When hatred has nothing to do with hating

Pirkei Avot has plenty to say about love, respect and kindness to others. In contrast, through the entire tractate, the word sina, “hate”, is mentioned only once when Shamayah says (at 1:10):

אֱהוֹב אֶת הַמְּלָאכָה וּשְׂנָא אֶת הָרַבָּנוּת, וְאַל תִּתְוַדַּע לָרָשׁוּת

“Love work, hate mastery over others, and avoid intimacy with the government”.

What does the verb sina mean? English translations offer us several synonyms:

·         Abhor (R’ Eliyahu Touger);

·         Despise (ArtScroll Publications; R’ Yaakov Hillel; R’ Avie Gold and R’ Nahun Spirn).

·         Hate (Hirsch Pirkei Avos; Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth; R’ Lord Jonathan Sacks; R’ Chanoch Levi; R. Travers Herford).

·         Loathe (chabad.org; Me’am Lo’ez).

Commentators are unanimous in their conclusion that this sinah is to be directed at the holding of office as such, not at those people who hold it. There are other mishnayot that deal with them: in short, we should pray for the welfare of the government (3:2) but should remain cautious when it comes to dealing with those who hold the reins of power (2:3).

R’ Anthony Manning challenges the assumption that sinah means hatred or indeed any of the words listed above. In Reclaiming Dignity, pp 261-3, he argues forcefully that the word has been misconstrued. It does not indicate hate; rather, it means “rejection”.

R’ Manning bases his case on the mitzvah of lo tisna (Leviticus 91:17). Usually rendered “You must not hate your brother in your heart”, it really means that you must not reject him. In Tanach it is not sinah that means hate but sitmah. On this basis, we understand that God did not view Leah as being “hated” as much as rejected—Jacob’s second-best option (Genesis 29:31).

If sina in Shamayah’s mishnah means “reject”, we see that his teaching dovetails neatly with that of R’ Nechunya ben Hakanah at Avot 3:6. There he explains that there is a negative correlation between taking up civic and governmental responsibilities and learning Torah, the implication being that one should reject positions of authority if one wishes to enhance one’s Torah commitment.

Hitting the mark, missing the point

I’ve just heard about a new book, Ethics of Our Fighters: Judaism and the moral challenges of warfare, by Rabbi Shlomo Brody. Neville Teller, reviewing it for the Jerusalem Post, has this to say about it:

Ethics of Our Fighters has as its background the Jewish reaction to being confronted with the moral challenges of warfare.

In Ethics of Our Fighters, Rabbi Shlomo Brody has produced a deeply considered analysis, based upon a profound understanding of the principles underlying Judaism and Jewish thought, regarding the ethical dilemmas posed by the sometimes unavoidable need to engage in warfare. Never was the title of a book more apt or more descriptive of its contents. 

Its conclusions, however, are far from confined to people engaged in defending Israel or the Jewish people. Like so much of the civilized world’s view of morality, emanating as it does from the Torah and associated Jewish thinking, they are universally applicable.

He then adds the following:

The title … is an adaptation of “Ethics of the Fathers,” the English title of Pirkei Avot, the famous collection of ethical principles uttered by the leading rabbis whose legal and related opinions appear in the Talmud. Pirkei Avot’s six chapters of ethical and moral pronouncements are included in the daily prayer book. Replete with the wisest of wise counsel as they are, Brody points out that Pirkei Avot has nonetheless nothing at all to say about the ethics of warfare or the moral and ethical principles that should be followed in times of conflict.

The reason is not difficult to deduce. For centuries after the Roman era, the scattered Jewish people simply did not engage in military matters. The long lacuna came to an end just over 100 years ago, when Jews were caught up in World War I and fought on both sides, according to the countries in which they lived. Then, starting in the 1920s, in their ancient homeland of Israel, known then as British Mandate Palestine, Jewish fighters found themselves in armed conflict with local Arabs who were intent on preventing the League of Nations mandated establishment of a “national home for the Jewish people.”

I am reluctant to accept that “Pirkei Avot has … nothing at all to say about the ethics of warfare or the moral and ethical principles that should be followed in times of conflict”. That misses the point. Pirkei Avot was not compiled as a warriors’ manual. But this does not mean that nothing our sages taught in that tractate is relevant to wartime, even today. That’s why I recently posted six pieces on Avot Today that dealt with what Avot had to say about dealing with death and bereavement, jumping to conclusions regarding apparent non-combatants, keeping one’s temper at times of stress, prayer at times of war and while in combat, celebrating victory, and postwar reconstruction.

Leaving quibbles about the author’s opinions aside, I’m intrigued by this book and its approach to Jewish ethical issues—and when I’ve got hold of a copy and read it for myself, I shall share my thoughts on it with Avot Today readers. If anyone reading this post has already seen the book, I do hope that they will share their thoughts on it too.

If you must be angry, do it properly

To ram home the message that we should all be meek and gentle rather than tetchy and irritable, many people like to quote from the Gemara (Shabbat 30b) :

תָּנוּ רַבָּנַן: לְעוֹלָם יְהֵא אָדָם עַנְוְותָן כְּהִלֵּל וְאַל יְהֵא קַפְּדָן כְּשַׁמַּאי

Our Rabbis taught: A man should always be an anvetan like Hillel, and not a kapdan like Shammai.

Anvetan is usually rendered “gentle”, “humble”, “forbearing” or “patient”, while kapdan is usually rendered “hot-tempered”, “angry”, “irritable” or “Impatient”.  From this it is assumed that Hillel was all sweetness and light while Shammai was a bit of a grumpus. As if to fortify this impression, the Gemara goes on to give three case histories involving applicants for conversion to Judaism. Each receives short shrift from Shammai but is then welcomed by Hillel.

Can these characterisations be accurate? After all, it is from Shammai that we learn (Avot 1:15) to greet everyone with a happy, smiling face. These don’t read like the words of a man with an antisocial bent.

According to Rav Kook (cited by R’ Chaim Druckman, Avot leBanim) this traditional understanding of the Gemara is wrong. So how should we learn it?

We should start from the premise that both Hillel and Shammai have important lessons to impart to us. Hillel demonstrates to us the correct way to be an anvetan, and there are many stories in which we see examples of this quality. Shammai, who like Hillel is an individual with outstanding personal qualities, shows us the correct way to be a kapdan. From our literature we learn of the circumstances in which, acting as a kapdan, he either defends the honour of the Torah or tests the resolve of an applicant for conversion. He certainly doesn’t blow his top for the sake of personal gratification or in consequence of any loss of self-control.

What then is the Gemara teaching? If you are to act the anvetan, follow the example of Hillel. If you are to act as a kapdan, follow the example of Shammai. And if you have a choice—as we all do in our relations with our fellow humans—to be either an anvetan or a kapdan, we should choose to be the former.

What sort of peace?

The importance of shalom (“peace”) within Jewish thought is paramount. Pleas for peace conclude the standard prayer format that practising Jews recite daily; God’s capacity to deliver peace is also affirmed at the end of the blessings that follow a meal and the priestly blessings that Kohanim confer on their congregations. It is hardly surprising, then, that peace occupies a prominent place in Pirkei Avot too.

In the first chapter of Avot, Hillel (1:12) urges us to emulate the followers of Aaron, to love peace and pursue it. His descendant Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (1:18) goes as far as to say that, along with truth and justice, peace is one of the three things that enable the world to continue to function.

Later teachings in Avot elaborate on the theme of peace in various ways. Peace increases in direct proportion to the giving of charity (Hillel at 2:8). It is a bulwark against civil anarchy (R’ Chanina segan HaKohanim, 3:2). Setting others on to the path of peace is one of the 48 measures relating to acquisition of Torah (6:6). Other mishnayot imply the value of peace without explicitly mentioning it. But nowhere in Avot is the meaning of shalom explained.

Briefly we can point to three different species of peace: (i) peace between nations or communities, (ii) peace between individuals and (iii) inner peace that a person experiences within him- or herself.

Peace, in Avot, must surely mean something other than the absence of large-scale hostilities. Likewise, references to peace in Avot do not fit the notion of some sort of private spiritual inner peace or tranquility.  This is because the tractate is primarily concerned with human relationships and interpersonal conduct.

My feeling is that the shalom that the authors of Avot had in mind is a sort of freedom, a state in which people can live good lives in accordance with their duties, responsibilities and beliefs without suffering from the social friction that irritates, then angers people, leading to dispute. This is the sort of peace to which the Torah alludes (Bereshit 37:5) when it describes the relationship of Joseph with his brothers who hated him for being his father’s favourite. The brothers wanted him out of their lives and recognized that they would not have peace until they had got him out of their hair, so to speak.

The Torah does not tell us whether either Joseph or his father Jacob were ever aware of the brothers’ disquiet. From the fact that Joseph, having told them one dream that upset them, went on to tell them another of the same ilk, it rather seems that he was impervious to their feelings. This unhappy domestic situation would have been ripe for the intervention of an Aaron, the pursuer of peace. Aaron, serving in his midrashic role as an empathetic go-between, might well have been able to shine the light of each side upon the other and brokered a lasting peace. But Aaron was not yet born and the interstitial wisdom of Avot which was to bond the fabric of the written Torah, had yet to be consolidated and compiled.

In these days of hostility and open threat, may we experience peace in our own lives—both in a global sense and in our own quiet small lives as ordinary human beings.

Managing other people's anger

What does Pirkei Avot have to say about anger management? Anger is a normal human reaction and we are all humans so, while anger is not prohibited, we are praised for being slow to anger and swift to calm down again (Avot 5:14). It’s also a good idea not to engage as a teacher anyone who gets angry with students or pupils (Avot 2:6).  A further teaching, at Avot 4:23, has recently found its way into a Times of Israel blogpost on account of its topicality. There, among other things, R’ Shimon ben Elazar tells us:

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ

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

In her article, “Liz’s Legacy”, Ariella Cohen comments on the recent debacle when the heads of three of the most prestigious universities in the United States—Harvard, MIT and Penn—testified at a Congressional hearing to the effect that a context-appropriate call for genocide against the Jews would be tolerated on their campuses. Penn head Liz Magill subsequently sought to apologise for her statement and later resigned. In the course of her blogpost Cohen comments:

After the Congressional hearing, I was more upset by Liz Magill’s attempted apology than by her original remarks. Some things cannot be apologized for. Especially not while the wound is raw. You cannot emotionally rip somebody (or group of people) apart and then tell them the next day that you didn’t actually mean it. Or rather you can, but it’s completely unacceptable. We know from Pirkei Avot 4:23 that Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar teaches: “Do not appease your friend in the time of his anger…” I don’t think Liz regularly reads through Pirkei Avot, so she is probably not familiar with this teaching. But it is an extremely smart and poignant one which she violated. Trying to calm someone (or in this case, Jews all over the world) immediately after severely affronting them on a national level is ill-advised.

Avot Today has already commented on the concept of context and is not revisiting the issue here. The question now before us is whether Cohen is right to apply this mishnah from Avot. While I am in agreement with the general content and thrust of her article, I would respectfully question whether she is taking R’ Shimon ben Elazar’s teaching further than it actually goes.

First, let us consider who is being appeased. The mishnah as it stands does not differentiate between appeasing a friend (i.e. anyone at all) you have angered and someone who has been angered by something from outside your relationship with your friend. The Me’am Lo’ez assumes that it refers to placating a person you have personally angered, while the Sforno’s commentary appears to imply the opposite and the Ru’ach HaChaim makes it refer to appeasing God. In all cases, however, the mishnah presupposes some sort of direct and immediate relationship between the would-be appeaser and the one who is angry. Having the angry person in sight, in the words of R’ Yitzchak Greenberg (Sage Advice), enables the would-be appeaser to gauge whether the latter has used up all his anger before seeking to calm him down; it is only then that he will likely be amenable to reason and/or to any soothing speech. This is clearly not the case when the cause of the anger is a public statement that goes viral and angers many millions of people, spread over five continents, who are almost entirely unknown to the speaker and unreachable in terms of human contact.

Secondly we should ask whether, in the case of a public statement of this nature, one should delay at all before issuing an apology or retraction. The feelings of 16 million Jews are only one factor to be considered. Failure to implement an immediate damage limitation exercise runs the risk that others will publicly approve the offensive words and cite them as a respectable authority for the extermination of the world’s Jewish population. Others again may feel emboldened to commit acts of violence against Jews and vandalism against their property. If there is even the smallest risk of such an outcome, no time should be lost in waiting for the world’s Jews to stop being angry.

The last word goes to Rambam. In his commentary on Avot he says simply that a person should not make statements except in a situation where they will have an effect. This is ultimately a judgement call that each individual must make for himself. In my view, Liz Magill was wrong to say what she did, but right to apologise sooner rather than later. What a shame it is that her words of apology did not sound more convincing.

"What's yours is yours", or Is Esau a Chasid after all?

A pleasingly symmetrical anonymous mishnah (Avot 5:13) reviews attitudes towards the distribution of personal wealth in the following manner:

אַרְבַּע מִדּוֹת בָּאָדָם: הָאוֹמֵר שֶׁלִּי שֶׁלִּי וְשֶׁלָּךְ שֶׁלָּךְ, זוֹ מִדָּה בֵינוֹנִית, וְיֵשׁ אוֹמְרִים זוֹ מִדַּת סְדוֹם. שֶׁלִּי שֶׁלָּךְ וְשֶׁלָּךְ שֶׁלִּי, עַם הָאָֽרֶץ. שֶׁלִּי שֶׁלָּךְ וְשֶׁלָּךְ שֶׁלָּךְ, חָסִיד. שֶׁלָּךְ שֶׁלִּי וְשֶׁלִּי שֶׁלִּי, רָשָׁע

There are four types of people: One who says: "What is mine is mine, and what is yours is yours" — this is an average sort of person; others say that this is the character of a Sodomite. One who says: "What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine" is an am ha’aretz [impossible to translate, but essentially someone who doesn’t know better and doesn’t really care]. One who says: "What is mine is yours, and what is yours is yours" is a chasid (literally , “pious person”). And one who says: "What is mine is mine, and what is yours is mine" is wicked.

At Genesis 33:9 Esau, who has been offered some generous gifts by Jacob, responds with the following words:

יֶשׁ לִי רָב אָחִי יְהִי לְךָ אֲשֶׁר לָךְ

“I have enough; my brother, let that which you have be yours”.

These words, spoken more a millennium before the compilation of the Mishnah, appear to resonate with our definition here of a chasid and this leads us to ask: does Esau, who receives a bad press from the Bible and an even worse press from most aggadic commentaries, actually qualify as a chasid under Avot 5:13?

In his words to his junior twin, Esau acknowledges that Jacob is entitled to his own property. We also know that two things that by right are originally Esau’s—his birthright and his blessing from their father Isaac—do indeed now belong to Jacob. Midrash corroborates this by teachings that Esau was here confirming Jacob’s formerly shaky entitlement to those two contentious items (Bereshit Rabbah 78:11; also Yalkut Shimoni).

This is where readers of Avot Today can help me.

I have not yet spotted any commentators on the Torah who have referred to this mishnah on Avot in their commentaries on Genesis 33:9. Nor have I yet laid my hands on any commentaries on Avot that make reference to Esau’s words in their discussions of Avot 5:13. I’m surprised, given the similarity of Esau’s words to those chosen by the author of our mishnah, that more has not been made of this point.

Have I missed anything obvious?

I should add that I’m not suggesting that Esau is an out-and-out five-star chasid. But maybe there is a hidden clue here that adds to the merits which led to his head being midrashically buried in the Cave of Machpelah. It also occurred to me that, in Chasidic writings, notably those of the Noam Elimelech, it seems to be understood that tzaddikim—the righteous—exist at various levels, ranging from near saints at the top of the scale, down to those who are barely over 50% righteous. Perhaps the same can be said of the chasid. 

"It depends on the context"

Who could have imagined a week ago that the words “it depends on the context” would take on such a chillingly horrific meaning? Who could have contemplated that the heads of three of the world’s most prestigious universities could testify that, in their institution, a call for genocide on Jews was not per se objectionable but would depend on the context in which it was called for. This post does not propose to repeat the debate that has taken place so far on the social media and beyond. Rather, it addresses just one aspect of context: its place within Jewish thought.

In one sense everything we do and say is given its meaning and its significance by context. In purely physical terms, the impact of the laws of physics depends on context. Thus an apple will fall faster from the tree on Earth than on the Moon. Legal rules too can depend on context in much the same manner: this is why the amount of tax a person pays depends on the laws that apply in the jurisdiction in which he or she is registered to pay tax. This sort of context explains why some actions are mandatory in one context but prohibited in another, and this is why the driver of a motor vehicle must sometimes keep to the left of the road, sometimes the right, according to the highway code that applies to the road in question.

Every form of human society is based on rules. In some exceptional cases, for example North Korea, these rules are enacted and enforced by an authority that is above and beyond challenge, an authority that has the absolute power to determine what is permitted or forbidden, what is right and what is wrong. But for most of us, we live in societies in which laws are framed within the context of an understanding, shared by the governors and the governed, as to what lies within or beyond the bounds of tolerance, what is acceptable and what is not. When this shared understanding is lost, we witness the beginning of a process of social disintegration.

Jewish tradition recognizes the importance of context. One of the best-known passages in the Jewish bible, at Ecclesiastes 3:1 to 3:8, observes that there is a time for everything and then lists several pairs of contrasting and context-dependent actions (eg. “A time to kill and a time to heal; a time to wreck and a time to build. A time to weep and a time to laugh…”).

But context is not everything because it does not exist in a cultural vacuum. The life of a Jew is governed by laws, which are binding and by a code of best behavioural practice, which is discretionary and therefore a reflection of context. Pirkei Avot contains an important part of the latter. The tractate does not need to spell out the basic rules for life in a civilized society. This is “Ten Commandment” territory and is covered by many of the rules articulated in the written Torah. Rather, Avot guides us and advises us how to live to best effect in a society that is governed by those rules.

Both laws and moral precepts are fundamental elements of a mature society. Where there exist exceptions them, those exceptions too are governed by a broadly shared acceptance as to when they should (or should not) be applied. The wriggle room that permits laws and social mores to be waived or varied in individual cases may be described as “context”, but the fact remains that the law and the basic social norms that the law reflects have primacy, a primacy that is demonstrated by the fact that they so often define the range of contexts in which they do not apply.

The ethical code of Pirkei Avot and other sources of good Jewish conduct are built largely on the concept of middot, a word that is hard to translate or define but which encapsulates both good manners, common sense, and self-improvement. Avot addresses a zone of human conduct in which context is king, because social interaction is unending and ever-changing—and middot must respond to these changes on an ongoing basis.

I think that, when we discuss context, we have to distinguish between the different types of context and—if we are to be precise—the different contexts in which the word “context” is used. When the context is of a physical or geographic kind, one that governs which laws apply in any given situation, its significance is unlikely to be controversial. But when we use the word in debate over social, moral or legal standards, we must bear in mind that moral relativism comes into play. That is where the most serious discussions are reduced to the simplistic and infantile format of “You say it’s right; I say it’s wrong. Since right and wrong are only subjective evaluations, there is no such thing as right or wrong”. When this happens, we are reduced to arguments based on expediency, rhetoric, emotion and the tyranny of whoever has the loudest voice.

Children's talk

At Avot 3:14 R’ Dosa ben Harkinas teaches:

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

“Morning sleep, midday wine, children's talk and sitting in the meeting places of the ignoramus drive a person from the world”.

Some commentators take this teaching literally, as a list of four spiritually harmful activities that we should seek to avoid. Others view it as describing a sort of rake’s progress where a person who starts the day by sleeping late in the morning will end up in a sort of spiritual wasteland, unable to raise himself to higher levels. Others again—for example R’ Moshe Alshakar and the Kli Yakar—take ‘morning’ and ‘midday’ as metaphors for one’s youth and middle age. If by then a person’s life is not on an even keel, their predicament is likely to be permanent.

There has been much discussion of the third element of this mishnah, sichat hayeladim (“children’s talk”). This term is sometimes taken to mean conversation that never reaches above the level of the purely childish (as per Midrash Shmuel) or which, which superficially mature and intelligent, focuses only on the sort of childish topics that entertain the immature mind. Avot deRabbi Natan characterizes it as conversation with children. The Avodat Yisrael of R’ Yisrael of Kozhnitz posits yet another meaning—one that is not obvious from the text: talk about one’s children and the difficulty of meeting their needs. He adds that, when a person is preoccupied with the needs of one’s children, the level of concern is constant and does not allow that person any peace of mind.

I wonder whether, when the Avodat Yisrael writes of “needs”, he is contemplating not merely material requirements but also what one’s children (and grandchildren) require in terms of their intellectual, moral and spiritual development. If we don’t attend to these matters while we can, when we have the strength and the willingness to do so, we may find that, by the time we recognize what we should have done, we may have left it too late to do anything about it.

Balaam's ass and a boozy bovine

Our regular correspondent Claude Tusk has just asked us the following question:

We learned today in Daf Yomi (Bava Kamma 35a) of Rav Papa's intelligent ox. Unlike the mouth of Balaam's ass in Avot 5:8, this ox did not require a special act of creation. What does that say about the place of speech in the hierarchy of cognition?

By way of background, the mouth of Balaam’s ass is listed in Avot 5:8 as one of 10 (or possibly as many as 13) objects created on Friday evening just before the onset of Shabbat. The reference to Rav Papa’s ox runs like this, according to a slightly edited version of the Soncino translation:

The case considered here is one of an intelligent animal which, owing to an itching in the back, was anxious to burn a barn so that it might roll in the [hot] ashes [and thereby gain relief]. But how could we know [that the animal possessed such an intention]? [By seeing that] after the barn had been burnt, the animal actually rolled in the ashes. But could such a thing ever happen? — Yes, as in the case of the ox which had been in the house of R. Papa and which, having a severe toothache, went into the brewery, where it removed the lid [that covered the beer] and drank beer until it became relieved [of the pain].

So why, then, does the mishnah include the mouth of the ass but exclude the potential of members of the animal kingdom to develop their intellect?

Before I give my own answer, which I propose to do on Sunday, I’d like to hear from readers. What do you think?

Assets or liabilities?

A baraita in the sixth and final perek of Avot (6:8) reads as follows:

רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן יְהוּדָה מִשּׁוּם רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן יוֹחָאִי אוֹמֵר: הַנּוֹי, וְהַכֹּֽחַ, וְהָעֹֽשֶׁר  וְהַכָּבוֹד, וְהַחָכְמָה, וְהַזִּקְנָה, וְהַשֵּׂיבָה, וְהַבָּנִים, נָאֶה לַצַּדִּיקִים וְנָאֶה לָעוֹלָם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: עֲטֶֽרֶת תִּפְאֶֽרֶת שֵׂיבָה, בְּדֶֽרֶךְ צְדָקָה תִּמָּצֵא. וְאוֹמֵר: תִּפְאֶֽרֶת בַּחוּרִים כֹּחָם, וַהֲדַר זְקֵנִים שֵׂיבָה. וְאוֹמֵר: עֲטֶֽרֶת זְקֵנִים בְּנֵי בָנִים, וְתִפְאֶֽרֶת בָּנִים אֲבוֹתָם. וְאוֹמֵר: וְחָפְרָה הַלְּבָנָה וּבוֹשָׁה הַחַמָּה, כִּי מָלַךְ יְיָ צְבָאוֹת בְּהַר צִיּוֹן וּבִירוּשָׁלַֽיִם, וְנֶֽגֶד זְקֵנָיו כָּבוֹד. רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן מְנַסְיָא אוֹמֵר: אֵֽלּוּ שֶֽׁבַע מִדּוֹת שֶׁמָּנוּ חֲכָמִים לַצַּדִּיקִים, כֻּלָּם נִתְקַיְּמוּ בְּרַבִּי וּבְבָנָיו

[Translation] R’ Shimon ben Yehudah used to say in the name of R’ Shimon bar Yochai: “Beauty, strength, wealth, honour, wisdom, sagacity, old age and children befit the righteous and befit the world. As it states (Mishlei 16:31): "Old age is a crown of beauty, to be found in the ways of righteousness”. And it says (ibid. 20:29): "The beauty of youths is their strength, and the glory of sages is their age”. And it says (ibid., 17:6): "The crown of sages are their grandchildren, and the beauty of children their fathers”. And it says (Isaiah 24:23): "And the moon shall be abashed and the sun shamed, for the Lord of hosts has reigned in Zion, and before his elders is glory”.

Rabbi Shimon the son of Menasya used to say: “These seven qualities enumerated by the sages for the righteous were all realized in Rebbi [i.e. R’ Yehudah HaNasi] and his sons”

In my book I commented that this could be seen as a list of liabilities as well as of assets. I wrote (with footnoted citations removed):

Looking carefully at this Baraita, one can read it as conveying quite the opposite meaning to that which is normally given to it. This is because none of the eight things listed is only a reward or a privilege: it can also provide a basis upon which the person who possesses it must recognize that he has to shoulder the responsibility that goes with them. This idea is not as strange as one might initially think. Thinking along similar lines, Rabbi Levitas Ish Yavneh teaches that one should be very, very humble because the hope of man is but the worm: our Baraita has been viewed as a sort of negative checklist of things that can lead a person to pride and arrogance. However, we can learn here that, while these powerful attributes can corrupt or destroy if they in the wrong hands, tzaddikim have the capacity and the self-discipline to handle them. Not only can they ride with the tide, as it were, coping with each of the items on the list without losing their sense of humility, but they can channel them constructively for the good of others. How does this work? Let us take each term in order:

• Beauty: a person’s physical beauty is a snare and a delusion, an external asset that deteriorates over time. An earlier Mishnah has already warned us of the danger of taking people at face value, and the Book of Proverbs emphasizes that beauty is a false commodity. Only those with a strong moral backbone can be sure to cope with the pressures and expectations placed upon them by the perception of others that they are beautiful.

• Strength: ko’ach, the word translated here as “strength,” carries with it a secondary meaning, of “potential,” the prospect of being able to bring an incipient idea or plan to fruition. This sort of strength, the power to effect change, carries with it a weighty responsibility to bear in mind the so-called law of unintended consequences and look carefully towards the outcome of any change one has the power to achieve. Alternatively, as Ben Zoma explains above, strength is defined in terms of the ability to exercise self-discipline and control oneself. Given the powerful pull of a person’s evil inclination, having the strength to overcome it would seem to be an essential and ever-present weapon in the tzaddik’s armoury of middot. The sad lot of the tzaddik is that his evil inclination is stronger than that of others, so he has need of greater strength to combat it.

• Wealth: Hillel the Elder has already taught, “the more the wealth, the more the worry.” Again, strength of character and moral rectitude are required if a person is to pass the test of affluence. While we can all be rich in one sense – since the one who is truly rich is the person who is content with his portion – this is something that applies to everyone, whether they are tzaddikim or otherwise.

• Honour: of the eight items listed in this Baraita, none is as potentially toxic as honour: it is the only one that has the potential to kill a man spiritually stone dead. An ordinary individual runs the risk of chasing honour when it is as yet unearned, and of letting it get to his head even if it has been fairly earned. A tzaddik will however be able to handle its toxicity and treat it in the way Avot prescribes, by giving it to others and by according it to the Torah.

• Wisdom: like honour, wisdom can be dangerous in the hands of someone who lacks the requisite moral framework within which to utilize it. Pharaoh invoked wisdom when deciding to deal with his “Jewish Problem”: this misdirected wisdom could have resulted in the extinction of the Children of Israel but instead caused Pharaoh’s personal humiliation and the destruction of his own fighting force. Balaam’s attempts at prophecy could not harm Israel but his wise counsel did, when he advised Balak on how to break the desert nation’s commitment to God. Few men of their generation were as wise as King David’s counsellor Achitophel or King Saul’s chief herdsman Doeg, yet their intellectual prowess was ill matched with their scheming politics. The harsh reality is that wisdom is only safe in the hands of someone who can be trusted – ideally a tzaddik – and that is a massive responsibility, as Moses discovered when he was the only person who possessed the necessary wisdom to resolve his people’s disputes.

• Early old age: 60 or thereabouts is the time when a person becomes conscious of the fact that, while he may feel no different on the inside, he is starting to look old. Without a firm moral basis that supports a tzaddik, the drive to “have a final fling” or to yield to what is euphemistically called a “midlife crisis” can be overwhelming.

• Venerable old age: the Talmud reports the words of Barzilai the Gileadite to the effect that, on reaching the ripe old age of 80, there was no longer much pleasure to be derived from life in the King’s court. The diminution of one’s senses of sight, taste and hearing can weigh heavily on someone whose pleasures depend on them, but a tzaddik will not complain to God about his sad and feeble state. Rather, he should be well equipped to take the disappointments and the tribulations of advanced old age as a time to recall with gratitude his earlier days and the opportunities he once had to serve others. Now is the time to reflect on the opportunities that he can give others to do acts of kindness for him.

• Children: one does not need a Torah source to support the proposition, evidenced by life itself, that bringing up children can take its toll on even a loving parent. The price one pays for parenting can be steep in terms of time, effort, frustration, sleep deprivation, temper control and general inconvenience. Nor is there any point at which one can predict that the responsibility for raising one’s children will end. For a true tzaddik none of this is a burden.   

I’m delighted to have discovered that I am not alone in raising a warning about these eight things. R’ Yitzchak Ze’ev Yadler had already made the same point in his Tiferet Tzion commentary on Avot. There R’ Yadler adds that everything on this list is only of use to a tzaddik if he treats them effectively as catalysts that enable him to improve his service of God and his fellow humans.

In pursuit of piety

A big thank-you to Claude Tusk for reminding us how highly Pirkei Avot was valued by the Amoraim. He writes:

From yesterday's Daf Yomi (Bava Kamma 30a):

אָמַר רַב יְהוּדָה: הַאי מַאן דְּבָעֵי לְמֶהֱוֵי חֲסִידָא – לְקַיֵּים מִילֵּי דִּנְזִיקִין. רָבָא אָמַר: מִילֵּי דְאָבוֹת. וְאָמְרִי לַהּ: מִילֵּי דִּבְרָכוֹת.

[Translation] Rav Yehudah said: “That person who wishes to be a chasid [literally “pious person”] must comply with the laws of damages”.  Rava said: “[That person must comply with] the content of Avot”; still others said: “That person must comply with the content of [the tractate of] Berachot [“Blessings”]”. 

So Avot is in the top three for encouraging piety!

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

This passage from Bava Kamma is often quoted by commentators in their introductions to the tractate, either simply to remind readers of the value of implementing Avot in practice rather than just sitting and learning it or, less often, in order to find a link between the laws on damages, Jewish ethical guidance and the many diverse rules relating to blessings.

Avot itself offers different advice on how to be a chasid: at Avot 6:1 Rabbi Meir lists “being equipped to be a chasid” as a consequence of learning Torah for its own sake – with the proviso that an am ha’aretz cannot become a chasid (Avot 2:2). Avot also provides a few benchmarks against which to establish if a person is a chasid or not: such a person makes his possessions available to others (Avot 5:13), is hard to anger but easy to placate (5:14), happy that both he and others should give to charity (5:16) and who both goes to a house of study and actually studies (5:17).

Here’s a point to ponder. When Rava says that someone who aspires to be a chasid should comply with Avot, does he mean literally the whole of Avot or only the bits that reference who is or is not a chasid? Thoughts, anyone?

On the march with Pirkei Avot

Yesterday an estimated crowd of some 100,000 people took to the streets of Central London in a march to condemn antisemitism. Many of the marchers were Jewish but their numbers were supplemented by others who, though not Jewish themselves, were concerned at the recent frightening tolerance of Jew-hatred in the British Isles.

For the benefit of non-British readers, let me explain. Jews have been in Britain for centuries and, while retaining their independent identity, they have long formed part of the fabric of British society.  Following a steep and unprecedented rise in reported antisemitic incidents, and with a sudden open articulation by many people of openly anti-Jewish and anti-Israel sentiments, many members of this small Jewish population – estimated to be no more than 270,000 souls – fear for their safety and question whether there is still a long-term future for them in the United Kingdom. This fear has been amplified by loss of confidence in the integrity and neutrality of the BBC, whose error-filled and partisan reporting of events has been so painstakingly chronicled and called out again and again by the US-based non-profit organization Honest Reporting.

Yesterday’s demonstration, in keeping with Jewish ethos, was peaceful and respected the large police presence that had been provided in case of trouble. The demonstrators did not call for anyone’s death or destruction, but rather for an end to the tolerance of antisemitism and for the release of the 200+ hostages currently held in Gaza.

Significantly, the demonstrators paused by the Cenotaph to sing the National Anthem.

At Avot 3:2, Rabbi Chanina segan HaKohanim teaches:

הֱוֵי מִתְפַּלֵּל בִּשְׁלוֹמָהּ שֶׁל מַלְכוּת, שֶׁאִלְמָלֵא מוֹרָאָהּ, אִישׁ אֶת רֵעֵֽהוּ חַיִּים בְּלָעוֹ

[Translation] “Pray for the integrity of the government [literally “kingdom”]; for if it were not for the fear of its authority, a man would swallow his neighbour alive”.

Jewish communities in the United Kingdom have long incorporated this into their Shabbat morning prayers. An English-language version recited in many synagogues opens as follows:

“He who gives salvation to kings and dominion to princes, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, may He bless:

Our sovereign lord King Charles,
Our gracious Queen Consort Camilla,
The Prince and Princess of Wales,
And all the Royal Family.”

This prayer then asks God to put a spirit wisdom and understanding into the hearts of the King and all his counsellors, so that they should deal kindly and justly with all the House of Israel.

It seems to me that it is entirely fitting that, even at a mass public demonstration such as we saw yesterday, it is appropriate for the country’s Jews to acknowledge the debt they owe, as residents in a country that does not belong to them, to the forces of law and order that have hitherto been both able and willing to protect them. We pray that they will continue to do so for as long as is necessary.

How to lose wait

No -- the title's not a mis-spelling. Please read on!

One of Hillel’s more frequently encountered teachings is אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרָךְ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּֽיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ (“Don’t judge your friend until you are standing in his place”). The obvious meaning is the literal one: unless you are able to look through another person’s eyes and experience what they are feeling when they do something, you cannot understand their thoughts and motives. This being so, you are not in a position to criticize their actions.

Taken at their face value, Hillel’s words fit well with other content in Pirkei Avot. Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose (Avot 4:10) tells us not to judge at all unless we do so in the company of other judges. Hillel teaches that we can’t judge properly from our personal standpoint. Yehoshua ben Perachya (Avot 1:6) adds that, even if we do judge someone, we should give them the benefit of the doubt.

There is another way we can look at Hillel’s teaching. Maybe he is encouraging us to try to look at things through other people’s eyes in order to avoid judging them at all. Here’s a practical instance of what I mean.

This morning when I left my synagogue, I noticed a man who was standing by the front door, at the top of a flight of steps. He was sheltering under the porch while he waited for his taxi to pick him up. From where he stood, he had a good view of any taxi that might draw up in front of the main door.

A little way down the road, I noticed a taxi waiting to pick up a passenger. The taxi had pulled in to the side of the road at a convenient point, by the edge of the synagogue, where the vehicle could stand without causing any inconvenience to pedestrians or road users.

I realized that there was a problem. The passenger was standing at a really good place for people to stand while waiting for a cab, while the taxi driver had parked in a really good place for motor vehicles to pull in—but neither could see the other.

If it had occurred to the taxi’s customer that the taxi might pull in at a place convenient for taxis, or if the taxi driver had thought where, if he was awaiting a cab, he might be standing, the two would have found each other instantly. As it was, the man awaiting the taxi was looking somewhat impatient, and the taxi driver’s face had ‘disgruntled’ written all over it.

The moral of the story is plain. If either of the actors in this early morning drama had visualized the problem of “man + taxi” through the eyes of the other, there would have been no problem.

A rabbi by any other title?

Shortly before the end of this year’s festive season our friend and greatly appreciated commentator Claude Tusk sent Avot Today this devar Torah for Simchat Torah, the celebration of both the conclusion of our Torah readings and their immediate recommencement. This short, timely and well-delivered devar Torah is based on Pirkei Avot, in particular on Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s much-debated contention that it is not the study of Torah which is the main thing, but the performance of its precepts (Avot 1:17).

This devar Torah first cites the opinion of R’ Kalonymus Kalman Shapira that a person who learns Torah but does not implement it is like a bookshelf: he holds much knowledge but is judged to be no more than a piece of wood. R’ Nosson Tzvi Finkel is also quoted: he explains that the value of Torah is inseparable from its active implementation since the role of Torah is to enable one to transform oneself into a different, improved person—and it is only by putting one’s Torah learning into action that one properly internalises it.

Aside from the content of the devar Torah, the issue I want to discuss, one on which I suspect many readers may wish to comment, is that its author, one Rabbi Avi Strausberg, turns out to be a woman.

As a traditional orthodox Jew I am most comfortable with the position that “rabbi” is a title and a status that is conferred upon the male of the species. On the other hand I am happy to attend shiurim given by women; I buy and read works of Jewish scholarship written by women and have greatly benefited from their learning. I respect them both as fellow human beings and as Jewish leaders and scholars in their own right—but for me, on a personal basis, the title “rabbi” refers to a man.

Can I, should I, refer to Avi Strausberg as “Rabbi” in this post? What guidance does Avot give me?

I actually first encountered this issue when I was Registrar of the London Beth Din. I had to write a letter to a (male) minister of a provincial English community who styled himself “rabbi”, even though he did not hold semichah from any recognised authority. I was asked to write to him, with the full authority of the Beth Din, to inform him that he was not recognised as a rabbi and must not refer to himself as such. I asked Dayan Chanoch Ehrentreu, who was Rosh Beth Din at the time and someone whose orthodox credentials were beyond challenge, how I should address the letter and the envelope in which the letter was to be delivered to him.

The Dayan’s answer came instantly and without equivocation. I was to address this person as “Rabbi” both in my letter and on the envelope containing it. He explained: as a matter of kavod, of the respect that any human is required to show to another, one should always give a person the title that he (or she) uses for him- or herself. To do otherwise would be frankly rude and certainly not in keeping with the need to show kavod to others. The source for this is Ben Zoma’s teaching at Avot 4:1: “Who is respected? The person who respects others…”.  I have followed this guidance ever since.

One might add that a letter to someone who calls themselves “Rabbi” which is addressed to “Mr”, “Miss”, “Mrs”, “Ms” or whatever might generate personal embarrassment if that letter is seen and read by others—and embarrassing others in public should also be avoided (see R’ Elazar HaModa’i at Avot 3:15).

All you need is love

Made famous by The Beatles’ song, the slogan “All you need is love” became an anthem of the Swinging Sixties. But for students of Pirkei Avot there is much more behind these words.

At Avot 3:15 R’ Elazar HaModa’i teaches:

הַמְחַלֵּל אֶת הַקֳּדָשִׁים, וְהַמְבַזֶּה אֶת הַמּוֹעֲדוֹת, וְהַמַּלְבִּין פְּנֵי חֲבֵרוֹ בָּרַבִּים, וְהַמֵּפֵר בְּרִיתוֹ שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וְהַמְגַלֶּה פָנִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה, אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיֵּשׁ בְּיָדוֹ תּוֹרָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים, אֵין לוֹ חֵֽלֶק לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

[Translation] Anyone who (i) profanes the holy things, (ii) degrades the Festivals, (iii) humiliates his friend in public, (iv) abrogates the covenant of our father Abraham (i.e., circumcision), or (v) who interprets the Torah otherwise than in accordance with halachah---even though that person may possess Torah knowledge and good deeds, that person has no share in the World to Come.

There are many good reasons for separately justifying or explaining each of these five things, as commentators over the ages have tended to do. But is a detailed explanation of each of them required? Maharal Shik cuts to the chase and favours a general approach. It is accepted that, if you fall foul of any of these things you are crossing a significant boundary. In crossing these boundaries you are demonstrating the wrong attitude. On this basis a person can forfeit his share in the World to Come—even if he ticks the boxes, as it were, by going through the motions of performing all the (other) mitzvot in the Torah—if he has no love of the mitzvot and is unable to summon up a positive attitude towards them. This shows the importance of cultivating the right attitude to how we serve God.

The explanation of the Maharam Shik is apparently at odds with the message of R’ Chaim Volozhiner in his Nefesh HaChaim. There R’ Chaim emphasises the importance of actually performing a mitzvah even with no positive intention or thoughts at all, rather than having all the best intentions and attitudes but not performing them as required. The question before us is this: can these approaches be reconciled? Suggestions, anyone?

A life of ... what?

The concept of Torah im derech eretz has many meanings and has been put to use in many varied and sometimes surprising contexts. Here is one of them.

In Baruch She’amar al Tefillot Hashanah, R’ Baruch HaLevi Epstein reviews some of the finer points of the Birchat HaChodesh, the prayer recited in synagogue in which we announce and bless each new month. Discussing the phrase יִראַת שָׁמַֽיִם וְיִרְאַת חֵטְא חַיִּים שֶׁיֵּשׁ בָּהֶם (Chayim sheyesh bahem yirat shamayim veyirat chet: “A life which has within it fear of Heaven and fear of sin”), R’ Epstein finds it strange that this phrase comes at the end of a list of things we want for life and which we express in the form of חַיִּים שֶׁל (chayim shel: “A life of…”). Why do we change the formula here from chayim shel to chayim sheyesh bahem (“A life which has within it…”)?

By way of an answer R. Epstein offers a hypothesis. If the prayer had asked for a chayim shel yirat shamayim veyirat chet, it would be requesting a life that was so absorbed in fearing Heaven and fearing sin that there was not a moment left for anything else. However important these human qualities might be, and however dear to God, they must surely be combined with other things if humans are to live a full and meaningful life.

In support of this notion R’ Epstein cites the concept of im ein Torah ein derech eretz, ve’im ein derech eretz ein Torah (“If there is no Torah there is no worldly occupation, and if there is no worldly occupation there is no Torah”: R’ Elazar ben Azariah, Avot 3:21). He then cites the famous argument between Torah purist R’ Shimon bar Yochai and pragmatist R’ Yishmael as to whether a life of Torah learning without derech eretz can be sustained: the Talmud (Berachot 35b) reports that many did as R’ Shimon taught and were unsuccessful, while those who did as R’ Yishmael taught prospered.

I do not know offhand of any other explanations offered for the change of rubric. Can anyone enlighten me?

Abraham and the three mysterious men

At the beginning of parashat Vayera the Torah tells of three men whose journey takes them past Abraham while he sits by the entrance to his tent. Who are these men? Are they Abraham’s righteous allies Aner, Eshkol and Mamre? Are they angels in disguise? Do they even exist outside Abraham’s consciousness, being no more than players in a profoundly important dream?

R’ Avraham Weinberg of Slonim, in his Bet Avraham, offers an unusual mussar-driven explanation, that the narrative is purely figurative. The three “men” are actually the three things a person should contemplate if he wishes to avoid falling into the grips of sin: the seeing eye, the hearing ear and the understanding that all his actions are stored on permanent record. These are the three things which Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi identifies at Avot 2:1.

How does Avraham react when he sees these “men”? He urges them “al no ta’avor me’al avodecha” (“Please don’t pass by your servant”). With God’s help we can keep these three ideas in the forefront of our minds; without that help we will fail.

Is this just a bit of airy-fairy chassidut? No. We should see it as a tactful reminder to us, when we learn Torah—and particularly Bereshit (Genesis)—that we should not just nod approvingly at the conduct of our forefathers but should make a positive effort to internalise the moral principles that underpinned their lives even before the Torah was given.

Middot at war 6: Picking up the pieces

This, the sixth and final post in Avot Today's Middot at War series, looks beyond the conflict to the aftermath. Is either side obliged to assist the other in picking up the pieces and engaging in the large task of reconstruction?

Prima facie this is a topic that lies way beyond the content of Pirkei Avot. However. There is a possibility that this may not be so.

At Avot 1:7 Nittai HaArbeli says:

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

[Translation] “Distance yourself from a bad neighbour, and don’t stick to a wicked person, and do not abandon belief in retribution”.

The first two parts of this teaching have a plain meaning and, while commentators have offered many examples and explanations, they share a core meaning: don’t become too closely involved with bad influences. The third part, however, is a vague and general proposition that invites interpretation.

Midrash Shmuel offers several shots at explaining this teaching. One starts with a quote from the Torah: כִּ֣י תִפְגַּ֞ע שׁ֧וֹר אֹֽיִבְךָ֛ א֥וֹ חֲמֹר֖וֹ תֹּעֶ֑ה הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֶ֖נּוּ לֽוֹֹ (“When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back”: Shemot 23:4). The Gemara (Bava Metzia, Eilu Metziot) establishes that this verse refers to one who is wicked: to help such a person is a way to achieve perfection of one’s soul and even to bring the wicked back to the path of goodness. R’ Yosef ibn Nachmies adds here that a person who is so steeped in goodness as to have reached this level of perfection should never despair of God’s mercy in respect of any puranut [translated above ass ‘retribution’ but in this context ‘disaster’] for which he has been destined.

Does this mean that a righteous nation should set about helping to restore the position of an evil enemy over which it has triumphed? I very much doubt it. My feeling is that this conclusion goes way beyond anything that Nittai HaArbeli might have contemplated. This mishnah addresses the individual, not the state, and the same must surely be said of R’ Yosef ibn Nachmies’ take on it.

Middot at war 5: celebrate with care

The tragic current war between Israel and Hamas has already lasted a month and does not appear to be about to conclude. Readers of Avot Today will not need to be told what they should be praying for—peace—or which of the combatants deserves in moral terms to emerge victorious.

Thousands of humans on both sides are already mourning the death of their loved ones, grieving over serious and disabling injuries. But when the conflict ends, many people will be rejoicing. We pray that we will be able to celebrate the triumph of good over evil and the salvation of humanity in the face of unspeakable, barbaric atrocities.  But how does a Jew celebrate?

Pirkei Avot offers sobering advice to the victors. At Avot 4:24 Shmuel HaKatan teaches:

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

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

This warning is not unique to Avot: it is a direct quote from Proverbs 24:17-18. It is unusual for any teaching that comprises part of the Oral Law to pre-exist as a quote that has been cut-and-pasted from the Written Law. When this occurs, it is neither an accident nor a coincidence but the product of a conscious decision on the part of the Tanna who quotes it. We are thus entitled to ask why he has done it and what lesson we can learn from the fact that he has done so.

Both the Bartenura and the commentary ascribed to Rashi have relatively little to say. They agree that this teaching is featured here because Shmuel HaKatan said it so often and that one should be careful not to rejoice at another’s downfall in case God transfers His anger from the unfortunate subject of His anger to the person who is enjoying the spectacle. But later rabbis have offered a wider choice of explanations.

What a Jew may legitimately celebrate with a full heart is the destruction not of the wicked but of wickedness itself (Berachot 10a).  The Rashbatz (Magen Avot) notes that restraining oneself from rejoicing is a way of emulating God, who does not rejoice at the downfall of the Egyptians who pursued the Children of Israel into the Red Sea (Megillah 10b). Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) adds that we are only human: God therefore does not demand anything of us that we cannot deliver. We cannot force ourselves to love other people but we can at least refrain from hating them or harbouring resentment against them. Not rejoicing at their misfortune is thus part of a process of character improvement. The Maggid of Kozhnitz (Avot Yisrael) links this mishnah to another in Avot: since we do not understand how and why another person acts wickedly, we are expected to judge him favourably if we can (Avot 1:6): our pleasure at such a person’s downfall is actually the consequence of our judgement on him.

I have always felt that a person’s capacity to do evil matches his or her capacity to do good. So when I rejoice when retribution is inflicted on the wicked, I do try to focus on the destruction of the wickedness itself—and also to mourn for the good which that person could have achieved in their life, had they only chosen to do so. When the good that they could have done is lost, we are all the losers.

Middot at war 4: dealing with death

Death is a virtually inevitable consequence of warfare, whether brought about by the use of weapons, disruption of healthcare services, suicide or anything else. While Pirkei Avot makes numerous references to being judged after one’s death and to the World to Come, it has relatively little to say about how we—mourners, survivors and comforters—should go about our task.

R’ Shimon ben Elazar (Avot 4:23) does however have some practical guidance for us, teaching us this:

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

[Translation, with numerals added] (i) Do not appease your friend in his time of anger; (ii) do not comfort him while his dead still lies before him; (iii) do not ask him about his vow the moment he makes it; and (iv) do not endeavor to see him at the time of his degradation.

Of these teachings, the second is right on our topic. It’s practical advice too. Don’t get into someone’s hair while they are trying to organize the funeral of a loved one. With family members often separated from one another by entire continents and time zones, arranging a Jewish funeral nowadays often involves not only dealing with the chevra kadisha—the burial society—but with making urgent arrangements to transport the deceased to Israel. At times like this, it can be distracting for a mourning relative to face a battery of kindly and well-meant expressions of sympathy. You might even antagonize and anger him (Rabbenu Yonah). The commentary ascribed to Rashi gives a different practical explanation: the mourner’s grief and distress before the burial will be so great that he will be unable to absorb any consolation. As R’ Reuven P. Bulka puts it: “The wound is too fresh, the shock too deep and the receptivity too shallow” (in Chapters of the Sages).

But is this the message of the mishnah? Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) clearly thinks so:

“The truths of this mishnah are so self-evident that they do not require any commentary …The teaching of this mishnah is that one should always apply sechel (common sense) in relating to others”.

With respect to this position, which is taken by several commentators (including Rambam himself), I feel reluctant to accept it. It’s not normal practice among Tannaim to preserve as a teaching something that is so obvious that it needs no explanation. So do the words mean more than what we take at face value? And, if so, what? The Me’iri (Beit HaBechirah) has something to add: he takes all four teachings of R’ Shimon together as warning us that doing the right thing is only half the story: we have to get our timing right. The best of words or actions can cause untold distress if delivered at the wrong time.

I wonder whether, in contemporary society, we might add even more. Our words and deeds have an impact on not just others but on ourselves. If we get our timing wrong and our words or actions are regarded as being intrusive or inappropriate, we mind find our best intentions “rewarded” with an angry or hostile response. Feeling upset or embarrassed, we may in turn be discouraged from having another go and neglect important mitzvot when next the opportunity to perform them arises.

In the context of war, there is a further dimension to comforting mourners that we should bear in mind. Sadly there are many people mourning those who were massacred on 7 October as well as soldiers who have fallen since. Their deaths are painful to us all because they have been killed as Jews and/or Israelis. But there are also people who have died of old age and natural causes. We must be on our guard not to think of these as second-class deaths. To those who are left behind to mourn, the loss of a loved one is painful and cannot be repaired—whether that person fell gallantly in battle or died peacefully in
bed. We must not let the nature of death govern the quality of our comfort and condolences to those who are left behind.