Playing God by refusing to judge?

At Avot 1:6 Yehoshua ben Perachyah teaches:

עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וּקְנֵה לְךָ חָבֵר, וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת

Make for yourself a teacher (or master), acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every person meritoriously.

The third and final part of this mishnah is the source for the injunction to give other people the benefit of the doubt if you don’t know whether they intended to act in a dubious manner. After all, we don’t have a window into other people’s minds. When they do something wrong, can we be sure that they were doing so deliberately? Or did they have an explanation, an excuse that was at least plausible if not deserving of our approval?

This may not have been quite what Yehoshua ben Perachyah meant.  The word safek (“doubt”) does not actually appear in this mishnah. The commentaries of the Bartenura, Rambam, Rashi and Rabbenu Yonah make no mention of doubt either.

According to the commentary ascribed to Rashi, one should not assume that what one hears someone else has done is bad unless there is clear evidence to that effect. This idea that we are talking here about the burden of proof when judging a legal dispute—a subject matter that fits well into the first perek of Avot, where much, if not most, of the teachings are relevant to judicial proceedings. The Bartenura uses “scales of justice” imagery too: when the case is equipoised, one should not treat the person being judged as a rasha, someone who is wicked.

Rambam, whose explanation is endorsed by Rabbenu Yonah and the Me’iri, takes this mishnah beyond the realm of judicial proceedings. In their view it only really applies to someone you don’t know: if you know a person to be bad, even his apparently good actions are probably bad, while a good person’s seemingly bad actions should be viewed as good.

Some commentators seek to link the third part of the mishnah to the teachings that precede it. Thus the Sforno and Rabbi Chaim Volozhin (Ruach HaChaim) both see judging others favourably as the means of preserving the friendship that one has just acquired.

Rabbi Norman Lamm (Foundation of Faith) offers a very different explanation of this mishnah, citing a teaching of Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech Spira of Dinov, Chasidic author of the Bnei Yissaschar.  Here the focus is shifted from subjective doubt to and objective evidence of truth, towards the higher value of emulating God. He writes:

“[I]f your friend does something and you have two ways of judging him, either realistically, attributing his actions to malice and bad motives, or charitably, seeking out the best interpretation of his deeds, you must do the latter and give him the benefit of the doubt. But how can one do this when one knows that a fellowman did indeed perform a transgression out of malevolence or at least indifferent motives? Knowing the psychology of human beings, and the nastiness that lies so close to the soul, are we indeed being truthful in judging another lekaf zechut—charitably?”

This is not a rhetorical question. It is indeed demanded by Pirkei Avot itself, where truth is highlighted as one of the three things that enable the world to function (Avot 1:18) and we are told that conceding the truth is one of the seven signs of the chacham, one who is wise (Avot 5:9). The Bnei Yissaschar however effectively bypasses this issue. As Rabbi Lamm explains, this answer hinges on another mishnah in Avot, an enigmatic statement by Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:19 that appears to have no obvious connection to our discussion:

הַכֹּל צָפוּי, וְהָרְשׁוּת נְתוּנָה

Everything is foreseen, and freedom of choice is granted.

Rabbi Lamm explains:

“[T]he Almighty foresees everything, yet we are possessed of free will. But is this not a contradiction? Does not divine foreknowledge mean that I must do what He has foreseen, that I am denied free choice between good and evil? The answer of a number of Rishonim is that the Almighty practises tzimtzum, He deliberately curbs His own foreknowledge. He decides not to see, not to know, hence not to coerce man’s choice. So …we must imitate the divine act of self-denial—Imitatio Dei—and man too must refrain from knowing too much of the human proclivity for the base and the ugly. We must not see, not know, not understand our friend’s “real” character; instead, we must judge him charitably, lekaf zechut. This is the essence of Jewish Gevurah [literally ‘strength’,meaning here ‘self-control’]: to know how to pull back, to know when not to look at another person’s character, and to achieve “simplicity””.

These words are so noble and inspiring that we could almost swallow them whole. But in the world of middot and mussar nothing is simple. In the same perek as this mishnah, we are told to distance ourselves from a bad neighbour and to avoid joining up with a rasha, someone who is evil. These assessments are of people rather than of actions (the subject of our mishnah) but there is a fine line to be drawn—for how do we judge a person other than through his or her actions?

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The truth about eyes

Let’s start the new calendar year on a positive note. At Avot 2:13 Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai tells his top talmidim to take to the streets, as it were, and see for themselves which approach to life is the most preferable. This is how they respond:

רַבִּי אֱלִיעֶֽזֶר אוֹמֵר: עַֽיִן טוֹבָה. רַבִּי יְהוֹשֻֽׁעַ אוֹמֵר: חָבֵר טוֹב. רַבִּי יוֹסֵי אוֹמֵר: שָׁכֵן טוֹב. רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמֵר: הָרוֹאֶה אֶת הַנּוֹלָד. רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר אוֹמֵר: לֵב טוֹב. אָמַר לָהֶם: רוֹאֶה אֲנִי אֶת דִּבְרֵי אֶלְעָזָר בֶּן עֲרָךְ מִדִּבְרֵיכֶם, שֶׁבִּכְלַל דְּבָרָיו דִּבְרֵיכֶם

Rabbi Eliezer says: A good eye. Rabbi Yehoshua says: A good friend. Rabbi Yose says: A good neighbour. Rabbi Shimon says: To see what is born [out of one’s actions]. Rabbi Elazar says: A good heart. [Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai] said to them: I prefer the words of Elazar ben Arach to yours, for his words include all of yours.

Rabbi Eliezer’s choice of a “good eye” is generally understood to be a shorthand term for magnanimity towards others, being able to share their success or happiness, and not begrudging what they have. His answer, like those of his colleagues, is not incorrect, but it is passed over in favour of that of Rabbi Elazar, which embraces it but is of wider application.

At Avot 2:14 Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai gives a very different instruction, relating to the path in life that his talmidim should make an effort to avoid. This is how they answer:

רַבִּי אֱלִיעֶֽזֶר אוֹמֵר: עַֽיִן רָעָה. רַבִּי יְהוֹשֻֽׁעַ אוֹמֵר: חָבֵר רָע. רַבִּי יוֹסֵי אוֹמֵר: שָׁכֵן רָע. רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמֵר: הַלֹּוֶה וְאֵינוֹ מְשַׁלֵּם, אֶחָד הַלֹּוֶה מִן הָאָדָם כְּלֹוֶה מִן הַמָּקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: לֹוֶה רָשָׁע וְלֹא יְשַׁלֵּם, וְצַדִּיק חוֹנֵן וְנוֹתֵן. רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר אוֹמֵר: לֵב רָע. אָמַר לָהֶם: רוֹאֶה אֲנִי אֶת דִּבְרֵי אֶלְעָזָר בֶּן עֲרָךְ מִדִּבְרֵיכֶם, שֶׁבִּכְלַל דְּבָרָיו דִּבְרֵיכֶם

Rabbi Eliezer says: An evil eye. Rabbi Yehoshua says: An evil friend. Rabbi Yose says: An evil neighbour. Rabbi Shimon says: To borrow and not to repay… Rabbi Elazar says: An evil heart. [Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai] said to them: I prefer the word of Elazar ben Arach to yours, for his words include all of yours.

Rabbi Eliezer’s response complements his earlier answer by framing the same advice in negative terms: if the right path is one of magnanimity, the path to avoid is the route leading in the opposite direction, towards envy, jealousy, negativity, resentment and dissatisfaction with one’s lot. Once again, his answer is not wrong but is too specific. His path to avoid is narrow; that of Rabbi Elazar is wider.

 As always, if one looks more closely at the words of a mishnah there is more to be said about it. For example Rabbi Marcus Lehmann, invoking the law of the excluded middle, points out that there is a zone in which a person’s attitude may be neutral or at any rate motivated by feelings and emotions that are not governed by goodness or badness per se. This is true, but is it relevant?  Our mishnayot are only concerned with the road one should take and the road one should avoid, not the roads that lead in different directions.

Gila Ross (Living Beautifully) goes beyond the obvious meanings mentioned above. She writes:

“Rabbi Eliezer said an evil eye: someone who sees the negative whether in things or in other people. It’s fascinating that he says “eye” in the singular. He’s teaching us that a person becomes negative by shutting one eye, the eye that sees Godliness within another person. Everybody has both good and bad within him, so by shutting that eye and only seeing the human, flawed side, a person develops an “evil eye”. When we shut our eye and don’t look at the good within the other person, we are left with the negative. Then, a person can even give negative motives to what other people do”.

This metaphor fits neatly with other mishnayot in Avot, notably Yehoshua ben Perachya’s injunction at Avot 1:6 to judge other favourably and Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananyah’s condemnation of “an evil eye, an evil inclination and the hatred of others” (Avot 2:16) echoed in Rabbi Elazar HaKappar’s caution (Avot 4:28) regarding the self-destructive effect of jealousy, lust and the desire for kavod, honour.

But Avot does not say that we should look at others only with the “good eye”.  We are obliged to see what is truly there, since truth is one of the three values on which the continued existence of humanity depends (Avot 1:18). More than that, we are obliged to recognise and accept the truth, not deny it (Avot 5:9), and to set others onto the path of truth (Avot 6:6).

Today is the first day in the secular calendar for 2025. My sincere wish for this year is that we should all be blessed with the ability to recognise the truth when we see it—and to be able to accommodate ourselves to the truth rather than bend it to suit ourselves.

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From Gay to Garber: will Harvard be singing a new tune?

Few of us will have had time to forget the circumstances leading to the resignation of Claudine Gay as Harvard’s University President, or the immense shock and pain felt by the Jewish community over her official stance on statements concerning genocide of the Jews. Ms Gay has since been replaced by Alan Garber (“born … in a Jewish household”, per Wikipedia), who is seeking to reduce the level of tension and anxiety in what was, until recently, one of the world’s most revered and respected institutions.

The Harvard Gazette reported yesterday as follows:

University President Alan Garber urged the campus community to seek opportunities for unity in a time of divisiveness on Tuesday at the first Morning Prayers ceremony of the new academic year at Memorial Church’s Appleton Chapel.

Garber opened his address with words of advice from the Talmudic compendium Pirkei Avot, or “Ethics of the Fathers,” traditionally read on the Sabbath. “Find yourself a teacher,” he said. “Win yourself a friend, and be one who judges everyone by giving them the benefit of the doubt.”

Garber, who took the helm of the University at a time of unrest over the war in Gaza, echoed themes he touched on during Monday’s Convocation, urging members of the community to seek common ground, treat one another with empathy and respect, and learn from the rich diversity of views on campus.

He explained that finding a teacher means seeking out people “whose experiences, skills and perspectives are different from your own, and whose knowledge and wisdom often exceed yours,” and “winning yourself a friend” requires offering “companionship, empathy, concern, support, and trustworthiness.”

“We’re all too adept at recognizing the flaws of our antagonists and even of our friends,” Garber said. “It’s tempting to interpret the actions of others in the worst possible light. It is better for all of us to do the opposite.”

Garber shook his head at recent headlines saying the nation’s colleges and universities have no choice but to brace for continuing disruption and unrest. He called it a “dismal notion” at an institution like Harvard, which is “pushing the limits of understanding, pursuing genuine excellence in every domain, and making ourselves, our University, and the world better.” 

These impediments can be avoided. “This is not a time to brace ourselves,” he said. “This is a time to embrace once another. We can do so by always keeping that third precept in mind. Be one who judges everyone by giving them the benefit of the doubt. By reserving judgment, we make it possible for others to know that they are part of this community and that this community cares for them.”

Garber said the key was “to bring to day-to-day interactions the same commitment to inquiry and discovery that we bring to our intellectual pursuits. If and when tensions among us rise, I hope that we will approach each other not only as fellow human beings, but as potential teachers and friends”…

Professor Garber’s mention of Pirkei Avot—in this case the teaching of Yehoshua ben Perachyah at Avot 1:6—is the latest example of the citation of mishnayot in order to make a political point (see also the speeches of Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro here and here).  

In this instance one can see why this mishnah is chosen: it reminds its audience that Harvard is about teaching; it sends out a positive message of friendship and it arguably also encourages people not to judge each other as individuals and not collectively.  The message has a Jewish origin but is of universal application.

I wonder whether any other message from Avot was considered and then rejected. At Avot 4:1 Ben Zoma teaches: “Who is honoured/respected? The person who honours/respects others”. But perhaps asking the Harvard faculty and student body to honour or respect one another is demanding too much.  At Avot 3:18 Rabbi Akiva reminds us that we are all created in God’s image—but this would scarcely impress those who do not believe in God. And Hillel at Avot 1:12 urges us to love peace and pursue it. Maybe, given the chasm that separates different definitions of “peace” in Israel, in Gaza and on the Harvard campus itself, this would not be a consensus teaching after all.

I’d be curious to discover what readers think of Professor Garber’s statement and the appropriateness of his choice of Avot citation.

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How to lose wait

No -- the title's not a mis-spelling. Please read on!

One of Hillel’s more frequently encountered teachings is אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרָךְ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּֽיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ (“Don’t judge your friend until you are standing in his place”). The obvious meaning is the literal one: unless you are able to look through another person’s eyes and experience what they are feeling when they do something, you cannot understand their thoughts and motives. This being so, you are not in a position to criticize their actions.

Taken at their face value, Hillel’s words fit well with other content in Pirkei Avot. Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose (Avot 4:10) tells us not to judge at all unless we do so in the company of other judges. Hillel teaches that we can’t judge properly from our personal standpoint. Yehoshua ben Perachya (Avot 1:6) adds that, even if we do judge someone, we should give them the benefit of the doubt.

There is another way we can look at Hillel’s teaching. Maybe he is encouraging us to try to look at things through other people’s eyes in order to avoid judging them at all. Here’s a practical instance of what I mean.

This morning when I left my synagogue, I noticed a man who was standing by the front door, at the top of a flight of steps. He was sheltering under the porch while he waited for his taxi to pick him up. From where he stood, he had a good view of any taxi that might draw up in front of the main door.

A little way down the road, I noticed a taxi waiting to pick up a passenger. The taxi had pulled in to the side of the road at a convenient point, by the edge of the synagogue, where the vehicle could stand without causing any inconvenience to pedestrians or road users.

I realized that there was a problem. The passenger was standing at a really good place for people to stand while waiting for a cab, while the taxi driver had parked in a really good place for motor vehicles to pull in—but neither could see the other.

If it had occurred to the taxi’s customer that the taxi might pull in at a place convenient for taxis, or if the taxi driver had thought where, if he was awaiting a cab, he might be standing, the two would have found each other instantly. As it was, the man awaiting the taxi was looking somewhat impatient, and the taxi driver’s face had ‘disgruntled’ written all over it.

The moral of the story is plain. If either of the actors in this early morning drama had visualized the problem of “man + taxi” through the eyes of the other, there would have been no problem.

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Temper, Temper!

Here’s an interesting observation from R’ Yaakov Moshe Charlap (Mei Marom 2:52, cited by R’ Chaim Druckman, Avot leBanim) on the subject of how we judge other people. Avot Today has often cited the teaching of Yehoshua ben Perachyah at Avot 1:6, that we should judge people on a scale of favour, giving them the benefit of the doubt if it is possible to do so. R’ Charlap points out that our judgement of others can be as much a reflection of ourselves as of the person we are judging. Thus a person who is very rarely angry and only reaches that condition when sorely provoked, on seeing someone else displaying anger, is apt to conclude that this angry person must have been sorely provoked too and would not have lost his temper under normal circumstances. Presumably this works the other way too: someone who is quick-tempered, viewing someone else losing their temper, will empathise with them because his experience and perception is the same.

What does this mean in wider terms? Do we want to urge a man who is a wife-beater to judge someone else who abuses his spouse the same way because he appreciates how gratifying it may be? Surely not. Perhaps the point here is that, when looking at the conduct of another person and then excusing it or empathising with it, the onlooker should—without casting aspersions on the other person—use what he sees as a sort of behavioural barometer to measure the acceptability of this conduct. That way, before the onset of Rosh Hashanah and the great annual judgement to which we subject ourselves, we will have done a better and more honest job of assessing our own performance over the past year. That way too, we stand a better chance of putting our performance right for the year to come.

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Abraham versus Balaam: how judgemental should we be?

Mishnah 5:22 of Avot highlights the character of one of the most intriguing personalities in the Torah: Balaam, of whom we read a great deal in this week’s Torah portion. The Mishnah reads, in translation, like this:

Whoever possesses the following three traits is among the disciples of our father Abraham, but whoever possesses three other traits is among the disciples of the wicked Balaam. The disciples of our father Abraham have a generous outlook, a meek spirit and a humble soul. The disciples of the wicked Balaam have a malevolent outlook, a haughty spirit and an avaricious gross soul.

The Mishnah then goes on to contrast their respective fates:

What is the difference between the disciples of our father Abraham and the disciples of the wicked Balaam? The disciples of our father Abraham benefit in this world and inherit the World To Come [proof texts omitted].

There is more to this teaching than meets the eye, since it meshes in well with two earlier mishnayot and in a way highlights the difference between them.

Many commentators have pointed to the significance of the explicit mention in this mishnah of the number three, among them Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky in his Netivot Shalom. Since we can all see that the Mishnah lists three positive character traits and their opposites, we don’t need a Tanna to teach us how to count. But we must understand what the Mishnah is telling us: “three” means “three and no more than three”. Why is this point so important?

As Rabbi Berezovsky indicates, all three of these signs by which one can distinguish a follower of Abraham from an adherent of Balaam are attitudes and therefore invisible to the naked eye. A person can look pious, dress modestly and go about the business of behaving him- or herself in a perfectly respectful manner and yet be rotten to the core.

Yehoshua ben Perachyah (Avot 1:6) tells us to judge our fellow humans on the basis of their merits. Rabbi Meir however (Avot 4:27) reminds us that we should look at the wine rather than the bottle, in other words that we should look to a person’s inner nature rather than to the outward signs of his or her character. Where we contrast the followers of Abraham with those of Balaam, we are therefore encouraged to give people the benefit of the doubt with regard to their motivation regarding any deed that may be either right or wrong—but neither are we to assume that a person is righteous simply on account of a failure to do anything that appears to be wrong.

Miriam's complaint: Drawing the wrong conclusion?

One of the most tantalising passages in the Torah's Book of Bemidbar tells of the punishment of Miriam for speaking about her younger brother Moses. The Torah narrative consists of 16 verses: Miriam and Aaron both observe that not merely Moses but they too are prophets; God hears, reprimands them, displays His anger with them, praises Moses’ qualities, explains why Moses’ prophecy is of a different order from theirs, then punishes Miriam with tzora’at, for which she must be quarantined for a week. Aaron is not explicitly punished.

Commentators on the Torah raise and discuss many questions, and there is much to ask. For example, why does the narrative twice mention that Moses married a Cushite woman, a detail that neither Miriam nor God appear to address? What indeed is a “Cushite woman”? Why is Miriam punished for speaking words that are true, and why does Aaron escape punishment? What has the statement that Moses was exceedingly humble have to do with the dialogue between God and his siblings and with the nature of his prophetic ability? And are Miriam and Aaron, who are themselves among the most righteous members of the generation leaving Egypt, not entitled to pass comment on their younger brother, given that they are his loyal supporters and are hardly seeking to overthrow him or challenge his authority?

Midrash picks up on this incident and fleshes it out with details not found in the Torah. Thus the description of Moses’ wife Zipporah as a “Cushite” was an allusion to her beauty. Moses was however no longer engaging in marital relations; his level of prophecy and intimacy with God was so high that he had to be constantly on-call, always ready to receive a divine message. Miriam and Aaron also received prophecy, but with neither the urgency nor the clarity with which Moses did so. Their prophecy therefore came only while they were asleep or in a trance. Being a humble and modest man, Moses did not tell his siblings that he received his prophecy at a higher level than they did; nor did he broadcast the fact that he had suspended marital relations with Zipporah, a state of affairs that Miriam deduced from Zipporah’s failure to wear ornaments or from overhearing Zipporah’s expression of sympathy for the wives of the 70 auxiliary prophets whom God asked Moses to select earlier in the same parashah. Miriam and Aaron spoke of the fact that they too were prophets on the assumption that, if they could still receive divine messages while conducting a normal marriage, it should have been possible for Moses to do likewise. This constituted lashon hara—inadmissible speech concerning another person—for which Miriam was punished, tzora’at being the punishment traditionally linked with lashon hara. Aaron escaped tzora’at, either because he was wearing priestly garments at the time or because, seeing Miriam in her afflicted state, he immediately applied the lesson to himself and repented.

There are numerous variations on the theme sketched out above, but it does represent a sort of midrashic consensus as to what the Torah narrative is about. What’s more, these midrashim seem to have cohered into a sort of Torah fact supplement. Ultimately, though, midrashim remain midrashim. If this was indeed what happened in factual terms, we might be asking why God chose to omit from His holy narrative so many facts that vest this episode with meaning.

Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, in his Ma’amar al Ha’Aggadot, reminds students of midrashic and aggadic literature that it is capable of being understood on more than one level. At the simplest level it may be read as plain fact, and some aggadic material is so sober and credible when read in conjunction with the Torah that it can be hard to view it any other way. Other such material is so fantastic, or so greatly contradicted by other midrashic writing, that one struggles to view it as having any literal narrative content at all.  Where midrash is capable of being learned on more than one level, a person should be slow to say that one approach is “right” while another is “wrong”, particularly when we recall that the authors of midrash did not tell us how to read their teachings. In some cases we have to concede that we cannot learn from them at all: they are effectively written in code and we have lost the key.

Is there then a different way to extract a teaching from this story of Amram and Yocheved’s stellar offspring?  

In his pirush on the Torah, Malbim takes a fresh view of this episode. Yes, Moses has a beautiful wife but has separated from her—and, yes, while all three siblings are prophets only Moses has taken this serious and controversial step. Malbim however suggests that Miriam and Aaron were under a misapprehension.  They had no doubt as to Moses’ humility or his greater quality as a prophet and a servant of God. Where they went wrong is that they thought too highly of their brother. They believed that Moses’ prophecy was at such a supernal level that, to all intents and purposes, the word of God entered directly into his nefesh, his soul, and that his nefesh was so pure that it was quite unaffected by any tumah, ritual impurity, that might affect his body. On that basis he could continue to have a physical relationship with Zipporah without in any sense affecting his ability to receive communications from God on an ongoing basis, at any time of the day and night and regardless of what he was doing.

Malbim makes no reference to Pirkei Avot, but his explanation ties in wll with that tractate. What, in other words, was the mistake that Miriam and Aaron made? They believed that they had assessed Moses’ conduct appropriately and that they were entitled to do so. As prophets themselves they fulfilled Hillel’s condition of not judging another until one was in his particular position (Avot 2:5). On this basis they then assumed that Moses had unnecessarily separated from Zipporah when they should have realised that Moses had a good reason for doing so, a reason that it was not for him to disclose to them. They should have judged him lekaf zechut (Avot 1:6), giving him credit for a decision that they did not understand, rather than concluding that he had in any way done the wrong thing.

In taking this line, Malbim detaches from Miriam and Aaron the obloquy of facing divine displeasure and censure for exchanging words of lashon hara. Rather, they demonstrate both the importance of judging others favourably and the potentially serious consequences of failing to do so: when it comes to our attitudes towards our fellow humans, the wrongful thought can be as dangerous as the wrongful word.

Having a care for another's prayer

 One of the less-discussed provisions of Pirkei Avot is the first of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel's three teachings at Avot 2:18:

Be careful in recitation of the Shema and tefillah (prayer).

The three paragraphs of the Shema are a fundamental element of Jewish belief. Among other things, they affirm the existence and the unity of God, the principle of rewarding adherence to His commandments and punishing disobedience to them and His instrumental role in bringing the Jewish people out of Egypt so that He could be their God. As for tefillah, this word is the mishnaic shorthand for the standard template of the morning, afternoon and evening prayers.

What does this teaching actually teach?

Why should Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel take the trouble to teach us to take care over these recitations, given their universally acknowledged importance in the Jewish world? And what use is this teaching if it tells us to be careful but doesn't tell us how? Is it not a bit like telling someone to be careful how they cross the road -- something we should all do and which is so obvious -- but without giving any hints or guidance as to how best to do this?

Many commentators struggle to find anything exciting to say about this part of the mishnah. Indeed the Rambam, Alshich, Chida and Rabbi Chaim Volozhin are among those who say nothing at all.

The Meiri and the Maharal take it as an introduction to the second teaching in this mishnah, that one's tefillah should not be recited by rote but should be said with passion and feeling. The Rashba, Sforno and Rabbi S. R. Hirsch read it as a wake-up call, to remind us of God's greatness, thereby enhancing feelings of gratitude and fear of sin.

The Bartenura, the commentary ascribed to Rashi and the Anaf Yosef take it to mean that these two recitations should be made at the right time for doing so. According to the Me'am Lo'ez, this means ringfencing one's time for these recitations so that not even one's Torah studies will encroach upon them.

Still on the theme of time, some rabbis had a slightly different text before them, as Tosafot Yom Tov observes. Rabbenu Yona's text stated that one should be more careful when reciting the Shema, since the window of time for its optimal recitation is shorter than that for tefillah.

A novel explanation

Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel's words are susceptible of a wider interpretation. This is because, while they urge us to take care in the recitation of the Shema and tefillah, they do not specify whose Shema and tefillah they mean. They need not be limited to one's own devotion. What does this mean?

Two days ago, while I was reciting my own Shema in a local synagogue, a charity collector was working his way round the congregation to solicit funds. His stated aim (which will itself be the subject of a later post) was laudable: he was soliciting funds for the relief of Ukrainian refugees who are currently pouring into Israel (by mid-March the figure had topped 12,000, of whom the majority are not Jews). The collector's enthusiasm was so great that he pushed a printed notice bearing details of his cause right into my face and brought my recitation to a halt. Had he noticed that I, together with the rest of the congregation, was reciting the Shema, he might have held off for a few moments until we had finished. As it was, my normally adequate focus on the Shema was lost; I had involuntarily replaced it with a review of Avot 1:6 and the need to judge other people in accordance with their merits.

So much for taking care of other people's Shema. The need to take care of other people's tefillah is far more frequently relevant. Anyone who prays in a synagogue these days will know how often one's silent prayer is punctuated by the sound of ringtones of phones left unmuted by their owners, by the impatient drumming of fingers against the furniture by those who, having finished their own prayers quickly, are impatient to progress to the next part of the service, and by congregants who imagine that, if they drift to the back of the prayer hall, their conversations cannot be heard by those at the front.

Within the literature of our sages I have yet to find any support for such a wide application of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel's words. I do however take comfort from the fact that neither have I found anything to challenge it. In the meantime, if anyone has found a sure way of being able to retain their focus on their tefillah when their thoughts must compete with the stirring sound of a bugle call from a nearby smartphone, can they please let me know.

When you are standing in my place...

I'm sure that most if not all readers of this blog will have heaved a mighty sigh of relief when the terror incident in the Colleyville Synagogue was brought to an end, Malik Faisal Akram neutralised and the hostages released. Some may have thanked God, while the gratitude of others may have been directed towards the local SWAT team; in an ideal Jewish scenario, some may have done both.

What can we, as mere spectators, learn from this? Let us look at Pirkei Avot, which sometimes asks hard questions. At Avot 2:5, Hillel teaches (among other things): "do not judge your fellow until you are standing in his place". What does that mean to us?

I know with absolute certainty that, had I been in Malik Faisal Akram's place, I would not have stormed a synagogue in Texas in order to obtain the release from jail of convicted terrorist and high profile antisemite Aafia Siddiqui. But then, why would I, as a practising Jew, wish to do such a thing? From the sheer absurdity of the proposition that I might have acted in the same way, we see that this is not what Hillel means.

The real question that I must ask myself is this. If I were to explore the secret recesses of my mind and delve deeply into my own heart, can I honestly say that there is no cause that would mean so much to me that I would be prepared to take hostages from people to whose fate I was indifferent, in order to secure an outcome in which I passionately believed to be just and which I thought I could bring about through my personal intervention?

I can honestly say that I would never wish to follow the path of terror and do what Malik Faisal Akram did. But that is not the issue. Hillel may be teaching us not only that we should be slow to judge others who fail to match our own standards, but that we should not rush to judge ourselves as being incapable of doing likewise.