Can it be uplifting to lower one's sights?

At Avot 1:4 Yose ben Yo’ezer Ish Tzeredah offers advice that most of us are unlikely these days to follow literally:

“Let your home be a meeting place for the wise; wrestle in the afar raglehem (“dust of their feet”), and drink their words in thirstily”.

With so many conveniently-located synagogues and batei midrash in almost every Jewish community that a talmid chacham is likely to visit, we only infrequently have the chance to host meetings of the sort of wise person that the mishnah contemplates. And even if we do, the likelihood is that any dust at floor level will be cleaned up well ahead of the event. So if we are to look for practical advice in this teaching, we must look further than a literal meaning for it.

For those of us who regularly hang out in their synagogue or bet midrash, whether to pray, to attend shiurim or just to be sociable and catch up on the latest local news, the place is a sort of home-from-home—and it is almost by definition a meeting place for the wise (or at least for the presumptively wise). But what about wrestling in the dust? How do we manage that?

R’ Yisrael Hopstein (the Kozhnitz maggid, author of the Avodat Yisrael on, inter alia, Pirkei Avot) offers an ingenious suggestion. The “feet” to which R’ Yose refers are not literally feet at all, but a metaphor for those aspects of a wise person’s conduct that are at the bottom of the holiness spectrum: earthly matters that are no less important than one’s lofty spiritual aspirations because we serve our Creator through our material physicality too. We should get to grips with the way a wise person deals with these apparent trivia since even the casual conversations and apparently insignificant actions of such a person can teach one a great deal.

I rather like this approach because I have on many occasions found myself either promoting or relegating a rabbi in my personal hierarchy on account of throwaway lines or small gestures that have either impressed or disappointed me. Is it pettiness on my part that I rate a rabbi more highly when I see him returning a book to its proper place on the shul bookshelf after he has finished his shiur, or that I find it hard to respect a rabbi who carries on speaking for several minutes after his shiur should have ended, while people who turn up for prayers are kept waiting? Should my response to his teachings be affected by my delight that he helps an old man on with his overcoat, or my horror when I find him checking his smartphone while using a urinal?

These things are the afar raglehem and they are important to me. Are they important to you too?

When your working lunch brings its own reward

Towards the end of the fifth chapter of Avot we find a lengthy Mishnah (Avot 5:22) that contrasts both the qualities of the disciples of Abraham and Balaam and the fate that awaits them:

Whoever possesses these three traits is of the disciples of our father Abraham, but whoever possesses three different traits is of the disciples of the wicked Balaam. The disciples of our father Abraham are magnanimous, having a meek spirit and a humble soul. The disciples of the wicked Balaam are mean, having a haughty spirit and a greedy soul. What is the difference between the disciples of our father Abraham and the disciples of the wicked Balaam? The disciples of our father Abraham eat [ochelin] in this world and inherit [nochalin] the world to come... The disciples of the wicked Balaam inherit purgatory and descent into the pit of destruction… [citations omitted].

There is a pleasing resonance between the Hebrew words for eat and inherit—ochelin and nochalin. However, ochelin is a word that is not generally translated or explained literally. Rather, it is taken as a metaphor. ArtScroll and the Sacks and Birnbaum siddur translations render the word as “enjoy”, while Chabad.org prefers “benefit”. Those commentators who do render the word literally as “eat” usually feel obliged to explain that it is a metaphor for enjoying a benefit. The idea of ochelin meaning “enjoying” or “benefiting” is not unique to this mishnah; it is paralleled by a mishnah at Pe’ah 1:1, which lists mitzvot which one is ochel in this world while the keren kayemet (the capital remains intact) in the world to come.

In his Tiferet Tzion al Masechet Avot R’ Yitzchak Ze'ev Yadler focuses on the idea of eating in its literal sense rather than on the metaphor for benefit or enjoyment. It is a commonplace that the Jew who is committed to Torah study and observance can clock up credit in the world to come for every bit of learning he engages and every mitzvah he does. But nobody can spend all their time learning and performing mitzvot. Even a talmid chacham has to take time off to eat, and many people spend a significant proportion of their productive day in working for a living in order to put food on their table for themselves and their families. The point of this mishnah, R’ Yadler says, is that, when one’s eating, drinking and going out to work is done leshem Shamayim (“for the sake of Heaven”), even those activities will clock up credit in the world to come.

This perspective is important for us in terms of our attitude towards what we and others do. Whether we are drawn away from Torah learning, from performing mitzvot and from generally doing good deeds in order to work for a living, we should not consider this to be Torah time that has been lost forever but rather as time that has been invested in a different portfolio and which is also meritorious—if it is done in the right frame of mind and with the right intentions. And those of us who have time to sit and learn Torah should be aware that this is not the only route to serving God.

Good things, good people, same headache?

The previous post, “Bad things, good people: a debate to avoid?”, discussed various problems arising from Rabbi Yannai’s teaching at Avot 4: 19 that it lies outside our power to understand either the tranquillity of the wicked or the suffering of the righteous. This post generated a lot of comments and also made me think further about Rabbi Yannai’s teaching.

It seems to me that, if we are unable to understand why it is that God can let good things happen to bad people, and vice versa, we have exactly the same problem trying to understand why good things happen even to good people. In order to do so, we have to juggle with the following propositions:

• .       We do not receive any rewards from God in this world, i.e. in our own lifetimes.
  
  
• .       There is however a list of mitzvot for which God gives a reward in both this world and the next.
  
  
• .       A person’s suffering in this world may be yissurin shel onesh (afflictions of punishment) or yissurin shel ahavah (afflictions based on God’s love) in order to improve the quality of that person’s enjoyment of the world to come (Berachot 5a).
  
  
• .       God always pays His debts and therefore rewards even the wicked for any good deeds that they have done in their lifetime in order to deprive them of an eternal reward in the world to come.

Adding this all together, since we are required to give others the benefit of the doubt when we judge them (Avot 1:6), it seems that we should be careful not to draw any negative conclusions from the fact that good things keep happening to someone in their lifetime. The moral is therefore clear: we should take care not to judge others at all, and should be even more careful not to judge God.

Bad things, good people: a debate to avoid?

Most of the content of Pirkei Avot consists of advice as to how a conscientious Jew should behave. Some of that advice is couched in positive terms, when the rabbis of the mishnah explicitly tell us what to do (e.g. acquire for yourself a friend, pursue peace, judge others favourably, don’t stare at people in their moment of disgrace). Other advice is implicit. For example, by describing four permutations of people who are either swift or slow to anger and either swift or slow to calm down again, the mishnah makes it plain which sort of person we should seek to be.

A small number of mishnayot do neither of these things. One such mishnah is the teaching of Rabbi Yannai (Avot 4:19):

 אֵין בְּיָדֵֽינוּ לֹא מִשַּׁלְוַת הָרְשָׁעִים, וְאַף לֹא מִיִּסּוֹרֵי הַצַּדִּיקִים

This is taken to mean that it lies outside our power to understand either the tranquillity of the wicked or the suffering of the righteous. If this mishnah is not telling us what to do, or at least alluding to the path we should do best to take, what is it doing in this tractate, surrounded as it is by quantities of powerful moral instruction?

When we read this teaching, our minds are immediately drawn to the age-old debate over why good things happen to bad people and vice versa. This debate features in the Babylonian Talmud (Berachot 7a) and it was certainly known in Mishnaic times. Commentators on Avot have a tendency to be drawn into this discussion too. The bottom line is that God, being omniscient and all-just, possesses both the information and the understanding that are necessary for the implementation of His plan, a plan which cannot be known to us and which involves a settling of accounts in a future world to which we are not privy.

It seems to be that Rabbi Yannai, far from engaging in this debate, is actually calling on us not to become involved in it either. A later mishnah (Avot 5:20) points out that disputes that are “for the sake of Heaven”, such as those between Hillel and Shammai, will have a constructive outcome, while those not for that end will not. Can Rabbi Yannai be suggesting to us that, if a debate is doomed to have no constructive outcome, as is the case here where we are either judging God or second-guessing his decisions, it must by definition be one that is not for the sake of Heaven?

 

Speaking stones: one story, three views

The Torah relates how the patriarch Yaakov, in his first night away from home, finds himself alone on a mountain. He takes some stones and places them under his head (Bereshit 28:11); in the morning there is just one stone (ibid., 28:18) and he consecrates it to God. This is the inspiration for a tale that is familiar to most children who attend Jewish schools. An aggadic tale, which Rashi includes in his commentary on the Torah, it is of ancient provenance, being cited in the Babylonian Talmud (Chullin 91b; see also Bereshit Rabbah 68:11). As the Talmud succinctly puts it:

All the stones gathered themselves together into one place and each one said: “Upon me shall this righteous man rest his head”. Thereupon all [the stones], a Tanna taught, were merged into one.

A small child, hearing this tale in class, is likely to accept it as fact.  Yaakov was such a good person that each stone wanted to be the lucky one to have his head rest upon it—and there is nothing strange about stones arguing with one another and shouting “me, me!” since that’s what little children do too.

When that same child becomes a teenager, this tale may be measured against an increased degree of life experience and a hostile, if not cynical, stance towards the uncritical acceptance of teachings. By this view, surely this tale is a complete fabrication. Everybody knows that stones can’t talk, let alone argue; they are the very embodiment of speechlessness. Nor do they have feelings. And how would they have any clue as to who Jacob was anyway? Also, the merger of stones into a single unit would be a most striking and impressive miracle so why, if this event actually happened, would the Torah not spell it out for us instead of waiting for a rabbi to infer it from a small grammatical quirk over a thousand years later?

Later, as the child matures into a thinking and discerning adult, this tale might well be appreciated in quite a different light. Maybe the function of this tale is to describe a greater truth and to teach us something that is not only profound but of value in our own lives today. And perhaps more can be gained by reading some of our traditional wisdom into the Torah than in seeking only to squeeze meaning out of it.  The following explanation is drawn from an explanation by Rabbi Yosef Shalom Eliyashiv:

The stones taken by Jacob were three in number. These stones represented the three pillars upon which, according to Shimon HaTzaddik (Avot 1:2), the world stands: Torah (representing mankind’s means of self-improvement), avodah (serving God) and gemillut chasadim (acts of kindness towards others).  A case can be made for each of these pillars to be the foundational pillar, of greater importance than the others. Indeed, the Tanach supplies the textual ammunition that supports the claim of each of them. But God, by fusing the three into a single stone, teaches that, just as three legs are needed in order to support any chair or table, so too does a combination of Torah, service to God and cultivating good relations within mankind create the condition of stability necessary for society to exist.

This is not just a message for society. According to the Maharal it is a message for the individual too, since each of us is our own little world. We have to get the balance right. Without attending to all three facets of our lives, we are each diminished as individuals. 

Rambam on humility: has this message timed out?

My usual response to commentaries on Pirkei Avot is a warm and accepting one. When they span the ages I can usually both appreciate and empathise with the personal emotional responses of rabbis of centuries ago when they grappled with the same issues as face us now. That is why I am so disturbed when I come across something that jars deeply against my own cultural sensitivities. If the value of Avot is for all time, the explanations and comments of our sages should surely be of the same quality. But is it possible that our own lives and values, and our own function as human beings and servants of God in the world He created for us, are so different from theirs that their teachings no longer address us?

In this context I have been troubled by Rambam’s lengthy and at times impassioned commentary on Avot 4:4. This short mishnah is taught in the name of Rabbi Levitas Ish Yavneh:

מְאֹד מְאֹד הֱוֵי שְׁפַל רֽוּחַ, שֶׁתִּקְוַת אֱנוֹשׁ רִמָּה

In translation: “Be very, very humble, for the hope of mortal man is the worm”.

The mishnah itself is troublesome enough. Why is it even a mishnah, when it appears as a verse that has been cut-and-pasted from Ecclesiasticus—the book of Ben Sira that was not accorded canonical status by the Great Assembly. And no-one hopes for worms. Our sages have dealt with these issues, but Rambam’s commentary requires attention because it contains a most remarkable passage which, it seems to me, is quite unparalleled by commentaries anywhere else on Pirkei Avot:

והנה ראיתי בספר מספרי המדות שנשאל לא' מן החשובים החסידים ונאמר לו איזה יום הוא ששמחת בו יותר מכל ימיך אמר יום שהייתי הולך בספינה והיה מקומי בפחות שבמקומות הספינה בין חבילות הבגדים והיו בספינה סוחרים ובעלי ממון ואני הייתי שוכב במקומי ואחד מאנשי הספינה קם להשתין ואהי נקל בעיניו ונבזה שהייתי שפל בעיניו מאד עד שגלה ערותו והשתין עלי ותמהתי מהתחזק תכונת העזות בנפשו וחי השם לא כאבה נפשי למעשהו כלל ולא התעורר ממני כחי ושמחתי שמחה גדולה כשהגעתי לגבול שלא יכאיבני בזוי החסר ההוא ולא הרגישה נפשי אליו ואין ספק שזאת תכלית שפלות הרוח עד שיתרחק מן הגאוה:

In translation: And look, I saw in a book from the books on middot [i.e. personal qualities] that one of the important pious men was asked: "Which day is the one upon which you rejoiced more than any of your days?" He said: "The day that I was travelling on a ship and my place was in the lowest places of the ship, among bundles of clothing. There were also traders and men of means on the ship. I was lying in my place and one of the men on board the ship got up to urinate. I was insignificant in his eyes, lowly and of such insignificance in his eyes that he exposed himself and urinated on me. I was astonished by the sheer intensity of the brazenness in his soul. But, as God lives, my soul was not at all pained by his action and I did not bestir myself. I rejoiced with great joy that I reached the extreme in that the disgrace caused by this deficient person did not pain me and [that] my soul did not feel [anything] against him." There is no doubt that this is the very limit of lowliness of spirit, to the point of being distanced from arrogance.

 I do not know whether this episode actually happened or whether it was constructed for educational purposes. If readers can enlighten me as to its source, I shall be grateful. Be that as it may, I cannot help finding it unpleasant and objectionable and I find it hard to imagine that any sane and conscientious Jew today, finding himself or herself in the same situation, would react in similar fashion.

For one thing, Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:18 endorses the principle that mankind is beloved of God because it is created in His image. Failing to stop this brazen act or at least to take evasive action is a passive condonation of the desecration of God’s image, as it were, and the dignity of one’s fellow humans.

Avot 6:6 reminds us that one of the ways of acquiring Torah is through loving rebuke. This does not exclusively mean receiving rebukes in good heart but also embraces rebuking others in a spirit of love and friendship. Where is the rebuke here? Even if the offending party had refrained from urinating on this pious man, the very act of exposing himself should itself earn rebuke.

As many earlier posts on Avot Today have affirmed, the Ethics of the Fathers holds humility to be an important component of the make-up of a practising Jew.  But is the conduct of the pious man in the Rambam’s story even correctly construed as humility? By his own admission he held no feelings towards the offending fellow traveller at all. But what has this to do with humility? It looks as much like an abrogation of any feelings of care or responsibility towards a fellow human being. Can this form of humility—if it even be humility—be truly a means by which a person is better equipped to learn Torah, to serve God and to be a useful contributor to the society of which he is part?

Love work -- seriously?

Love, according to the famous lyric, is a many-splendored thing. We spend much of our waking time giving it, receiving it from others, seeking it and feeling miserable or even depressed when we can’t find it. Love is also a much over-used word. Objects of love, in colloquial terms, include sports teams, TV and movie stars, musicians, chocolate cake and a refreshing shower at the end of a long, hard day. For the committed Jew, one’s finest and most powerful love is reserved for God, wherever one might find or relate to Him.

In the first part of a three-part mishnah, Shemayah teaches us אֱהוֹב אֶת הַמְּלָאכָה, “Love work!” What does this mean? The more one thinks about this question, the less easy it is to answer. Many people gain enjoyment from their gainful occupation. Sometimes it is the work they do, sometimes the money they earn, or it may be the facilities or one’s the colleagues that provide the greatest degree of pleasure—but is this “love” in any meaningful sense of the word?

The classical commentators explain how important it is to work. According to Rabbenu Yonah and the Bartenura, one should work even if there is no compelling need to do so, since it keeps one occupied and staves off boredom. The commentary ascribed to Rashi adds that one should certainly work when one needs to do so, rather than sit on one’s hands and expect others to provide support on account of one’s feeling of self-importance.

Later commentators add further perspectives to these views. Thus Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner adds that it is better to earn one’s keep and be a follower than to be a communal leader who is funded by others, an explanation that links to the next part of the Mishnah that urges one to hate leadership. Maharam Shik focuses on the idea of the work being the study of Torah while Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski looks at the work performed by those who wield authority. Irving M. Bunim highlights the fact that the word Shemayah uses for “work” is melachah, indicating a craft or skill, rather than manual labour. But even so, it is not self-evident why one should love work, or even why Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi should include this teaching in Avot at all, when Ben Zoma’s teaching at Avot 4:1 cites a parallel verse from Tehillim 128:2 יְגִֽיעַ כַּפֶּֽיךָ כִּי תֹאכֵל, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ (“If you eat of toil of your hands, you are fortunate are you and it is good for you”).

This passage from Rabbi Yaakov Hillel, Eternal Ethics from Sinai, set me thinking. Citing Rabbi Shlomo Eliyahu’s Kerem Shlomo, he writes:

“A merchant buys flax in America, and ships it to China to be spun into threat. From there, it goes to Europe to be woven into fabric. The fabric is sent to Eretz Yisrael where it is cut and sewn into garments worn in honor of Shabbat. Its use for a mitzvah elevates the holy sparks invested in all of the many components of the finished product. This is the real reason why we should love work—because of the spiritual elevation of the nitzotzot [sparks] that it brings about”.

Regardless of one’s view of Kabbalah, what shines through here is the notion that the work one loves need not be one’s own work at all, but work that is done by others for positive purposes, whether related to a mitzvah or simply to the benefit of others. One’s love in such a situation is therefore a deep feeling of gratitude and appreciation of the work that is done for one’s benefit, whether one has any connection with those who do the work or not.

The problem of the prodigiously-praised professor

Over the past three years I have written on countless occasions of the importance of humility—one of the key middot in Pirkei Avot—and the correlative need to avoid pride. These priorities are not found exclusively in Avot. Rambam, in Hilchot De’ot, urges us not to seek out the middle path between humility and pride but to head as far as possible towards humility. The Maharal touches on a similar theme in his Netivot Olam, when he explains that only through cultivating humility to its furthest point can one truly make space for one’s Torah learning. This is all very well in theory, but how does one do this in practice?

Last week I was invited to speak at a celebration to mark the 20th anniversary of a phenomenally successful and much-loved weblog on a somewhat improbable subject: the law and practice relating to intellectual property as seen through the eyes of two fictitious cats. As a co-founder of this blog I was able to talk about its early days. The other speakers discussed a variety of legal topics, but they also had some very splendid things to say about me. At first I rather enjoyed this praise-laden attention, but as the afternoon continued I started to become rather uncomfortable. I was aware that I was filling up with pride, and I was troubled that this experience was so compellingly enjoyable. Indeed, rather against my will I found myself rating the various praises I had received in terms of quite how great or important they made me feel.

At this point I started to wonder how one should tackle pride when one feels it so powerfully. I decided to take a reality check in order to persuade myself that I did not deserve the praise I was receiving. Taking an objective view, I established the following points: (i) I was only the co-founder of the blog, not its exclusive originator; (ii) much of the content of the blog came from information and ideas sent in by readers, not from me; (iii) I had not contributed to the blog for nearly eight years, during which time it had become very much more successful and popular than it was when I contributed to it; and (iv) the blog was not indispensable since the world of intellectual property law existed quite happily before it came along and could easily continue to do so if it vanished tomorrow. This reality check did not however do the trick: I felt just as proud of its achievements as if I had written the whole thing myself and was about to be knighted for it. If there was a path from here to achieving humility, I could not see it.

After the event it occurred to me that, if I could not remove my feelings of pride, even though rationally I could challenge my entitlement to feel them, it might yet be possible to justify them. Perhaps this pride was not so dangerous because it related to something I had done in the relatively distant past and was never going to repeat, in a field of activity from which I had long since retired. This line of thought looked quite promising, even though it felt quite like an excuse. But are there in fact more than one type of pride? We learn from Tehillim that the possession of ge’ut, sometimes understood as pride or arrogance, is one of the qualities of God Himself (Tehillim 93:1), which suggests that—like every other quality that is generally bad when found in humans—it has its legitimate outlet, otherwise God would not have created it.

In English, when one speaks of a person “taking pride” in his handiwork, the real meaning is that that person has made some effort to do the best job possible. Rabbi Berel Wein, quoting Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, has described this state as one of acting leshem shamayim, “for the sake of Heaven”, as exemplified by the shoemaker who works hard to make sure that every shoe that receives his attention is made to the highest possible specification. On this basis, perhaps this sort of pride is acceptable because it is not inherently incompatible with humility. When I helped set up the blog and wrote for it, I did it to the best of my ability because I thought it would be useful for others as well as for myself. Is my pride in having done so a legitimate form of pride. I don’t feel that it has distanced me from God or from my Torah learning—but I cannot be sure that this feeling that I’m alright and can live with this pride is in fact a sign that it has already got a detrimental grip on me.

Thoughts, anyone?

What shall we do with the noxious neighbour?

Pirkei Avot places great importance on neighbours. According to Rabbi Yose HaKohen, the good path a person should pursue in life is that of being a good neighbour (Avot 2:13); conversely, the bad path that one should avoid is that of being a bad one (Avot 2:14). Nittai HaArbeli goes further, teaching that one should actually keep one’s distance from a bad neighbour (Avot 1:7).

Nittai’s teaching is not hard to comprehend. It is self-evident that bad neighbours mean trouble, something that many readers who have suffered at the hands of such neighbours can corroborate. The Torah requires the demolition of a house that has been afflicted with tzora’at, a sort of biblical mould that is associated with lashon hara—inappropriate and often damaging speech. When those walls come down, it may be that one is a party wall shared with a good and innocent neighbour, who will be adversely affected by the wrongful speech emanating from next door.

What does distancing oneself from a bad neighbour mean today? It can be a challenging piece of advice to implement. Avot itself poses problems. How can we establish that a person is bad when we are told not to judge others unless we are standing in their place (Avot 2:5) and when in any event have been previously instructed (at Avot 1:6) to judge others favourably if at all possible? And by what objective criteria do we assess whether a person is bad at all? The Hebrew word used here is ra, which is often translated as “wicked” but which may mean much less. For example, at Berachot 8a Resh Lakish describes as being ra a person who has a synagogue in his town but does not go there to pray.

Assuming that we overcome these obstacles, we must then consider how to distance ourselves from such a neighbour. Two obvious possibilities present themselves:

1.   1. Move away from our bad neighbour: in ancient times this exercise may have posed fewer problems but the difficulties, inconvenience and expense we face today can be immense. We may have to terminate a lease and enter a new one, or renegotiate a mortgage, facing brokerage, legal and surveyors’ fees.  Then there are removal costs. Next there is the hassle of contacting suppliers of electricity, gas, water and other services plus notification of change of address. The move may also involve a transfer of children to a new school. Ultimately we would probably still have no guarantee that our new neighbours are any better than the old ones or that, however good they are, they will remain there permanently and not be replaced by less good ones.

2.   2. Move the bad neighbour away from ourselves: this is more convenient but far less likely to occur unless the bad neighbour can be persuaded, bribed or otherwise induced to relocate to a place that is more congenial for him. Alternatively, if the person is sufficiently wicked as to be a real criminal, it may be possible to invoke the powers of the police to arrest him, hoping that he will receive a severe custodial sentence. This path is itself thwart with problems because it is not the way of a good Jew to inform on his neighbour to the authorities unless he has secured a valid rabbinical dispensation to do so.

There remains a further possibility, one which I feel accords best with the general ethos of Pirkei Avot: rather than remove oneself from the bad neighbour, or vice versa, seek to remove the badness from the neighbour, who will then be a bad neighbour no longer.

This approach fits in with Hillel’s broad advice at Avot 1:12 that one should emulate Aharon HaKohen and seek to bring others close to the Torah—which in this instance can mean bringing them closer to the normative behaviour of the society in which they live. It is also consonant with the spirit of loving rebuke (Avot 6:6) which can mean not only loving to receive rebuke but rebuking others in a loving and caring way. Moving away from other people might produce practical results in the short term, but it is ultimately a way of simply running away from a problem rather than facing up to it. Avot is driven by the need to improve one’s middot, and this approach to Nitttai HaArbeli’s mishnah does just that.

The case of the pious prankster

I have a friend. Let’s call him Steve. He’s a warm, good-hearted fellow. A stalwart member of my local synagogue which he attends daily, he takes his religion seriously and puts much effort into both his prayer and his Torah learning. Being modest, cheerful and helpful, he is popular and enjoys the respect of all around him.

No-one is perfect and Steve—for all his virtues—is no exception. He is a bit of a practical joker. One of his favourite little jokes is to creep up on people when their attention is elsewhere, swiftly pick up a small item of theirs and hide it nearby.  The hidden articles are not usually hard to find, and it amuses him to see their owner looking round in puzzlement as what might have happened to a watch, pen or book that they may have placed in front of them and which, to all intents and purposes, must have grown legs and walked off by itself.

Though Steve has never hidden anything of mine, I do not think that I would be happy to share his little prank if he did. When I’m finished with synagogue I’m usually in a hurry to rush off somewhere else. More seriously, I’ve now reached an age at which, if I can’t find something in the place where I’ve put it down, my first thought is that my memory has began to fail me.

My question is this: what message does Pirkei Avot have for pious pranksters like Steve?

Since Steve’s little joke involves fiddling around with other people’s property, my first thought drifted towards Avot 5:13: “There are four types of people: One who says ‘What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine’ is an uncouth person…”. But this didn’t really seem to fit the bill because Steve wasn’t claiming any proprietary right in other people’s things. I then remembered Rabbi Akiva’s caution at Avot 3:17 that jesting and levity lead a person to ervah, immorality. That didn’t seem quite right either, since ervah is a word that carries strong overtones of sexual impropriety which are quite inapplicable here.

This leaves us with the great catch-all mishnah of Rabbi Yose HaKohen at Avot 2:17: “Let all your actions be for the sake of Heaven”. If Steve could be intercepted at the point at which he was about to play one of his little pranks he should ask himself: “Can I honestly say that what I am about to do is for the sake of Heaven? Will it bring any pleasure to God or cause people to honour or respect Him more greatly?” Ideally this would inhibit or prevent Steve persisting with his well-meaning but sometimes annoying little tricks.

Do readers have any better suggestions?

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

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In case you missed them, here's a list of items posted to the

Avot Today Facebook Group in MAY 2023: 

Monday 29 May 2023: For Torah's sake: our ancient sages promise great reward for those who learn Torah out of a genuine love of it and not for any ulterior motive. But what does this mean in practice?

Thursday 25 May 2023: Shavuot and Shabbat miscellany: Pirkei Avot for goths; latest from the Dee Project; news of Rabbi Berel Wein; can one learn even from people who are not properly Torah-accredited? Cheesecake in Avot.

Tuesday 23 May 2023: Zero tolerance. The notion that lineage is like a row of zeros, only adding up to anything if there's a number in front of them, has become a commonplace among pulpit rabbis. Its origin however appears to lie in a commentary on Avot.

Monday 22 May 2023: The will to exercise one's will power: the leopard and the lion are both candidates for similes relating to strength. Is there a shade of difference between them?

Friday 19 May 2023: Playing the Lawyer: Yehudah ben Tabbai warns against being partisan in legal disputes. Most people assume that he is addressing judges-- but the mishnah originally may have meant something quite different.

Tuesday 16 May 2023: A Tangible Silence: Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel praises silence as being good for the body. This is usually understood as referring to the need to minimise speech -- but the Sefat Emet takes a novel approach.

Sunday 14 May 2023: A Good Deed a Day...: Here's a list of proverbs, said to be from Pirkei Avot, which you will simply not find there.

Tuesday 9 May 2023: Let's Talk About Talking: Rabbi Chaim Volozhin's explanation of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai's instruction to his talmidim to "go out and see" launches an examination of why so many of us talk where we should not.

Monday 8 May 2023: What's Hot in Avot: some newsy snippets relating to Avot and ways of learning it.

Monday 8 May 2023: Setting Free the Menagerie: Wild Beasts and Chillul Hashem: A mishnah in the fifth perek lists "wild beasts" as a punishment for desecration of God's name. This post discusses some explanations and attempts at giving it a modern context.

Friday 5 May 2023: When Anger is All the Rage...: Rabbi Elazar HaKappar lists jealousy, lust and the quest for honour as the three things that "take a person from the world". But where is anger? Why has he omitted it from his list?

Wednesday 3 May 2023: Real Wealth? Sophie Tucker versus Abba and The Beatles: Is wealth a material concept or is there more to it. Avot has much to say on this question, as do many lyricists.

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Avot Today blogposts for April 2023
Avot Today blogposts for March 2023
Avot Today blogposts for February 2023
Avot Today blogposts for January 2023
Avot Today blogposts for December 2022
Avot Today blogposts for November 2022
Avot Today blogposts for October 2022