When people eat each other

Avot 3:2 is one of those mishnayot that seems to generate a surprising amount of comment and analysis, despite its brevity. There Rabbi Chanina segan HaKohanim teaches:

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

Pray for the peace of the government; for were it not for fear of it, a man would swallow his neighbour alive.

This mishnah is not one of those cryptic messages that sages have sought to decipher for the past two millennia: it is apparently straightforward in its meaning. The rule of law is a condition of civilised life. Indeed, it is fundamental to not just the Jewish world but to all adherents of the Noahide Code. Without government there is anarchy. We talk of man eating his fellow man, but the nations of the world have a more apt metaphor, that of dog-eat-dog. When we devour each other, we are no better than animals.

Not so straightforward is the explanation given by Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov, cited by Rabbi Mark Dratch in Foundations of Faith, a collection of insights into Avot by Rabbi Norman Lamm. For this early Chassidic master the word מוֹרָאָהּ (mora’ah, “fear of it”) does not refer to fear imposed on citizens by the government, but rather to the fear experienced by the government authorities themselves—this being fear for their own survival. As Rabbi Lamm puts it,

“[Reb Moshe Leib] reads the mishnah thus. Pray for the peace of the government, for if not for fear of its own survival it would permit every man to swallow his neighbor alive. Politicians, all those in authority, do not care for anything more than their own welfare, the survival of the establishment of which they are a part. They could not care less if society as such would fall into total disarray, one man swallowing the other alive. It is just that this anarchy and chaos would jeopardize the government itself, and that is why they are interested in “law and order”. Nevertheless, better a selfish government, whose only motivation is perpetuation of its own political rule, than the wild chaos of anarchy. That is why Judaism has ordained: pray for the peace of the government”.

I’m not sure that this is right.

In the first place, we have seen in our own lifetimes how some governments—notably those of the Assad regime in Syria and what passes for government in Haiti—would appear to depend on the preservation of a situation in which the government’s opponents are played off against each other, thereby weakening both themselves and their enemies. Where governments thrive on anarchy and depend on it for their own survival, we must be careful what we pray for.

Secondly, one can challenge the unsupported proposition of “better a selfish government, whose only motivation is perpetuation of its own political rule, than the wild chaos of anarchy”.  Do the facts on the ground suggest that the regimes of Hitler and Stalin are in any meaningful sense ‘better’ than anarchy? And why should it be assumed that the emotive term ‘anarchy’ is to be equated with ‘wild chaos’? China before the Red Revolution had a largely agrarian peasant population that practised an ancient and apparently stable way of life before it was organized into a regime of Communism. The real threat there was poverty, a condition that is sadly endemic in most parts of the world.

Nonetheless, it is incumbent on us to pray for the peace of the realm. Peace, in its true and absolute form, is one of the three pillars on which the world stands (Avot 1:2)—even if it is in short supply.

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Addendum: here's a list of earlier posts on the same mishnah

• Canadian canaries in the coalmine here
• Praying for the welfare of a bad government here
• Syria after Assad: a question for Avot here
• On the march with Pirkei Avot here

Soul Purpose

Soul Purpose, subtitled “Your Daily Dose of Wisdom from Pirkei Avot”, is the latest text on that popular tractate to emanate from Mosaica Press. The author, Ruchi Koval, is no stranger to the printed word: this is her third title, following Soul Construction and Conversations with God.

So what does Ruchi bring to Avot? Quite a lot, it seems. Her goal is not to produce a learned tome on the subject, replete with footnotes and scholarly reference points. Rather, it is to slice and dice Avot into concise and accessible messages—rarely more than a page in length—that, taken cumulatively, are intended as an aid to personal growth and spiritual reflection. There is a message for every day of the calendar year (including 29 February), each one closing with a personal resolution along the lines of “Today I will/won’t” do A, B or C.

Ruchi’s inspiration is the commentary on Avot by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. The reason for this is not immediately obvious, since there is no similarity of style or repetition of content. Rather, she points to functionality. What was Rabbi Hirsch seeking to do? He was striving to seize and retain the attention of a readership consisting in the main of secularly educated and cultured Jews who may have committed little time to detailed analysis and speculation on issues of Jewish ethical philosophy. In seeking to do so, Rabbi Hirsch was constrained by considerations of space: his commentary was to be wrapped around the text of Avot in the Siddur Avodas Yisroel. With limited scope for spreading the message of the mishnah, every word had to count.

Taken individually, each day’s message bears contemporary relevance, particularly (but by no means exclusively) for the typical educated middle-class Anglo-American Jew with one foot planted firmly in the secular world and the planted perhaps a little less firmly in the world of commitment to Torah study and to the more serious aspects of Jewish lifestyle. Some mini-essays are easier than others to relate to the underlying mishnah, but this is inevitable if repetition is to be minimised.

For the reader who takes this book seriously and actually reads it at the rate of just one page a day, stopping to think about the moral underlying each mishnah (or part thereof), there can be great personal benefits to be derived. But woe to the reader who is tempted to go from day to day at a single sitting: the potential for personal improvement will be in danger of being drowned in a sea of noble aspirations.

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“I love you because”

Senior readers may recall a song, penned in 1949, with the title “I Love You Because”. It became a minor hit in the 1960s and has since subsided into respectable obscurity. Its theme was that of the ranking of reasons for loving another person, culminating in an endorsement of unconditional love as the highest form (“I love you most of all because you’re you”).

There’s a fascinating anonymous mishnah in the fifth perek that addresses this very them. It reads thus:

כָּל אַהֲבָה שֶׁהִיא תְלוּיָה בְדָבָר, בָּטֵל דָּבָר בְּטֵלָה אַהֲבָה, וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ תְּלוּיָה בְדָבָר, אֵינָהּ בְּטֵלָה לְעוֹלָם. אֵיזוֹ הִיא אַהֲבָה שֶׁהִיא תְלוּיָה בְדָבָר, זוֹ אַהֲבַת אַמְנוֹן וְתָמָר, וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ תְּלוּיָה בְדָבָר, זוֹ אַהֲבַת דָּוִד וִיהוֹנָתָן

Any love that is dependent on something—when that thing ceases, the love also ceases. But a love that is not dependent on anything never ceases. What is [an example of] a love that is dependent on something? The love of Amnon and Tamar.  And one that is not dependent on anything? The love of David and Jonathan (Avot 5:19).

There is an obvious problem for any modern reader who is familiar with the back stories of these relationships, both of which are found in the Tanach in the Books of Samuel. The comparison appears inappropriate in that, while David and Jonathan’s feelings towards one another were reciprocated, there was no loving relationship between Amnon and Tamar. We would describe Amnon’s feelings toward his half sister in terms of infatuation and a lust to possess her sexually, while there is no record of Tamar having any warm feelings towards Amnon at all.

Are there better examples of relationships that failed when the condition that underpinned them no longer prevailed? That of Shimshon and Delilah works no better than our case here, since again we have no indication that Delilah actually loved Shimshon or that Shimshon ceased to love Delilah. Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) however hits the target in Megillat Esther, where he points out that Haman has lots of friends (ohavov, which also means ‘lovers’) when he is in the ascendant at 5:14. However at 6:13, once it becomes apparent that things are going against him, he still thinks of having such friends but they are not. Having seen the beginning of Haman’s downfall they are now chachamov, men who are wise to him.

Reverting to our mishnah, since no love was felt by Tamar towards Amnon, the only thing that could be described as “love” in their relationship was Amnon’s desire to possess her. But on what did that desire depend? Presumably on her unavailability to him, and once that unavailability had been forcibly removed, Tamar no longer appealed to him, The Alshich (Yarim Moshe) puts it another way: it was not her unavailability that drew Amnon to her but her innocence which, once lost, was irretrievable. Additionally, Amnon may have assumed that, once he possessed Tamar, her eyes would be opened and she would see him through fresh, admiring eyes. When this did not happen, he may have felt inadequate and humiliated himself. We shall never know.

Bartenura suggests that Amnon’s attraction was based on Tamar’s beauty, which indicates that the element on which the love was contingent can be subjective. Unless Tamar’s appearance altered radically as a result of the rape, we are given to understand that what changed was not her beauty but Amnon’s subjective assessment of it. Rabbi Eliezer Liepman puts it differently: what changed was Amnon’s self-induced delusion that his feeling towards her was one of love.

Does it actually matter whether we know the trigger that destroyed Amnon’s desire for Tamar, or whether it is what we might today call ‘love’ or not?  Perhaps not. For Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff (Lev Avot) we should focus on the message of the mishnah as a whole and not on the inexcusable behaviour of Amnon. He writes:

“The reader of the mishnah is struck by an obvious omission. The act of Amnon and Tamar is not characterised as shameful, nor is the friendship of David and Jonathan hailed as extraordinary. The mishnah neither castigates the one nor praises the other. The failure of the one and the success of the other rests on our approach to God and man. Do we love God? Do we love our fellow man? This is the burden of our mishnah”.

He continues at length by citing Devarim 6:5 (“You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might”) and implying that this is the yardstick against which we humans should ideally measure our feelings towards one another. In this context he cites the love we owe to the stranger, the violent and even the criminal. It may be a tough challenge, but we should ask what is expected of us and what is needed by others in any relationship we may have with them.

I doubt that this is precisely the message that the author of our mishnah intended to convey, but it is a powerful one. The yardstick of our love for God is an uncomfortable one to measure ourselves against, since it is axiomatic that God is unchanging and represents the highest quality of truth and justice while we humans are, well, human—and we all know in our heart of hearts that there are times when it less easy for others to love us. Thoughts, anyone?

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Licence to hate?

Rabbi Asher Weiss is one of the most popular and respected of contemporary Torah scholars, and rightly so. His opinions are highly sought-after and greatly valued. I have recently been reading his two-volume exegesis on Avot, Rav Asher Weiss on Avos, and was intrigued as to what his take on this fascinating segment of the Oral Law might be.

I think that it is fair to say that, on the whole, the reader will not be treated to a wide variety of personal opinions. Rav Weiss’s objective is to lay Avot open as a platform for the teachings of the Tannaim who composed it and of a selection of the most widely followed commentators who discussed it, rather than to use it—as I try to do—as a means of reflecting how ancient morality plays out in modern times, or as a soapbox from which to promulgate one’s personal prejudices and preferences.

Because Rav Weiss has chosen to follow this path, I tend to place great significance on those relatively infrequent occasions when he chooses to depart from it. One such departure is in his commentary on Avot 3:18 (it’s 3:15 in his book) in which Rabbi Akiva teaches this:

חָבִיב אָדָם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לוֹ שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי בְּצֶֽלֶם אֱלֹהִים עָשָׂה אֶת הָאָדָם. חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּקְרְאוּ בָנִים לַמָּקוֹם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּקְרְאוּ בָנִים לַמָּקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: בָּנִים אַתֶּם לַייָ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם. חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי לֶֽקַח טוֹב נָתַֽתִּי לָכֶם, תּוֹרָתִי אַל תַּעֲזֹֽבוּ

Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of God]; it is a sign of even greater love that it was made known to him that he was created in that image, as it says, "For in the image of God, He made man" (Bereishit 9:6). Beloved are Israel, for they are called children of God; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they are called children of God, as it is stated: "You are children of the Lord your God" (Devarim 14:1). Beloved are Israel, for they were given a precious article; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they were given a precious article, as it is stated: "I have given you a good purchase; My Torah, do not forsake it" (Mishlei 4:2).

On this lengthy mishnah Rav Weiss goes off-piste for a moment and focuses sharply, if discreetly, on the world we live in today. He writes:

“The question was posed by someone who employs a non-Jewish manager in one of his businesses. This fellow serves him with great devotion and efficiency. Naturally, the employer feels gratitude and love toward this employee. But his conscience is disturbing him, and he asks whether it is permitted to love this non-Jew or is it perhaps a mitzvah to hate him.

Before you ask whether it is permisslble to love a non-Jew, you should first ask whether it is actually a mitzvah to love him. For hating anyone—even a non-Jew—is a shameful character trait.

I am aware that among those keepers of the faith, those who are exacting in the performance of mitzvos great and small alike, the idea has taken root that we should hate the non-Jews, and that anyone who says otherwise is suspected to be a ‘modernizer’ worthy of scrutiny. However, I will cite two reliable and holy witnesses who have testified otherwise”.

Rav Weiss invokes in support of his position the authority of Rav Chaim Vital and Rabbeinu Elimelech of Lizhensk, following which he delves back into the Talmud Yerushalmi, where the commentary of the Korban HaEidah reminds us of the primacy of the principle that all humans come from the same father.

In an era where hatred, suspicion and distrust of the other seem to have become so deeply and indelibly ingrained in the human psyche, it is refreshing and welcome to see Rav Weiss endorse so positive an attitude.

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Going strong?

At Avot 4:1 Ben Zoma asks and answers four questions, of which the second is this:

אֵיזֶהוּ גִבּוֹר, הַכּוֹבֵשׁ אֶת יִצְרוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: טוֹב אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם מִגִּבּוֹר, וּמוֹשֵׁל בְּרוּחוֹ מִלֹּכֵד עִיר

Who is a gibor (“strongman”)? Someone who overpowers their inclinations. As it states (in Mishlei 16:32): "Better one who is slow to anger than a strongman, and one who rules over his spirit [is better than] than one who captures a city."

For the Sefat Emet this is obvious in quantitative terms: every individual is an olam katan (a miniature world). Anyone who can keep a lid on his own inclinations has thus conquered a whole world—which is a far greater achievement than merely conquering a city. Such a person is a true gibor.

The word gibor literally means “strong” in a physical sense. However, the notion that real strength lies outside the realms of the purely physical can be traced back to the Torah and appears frequently in Tanach. Thus we are taught that power lies in reliance on God rather than on numerical superiority, weapons and chariots (Tehillim 20:8), and that God desires the respect or fear of his subjects, not their might or their horsepower (Devarim 7:7, Tehillim 147:10-11).  The Jewish people are likened to a sheep surrounded by 70 wolves, their protection being contingent on the strength of their belief in God (Midrash Tanchuma, Toledot 6; Esther Rabbah 10:11). The related word gevurah (“strength”) is regarded as the special attribute of one of the three Patriarchs, Yitzchak: his strength as portrayed in the Torah is an inner strength that enables him to place his trust firmly in the hands of his God-fearing father Avraham, letting himself be led unresistingly to what appeared to be a proposed act of human sacrifice in which he was the intended victim (Bereshit 22:1-19).

Ben Zoma adds a further ingredient to this mix: gevurah is a person’s ability to control himself—the exercise of bechirah (“free will”)—that marks him out as truly strong. There are many facets to this degree of self-control and they go way beyond the trifling victories on which it is so easy to congratulate oneself. Politely refusing that deliciously inviting third slice of cake in the company of friends, even though one would rather have liked to eat it, is not solely the result of self-control since it is also the product of subliminal peer pressure on the part of those whose inhibiting presence cannot be discounted. Refusing the same piece of cake when there is no-one but God to watch is an entirely different matter.

Ben Zoma’s vision of strength as self-control may well be the basis for an important midrashic interpretation of a passage in Psalms (Tehillim 103:20) where the term giborei ko’ach (literally “mighty ones of strength”) is understood as a reference to those who exercise stoic self-control during the shemittah year,826 when they can neither farm their land nor stop strangers coming on to their land and eating whatever produce might be found there (Vayikra Rabbah 1:1).

Of all the personalities depicted in Tanach, the one who stands out in terms of sheer physical power is the last of the Judges, Shimshon. In Jewish tradition he is generally referred to as “Shimshon HaGibor” (“Samson the Strong”). Not only is this appellation not to be found in the Book of Judges (the first use of “Shimshon HaGibor” appears to be in the Mechilta deRabbi); in the light of this Mishnah it would appear on a plain reading of the text to be entirely inappropriate. Of all Israel’s Judges, there is none who appears as incapable of exercising self-control as Shimshon. His two unsuitable marriages, each time to a Philistine woman, appear to have been precipitated by passion, his acts of violent revenge extended far beyond the scope of retribution against those who had angered or deceived him, and he was unable to resist the persistent requests of his wife that he reveal the secret of his God-given strength.

Since the recorded description of Shimshon’s physical strength was beyond doubt, the addition of the epithet “hagibor” adds nothing to our understanding, so what is it doing there at all? Might it be that the term is being used in a manner that is ironical or euphemistic, in the same way as the words “sagi nahor” (“sufficient light”) are applied to someone who is blind?

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The real burden?

At Avot 3:6 Rabbi Nechunyah ben Hakanah teaches:

כָּל הַמְקַבֵּל עָלָיו עוֹל תּוֹרָה, מַעֲבִירִין מִמֶּֽנּוּ עוֹל מַלְכוּת וְעוֹל דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ, וְכָל הַפּוֹרֵק מִמֶּֽנוּ עוֹל תּוֹרָה, נוֹתְנִין עָלָיו עוֹל מַלְכוּת וְעוֹל דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ

Anyone who accepts upon himself the yoke of Torah—they remove from him the yoke of government duties and the yoke of worldly cares; but one who casts off the yoke of Torah is saddled with the yoke of government duties and the yoke of worldly cares.

The thrust of this mishnah is hard to miss, since it speaks of how a person can fill the day. We have a choice, so why not accept the burden of Torah study and dedicate yourself to its study? In theory, God will provide for your every need. For the purposes of reality this means that, assuming that you are truly dedicated to this task and that others around you are aware of this, they will act in accordance with God’s will, shouldering your non-Torah responsibilities on your behalf. This will leave you free to focus fully on Torah study, a pursuit that is not only commendable in itself but benefits the community that supports you.

I recently found a couple of fascinating insights in R’ Yisroel Miller’s The Wisdom of Avos which read the mishnah as meaning something quite different.

The first insight is the surprising one that saddling the person who shrugs off Torah with the burdens of civic duty and having to make a living is not a punishment or a deterrent. Rather, it is a benefit. Why? Because “human beings with too much leisure time inevitably get into trouble”.  This observation might seem strange in the context of this mishnah, but it is quite in keeping with the tone of Rabban Gamliel the son of Rebbi at Avot 2:2: there we learn of the virtue of combining Torah learning with derech eretz (pursuit of a worldly occupation) since the combination of the two makes one forget to sin.

The second insight is a psychological one:

“Too many people are obsessed with keeping up with the news and worrying about it, especially various kinds of political news (the yoke of government). And how much energy do we expend worrying about our finance and our careers (the yoke of derech eretz)?”.

To political news one might add the unceasing stream of what passes for war news, much of which consists of rumour, opinion, unverified statements, bitter accusations and untested suggestions—and which is difficult to resist, irrespective of its low veracity content and its ability to anger and upset those who are compelled to endlessly consume it.

R’ Miller continues:

“The Jew who has voluntarily accepted the yoke of Torah is not oblivious to current event, and he also puts in the necessary effort to making a living, but his emotional energy is not drained away with worry, because the focus of his day is elsewhere”.

These sentiments eloquently build on an observation made many years ago by R’ Reuben p. Bulka (Chapters of the Sages). Acknowledging that both Torah study and commitment to secular activities are capable of inducing stress, he adds:

“There are always forces which drive the individual, and anxieties which confront the individual who is faced with negotiating these forces. It is up to the individual to choose which anxiety will be the primary one”.

The challenge for each of us is to make the right choice, and then to make the best of the choice once we have made it.

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