequate degree of self-esteem can lead to a retreat from participation in society at large, leading to loneliness, a crushing feeling of inadequacy and a search to escape reality through the abuse of alcohol or drugs. In contrast, taking society as a whole, the ability of its constituent members to fulfil their potential through cooperation with others is hampered through the assertion of any individual who believes him- or herself to be too important to accept dependency or to contribute to the welfare of others.

Where does Pirkei Avot fit into this scheme? It is hard to decide. The term “self-esteem” does not have an obvious equivalent in Mishnaic Hebrew (the term in Ivrit is הערכה עצמית). Even in English it is not a precise term. It is clearly something more pointed than entry-level concepts of “self-awareness” and “self-consciousness”, jockeying for a place with “self-respect” and perhaps even “egoism”. Oxford Online offers the definition “confidence in one's own worth or abilities; self-respect”, but self-respect and self-esteem are not synonymous: one can possess self-respect while esteeming oneself very little.

The rabbis of Avot do not however leave us without guidance. They expect us to know our positive qualities for what they are, neither hiding them nor vaunting them, and also to respect the same qualities when we see them in others. Thus for example a person who has the ability to teach is expected to do so (Avot 1:13) and we are asked to rise to the occasion and face challenges when no-one else is around to do so (Avot 2:6), even if it means raising our performance level beyond our knowledge base (Avot 3:12, 3:22, 6:5). We should not indulge in self-promotion above our station (also Avot 1:13). We are to earn the esteem of others by the expedient of recognising their value too (Avot 4:1), though we should remain as humble as circumstances permit (Avot 4:4, 4:12).

There is also the catch-all teaching of Hillel at Avot 1:14: “If I am not for me, who am I? And if I am only for me, what am I?...”.  These two parts of the quoted mishnah do appear to correspond neatly with having too little, and then too much, self-esteem. But can we tie this interpretation in with its authorship by Hillel? Arguably, yes.

There is an aggadic passage in the Talmud (Pesachim 66a) that tells how the sons of Beteira, having forgotten whether the laws of Pesach override those of Shabbat, were taught the correct legal position by Hillel, whom they immediately appointed as their head. Hillel then rebuked them for not knowing the law and chided them for not having learned it at the feet of his own teachers Shemayah and Avtalyon. At this point, he was taken down a peg or two by being caused to forget a halachah himself.

We can restate this tale as follows: Hillel arrives in HJerusalem as a humble and unknown traveller from Babylonia, a man who has neither position nor protetzia. He reckons that he is equal to the task of telling the Temple authorities what they might or might not do, and has sufficient self-confidence to recognise himself as being worthy of this task. However, once he has astounded the Benei Beteira with his erudition and been honoured accordingly, his freshly-acquired feeling of importance leads him to rebuke his hosts—and this is a step too far.  With too little self-esteem, Hillel might never have had the confidence and the courage to make a ruling before his seniors; but when ultimately he displays too great a degree self-esteem, he suffers for it.