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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Not in God's name -- but still worth the effort?

Down in the sixth perek of Avot, the place where mishnayot give way to baraitot and the normal order of things seems, well, a little different, there’s an anonymous baraita that begs to be discussed:

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

Thus 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 deprivation and toil in Torah. If so you do, "fortunate are you, and it’s good for you" (Psalms 128:2): you are fortunate in this world, and it is good for you in the World to Come.

Maharam Shik is troubled by a question. This baraita prescribes a thoroughly Torah-orientated and ascetic life as the means of qualifying to be fortunate in this world and deriving some form of good—whatever form that might take—in the World to Come. Eating bread with salt, drinking water in moderation, sleeping on the ground and living a life of physical hardship are all criteria that can be ascertained through checking objectively identifiable markers. We know if we have eaten bread or cake, and so do others around us. We know if we are drinking water in moderation or beer in excess, and so on. But toiling in Torah is quite another matter. We may be sincerely putting in a high level of effort, or we may be going through the motions—and sometimes we can’t even be sure for ourselves of what our motives are. Are we really learning lishmah, for the sake of Torah itself, or for some laudable or dubious ulterior motive? And does it matter?

In his understanding of this baraita, Maharam Shik acknowledges that there is all the difference in the world between learning for the sake of Torah and learning for other reasons. One might be trying to impress one’s friends and family or to achieve high status in the eyes of one’s community. Alternatively, one’s learning might be motivated by curiosity, by one’s interest in linguistic phenomena found in ancient languages, or by the thrill of the intellectual chase—the sort of buzz that might be generated by solving a tough chess problem or completing a killer sudoku. Though we do recognize that there is some value in learning even if it is not lishmah, that value is specifically directed towards its propensity to lead the learner to the preferred and approved mind-frame of one who learns lishmah.

So what of our ascetic who adheres relentlessly to his life of personal discipline and hardship? Is he wasting his time?  Not at all. Such a person, Maharam Shik explains, is practising the art of self-control—and this is precisely the quality demanded of anyone who is to rein in his yetzer hara, his drive to give in and yield to his baser instincts. The man who submits to the hardships listed in our baraita—even if he is only studying Torah to amuse himself—is the sort of man who can be trusted not to eat that second piece of chocolate gateau when there’s no-one watching him. Here is a man who at least merits the rewards that come from practising the technique for conquering the will to do wrong.

Our problem of the person who learns lo lishmah has an interesting twist to it when we consider the concept of the Issachar-Zevulun partnership. There, one party (the ‘Zevulun’) sacrifices his learning opportunities in order go out and ply a trade or profession in order to support the other party (the ‘Issachar’) in learning. Issachar reaps the benefit of Zevulun’s material support, in return for which Zevulun receives a share of the reward or benefit derived from Issachar’s learning. If Issachar is learning lo lishmah, for his own amusement or curiosity, is Zevulun automatically deprived of any benefit in recompense for his personal spiritual sacrifice? This question was raised, I think, by the Sefat Emet, but I am not aware of any answer. However, if we maintain that the development of one’s self-discipline to the point that one can resist the yetzer hara, and this in itself is a meritorious act, one can at least argue that there is some form of zechut from which Zevulun is entitled to benefit too.

Another question we can ask is this: does our mishnah concern Jews only, or does a reward for conquering one’s baser instincts apply to non-Jews too? We must conclude that it does. Earlier in Avot, at 4:1, the Tanna Ben Zoma asks four questions: who is wise, who is strong, who is fortunate and who receives honour. To each of these questions he supplies an answer. A person is wise who learns from everyone; he is strong if he conquers his yetzer (the subject of our baraita at 6:4); he is fortunate if he is happy with his lot and he receives honour when he gives honour to others.  This mishnah is notably universalist: there is nothing to tie the answers to these four questions to issues such as Jewish status, religious practice or even belief in God. 

My final thought on this topic is that the content of Pirkei Avot is mainly directed to how we should behave towards others, and much of it is addressed specifically to the practising Jew. But, while mitzvot govern the life of the Jew, manners are at the heart of all civilized human activity. Significantly, while we are expected to learn Torah and perform mitzvot lishmah, there is nothing to say that our middot, the way we behave towards others, must be lishmah too. And if the guidance of a mishnah or baraita is clearly applicable to Jew and non-Jew alike, I think that it is particularly important for us Jews to make sure we follow it.

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