Truth, Science and Metaphor: where mishnah meets midrash

We live in an age in which truth has, for many people, ceased to be an absolute quality but the product of individual choice. You have your truth, I have mine. This choice between competing truths is often based on an earlier choice as to which of a number of competing narratives one accepts. The concept of the relative truth needs no further explanation here, but there is one truth-related issue that affects some of the mishnayot in Avot: the use of metaphor and parable in establishing the meaning of a teaching.

An obvious candidate for explanation via non-literal devices is Avot 5:23, where Yehudah ben Teyma says:

הֱוֵי עַז כַּנָּמֵר, וְקַל כַּנֶּֽשֶׁר, רָץ כַּצְּבִי, וְגִבּוֹר כָּאֲרִי, לַעֲשׂוֹת רְצוֹן אָבִֽיךָ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמָֽיִם

Be bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer and mighty as a lion to do the will of your Father in Heaven.

The basic idea is that someone who wants to serve God should do so in the optimum manner, doing His will with speed, efficiency and good grace, even if it involves a good deal of effort. But, rabbis being what they are, many have mined aggadic material in order to bring out further meanings.

R’ Shlomo Toperoff does this in Lev Avot in a manner which, though traditional and well precedented by many commentators from earlier eras, may make uncomfortable reading for the modern reader who might mistake aggadic traditions for scientific truths. Here are a couple of examples:

“[A] characteristic of the eagle is that it flies with its young on its back, and this serves a dual purpose. The eagle teaches its young to fly at a tender age, but it also shows gentleness and concern for its young by protecting it from the arrows of missiles … The eagle carries its young above its wings so that no harm befall it…”

and

“The Rabbis add, ‘As the gazelle, when it sleeps, has one eye open and one eye closed, so when Israel fulfils the will of God He looks on them with two eyes, but when they do not fulfil the will of God He looks at them with one eye’…”.

As for eagles’ wings, we have a reference point in the Torah itself where, at Shemot 19:4 and Devarim 32:11 we read of being carried on eagles’ wings as being the epitome of safe, protected travel; we also understand the contrast between the eagle’s fierce and predatory attitude towards its prey and the care it expends on its young. But, unless there has been a dramatic change in nature or in the behaviour of birds, we can see that eagles do not actually carry their young on their backs as they fly through the air. If the egrets could even mount the parent bird’s back, they would fall off in the course of its flight. This would have been known to the Tannaim too, since eagles were far more common in earlier times when humans occupied less of the planet and the environment was more favourable to their lifestyle.

As for deer, the few mammals that sleep with an eye (or two) open include dolphins, whales, and fruit bats. Giraffes enter a state of semi-somnolence in which their eyes remain half open and their ears twitch. The deer family, however, do not. No matter, the midrash on Shir HaShirim (‘Song of Songs’) is not teaching us nature studies: it contains a different, more profound message. The notion of God’s oversight of our lives being proportionate to our attention to His will is important and it does not depend on the literal truth of the midrash.

We face a dilemma when dealing with metaphors that apparently contradict science. Do we teach them as they stand, as countless generations of our forebears have done, do we explain the moral they encapsulate but make excuses for their factual accuracy—or do we take them as literal truths?

I ask this question because I have had some troubling conversations on this topic. One was with a friend who became angry and disaffected with his Judaism when it was pressed upon him by a friendly and respected rabbi that the gestation period for snakes was seven years (Bechorot 8a; sadly, the object of this aggadah was not to teach anything about snakes but to illustrate the wisdom of our sages). The other was with a contemporary rabbi who insisted—and still insists—that birds can fly on a single wing, notwithstanding all practical and theoretical considerations to the contrary (see Tosafot to Shabbat 49a on the tale of Elisha ba’al kanofayim).

My feeling is that we should not throw the baby out with the bathwater and discard a colourful if sometimes literally inexact body of aggadic scholarship that has served us so well throughout our history. We should however be on our guard and make it plain, when teaching it, that what we are concerned about is the message, not the factual scenario through which the message is transmitted.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

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”.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Preparing false accounts: a personal perspective

I once found myself in the middle of a curious din Torah when I was working at the London Beth Din. This case arose from a dispute concerning the correct valuation of a business whose partners had decided to go their separate ways. The legal issues, which were simple, were not even contested. But the parties quarrelled over the figures. It transpired that the partnership kept no fewer than three sets of accounts.  One, in English and prepared by their accountant, was submitted annually to the tax authorities. The second, in Hebrew and based on the Jewish calendar, recorded not only their trading figures and expenses but also their charitable donations. A third set of accounts, in Yiddish and out of sight of both the tax authorities and their religious consciences, was the set of figures that ostensibly dealt with their personal input and output. The Beth Din was asked to rule as to which set(s) of accounts should govern their settlement.

Accounts and accounting play an important role in stimulating the Jewish conscience, particularly around the season of Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgment, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Unsurprisingly therefore, the idea that, once our lives have ended, we must account to God for what we’ve done with them is not unique to Pirkei Avot. It does however feature in two significant mishnayot in that tractate. In Avot 3:1 Akavya ben Mahalalel warns us:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה. דַּע מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן. מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ: מִטִּפָּה סְרוּחָה. וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ: לִמְקוֹם עָפָר רִמָּה וְתוֹלֵעָה. וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן: לִפְנֵי מֶֽלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא

[Translation] Reflect upon three things and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know from where you came, where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting. From where you came—from a putrid drop; where you are going—to a place of dust, maggots and worms; and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting—before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

Then, in a thunderous teaching at Avot 4:29 which concludes that perek, Rabbi Elazar HaKAppar says:

הַיִּלּוֹדִים לָמוּת, וְהַמֵּתִים לִחֳיוֹת, וְהַחַיִּים לִדּוֹן, לֵידַע וּלְהוֹדִֽיעַ וּלְהִוָּדַע שֶׁהוּא אֵל, הוּא הַיּוֹצֵר, הוּא הַבּוֹרֵא, הוּא הַמֵּבִין, הוּא הַדַּיָּן, הוּא הָעֵד, הוּא בַּֽעַל דִּין, הוּא עָתִיד לָדוֹן. בָּרוּךְ הוּא, שֶׁאֵין לְפָנָיו לֹא עַוְלָה, וְלֹא שִׁכְחָה, וְלֹא מַשּׂוֹא פָנִים, וְלֹא מַקַּח שֹֽׁחַד, וְדַע שֶׁהַכֹּל לְפִי הַחֶשְׁבּוֹן. וְאַל יַבְטִיחֲךָ יִצְרָךְ שֶׁהַשְּׁאוֹל בֵּית מָנוֹס לָךְ, שֶׁעַל כָּרְחָךְ אַתָּה נוֹצָר, וְעַל כָּרְחָךְ אַתָּה נוֹלָד, וְעַל כָּרְחָךְ אַתָּה חַי, וְעַל כָּרְחָךְ אַתָּה מֵת, וְעַל כָּרְחָךְ אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן לִפְנֵי מֶֽלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים, הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא

[Translation] Those who are born will die, and the dead will live. The living will be judged, to learn, to teach and to comprehend that He is God, He is the creator, He is the maker, He is the one who understands, He is the judge, He is the witness, He is the plaintiff, and He will judge. Blessed is He, for before Him there is no wrong, no forgetting, no favouritism, and no taking of bribes; know, that everything is according to the reckoning. Let not your heart convince you that the grave is your escape; for against your will you are formed, against your will you are born, against your will you live, against your will you die—and against your will you are destined to give a reckoning and an account of yourself before the king, king of all kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

These two mishnayot summarise the functional utility of keeping good accounts. The first offers the daunting prospect of God both auditing them and then ruling on their validity can provide a potent threat and impel a person towards avoidance of those thoughts, words and actions that go against not just God’s word but also common decency.  The second reminds us uncomfortably that, even more effectively than ChatGPT on steroids, God can instantly and effortlessly recall, contextualise and analyse every item of relevant data—including much that we are not aware of ourselves. If there are two ways of relating to God, through love and through fear, we know that no-one enjoys submitting accounts: these mishnayot deal with fear.

Though Avot does not state it explicitly, the message is conveyed that our accounts should be accurate and correct when we submit them: no deliberate omissions or falsifications, no disguising personal perks as legitimate expenses, and so on. We are obliged to accept the truth. But equally we are only human and cannot, for as long as we live, trust ourselves (Avot 2:5).

We are urged to accept that our accounts of our actions in our lifetimes will never be, and can never be, accurate and objective. Even if we were capable of viewing our every word and deed in a completely dispassionate manner, the question still remains as to whether what we view is what is actually there. Rabbi Chaim Friedlander’s Siftei Chaim, in the first volume of his Middot veAvdut Hashem, repeatedly hammers home the qualitative difference between the world we live in now, a world of “right and wrong”, and the primordial world into which Adam and Chava were created, the world of “true and false”. True and false are portrayed as absolutes, while “right and wrong” are relative terms. Putting it simply, what’s true for me must be true for you, but what’s right for me may be wrong for you.

The corollary of this distinction is that we live in a world of sheker, falsity. Only the world to come possesses the quality of absolute truth. For us, living here and now, whatever one sees, experiences or reasons out is tinged with falsehood. But when we reach the world to come, there we will be treated to truth in all its glory, and it is there that we will give our account of ourselves and be judged on it.

Irrespective of whether one accepts these distinctions as axiomatic or discards them as midrashic myth, the fact remains that we live in this world and have no means of perceiving anything that lies beyond the limits of our own lives. If Akavya ben Mahalalel and Rabbi Elazar HaKapar were aware of this, as they surely were, their teachings must be read in light of their expectation that, however well we prepare to justify ourselves before our Maker, we will always fall short of the account that He has already prepared for us. Our encounter with God at this point may well thus be less of a trial and more of a posthumous education for us. Perhaps the scenario is more like this. We tell God what we have done and why we have done it, where we have gone wrong and where we think we got it right. He then marks our card, as it were, and shows us how close we got, in the world of sheker, to the emet, the ultimate truth.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Truth lite, or the real thing?

The Dee Pirkei Avot Project (details here) has recently completed the first perek of Avot. For the uninitiated, the Project sends out each week a single side of A4 on which, in agreeably large print, you will find the text of a mishnah from Avot, a brief discussion or explanation of it and three questions that are more or less closely related to that mishnah. 

Sometimes the questions can be uncomfortable to answer publicly since they can force a person to make an appraisal of a facet of his or her personality that might preferably be concealed.

In Avot 1:18 Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: “The world stands on three things: on justice, on truth and on peace”, citing a verse from Zechariah in support of this proposition. Most people treat this teaching within the context of the administration of justice. After all, much of the first perek of Avot is devoted to that topic and the three things featured in this mishnah—justice, truth and peace—relate to either the functioning of the court system or the objective it seeks to achieve. One of the Dee Project questions goes beyond this, asking:

“When in your life do you sometimes choose to focus on some details because it’s easier than accepting the whole truth, the אֶמֶת?”

This question may not be demanded as a way of understanding Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s teaching since it personalises concepts which he lists in the abstract and focuses on how we react to them in the real world. However, it is demanded of us all as we approach the Days of Awe and ask ourselves whether we acknowledge two versions of truth: the genuine and absolute truth and ‘truth lite’, a convenience product that is easy to apply, wipes our conduct clean and leaves no nasty marks behind.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Misleading words: what we ask for

This short post follows several earlier discussions (see list below) that touched on our problem with truth. In short, the Torah (Shemot 23:7) and Avot (1:18, 5:9, 6:6) tell us that we are supposed to commit ourselves to tell the truth and to acknowledge it when we see or hear it. But there are times when we may not, or must not, do so—for example to make peace, preserve modesty or save life. Every word of untruth is deemed sheker, a falsehood, which damages our spiritual environment and corrodes our souls, even if we are obliged to speak it and are rewarded for doing so.

In this context it struck me that, every time we finish our Amidah prayer, we say the following line:

אֱלֹהַ֞י נְצֹ֣ר ׀ לְשׁוֹנִ֣י מֵרָ֗ע וּשְׂפָתַי֩ מִדַּבֵּ֨ר מִרְמָ֜ה

[Translation] “My God, guard my tongue from ra (‘evil’) and my lips from speaking mirmah (‘deception’)”.

We ask God to make sure that we say nothing bad and nothing deceptive—but we don’t ask him to protect us from saying anything untrue. This seems to me to be a strong support for the argument that, however important absolute truth may be, both in our daily lives and in terms of our spiritual welfare, real-world pragmatism demands that, while we must always respect it, we must regretfully sacrifice it for the sake of a greater good.

There is biblical support for this proposition at Bereshit 27:18-19. When Yitzchak wants to be sure that the son standing before him is Yaakov or Eisav, he asks מִי אַתָּה בְּנִי (mi atah beni?, “Who are you, my son?”). Yaakov has a problem. He could say “Eisav”, which is a downright lie, or he could say “Yaakov”, which is totally true but would result in him losing the blessing his mother so desperately wants him to receive. So he answers אָנֹכִי עֵשָׂו בְּכֹרֶךָ (anochi Eisav bechorecha). This answer is equivocal. The Torah text contains no punctuation and can be read and therefore translated in two ways. If the answer is taken as a single phrase it means “I am Eisav your firstborn”. This would be sheker. Alternatively, splitting the anochi from Eisav bechorecha, it means “It’s me! Eisav is your firstborn” which is true but misleading, mirmah, and not a total lie. The ambiguity of Yaakov’s words thus serves two functions: it enables Yaakov both to mislead his father in order to achieve a greater good and to remind himself that what he said is not the best way of expressing truth, so that he should not get into the habit of telling lies.

So we still have a problem. If we accept that sheker is so dangerous and that mirmah is less so, why do we ask in our Amidah to be protected from mirmah and not sheker?

*****

Recent Avot Today posts on truth and lies

‘When love is not enough, try fear instead’ (on saying that Sarah was Abraham’s sister, not his wife) here

‘Don’t say “Mummy’s in the toilet”’ (on sparing people embarrassment) here

‘When two giants meet: a modern midrash?’ (is it permissible to fabricate a tale involving real people in order to teach an important point?) here

*****

Older posts (on the Avot Today weblog)

‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ (about repenting for half-truths on Yom Kippur) here

‘Learning from the lives of Torah sages’ (on potentially apocryphal tales of the great and good) here

‘Truth, justice and peace: which is the “odd man out”?’ (on sacrificing truth for peace and justice) here

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Learning from the lives of Torah sages

Ben Zoma famously asks (Avot 4:1) “who is wise” and answers his own question: “the person who learns from others”. Within the context of Torah learning, we tend to look strongly to our rabbis for our learning. We attend their shiurim, we seek their advice and bind ourselves to follow it, and we watch and imitate the things they do. Because of their obvious function as role models, rabbis are frequently—and tellingly—the subject of stories from which we learn. Some of these stories are plainly biographical; others are midrashic. All have the capacity to inspire and to instruct.

With this in mind, I make mention of one of my favourite little stories, which I came across this week when perusing Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski’s  Visions of the Fathers. There, giving a blow-by-blow account of the 48 things through which Torah is acquired (Avot 6:6), Rabbi Twerski fleshes out the requirement of mi’ut sechorah (minimising one’s business activities) by relating a tale of the saintly Torah giant Rabbi Meir Simchah Kagan (the ‘Chofetz Chaim’):

The Chofetz Chaim supported himself by operating a small store. When he had earned enough for that day, he closed the store and devoted the rest of the day to Torah study.

The image conjured up in my mind was that of a benign, bearded figure beaming with blissful contentment as he dropped the last few kopeks into the till, then ambled towards the door of the store upon which he hung the ‘CLOSED’ sign, the words of his beloved Talmud already forming on his lips. What a splendid ideal, what better way to impress upon the reader’s mind the principle that, whatever one does in life, priority ultimately belongs to the study of Torah.

Today my mind conjured up another image. This was a perspective on the story untold, doomed to be forgotten, its possibility denied. This was the image of the hard-pressed, harassed housewife, worn out from the toil of taking in extra washing in order to support her husband in learning, reaching the store ten minutes after it closed and being confronted by that same ‘CLOSED’ sign, unaware that the store-keeper, blessed with extra customers earlier that day, had reached his daily quota far sooner than might usually have been the case.

This scenario is of course the fruit of pure imagination. From what I have learned of the Chofetz Chaim, his remarkable reputation and his ahavat Yisrael, it could never have happened. But then I found myself wondering about the truth of the original story. Would the Chofetz Chaim have so preoccupied himself with domestic economy and cash-flow that he would have taken time from his Torah study to calculate how much he needed for any specific day? And did I not once hear another version of the shop-keeper story, in which the Chofetz Chaim only opened his store a couple of times of week so that the other stores would not be put out of business, a likely consequence of all the townsfolk flocking to his store to enable him to make enough sales to get back to his learning?

I have never read an authoritative biography of the Chofetz Chaim and cannot vouch for the truth of either of these tales, or of any other version of them. In one sense it does not matter. The Chofetz Chaim was a man of unimpeachable credentials in terms of Torah and middot, someone whose life and writings marked him out as an inspiration and a role model. To show how, even in matters of daily commerce, he took the trouble to place the value of Torah study ahead of the pursuit of personal wealth. It can also be argued that, if this message is a valid one, no harm is done in embellishing or amending the tale in order to make a greater impression on the recipient, to make it more memorable, or to make it more understandable or relevant to modern students.  Against that, there is the view that every story should be told exactly as it happened, without modification or embellishment, on the basis that to do otherwise is to inject falsity into the world, contrary to the principle that truth is one of the three things on which the continued existence of the world is based (Avot 1:18, per Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel).

Rabbi Meir Simchah Kagan is not the only sage who to be affected by this phenomenon. Rabbi Baruch HaLevy Epstein (the ‘Torah Temimah’) was also a brilliant and deeply committed Torah scholar who supported himself. How did he do so? In the various accounts of his life he did so as (i) a banker, (ii) a bank manager and (iii) a bank clerk. The choice of profession cannot but influence our view of him. If he was a banker, we imagine a person of great wealth and material substance who did not let his wealth go to his head but focused firmly on Torah study. If he was a bank manager, we envisage a man who was able to pursue his Torah despite shouldering the responsibilities of his local business community. If he was a bank clerk, we see a man of humility, accepting a lowly and poorly-paid position rather than using his great gifts to secure a more lucrative but time-consuming form of employment.

It is generally accepted that a story does not have to be based on fact in order to convey a valuable message. Thus, when Rabbi Akiva tells the story of the fox who seeks to persuade the fish that they should leave the sea for the dry land where they will be safer, we recognise this instantly as a parable or fable and do not ask: “who ever heard of a talking fox?” But, where rabbis are named, the value of the stories may be measured by the yardstick of veracity, and this in turn can detract from their didactic force.s

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

Anyone spending all or most of the day in synagogue on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, will have noticed how often the word emet (“truth”) and its derivatives crop up in the extensive liturgy that addresses the issues of confession, repentance and the quest for forgiveness. In short we are to acknowledge the truth of who we are and what we have done, to strip away the sheker(“falsity”) that can so easily insinuate its way into playing a major part in our lives, and to stand before God as our true selves with the sincere aspiration that we will seek to do better, to be better, in the year ahead.

Emet plays a key role in Pirkei Avot. It is one of the three qualities upon which the continuation of civilised life depends (1:18). Acknowledgement of the truth, however inconvenient it may be, is one of the seven signs of a wise person (5:9); setting oneself on the path of truth is listed as one of the 48 steps to acquiring Torah (6:6).

While the Yom Kippur liturgy contrasts emet and sheker, Pirkei Avot makes no mention of sheker at all. This is unsurprising if we remember that Avot is not a philosophical tract on the nature of abstract concepts but a set of practical guidelines for moral Jewish decision-making. Thus, while truth and peace are both shortlisted as values upon which the world’s survival depends, a mishnah in the first perek (1:12) advocates following the path of Aaron in loving peace and pursuing peace. Aaron famously accomplishes this path midrashically by falsely telling each of two adversaries that the other was sad to be in dispute and wanted to make peace.

If truth is accepted as a relative value rather than an absolute, we can accommodate the concept of the partial or incomplete truth, when words that are spoken are literally true but do not tell the whole story. But how far can not-quite-truth be acceptable? There is a countertrend towards promoting the absolute value of truth. This can be seen in the Sefer Chasidim, where Rabbi Yehudah HaChasid disapproves of the practice of improving even a true story by embellishing it—even if the story has didactic value which is enhanced by the embellishment. It can also be seen in the Chafetz Chaim’s important work on lashon hara (improperly telling tales of others, whether true or false). This work covers much of the same ground as Rabbeinu Yonah’s Sha’are Teshuvah, but effectively converting what were previously regarded as middot(discretionary canons of behaviour) into mitzvot (binding commandments).

A related area of truth and falsehood is that of midrashic teachings, many of which are fanciful and, in real-world terms, impossible. Are they emet because the message they convey is true, or sheker because they did not happen, could not happen or clash factually with other midrashim on the same subject? Here the range of opinions is wide, spanning those who accept as a matter of faith that all midrashim are true and those who discount their veracity—however plausible they may be—on the ground that they are midrashim. Many people adopt the position that many midrashim are literally false but metaphorically true, and that the metaphorical truth trumps the literal falsehood. However, this convenient solution is not, so far as I am aware, flagged by their authors except where the tales are described as mashalim (“parables”), such as Rabbi Akiva’s famous citation of a dialogue between a cunning fox and some remarkably self-aware fish (Berachot 61b).

This leaves us on Yom Kippur with a difficult decision: do we repent telling an untruth or half-truth because we have lied and thus introduced more sheker into the world? Or do we decide not to repent, even if by doing so we are effectively judging our own actions and pre-empting the decision of the heavenly court? Readers of this post now have a year to decide before Yom Kippur comes around again.

Conceding the truth

Earlier today, on my personal Facebook page, I posted a short note on the temptation to justify mistakes I had found in the final proofs of my book, rather than correct them. In posting that piece I managed to make a different sort of mistake -- I failed to make any mention of the fact that this issue is also connected to Pirkei Avot.

In the fifth perek (Avot 5:9) we learn that one of seven signs that distinguishes a chacham -- a wise person -- from a golem is that he or she does not deny the truth but concedes it. In other words, once you are shown to be wrong, don't cling on to your error but relinquish it and accept the truth.

That's not all. the process of setting oneself up on the basis of truth is listed (Avot 6:6) as one of the 48 items through which one acquires the Torah, and the mishnah even goes so far as to say (Avot 1:17) that truth, along with justice and peace, is one of the three foundational qualities that keeps the world going.

The truth can be elusive, frustrating and annoyingly inconvenient. Pirkei Avot pulls no punches when it comes to advocating the need to live by it -- even truth has its limitations when it comes into conflict with peace. But's a subject for another post.

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?

Truth and putting people right

Truth is one of the three things that keeps the world going (Avot 1:18). It should surprise no-one then that one of the seven signs of the chacham, the wise person) that distinguishes him from the golem (an uncultured, ignorant or immature person) is the ability to acknowledge the truth (Avot 5:9). In other words, when you are in the wrong you should concede that you are in the wrong. But this is not the only situation in which error occurs. For example, if someone else says something that is palpably wrong, are you either allowed or obliged to put that person right?

Putting others right would appear to be the right and proper thing to do when learning or teaching Torah. This is because Avot 6:6 lists "setting others on the course of truth" as one of the 48 things through which Torah wisdom is acquired. When you put someone else right you have the comfort of knowing that only a person who learns from everyone can truly be called "wise" (Avot 4:1). However, one must be careful how one does this, because it can be embarrassing to be corrected in public and embarrassing another publicly can have the most serious of consequences (Avot 3:15).