Here lies the truth

There’s a Jewish catechism that runs along the following lines:

Do I have to tell the truth?

Yes.

Why do I have to tell the truth?

Because there is a Torah commandment to avoid falsehood (Shemot 23:7: “midvar sheker tirchak”).

Are we taught a reason for this?

Yes.

What is that reason?

According to the oral Torah (Avot 1:18, per Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel), truth is one of the three things that keeps the world running smoothly.

What are the other things that keep the world running smoothly?

Peace and justice.

Are truth, peace and justice equally important?

No. Peace is most important because both truth and justice must be sacrificed if peace is to prevail.

So I don’t have to tell the truth when it is conflict with peace or justice?

Yes—or is it no?

A good summary of the position can be found in Seymour Rossel’s book on Avot for children, When a Jew Seeks Wisdom: the Sayings of the Fathers:

“Sometimes, the Rabbis said, even when we think that we are right in an argument, we should give in. As long as the argument is not an important one, peace is more important than being right. And very often hatred grows because we are too stubborn. It is better for us to bend a little than to cause disunity and separation”.

This is reflected in various ways: the untruths uttered by Aharon in aggadic literature which led to the making of peace between enemies (see commentaries on Avot 1:12); permitting the telling of a lie in order to save a life, and complimenting a bride on her wedding day.

Truth also gives way to justice. How so? The procedural rules governing the hearing of a din Torah prevent a witness from giving evidence, however true it may be, in the event that he is ineligible to testify or his evidence is not corroborated by another witness.

So truth is capped by the need to make peace and by the need to demonstrate that justice is both done and seen to be done. But not everyone agrees that truth should be suppressed. There is a respectable school of opinion that maintains that every lie increases the damaging values of falsehood in the world. This position has far-reaching consequences: it means, for example, that a true narrative should not be embellished by the addition of extra material in order to enhance its educational or aesthetic value.

According to R’ David Segal (the Taz), in his commentary on the Torah (quoted in MiMa’ayonot Netzach on Avot), falsehoods should not emanate from a person’s mouth even for the sake of peace. He cites the episode in the Torah in which Yaakov leads his father Yitzchak to believe that he, Yaakov, is in fact Eisav by speaking (at Bereshit 27:19) words that were ambiguous, knowing which way Yitzchak would understand them: אָנֹכִי עֵשָׂו בְּכֹרֶךָ (ani Eisav bechorecha, which can be taken as either “I am Eisav your firstborn” or “It’s me. Eisav is your firstborn”). So, says, the Taz, if you can’t tell the whole truth, speak words that can be construed as the truth.

This is a lofty and principled ideal, though it may require great presence of mind to live up to it. When an enraged axeman comes running after your friend, points ahead and asks: “did he go that way?” one’s natural instinct is to say “yes” if he didn’t or “no” if he did—and it’s not easy to buy time in which to think up an ambiguous answer that will satisfy the demands of truth while achieving the results of a falsehood. The masters—or should it be mistresses—of this art were the priestesses who ran the Delphic Oracle in Pythia and whose ambiguous responses to vital questions form a significant and highly entertaining role in Ancient Greek history and mythology.

In secular society we find an endorsement of the Taz in the notion of being “economical with the truth”, i.e. just telling as much of the truth without giving the whole picture. My favourite example, which may well be apocryphal, is the story told of King Edward VII who, when still only Prince of Wales, was presented with a crate of Welsh whisky by his loyal and admiring subjects. On sampling the beverage, His Royal Highness was unimpressed and determined not to let another drop pass his lips. However, he thanked the gift-givers and assured them of his gratitude, adding: “I shall always keep a crate of Welsh whisky in my cellar”.

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What sort of peace?

The importance of shalom (“peace”) within Jewish thought is paramount. Pleas for peace conclude the standard prayer format that practising Jews recite daily; God’s capacity to deliver peace is also affirmed at the end of the blessings that follow a meal and the priestly blessings that Kohanim confer on their congregations. It is hardly surprising, then, that peace occupies a prominent place in Pirkei Avot too.

In the first chapter of Avot, Hillel (1:12) urges us to emulate the followers of Aaron, to love peace and pursue it. His descendant Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (1:18) goes as far as to say that, along with truth and justice, peace is one of the three things that enable the world to continue to function.

Later teachings in Avot elaborate on the theme of peace in various ways. Peace increases in direct proportion to the giving of charity (Hillel at 2:8). It is a bulwark against civil anarchy (R’ Chanina segan HaKohanim, 3:2). Setting others on to the path of peace is one of the 48 measures relating to acquisition of Torah (6:6). Other mishnayot imply the value of peace without explicitly mentioning it. But nowhere in Avot is the meaning of shalom explained.

Briefly we can point to three different species of peace: (i) peace between nations or communities, (ii) peace between individuals and (iii) inner peace that a person experiences within him- or herself.

Peace, in Avot, must surely mean something other than the absence of large-scale hostilities. Likewise, references to peace in Avot do not fit the notion of some sort of private spiritual inner peace or tranquility.  This is because the tractate is primarily concerned with human relationships and interpersonal conduct.

My feeling is that the shalom that the authors of Avot had in mind is a sort of freedom, a state in which people can live good lives in accordance with their duties, responsibilities and beliefs without suffering from the social friction that irritates, then angers people, leading to dispute. This is the sort of peace to which the Torah alludes (Bereshit 37:5) when it describes the relationship of Joseph with his brothers who hated him for being his father’s favourite. The brothers wanted him out of their lives and recognized that they would not have peace until they had got him out of their hair, so to speak.

The Torah does not tell us whether either Joseph or his father Jacob were ever aware of the brothers’ disquiet. From the fact that Joseph, having told them one dream that upset them, went on to tell them another of the same ilk, it rather seems that he was impervious to their feelings. This unhappy domestic situation would have been ripe for the intervention of an Aaron, the pursuer of peace. Aaron, serving in his midrashic role as an empathetic go-between, might well have been able to shine the light of each side upon the other and brokered a lasting peace. But Aaron was not yet born and the interstitial wisdom of Avot which was to bond the fabric of the written Torah, had yet to be consolidated and compiled.

In these days of hostility and open threat, may we experience peace in our own lives—both in a global sense and in our own quiet small lives as ordinary human beings.

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What does "loving peace" mean?

At Avot 1:12 Hillel urges us to follow the example of Aaron in loving peace and pursuing it. But what does "loving peace" actually entail, in our daily lives?

Where peace does not exist – whether in a military, political, communal or family context – it is a state of affairs that a person can deeply desire. However, where we
have only experienced peace and cannot easily imagine what its absence feels like, it is difficult to love it rather than to take it for granted, because it is always there.

There is no perfect analogy, but one can make a comparison with the air we breathe: it is there all the time and we do not think about it. If anyone were to ask us: “do you love air?” we would probably be surprised at the question and likely to question the sanity of the person asking it. However, if breathable air is in limited supply, as is the case with submarine and space travel, one’s awareness of its importance increases, as does one’s appreciation of it.

In our lives, air is far more plentiful than peace, but the principle is the same. When peace is present, it displays itself as a series of negatives: no conflict, no hostility, no warfare and so on. This makes it hard for us to be aware of it and consequently to love it. Perhaps Hillel is challenging us in this Mishnah to love peace when it is actually with us, as well as to crave it and pursue it when it is not.

Truth, justice and peace: which is the "odd man out"?

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel teaches (at Avot 1:18) that the world is sustained by three things -- truth, justice and peace. Which is the odd one out? 

My initial thought was that there was only one "odd man out", and that was peace. Take litigation, for example. When a legal dispute goes to court, the plaintiff and defendant both believe that they are in the right, or they wouldn’t go to the trouble of engaging in court proceedings. However, they know that there can only be one outcome. This outcome can be reached in one of two ways: either the court will rule in favour of one and against the other, or they will agree to settle their differences before the court gives its decision. Either way, one starts with two perspectives as to what is true, which give rise to diverse perceptions of what is justice (“mine” and “yours,” as it were). The dispute concludes with just one result, which both sides have to accept.

With peace, however, we have a different concept. There are not “two peaces”, since peace by definition only begins at the point where there are no opposing positions to synthesize. If what is called “peace” is not universally accepted by those affected by it, it is not true peace.

It occurred to me this morning that there is another possible answer: it is justice that is the odd one out. Truth is vulnerable to distortion and denial (we can infer from Avot 5:9 that it is of no use unless it is acknowledged) and therefore needs to be protected. God is described in Psalms as the eternal guardian of truth (Tehillim 146:6). Peace must also be guarded, hence the term "mishmeret shalom" ("guardianship of peace") that is recited in the text of the Grace After Meals and the congregational response to the blessing of the Kohanim. I am not however aware of any corresponding description of any protection or guardianship for justice. Have I missed anything, and does the fact that truth and peace need to be protected, while justice apparently does not, have any repercussions for our understanding of Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel's teaching?

More on peace -- in the big world and the little one

The previous blogpost discussed the value of peace and where we learn in Pirkei Avot of its importance. Staying on the topic of peace, the idea that each individual is a world in himself, and that the “world” is actually each one of us, is frequently discussed in the context of Shimon Hatzaddik’s teaching (Avot 1:2) that the world stands on the three pillars of Torah, Temple service and acts of kindness. These, according to the Maharal of Prague (Derech Chaim) correspond to man’s need to sort out his relationship with God, with others and with himself.  

The same approach can also be taken in the Mishnah at Avot 1:18, where Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel teaches that the world is kept going by three things: truth, justice and peace. Within the "little world" which is each of us, we must internalise the values of truth, justice and peace. A person who does not even admit or recognise the truth as to what he is and what he has done is a person who will never be able to address the challenges in his life in an honest manner. He must learn to judge himself fairly, neither being unduly critical of himself nor giving himself the benefit of what is a fictional doubt. Only then will he be able to live at peace with himself, knowing his capabilities and his virtues as well as his faults and his failings – and knowing where and how he can best hope to improve himself in his own eyes and in the eyes of others.

From where do we learn the value of peace?

Writing for the Jewish Press, Rabbi Moshe Meir Weiss refers to Avot in a piece ("Allergic to Fighting") that opens with the following words:

One of the most fundamental missions of a Torah Jew is encapsulated in the Rambam’s statement at the end of the Laws of Chanukah: “The entire Torah was given to promote peace in the world, as Scripture says, ‘Its ways are ways of sweetness and all its paths are paths of peace.’”

 This statement is remarkable coming from the Rambam, who was an expert on all 613 mitzvos. We also know the value of peace from Pirkei Avos, which teaches, “Hashem is pleased with anyone with whom people are pleased.” 

To my mind, and with due respect to the author, it is not easy to see how this mishnah (Avot 3:13) is where we learn the value of peace: this is not what it says; nor is it normally understood by the commentators as referring to peace. However, the rabbi is quite right to say that Avot teaches us how valuable peace is. A more explicit source would be, for example, Avot 1:18 ("The world endures on the basis of three things: truth, justice and peace").