Holding the line

Yesterday I was waiting a little restlessly in line to pay for my purchases. I am rarely impatient, but the line was long, the day was hot and I was holding three Chocolate Magnums which I hoped to bring home in a solid state.

At the head of the line was a man who was holding us all up. His purchases had been checked through and the man at the check-out desk was awaiting payment. Our customer was however in no hurry. He was conducting a social conversation by phone to a friend of his. The phone was in loudspeaker mode so we were all regaled with this dialogue. The customer himself had a stentorian voice and it was difficult and distracting to do anything else while he was speaking. Eventually the next customer in line politely asked him if he would please lower the volume of his voice and also pay for his goods. He turned to her in rage and bellowed at her: "Who gave you authority to tell me how loud my voice should be?" At length, the man paid, took his groceries and left the store, to the manifest relief of those still there. What, I asked myself, were the provisions of Pirkei Avot that might apply to this rude and selfish behaviour? Shopping etiquette is not a topic that gets much coverage in Avot, though Rabbi Akiva (Avot 3:20) reminds us that one can't go shopping on credit and expect not to have to pay in the end. In the end, I decided that the appropriate mishnah in Avot was one authored by the saintly Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa at Avot 3:13:

כֹּל שֶׁרֽוּחַ הַבְּרִיּוֹת נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ, רֽוּחַ הַמָּקוֹם נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ. וְכֹל שֶׁאֵין רֽוּחַ הַבְּרִיּוֹת נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ, אֵין רֽוּחַ הַמָּקוֹם נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ

Someone who is pleasing to his fellow humans is pleasing to God. But one who is not pleasing to his fellow humans does not please God.

In a tractate that focuses on good behavioral characteristics and moral conduct, this teaching seems out of place. All it appears to do at first glance is to address our relationship with God. But if it belongs in Avot at all, this teaching must have a message for us in our daily lives—and this is it. Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa is actually cautioning us that, when we have a choice in how we behave, we should act in such a way as to give pleasure to others, and certainly not choose the path that will annoy or antagonise them. Why, because we will not only incur the displeasure of those whom we could have made happy, or not rubbed up the wrong way. We will also incur the displeasure of God.

Oh, and if you were wondering -- the Chocolate Magnums got home safe and sound.

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A message for man, a message for the many

We return to Akavya ben Mahalalel’s mishnah (Avot 3:1) which we considered here just before Pesach in the context of the human decision-making process: we asked how much time, and indeed how much honesty, we need to expend both in deciding that our actions are important enough to think about carefully and in devoting sufficient time to make them. To refresh our memories, his teaching in full reads like this:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה. דַּע מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן.

מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ: מִטִּפָּה סְרוּחָה. וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ: לִמְקוֹם עָפָר רִמָּה וְתוֹלֵעָה. וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן: לִפְנֵי מֶֽלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא

Reflect upon three things and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know from where you came, where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting.

From where you came—from a putrid drop; where you are going—to a place of dust, maggots and worms; and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting—before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

I’ve laid out the mishnah in two sections: this shows clearly that, the first time round, the three things are listed by themselves, while second time through they are accompanied by what Akavya ben Mahalalel regards as the right thing to be thinking about.  Since Tannaim are notoriously sparing with their words, much thought has been given to the apparently long-winded presentation of this teaching, which could simply have read (in English):

Reflect on three things and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know that you came from a putrid drop, that you are going to a place of dust, maggots and worms, and that you are destined to give a judgement and accounting before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

Some commentators have intuited that the reason for this apparent prolixity is that there are actually two separate teachings here, addressed to different people. Thus the Noam Elimelech understands that there are two archetypes among those who seek to pursue God and live in accordance with His will. One is the person whose aspirations soar ever upwards.  He views God and His creations with wonder and excitement; he rejoices that he lives in a world where he has the chance to demonstrate his love of God and his devotion to His commandments, and he looks forward to the world to come. This person can address Akavya’s issues without need for a prompt from their author since his mind admits of no doubt: where does he come from? From a miraculous process that implants a noble soul into the physical body. Where is he going? To an eternal life after death in which he, as a faithful servant, is assured of his reward? And before whom does he give an account of himself? Before God, his Lord and Master to whom he has dedicated his very existence.

The other archetype seeks closeness to God through the opposite route. He is deeply in awe of the world and its Creator and is constantly aware of his inadequacy and insignificance, and the transient nature of his bodily existence. He seeks to purify his soul through the pursuit of humility and through purging himself of even the suspicion of sin. For him, since he lives in constant terror of transgressing God’s commandments, Akavya provides the answers: remember your low, insignificant origin and the fate that awaits the body that you might be tempted to preen and pamper—and never forget that you are accountable to the Ultimate Authority for your every act, word and thought.

But there are many other possible explanations for the two-part arrangement of this mishnah.

For Gila Ross (Living Beautifully), one part—presumably the second—speaks to a damage limitation exercise regarding one’s soul, How does one return one’s soul unblemished to its Maker? The mishnah spells it out. But the other part refers to the actions that we are about to take and using the questions as a sort of check-list for examining one’s own motivation (this theme takes us back to the theme of our previous post on this topic, mentioned above).

Another example comes from Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff’s Lev Avot. For him, recognition by the individual of his or her personal past should be a trigger for thinking about one’s collective past too. He writes:

“[Recognition of an individual’s past] to help us to acknowledge the miracle of our collective survival.

This leads us to the historical interpretation of the words ‘Know whence you came’. We are a people of history, links in an endless chain of tradition. We cannot detach ourselves from the past with its sublime teachings and eternal truths …”.

The same applies to where we are going as a nation, and before Whom we continue to be called to account. So this mishnah, second time through, applies to each of us, while the first version applies to Israel as a collective, to the Jewish people as a whole. May we take to heart the moral of this mishnah and satisfy the giving of an account and the great reckoning that will surely follow it.

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Illicit pleasures of the night?

Does it matter what you do in the middle of the night? And is it anyone else’s business? To any Jew who subscribes to the all-pervasive effect of Torah law and guidelines for Jewish ethics, the answer can only be a resounding “Yes!”  The binding force of Torah and the cultivation of good middot are not subject to such random considerations as whether the sky is sunny or starry, or on the direction in which the hands of the clock are pointing.

At Avot 3:5 Rabbi Chanina ben Chachinai teaches:

הַנֵּעוֹר בַּלַּֽיְלָה, וְהַמְהַלֵּךְ בַּדֶּֽרֶךְ יְחִידִי, וּמְפַנֶּה לִבּוֹ לְבַטָּלָה, הֲרֵי זֶה מִתְחַיֵּב בְּנַפְשׁוֹ

 One who stays awake at night, travels alone on the road and turns his heart to idleness is liable for his soul.

There’s no such thing in Avot as a mishnah with a single meaning and an unequivocal explanation, and this one is no exception. Before we even get to the starting line, as it were, we have to make a big decision about a small letter: the vav (וְ). Does it mean “and”, as it usually does, or the less common “or”? In other words, is Rabbi Chanina thinking of one individual or three? If the former, what of the soul of the person who only ticks two boxes by staying awake at night and travelling alone—but would never contemplate turning his heart to idleness? We can also ask whether there is a hierarchy among the three things listed here: we all spend sleepless nights from time to time, rarely through choice, but how many of us venture out alone at night in the sort of conditions that must have pertained in the wild, lawless days of the Tannaim?

The position of many traditional commentators can easily be guessed: night-time, for one who is not fast asleep, is the perfect time for learning Torah (see eg Rabbenu Yonah, Sefat Emet)—but this is plainly not what the person described by Rabbi Chanina has in mind: a sly and furtive dodger who uses the cover of night to exploit his solo mischief.

Chasidic commentators offer their own original takes on this mishnah. Thus Rabbi Tzvi Chanoch of Bendin sees the real warning of this teaching as to make sure that you are not a yechidi—doing your own thing by yourself.  For as long as you are in the company of others, being up at night is no great problem and you are less likely to lead yourself into a life of abandonment.

As usual, contemporary commentators may not actually explain what the mishnah means, but they use it as a springboard for valuable thoughts and insights of their own. This R’ Yisrael Miller (The Wisdom of Avos) writes:

“If the sin here is bitul Torah, it would not be confined to nighttime or travel. Instead, it refers to thinking about the great questions in life we must ask ourselves, but seldom do. “Why am I here in this world? What will happen to me when I die? What does Hashem want of me? What should I change, and how should I go about it?””.

So far, R’ Miller looks as though he is basically paraphrasing the three things that Akavya ben Mahalalel lists for a person to contemplate in order to avoid sin (Avot 3:1). But then he makes his real point:

“Solitude gives us the opportunity to think about these things and, more importantly, to meditate, to turn the ideas over and over in our minds, and to try to internalize them as realities. Most people will not take the trouble to set aside times for serious thought, but when an effortless opportunity presents itself, e.g. alone on the road or late at night, to ignore it is truly a sin against one’s own soul”

A lovely thought, and a great way to put a positive slant on what might easily be taken as a negative teaching.

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Moses -- not so humble after all?

In an anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:14 we encounter four personality types with whom we are well familiar:

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

There are four types of temperament. A person who is easy to anger and easy to calm down—his loss is cancelled out by his gain. One who is hard to anger and hard to calm down—his gain is cancelled out by his loss. One whom it is hard to anger but easy to calm down is a chasid. One who is easy to anger but hard to calm down is wicked.

Maharam Shik is initially troubled by this mishnah. We are supposed to choose middot that are good, but being quick to anger and slow to cool off are part and parcel of our natural package as humans. These characteristics are surely not things we choose: they are hard-wired within us. Why then stigmatise such a person as being wicked? The answer can only be that one must fight and overcome one’s inherent nature. If we can do this, Ben Zoma (Avot 4:1) praises us for demonstrating our strength of character.

So far we have learned nothing new. Most commentators are not troubled by the designation of the quick-to-anger, slow-to-cool person as wicked: they appear to assume that this is effectively a matter of choice: you are wicked if you don’t change your fundamental character trait of anger. Though this view prevails, it has attracted further refinements. For the Alshich, we regard this person as wicked in order not to learn from his ways and copy him. For the Gemara, one who yields to his anger and serves it is to be equated with an idolator (Shabbat 105b).

Maharam Shik now takes the notion that we can indeed choose to change our nature and applies it in an entirely different context.

There is a remarkable, superficially incomprehensible midrash at the very end of Yalkut Shimoni (VeZot Haberachah 966) which refers to the final verse in the Torah (Devarim 34:12):

וּלְכֹל הַיָּד הַחֲזָקָה, וּלְכֹל הַמּוֹרָא הַגָּדוֹל, אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה מֹשֶׁה, לְעֵינֵי כָּל-יִשְׂרָאֵל

“And by all the mighty hand, and by all the great terror, which Moses wrought in the sight of all Israel”.

According to the Midrash, God wanted to write the factually more correct verse

 וּלְכֹל הַיָּד הַחֲזָקָה, וּלְכֹל הַמּוֹרָא הַגָּדוֹל, אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה יהוה, לְעֵינֵי כָּל-יִשְׂרָאֵל

“And by all the mighty hand, and by all the great terror, which God wrought in the sight of all Israel”.

Moses however objected and asked that he, not God, be named as the one who wielded the mighty hand and great terror—and God agreed to do this. This midrash, Maharam Shik exclaims, is astonishing. Here we have Moses, whom the Torah itself records as being the humblest of men, demanding of God that he and not the Almighty be credited for all time as the one who worked great miracles in the eyes of all Israel. How can this be?

For those who read midrashim literally, there is no hope of a meaningful reconciliation of this message with our understanding of the Torah, and even for those who look beyond the narrative there is a hard task ahead to dress it up as the vehicle to convey a deeper moral. But Maharam Shik is up to the task.

Moses was indeed the humblest of men, but he was also a consummate teacher. He alone of our ancient sages is given the epithet ‘Rabbenu’ (our teacher). So let us postulate that this midrash is telling us a tale about a teacher.

What was the greatest of the miracles that God wrought for the Israelite people during their transition from slavery in idolatrous Egypt to the foundation of an independent monotheistic commonwealth under God? Keri’at Yam Suf, the splitting of the Reed Sea.  How did this happen? What the Israelites saw with their own eyes was Moses stretching his hand out over the sea (Shemot 14:21), which then dramatically parted. They did not of course see God. 

The midrash shows us a man performing an action which produces a result that runs contrary to the natural order and indeed defies it. This scenario depicts the possibility that man can conquer the natural order and transcend the derech teva. Now, if Moses can achieve the apparently impossible through his acts, surely we can learn from this that it is possible for us too to  transcend the same derech teva—by choosing not to flare angrily up when our nature urges to do so and, if we have given in to our inner feelings, by swiftly regaining our composure.

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Out of order

In the very first mishnah in Avot (1:1), the Anshei Knesset Gedolah (“Men of the Great Assembly”) pronounce on three things that we are urged to do:

הֱווּ מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין, וְהַעֲמִֽידוּ תַּלְמִידִים הַרְבֵּה, וַעֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

Be deliberate in judgement, and raise up many pupils, and make a fence around the Torah.

The Anshei Knesset Gedolah don’t specify which fence they have in mind but the consensus view is that they are encouraging us to adopt chumrot, stringencies, in order to distance ourselves from the transgression of the Torah’s many and sometimes pervasive Torah prohibitions (see for example the commentaries of Rambam, Rabbenu Yonah, Bartenura and Rashi). The Meiri takes a similar line though, in line with the baraita at Avot 6:6. he limits its focus to building fences round our words, to guard against improper speech.

At Avot 3:17—the only other place in Avot that mentions fences—Rabbi Akiva advertises the importance of four fences in particular:

מַסֹּֽרֶת סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה, מַעְשְׂרוֹת סְיָג לָעֹֽשֶׁר, נְדָרִים סְיָג לַפְּרִישׁוּת, סְיָג לַחָכְמָה שְׁתִיקָה

Tradition is a fence to Torah, tithing a fence to wealth, vows a fence for abstinence; a fence for wisdom is silence.

If this teaching illustrates his view of the scope of Avot 1:1, Rabbi Akiva’s understanding of it runs wider than that of the commentators we mentioned above, since his four fences deal with the safeguarding of ‘positives’. This point is picked up by Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Vizhnitz (quoted in Zwecker, Ma’asei Avos) when he comments on the word order.  The first three fences are presented in the format of “Y is a fence to Z”, while the fourth is “A fence to Z is Y”. Why should this be so?

According to Rabbi Menachem Mendel, in the first three instances, the fence is mentioned ahead of the object that it is guarding because the fence can itself help the thing which is fenced. Thus, if one forgets one’s Torah, the masoret—the transmitted tradition—can be used as an aide-memoire. If one’s wealth is being lost, giving tithes is a path to protecting it, and if one’s resolve to be abstemious is shaken, a vow may be able to buttress it. This is not the case regarding silence and wisdom. Silence by itself is not a means of increasing a person’s wisdom; it does not really ‘fence’ it in at all. In this fourth case, therefore, Rabbi Akiva is teaching about someone who is already wise: his silence can at least preserve the impression of his wisdom by inhibiting him from saying anything he might later regret.

With the seder service still fresh in our minds, it’s worth pointing out that the four fences in this mishnah loosely correspond to the Four Sons in the Haggadah.  Tradition being a fence to the Torah corresponds to the Wise Son, who asks about the festival’s halachic content but receives an answer that is based on tradition, not on any biblical rule.  Vows to fence in abstinence are relevant to the Wicked Son, whose natural inclination tends towards over-indulgence rather than abstinence.  Silence being a fence to wisdom relates to the she’eino yode’a lishol—the son who is silent—the One Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask. We respond to his silence  by opening the subject of Pesach with him and thereby make him wise.  The remaining fence, of tithes being a fence to wealth, is an allusion to the tam, the Perfect (not ‘Simple’) son. What is the relevance of tithes? The tithe is one tenth of one’s produce. This is depicted in the very word tam (תם), in which the letter ם has a numerical value of 40, exactly one-tenth of the value of ת, which is 400.

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Thinking of doing something wrong?

Akavya ben Mahalalel (Avot 3:1) gives us three things to think about if we seek to avoid transgressing Jewish law and breaching the norms of Jewish morality:

דַּע מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן. מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ: מִטִּפָּה סְרוּחָה. וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ: לִמְקוֹם עָפָר רִמָּה וְתוֹלֵעָה. וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן: לִפְנֵי מֶֽלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא

Know from where you came, where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give an account of yourself. From where you came—from a putrid drop; where you are going—to a place of dust, maggots and worms; and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting—before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

Human decision-making processes have been a subject of extensive study in recent times. The late Nobel Economics laureate Daniel Kahneman took this topic from the academic sphere to the popular arena in his best-selling book, Thinking, Fast and Slow. One of the most impressive things about his book is not his discussion of the way we make decisions but the vast array of research data and results that he cites, a body of learning that testifies to the near-obsessive nature of our desire to understand why we choose to do one thing over another.

Kahneman’s conclusion can be summarized as follows. Since our lives are shaped by a virtually uninterrupted sequence of decisions as to what to do or not do (choosing to nothing is also a decision), we can only navigate our day by shifting the vast majority of our decisions to a sort of autopilot, leaving just a small number of decisions to be made on the basis of conscious thought. For example, our daily routine for getting up and dressed in the morning requires consciousness but not a great degree of conscious thought (“thinking fast”), while our deciding whether to upgrade our cell phones may consume a considerable amount of time and brain-space (“thinking slow”).

The speed at which we make a decision has a direct effect on how we understand our relationship with God, the Torah and our fellow humans, but that direct effect is ambivalent. Our sages have long taught us that our kavanah, the intention and thoughts that precede the fulfilment of a mitzvah, is important: the more we understand and appreciate the consequences of what we do and our reason for doing it, the more laudable and worthy of reward are our deeds. Against that, the value of a deed is in the doing of it. Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner (Nefesh HaChaim) presses this point: an action done without thought remains an action, while a thought without an action has no substance to it.  And Rabbi Eliezer Berkovitz speaks up for actions that require no thought: is this not how the obedient soldier functions best—when each order (and a mitzvah is an order) is met with immediate execution, not careful deliberation on the part of the soldier instructed to carry it out?

In truth, Jewish philosophy places a value both on the deed and on the thought, since human existence is comprised of them both. But some commentators do show a preference for one over the other. Thus Rabbi Asher Weiss (Rav Asher Weiss on Avos) writes the following:

“Anybody with any sense should consider his ways and plan his path in advance. Before he does anything he should ask himself, “From where have you come? Where are you going to? Based on your experience in the past, what benefit will you gain from the act that you are about to do? Is it correct and worthwhile, or perhaps will the loss outweigh the gain? Could silence perhaps be a better course than speaking?”

In an ideal world, this would be the ideal approach to making a decision. But the reality often poses challenges that the ideal finds difficult to handle. One is that, for most decisions we make in our daily lives and that demand careful thought, it can be hard to see how where we have come from as being a criterion we can helpfully apply. And one of the factors that most commonly makes us stop in our tracks and think carefully is the absence of relevant past experiences that might guide us—for if we had their benefit our decision might not detain us long. Likewise, it is in those situations where we are not about to choose between right and wrong, between gain and detriment, that we find it most difficult to reach a decision at all.

Let us go back to the opening of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s mishnah, before the three things to the reason for the teaching itself:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה

Reflect upon three things and you will not come into the grip of transgression. 

Within the context of seeking to avoid sin, the advice of the mishnah makes sense. If you are the person who is contemplating whether to sin or not, you may gain inner strength and self-discipline from asking yourself: who am I? Am I entitled to do this, and what will the consequences be—both in the here and now and for my long-term emotional and spiritual future?

The efficacy of this advice however depends on a number of variables. One is our ability to recognize which decisions require deep and careful thought and which do not. We all have God-given instincts and impulses, and the decision whether to review and assess them at all itself requires serious consideration.  Secondly, we have to be totally honest with ourselves. Akavya ben Mahalalel is concerned with situations in which we may decide to commit a transgression. This already suggests that we are, as probably the vast majority of humans are, at least prepared to contemplate breaking the rules. For many people the decision they are thinking about is not whether to sin or not, but whether and, if so, how they can justify the sin they would like to commit.

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Desirable donation or procreative proposition?

At Avot 3:18 Rabbi Akiva waxes lyrical about God’s love for humanity, and for His profound affection for His chosen people. The mishnah concludes with the following words:

חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי לֶֽקַח טוֹב נָתַֽתִּי לָכֶם, תּוֹרָתִי אַל תַּעֲזֹֽבוּ

Beloved are Israel, for they were given a desirable article; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they were given a desirable utensil, as it says: "I have given you a good purchase; My Torah, do not forsake it" (Mishlei 4:2).

The version we have quoted above is one of two that are commonly found.  I’ve taken it from Chabad.org; it is also found in all ArtScroll’s siddurim and commentaries on Avot. In the Koren Pirkei Avot and the British Authorised Daily Prayer Book, however, we find three extra words: the precious article is described as a כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם – a precious article with which the world was created.

The addition of these three words has great significance. There is a tradition that the Torah was both created before the world and used as a blueprint, as it were, for its creation. This tradition is supported by verses from Proverbs (Mishlei 3:19 and 8:22 et seq). While there are later texts that unequivocally support the proposition that the Torah is ante-mundane, including the Gemara (Shabbat 88b) and the Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer, this reference in Avot appears to be its first mention in rabbinic literature.

Of the early commentators who have the text which includes the words שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם, Rabbenu Yonah and the commentary ascribed to Rashi simply endorse the notion that the Torah was used for the creation of the world. Meiri accepts both this position and the explanation that the world was created for the sake of the Torah (the explanation subsequently endorsed by the Bartenura). Rambam does not however give the additional words their literal meaning. In his view, they teach only that everything that happens is foreseen by God, who knows of its occurrence—a message repeated and reaffirmed in the next mishnah (Avot 3:19) where he teaches that, even though everything is foreseen, we are still given free will.

What I want to know is why these words are here at all? What do they mean to us in our daily lives? Most of us, perhaps to our discredit, are not greatly concerned with the question of whether the Torah was used in the creation of the world at all. We have our Torah mitzvot, our rabbinical mitzvot, our regular habits, customs and practices, which we balance against our need to feed and clothe ourselves and our families, to keep a roof over our heads and to guard against unforeseen contingencies. So what is with this כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה and why should we need to be told that it is something שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם?

In searching for a plausible answer to these questions, I spotted the suggestion of Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) that we take the words כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה to mean not “desirable utensil” but “utensil for desire”.  On this basis, God has given us a utensil through which we may channel our desires in a constructive and legitimate manner.

Now the words שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם have a greater significance. The Maharal (Derech Chaim, Avot 1:2) draws on the significance of our teaching that every human being is an olam katan, a small world in his or her own right.  The creation of a world to which our mishnah now refers is the creation of that olam katan that is a new human life, and the appropriate way to create it is given by the Torah itself when it lays down parameters for sexual gratification.  Because of God’s great love for us, He provides the channel for creating the next generation.

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Playing God by refusing to judge?

At Avot 1:6 Yehoshua ben Perachyah teaches:

עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וּקְנֵה לְךָ חָבֵר, וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת

Make for yourself a teacher (or master), acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every person meritoriously.

The third and final part of this mishnah is the source for the injunction to give other people the benefit of the doubt if you don’t know whether they intended to act in a dubious manner. After all, we don’t have a window into other people’s minds. When they do something wrong, can we be sure that they were doing so deliberately? Or did they have an explanation, an excuse that was at least plausible if not deserving of our approval?

This may not have been quite what Yehoshua ben Perachyah meant.  The word safek (“doubt”) does not actually appear in this mishnah. The commentaries of the Bartenura, Rambam, Rashi and Rabbenu Yonah make no mention of doubt either.

According to the commentary ascribed to Rashi, one should not assume that what one hears someone else has done is bad unless there is clear evidence to that effect. This idea that we are talking here about the burden of proof when judging a legal dispute—a subject matter that fits well into the first perek of Avot, where much, if not most, of the teachings are relevant to judicial proceedings. The Bartenura uses “scales of justice” imagery too: when the case is equipoised, one should not treat the person being judged as a rasha, someone who is wicked.

Rambam, whose explanation is endorsed by Rabbenu Yonah and the Me’iri, takes this mishnah beyond the realm of judicial proceedings. In their view it only really applies to someone you don’t know: if you know a person to be bad, even his apparently good actions are probably bad, while a good person’s seemingly bad actions should be viewed as good.

Some commentators seek to link the third part of the mishnah to the teachings that precede it. Thus the Sforno and Rabbi Chaim Volozhin (Ruach HaChaim) both see judging others favourably as the means of preserving the friendship that one has just acquired.

Rabbi Norman Lamm (Foundation of Faith) offers a very different explanation of this mishnah, citing a teaching of Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech Spira of Dinov, Chasidic author of the Bnei Yissaschar.  Here the focus is shifted from subjective doubt to and objective evidence of truth, towards the higher value of emulating God. He writes:

“[I]f your friend does something and you have two ways of judging him, either realistically, attributing his actions to malice and bad motives, or charitably, seeking out the best interpretation of his deeds, you must do the latter and give him the benefit of the doubt. But how can one do this when one knows that a fellowman did indeed perform a transgression out of malevolence or at least indifferent motives? Knowing the psychology of human beings, and the nastiness that lies so close to the soul, are we indeed being truthful in judging another lekaf zechut—charitably?”

This is not a rhetorical question. It is indeed demanded by Pirkei Avot itself, where truth is highlighted as one of the three things that enable the world to function (Avot 1:18) and we are told that conceding the truth is one of the seven signs of the chacham, one who is wise (Avot 5:9). The Bnei Yissaschar however effectively bypasses this issue. As Rabbi Lamm explains, this answer hinges on another mishnah in Avot, an enigmatic statement by Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:19 that appears to have no obvious connection to our discussion:

הַכֹּל צָפוּי, וְהָרְשׁוּת נְתוּנָה

Everything is foreseen, and freedom of choice is granted.

Rabbi Lamm explains:

“[T]he Almighty foresees everything, yet we are possessed of free will. But is this not a contradiction? Does not divine foreknowledge mean that I must do what He has foreseen, that I am denied free choice between good and evil? The answer of a number of Rishonim is that the Almighty practises tzimtzum, He deliberately curbs His own foreknowledge. He decides not to see, not to know, hence not to coerce man’s choice. So …we must imitate the divine act of self-denial—Imitatio Dei—and man too must refrain from knowing too much of the human proclivity for the base and the ugly. We must not see, not know, not understand our friend’s “real” character; instead, we must judge him charitably, lekaf zechut. This is the essence of Jewish Gevurah [literally ‘strength’,meaning here ‘self-control’]: to know how to pull back, to know when not to look at another person’s character, and to achieve “simplicity””.

These words are so noble and inspiring that we could almost swallow them whole. But in the world of middot and mussar nothing is simple. In the same perek as this mishnah, we are told to distance ourselves from a bad neighbour and to avoid joining up with a rasha, someone who is evil. These assessments are of people rather than of actions (the subject of our mishnah) but there is a fine line to be drawn—for how do we judge a person other than through his or her actions?

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