With great respect? How we view our rabbis

Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua says, “Let the honour of your student be as dear to you as your own; and the honour of your friend should be like fear of your teacher—and fear of your teacher should be like fear of Heaven” (Avot 4:15). We don't usually fear our teachers these days, but the Hebrew word mora, translated here as "fear", can also mean a deep and sincerely felt respect. On this basis the mishnah speaks of something that comes rather closer to our own experiences.

Here's a thought about how we respect some of our principal Jewish teachers, our communal rabbis.

It seems to me that, at least since the 1960s and the dawn of the teshuvah movement, one can divide Jewish communities into three broad categories.

The first consists of communities that are far from the epicentre of Jewish life, either in geographical or spiritual terms, and where the level of knowledge and commitment to learning within that community is relatively modest.

The second consists of communities where the average standard of attainment in terms of religious knowledge and practice is quite considerable, and where its members have the confidence and the capability to participate actively in synagogue services and learning programmes.

The third is made up of communities where the level of knowledge and commitment is extremely high, and where the majority of congregants may well be rabbis themselves -- or may have spent several years in full-time Torah learning before entering a profession, business or trade.

In the first category, respect for the rabbi is likely to be high since he possesses a suite of talents that may not be replicated to any great extent within his community. These might include the ability to read unpunctuated and vowel-less Hebrew and Aramaic text fluently, knowledge of how to officiate at weddings, funerals, a broad range of pastoral skills, and the like.

In the third group too, respect for the rabbi is likely to be high since the congregants, who likely share the rabbi’s linguistic and learning skills, are in a position to appreciate its quality and know how much time and effort he would have had to expend in order to acquire them. They will be able to savour the subtleties of his sermons and shiurim, and they may seek his advice with their most difficult and delicate personal and professional issues.

In the middle category, however, it seems to me that the rabbi is likely to receive less respect. This is because his congregants may have enough knowledge, learning and commitment to be able to challenge his rulings and test his learning, but may lack sufficient patience, willingness or understanding to enable them to accept his decisions and appreciate his answers. Here, superimposed upon the rabbi-congregation relationship, is something that is almost akin to sibling rivalry: he is a sort of older brother, entitled to respect and often genuinely loved, but generally vulnerable to challenge and sometimes ignored or taken for granted. It is within this middle ground, therefore, that the practical challenge of respecting the rabbi is put to the greatest test.

Comments, anyone?

Leadership challenges and failure at the highest level: a matter of honour

Following a week in which Israeli news has been dominated by political intrigue and unlikely alliances, the Torah directs our attention to Korach’s failed challenge to Moshe and Aharon’s leadership of Israel. Can this parashah offer an ethical commentary on Israel’s contemporary leadership battle, now that a cross-party campaign to dethrone another long-time leader seems poised to succeed?

When Korach tells Moshe that he has taken too much upon himself as the people’s leader (Bemidbar 16:3), he is not the first person to have made this point. Moshe’s father-in-law Yitro does so in no uncertain terms when he criticises him for making the people stand around all day while he judges their cases (Shemot 18:14). Moshe not only concedes Yitro’s point but, shortly before Korach’s challenge, he pointedly and eloquently complains to God that he cannot perform his leadership role unaided (Bemidbar 11:9-15).

Unlike most of the Torah’s flawed characters, Korach is not described as being evil. Midrashim recognise his wisdom (Bemidbar Rabbah 18:3), and the Torah itself testifies to his family pedigree as a senior Levi and to his charisma. Despite his wisdom and his talents, he is a man who is always losing out. He does not become a Prince; he is not appointed as a Kohen. Some 70 elders receive the gift of prophecy but he does not. When leading tribal personalities are appointed to spy out the Promised Land, his name is not among them. Somehow he is always passed over.

A Mishnah (Avot 5:20) describes Korach’s dispute with the established leaders as being the paradigm of a dispute that is “not for the sake of Heaven”, in contrast with the disputes between Hillel and Shammai whose arguments sought to clarify God’s will. Yitro had nothing to gain from his criticism of Moshe, any more than Hillel and Shammai stood to gain if one of them should out-reason the other. Korach however sought a wider distribution of powers and responsibilities within the Israelite camp that would enable him to enjoy greater kavod (honour) and status in the eyes of others—an aim that could scarcely be described as “for the sake of Heaven”.

Korach was a member of the generation that received both the written Torah and its oral counterpart, of which Avot is a key component. That tractate contains much guidance that could have steered Korach away from his path to self-destruction. For example, it would advise him to be content with his lot (4:1, 6:6), to judge Moshe favourably and not view him as seeking to cling on to the reins of power for his own glory (1:6). If this was insufficient, he would be warned against seeking power and authority (1:10) unless there was no-one else to lead the people (2:6). On a positive basis, he would have appreciated that it is those who work on behalf of the community “for the sake of Heaven” who derive assistance through the merits of their forebears (2:2): with a little introspection he might have asked himself whether in all honesty he possessed this quality.

Where does this leave Israel’s disputatious and fissiparous politicians? There is a widely-held perception that politicians are ambitious, self-seeking and concerned only to promote the sectarian interests of their supporters for the sake of their own glorification. But is kavod today still just a, simple reflection of one’s power and authority?

In the modern era, the public perception of leading politicians has become increasingly critical and even cynical. Recent events appear to show that they now have to earn kavod through what they do and how they do it, rather than expect it as a perk that accompanies their status. Fortunately, for anyone who wants to acquire honour, Avot has a recipe for that too. Asking the question, “Who is honoured?”, Ben Zoma answers “He who honours others”. When politicians truly respect and honour one other, despite their differences in political, religious, economic and social ideologies, they will have taken the first steps towards earning the respect of the electorate too.

Respect for rabbis and teachers: how does this apply today

Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua says, “Let the honour of your student be as dear to you as your own; and the honour of your friend should be like fear of your teacher—and fear of your teacher should be like fear of Heaven” (Avot 4:15).  We don't usually fear our teachers these days, but the Hebrew word translated here as "fear" can also mean a deep and sincerely felt respect.  On this basis the mishnah speaks of something that comes rather closer to our own experiences.

Classic Roman Vishniac
photo from pre-War Poland,
when rabbis really could
instill fear

Here's a thought about how we respect some of our principal Jewish teachers, our communal rabbis.

It seems to me that, at least since the 1960s and the dawn of the teshuvah movement, one can divide Jewish communities into three broad categories.  

The first consists of communities which are far from the epicentre of Jewish life, either in geographical or spiritual terms, and where the level of knowledge and commitment to learning within that community is relatively modest.  

The second consists of communities where the average standard of attainment in terms of religious knowledge and practice is quite considerable, and where its members have the confidence and the capability to participate actively in synagogue services and learning programmes.  

The third is made up of communities where the level of knowledge and commitment is extremely high, and where the majority of congregants may well be rabbis themselves or have spent several years in full-time Torah learning before entering a profession, business or trade.

In the first category, respect for the rabbi is likely to be high since he possesses a suite of talents that may not be replicated to any great extent within his community. These might include the ability to read unpunctuated and vowel-less Hebrew and Aramaic text fluently, knowledge of how to officiate at weddings, funerals, a broad range of pastoral skills, and the like.  

In the third group too, respect for the rabbi is likely to be high since the congregants, who likely share the rabbi’s linguistic and learning skills, are in a position to appreciate its quality and know how much time and effort he would have had to expend in order to acquire them.  

In the middle category, however, it seems to me that the rabbi is likely to receive less respect.  This is because his congregants may have enough knowledge, learning and commitment to be able to challenge his rulings and test his learning, but may lack sufficient patience, willingness or understanding to enable them to accept his decisions and appreciate his answers. Here, superimposed upon the rabbi-congregation relationship, is something that is almost akin to sibling rivalry: he is a sort of older brother, entitled to respect and often genuinely loved, but generally vulnerable to challenge and sometimes taken for granted. It is within this middle ground, therefore, that the practical challenge of respecting the rabbi is put to the greatest test.

Comments, anyone?