SCATTERED RESOURCES

Hillel’s final mishnah in Avot is quite a catchy one. It opens with five things we should think twice about before desiring them because they’re not as beneficial as one might initially imagine:

מַרְבֶּה בָשָׂר מַרְבֶּה רִמָּה, מַרְבֶּה נְכָסִים מַרְבֶּה דְאָגָה, מַרְבֶּה נָשִׁים מַרְבֶּה כְשָׁפִים, מַרְבֶּה שְׁפָחוֹת מַרְבֶּה זִמָּה, מַרְבֶּה עֲבָדִים מַרְבֶּה גָזֵל

The more flesh, the more worms; the more possessions, the more worry; the more wives, the more witchcraft; the more maidservants, the more immorality; the more manservants, the more theft (Avot 2:8).

As for the second of these give items, the basic idea is that of a proportionality between one’s material wealth and the anxiety that accompanies it. This concept is beautifully illustrated by a story told by the Netivot Shalom about a king who suffered from an ailment that could only be remedied by wearing the coat of a man who was perfectly happy and had no worries. Eventually the king’s agents tracked down such a man and asked to borrow his coat so that the king might put it on and be cured. Said the man, who was blissfully contented with his lot: “But I don’t even have a coat”.

Rabbi Ovadyah from Bartenura adds a little story of his own. He relates that a chassid—a pious person—once prayed that God should spare him from pizur hanefesh, a scattering of his soul. This was because his wealth and material assets were spread across many places and it was consequently necessary to spread his nefesh, his serious attention, over all those places in order to pay attention to them.

Citing the Arve Nahal of Rabbi Dovid Shlomo Eibenschutz, another Hillel—Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai)—contends that the possessions to which our mishnah refers are not merely material but embrace a person’s physical, mental and spiritual talents and energies too. These are given to us to help us fulfil the mission that God has designated for us. We can concentrate these special resources on the performance of mitzvot and the learning of Torah, or we can dissipate them—and that is pizur nefesh. Rabbi Hillel writes:

“If we disperse our energies heedlessly, wasting them on trivial or mundane pursuits rather than concentrating them on serving Hashem and perfecting our soul, we have ‘scattered our soul’. The choice is ours. It can be real estate, the stock market, wardrobes and cruises, or it can be Torah, chesed, mitzvot, and good mlddot. Will we choose this world, gone before we can even savor it, or the next world, which lasts forever?”

Rabbi Hillel backs this up by citing Tehillim 90:9 ( כִּי כָל-יָמֵינוּ פָּנוּ בְעֶבְרָתֶךָ; כִּלִּינוּ שָׁנֵינוּ כְמוֹ-הֶגֶה, “For all our days passed by because of your fury, we consumed our years like a fleeting thought”) and, referencing the Chida, adds

“If we scatter our words thoughtlessly, they are lost forever, along with the energy they consumed”.

This is a powerful notion. We do indeed often use up our physical resources in vain. But I am certain that this has nothing to do with Hillel’s teaching in our mishnah and that, if I am wrong and his words did once mean this, it is hard to imagine how it applies today. It makes sense to speak of anxiety being induced by material wealth because we see this all around us: it’s not the poor of this world who fret over share prices, purchase electronic security devices, bar their windows and keep guard dogs. But most people today expend their physical energy willingly and happily in the pursuit of social and leisure activities: going on holidays, working out at the gym, chatting with friends, and generally killing time in a manner that few find worrying and many find pleasurable.

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SELF-BELIEF AND DISBELIEF

We are supposed to believe in God. It is a fundamental axiom of Judaism, incorporated within the very fabric of the Thirteen Principles of Faith. Man is made in God’s image. Does this mean that we have to believe in man too?

No, says Hillel at Avot 2:4. Not only are we not supposed to believe in others; we are not even to believe in ourselves:

אַל תַּאֲמִין בְּעַצְמָךְ עַד יוֹם מוֹתָךְ

Do not believe in yourself till the day you die.

Since we don’t know the day we expect to die—a theme on which Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus elaborates at Avot 2:15—we should not believe in ourselves at all.  Many commentators, led by the Bartenura and Rashi, illustrate this point by citing the case of Yochanan Kohen Gadol, who served faithfully in this capacity for many decades before defecting to the Sadducees.  The Meiri endorses this citation but goes further, warning that one should not put oneself at risk of temptation and assume that one would be able to resist it, citing the tragic case of King Solomon who was led astray by his many wives.

Yochanan Kohen Gadol and Shlomo HaMelech provide extreme examples, but it seems to me that none of us can get through a single day without believing in ourselves one way or another. We believe in our capacity to live in accordance with our daily routines and in our ability to discharge the many simple, mundane functions that make up most of our day. They may be little episodes in the great scheme of things, but they are important to us: relying on ourselves to lock the front door, charge our cell phones, return borrowed objects, get to work on time, and so on. Perhaps we take ourselves for granted, but we do berate ourselves when we forget or fail to do them.

There is another way in which we have to believe in ourselves. In his sefer Shomanu Avoteinu, Rabbi Shimon Abo offers a plausible ground for distinguishing between what we have done in the past and what we still have to do. We cannot rely on our past performance as proof that we will continue to perform well, and we cannot even be confident that we will be credited for our past good deeds since we are not the judge of them. But we must believe in ourselves when we face tasks we have yet to perform for, if we did not, we might never attempt to undertake them.

R’ Abo offers no proof for this proposition, but it seems to me that Yehudah ben Teyma supports it at Avot 5:23 where he teaches:

הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם

Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer and strong as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven.

It makes no sense to tell a person not to have any confidence in their ability to achieve an objective or perform a task and then expect them to wield the qualities listed in that mishnah.

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MUSSAR: DOES MOTHER KNOW BEST?

Parents don’t get much exposure in Pirkei Avot. Though God is described as our Father in Heaven (Avot 5:23), biological parents are not explicitly mentioned at all. Since Avot means “fathers”, many commentators across the generations have explained its content by the occasion reference to fathers—but of mothers there is just one small, oblique trace. This is found in Avot 2:11, where Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, praising each of his star talmidim in turn, says of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya אַשְׁרֵי יוֹלַדְתּוֹ  (ashrei yoladeto, “happy is the one who birthed him”).  This can only refer to his mother.

How did Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya make his mother happy, and why is this facet of his existence singled out for praise? The commentary ascribed to Rashi, supported by Yevamot Yerushalmi 1:6, explains that his mother, while pregnant, made the rounds of all the local Batei Midrash and asked each of those who learned Torah there to pray for her unborn son to become a chacham. Following his birth, she would place his cradle within earshot of chachamim who were learning, so that he might imbibe the sweet incantation of their Torah learning even before he could understand it. This seems to be the most frequently cited explanations, but I want to look at another.

According to Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda (Midrash Shmuel), Rabbi Yehoshua’s mother taught him mussar, those principles of morality and good conduct that complement the mitzvot of the Torah. This explanation clearly appealed to Rabbi Tvi Hirsch Ferber (Si’ach Tzvi, vol.2) who wove it into his commentary on Eshet Chayil (“A Woman of Worth”)—the famous acrostic at Mishlei 31:10-31 that concludes the Book of Proverbs.

Writing on the verse קָמוּ בָנֶיהָ וַיְאַשְּׁרוּהָ בַּעְלָהּ וַיְהַלְלָהּ (“Her children rise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her”) Rabbi Ferber references our mishnah of Rabbi Yehoshua’s mother and the explanation of Midrash Shmuel, which is itself based on another verse in our chapter of Mishlei, the line that opens it:

דִּבְרֵי לְמוּאֵל מֶלֶךְ מַשָּׂא אֲשֶׁר-יִסְּרַתּוּ אִמּוֹ

The words of king Lemuel [a.k.a. Solomon]; the mussar with which his mother corrected him (Mishlei 31:1).

I have two problems with the explanation of our mishnah based on these verses in Mishlei. First, the words ashrei yoladeto seem quite remote from the meaning taken here and are not obviously allusive to the case of the mother who taught her son mussar. Secondly, elsewhere in Proverbs there is a far better-known verse than 31:1 which suggests something quite different. At 1:8 we encounter a verse that is known to many as the lyrics of a song:

שְׁמַע בְּנִי מוּסַר אָבִיךָ וְאַל-תִּטֹּשׁ תּוֹרַת אִמֶּךָ

Hear, my son, the mussar of your father, and do not forsake the Torah of your mother.

This verse suggests, at the very least, that it is the mother’s job to teach Torah, that mussar is a task for the father, and that we should not imbue the Lemuel verse cited above with too much meaning.

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Here are some sample versions of “Shema Beni Mussar Avicha”:

·       Idan Dahari: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaQozNe4tZg

·       Eli Herzlich: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCGOYpY_hIg (animated version)

·       Shlock Rock: https://www.zemirotdatabase.org/view_song.php?id=878

·       Mendy Worch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WDcUFK4qB4

A FRACTAL MISHNAH?

In geometry, a fractal is a never-ending pattern that looks the same at any scale. Whether you zoom in or zoom out, you will see smaller or larger replicas of the exact same shape repeating itself infinitely. But, in a metaphorical sense, is there such a thing as a fractal mishnah? I think so.

At Avot 1:14 Hillel famously teaches

…אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי, וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי

If I am not for myself, who is for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? …

In the Shavuot issue of Torah-To-Go, Rabbi Avi Berman cites this teaching and comments:

“This is often read as a tension to be balanced. But perhaps …it is a statement  that these two truths are not opposites, at all, but mutually dependent. If one lives for the klal in a way that is disconnected from one’s authentic self, the contribution will not endure. It will be performative, unsustainable, and ultimately untrue. And if one turns inward alone—engaged only in self-definition without outward purpose—that, too, collapses into a kind of spiritual superficiality, a life of endless self-reflection without meaning”.

To put it another way, when being for others, one should also be a little bit for oneself—and, in being for oneself, one should also be a little bit for others.

Now for the fractal bit. When being for others and also a little bit for oneself, a bit of the self that one dedicates to others should also be for oneself while a bit of what one does mainly for oneself but also a little bit for others should also be a bit for others and mainly for oneself. And so on, ever after.

In practice this is nonsense, but it works very well in theory and underlines Rabbi Berman’s point: investment in oneself and in one’s community are not mutually exclusive; they are complementary.

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BEST PRACTICE, THE KITE RUNNER AND STEALING FROM GOD

We have just been celebrating the festival of Shavuot—initially linked to Israel’s harvest cycle but which now commemorates Matan Torah, the giving of our divine law.  One of the big moments in our celebration of Shavuot comes in our Torah reading, with the recitation of the Aseret HaDibrot—the Ten Commandments.  Among these is the command לֹא תִּגְנֹב (lo tignov, “Do not steal”). As with almost every other word in the Torah, the precise parameters and nuances of meaning of לֹא תִּגְנֹב are extensively analysed, but the basic principle underlying this command is plain: it’s wrong to take something that belongs to someone else.

The tractate of Avot makes a number of allusions to taking something that belongs to another but never says so outright. This is not strange. The prohibition of taking things from others, whether by force or by stealth, is already expressly covered by the Torah. What Avot does is not to prohibit actions but to shape our attitudes towards them. Thus, for example, it stigmatizes antisocial activity such as borrowing an item and failing to return it (2:14) and helping oneself to gifts set aside for the poor, where there is no identifiable victim (5:12). Other people’s property should be as dear to a person as one’s pwn (2:17). And claiming ownership over another’s property is condemned even if the person doing so has no objection to others doing the same to him (5:13). All of this reflects a drive towards establishing principles of best practice when living in a world that is full not only of other people but of things that belong to them.

So respecting the property of others is clearly important in Jewish tradition. But how important? It is not bracketed with idolatry, bloodshed and sexual immorality as a cardinal sin for which one should preferably let oneself be killed rather than be forced to commit it. But is it less important than violating the prohibition of working the land during the Sabbatical year, something that Avot (at 5:11) ranks together with the other three as a cause of exile from the land of Israel?

There is some anecdotal evidence that, in contemporary Islamic thought, theft of another’s property is the foundation of all sin. I came across it a few years ago in The Kite Runner, Khaled Hossaini’s moving and at times provocative account of Afghanistan and the twin threats of the Soviet Union and the Taliban. In this tale, accessible both in printed format and as a movie, the protagonist’s father tells him:

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life... you steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... there is no act more wretched than stealing.”

The point is made powerfully and, like the examples referenced in Pirkei Avot, focuses on human interpersonal relationships. But what about God? Judaism is not merely about how we should deal with one another: it’s far more nuanced. As the Maharal explains in Derech Chaim, at his commentary on Avot 1:1, we relate in three ways—not just to other people but also to God and to ourselves. Little mileage can be got by focusing on whether each of us can steal from ourselves, but what about stealing from God?

Perusing the commentary of Rabbi Gedaliyahu Schorr, the Or Gedalyahu, on Parashat Naso, I found something that addressed this point. That commentary references a citation by the Sefat Emet of a teaching by the Chiddushei HaRim that addresses the fundamental importance of prohibiting theft. According to the Chiddushei HaRim, theft is indeed the basis of all wrongdoing. We should recognize that our capabilities are not inherent within us but are only lent to us by God for the purposes for which He created us. If we put these assets to wrongful use, we are misappropriating them, and this is effectively theft.

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EVERYTHING IN MODERATION: IS THAT THE JEWISH WAY?

The phrase "everything in moderation" is one of the most frequently received pieces of unsolicited advice you are likely to receive. Whether as a recipe for a good and balanced lifestyle or as an attempt to curb the excesses of those who seek to have a little too much fun, it is one of those propositions that must be right because so many people say it and because it is so difficult to argue against. But where does it come from?

According to my computer’s AI, “everything in moderation” is a modern spin on "nothing in excess" (meden agan), known to the Ancient Greeks as one of the foundational moral precepts inscribed on the Temple of Apollo at the Oracle of Delphi. But does it have a counterpart in Jewish thought? Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De’ot) famously endorses the principle of the golden mean, recommending his students to find the comfortable point that is equidistant from almost every pair of harmful opposites. But does this notion have antecedents in earlier Jewish thought?

The expression “everything in moderation” is found nowhere in Pirkei Avot. However, our own hallowed lifestyle manual on making the right choices in our relationships does seem to endorse it wholeheartedly, teaching its application in many specific instances. Thus Hillel, for example, urges us (Avot 2:8) not to overindulge in eating and amassing wealth or in the acquisition of wives, housemaids and servants. An anonymous baraita at Avot 6:6 adds to this any excessive activity in the fields of business, procreation, pleasure-seeking, socializing, frivolity and sleep. The danger of conversation is also recognized, where Yose ben Yochanan Ish Yerushalayim warns of excessive chatter with other people’s wives as well as one’s own (Avot 1:5). Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (Avot 1:17) expands this to cover excessive conversation with anyone.

Even where there is no obvious connection to moderation in a teaching from Avot, our sages are not above implying one. At Avot 6:6 one of the 48 means of acquiring Torah knowledge is פִלְפּוּל הַתַּלְמִידִים (pilpul hatalmidim, “sharp discussion with one’s students”). On this Rabbi Yaakov Yechizkiyahu Greenvald of Pupa (cited in MiMa’ayanot HaNetzach) remarks that the word פִלְפּוּל (pilpul) literally means “pepper”—a cooking ingredient that is most beneficial in moderation, but which can be devastating if too much is added.

Even in those instances where Avot encourages us to do things in excess, it imposes limits. Thus, for example, learning Torah should still be combined with derech eretz (in this context some sort of gainful occupation: Avot 2:2) and giving tzedakah should not be allowed to encroach up the opportunity for others to do so (Avot 5:16).

So in conclusion, we may propose that Avot supports the mantra of “everything in moderation”—even if we have to delve below the surface of this tractate in order to find out how it does so.

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TAKE YOUR PARTNER

The idea that two people can accomplish what one person cannot is deeply embedded in the human psyche. The very first story in the bible deals with the need for Adam to have an ezer kenegdo, a brilliant concept of another person who is both an ezer—a helper—and kenegdo—in opposition to him. This suggests not only that two can achieve more than one, but that each can act as a check to the other and thus give a chance for the two to negotiate better courses of action.

Unlike the Torah, Pirkei Avot does not open by emphasizing the need for a friend but it is mentioned explicitly in the first chapter where, 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 rav (i.e. a master or teacher), and acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every man on a scale of merit.

The Hebrew word for “friend” here is חָבֵר, a term that has strong connotations of a friend with whom one studies Torah, and which may well also be the sort of confidant with whom one shares ones worries and woes.

The longest baraita in the sixth and final chapter of Avot (6:6) lists 48 things that enhance a person’s ability to acquire Torah knowledge and one of these is דִקְדּוּק חֲבֵרִים  (dikduk chaverim), variously translated as “Closeness with colleagues”, “attaching oneself to colleagues”,  ”learning with one’s peers” and the like. The root of the Hebrew word dikduk essentially relates to smallness and precision. The related verb ledakdek means to delve deeply, scrutinize, or pay meticulous attention to fine details. Thus in our context dikduk chaverim is generally regarded as the sort of fine analysis in which a pair of Torah scholars might engage when pushing their understanding to its limits.  This is far from the wider concept of “acquire for yourself” postulated by Yehoshua ben Perachyah, but it shares with the Adam-and-Eve scenario the notion of a sort of counterpoint between different opinions that can lead to a better or more original outcome. In more modern terms we might compare it to the process of thesis, antithesis and synthesis of the Hegelian dialectic.

That dikduk chaverim means learning together with a partner in order to gain better understanding of the Torah is the consensus opinion of Avot commentators but, if you look far enough, you can almost always find an outlier. For this brief teaching, Rabbi Yitzchak Elchanan Waldshein of Shershov (cited in MiMa’ayanot Netzach) is that man. For him, dikduk chaverim does not mean delving deeply into the finer points of Torah law with a close and trusted learning partner. Rather, it means delving deeply into your prospective chaver in order to satisfy yourself that this is the right partner for you. In particular, one must test the prospective partner to make sure that he does not pursue a barak chitzoni—any distracting flash of inspiration drawn from outside the context of your learning—and that his main concern is for your spiritual and intellectual development.

This interpretation suggests that the ideal chavruta, learning partnership, will be a very serious matter indeed, and he may be describing a sort of gold standard for tackling Torah together with another person. But I wonder how many people in our generation have a sufficient degree of earnest commitment and sincere conviction to eliminate from their learning those sparks of spontaneity and inspiration drawn from a different world, the world for which the Torah was given.

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MILKING A MISHNAH: HOW FAR CAN YOU STRETCH AN EXPLANATION?

Avot 5:7 is one of those anonymous and superficially historical mishnayot that at first sight really does look out of place in a tractate that focuses on middot and mussar: the positive and negative sides to cultivating good behaviour.

Our mishnah is made up of a list of ten miracles that God performed for our forefathers in Temple times. One of the ten is this:

וְלֹא כִבּוּ הַגְּשָׁמִים אֵשׁ שֶׁל עֲצֵי הַמַּעֲרָכָה

The rains did not extinguish the wood-fire burning upon the altar.

Writing in Lessons in Leadership from Pirkei Avot, Yeshivat HaKotel’s Rav Ari Cutler makes no secret of how to squeeze meaningful messages for interpersonal growth from lists of this nature. Picking on four lines from the mishnah, he treats each to two subheadings: Peshat, which is a literal restatement or explanation of it, and Homiletic, which has nothing to do with it but is intended to resonate with it.  Thus, for the miracle cited above, Peshat is “The fire was not extinguished even though the outer altar was in the middle of the courtyard exposed to rain”. Then things get more interesting.

Under the heading Homiletic Rav Cutler writes:

“Many times a leader is in the middle of different decisions and people are ‘raining down’ on his style or decisions. A positive leader must be open to constructive criticism. At the same time, the leader’s passion and fire cannot be permanently cooled down”

In one respect this is a heroic attempt to link a miracle based on phenomena found in the physical world—wood which is flammable, fire and rain which extinguishes it—to the arena of human intercourse in which there are leaders and followers, critics and collaborators. On the other hand, perhaps within the great tradition of homiletic teachings, it is so far from its Mishnaic basis that it scarcely appears to be derived from it and indeed Rav Cutler’s explanation may fare better without it.

In addition, the context of the mishnah and the richness of Jewish symbolism and metaphor make it tempting to poke challenges to the validity of this homiletic lovechild. Avot 5:7 talks of miracles. Is it then a miracle for a leader to cope with the criticism that rains down? And is not rain, alias the nourishing effect of Torah, to be preferred to the destructive fire and overpowering passion of the yetzer hara?

I can see both sides of the argument and confess that, where a mishnah in Avot contains no overt mention of human conduct, I’m inclined to take the route of Rav Cutler and seek out a homiletic message where necessary. The process still leaves me uneasy, though.  What do readers think?

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CUNNING LEOPARDS AND CONFIRMATION BIAS

In “Wisdom Unfettered by Divine Inspiration”, a piece authored by Andrew Levitt and published in the Jewish Press late last year, I came across a short passage that somehow wedged itself in my mind. I’ve finally got round to addressing it—and it runs like this:

Daniel has his own prophetic dream: He sees four beasts, the third being a leopard which is the most cunning of all the animals, as it says in Pirkei Avot (5:23), “Be cunning as a leopard.”

This stopped me in my tracks. The mishnah itself reads as follows, in relevant part:

יְהוּדָה בֶּן תֵּימָא אוֹמֵר: הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם.

Yehudah ben Teyma says: Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, fleeting as a deer and mighty as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven.

I have seen many translations and explanations of this mishnah and long ago concluded that the word עַז (az) means “bold”, “brazen” or “strong”, but certainly not “cunning”.  A quick consultation with Jastrow, followed by a somewhat longer consultation with Brown, Driver & Briggs supported this. So where does this notion come from? I thought I would ask ChatGPT. This is the answer I received:

Short answer: there is essentially no support in classical Jewish sources for translating “עַז כַּנָּמֵר (az kenamer)” as “cunning as a leopard.” “Bold,” “brazen,” or “audacious” is the correct sense.

Here is why.

1. The Hebrew word “az” (עַז)

The key adjective in the phrase is עַז. In Tanakh and rabbinic Hebrew, az consistently means:

• strong
• bold
• fierce
• brazen / audacious

It does not mean clever, sly, or cunning.

Examples:

• “עַז פָּנִים” = brazen-faced (impudent), not clever
• “עַז כַּאֲרִי” (Judges 14:18) = fierce as a lion

If the Mishnah intended cunning, it would have used words like:

•  עָרוּם  (crafty, shrewd)
• חָכָם  (wise)
• פִּקֵּחַ  (clever)

It does not.

2. Why a leopard (נָמֵר)?

In rabbinic literature, the leopard is associated with chutzpah, brazenness, and fearlessness, not cunning.

This fits the structure of the Mishnah:

עַז כַּנָּמֵר

קַל כַּנֶּשֶׁר

רָץ כַּצְּבִי

גִּבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי

Each animal represents a behavioral or motivational trait, not an intellectual one:

• Leopard → boldness / brazenness
• Eagle → alacrity
• Deer → speed
• Lion → strength

The list would be conceptually broken if “cunning” were suddenly introduced.

3. Classical commentators

All major commentators explain az kenamer as boldness in serving God:

• Rashi: overcoming embarrassment in mitzvot
• Rabbeinu Yonah: resisting social pressure and mockery
• Bartenura: not being ashamed to do what is right
• Rambam (in Shemonah Perakim): moral courage

None suggest cleverness or deception.

4. Where might “cunning” come from?

The translation you saw likely stems from non-Jewish symbolic associations where leopards (or big cats generally) are viewed as stealthy or crafty hunters. That symbolism simply does not govern rabbinic Hebrew usage.

Another possibility is confusion with:

• נִמְרָץ  (energetic, forceful)
• or with modern animal stereotypes rather than linguistic evidence

But linguistically and traditionally, it doesn’t hold.

5. Bottom line

• “Az kenamer” = bold, brazen, audacious
• “Cunning as a leopard” has no basis in Hebrew, the Mishnah, or classical Jewish interpretation
• The Mishnah is teaching moral courage, not cleverness

If you want, I can also show how this mishnah was understood practically in halakhic contexts (e.g., standing out in mitzvah observance despite social pressure).

ChatGPT gave me the answer I wanted—but I am not unaware of confirmation bias and I’m reluctant to let this issue rest without at least giving readers an opportunity to comment and, in particular, to let me know if they are familiar with any translation of Avot that endorses the use of the word or concept “cunning”.

Andrew Levitt’s article can be read in full here.

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SECRET SINS AND PUBLIC EXPOSURE

Rabbi Yochanan ben Beroka (Avot 4:5) cautions against the performance of even private actions that constitute a chillul Hashem, a desecration of God’s name, warning of the hugely embarrassing consequences:

כָּל הַמְחַלֵּל שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם בַּסֵּֽתֶר, נִפְרָעִין מִמֶּֽנּוּ בְּגָלוּי, אֶחָד שׁוֹגֵג וְאֶחָד מֵזִיד בְּחִלּוּל הַשֵּׁם

Whoever desecrates the Divine Name in secret will be punished in public. So far as chillul Hashem is concerned, it makes no difference whether it’s unintentional or deliberate.

Let’s leave aside the fascinating questions as to what actually constitute a chillul Hashem and, as the Me’iri asks, whether it is the case that every infraction of the Torah, whether public or private, is a desecration of God’s name.  If we start by assuming, as many do and the Gemara demonstrates, that there is a sliding scale in which, the more overtly religiously observant and learned a person is, the higher is the standard of behaviour expected. We can then ponder the following pair of questions:  why should  God be so worried about private chilluei Hashem that He effectively “outs” the perpetrator, thus publicizing the desecration of His own name. And how are we, as ordinary rank-and-file Jews, affected by any given chillul Hashem committed by another person in private?

Our capacity to seek to avoid embarrassment must constitute an important factor in the rationale for this teaching. If we truly believe not only that God is watching and recording our every private action (as we learn from Rebbi at Avot 2:1), and that we are punished for our misdeeds just aa we are rewarded for our good ones, no further deterrent should be needed. But in practice we live our lives in real time and do not always have the opportunity to reflect before deciding rationally what we should do or say. The ability of the yetzer hara, the inclination, to get the better of our good intentions is acknowledged throughout Jewish literature. So presumably more is needed if we are to improve our Torah compliance—and that is where this Mishnah invokes our deep urge to escape public humiliation or to be “found out”. Bearing this in mind, I would like to think that it is precisely because God does not want to see us shamed in public that He intimates that He is prepared to do so.

Moving on to our second question, are we really affected by the secret sins of others? At least one modern commentator believes so. In his Seh LaBeit Avot, Rabbi Shalom Hedaya considers an anonymous mishnah (Avot 5:17) that contrasts four types of individuals by reference to two variables: whether or not they go to the House of Study and whether or not they learn. The mishnah describes the fourth character, who neither goes to the Beit Midrash nor studies, as a rasha, someone who is wicked. Why? Rabbi Hedaya suggests that it is because by staying at home and failing to learn, he causes others to sin. This is a remarkable proposition. From the point of view of the public at large, if the person is staying home they won’t even know if he is grappling with a Gemara or playing with his cell phone. How can what he does, out of the line of human vision, affect anyone and even cause them to act in similar fashion?

Modern science, or at least parascience, has an answer to this: Professor Ruport Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance. This theory proposes that memory is not merely personal but is inherent in nature itself. All natural systems—molecules, cells, and organisms, including the human being—inherit collective memory from previous similar systems via "morphic fields". It suggests that nature is habitual rather than governed by fixed laws, meaning that behaviours or structures become easier to repeat over time, as more people repeat them. What this means, in the case of a Jewish community with its own collective memory, is that it becomes easier to repeat the behaviour of learning Torah when others in that community are learning Torah, and harder when they are not—even where there are no competing social pressures.

Sheldrake’s theories have attracted much attention and criticism over the years; indeed, he is one of a small, select band of scholars whose TED Talks have been banned. Yet here at least he offers a clue to the understanding of our mishnah: each time someone commits a chillul Hashem privately and out of the sight of man, he makes it easier for others to do likewise.

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TELLING IT STRAIGHT

At Avot 2:5 Hillel teaches a number of principles for guidance in one’s relations with others. Among them is this:

אַל תֹּאמַר דָּבָר שֶׁאִי אֶפְשַׁר לִשְׁמֽוֹעַ שֶׁסּוֹפוֹ לְהִשָּׁמַע

Depending on one’s preference, this can be translated in one of two ways:

Do not say something that is impossible to understand if it is meant to be understood

or

Do not say something where it is impossible that it should be heard, for ultimately it will be heard.

Aside from noting the irony that Hillel’s own words appear to be incapable of bearing a single meaning that can be immediately understood, there is much to be said about the notion of speaking plainly so that one’s words will always be understood.  Much if not most of then tractate of Avot focuses, whether directly or indirectly, on the process of imparting and acquiring understanding of Torah. Given this overarching context, the importance of teaching only that which can be understood is obvious and needs no further elucidation.

Of modern commentators, Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai) is among the most forthright in promoting the notion that plain speech is best. Say what you mean to say and leave no-one in doubt of the meaning of your words. He writes:

“If we have something to say, we should say it outright, clearly and plainly. Others should not have to work hard to plumb the depths of our meaning, because this can lead to grave errors, and even to the point of disaster, God forbid. If the issues are complicated and our words are ambiguous, there is a great risk that people will misunderstand. Especially when dealing with sensitive matters like faith and belief, this is very dangerous. There is no room for uncertainty here, and we should not be the unwitting cause of it, God forbid”.

This must be the ideal position, especially in matters of Torah instruction and matters of Jewish religious practice. Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) however explains that it must be qualified in the field of psychotherapy, where a patient is in denial and any attempt to get him to accept the truth of a proposition is bound to fail until the patient becomes capable of accepting it for himself.

There may be further limitations. The Yalkut Gershoni, Knesset Yisrael and Meir Nesiv all apply this teaching to the mitzvah of tochachah, rebuking others, and indeed it seems appropriate to do so—but this works best in the field of practical halachah. If you tell someone, for example, that they are not putting their tefillin on correctly, it is necessary to spell out explicitly both the error and its means of putting it right. However, there are other areas where a more indirect approach may be preferred both by the speaker and his addressee, particularly when others may overhear the conversation. Anyone who has had to let someone know that they smell and that either they or their clothing needs prompt attention, as I once had to do, will know what I mean.  

Sometimes a failure to say directly what one means will produce quite an unsatisfactory result. Let me cite here a relatively trivial incident drawn from my own experience. On one occasion, when visiting an aged relative in a retirement home, one of the other residents called out to me: “You make a better door than a window”. I had no idea what this cryptic comment meant until someone informed me that my addressee was complaining that I was standing between her and her television screen.

I have recently taken to listening to what I say, playing it back, and wondering how clearly, I am expressing myself in terms of Hillel-compliance. This exercise has led me to conclude that the meaning of much if not most of what I say is governed by context, not clarity. For example, I might come back from a fruit-and-vegetable shopping trip and announce, “the grapefruit today were quite reasonable”. To a third party, eavesdropping on my words, this message must have seemed quite baffling.  “Reasonable” is not a word that is usually paired with “grapefruit”—and is there such a thing as an unreasonable grapefruit?  But context is everything. If I have been shopping in a discount store where the goods are of variable quality, “reasonable” will be taken as “of reasonable quality”. However, if I have returned from an expensive upmarket store, “reasonable” will be understood as “reasonably priced”. Is there a point to this exercise? Yes. It shows that the standard of comprehensibility must be subjective, in keeping with the addressee’s knowledge, and not objective.

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MORE ON STICKING TOGETHER: THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE HERD

We recently discussed Hillel’s teaching at Avot 2:4 

אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

Do not separate from the community.

In doing so, we assumed that this advice was addressed to any individual who might otherwise wander off, break away from the community and do his (or her) own thing. This, after all, is how these words have been taken by generations of sages and scholars. But there may be more to them.

I have just come across a curious book, Lessons of Leadership from Pirkei Avot. This turns out to be, as its subtitle explains, “A collection of Divrei Torah from the Rabbeim and Students of Yeshivat Hakotel”.  These divrei Torah are mainly in English, though those relating to the baraitot that comprise the sixth and final perek are all in Hebrew. The contributions are of uneven quality, reflecting both the range of scholarship and comprehension of the writers and the fact that some of the mishnayot and baraitot of Avot are manifestly easier to explain in terms of leadership than are others.

While reading Ariel Axelrod’s short explanation of this mishnah, I found myself thinking about something that had not occurred to me before. Where a person breaks away from a Jewish community, this need not mean that he becomes a self-contained unit. In many, if not most cases today a person who breaks with a Jewish community frequently joins another community: this may even be the public at large, with all its virtues and, sadly, vices—and which is a community that in one sense embraces all the communities that lie within it.  Maybe it is the person who travels in the opposite direction, breaking off from a wider community, doing teshuvah or converting to Judaism, who is the real culprit in terms of אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

It is also not unknown for the tzibbur to split. This can happen in all sorts of scenarios. A large congregation which prays in accordance with Ashkenazi minhagim and traditions may also be home to a small number of Sefardim who eventually break away when their numbers are sufficient to sustain their own minyan. It would seem harsh to point an accusatory finger at them and complain that they were somehow in breach of Hillel’s precept.

A more difficult case might be where a group of shul members decide to set up an earlier Shabbat morning minyan rather than pray later with the rest of the congregation. This is often seen as divisive, especially where the depletion of the later minyan has an adverse impact on the enjoyment of its davening experience. But how divisive can this be said to be, when the ‘breakaway’ affects only one minyan out of an entire week’s worth?

Where does this leave us? It is axiomatic that unity is strength, and that the many can achieve what an individual cannot. We also not only tolerate but respect divergent paths that lead to the same destination, as is evidenced by the variety of religious practices we find between and within Ashkenazi, Sefardi and Temoni traditions and in the multifarious branches of chasidut. But these groups, so different on the surface, share certain fundamentals: these include belief in God, the primacy of His Torah and the notions of reward and punishment. Where different groups are travelling to the same destination, but taking different routes, we should not be hasty to shout out אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר.

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LET’S STICK TOGETHER. REALLY?

Hillel is quite firm on the point. At Avot 2:4 the first of his five teachings is

אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר

Do not separate from the community.

In many (probably most) versions of Pirkei Avot these words are repeated verbatim by Rabbi Tzadok at Avot 4:7 as the first of his three teachings.

As happens so often in Avot, these few terse words are susceptible of an apparently unlimited range of meanings and practical applications. This is because they deal with a topic that is of universal relevance—the relationship of the individual to the group in philosophical, moral, religious, economic, psychological and sociological terms.

For us Jews, the obvious situation in this teaching applies is where an individual finds himself embedded within a community that is going astray. Maimonides has no doubts here. Separate yourself from wrongdoers who transgress the will of Heaven even if it means leaving town and finding yourself a convenient cave; anything and everything is better than remaining within a community that is actively defying the commandments of God. For Rabbi Eliezer Papo (a.k.a. the Pele Yo’etz) however, the opposite path must be taken: stick to the community wherever it goes and whatever it does. Even the wicked and idolatrous King Achav was rewarded with victory because he fostered achdut—unity—among his people, and the first galut lasted only 70 years, even though our forebears committed every sin in the book, because the people still stuck together. The second galut, however, in result of our lack of achdut, continues.

Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai, vol.2) suggests a novel view of Hillel’s teaching, based on the Arizal. For him, not separating from the community is an intellectual and spiritual response to the challenge of prayer. He writes:

The Arizal teaches that “before one begins his prayers in the synagogue … he should accept upon himself the commandment of  ‘Love your fellow man as yourself’. And he should have in mind to love each and every Jewish person as he loves himself because, through this, his prayers will ascend, linked to the prayers of all Israel”.

This does not address the issue of separation from the tzibbur, but redefines it in terms of making a positive effort to identify with the prayers of other Jews. But what if we know our fellows and feel intuitively that we are not straining to pray for the same outcomes? Is it permitted or even possible to detach our prayer from theirs?

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CONFRONTED BY HUMILITY? WHAT DO YOU DO?

This is a serious question. Every type of human behaviour either elicits or demands an appropriate response. If someone displays anger towards me, I know that this is a corrosive middah and that it is never right and generally wrong to respond with a display of anger of my own. Not just in Pirkei Avot (see eg Avot 5:14, 6:6) but throughout Jewish ethical writings, anger is regarded as a destructive personal quality, akin to avodah zarah—idolatry—because a person possessed by it is no longer in control of himself. Likewise, if someone greets me with a happy smiling face I should respond in like kind (Avot 1:15).  When a person displays boastful arrogance, I should not seek to compete or contradict: that is likely to cause anger. If someone is in a quiet, contemplative mood I should recognize the fact and give him time and space. And so on.

But what should we do when faced with a display of humility? The importance of this middah, which is emphasized in Avot (eg Avot 4:4, 4:12, 6:6), is further underlined by the Maharal in Netivot Olam, where he lists it as the foremost requirement for learning Torah, by Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Psishcha, who calls it a chiyuv de’oraita (a Torah obligation), by Rambam in his Pirush Mishnayot, and by many others. Do displays of humility call for any response at all?

I ask this question because of the superficial similarity between true humility from its evil twin, false humility (a.k.a. false modesty)—an annoying trait that our sages identify and which in reality is a form of boastfulness or conceit. A species of this middah that I have encountered several times over the years is found where someone who is giving s shiur cites a question, describes its difficulty, lists the various sages who have not offered a satisfactory answer to it, and then announces that, despite his relative insignificance when compared with these gedolim of previous generations, he is humbly submitting the answer. If the speaker was truly humble, would he really announce his humility?

Publicly one cannot say anything without running the likely risk of embarrassing the speaker in public, and this would be contrary to the teaching of Rabbi Elazar haModa’i at Avot 3:15. In addition, in the context of a shiur, whether the speaker is humble or not is less important—and less interesting—than whether the answer he has given is correct, or at least tenable.  Privately one might speak to him and tactfully rebuke him, but this in turn raises the question whether the Torah mitzvah of rebuking another (endorsed by Avot 6:6), applies only to the breach of mitzvot or also to a display of poor behaviour such as false humility.

My guess is that, in most situations, the correct thing to do is—nothing. At least that way one avoids giving positive offence, which itself is something.  Comments, anyone?

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WORK, EFFORT AND MONEY

Rabban Gamliel ben Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi tosses a familiar bone of contention to the pack of commentators at Avot 2:2 when he teaches:

יָפֶה תַּלְמוּד תּוֹרָה עִם דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ, שֶׁיְּגִיעַת שְׁנֵיהֶם מַשְׁכַּֽחַת עָוֹן, וְכָל תּוֹרָה שֶׁאֵין עִמָּהּ מְלָאכָה סוֹפָהּ בְּטֵלָה וְגוֹרֶֽרֶת עָוֹן

Beautiful is the study of Torah with derech eretz [taken here to mean some sort of day job or gainful employment by which to support oneself], for the toil of them both causes sin to be forgotten. Ultimately, all Torah study that is not accompanied with work is destined to be of no worth and to cause sin.

Reading through the sages over the ages, one can identify two camps. There are those, led by Rambam, who take this teaching at face value. Someone who doesn’t work and expects to be supported by others is in essence a parasite and his attitude is a chillul Hashem, a denigration of God’s name. On this theme, at Avot 4:7 where Rabbi Zadok teaches that one should not use the Torah as a spade to dig with, Rambam explains his position at extraordinary length, pulling no punches. In short, such a person forfeits his life in the World to Come—and anyone who argues otherwise has either misunderstood or disregarded the words of the sages on this matter.

Rambam however appears to be in the minority, just as much now as he was in his own times. The opposition has maintained, among other things, that Rambam didn’t mean his words to be taken literally, that Torah learning would suffer—and the Jewish world with it—if people were not supported in their full-time learning, that learning to the exclusion of working for a living is the optimal solution and that, if we all studied Torah full time, our work would be done by others. In the world today a very large number of scholars are supported in full-time Torah study, whether for life or a limited period, and they are unlikely to be militant supporters of Rambam’s position.

So much attention is given to the “work or not to work” issue that the last few words are sometimes overlooked. Living off the charity of others is said to be גוֹרֶֽרֶת עָוֹן (“goreret avon”, something that drags sin in its wake). Why should this be the case? After all, if Torah has the quality of being able to refine a person’s thoughts and conduct, learning Torah to the exclusion of everything else should have the opposite effect.

Rambam’s younger contemporary Rabbenu Yonah explains these words thus:

Idleness leads to poverty, which will inevitably lead to sin and many other evils. The poor man will be eager to receive gifts, and “only one who hates gifts will live” [Mishlei 15:27]. As a result, he will flatter others, wicked people included, in order to receive more gifts. When the gift money runs out he will resort to theft and gambling [based on Ketubot 58a], bringing home what he stole from the poor to ward off death by starvation. At this desperate stage he loses all restraint and will not stop until he has transgressed all of the mitzvot in the Torah, for one sin leads to another [Ben Azzai, Avot 2:1] (trans. Rabbi David Sedley).

This grim picture, based on impeccable primary sources, is hard if not impossible to reconcile with full-time learning today. Aside from the contentious notion that anyone in full time learning can be truly described as “idle”, modern Jewish society lives with a system that has greatly expanded since the end of the Second World War whereby full-time Torah study is mainly paid for and sponsored by Jewish communities themselves. Beyond the provision made by Jewish communities for the support of this sort of Torah scholarship, most countries today provide some sort of welfare support that covers at least the bare necessities of the unemployed, the unemployable and the seriously dedicated Torah scholar.

Does this mean that Rabban Gamliel is wrong and that full time Torah learning is no longer likely to cause sin? No. There are other ways in which a person can err. Theft, refusing to repay a loan and indeed “all the mitzvot of the Torah” are exactly that—statutory wrongs that are contained in the Written Law.  But Avot is a tractate that is addressed to middot, the qualities of a person’s character and the way one behaves, and this means looking beyond the Tanach, towards something more deeply ingrained in what we are and how we feel.

When a person works to support himself or supplement his income, he internalizes an important connection between three cardinal elements that shape his life: time, effort and money. If he needs money, he must expend effort and, in doing so, consume time that might be spent doing other things (in this instance, learning Torah). By working to secure money to support himself, he comes to appreciate the value of his effort and the cost to him in spending that effort which could have been put to good use in his studies. This should make his learning all the dearer to him because the time and effort put into to working are the price he pays for doing it.

The situation is quite different where a person’s support comes automatically from a source that is not contingent on his time and effort. He will not have had to “buy” his learning time, and this raises the danger that, since he has no personal commitment to raising his support, he will come to take it for granted. In short, he is at risk of forgetting to feel grateful. And that, in terms of one’s middot, can be called a sin.

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WHERE EAGLES DARE TO LEARN

Rabbi Yishmael’s teaching at Avot 3:16 has been transmitted through the generations for a couple of millennia without attracting anything that might be described as consensus as to what it means. It’s a three-part mishnah and the final segment is quite intelligible. The problem lies with the two bits that appear ahead of it.

The mishnah goes like this:

הֱוֵי קַל לְרֹאשׁ, וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת, וֶהֱוֵי מְקַבֵּל אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם בְּשִׂמְחָה

A rough idea of what it might mean in full can be obtained by reading two contemporary translations by organizations dedicated to spreading the word, as it were: Chabad and ArtScroll:

Be yielding to a leader, affable to the black-haired, and receive every man with joy (Chabad).

Be yielding to a superior, pleasant to the young, and receive everyone cheerfully (ArtScroll).

Some idea of the other translations and meanings that have been ascribed to it can be found in an earlier blogpost, “Playing With Power”, here.

One thing that almost all the diverse explanations on this mishnah have in common is that they relate them to how we get on with, or deal with, other people. But, given the diverse and imaginative manner in which mishnayot in Avot are understood, it’s odds-on that an exception will appear somewhere or other—and I’ve just found one.

The commentator in question is Rabbi Shalom Hedaya, whose Seh leBet Avot was extracted by his son Rabbi Ovadyah Hedaya from his VaYikach Ovadyah and published in 1971.  Seh leBet Avot is notable for two things. One is its question-and-answer format; the questions are set out in the inside column of each page and the answers he gives appear next to the outer margin, giving the reader a chance to read the questions and have a stab at answering them himself before reading the suggested solution.  The other is the author’s passion for relating each mishnah in Avot to another one—very often the one preceding it. This sometimes leads to explanations that seem somewhat contrived, but it also leads to some unexpected connections between teachings that might otherwise be missed, as well as coming up with something completely different—as happens here..

How does Reb Shalom tackle Rabbi Yishmael’s teaching? He fastens on to the word קַל (kal, meaning “light”) and instantly senses a tie-in with the only other occasion קַל appears in Avot, at 5:23 where Yehudah ben Teyma teaches:

הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם

Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer and mighty as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven. 

For Reb Shalom, this is a clue that Rabbi Yishmael is not talking about interpersonal relations; he is talking about learning Torah. Just as the eagle is קַל, soaring into the sky, so too should the serious talmid chacham be קַל with regard to his head (לְרֹאשׁ), letting his thoughts ascend to the lofty heights. Not only that; he will be וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת (no’ach letishchoret), able to plumb the darkest recesses of Torah wisdom, the root of being שְׁחֽוֹרֶ, dark, which also suggests the early morning before daybreak).  Once he has reached the heights of Torah study and mined its profundities, he is ready to greet all others with simchah, true happiness, knowing that he is fully equipped to learn from each person he meets—this being the message of Ben Zoma at Avot 4:1.

I wonder how Rabbi Yishmael would have viewed this line of thinking.

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