Make yourself a Rav?

Not one but two mishnayot in Avot teach the same maxim in the same words. At Avot 1:6 Yehoshua ben Perachyah says עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב (aseh lecha rav, literally “Make for yourself a rav” (meaning “a master” or “a teacher”: see note on translation, below), and these words are repeated by Rabban Gamliel at Avot 1:16.

The traditional understanding of these words is that an individual should have a go-to person as a useful source of all or any of the following: advice, objective and balanced criticism, understanding, empathy and inspiration. This understanding was subject to occasional qualifications. For example, even a rabbi needs to make for himself a rav, and the need to do so remains even if the only person available to fulfil this role is his junior or is less knowledgeable. Some explain that rav is a singular noun: with just one teacher a person will not be confused by conflicting messages; for others, one rav is the minimum requirement: the more, the better. There is even an opinion that one can make for oneself a rav by buying appropriate books.

The words aseh lecha rav do not have a reflexive character to them. They instruct one to make someone or something into a rav for oneself, not to make oneself into a rav. Nonetheless, some commentators have seen these words as in invitation or an injunction to do exactly that.

The idea of turning oneself into a rav is popular in some Chasidic circles. R’ Yehudah Leib of Ger explains that one should treat oneself as one’s own rabbi, keeping a watchful eye on what one does so that one doesn’t wander from the derech yesharah (the “right path”). R’ Yisrael the Maggid of Kozhnitz adds that you should do this whenever your yetzer hara seeks to deny you a chance to perform a mitzvah by telling you that you are not worthy of it.

Our Chasidic brethren were not the first to come up with this suggestion. In Midrash Shmuel, the 16^th century scholar Rabbi Shmuel de Uçeda made it too—but with a different slant. For him, making oneself a rabbi comes with the corollary that one should get out and about, travelling from town to town and spreading words of Torah. Even if you don’t find anyone to teach, don’t worry—you can still make yourself a friend to others.

Could it ever have been intended that each of us should make ourselves into a rav? Most people are qualified neither by their learning nor by their temperament to be a rabbi in the sense in which we use the word today. However, it is easier to acquire an active conscience and an acute sense of the difference between right and wrong than it is to master the Talmud and its commentaries—and making oneself a rav in the latter sense can be equated with being able to subject oneself to self-discipline, the classical definition of a gibor, a strong person, according to Ben Zoma at Avot 4:1.

Overall, it’s surprising how many different explanations we find for the apparently clear and unambiguous words aseh lecha rav. But this is a reflection of the ingenuity of the Jewish people in turning the words of their teachers again and again, each time finding something new. Long may we and our sages continue to do so.

Translation note

Is rav better translated as ‘teacher’ or ‘master’, or should it be left untranslated and therefore leaving the mishnayot open to wider interpretation? Here’s what some of the English translators say:

Teacher: R’ Asher Weiss, ArtScroll translations, R’ Lord Jonathan Sacks, Irving M. Bunim, Chanoch Levi, R’ Yaakov Hillel, R’ Moshe Toperoff, Philip Birnbaum, Herbert Danby and the majority of translations.

Master: David N. Barocas (tr. Me’Am Lo’ez), R. Travers Herford (cf ‘maitre’ in David Haddad’s French translation)

Rav: R’ Tal Moshe Zwecker, R’ Yisroel Miller (Gila Ross opts for ‘Rabbi’).

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Well-worn mishnah, well-worded explanation

Last week I had some kind words for the Tiferet Tzion, a gentle and user-friendly but sadly forgotten commentary on Avot by Rabbi Yitzchak Ze’ev Yadler. But praise is of no value unless there is some evidence that it is deserved. I shall now make up that omission by relating Rabbi Yadler’s short explanation of one of the best-known teachings in Avot.

In the first perek, Yehoshua ben Perachya teaches:

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

“Make for yourself a teacher, acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every man meritoriously”. (Avot 1:6).

Most commentators explain this Mishnah in a similar fashion. They discuss the importance of having a teacher and the steps one should take to procure one, as well as reviewing the course of action to pursue if one knows more than any available teacher or where one has two or more teachers. As for the acquisition of a friend, this has repercussions both for learning Torah—where a chavruta (learning partner) can be a valuable foil—and for serving as a sounding-board against which to bounce one’s ideas, ambitions and worries. Judging others meritoriously affects not only one’s relationship with other humans but also the quality of our own characters when we stand before God: we cannot expect God to be lenient in judging us if we have not taken the same line when judging our fellows.

 The Tiferet Tzion treats this mishnah quite differently, as a way of relating to other people. Essentially, there are three classes of people in everyone’s life: those who are ahead of us in knowledge and experience, those who are our peers and those over whom we have the edge—maybe because we are older, cleverer or just happen to know more. Yehoshua ben Perachya’s teaching focuses on this tripartite scheme.

For those who are ahead of us, we can make them our teachers since we are sure to be able to learn something from them. As for those who are our peers and equals, we should embrace them in friendship: we do not know-tow obsequiously to them, but neither do we strive to laud it over them. Then there are those who are less fortunate than ourselves when it comes to knowledge or intellectual capacity. We should not scorn or disrespect them but judge them favourably, bearing in mind the educational opportunities or natural abilities that they may not have possessed.

Rabbi Yadler does not claim this explanation as a chiddush, a work of his own intellectual creation, and it may well be that others have learned this mishnah the same way. All I can say is that I had not seen it before and thought that it was expressed in an economical, understated way that did not obscure the words of the Tanna.

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?