Silence is golden -- but so is speech

This evening marks the onset of Yom Kippur -- the Day of Atonement the most solemn date in the Jewish calendar. It is a day of fasting; a day of prayer, of serious contemplation of what sort of people we are, and of teshuvah -- admitting that we have done wrong, repenting for those things we should not have done, and resolving to put them right.

Pirkei Avot has some well-known mishnayot on the subject of teshuvah, but it is not widely appreciated that this tractate contains plenty of teachings that are relevant to repentance even though they make no mention of it.

For example, in one such mishnah (Avot 1:17) Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (a great-great grandson of Hillel, killed either by the Romans or by Jewish zealots) teaches three things:

(i) All my days I grew among the wise men, but I found nothing that was good for the body except silence;

(ii) it’s not the learning [of Torah] which is the main thing but the doing [of its precepts];

(iii) everyone who increases words brings sin.

In this mishnah Rabban Shimon makes no mention of repentance at all, but that does not stop later commentators making his words apply to the teshuvah process.

One practical application of this mishnah (found in a compilation of commentaries, Mishel HaAvot) runs as follows. Rabbi Elya Lopian recalls that, in former times, some people considered it fitting to flagellate themselves as part of their process of atoning for the wrongs they had committed. However, even on the assumption that this process has any efficacy, today’s generations lack the constitutional robustness of their forebears when it comes to painful self-affliction. What alternative procedure in aid of atonement might then be available to them?

The answer lies in the power of silence, If we assume that all forms of wrongful action emanate from man’s spiritual inadequacies, the obvious option is to chastise one’s nefesh ("spirit" or "soul") while preserving the good health of one’s body. One way to do this is through the ta’anit dibbur—fasting, by abstaining not from food and drink but from speech: the ta’anit dibbur is thus an effective chastisement for man that causes him no physical harm or distress at all (taken from Lev Eliyahu, on parashat Vayikra).

An alternative view of this mishnah is that it endorses silence in preference to idle conversation but nonetheless both validates and demands speech that is necessary. According to Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook (Bi’urei HaRai’h: Pirkei Avot, based on a passage in the Zohar), we humans all think —and our thoughts are important to us, to others and to God. Sometimes, however, a thought by itself is not enough, however beautiful it may be.

Many of us will be familiar with a scenario in which a person receives a gift and thinks to himself “How lovely! What a truly kind gesture. This is exactly what I wanted and I’ve been looking forward to it for ages.” This is an excellent thought because it recognizes the recipient’s appreciation of the gift itself and the donor’s kindness in giving it. However, unless these thoughts are accompanied by words, they will not be known to the donor. Such thoughts may just have well been left unthought. The same applies with the process of teshuvah. A person can sincerely regret what he has done, feel genuine remorse and resolve never to repeat what he has done—but until these noble sentiments are reified in speech, they count for nothing.

Taking this view, the mishnah should be read as saying:: “I have never found anything good for the body [i.e. for myself] that has emerged from silence,” in other words, that repentance that is not supported by confirmatory speech is not regarded as efficacious.

Mazikim pt 2: Are we the real mazikim?

Continued from the previous post.

I believe that the real question we face is not that of whether mazikim exist. Rather, we should be asking what we can learn from the incontrovertible fact that the author of the mishnah at Avot 5:8 teaches us that there are those who say that mazikim were created on the eve of the World’s first Sabbath.

It seems to me that an argument can be made out that the inclusion of mazikim on the list of last-minute creations is because their presence has a positive aspect, in common with the other thirteen creations that are listed in this mishnah.

Let us start by asking another question: how do you “know” that you have received a visit from a mazik? The tell-tale sign of a mazik’s impact on a person’s life is that something adverse has happened to him. That person has, at the instant he realizes this, a choice of how to think. But what is this choice?

One option is for someone who has suffered a misfortune to link that adverse consequence to his own conduct. This can be done in many ways and on different levels. For example he can accept that the damage he suffered was because he was negligent (e.g. the car rolled down the hill because he didn’t check if the brake was on) or inadvertent (e.g. he switched the kettle on, forgetting that he had previously emptied it). He can also view the adverse consequence as a sort of retribution (e.g. why did he drop the bottle of Scotch in the street? Because he should have spent the money instead on a charity donation that he declined to give) or caution (e.g. he walked into an old lady while checking his phone and knocked her over, this being a warning to him to be more careful next time he goes out).

The other option is to blame it all on the mazikim. By blaming the mazik he satisfies himself that his misfortune is quite unrelated to his own behaviour. Let us return to the examples above. Why did the car roll down the hill? Because a mazik released the handbrake. Why did the kettle boil dry? Just his luck that a mazik must have distracted him! That Scotch bottle? Not my fault. And as for the old lady, a mazik must have pushed her into my path or she would have taken care to avoid me.

When a person is prepared to take responsibility for his actions, he recognizes that it is he who is the mazik. Why did that bottle of Scotch fall from my hands? Maybe it was a lesson – annoying and expensive but at least it was painless – that I should think again about putting my own selfish interests ahead of the needs of others. Why did I knock that poor little old lady over? Because I was so preoccupied with my own affairs that I forgot I was sharing the sidewalk with my fellow humans. So, to summarize, mazikim are listed as a sort of shorthand term for the potential of mankind to accept or reject responsibility for its own damaging actions.

The significance of mazikim in this mishnah is that this concept was created just before Shabbat of the World’s first week. The Torah is not a history book, but it does tell us in some detail about one event of crucial significance: the Fall of Man.

Our thoughts concerning the story of Adam and Eve tend to dwell on the sadly lost opportunity to do the one thing God asked of them: to refrain from eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. This mishnah however addresses another part of the story: the abrogation of responsibility on the part of both Adam and Eve for their wrongful acts. Adam states that it was not his fault: it was a mazik, Eve, who gave him the fruit. Eve states that it was not her fault: it was a mazik, the serpent, who told her to eat it.

Here then, with Shabbat coming in for the first time in history, we see the meaning of this mishnah and its teaching for contemporary readers: it tells of the potential for either accepting or denying responsibility for our own damaging actions.

Mazikim pt 1: What are they and how do we deal with them?

This is the first instalment of a two-part feature. Part 2 will follow in a couple of days.

"Mazikim" may or may not exist in any tangible sense, but they certainly feature in Pirkei Avot (at 5:8) where they are listed among the things that were created at the very end of the Six Days of Creation, just before the onset of the first Sabbath.

So what are mazikim? English translators are certainly not lost for words on this point and they usually point to some sort of force, usually a malevolent one.

Suggested meanings include “destructive spirits” (ArtScroll Publications), “vandals” (David N. Barocas, Me’am Lo’ez), “demons” (Irving M. Bunim, Ethics from Sinai; Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks and Philip Birnbaum in their respective prayerbooks), “destructive demons” (Rabbis Gold and Spirn, Alshich on Avos), “evil spirits” (Hyman E. Goldin, Ethics of the Fathers; R. Travers Herford, The Ethics of the Talmud).

Going beyond definitions, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, Chapters of the Fathers: the Hirsch Pirkei Avos, explains mazikim as being “those influences that are detrimental or damaging to continued human welfare.”

Where might one find mazikim? They are not found anywhere in the Torah, Prophets or Writings that constitute the canon of the Tanach (the Jewish Written Tradition). In the singular, the word mazik appears frequently in the mishnah and Talmud as a technical legal term for a person who causes damage to another and who is subject to a claim for compensation on the part of the nizak, or plaintiff. The mazikim we find in our mishnah are clearly not of this kind; they are more akin to the creatures of midrashic and aggadic literature.

Outside Jewish tradition, many cultures have their own equivalent of mazikim. Some are of ancient pedigree, such as the leprechaun, the tokoloshe and the poltergeist. Others, ssuch as the gremlin, are more recent. The common factors that unites them all are that (i) they are not under direct human control and that (ii) some form of harm or mischief is said to derive from their actions.

The presence of mazikim on the list of late additions to the Creation makes many people unhappy -- and not solely on account of the debate over the real-world existence of mazikim, shedim and other malevolent entities that inhabit Jewish literature. If they do exist, why is there no space for a mention of them in Tanach? But if they do not exist, what are they doing in Jewish culture and, in particular, in this mishnah? Also, every other item listed in our mishnah as being created at the end of the Six Days of Creation has some constructive or positive quality to it, while it is widely assumed that mazikim, almost by definition, do not.

Should the existence or non-existence of mazikim concern us? I think not. If they exist, it is axiomatic that God created them and that, since only man has free will, whatever mazikim do is mandated by God. Furthermore, since God is the only authentic source of power that a Jew must acknowledge, it is absolutely wrong to treat mazikim as if they held any power in their own right, and therefore wrong to seek to propitiate them.

If however mazikim do not exist in real-world terms, then it is we who have created them in our minds. And if we have done so, it is to our own minds that we must turn in order to address their apparent functional (or dysfunctional) utility within the world we inhabit and which God created. Our challenge is to see if we can find an explanation for mazikim that carries with it a positive message, in keeping with the rest of Pirkei Avot, that we can take with us into our daily lives?

The message on the door

How should we deal with other people? Pirkei Avot is full of general guidance. Thus, for instance, we should love them and lead them into the ways of the Torah (1:12), which essentially means the ways of peace (Proverbs 3:17). We should greet them pleasantly (1:15, 3:16) and give them personal space when they need it (4:23). If they are bad neighbours or a bad influence we should keep our distance (1:7), but we should give them the benefit of the doubt if we can (1:6).

Avot also encourages us to learn from everyone (4:1). It is a bit of a cliche to talk about getting an education from the University of Life, but we should recognise our potential to learn from everything in the world and from every experience we have, regardless of whether we set out to do so or whether the lesson is painfully imprinted on us.

One of my favourite lessons comes from the door to the Pomeranz bookshop in Jerusalem. The outside of the front door carries a notice that reads "Pull gently"; on the inside, a corresponding notice reads "Push gently". In the nicest possible way I felt that this door was speaking to me. Its message: this is exactly how we should strive to deal with other people.

Every one of us has the capacity to make an impact on others. Sometimes we consciously or unconsciously influence those who are around us. On other occasions we feel their influence and may want to lessen it or even break free from it altogether. The message of the door is clear, though: whatever we do, and whichever way we go, we should be gentle where and when we can.

In practical terms this means that. whether we wish to pull others into the orbit of our lives or push back from their hopes and plans for us, we should treat them gently and with respect because they, like us, are created in the image of God (Avot 3:18, citing Genesis 9:6). No shouting, no pressurising, no psychological warfare -- only be gentle with others, just like you would prefer them to be towards you.

Avot in Retrospect: a summary of last month's blogposts

 In case you missed them, here's a list of items posted on Avot Today in August 2021:

Monday 30 August 2021: Would you know a golem if you saw one? An anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:9 contrasts the wise man with the uncultured clod -- is there also room for people whose characteristics lie between the two extremes?

Wednesday 25 August 2021: When books speak volumes: another perspective on rebuke: Not everyone appreciates being told off face-to-face. Some folk are more comfortable to mend their ways when confronted by nothing worse than a book.

Wednesday 25 August 2021: Eat, drink or repent -- for tomorrow we die! Rabbi Eliezer famously reminds us at Avot 2:15 to repent the day before we die, but what is the status of the exhortation to "eat, drink and be merry"?

Friday 20 August 2021: Taking positives from the am ha'aretz: The much-derided uncouth am ha'aretz may be a vital part of the great scheme of things despite the normally bad press he gets from students of Avot.

Tuesday 17 August  2021: A good telling-off! At Avot 6:6 we learn of the importance of being able to appreciate a well-aimed rebuke if we seek to acquire Torah wisdom and internalise its values.

Sunday 16 August 2021: The pursuit of peace -- a personal recollection. Hillel's instruction to be like Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it (Avot 1:12), is a great ideal but not an easy one to implement. But it can been done ...

Thursday 12 August  2021: Repentance and good deeds: you can't have one without the other.  Why not? This blogpost offers an answer to the question why Avot pairs these two items together.

Wednesday 11 August  2021: They're the same, more or less. We check out two translations of Avot by the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks.

Monday 9 August 2021: The Best of Men. Ben Azzai (Avot 4:3) teaches the importance of every individual. This post reviews a movie that epitomises this teaching.

Friday 6 August 2021: A sad reflection on human nature. What would you do if you knew you'd definitely die tomorrow? Most people's to-do list does not include the Avot recommendation of repentance.

Wednesday 4 August 2021: Praying for the welfare of a bad government. Does Rabbi Chanina Segan HaKohanim's plea for people to pray for the welfare of the state (Avot 3:2) apply to only good governments, to all governments, or specifically to bad ones?

Monday 2 August 2021:  Eternal laws and academic appetizers. Rabbi Elazar Chisma (Avot 3:23) speaks of the relationship between even abstruse laws and secular studies. What does he have to tell us about the way we prioritise them?

*********************************

Avot Today blogposts for July 2021 here

Avot Today blogposts for June 2021 here

Avot Today blogposts for May 2021 here

Avot Today blogposts for April 2021 here

Avot Today blogposts for March 2021 here

Avot Today blogposts for February 2021 here

Would you know a golem if you saw one?

The anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:9 lists seven distinguishing features that enable us to spot who is a chacham -- a wise person -- and who is a golem. Among other things the chacham lets others who are older or wiser speak before he does. He doesn't interrupt others in the middle of a sentence. He doesn't ask questions that are stupid or irrelevant but, when he faces a question, he answers it properly -- and he concedes the truth rather than obstinately arguing that black is white. This chacham is clearly something of a role model whom we should emulate. Not so, the golem. But who or what is a golem and would we recognise one if we saw him in the street?

The golem is a well-known character in popular literature, but that genre was not in vogue 1800 years ago. In short, the golem is an animated anthropomorphic being who is created entirely from inanimate matter (usually clay or mud). The word in Mishnaic times meant a shapeless mass or something that was in an unfinished state. In Modern Hebrew the word means “idiot” or “dummy"; it is not a compliment.

Rabbi Eliezer Prins (The Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth, translated by C. H. Moore) renders "golem" as “an immature person” and on balance I feel that this is the word that best fits the meaning of the Mishnah.

The golem may be contrasted with two other characters encountered in Avot who are spoken of in pejorative terms: the bur (often translated "boor") and the am ha’aretz (someone with low aspirations regarding Torah and education). Our golem may simply lack good manners and not be very clever, or he may be quite bright and knowledgeable but nonetheless quite unable to behave in an appropriate manner. Of all the suggested meanings and explanations of the golem, the one I like best comes from the Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth.:

[T]he term גלם [Hebrew for 'golem'] does not mean an ignorant man or, what is the same thing for many, an uncultured person. A golem is, however, a person who may even master Torah learning, but it does not master him; that is, he does not show it in his actions. …He is still immature and his practice falls short of his theory. One can imagine a golem who has more theoretical knowledge than a chacham; he may be a “walking encyclopedia,” able to expound on any subject, but his knowledge does not inspire his actions and he will remain a golem despite all his knowledge.

The Mishnah may convey to some readers the impression that everyone in the world is either a golem or a chacham. This is clearly not what it means. If we make a candid assessment of our friends and family we are likely to conclude that most people are somewhere in between. The mishnah however has a particular objective in identifying the behavioral characteristics that mark a person out as being one or other of these polar opposites, and that is to give those of us in the middle a chance to think about ourselves.

The message here for those of us who occupy the middle ground is this: we have the potential to move in one of two directions. We can either tighten up on our self-discipline, reduce our propensity to show off and speak with greater honesty in the hope of qualifying as a chacham, or we can let ourselves slip, slough off the unwanted dead skin of good manners, please ourselves as we wish, and be viewed as a golem. We have the free will and the choice is ours.

When books speak volumes: another perspective on rebuke

I recently posted a piece ("A Good Telling-Off?, here) on the importance of loving a rebuke. Let me return briefly to the same topic now.

This morning I found an article on Newsday, all the way from Zimbabwe. Titled "One Jewish secret to success: The Talmud". The author, Alexander Maune, is a Research Fellow at UNISA, Pretoria, which I once had the pleasure of visiting in my days as an academic. After opening with Ben Bag Bag's mishnah at Avot 5:26 about learning Torah ("turn it over, turn it over, for everything is in it..."), Maune brings a quote I'd never seen before, from Israel Gollancz -- not a rabbi but Professor of English Language and Literature at University College London for 27 years until his death in 1930. Gollancz writes:

“How safely, we lay bare the poverty of human ignorance to books, without feeling any shame".

Gollancz goes on to describe books as those silent teachers who

“... instruct us without rods or stripes, without taunts or anger, without gifts or money; who are not asleep when we approach them, and do not deny us when we question them, who do not chide us when we err, or laugh at us if we are ignorant.”

I do not know the source from which this quote comes, but it intrigues me. More to the point, I have always assumed that the references to rebuke in Avot mean a telling-off of the interpersonal variety. But there is no reason why a book should not be the medium through which a good telling-off -- or at least some sharp conscience-pricking -- can be effectively administered. If nothing else, a person can read and re-read the same passage of moral guidance and think about it in his own time and his own way. In contrast, a face-to-face rebuke can be confrontational and cause the person being reprimanded instinctively to put up the defensive drawbridge and seek to deflect the force of the rebuker's attack.

Rabbi Eliezer Papo (the 'Pele Yo'etz') would probably take the same view. He suggests that it is possible to carry on serving God even after you have died. His suggestion: write a book on rebuke and moral chastisement. If you write a learned tome on Talmud or Torah, the chances are that no-one will read it. But if you write something a bit lighter, that pertains to human behaviour,

Alexander Maune's article can be read here.

Eat, drink or repent -- for tomorrow we die!

In the lead-up to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, repentance is in the air. Jews all around the world talk about it, write about it and sometimes even think about it -- but the object of the exercise is to do it.

Some people like to save up all their repentance for Yom Kippur and make it special. There's no need to do this, though. In Avot 2:15 Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus reminds us: "Repent one day before your death". His students are puzzled by this, for who knows when they will die? And that is precisely the point: every day is ripe for repentance, so why put it off till the Big Day? The standard Jewish Amidah prayer, ideally recited three times every weekday, has been drafted in order to facilitate exactly this objective.

Curiously, not knowing the day of one's forthcoming death is also the trigger for a spot of self-indulgence, hence the popular motto “Eat, drink, and be merry—for tomorrow we die!” The message of the motto is clear: you may as well enjoy yourself and live for the minute, since each minute might be your last and, once you die, the story of your life comes to an abrupt end: there’s nothing left but oblivion and the loss of any capacity for personal enjoyment.

This message is plainly at odds with the teaching of Rabbi Eliezer, a man who would certainly have shared with his fellow Sages a deep belief that there was a better life ahead in the World to Come, a life for which repentance provided an important element of preparation and was certainly more efficacious than a pre-mortem spree.

Some people assume that “Eat, drink, and be merry—for tomorrow we die!” is a Biblical verse. This is not the case, though it is unsurprising that the verse has a Biblical ring to it because it is a conflation of two genuine Biblical sayings. The first, from Ecclesiastes 8:15, is part of a soliloquy on the apparent futility of life when the righteous suffer and the evil are treated as being righteous:

Then I commended enjoyment, because a man has no better objective under the sun than to eat and to drink and to be merry ….

The second, from the prophecies of Isaiah, (at 22:13) puts words into the mouths of the inhabitants of Jerusalem who, when called upon to repent, failed to get the message, responding:

Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die.

We don't know our future, but repentance is about relating our present to our past. Right now, while we are still alive and kicking, we can ask ourselves some pertinent questions about whether we are truly the sort of people we believe we should be, and how best we can step back from past failings, build on our experiences and make ourselves the best folk we can be, Meanwhile, bon appetit!

Taking positives from the am ha'aretz

According to the anonymous Mishnah at Avot 5:13 there are four types of people:

(i) The person who says "What is mine is mine, and what is yours is yours"—this is a middle-of-the-road type; but there are those who say that this is the character of someone from Sodom;

(ii) The person who says, "What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine" is an am ha’aretz;

(iii) [The person who says] "What is mine is yours, and what is yours is yours" is a chasid;

(iv) [And the person who says] "What is mine is mine, and what is yours is mine" is wicked.

I prefer to leave the terms am ha'aretz and chasid untranslated since they carry so much baggage with them. For convenience, we can say that an am ha'aretz -- literally, "people of the land" -- has relatively low behavioural standards and intellectual aspirations, while a chasid is a bit of an enthusiast when it comes to meeting and even exceeding his commitments to God and man. To call someone an am ha'aretz is rather an insult; to call someone a chasid is usually praise.

The am ha’aretz can however be viewed in positive terms too, because this term can also apply to people who literally work the land. Before the era of mechanised agriculture it was the am ha'aretz who tilled the soil and brought in its harvests—and this sort of work could be done by one man on his own. Cooperative effort is demanded and this is what happens when each am ha’aretz helps his fellows. Only if every man contributes his skill, his strength and his equipment for the good of others, and receives the effort of others in return, can the good order of the world be established and maintained.

Like the motto of the Three Musketeers, "One for all and all for one", the mishnah's text of “what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine” can be read in a positive light -- and it can almost be described as a sort of partnership (this view has been offered by Rabbi Yitzchak Magriso, Me’am Lo’ez, and Rabbi Menachem Mordechai Frankel-Teomim, Be’er HaAvot).

As the Jewish calendar creeps towards the New Year and the Yom HaDin -- the Day of Judgement -- it's worth reflecting that even the am ha'aretz can be viewed in a positive light. After all, we subscribe to the position that there is no-one who does not have his time (Avot 4:3) and that, where possible we should judge others favourably (Avot 2:6). That is the way we'd like to be judged too.

A good telling-off?

The sixth chapter of Pirkei Avot contains (at Avot 6:6) a list of 48 things that aid a person to acquire Torah. These include the need to love rebuke -- a topic that is worth looking at a little more closely.

For many people, being rebuked by others can be a painful experience. The fact that the person who administers the rebuke loves the person who receives it and cares greatly for their welfare makes no difference. This is perfectly natural. A child will frequently cry when told off by a parent, even in gentle tones, and a teenager may explode with anger: these reactions are innate and remain with us in later life, though we ideally learn to control them as we become more mature.

Not all rebukes are received in the same way. A person learning to drive may receive a stern admonition from the driving instructor along the lines of “What on earth do you think you were doing just then? Do that again and you could do yourself serious harm and even kill yourself!” The response to such a rebuke is usually one of gratitude which is genuinely felt and sincerely expressed. However, when we are seeking to perform a mitzvah and a stranger rebukes us even quite gently for doing it incorrectly, our response is often quite different. A whole range of possible responses flashes through our minds. For example:

(i) “this is what I’ve always done in the past and no-one has ever told me before that it’s wrong;”

(ii) “this is how my rabbi/teacher/friend said I should do it, so it’s not my fault;”

(iii) “what makes you think you are right and I am wrong anyway?” or

(iv) “it’s none of your business what I do or how I do it.”

It is only when all the other options have been considered and rejected that we might concede that we were in need of rebuke and then try to summon up some begrudging gratitude.

If we are honest with ourselves, this contrast between our reactions to the rebuke of the driving instructor and that of the stranger in the examples given above pinpoints a failure in our own priorities. The avoidance of errors when we drive, however commendable, is a matter that concerns our physical integrity in this world. However, our ability to perform a mitzvah or escape from transgressing an averah may have repercussions for the eternal status of a Jewish soul in the World to Come.

On this basis we should welcome the rebuke from the stranger with at least as much warmth as we welcome the guidance of our driving instructor. We should feel happy to be rebuked, love those who rebuke us and take each reproof as a reminder that we should not rely entirely on our own intellectual resources. And if a person can truly say that he loves the Torah, it is reasonable to assume that this love will rub off on to someone who points him back on to any path of Torah learning from which he has wandered.

Everyone makes mistakes—even the greatest and wisest of people—and this has been the lot of mankind since the Creation. However, anyone who truly values the greatness of his Torah learning will welcome being put right. Acting positively in response to a rebuke that one has received may also constitute the mitzvah of repentance.

Jewish sages throughout the ages have added their own perspectives to the issue of rebuke. For example, If there is no one else around to do the job for him, a person should love to rebuke himself, and also love to administer rebukes to others and not worry that this requirement is in conflict with an earlier item on the list of 48 items, that one must be loved by others. It is easy to make oneself unpopular by telling others that they are making mistakes; it is far simpler to smile winningly at them, retaining their friendship and thinking to oneself “I’m all right, even if they aren’t. Why should I risk incurring their wrath by telling them?” This is not the way to behave if you love another person, and this is why a good parent is prepared to risk a flood of tears from an infant rather than condone the eating of sugar-laden confectionery at bedtime and after the child’s teeth have been thoroughly brushed for the night ahead.

Finally, we should note that it is not “rebuke” that one should love, but “rebukes.” If the use of the plural indicates some sort of inclusivity, maybe this is because it embraces both rebukes that are justified and those that are not. The person who issues a rebuke may not be in full possession of the mitigating facts that justify an action that is superficially worthy of reprimand—but the recipient of his words should love the rebuke regardless since it is a sign that the person who administers it cares enough about him to say what he says. After all, anyone who is seriously trying to get things right when rebuking another cannot do so before he overcomes other two obstacles that Avot itself places in his path: he has first to judge another without being in that person’s shoes and must then make an effort to judge that person’s words or actions favourably if he can.

A closing thought is that, from time to time, people err in the opposite direction by giving credit where it is not due or praise where it has not been deserved. Some people are quite content to be on the receiving end of these mistakes. Should they not then be consistent and be equally happy to accept unwarranted criticism?

The pursuit of peace: a personal recollection

In the first chapter of Pirkei Avot, Hillel teaches that we should be like the talmidim (pupils) of Aaron: "love peace, pursue peace; love people and bring them close to the Torah" (Avot 1:12). The oral tradition gives examples of how this can be done, examples that look simple enough in theory but which in practice are very difficult, if not almost impossible, for us to achieve (e.g. shuttling between two enemies and telling each how much the other wants to be friends).

I have only once seen anyone successfully put this precept into practice and genuinely succeed. This is what happened.

Back in the 1980s, the once-distinguished Jewish community in Sunderland had already began its terminal decline. The town's two synagogues had started to struggle with their minyanim and it was apparent that the community was no longer large and strong enough to support both.

The problem was that the two synagogues were very much in competition with one another and there was a great deal of antagonism, much of it long-standing, between them. One had a larger membership, the other a smaller but more religiously committed one. To make things more difficult, several members of each had left their respective shul following a bitter disagreement and had joined the other. The senior members of each synagogue accepted that Sunderland was now able to support just one place of worship, but the only other thing they agreed on was that it was the other shul, and not theirs, that should close.

This was the point at which Rabbi Shammai Zahn, who headed the Sunderland Yeshivah (now in Gateshead) stepped in. He was at first sight an unlikely peacemaker. Many members of the larger synagogue's board of management distrusted him since he was plainly Haredi and their membership consisted mainly of "middle-of-the-road" Jews. One said openly at a board meeting, "I'm not having that Ayatollah coming here to tell us what to do". The smaller shul with the more committed membership was however elated, convinced that R' Zahn -- who had long been sympathetic to their cause -- would somehow make sure that the other shul would close.

What happened next was quite remarkable. For getting on for half a year, R' Zahn shuttled back and forth between representatives of the warring factions. He gave his support to no-one and told no-one what to do. His principal tactic was to act as a sympathetic and patient listener to all of the concerns, real and imagined, that were articulated by the protagonists in both camps. He treated them with dignity and respect, asking them to forget the past for a while and explain what sort of future they envisaged. Eventually, it dawned on both sides that some sort of compromise would have to be reached, and at this point R' Zahn simply offered to help, in any way he could, to facilitate and implement whatever the two sides could contemplate living with.

The longed-for compromise was finally achieved. The shul with the smaller, more committed membership would be the one to go, but its members would play a highly active part in the running of the other shul. Honour was satisfied on both sides and the town was assured of a reliable minyan for several more years. R' Zahn sought no credit for his involvement but it was good to hear some very magnanimous things being said about him, behind his back, by those who a year previously would have regarded him as a hostile meddler -- including the gentleman who had previously insultingly labelled him an "Ayatollah".

I was particularly impressed with the outcome given that, when a shul disappears, its honorary officers and functionaries are left without title and status -- and that, on both sides, people with a substantial sense of their own self-importance were dangerously close to slipping into "over my dead body" mode.

Repentance and good deeds: you can't have one without the other

Rabbi Eliezer ben Ya’akov says (Avot 4:13), “A person who performs a single mitzvah (positive commandment) acquires for himself a single advocate, and a person who transgresses a single averah (negative precept) acquires for himself a single accuser. Repentance and good deeds are like a shield against retribution.” 

Teshuvah (repentance) and ma’asim tovim (good deeds) are demanded together in this Mishnah on the basis that they are effective only in combination with one another. Repentance is all very well, but only God knows what truly lies in a person’s heart and mind. In the absence of some visible, physical activity, there is no evidence that any teshuvah has occurred. Likewise, good deeds are always welcome, but they may do not by themselves constitute a sign of penitence. 

What is meant by good deeds in the absence of repentance? Consider the possibly familiar scenario in which a child, having kicked a ball through a window-pane while his parents were out, seeks to do some helpful deed around the house like tidying his room or cleaning his shoes. The child does not repent of playing ball indoors, even if his parents strictly prohibited him from doing so, since the chances are that he will do so again (though a little more carefully). He is however in fear of what his parents might say or do when they return home and see the shards of shattered glass, so—unrepentant as he may be—he still seeks to ameliorate the nature of their response. 

Half-way between a person’s thoughts, known only to God, and his actions, visible to all, is a space that is occupied by speech. Words spoken by a person can offer a window on to his thoughts, but not a guarantee that what is said is an accurate reflection of what is felt. Thus the words “I’m sorry …” indicates a speaker’s regret, but not in a clear and unambiguous manner. They may mean “I’m sorry for what I did, irrespective of whether it hurt anyone or not,” “I’m sorry that what did I hurt you” or “I’m sorry I didn’t hurt you more.” A full apology or statement of regret, spoken as if it is sincerely meant, is always a good start, but no more than that. That is why good deeds are needed as well as repentance; they are evidence of sincerity.

They're the same -- more or less

Connoisseurs of Pirkei Avot may have spotted that the late, great Rabbi Jonathan Sacks -- whose command of the English language is unparalleled -- provided translations of this tractate for two different books. One is the Authorised Daily Prayer Book of the United Synagogue, the other being the Koren Pirkei Avot with commentary by Rabbi Marc D. Angel. 

With the aid of one of my grandchildren I pulled out sample mishnayot and baraitot which we checked against one another. On the basis of our research it appears that the two translations are the same, though in the United Synagogue's version the names of the rabbis have been anglicised. This is no doubt a disappointment for anyone who was hoping, as I was, that perhaps Lord Sacks had prepared two quite different but equally elegant and persuasive translations -- something that was quite within his power to do.

The Best of Men

A discussion I've often had with friends turns on the relevance of ancient Jewish learning to modern life. In short, after two millennia can the mishnah still offer anything worth knowing? This discussion inevitably heads towards Pirkei Avot, where I can point to the fact that, while every generation has its own customs, fashions and conventions, the broader characteristics of human nature do not change.#

With this in mind, I found myself thinking about Ben Azzai's teaching (Avot 4:3) that we should not be scornful of any person, since there is no-one who does not have his hour. The trigger for my thoughts was the approach of the 16th Summer Paralympics in Tokyo later this month.

The Paralympics are a massively evolved version of the Stoke Mandeville Games, a set of sports events for paraplegic competitors which by 1952 had attracted as many as 130 participants from overseas (Stoke Mandeville being the name of a British hospital that specialises in treating spinal injuries). The origin of the Games is depicted in a movie, The Best of Men, that portrays the horrors of paraplegic injuries and the struggles of patients to overcome physical, emotional and other problems.

At the heart of the movie is an ongoing battle between German neurologist Ludwig Guttmann (a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany) and his protagonist, Dr Cowan, as to how best to treat paraplegic patients. Dr Cowan's position is that they should be allowed to die in comfort and dignity since they are of no further use to society or to themselves; Dr Guttmann's view, in keeping with Avot 4:3, is that no man should be written off; everyone has a potential that he should have the chance to realise -- even if it is hard and painful for him to do so. It is this view that prevails.

Dr Guttmann's position is not however an absolute one. If a person is to be valued and assisted by others, he must take the first step by being willing to take responsibility for his own life and to value himself. This position chimes in with Rabbi Akiva's enigmatic statement (Avot 3:19) that, while everything is foreseen, free will is given. Framed in terms of Stoke Mandeville's patients, this can be understood as meaning that, while a person's permanent loss of his ability to walk is foreseen, he still has choices to make about how he reacts to his loss and moves on from there.

Much of the movie makes uncomfortable viewing, particularly the bits involving bedsores, but it provides much food for serious thought regarding the way we regard and behave towards our fellow humans.