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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DO WE HAVE A TRULY PERCEPTIVE EYE?

One of the teachings that open the second perek of Avot deals with the idea that we are under constant observation:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה, דַּע מַה לְּמַֽעְלָה מִמָּךְ, עַֽיִן רוֹאָה וְאֹֽזֶן שׁוֹמַֽעַת, וְכָל מַעֲשֶֽׂיךָ בְּסֵֽפֶר נִכְתָּבִים

Contemplate three things, and you will not come to the grip of transgression: Know what is above from you: a seeing eye, a listening ear, and all your deeds are inscribed in a book.

This teaching, by Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, may be the subject of more blogposts on Avot Today than any other mishnah in Avot. Yet there is always more to be said about it.

I recently found myself reading a profound comment by Rabbi Norman Lamm, quoted in Foundation of Faith, a compendium of Avot-related thoughts by Rabbi Lamm compiled by his son-in-law Rabbi Mark Dratch. The quote opens by framing the mishnah within humankind’s quest to restore itself to the state of blissful spiritual innocence that existed before we tasted sin and the knowledge that flowed from it:

“When our first ancestors sinned, they lost their spiritual vision and instead were confined to their material views. If we are to live lives that are decent and blameless and genuinely Jewish, then we must reverse the process”.

This is a magnificent ideal for which to strive—but the question remains: how to achieve this? Rabbi Lamm answers this by listing the three means of surveillance spelled out in our mishnah. Focusing on the seeking eye, he continues:

“Perhaps what [the Rabbis of the Mishnah] referred to is not, as is the usual interpretation, a heavenly, angelic or divine eye, but a higher human eye They perhaps meant to tell us that there is something lema’alah, something higher and nobler mimkha [literally ‘from you’], which issues from the deepest recesses of our selfhood, and that it: an ayin ro’ah, a seeing eye, a spiritual vision, a new way of looking at the world”.

The idea that the “seeing eye” that watches and assesses our every word and deed is actually our own heightened perception of ourselves is profound. But is it valid?

People who act badly, commit crimes and fail to confirm to basic standards of morality do not normally regard themselves as being bad in themselves, and it is a common human reaction for a person, when faced with his or her wrongful act, to seek to excuse or justify it. This suggests that the heightened perception of ourselves which Rabbi Lamm describes is something that we can all switch off when we wish to do so.

Another challenge to the heightened perception hypothesis is that it assumes that we are fully aware of what we do any why we do it. This denies scope to the operation of the human subconscious. Can we meaningfully perceive and respond to our own assessment of elements of our actions and thoughts of which we are unaware?

Having said all this, there remains something deeply appealing about Rabbi Lamm’s idea with respect to our own rational thought processes regarding acts as yet uncommitted and words as yet unsaid. The thought of how we might view them objectively, and measure them against higher standards than those imposed by our own desires and preferences, might well deter us from committing a wrong—which after all is what the mishnah is about.

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THE PRICE OF PEACE, OR JUST THE COST?

No, this is nothing to do with the Iranian War and its possible outcomes. This is all about three people who were leading figures in their respective generations—Aharon HaKohen, Hillel and Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, the Chafetz Chaim.

Peace, we know from Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel at Avot 1:18, is one of the three values that keep the world going, along with truth and justice. Although there is relatively little express support in the Tanach for the proposition that Moshe Rabbenu’s elder brother Aharon was a man dedicated to the establishment of peace, midrash is replete with stories of his selfless commitment to this value. Aharon is taken as the epitome of peace; he is the role-model whose example we are encouraged to follow. This is beyond dispute.

Another icon of interpersonal peace was Hillel the Elder, who is portrayed in the Babylonian Talmud as a man who was averse to conflict and practised the skills of friction-free interaction with his fellows. A kindred spirit to Aharon, Hillel picks up on this topic at Avot 1:12 where he teaches:

הֱוֵי מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן, אוֹהֵב שָׁלוֹם וְרוֹדֵף שָׁלוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, וּמְקָרְבָן לַתּוֹרָה

Be of the disciples of Aharon—a lover of peace, a pursuer of peace, one who loves people and draws them close to the Torah.

The principle is clear. If you are truly committed to peace, you should be proactive and seek to establish it. But how? Hillel does not offer practical tips. As for Aharon, the examples given in midrashim reflect noble aspirations that sadly are often impossible to implement in practice. If you have ever tried making peace between two people who are really angry with each other, or between yourself and someone with whom you are on bad terms, you will not need any further explanation of this.

Now what does the Chafetz Chaim have to add? Here we turn to Ruchi Koval’s Soul Purpose, where she credits him with the following idea:

“[A] person should create a ‘Shalom Fund’, a peace fund. This is a set amount of money that’s designated per year, allocated for the sake of peace.

Neighbor ran over your grass? Pay the gardener to repair it out of your Shalom Fund instead of creating discord. A classmate borrowed your kid’s sweatshirt and never returned it, and now it’s lost? Buy a new one out of your Shalom Fund. We have budget items for food, shelter, vacations, education, and entertainment. Let’s be proactive pursuers of peace and budget for harmonious relationships, too”

It’s a great idea—even if it is somewhat limited in that its main sphere of application is in preventing disputes that the owner of the Shalom Fund might otherwise be initiating. But does it really come from the Chafetz Chaim?

Rabbi  Yisrael Meir Kagan did not write a pirush on Pirkei Avot, but there are several cut-and-paste collections of “Chafetz Chaim on Avot” in circulation, including Rabbi David Zaretsky’s The Hafetz Hayyim on Pirkey Avoth (1975) and Shmuel Charlap, Chafetz Chaim al Masechet Avot (1962). None of these works mention anything about a “Shalom Fund” in the commentaries on our mishnah. Have they missed something?

The origin of the “Shalom Fund” is a sentence in the Chafetz Chaim’s book Ahavat Chesed, where he writes:

וְיֵשׁ לִקְבּוֹעַ קֻפָּה מְיֻחֶדֶת לְשָׁלוֹם בַּיִת, לְסַיֵּעַ לַאֲנָשִׁים אֲשֶׁר נִתְרַעֲעוּ יַחְסֵיהֶם מִפְּנֵי דֹּחַק וְחֶסְרוֹן, כִּי עַל־יְדֵי זֶה יִתְיַשְּׁבוּ הַדְּבָרִים וְיָבוֹא הַשָּׁלוֹם

“One should establish a designated fund for peace in the home, to assist people whose relationships have deteriorated because of pressure and lack (of means) for, through this, things will be settled and peace will come”.

The author explicitly references marital discord as the sort of situation he has in mind, where the peace that is so bady needed is shalom bayit—domestic peace. It is most improbable that Hillel had this in mind when citing Aharon as the epitome of a peace-seeker, but it cannot be denied that the concept of the “Shalom Fund”, appropriately expanded, fits in neatly with the thrust of Hillel’s mishnah and it is surprising that other Chafetz Chaim devotees did not make the connection earlier.

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GET IT RIGHT—OR ELSE!

Jewish law is a complex body of rules that have different qualities: some are written and can be found in the canon of books that constitute the Jewish bible. Others, initially handed down orally, were later set down in writing. Each of these sets of law is interpreted, and extrapolations derived from it, through different rules of logic and inference. It goes without saying that expounding and developing rules of Jewish law, applying them in situations for which there is no precedent, is a highly skilled task best suited to the well-trained and rigorously educated mind of a suitably qualified rabbi.

Having said that, it is unusual to find a Jew familiar with the Torah who does not privately nurse his or her own opinion on what the law really is, or indeed what the law really should be. One is always entitled to one’s own opinions, but we are not encouraged to share them in any situation in which a listener might believe and accept as law a “ruling” that is plausible, reasonable—but wrong.

Pirkei Avot addresses the all-too-human urge to apply and interpret laws the way we want to. Thus in Avot we find two somewhat veiled warnings against coming up with one’s own rulings that, however sane and sensible they seem, are not in accord with the consensus position reached by halachic jurists. The first, in Avot 3:15, is a mishnah in which Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i lists five types, including

הַמְגַלֶּה פָנִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה

The one who reveals aspects of the Torah that are contrary to halachah.

whose fate is spelled out in no uncertain terms:

אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיֵּשׁ בְּיָדוֹ תּוֹרָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים, אֵין לוֹ חֵֽלֶק לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

… although he may possess Torah knowledge and good deeds, he has no share in the World to Come.

Then there is an anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:11 which focuses on the wider consequences of making up one’s own version of the law which reads like this:

חֶֽרֶב בָּאָה לְעוֹלָם, עַל עִנּוּי הַדִּין, וְעַל עִוּוּת הַדִּין, וְעַל הַמּוֹרִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה

The sword comes to the world on account of justice delayed, justice denied, and because of those who reveal aspects of the Torah that are contrary to halachah.

So the consequences of informal and literally unorthodox interpretation of Torah laws are serious not just for the individual but for the wider community.

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 99a-b) quotes the mishnah at Avot 3:15 but does not drill down deeply into its possible meanings. There it seems to be understood as a general admonition not to be impudent towards Torah scholars. Rabbis Shimshon Raphael Hirsch and Shlomo P. Toperoff (in his Lev Avot) adopt this meaning of the mishnah.

Some early commentators did not need to offer detailed explanations of this principle since its thrust was clear to them, but their understanding was not one that we would find obvious: for them the word הֲלָכָה (halachah) in these mishnayot did not just mean “law” but also the way that an aggadic passage might be learned. So for Rashi and Bartenura this was a warning not to give the Torah’s narrative passages strange meanings by casting its words as metaphors when they were not, or by interpreting them literally when they are not to be taken as such. The Meiri applied this principle much more widely. For him, in the extensive explanation of Avot 3:15 in his Beit HaBechirah,

Also in this category is one [who] portrays himself as one who knows the secrets of the Torah which he “reveals” to contradict the halachah. He does this by completely denying the revealed part of the Torah, saying that this was “not God’s intention but was an allegory to something else, and the revealed part is not at all true”. This is one of the toots of heresy, for though some mitzvot do contain esoteric aspects, the actual commandment of each mitzvah is undoubtedly its revealed aspect.

The Meiri continues in this vein for page after page, giving many examples.

Since the earliest days of the Reform movement, this mishnah has been seen as the appropriate attitude to take towards those who would modernize not merely Jewish lifestyles but fundamental principles of Jewish law for the sake of conformity with contemporary society or in the intellectual conviction that laws without an apparently rational basis could be discarded. Thus Rabbi Dr Marcus Lehmann invoked it when he thundered against “so-called Mendelsohnians” who used their knowledge to fight, and then distort and ridicule traditional Judaism. This sentiment was echoed by Rabbi Eliezer Liepman Prins who, commenting on Avot 5:11, added:

The nations believe that law is a variable, a social factor which can be determined by the views of any given society at any given time, based on what they see as their needs. That is why the law and social order of other nations are constantly changing and have no enduring basis.

But the need to change, and to adapt to change, has always been accepted by Jewish law—so long as it is done within the bounds of Jewish law itself. Flexibility within limits is axiomatic. As Nechama Leibowitz put it: there are 70 faces to the Torah—not 71. I shall leave the last word to Ruchi Koval (Soul Purpose), who comments (at Avot 1:11):

The Torah is a document that transmits the will and values of God, so tread carefully here. The Torah is here by means of unbroken transmission from one generation to the next from Sinai. Those who transmit it must check and double check that they are sharing correctly.

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HOW TO HATE OTHERS: JUST TICK THE BOX?

I recently came across a fascinating passage in one of Reb Elya Lopian’s commentaries in Lev Eliyahu on Parashat Vayigash that has both nothing and everything to do with Pirkei Avot.

In the Book of Proverbs (Mishlei 8:13) we are taught יִרְאַת יְהוָה שְׂנֹאת-רָע (“Fear of the Lord is the hatred of Evil”), which Reb Elya takes to mean that we should hate the wicked. But the Torah (Vayikra 19:17) commands us לֹא-תִשְׂנָא אֶת-אָחִיךָ, בִּלְבָבֶךָ (“Do not hate your fellow human in your heart”). This looks like a mixed message. Do we hate a wicked person or do we not?

Reb Elya supplies an answer drawn from an idea of Rabbi Yitzchak Blazer: hating a wicked person is not a continuous mitzvah: it’s a one-off thought process. Once you have identified a person as being wicked and therefore hate him, you have fulfilled the requirement of hatred. There is no requirement to continue to hate or to increase the intensity of that hate. Effectively, you can move on in life and not let your hatred persist.

This notion may of application to Pirkei Avot, for example at 1:7 where Nittai HaArbeli teaches this:

הַרְחֵק מִשָּׁכֵן רָע, וְאַל תִּתְחַבֵּר לָרָשָׁע, וְאַל תִּתְיָאֵשׁ מִן הַפּוּרְעָנוּת

Distance yourself from a wicked neighbour, do not join up with a wicked person, and do not abandon belief in retribution.

Does this mean that one should only keep one’s distance from a wicked person initially, but then remain his neighbour—or join up with him, secure in the knowledge that you have deemed him evil and will therefore presumably take whatever precautions are necessary? This conclusion might seem doctrinally unsound, but it probably accords more closely with what we do in our own lives: how many of us have either relocated our homes or leaving a good position at work because of the present threat of remaining in proximity with someone who is bad?

We might also consider whether what applies to hatred also applies to love and, again, this is relevant to Avot. Twice in the sixth perek (Avot 6:1 and 6:6) mention is made of being אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת  (“a lover of other people”), both as a reward for learning Torah for its own sake and as a step towards acquiring Torah knowledge. How much love need one experience or demonstrate? The injunction to love other humans (Vayikra 19:18, ואהבת לרעך כמוך, “love other people as yourself”) is not qualified by any limitation in time or intensity, but in practice our love for others in general is a sort of entry-level love which in practice goes little further—if at all—than not acting injuriously towards them.

I’ve not come across any literature on this line of thought, but would be most grateful for any pointers that lead to a better understanding of it.

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A GOOD TELLING-OFF

The baraita at Avot 6:6, which lists the 48 things by which a scholar can acquire a full understanding of Torah, contains a subsidiary list of five things that such a person should love:

אוֹהֵב אֶת הַמָּקוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַצְּדָקוֹת, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַמֵּישָׁרִים, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַתּוֹכָחוֹת

Love of God, love of fellow humans, love of charity, love of justice, love of rebukes.

Of these five, none is an obvious adjunct to the acquisition of scholarship in terms of Torah or any other field of study. However, the first four reflect a degree empathy on the part of the person embarking upon the pursuit of Torah. The student who recognizes that Torah is a precious gift will value it more when he considers the identity of its Giver. Likewise, since the Torah teaches love for others, the need to act charitably and the imperative to see that justice is done, the pleasure both given and taken from acting in accordance with these values provides both a reward for Torah already learned and an incentive to take one’s learning further.

Loving rebuke is different. If a rebuke is deserved, it can be painful to one’s feelings and one’s self-esteem. Every mature adult accepts that rebuke is sometimes necessary, but in terms of popularity it usually ranks about the same as a visit to the dental hygienist.

Perhaps the very fact that we don’t like being rebuked is the reason why it is in the list of Torah acquisition devices in our baraita. When we are properly told off for what we are doing wrong—or in the case of a serious Torah student what we are doing less well than we might—we should strive to appreciate the rebuker, to accept the rebuke and to love the fact that we have become somehow better people for it.

Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) makes an interesting observation. When the Baraita says אוֹהֵב אֶת הַתּוֹכָחוֹת the word הַתּוֹכָחוֹת (rebukes) is in the plural. Why is this? Ever practical, Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff (Lev Avot) says that, if the first rebuke doesn’t work, one should repeat the process. But there may be more to this curious plural.

There are actually three types of rebuke: (i) when someone rebukes me, (ii) when I rebuke myself, and (iii) when I rebuke someone else. Of these three, it is apparent that the first is usually quite uncomfortable and one seeks to avoid it. The second is uncomfortable too, since no-one likes to recognize that they are in need of correction—but this species of rebuke is quite rare since, as Rav Lau points out, it is often difficult to acknowledge one’s errors. Rav Lau does not add, as he might have done, that the third, administering a rebuke to someone else, can be extremely enjoyable since it can engender a feeling of moral or intellectual superiority over another. This is clearly not what the baraita means when it urges us to love rebukes.

How can one love administering a rebuke to a fellow human in the right sense? This means suppressing any gloating or feeling of personal gratification from giving it. More than that, it means focusing instead on the thought that, by preventing another doing wrong or helping that person to do something right, one is acting as a junior partner with God in improving the lot of humanity as a whole. Anyone who can do this is clearly capable of self-improvement on a grand scale and a fit recipient for Torah.

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JEALOUS OF WHAT’S ALREADY OURS

According to Rabbi Yose HaKohen (Avot 2:17):

יְהִי מָמוֹן חֲבֵרָךְ חָבִיב עָלֶֽיךָ כְּשֶׁלָּךְ. וְהַתְקֵן עַצְמָךְ לִלְמוֹד תּוֹרָה, שֶׁאֵינָהּ יְרֻשָּׁה לָךְ. וְכָל מַעֲשֶֽׂיךָ יִהְיוּ לְשֵׁם שָׁמָֽיִם

The property of your fellow should be as precious to you as your own. Perfect yourself for the study of Torah, for it is not an inheritance for you—and all your deeds should be for the sake of Heaven.

The bit of this compound mishnah that interests me is its opening, the instruction to hold the property of others as being as dear to us as our own. This looks at first sight like a mishnah that is not searching for any interpretation or amplification. Rambam’s commentary is silent on this issue, as are those of the Bartenura and Rashi, while Rabbenu Yonah adds somewhat cryptically that it means that one should treat the property of others as they would wish. Some Rishonim are more adventurous, though. Thus the Me’iri delves into the Avot deRabbi Natan and explains Rabbi Yose’s words within the context of competing businesses: we should not give a bad name to another trader’s goods in order to drive trade away from him. If his produce is of high quality, we should praise it; if it is not, we should stay silent—as we would wish others to do to our own merchandise. Machzor Vitry treats the mishnah quite differently by tying it to another’s lost property: you should help him look for it to the same extent that you would have looked for it if it had been yours.

As usual, modern commentators can be relied upon to have something fresh to say, whether by embellishing the words of the Tanna or by pointing to applications of them that might not immediately occur to us. Thus Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) reminds us that the chaver whose property should be precious to you as if it were your own is a wide enough concept to include your employer. This mishnah therefore teaches: “If I were the employer, how would I want my employees to act?”

Perhaps the most imaginative cadenza on the theme of respect for another’s property comes from Gila Ross (Living Beautifully), where she writes:

“Often we look at what other people have—whether it’s their pictures on social media that depict their perfect life, whether it’s the vacations they’re taking, their car or their house—and that can leave us feeling lacking. We want what they have. We have to be sensitive regarding what we share with others, and we also have to be mindful of how much time we spend looking at what other people have. Also, we should take as much joy in our own stuff as if it were our neighbor’s or our friend’s—whether it’s your health, your talents, your family, your house, whatever it is you have—and take as much joy in it as if it were someone else’s possessions”.

At base, Ross is telling us to address any natural tendency we have towards covetousness and envy and turn it into an emotional asset by making it work for us and training us to be happy with what we have, in compliance with Ben Zoma’s maxim in Avot 4:1 (“Who is fortunate? The one who is happy with his lot”). This is a powerful idea, but I wonder how many of us have the strength of character to discipline our acquisitional urges and be as “envious” of our own possessions as we are of those of others.

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THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE EXCLUDED MIDDLE

One of the most fascinating mishnayot in the fifth perek of Avot contrasts the disciples of the righteous Avraham with those of the wicked Bilaam. We read at Avot 5:22:

כָּל מִי שֶׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ שְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים הַלָּלוּ, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים אֲחֵרִים, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ: עַֽיִן טוֹבָה, וְרֽוּחַ נְמוּכָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ שְׁפָלָה. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע: עַֽיִן רָעָה, וְרֽוּחַ גְּבוֹהָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ רְחָבָה. מַה בֵּין תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ לְתַלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע, תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ אוֹכְלִין בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְנוֹחֲלִין הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: לְהַנְחִיל אֹהֲבַי יֵשׁ, וְאוֹצְרוֹתֵיהֶם אֲמַלֵּא. אֲבָל תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע יוֹרְשִׁין גֵּיהִנֹּם וְיוֹרְדִין לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאַתָּה אֱלֹהִים תּוֹרִידֵם לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, אַנְשֵׁי דָמִים וּמִרְמָה לֹא יֶחֱצוּ יְמֵיהֶם, וַאֲנִי אֶבְטַח בָּךְ

Whoever possesses these three traits is of the talmidim of our father Avraham; and whoever possesses these three different traits is of the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam. The talmidim of our father Avraham have a good eye, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam have an evil eye, a haughty spirit and a gross soul. What is the difference between the talmidim of our father Avraham and the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam? The talmidim of our father Avraham benefit in this world and inherit the World to Come, as it states, "To bequeath to those who love Me there is, and their treasures I shall fill". The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam shall inherit Gehinnom and descent into the pit of destruction, as it states, "And You, God, shall cast them into the pit of destruction; bloody and deceitful men, they shall not attain half their days. And I shall trust in you".

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky (the Netivot Shalom) observes that, while the difference between the two sets is vast, it can be almost impossible at a glance to tell the one from the other since these three differences—though of monumental significance—are invisible. The two may dress alike, live identical lifestyles and be apparently indistinguishable. Only their attitudes distinguish them.

Rabbi Avraham Sabba (the Tzror HaMor, cited in MiMa’ayanot HaNetzach) takes a binary view of these disciples. Every person who comes into the world, he asserts, is either a talmid of Avraham or a talmid of Bilaam. There is nothing in between.

At first sight, this teaching appears to be both false and unhelpful. How can anyone assert that everyone in the world is either righteous or wicked? Is there no-one in between? The Netivot Shalom himself points out, in relation to the correspondence of the Four Species on Sukkot with four different types of Jew, that the same individual may actually be several different types of person on the same day, which indicates the impossibility of categorizing anyone as good or bad, committed or apathetic in his attitude towards the Torah. I would guess that this is something we all experience quite regularly without even noticing it.

My feeling is that Rabbi Avraham Sabba is not stating a fact. He is giving advice. When we navigate each day and make decisions regarding ourselves and others, it often happens that we face a choice between a good act and a bad (or less good) one. At this point we should first ask ourselves: are we talmidim of Avraham, or of Bilaam? We have to identify as one or the other since this question cannot be escaped or bypassed. Once we have answered it, we can then explore the possibilities that lie in the grey area between these two poles.

One of the most fascinating mishnayot in the fifth perek of Avot contrasts the disciples of the righteous Avraham with those of the wicked Bilaam. We read at Avot 5:22:

כָּל מִי שֶׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ שְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים הַלָּלוּ, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים אֲחֵרִים, הוּא מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ: עַֽיִן טוֹבָה, וְרֽוּחַ נְמוּכָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ שְׁפָלָה. תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע: עַֽיִן רָעָה, וְרֽוּחַ גְּבוֹהָה, וְנֶֽפֶשׁ רְחָבָה. מַה בֵּין תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ לְתַלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע, תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ אוֹכְלִין בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְנוֹחֲלִין הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: לְהַנְחִיל אֹהֲבַי יֵשׁ, וְאוֹצְרוֹתֵיהֶם אֲמַלֵּא. אֲבָל תַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל בִּלְעָם הָרָשָׁע יוֹרְשִׁין גֵּיהִנֹּם וְיוֹרְדִין לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאַתָּה אֱלֹהִים תּוֹרִידֵם לִבְאֵר שַֽׁחַת, אַנְשֵׁי דָמִים וּמִרְמָה לֹא יֶחֱצוּ יְמֵיהֶם, וַאֲנִי אֶבְטַח בָּךְ

Whoever possesses these three traits is of the talmidim of our father Avraham; and whoever possesses these three different traits is of the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam. The talmidim of our father Avraham have a good eye, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam have an evil eye, a haughty spirit and a gross soul. What is the difference between the talmidim of our father Avraham and the talmidim of the wicked Bilaam? The talmidim of our father Avraham benefit in this world and inherit the World to Come, as it states, "To bequeath to those who love Me there is, and their treasures I shall fill". The talmidim of the wicked Bilaam shall inherit Gehinnom and descent into the pit of destruction, as it states, "And You, God, shall cast them into the pit of destruction; bloody and deceitful men, they shall not attain half their days. And I shall trust in you".

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky (the Netivot Shalom) observes that, while the difference between the two sets is vast, it can be almost impossible at a glance to tell the one from the other since these three differences—though of monumental significance—are invisible. The two may dress alike, live identical lifestyles and be apparently indistinguishable. Only their attitudes distinguish them.

Rabbi Avraham Sabba (the Tzror HaMor, cited in MiMa’ayanot HaNetzach) takes a binary view of these disciples. Every person who comes into the world, he asserts, is either a talmid of Avraham or a talmid of Bilaam. There is nothing in between.

At first sight, this teaching appears to be both false and unhelpful. How can anyone assert that everyone in the world is either righteous or wicked? Is there no-one in between? The Netivot Shalom himself points out, in relation to the correspondence of the Four Species on Sukkot with four different types of Jew, that the same individual may actually be several different types of person on the same day, which indicates the impossibility of categorizing anyone as good or bad, committed or apathetic in his attitude towards the Torah. I would guess that this is something we all experience quite regularly without even noticing it.

My feeling is that Rabbi Avraham Sabba is not stating a fact. He is giving advice. When we navigate each day and make decisions regarding ourselves and others, it often happens that we face a choice between a good act and a bad (or less good) one. At this point we should first ask ourselves: are we talmidim of Avraham, or of Bilaam? We have to identify as one or the other since this question cannot be escaped or bypassed. Once we have answered it, we can then explore the possibilities that lie in the grey area between these two poles.

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THE POWER TO SAY “YES”, "NO"--AND "BETTER NOT"

Pirkei Avot opens with a recital of how the Torah was passed down from Moses on Har Sinai to the Anshei Knesset HaGadolah (the Men of the Great Assembly), who kick-started the real content of Avot—mussar and middot—with three foundational teachings:

הֱווּ מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין, וְהַעֲמִֽידוּ תַּלְמִידִים הַרְבֵּה, וַעֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

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

To be מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין (metunim badin, deliberate—or careful—in judgement) was traditionally seen as advice given by judges, since the Great Assembly served as a sort of Supreme Court, to judges.

More recently, this teaching has been given wider scope. After all, we all act as judges, in an informal extrajudicial manner, when evaluating and assessing the behaviour and the worth of our friends, our families and even ourselves. An interesting example of this can be found in Ruchi Koval’s Soul Purpose (a recent Mosaica publication that has the look and feel of an inspirational “women-for-women” text but has plenty to offer men too). After pointing out that our personal judgements can affect others, Koval writes:

“As a parent, I find it so much easier to say “no” than “yes”, so I really have to work on myself to check that urge. Usually the easiest thing is to strike down someone else’s idea, but we need to be more measured than that. Are we saying no because it’s the path of least resistance? Because we are protecting ourselves? Or because it is truly right and good for society? Leaders must be deliberate in their judgements and truly consider all sides before making a decision that impacts the world”.

It is tempting to generalize from one’s own experience because it is at least something that we can subjectively verify. Yet its limitation is obvious. In a disciplined religious environment where respect for parents and teachers prevails and children are not conditioned to get their own way, it may well be easier to say “no”. But observation of humanity in general uggests that, particularly for parents, it is easier to say “yes” than “no”, since a “yes” will end the dialogue and buy time, space and relief for a parent—and it is the temptation to give in, to yield to children’s persistent demands, that must be resisted.

Nonetheless there is good reason to open a debate on the point that Koval raises. In several places the Talmud enunciates the principle of shev ve’al ta’aseh—choose the course of inaction where it is not clear whether one should do something or not. This position may have much to commend it when what is done cannot be undone, while that which is not done can still be done later. However, there are many situations in which action must be taken immediately, particularly in the case of medical matters.

Elsewhere in Avot we are cautioned to avoid a situation of doubt (Rabban Gamliel at 1:16). Taking careful thought ahead of making a decision and acting upon it is the way to remove doubt—or at least to reduce the size of its penumbra).  

For me, the area in which the need to proceed with caution before taking a decision, the need to remove a doubt and the maxim of shev ve’al ta’aseh come together is that in which a rabbi is asked to give a halachic ruling on whether something is permitted or prohibited—but receives the answer “better not”.  This answer complies with the principle of shev ve’al ta’aseh but only to the extent that it discourages action, but the doubt remains unless “better not” is interpreted as a reluctant “yes”.  A “better not” answer can have big consequences for others though. Think of a situation in which the question is “Can I rely on the kashrut of this shop, or restaurant, or licensing authority?” To say “better not” is quicker and easier than to investigate and weigh up the issues, and it may not be possible for a rabbi to gain access to the facts that enable an in-depth analysis to be made before giving a true and honest answer. But it is an answer that can have financial repercussions for a business or Beit Din that was not involved in the Q-and-A process.

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OUT OF ORDER

An anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:9 raises a curious conundrum. It reads like this:

שִׁבְעָה דְבָרִים בְּגוֹלָם וְשִׁבְעָה בְּחָכָם, חָכָם: אֵינוֹ מְדַבֵּר לִפְנֵי מִי שֶׁגָּדוֹל מִמֶּֽנּוּ בְּחָכְמָה וּבְמִנְיָן, וְאֵינוֹ נִכְנָס לְתוֹךְ דִּבְרֵי חֲבֵרוֹ, וְאֵינוֹ נִבְהָל לְהָשִׁיב, שׁוֹאֵל כְּעִנְיָן וּמֵשִׁיב כַּהֲלָכָה, וְאוֹמֵר עַל רִאשׁוֹן רִאשׁוֹן וְעַל אַחֲרוֹן אַחֲרוֹן, וְעַל מַה שֶּׁלֹּא שָׁמַע אוֹמֵר לֹא שָׁמַֽעְתִּי, וּמוֹדֶה עַל הָאֱמֶת, וְחִלּוּפֵיהֶן בְּגוֹלָם

There are seven things that characterize a golem, and seven that characterize a wise man. A wise man does not speak before one who is greater than him in wisdom or age. He does not interrupt his fellow's words. He does not hasten to answer. His questions are on the subject and his answers are to the point. He responds to first things first and to later things later. Concerning that which he did not learn, he says "I did not learn." He concedes the truth. With the golem, the reverse of all these is the case.

The mishnah starts by mentioning the golem—an unpolished, uncultivated individual who does not know how to behave—and then the wise man, the chacham. Would it not therefore be logical for the mishnah to list the characteristics of the golem first and then contrast them with the chacham? Indeed, the mishnah itself says that dealing with first things first and to later things later is one of the tests of the chacham, so why does its author not follow his own advice? Alternatively, if the qualities of the chacham and not the golem are to be listed, should not the mishnah have started by saying: “There are seven things that characterize a wise man, and seven that characterize a golem”?

The commentators have less to say about “first things first” than about the other six tests of a person’s status, and there seems to be a general feeling among them that dealing with things in the order in which they are raised is a general guideline and not in any sense a binding rule: Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) points out that there are perfectly respectable exceptions to it. Rabbenu Yonah, for example, notes that it may be necessary to deal with the later matter earlier in order to make it easier to deal with the first one.

Perhaps the last word should be left with the Tiferet Yisrael. At base, any sign of organization of a person’s thoughts indicates the presence of a degree of wisdom. But we may not be in a position to judge whether there is any sort of order.  I tried to explain this in my book, Pirkei Avot: A Users’ Manual, in the following manner:

Why did God issue commandments in the order He did, rather than sorting them out the way we now do? Presumably He gave them in the order which, in His wisdom, He deemed most appropriate under the circumstances in which they were first revealed, bearing in mind the capabilities of the people to whom they were revealed. We actually do the same ourselves. A parent might be heard to instruct a young child in the following manner before he steps foot outside the family home: “Have you got your hat and gloves? Do take some spare tissues with you. Your lunchbox is on the middle shelf of the fridge. Don’t forget your keys! Do you have your travel pass? If you want an apple, there are some in the fruit bowl. You are not going out in your socks: put those shoes on!” These instructions are not categorized by subject-matter (i.e. clothing, food, travel logistics) and look quite random to us. However, a thoughtful parent may have headed the list with those things the child was least likely to bother with (hat and coat, spare tissues) and finished it with those things the child was least likely to forget (apple, shoes).

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MAN – MADE IN THE IMAGE OF MAN

One of the mishnayot in Avot that superficially appears to have nothing to do with middot and mussar—advice that guides our behaviour and addresses our less noble thoughts—is a teaching by Rabbi Akiva that starts like this (Avot 3:18):

חָבִיב אָדָם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לוֹ שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי בְּצֶֽלֶם אֱלֹהִים עָשָׂה אֶת הָאָדָם

Beloved is man, for he was created in [God’s] image; with even greater love is it made known to him that he was created in the image, as it says, "For in the image of God, He made man" (Bereishit 9:6).

Knowing how much God love His human creations, a category to which we all belong, may inspire a warm feeling inside us, but it is hard to pinpoint a way in which this knowledge, of itself, is a game-changer in our daily lives.

Many scholars accept the view of Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda, in his commentary-cum-compendium Midrash Shmuel, that this teaching constitutes a warning that the act of murder is deserving of capital punishment. Since every human being is created in the image of God, the killing of any human is a form of erasure or diminution of the image of God—whatever that term might mean in relation to an incorporeal deity.

But there are other approaches which make up with their originality for what they lack in terms of literal accuracy. Thus, citing the Venetian scholar Rabbi Moshe Chafetz, Rabbi Norman Lamm (Foundation of Faith, ed. R’ Mark Dratch) takes a slight liberty with the mishnah—part of the Oral Law—by shifting a comma of which Rabbi Akiva would surely have been unaware, since he lived around 600 years before any form of punctuation was introduced into Hebrew. Nevertheless, what he writes is thought-provoking.

In short, by shifting the comma so that instead of following Elokim it follows b’tzelem, the meaning of the verse from Bereishit shifts from the usual

“for in the image of God, He made man"

to

“for in [his, i.e. man’s] image, God made man”.

Rabbi Akiva is now taken to say that God creates each man in his own individual image, with his own essence, his own characteristic being. It is each person’s own tzelem that gives him or her their own metaphysical value, their differentness and their absolute uniqueness.

Now we can ask what is our take-away message in terms of middot and mussar? Arguably it is that, if God has gone to the trouble of creating each person as an individual, we should be careful to recognize their unique personal qualities and should take care not to commoditise them or judge them in general terms. Each person must be assessed on the basis of their individual qualities—and respected because those qualities and their potential to use those qualities are hard-wired into them by God.

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