SMALL DUTY, BIG REWARD?

One of the most popular topics for discussion in Avot is the designation of mitzvot: which commandments are big, as it were, and which are not? The first place where this issue arises is at Avot 2:1, where Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi teaches us to treat all mitzvot with care since we can’t know which carry a large reward (or punishment) and which do not. In his own words:

הֱוֵי זָהִיר בְּמִצְוָה קַלָּה כְּבַחֲמוּרָה, שֶׁאֵין אַתָּה יוֹדֵֽעַ מַתַּן שְׂכָרָן שֶׁל מִצְוֹת, וֶהֱוֵי מְחַשֵּׁב הֶפְסֵד מִצְוָה כְּנֶֽגֶד שְׂכָרָהּ, וּשְׂכַר עֲבֵרָה כְּנֶֽגֶד הֶפְסֵדָהּ

Be as careful with a minor mitzvah as with a major one, for you do not know the rewards of the mitzvot. Consider the cost of a mitzvah against its rewards, and the rewards of a transgression against its cost.

This is not like saying “Be as careful with a small dog as a big one, since you don’t know how badly it bites”. The response of a dog can be ascertained empirically, but the response of God cannot. Even when we receive a reward, we can’t be sure which mitzvah it’s for, or whether that mitzvah—even if we could identify it—was a major one or not.

There are various ways in which we can categorize mitzvot and then list them. For example:

Mitzvot may be owed towards God, other people or ourselves

They may be derived from the Torah, from the Oral Law, or from custom

Importance may depend on the immediate circumstances and not on their inherent value (thus a mitzvah that one is in the middle of performing will normally take precedence over any other mitzvot, and pikuach nefesh—the saving of a life—overrides positive and negative commandments).

In this context I was interested to read the following passage by Rabbi Hershel Schachter (Rav Schachter on Pirkei Avos), one of the few in which he does not cite his esteemed Rav, Rabbi Joseph B. Solveitchik:

“[Historically, some mitzvos may take on greater significance, even they may be deemed objectively less valuable”.

Then, after summarizing the classic midrashim that argue against the rescue of the Jewish People from slavery in Egypt on the basis that we were just as much idolators as the Egyptians who enslaved us, he continues:

“The Midrashim …tell us that Bnei Yisroel did not change their names, their language, or their dress. In other words, by retaining their Jewish names, speaking Loshon HaKodesh, and dressing differently than the Mitzrim, the Jewish People remained distinctive.

Interestingly, the Rambam writes (Peirush HaMishnayos) that speaking Loshon HaKodesh is an example of what our Mishnah labels a mitzvah kalah, which should nevertheless be scrupulously performed. … Thus it turns out that the Jewish People merited geulah from Mitzrayim on the strength of mitzvos that we would consider among the less important ones!”

Rav Schachter draws further support for the notion that what is considered an important mitzvah may depend on the time and place from the suggestion of the Meshech Chochmah (Vayikra 26:44) that, when the Jewish people are in exile, “nationalistic” mitzvot are important than purely religious ones. In contrast, when we are in Israel, religious mitzvot increase in importance as against the rest.  Rav Schachter’s example of the Jews earning their right to redemption from Egypt by clinging to three mitzvot that help shape national identity bears this out.

Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi is right. We cannot second-guess the relative value of mitzvot—not in absolute terms and not in relative terms either, since circumstances change and, with them, our duties towards God, other people and ourselves. We must recognize the value of all mitzvot but at the same time concede that we cannot establish for ourselves which are the major, which the minor.

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WHAT IT MEANS TO BE LOVED—AND WHY

Being loved is not just something to which we aspire—and which we enjoy when it happens to us. It’s also a prerequisite for being a “Pirkei Avot person”, someone who seeks to improve their middot and live a life that balances their responsibilities towards God, to other people, and to themselves.

Twice in the baraitot in the sixth and final perek does the quality of being אָהוּב (“loved”) get a mention. First, at Avot 6:1, it appears as a reward rather than an aspiration when Rabbi Meir lists it among the 29 merits that attach to anyone to studies Torah for its own sake and not for any ulterior motive. The baraita at Avot 6:6 goes further: it is listed among the 48 things that form the package of personal attributes one needs in order to master one’s Torah studies.

Two questions beg to be asked.

First, why does being loved feature so importantly in a tractate on the perfection of human behaviour when it is an attribute that generally lies beyond any of us to achieve by ourselves? Secondly, is there a yardstick by which one can measure whether a person is loved or not?

On the first question, one can speculate that an element of pre-Kantian reciprocity was in the minds of our Sages: ask yourself what qualities in other people causes you to love others, then seek to emulate them in the way you deal with others in turn. While subjective considerations will always be important (one person’s endearing quality is another’s pet aversion), reciprocity works quite well as a rough-and-ready reckoner of the path in life one should take.

As for the second question, empirical evidence suggests that it is quite hard to be entirely unloved. We have all seen how many villains have loving mothers and loyal spouses. But if practically everyone is certain of being loved by at least one other person, the threshold for being אָהוּב is extremely low and would completely devalue the teachings in Avot.

The classic commentators do not greatly help us to answer either question, and most later and contemporary commentators have followed their example. When being loved is found in lists of 29 and 48 attributes respectively, and there is so much to say about many of the others, passing over the need to be אָהוּב is unsurprising.

So what can we glean from our rabbis? The Rambam and Bartenura offer no discussion of baraitot of the sixth perek. For Rabbenu Yonah it is self-evident that all the world loves a Torah scholar; if this was ever true, it is manifestly not the case today. For Rabbi  Chaim Volozhiner (Ru’ach Chaim), אָהוּבmeans being loved by God. However, since it is axiomatic that God loves all His creatures, this is a box that every Jew cannot help but tick. A less inclusive way for many people to tick the same box is by simply loving God: as Proverbs teaches: “I love those who love Me” (Mishlei 8:17). Rabbis Nachman and Natan of Breslov offer an easy alternative: אָהוּב means “being loved by oneself”, something that most of us can accomplish with little effort.

Some explain these baraitot by giving “beloved” a tweak. So for Rabbi Yitzchak Magriso (Me’am Lo’ez) the word really means “lovable”: if you are the sort of person that people love, you will attract more people who wish to teach you Torah.

Among modern psychologists too there is little to help us. Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) tells us that one who loves others is beloved but offers neither example nor precedent. Rabbi Reuven P. Bulka (Chapters of the Fathers) is silent.  

All of this is both perplexing and disappointing. One can justify being loved by others as a desirable consequence of learning Torah for its own sake, as Avot 6:1 states, but I feel that a good argument for including in the budding Torah student’s must-have list remains to be made.

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PAIN, JOY AND "MARKING THE GOOD"

I recently came across this paragraph from The Commentator ("The Independent Student Newspaper of Yeshiva University"):

[Rabbi Avi] Berman, who had just landed from Israel, spoke about the University’s two-year efforts in advocating and praying for the return of the hostages held in Gaza. The return of all of the living hostages to Israel happened while Berman was in Israel, so he took a moment to reflect and thank Hashem. In discussing the halachic implications of making a bracha on the return of the living hostages while there are still Jewish bodies held in Gaza and much uncertainty on the stability of the peace plan in Israel, Berman looked to Pirkei Avot. He explained that “even when there is pain mixed with joy we still have an obligation to mark the good.” 

I have no idea which mishnah was in Rabbi Berman's mind when he was quoted here. Can anyone help me?

You can check out the full text of this article here.

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NOT IN OUR HANDS

Rabbi Yannai is one of the lesser known Tannaim of Masechet Avot. From him we learn a single, somewhat perplexing lesson that is framed not as an instruction for good behaviour but as a general statement regarding the human condition. He states (at Avot 4:19):

אֵין בְּיָדֵֽינוּ לֹא מִשַּׁלְוַת הָרְשָׁעִים, וְאַף לֹא מִיִּסּוֹרֵי הַצַּדִּיקִים

The tranquillity of the wicked and also the suffering of the righteous—they are not in our hands.

Taken at face value, the plain meaning of Rabbi Yannai’s words does not look like a valuable lesson for life. Yes, many wicked people live enjoyable and fulfilling lives, and many fine and upstanding individuals find each day a painful and exacting struggle. We may not (and, if we are honest with ourselves, do not) know why.  The Gemara itself (Berachot 5a) posits that a person’s pain and suffering may be a sign not only of God’s displeasure but of quite the opposite: His wish may be to ensure that the ‘victim’ receive all his suffering in this world in order to provide him with a perfect and pain-free World to Come.

One practical use to which we might think of putting this teaching is in the implementation of Nittai haArbeli’s teaching at Avot 1:7 that we should keep well away from a bad neighbour and not team up with someone who is wicked.  But Rabbi Yannai has only described facts on the ground. He has not provided us with a litmus test by which to distinguish the virtuous from the vile; we cannot avoid calm and happy people who have peace of mind on the assumption that they must be wicked, nor can we seek out people who are tormented by pain and misfortune on the basis that they must be full of virtue.

Avot warns us of the dangers of living on credit. Thus Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel (Avot 2:14) cautions against borrowing but not repaying, whether our debt is owed to other people or to God. The person who does this is described by Rabbi Yaakov Hillel in Eternal Ethics From Sinai as living off the bounty of others, and he may do so with complete equanimity if he feels entitled to do so. Perhaps he is the wicked person that Rabbi Yannai has in mind. However, Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel neither mentions nor alludes to the corresponding personality of one who does not borrow—or borrows and repays—while living a life of suffering. Such a person may be a tzaddik, or not. Another mishnah with a credit warning is that of Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:20. This teaching is however only about the fact that whatever you owe God is paid up one way or another, and is clearly remote from Rabbi Yannai’s scenario.

Perhaps the key to Rabbi Yannai’s mishnah is in the words that attract the least attention: אֵין בְּיָדֵֽינוּ (literally “not in our hands”). Arguably he is not telling us that these contrasting propositions relating to the happy scoundrel and the saintly sufferer are beyond our comprehension, our intellectual “grasp”. We know that. He is instead letting us know that we cannot realistically choose to be either of those persons.  Possession of a tranquil mind is not an automatic consequence of our having affluence, power and other tangible and intangible assets that are so often craved—and the more we seek to manipulate and harm others, the more our conscience is likely to trouble us, however reluctant we are to pay attention to it. Likewise, a person who is truly righteous in his dealings with others and his relationship with God may find it increasingly hard to wallow in his misery when he is so fully aware of the goodness of the path he has chosen in life and the rewards that will await him thereafter.  In other words, Rabbi Yannai is subtly teaching us that neither we nor those we know can be found at the polar extremes he describes. Rather, we are all to be found somewhere on the spectrum that spans them.

There is another “not at the extremes” explanation with which we leave this topic. It may not fit neatly with the words of the mishnah, but it carries a message that addressed to us all. According to the Kozhnitzer Maggid, as rendered by Rabbi Tal Mosher Zwecker, Ma’asei Avos:

“[W]e do not have the luxury of peace as the wicked do, as the wicked think they have no reason to repent for they have done nothing wrong. Neither do we have the suffering of the righteous, as their consciences bother them continuously, always pointing out their every shortcoming and sin. Rather, we must realize that while we always have hope, there are always things to work on and rectify. The middle road is best, balanced between both extremes”.

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DOES IT MATTER IF WE QUOTE OUR SOURCES?

 At Avot 6:6 the 48^th and final element in the list of things one should acquire or practise in order to maximize one’s claim to be a true ben Torah is the habit of quoting the source of anything you say that does not originate from you but from some earlier source:

הָאוֹמֵר דָּבָר בְּשֵׁם אוֹמְרוֹ

One who says a thing in the name of the person who says it.

This practice is said to bring the ultimate redemption:

הָא לָמַֽדְתָּ, כָּל הָאוֹמֵר דָּבָר בְּשֵׁם אוֹמְרוֹ, מֵבִיא גְאֻלָּה לָעוֹלָם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וַתֹּֽאמֶר אֶסְתֵּר לַמֶּֽלֶךְ בְּשֵׁם מָרְדְּכָי

That’s what you have learned: One who says something in the name of its speaker brings redemption to the world, as it states: “And Esther told the king in the name of Mordechai” (Esther 2:22).

Why should a person quote his sources? Within Avot one can advance several reasons. For example:

·       The world is sustained by three things—truth, justice and peace (Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, Avot 1:18). Suppressing the identity of the person who first articulated one’s words can be viewed as concealing the truth, or at least as being highly economical with it, by creating the misleading impression that the words spoken were one’s own.  

·       Masquerading as the originator of a teaching is a form of self-promotion. Hillel warns at Avot 1:13 that a name made great is a name destroyed.

·       Rebbi, at Avot 2:1, asks what is the path that a person should choose for himself and answers his own question: it is the path that reflects creditably on himself and in the eyes of others. Holding oneself out as the author of another’s words does not comply with that proposition.

Even aside from these mishnayot, there are reasons for quoting one’s sources. Thus

“…the Rambam understood that the purpose of the directive of הָאוֹמֵר דָּבָר בְּשֵׁם אוֹמְרוֹ is not in order to prevent a person from falsely taking credit for someone else’s statement, but rather to demonstrate the authenticity of a particular halachah” (Rabbi Hershel Schachter, Rav Schachter on Pirkei Avos).

Frustratingly, Rav Schachter does not cite a source for this proposition. It cannot have been from Rambam’s commentary on Avot, since הָאוֹמֵר דָּבָר בְּשֵׁם אוֹמְרוֹ  is in the sixth perek of Avot; this consists entirely of baraitot and was not therefore part of his commentary on the Mishnah.

Rambam himself is no great champion of the principle of citation of teachings in the names of those who teach them. In his monumental Mishneh Torah he generally makes no mention of sources at all, and towards the beginning of the  Shemonah Perakim—ostensibly Rambam’s introduction to Pirkei Avot—he actually refuses to credit his sources:

“Take note—the concepts stated in this chapters and the forthcoming explanations are not new concepts that I have invented/ They are, rather, an anthology of the words of our Sages …, the works of philosophers of the early and late generations, and many other texts. Accept the truth [regardless of] the person who said it”

So, having denied any sort of original input, Rambam might be expected to produce a text that is literally bristling with sources. But he does not:

“[I have chosen not to mention my sources for two reasons:] a) because this prolongs the text without any advantage. b) By mentioning the name of an author of whom a particular person might not approve. I might cause him [to reject the concept, thinking] that it is harmful and that it contains an undesirable intent. For this reason I have chosen to omit the name of the author... ”.

Both of these propositions are debatable.

As for the first, how might any author know that there is no advantage to be gained by not giving a source? Subsequent events have shown rather the opposite: there has been something of a cottage industry in trying to find the very sources that Rambam concealed, generally because of the advantage that can be derived from gaining that information. 

As for the second, Rambam has already told his readers that they should accept the truth without regard for who said it. It seems inconsistent then to withhold the identities of his sources in case his readers do not follow his injunction.

If anyone can find a source for Rabbi Schachter’s proposition that Rambam supported citation of sources in order to demonstrate the authenticity of anything, can they please share it?

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SO HOW DO WE HANDLE OUR LEADERS AND SUPERIORS?

Last week, in response to my post “Summoning Up Assistance From the Past” (here and here), Claude Tusk posted a comment that contained a link to Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks’ classic piece “Seven Principles of Jewish Leadership”.  I expressed sadness that Rabbi Sacks had not written a companion piece, "Seven Principles of Coping With Jewish Leadership".

This little exchange set me thinking and, over the past few days, I have been asking myself how Pirkei Avot itself advises us how to cope with our leaders.

The best-known advice on leadership in Avot is not particularly helpful. Rabbi Nechunyah ben Hakanah (Avot 3:6) tells us not to go into government or the employment market—but that is not the same thing at all as dealing with leaders. Shemayah (Avot 1:10) tells us not even to make ourselves known to the authorities and Rabban Gamliel ben Rebbi (Avot 2:2) tells us to be wary of them. But we rarely nowadays have the right or the ability to remain unknown when the leaders, their employees and agents choose to seek us out. And saying “be wary” is an item of general advice at so high a level that we still have to work out what it means in practice in each situation in which we may come into contact with leaders—whether political, communal or religious, for that matter. So what are we left with?

One possibility is the mysterious mishnah at Avot 3:16 where Rabbi Yishmael says:

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

Be yielding to a leader, pleasant to the young, and receive every person with joy.

The translation I have given here would appear to fit the bill perfectly, were it not for the fact that there never appears to have been any consensus as to what the mishnah means. The first two parts of this Mishnah, translated literally, are “Be light to the head, and be at ease before early manhood”.  How do commentators understand them? Here are a few possibilities:

Rashi: Don’t challenge the elders and judges of your city.

R’ Ovadyah Bartenura: Be deferential when serving your Rosh Yeshivah.

R’ Ya’akov Chagiz (Etz HaChaim): Even if you view yourself as the civic leader, make yourself easily accessible to others.

The Chida (Petach Einayim): 1. Be quick to stand up for the Rosh Yeshivah, 2. Be quick to gain control over your head and curb your evil inclination.

R’ Shalom Noach Berezowsky (Netivot Shalom): Cast off the burdens of egotism and the evil inclination while you are young.

None of these explanations, nor any that I have not listed here, really seem to address the issue of how to deal with leaders. So what is left?

At Avot 6:6 we find a baraita that lists the 48 qualities a person requires in order to qualify as a true Torah student. Some of these qualities are specifically related to the methodology of the learning process, while others promote the importance of human qualities that we need whether we are studying Torah or doing anything else. These include the middot of knowing one’s place and being content with one’s lot—and in them may lie the answer to our search.

Knowing one’s place is not just a matter of being submissive; one’s place may involve the exercise of authority within a hierarchy which contains both superiors and juniors. In order to relate successfully to those above and below, knowing one’s place must surely be a key requirement. It involves recognizing and respecting boundaries, providing the right degree of respect and cooperation to those above and being able to offer guidance, assistance, encouragement and admonitions to those below.  

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SUMMONING UP ASSISTANCE FROM THE PAST

After advocating the virtues of combining Torah study with some sort of trade or occupation, Rabban Gamliel ben Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi addresses the position of those who work for the community. He teaches this:

וְכָל הָעוֹסְקִים עִם הַצִּבּוּר יִהְיוּ עוֹסְקִים עִמָּהֶם לְשֵׁם שָׁמָֽיִם, שֶׁזְּכוּת אֲבוֹתָם מְסַיַּעְתָּם, וְצִדְקָתָם עוֹמֶֽדֶת לָעַד, וְאַתֶּם, מַעֲלֶה אֲנִי עֲלֵיכֶם שָׂכָר הַרְבֵּה כְּאִלּוּ עֲשִׂיתֶם

Those who work for the community—let them do so for the sake of Heaven; for the merit of their ancestors shall aid them, and their righteousness shall endure forever. And as for you [says God]. I shall credit you with great reward as if you have done [it].

The obvious meaning of this teaching is that it’s a tough task to work on behalf of any community, and certainly a Jewish one—which is probably what Rabban Gamliel had in mind. Community service takes a person away from the comfort zone of learning and plunges one into a routine that is often unpredictable and uncontrollable, and invariably unending. One needs to summon up the skills of a diplomat plus a good deal of patience and foresight if any community’s interests can be truly advanced—and the more diverse the community, the greater the number of stress lines that divide it.  If God sees you doing your best, He will, as it were, let you cash in on the merits of your ancestors. This is presumably on the basis that one’s ancestors were meritorious.

Jewish ancestry is a treasure trove of real and also possibly imagined merits. The three Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, were so renowned for theirs that we invoke them in the latter part of birkat hamazon (grace after meals). Closer to our own time, many of us may have had pious and saintly grandparents or great grandparents who, we are confident, must have clocked up a multitude of merits on account of their persistence and adherence to the faith in the face of persecution, material deprivation, financial hardship and assimilation. So, while we toil on behalf of the community, we seek to draw upon the righteousness and the good deeds of our forebears and hope that this will give us that extra resource to pull us through.

Assuming that we are able to draw on the merits of our forebears—whether we know what those merits might be or not—we can then extract a limmud mussar from the mishnah: if we succeed in our efforts on behalf of the community, as the Me’iri suggests, we should not go into self-congratulatory mode and imagine that success is simply the product of our efforts. Rather, we should appreciate that our achievements at the present time are also a product of the past, through the tradition of education and performance of God’s will that have forged the capable leaders that we are today.

But are these the merits that Rabban Gamliel has in mind? His words do not specify whose merits are meant and Rabbeinu Yonah suggests that this mishnah is actually referring to the merits of the elders and ancestors of the community itself. If the community is deserving, then its leaders and askanim, the individuals who take responsibility for getting everything done, will succeed. In other words, Rabbeinu Yonah implies that each community gets the leaders it deserves.

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THE DANGER OF WORDS, THE PROBLEM OF EXILE

Few areas of Jewish law and practice are as extensively addressed—and, it seems, as frequently breached—as those that relate to the abuse of words, whether written or spoken. In addition to the Torah’s many prohibitions against false, damaging and inappropriate speech, Pirkei Avot carries many warnings concerning the misuse of words, and indeed praises the quality of silence. One of the lengthier warnings in Avot concerns the teacher’s use of careless words and the risk that they will lead one’s talmidim (pupils) astray.  At Avot 1:11 Avtalyon says:

חֲכָמִים, הִזָּהֲרוּ בְדִבְרֵיכֶם, שֶׁמָּא תָחֽוֹבוּ חוֹבַת גָּלוּת וְתִגְלוּ לִמְקוֹם מַֽיִם הָרָעִים, וְיִשְׁתּוּ הַתַּלְמִידִים הַבָּאִים אַחֲרֵיכֶם וְיָמֽוּתוּ, וְנִמְצָא שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם מִתְחַלֵּל

Scholars, be careful with your words since you may liable to be exiled and be exiled to a place of bad water. The disciples who come after you will then drink of these bad waters and be killed, and the Name of Heaven will be desecrated.

Most traditional commentators link these words to the sad episode in which Zadok and Boethus, the talmidim of Antigonus of Socho, either misunderstood or deliberately misapplied his words and eventually led schismatic sects of their own. But, while this explanation is sound, it does not assist us in tackling the key question: how do we know that the words of any given sage are “bad water”, doctrinally unsound and dangerous to Judaism as we understand it, and not a brilliant, possibly counterintuitive innovation or insight?

Rabbis must have asked themselves this question ever since they resolved that Torah was not in Heaven and took upon themselves the task of applying, developing and elucidating the laws contained in the written Torah. How could they discern, for example, whether Hillel’s introduction of the prozbul as a means of circumventing the cancellation of loan debts in the Sabbatical year was a stroke of rabbinical genius and not a barefaced evasion of an explicit Torah law?

Rabbi Yisrael Miller (The Wisdom of Avos) recognizes this problem. He writes:

“Among great Torah thinkers and teachers, there are always some who are outside the mainstream (this is not a criticism). Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, Rav Yisrael Salanter, the Satmar Rebbe Rav Yoel Teitelbaum, and the Rambam in an earlier generation, all held and taught certain views that differed from those of the majority of their contemporaries, and their teachings are important contributions to Torah thought. But when a teacher is outside the mainstream, a student’s misunderstanding will likely not be corrected by what we might call ‘peer review’”.

In other words, the real danger alluded to in our mishnah is not that a teacher endorses doctrine that is erroneous—something that is likely to be spotted and challenged pretty swiftly by his peers—but that a talmid will fail to grasp the proper meaning of an apparently unorthodox teaching and will not be pulled back into the fold by his peers. But, while trying to find the right words with which to avoid giving offence, Rabbi Miller gets to his point:

“…[I]f the rebbi and his yeshiva are considered ‘different’ (by others) or ‘unique’ (by his own talmidim, then the opinions and arguments of ‘outsiders’ carry little weight. We see this among Breslover and Lubavitcher Chassidim, and also in some non-Chassidic yeshivas, especially in some smaller ones where there is only one rebbi whose talmidim are devoted to him). In such cases a talmid who misunderstands will not revise his thinking based on what ‘outsiders’ might say, and may remain with a serious error in hashkafah or practical halachah”.

Rav Miller does concede that to study under giants like Rabbi Yisrael Salander or the Satmar Rebbe would be “a ben Torah’s dream”. But the point has been made. Rav Miller concludes:

“Based on this, the ‘exile’ means to end up alone (“exiled”) from the mainstream. ‘Harmful waters’ are teachings that are dangerous if misunderstood (which of course pose no danger to the teacher who ’drinks’, because he knows what he means). But such Sages must choose their words with extra care, lest the students make a serious error that cannot be corrected, and the name of Heaven desecrated”.

The teacher whose words enable talmidim to go astray is clearly not about to do so himself. Avtalyon addresses this mishnah to “Chachamim”, a title that he would surely not confer upon peddlers of false truths and fake Torah.

Rabbi Miller’s explanation does not address the literal meaning of Avtalyon’s mishnah in one respect, since he offers no meaning for the part of the mishnah that stipulates that the teacher is liable to be exiled.  What does “exile” have to do with his message? Here another mishnah from Avot comes into play. At Avot 4:18  Rabbi Nehorai addresses exile full-on:

הֱוֵי גוֹלֶה לִמְקוֹם תּוֹרָה, וְאַל תֹּאמַר שֶׁהִיא תָבוֹא אַחֲרֶֽיךָ, שֶׁחֲבֵרֶֽיךָ יְקַיְּמֽוּהָ בְיָדֶֽךָ, וְאֶל בִּינָתְךָ אַל תִּשָּׁעֵן

Exile yourself to a place of Torah; do not say that it will come after you, that your colleagues will help you retain it—and don’t rely on your own understanding.

There is discussion in the Gemara as to the identity of Rabbi Nehorai. One opinion is that he is really Rabbi Elazar ben Arach, a talmid of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai who is speaking here from experience. He followed his wife to Diomsis (aka Emmaus), a place known for its waters. His colleagues did not follow him and he forgot his Torah. Although Rabbi Elazar ben Arach lived generations after Avtalyon, we might speculate that the idea of deserting the Beit Midrash for a spa resort was one that appealed to Chachamim of other generations too.

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WHO, OR WHAT, IS THE ONE AND ONLY?

Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose has some strong opinions about judges and judging. After effectively accusing anyone who wants to be a judge of being a pompous idiot (Avot 4:9), he continues (at Avot 4:10):

אַל תְּהִי דָן יְחִידִי, שֶׁאֵין דָּן יְחִידִי אֶלָּא אֶחָד

Do not judge on your own, for no-one is qualified to judge alone except the One.

Taken at face value, the "One" is God. But Avot is supposed to teach us mussar and middot--how to behave. While we seek to emulate God when and where we can, our sphere of operation is the sphere of the mundane. So what message can we learn from this mishnah that will apply specifically to us?

Most Jewish courts deal with ordinary civil disputes involving loans, debts, breach of contract and the like, aa well as supervising Jewish divorces, and these courts generally consist of three dayanim. It is permitted for a dayan to judge by himself (Sanhedrin 3a), but the practice is not generally encouraged. The circumstance in which this happens is likely to be where the judge has a particular legal expertise and where both parties to a dispute request it. This being so, one may ask why Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose is so dead set against it. The mishnah calls for an explanation.

One approach, taken by Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (Pirkei Avot im Sha’are Avot) is to remove the mishnah from the context of litigation and direct it towards the individual. When we judge ourselves, we must be aware that we are not impartial, since no man is a rasha in his own eyes. We cultivate our own biases and may not even recognize them. When judged by God, however, our thoughts and actions can be objectively scrutinized. While this is an important lesson, one might ask whether Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, who redacted the Mishnah, or the Tanna who taught it, intended it to be removed from the sphere of civil dispute resolution, given that it is both preceded and followed by court-specific statements.

An attempt to widen the scope of the mishnah without removing it from a judicial context can be found in Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff’s Lev Avot. There, he focuses on the methodology of the judicial process in terms the standards we use both in court and out of it for judging others.

Rabbi Toperoff takes the words אַל תְּהִי דָן יְחִידִי  (al tehi dan yechidi, “do not judge on your own”) and effectively renders them as “do not do strict justice alone” since the root of the word דָן (dan, “a judge”) share a common root with din, “strict justice”. He argues that the Jewish way is to judge simultaneously in accordance with two standards: din, strict justice and rachamim, justice tempered by mercy.

This advice is admirable. We see it implemented in every judicial system in which a court’s decision on liability is based on strict justice but its resulting order takes into account factors that mitigate or aggravate the decision itself. However, Rabbi Toperoff then proceeds to give an example that detracts from the principle he advocates.

On the basis that mishpat (justice) is the equivalent to din and that tzedakah (charity) is the equivalent of rachamim, Rabbi Toperoff cites 2 Samuel 8:15 (וְדָוִד֙ עֹשֶׂ֣ה מִשְׁפָּ֔ט וּצְדָקָ֖ה לְכׇל־עַמּֽוֹ , “And David executed mishpat and tzedakah towards all his people”), he continues:

How did David execute both at the same time? One rabbi interpreted the verse literally as meaning that when David realised that the condemned man was poor, he himself undertook to pay the fine. In this manner, David dispensed justice with charity.

The rabbi concerned was undoubtedly well-meaning. However, no serious judge or dayan would find it helpful guidance in dealing with a case before him today. It would be hard to find judges prepared to hear cases if they were expected to finance fines and damages out of their own pockets and, if a judge was to be required to indemnify the guilty or liable party, any deterrent effect of the court’s award would be diminished or entirely eliminated. A poor person would then be at liberty to plough his car through a crowd of pedestrians in the knowledge that the unfortunate judge would be expected to pick up the bill. In short, this sort of explanation does nothing to promote the real-world value of Pirkei Avot as a guide to good and ethical behaviour.

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MIDDOT IN ONE’S DNA—AGAIN

Last month I posted a piece that expressed some dismay at the proposition, espoused by Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal Ethics from Sinai, on Avot 2:11), that good middot—behavioural qualities—are hereditary. I had assumed that this was a lone opinion, but I am wrong. The same notion is also expressed in another contemporary commentary on Avot, Rav Schachter on Pirkei Avos, based on the thoughts and shiurim of Rav Hershel Schachter as adopted by Dr Allan Weissman. This work comments on Avot 5:3, an anonymous mishnah in praise of Avraham:

עֲשָׂרָה נִסְיוֹנוֹת נִתְנַסָּה אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וְעָמַד בְּכֻלָּם, לְהוֹדִֽיעַ כַּמָּה חִבָּתוֹ שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ

With ten tests our father Abraham was tested and he withstood them all—in order to make known how great was our father Abraham's love.

Rav Schachter on Avos comments thus:

“Avraham Avinu’s success in passing the ten nisyonos indicated that his level of yiras Shamayim became part of his DNA makeup, and this could then be transmitted genetically to future generations. Thus, Avraham paved the way for his descendants, who have since stirred themselves to make aliyah, for example, and to accept difficulties in life with emunah and without question”.

I wonder if has ever occurred to the author that the vast majority of Avraham’s descendants are from Yishmael and not from Yitzchak. Moreover, a very large proportion of our ‘minority’ branch consists of people who have not made aliyah and appear to have little wish or intention to do so. The descendants of Yishmael, however, seem to be quite eager to occupy the whole of the land of Israel.

It's apposite to note that DNA in the context of our mishnah cannot be taken literally. It is suggested that it was only once Avraham had passed the ten tests that his DNA was perfected. Both Yishmael and Yitzchak were of course already born before then.

I remain uncomfortable with the notion that our behavioural choices in life are somehow conditioned by our genetic composition, especially in the absence of any evidence to that effect and when there does seem to be at least circumstantial evidence to the contrary.

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FIRST TO GREET? IT AIN’T NECESSARILY SO

Only one mishnah in the name of Rabbi Matya ben Chorosh (Avot 4:20) is included in the version of Avot we learn today:

הֱוֵי מַקְדִּים בִּשְׁלוֹם כָּל אָדָם, וֶהֱוֵי זָנָב לָאֲרָיוֹת, וְאַל תְּהִי רֹאשׁ לַשֻּׁעָלִים

Rabbi Matya the son of Charash would say: Be first to greet everyone. Be a tail to lions, rather than a head to foxes.

Is this mishnah a pair of quite unrelated teachings, or are they connected? Questions of this nature persist throughout the tractate and they turn on the same meta-question: did Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, in redacting Avot, group more than one teaching by the same rabbi because:

• it was easier to remember the two independent teachings by the same rabbi if they were bracketed together in the same mishnah,
• they constituted only a single teaching which was segmented, or
• they were two separate teachings but the meaning of the second part was conditioned by the first?

Commentators at different times have taken different approaches. One rabbi who worked hard to establish a sequential link wherever possible in Avot is Rabbi Ovadiyah Hedayah, whose commentary on Avot (Seh leBet Avot) sometimes seems to push this methodology to its limits, if not beyond.  But the Seh leBet Avot has its surprises.

 The quality of being the first to greet people—the middah urged upon us by the Tanna—is praised for many reasons. It is a display of friendship, a recognition of the essential humanity shared by the greeter and the person greeted. It is also a sign of humility, since no-one is deemed so unimportant as to be snubbed in the street. Examples of great rabbis and personalities who do this are given. It is not a complex matter for the student of Avot to grasp.

The Seh leBet Avot has to find some link between this teaching and that which precedes it, an apparently harsh and fatalistic statement of Rabbi Yannai (Avot 4:19):

אֵין בְּיָדֵֽינוּ לֹא מִשַּׁלְוַת הָרְשָׁעִים, וְאַף לֹא מִיִּסּוֹרֵי הַצַּדִּיקִים

Neither the tranquillity of the wicked, nor the suffering of the righteous, are within our grasp.

There is no obvious connection between the words of Rabbi Yannai and those of Rabbi Matya ben Chorosh. Yet they are juxtaposed and, in many editions of Avot that are not numbered in the same manner as the versions found in modern siddurim, the two are even included in the same mishnah.

Rabbi Hedayah finds a link.  The teaching of Rabbi Yannai is about the inscrutability of divine justice. This is contrasted with that of Rabbi Matya, who speaks of justice made by man.

The words הֱוֵי מַקְדִּים בִּשְׁלוֹם can and do mean “be first to greet”, but the word שְׁלוֹם literally means “peace”. The teaching is therefore that one should be first to make peace. This applies in the context of litigation, where the disputants are facing off against other with anger and hostility. Our job is to get in first, ideally by identifying a pesharah, a compromise solution that will make both parties happy, or at minimise their sadness. The best form of peace is that which arises from the resolution of a dispute—and if both parties agree to it, the discomforts and frustrations of divine justice will simply not apply.

Up to this point, all is well—but what happens if a pesharah cannot be established and the dispute must be heard? Here the fox-and-lions part of the teaching comes into play. When judging a case, don’t hasten to convene a poor and unworthy Beit Din of which you are the head; for the sake of shalom, of real peace, it is better to be the most junior member of the tribunal so that the parties will benefit from it and you will learn from it too.

Yes, this explanation does seem somewhat contrived and is very much at odds with the way most people read Rabbi Matya’s mishnah—but it does remind us that we should be ever alert to new ways of reading the mishnayot in Avot. We may reject the result of what we learn, but we may gain from it too. I for one had forgotten that his mishnah might have anything to do with peace, notwithstanding the presence of שְׁלוֹם at the very heart of it.

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CONTENTED -- BUT DISCONTENTED?

The concept of being satisfied with one’s portion in life is deeply ingrained in Pirkei Avot. At Avot 4:1 Ben Zoma teaches:

אֵיזֶהוּ עָשִׁיר, הַשָּׂמֵֽחַ בְּחֶלְקוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: יְגִֽיעַ כַּפֶּֽיךָ כִּי תֹאכֵל, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Who is rich? One who is happy with his lot. As it states (Tehillim 128:2): "If you eat of the effort of your hands, you are fortunate and it’s good for you"; "you are fortunate" in this world, "and it is good for you" in the World to Come.

This sentiment is echoed by a Baraita at Avot 6:4:

כַּךְ הִיא דַּרְכָּהּ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה: פַּת בְּמֶֽלַח תֹּאכֵל, וּמַֽיִם בִּמְשׂוּרָה תִּשְׁתֶּה, וְעַל הָאָֽרֶץ תִּישָׁן, וְחַיֵּי צַֽעַר תִּחְיֶה, וּבַתּוֹרָה אַתָּה עָמֵל, אִם אַתָּה עֽוֹשֶׂה כֵּן, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Such is the way of Torah: Bread with salt you shall eat, water in small measure you shall drink, and upon the ground you shall sleep; live a life of hardship and toil in Torah. If you do so, “you are fortunate and it’s good for you"; "you are fortunate" in this world, "and it is good for you" in the World to Come.

Being contented with one’s lot is highly praised as the highest form of acceptance of God’s will. Anything less might be viewed as a criticism of His assessment of what you need or deserve—a point made by Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky in his Netivot Shalom. But this itself raises concerns about the danger of complacency, which demotivates a person and causes us to rest on our laurels rather than seek self-betterment.

An approach towards establishing the parameters of contentment is found in the Si’ach Tzvi, a commentary on the siddur by Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ferber. There, he refers to our request in the blessing for a good and prosperous year:

שבְּעֵנוּ מִטּוּבָהּ

“Satisfy us from your goodness”

There he observes that there are two areas in which one might be satisfied to the point of contentment: one is in one’s material aspirations, the other in one’s personal growth in terms of one’s human qualities.

The point of this blessing, he explains, is to seek contentment with one’s material wealth and not to keep demanding more, since man by his very nature is an acquisitive animal: the more we have, the more we want. We invoke God’s assistance in this blessing in curbing our constant desire to accumulate. But when it comes to one’s spiritual, emotional and intellectual development, one should never be satisfied with one’s lot. We should always seek to grow in knowledge, wisdom, emotional understanding and so on.

The truly happy person, Rabbi Ferber concludes, is the one who is truly at peace of mind with what he or she owns, while nonetheless striving to grow into a better person. The person we should avoid becoming is the poor soul who is comfortable with what sort of person he is and has no concern for his betterment, while simultaneously questing for more money and everything that goes with it.

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IS GOOD BEHAVIOUR HEREDITARY?

I have just come across an astonishing proposition from one of the most powerful proponent of focusing on Torah-true values, Rabbi Yaakov Hillel. It troubles me greatly and I shall explain why.

In his Eternal Ethics from Sinai, an uncompromising no-holds-barred commentary on Avot, Rabbi Hillel takes a position on one of the less discussed parts of the tractate: the two words of praise that Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai accords to his talmid, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya. At Avot 2:11 he says just two words: אַשְׁרֵי יוֹלַדְתּוֹ (“Happy is the one who bore him”). This is taken to refer to the pleasure Rabbi Yehoshua gave his mother by becoming a great talmid chacham, and tales are told of how she sought to place her baby son where he would hear and absorb words of Torah even before he could consciously understand them.

Rabbi Hillel, commenting on this teaching, writes this:

The parents of this exceptional child were truly fortunate. The Bartenura writes that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananyah was blessed with such good middot that everyone said “‘What lucky parents to have such a son”. This is more than a matter of nahat from a good child. Middot are hereditary. The very fact that one has good middot is a compliment to his parents, because these fine qualities came from them.  … Sadly a child born to parents with bad middot is all too likely to inherit their negative traits.

To be fair to Rabbi Hillel, he later writes that even people born with these good middot should still work on them and improve them—a concession to the possibility that an individual may have some sort of choice in the matter, at least on the assumption that the urge to improve oneself is itself also a good middah that one has inherited from one’s parents. However, my discomfort with his words remains.

Let us start with a case recorded in the Torah: the children born to Yitzchak and Rivkah. Eisav and Yaakov were twins and no commentator has dared to cast aspersions on the legitimacy of their parentage. One, Yaakov, is credited with excellent middot: he is held up as the epitome of truth (Micah 7:20), a man of honesty and integrity in even the most trying of circumstances (the Torah records more tests of Yaakov than of Abraham).  The other is written off as a violent, egotistical degenerate, a person of no worth and who possesses just one redeeming feature in the way he honours his father. Heredity is hard to accommodate here but not impossible. Perhaps Yaakov inherited his parents’ pure and perfect middot while Eisav inherited those of the family from which his mother descended.

More tellingly, a lifetime’s experience has shown me that children with very different middot appear to be almost routinely born the same parents and that, while there are some families in which all the members have outstanding middot, such families do seem in our generation to constitute a minority.

I wonder what benefit a reader may extract from the proposition that middot are hereditary. This message may be read as a disincentive to do anything about one’s own middot on the basis that they are in one’s genes, as it were. It may also cause people to judge harshly and unfairly those families whose children display poor behaviour, not least because it discounts the impact of social influence and peer pressure—phenomena that are demonstrably easier to prove than moral heredity.

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WHY BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE

While the topic of why bad things happen to good people—and vice versa—has occupied a place in the thought of religious people of many faiths across the millennia, it is plain that there is no consensus answer. We are faced with a palette of answers from which to choose, and each is open to objection. Sample explanations might run like this:

• The good person to whom bad things happen isn’t really good—and you aren’t in a position to assess their quantum of goodness;
• That person obviously didn’t pray hard, well or frequently enough to merit good things happening;
• That person may be good in this life but be possessed by a soul that was bad in an earlier existence, and which deserved a tough time;
• That person is really and truly good, and the bad things that happen are only to clear the way for them to enjoy a more pleasurable life in the World to Come;
• Bad things happen to this person so that some other person can have the opportunity to good things to them;
• The infliction of bad things has a cautionary effect, warning that worse things may come if the good person does not do—or desist from doing—a particular thing;
• Being made to experience bad things is only a test of how strong is that person’s faith in the face of adversity.

There are also correlative explanations as to why good things happen to bad people.

At Avot 4:19 Rabbi Yannai raises the question but then appears to deflect it:

אֵין בְּיָדֵֽינוּ לֹא מִשַּׁלְוַת הָרְשָׁעִים, וְאַף לֹא מִיִּסּוֹרֵי הַצַּדִּיקִים

Neither the tranquility of the wicked nor the suffering of the righteous are in our grasp.

Rabbi Yannai is quite correct. We cannot understand why the wicked enjoy the good things in life while the good do not, or why people who commit evil can sleep soundly in their beds at night while tzaddikim, the righteous, are unable to rest. One might venture to suggest that the thrust of his mishnah is not to tell us that we don’t have an answer but, by implication, to persuade us to let go of these issues and not waste valuable time speculating about them since we have neither the necessary data nor the Divine perspective that make an assessment in each case possible.

As one might imagine, this issue has attracted the serious attention of many of our Sages over the generations, none of which impressed Rabbi Baruch HaLevi Epstein

In his Baruch She’amar al Pirkei Avot, he expresses his astonishment that many have laboured over this issue when the answer is so obvious. He cites a gemara at Niddah 16b that runs like this:

Rabbi Chanina bar Papa made the following exposition: The name of the angel who is in charge of conception is 'Night', and he takes up a drop [of semen] and places it in the presence of the Holy One, blessed be He, saying, 'Sovereign of the universe, what shall be the fate of this drop? Shall it produce a strong man or a weak man, a wise man or a fool, a rich man or a poor man?' Whereas 'wicked man' or 'righteous one' he does not mention, in agreement with the view of Rabbi Chanina. For Rabbi Chanina stated: ‘Everything is in the hands of heaven except the fear of God, as it is said, And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God require of you, but to fear him …

This gemara answers the question entirely. God determines what is going to happen to a person in terms of his or her health, wealth, status and aptitudes—but it for that person to exercise free will and choose whether to be a God-fearing (= good) person or not.

The same gemara is picked up in a recently published commentary on Avot, Rav Schachter on Pirkei Avos (2023). The Rav Schachter in question is Rav Hershel Schachter and much if not most of his commentary is based on the teachings of his own revered rabbi, HaRav Yosef Dov HaLevi Soloveitchik. Curiously, the passage from Niddah quoted above is brought in a discussion of an entirely different mishnah, Avot 4:4, at which Rabbi Levitas teaches that one should be exceedingly humble. This is because, as the gemara explains, a person’s skills and talents are God-given gifts and therefore nothing to boast about.

So how does Rav Schachter tackle the good-person/bad-things issue? In truth he doesn’t—but he does write about the fact that we live an imperfect world in which we have failed to eliminate Amalek and the forces of evil, and about the importance of accepting God’s decree with equanimity as a means of demonstrating one’s own emunah.

Maybe the Baruch She’amar’s approach comes close to sweeping a complex philosophical issue under the carpet, but I can’t help preferring it to a lengthy, learned and well-sourced response that seems to avoid answering it full-on.

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THE CURSE OF COMPLACENCY

Earlier this week I took a little time out from my busy schedule to go downtown with my son to a Jerusalemite bar with a big screen. There, over a pleasant beer or two, we cheered on Israel’s national football (soccer) team as the took on the might of Italy in a World Cup qualifying match. It was a real thriller: Israel looked to have taken the lead but their goal was disallowed. They then twice did take the lead, only to be overhauled by the stylish Europeans. Ultimately having scored a late equaliser, they conceded an even later goal that proved to be decisive. We lost 5-4 but we made a real contest of it and could hold our heads high.

What has this to do with Pirkei Avot? The tractate pinpoints many character failings, but on a casual reading it seems that none of the sages who contributed to it had anything to say about complacency. The Israel team, reflecting what some people have unkindly suggested is a national characteristic, appeared to be afflicted by a tendency to concede a goal very soon after scoring one of their own. It is as though the players, having greatly exerted themselves to secure the lead, relaxed a little and slid down from the peak of intense concentration to which they had previously ascended.

So where in Avot do we find any discussion of complacency and the need to avoid it? If we are honest with ourselves, there isn’t one. Neither Biblical Hebrew nor the modern version spoken in Israel today have a word that exactly matches it. The closest we get to it is arguably the modern usage of שַׁאֲנַנוּת (sha’ananut), which suggests smugness verging on indifference.

However, Avot does nudge us towards a recognition of the need to guard against complacency. In Avot 5:24 Yehudah ben Teyma teaches:

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

Be as brazen 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.

We are all supposed to do the will of our Father in Heaven. For every practising Jew that comes with the territory, and it’s so well embedded in the Written Torah that it would be otiose to repeat that obligation in the Oral Law. In other words, we are supposed to look at the animals and see what we can learn from them.

The leopard is a phenomenally successful feeder because, unlike many other predators, it is not territorial. Lions, who are territorial, feed well when migratory herds pass through their patch but can go seriously hungry when their food doesn’t come to them. The leopard, in contrast, does not complacently wait for its prey to arrive but seeks out—which is why it is so frequently found in areas of human habitation where prey is more readily available.

The deer cannot afford to be complacent either. As a popular and nourishing repast for predators, the deer must be ever vigilant and ready to flee at a split-second’s notice if it is not to be a big cat’s dinner. According to Rabbi Menachem Mordechai Frankel-Teomim (Be’er HaAvot) this mishnah goes further, with the deer epitomising the epithet zerizim makdimim lemitzvot (“Enthusiasts are first to fulfil the commandments”), a middah that is quite incompatible with an attitude of complacency.

There is also an overarching mishnah at Avot 1:13 in which Hillel teaches: 

דְלָא מוֹסִיף יָסֵף

The one who does not increase will decrease.

Complacency suggests holding to where one is, resting on one’s laurels rather than contemplating how to better oneself, whether in material or—more importantly for the committed Jew—spiritual terms.

To conclude, the mussar of Avot does address complacency, albeit in a somewhat indirect matter which is results from the lack of an apt term with which to describe it.

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UNEXPECTED LESSONS AND A TRIP TO IKEA

In a recent blog post (referenced at the foot of this piece), Rabbi Steven Ettinger wrote this:

While describing his early yeshiva years …, Rabbi Wein ztz’l fondly recalled what he learned in ninth grade from Rabbi Mendel Kaplan. Along with Talmud, this famed disciple of the Mir Yeshiva and Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman taught his young student “how to actually read the newspaper, spotting its unintended lessons in life.” 

Spotting unintended lessons in life was something Rabbi Berel Wein got down to a fine art. He was a kindred spirit of Dayan Gershon Lopian ztz’l, who quipped that one good Sunday newspaper would provide him with enough divrei Torah for the entire week. Learning unintended lessons is very much within the spirit of Pirkei Avot, where Ben Zoma opens the fourth perek with this advice:

אֵיזֶהוּ חָכָם, הַלּוֹמֵד מִכָּל אָדָם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: מִכָּל מְלַמְּדַי הִשְׂכַּֽלְתִּי, כִּי עֵדְוֹתֶֽיךָ שִֽׂיחָה לִי

Who is wise? One who learns from everyone. As it states (Tehillim 119:99): "From all my teachers I have grown wise, for Your testimonials are my meditation."

The Babylonian Talmud goes even further, where the Amora Rabbi Yochanan teaches (Eruvin 100b) that, had the Torah not been given, we could have learned the principles of good behaviour from animals, birds and even insects.

I had a small insight into how a Torah teacher might pluck instruction out of the most unexpected opportunities when I managed to do it myself last Shabbat. The occasion was the making of announcements at the end of mussaf concerning davening times and events for the coming week. Our shul’s Women’s League had organized a trip to an art museum followed by lunch (and a little browsing time) at IKEA, the legendary home of stylish flat-pack, self-assembly furniture. It suddenly occurred to me that there was a lesson to be learned. I said (more or less) the following:

“I’d like to say something about this trip to IKEA, because there is so much that this chain of flat-pack furniture emporiums can teach us as Jews. Indeed, IKEA carries a great message as we head towards the Yamim Nora’im [the Days of Awe—Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur].

 If you have ever purchased any self-assembly furniture from IKEA, you will know that it comes with a set of instructions. You never see these instructions or have a chance to read them till after you have bought the product, taken it home and removed the packaging. This is what it means to say na’aseh venishma: just as we agreed at Sinai to follow the instructions in the Torah even before we heard what was in it, so to do we commit ourselves to following the self-assembly instructions even before we have even read them.

Now, like the laws of the Torah, the IKEA furniture assembly instructions are not always easy to understand. Some don’t appear to have any purpose. And sometimes, even when they are easy to understand, it’s actually quite hard to follow them.  But we have been given free will. It’s up to us to follow those instructions or to ignore them and do our own thing. And just as with the instructions in the Torah, so too with the IKEA instructions, if you don’t carry them out to the letter, you may well come literally unstuck.

On the Yamim Noraim we confirm the validity of God’s instructions and then atone for those we have failed to carry out, whether deliberately, negligently or through our own incompetence. Most importantly we have to accept the reality that, with our Torah observance no less than our flat-pack assembly, it is we who are responsible for the consequences of our own acts. Please bear this mussar in mind when you visit IKEA and your trip will not have been an idle one”.

I was speaking on an impulse—and admittedly I might not have said any of this if our Rabbi had not been on holiday. But the temptation was too great to resist.

If any readers have had similar experiences, I do hope they will feel confident to share them with us here.

Rabbi Steven Ettinger’s piece, “Learning to Read the Torah”, can be accessed in full here.

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