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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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?

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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.

 For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook click here.

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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.