On the march with Pirkei Avot

Yesterday an estimated crowd of some 100,000 people took to the streets of Central London in a march to condemn antisemitism. Many of the marchers were Jewish but their numbers were supplemented by others who, though not Jewish themselves, were concerned at the recent frightening tolerance of Jew-hatred in the British Isles.

For the benefit of non-British readers, let me explain. Jews have been in Britain for centuries and, while retaining their independent identity, they have long formed part of the fabric of British society.  Following a steep and unprecedented rise in reported antisemitic incidents, and with a sudden open articulation by many people of openly anti-Jewish and anti-Israel sentiments, many members of this small Jewish population – estimated to be no more than 270,000 souls – fear for their safety and question whether there is still a long-term future for them in the United Kingdom. This fear has been amplified by loss of confidence in the integrity and neutrality of the BBC, whose error-filled and partisan reporting of events has been so painstakingly chronicled and called out again and again by the US-based non-profit organization Honest Reporting.

Yesterday’s demonstration, in keeping with Jewish ethos, was peaceful and respected the large police presence that had been provided in case of trouble. The demonstrators did not call for anyone’s death or destruction, but rather for an end to the tolerance of antisemitism and for the release of the 200+ hostages currently held in Gaza.

Significantly, the demonstrators paused by the Cenotaph to sing the National Anthem.

At Avot 3:2, Rabbi Chanina segan HaKohanim teaches:

הֱוֵי מִתְפַּלֵּל בִּשְׁלוֹמָהּ שֶׁל מַלְכוּת, שֶׁאִלְמָלֵא מוֹרָאָהּ, אִישׁ אֶת רֵעֵֽהוּ חַיִּים בְּלָעוֹ

[Translation] “Pray for the integrity of the government [literally “kingdom”]; for if it were not for the fear of its authority, a man would swallow his neighbour alive”.

Jewish communities in the United Kingdom have long incorporated this into their Shabbat morning prayers. An English-language version recited in many synagogues opens as follows:

“He who gives salvation to kings and dominion to princes, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, may He bless:

Our sovereign lord King Charles,
Our gracious Queen Consort Camilla,
The Prince and Princess of Wales,
And all the Royal Family.”

This prayer then asks God to put a spirit wisdom and understanding into the hearts of the King and all his counsellors, so that they should deal kindly and justly with all the House of Israel.

It seems to me that it is entirely fitting that, even at a mass public demonstration such as we saw yesterday, it is appropriate for the country’s Jews to acknowledge the debt they owe, as residents in a country that does not belong to them, to the forces of law and order that have hitherto been both able and willing to protect them. We pray that they will continue to do so for as long as is necessary.

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How to lose wait

No -- the title's not a mis-spelling. Please read on!

One of Hillel’s more frequently encountered teachings is אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרָךְ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּֽיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ (“Don’t judge your friend until you are standing in his place”). The obvious meaning is the literal one: unless you are able to look through another person’s eyes and experience what they are feeling when they do something, you cannot understand their thoughts and motives. This being so, you are not in a position to criticize their actions.

Taken at their face value, Hillel’s words fit well with other content in Pirkei Avot. Rabbi Yishmael ben Yose (Avot 4:10) tells us not to judge at all unless we do so in the company of other judges. Hillel teaches that we can’t judge properly from our personal standpoint. Yehoshua ben Perachya (Avot 1:6) adds that, even if we do judge someone, we should give them the benefit of the doubt.

There is another way we can look at Hillel’s teaching. Maybe he is encouraging us to try to look at things through other people’s eyes in order to avoid judging them at all. Here’s a practical instance of what I mean.

This morning when I left my synagogue, I noticed a man who was standing by the front door, at the top of a flight of steps. He was sheltering under the porch while he waited for his taxi to pick him up. From where he stood, he had a good view of any taxi that might draw up in front of the main door.

A little way down the road, I noticed a taxi waiting to pick up a passenger. The taxi had pulled in to the side of the road at a convenient point, by the edge of the synagogue, where the vehicle could stand without causing any inconvenience to pedestrians or road users.

I realized that there was a problem. The passenger was standing at a really good place for people to stand while waiting for a cab, while the taxi driver had parked in a really good place for motor vehicles to pull in—but neither could see the other.

If it had occurred to the taxi’s customer that the taxi might pull in at a place convenient for taxis, or if the taxi driver had thought where, if he was awaiting a cab, he might be standing, the two would have found each other instantly. As it was, the man awaiting the taxi was looking somewhat impatient, and the taxi driver’s face had ‘disgruntled’ written all over it.

The moral of the story is plain. If either of the actors in this early morning drama had visualized the problem of “man + taxi” through the eyes of the other, there would have been no problem.

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A rabbi by any other title?

Shortly before the end of this year’s festive season our friend and greatly appreciated commentator Claude Tusk sent Avot Today this devar Torah for Simchat Torah, the celebration of both the conclusion of our Torah readings and their immediate recommencement. This short, timely and well-delivered devar Torah is based on Pirkei Avot, in particular on Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel’s much-debated contention that it is not the study of Torah which is the main thing, but the performance of its precepts (Avot 1:17).

This devar Torah first cites the opinion of R’ Kalonymus Kalman Shapira that a person who learns Torah but does not implement it is like a bookshelf: he holds much knowledge but is judged to be no more than a piece of wood. R’ Nosson Tzvi Finkel is also quoted: he explains that the value of Torah is inseparable from its active implementation since the role of Torah is to enable one to transform oneself into a different, improved person—and it is only by putting one’s Torah learning into action that one properly internalises it.

Aside from the content of the devar Torah, the issue I want to discuss, one on which I suspect many readers may wish to comment, is that its author, one Rabbi Avi Strausberg, turns out to be a woman.

As a traditional orthodox Jew I am most comfortable with the position that “rabbi” is a title and a status that is conferred upon the male of the species. On the other hand I am happy to attend shiurim given by women; I buy and read works of Jewish scholarship written by women and have greatly benefited from their learning. I respect them both as fellow human beings and as Jewish leaders and scholars in their own right—but for me, on a personal basis, the title “rabbi” refers to a man.

Can I, should I, refer to Avi Strausberg as “Rabbi” in this post? What guidance does Avot give me?

I actually first encountered this issue when I was Registrar of the London Beth Din. I had to write a letter to a (male) minister of a provincial English community who styled himself “rabbi”, even though he did not hold semichah from any recognised authority. I was asked to write to him, with the full authority of the Beth Din, to inform him that he was not recognised as a rabbi and must not refer to himself as such. I asked Dayan Chanoch Ehrentreu, who was Rosh Beth Din at the time and someone whose orthodox credentials were beyond challenge, how I should address the letter and the envelope in which the letter was to be delivered to him.

The Dayan’s answer came instantly and without equivocation. I was to address this person as “Rabbi” both in my letter and on the envelope containing it. He explained: as a matter of kavod, of the respect that any human is required to show to another, one should always give a person the title that he (or she) uses for him- or herself. To do otherwise would be frankly rude and certainly not in keeping with the need to show kavod to others. The source for this is Ben Zoma’s teaching at Avot 4:1: “Who is respected? The person who respects others…”.  I have followed this guidance ever since.

One might add that a letter to someone who calls themselves “Rabbi” which is addressed to “Mr”, “Miss”, “Mrs”, “Ms” or whatever might generate personal embarrassment if that letter is seen and read by others—and embarrassing others in public should also be avoided (see R’ Elazar HaModa’i at Avot 3:15).

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All you need is love

Made famous by The Beatles’ song, the slogan “All you need is love” became an anthem of the Swinging Sixties. But for students of Pirkei Avot there is much more behind these words.

At Avot 3:15 R’ Elazar HaModa’i teaches:

הַמְחַלֵּל אֶת הַקֳּדָשִׁים, וְהַמְבַזֶּה אֶת הַמּוֹעֲדוֹת, וְהַמַּלְבִּין פְּנֵי חֲבֵרוֹ בָּרַבִּים, וְהַמֵּפֵר בְּרִיתוֹ שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם אָבִֽינוּ, וְהַמְגַלֶּה פָנִים בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁלֹּא כַהֲלָכָה, אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיֵּשׁ בְּיָדוֹ תּוֹרָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים, אֵין לוֹ חֵֽלֶק לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

[Translation] Anyone who (i) profanes the holy things, (ii) degrades the Festivals, (iii) humiliates his friend in public, (iv) abrogates the covenant of our father Abraham (i.e., circumcision), or (v) who interprets the Torah otherwise than in accordance with halachah---even though that person may possess Torah knowledge and good deeds, that person has no share in the World to Come.

There are many good reasons for separately justifying or explaining each of these five things, as commentators over the ages have tended to do. But is a detailed explanation of each of them required? Maharal Shik cuts to the chase and favours a general approach. It is accepted that, if you fall foul of any of these things you are crossing a significant boundary. In crossing these boundaries you are demonstrating the wrong attitude. On this basis a person can forfeit his share in the World to Come—even if he ticks the boxes, as it were, by going through the motions of performing all the (other) mitzvot in the Torah—if he has no love of the mitzvot and is unable to summon up a positive attitude towards them. This shows the importance of cultivating the right attitude to how we serve God.

The explanation of the Maharam Shik is apparently at odds with the message of R’ Chaim Volozhiner in his Nefesh HaChaim. There R’ Chaim emphasises the importance of actually performing a mitzvah even with no positive intention or thoughts at all, rather than having all the best intentions and attitudes but not performing them as required. The question before us is this: can these approaches be reconciled? Suggestions, anyone?

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A life of ... what?

The concept of Torah im derech eretz has many meanings and has been put to use in many varied and sometimes surprising contexts. Here is one of them.

In Baruch She’amar al Tefillot Hashanah, R’ Baruch HaLevi Epstein reviews some of the finer points of the Birchat HaChodesh, the prayer recited in synagogue in which we announce and bless each new month. Discussing the phrase יִראַת שָׁמַֽיִם וְיִרְאַת חֵטְא חַיִּים שֶׁיֵּשׁ בָּהֶם (Chayim sheyesh bahem yirat shamayim veyirat chet: “A life which has within it fear of Heaven and fear of sin”), R’ Epstein finds it strange that this phrase comes at the end of a list of things we want for life and which we express in the form of חַיִּים שֶׁל (chayim shel: “A life of…”). Why do we change the formula here from chayim shel to chayim sheyesh bahem (“A life which has within it…”)?

By way of an answer R. Epstein offers a hypothesis. If the prayer had asked for a chayim shel yirat shamayim veyirat chet, it would be requesting a life that was so absorbed in fearing Heaven and fearing sin that there was not a moment left for anything else. However important these human qualities might be, and however dear to God, they must surely be combined with other things if humans are to live a full and meaningful life.

In support of this notion R’ Epstein cites the concept of im ein Torah ein derech eretz, ve’im ein derech eretz ein Torah (“If there is no Torah there is no worldly occupation, and if there is no worldly occupation there is no Torah”: R’ Elazar ben Azariah, Avot 3:21). He then cites the famous argument between Torah purist R’ Shimon bar Yochai and pragmatist R’ Yishmael as to whether a life of Torah learning without derech eretz can be sustained: the Talmud (Berachot 35b) reports that many did as R’ Shimon taught and were unsuccessful, while those who did as R’ Yishmael taught prospered.

I do not know offhand of any other explanations offered for the change of rubric. Can anyone enlighten me?

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Abraham and the three mysterious men

At the beginning of parashat Vayera the Torah tells of three men whose journey takes them past Abraham while he sits by the entrance to his tent. Who are these men? Are they Abraham’s righteous allies Aner, Eshkol and Mamre? Are they angels in disguise? Do they even exist outside Abraham’s consciousness, being no more than players in a profoundly important dream?

R’ Avraham Weinberg of Slonim, in his Bet Avraham, offers an unusual mussar-driven explanation, that the narrative is purely figurative. The three “men” are actually the three things a person should contemplate if he wishes to avoid falling into the grips of sin: the seeing eye, the hearing ear and the understanding that all his actions are stored on permanent record. These are the three things which Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi identifies at Avot 2:1.

How does Avraham react when he sees these “men”? He urges them “al no ta’avor me’al avodecha” (“Please don’t pass by your servant”). With God’s help we can keep these three ideas in the forefront of our minds; without that help we will fail.

Is this just a bit of airy-fairy chassidut? No. We should see it as a tactful reminder to us, when we learn Torah—and particularly Bereshit (Genesis)—that we should not just nod approvingly at the conduct of our forefathers but should make a positive effort to internalise the moral principles that underpinned their lives even before the Torah was given.

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Middot at war 6: Picking up the pieces

This, the sixth and final post in Avot Today's Middot at War series, looks beyond the conflict to the aftermath. Is either side obliged to assist the other in picking up the pieces and engaging in the large task of reconstruction?

Prima facie this is a topic that lies way beyond the content of Pirkei Avot. However. There is a possibility that this may not be so.

At Avot 1:7 Nittai HaArbeli says:

הַרְחֵק מִשָּׁכֵן רָע, וְאַל תִּתְחַבֵּר לָרָשָׁע, וְאַל תִּתְיָאֵשׁ מִן הַפּוּרְעָנוּת

[Translation] “Distance yourself from a bad neighbour, and don’t stick to a wicked person, and do not abandon belief in retribution”.

The first two parts of this teaching have a plain meaning and, while commentators have offered many examples and explanations, they share a core meaning: don’t become too closely involved with bad influences. The third part, however, is a vague and general proposition that invites interpretation.

Midrash Shmuel offers several shots at explaining this teaching. One starts with a quote from the Torah: כִּ֣י תִפְגַּ֞ע שׁ֧וֹר אֹֽיִבְךָ֛ א֥וֹ חֲמֹר֖וֹ תֹּעֶ֑ה הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֶ֖נּוּ לֽוֹֹ (“When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back”: Shemot 23:4). The Gemara (Bava Metzia, Eilu Metziot) establishes that this verse refers to one who is wicked: to help such a person is a way to achieve perfection of one’s soul and even to bring the wicked back to the path of goodness. R’ Yosef ibn Nachmies adds here that a person who is so steeped in goodness as to have reached this level of perfection should never despair of God’s mercy in respect of any puranut [translated above ass ‘retribution’ but in this context ‘disaster’] for which he has been destined.

Does this mean that a righteous nation should set about helping to restore the position of an evil enemy over which it has triumphed? I very much doubt it. My feeling is that this conclusion goes way beyond anything that Nittai HaArbeli might have contemplated. This mishnah addresses the individual, not the state, and the same must surely be said of R’ Yosef ibn Nachmies’ take on it.

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Middot at war 5: celebrate with care

The tragic current war between Israel and Hamas has already lasted a month and does not appear to be about to conclude. Readers of Avot Today will not need to be told what they should be praying for—peace—or which of the combatants deserves in moral terms to emerge victorious.

Thousands of humans on both sides are already mourning the death of their loved ones, grieving over serious and disabling injuries. But when the conflict ends, many people will be rejoicing. We pray that we will be able to celebrate the triumph of good over evil and the salvation of humanity in the face of unspeakable, barbaric atrocities.  But how does a Jew celebrate?

Pirkei Avot offers sobering advice to the victors. At Avot 4:24 Shmuel HaKatan teaches:

בִּנְפֹל אֹיִבְךָ אַל תִּשְׂמָח, וּבִכָּשְׁלוֹ אַל יָגֵל לִבֶּֽךָ, פֶּן יִרְאֶה יְיָ וְרַע בְּעֵינָיו וְהֵשִׁיב מֵעָלָיו אַפּוֹ

[Translation] "When your enemy falls, do not rejoice; when he stumbles, let your heart not be gladdened—in case God sees and it is displeasing in His eyes, and He will turn His wrath from him [to you]"

This warning is not unique to Avot: it is a direct quote from Proverbs 24:17-18. It is unusual for any teaching that comprises part of the Oral Law to pre-exist as a quote that has been cut-and-pasted from the Written Law. When this occurs, it is neither an accident nor a coincidence but the product of a conscious decision on the part of the Tanna who quotes it. We are thus entitled to ask why he has done it and what lesson we can learn from the fact that he has done so.

Both the Bartenura and the commentary ascribed to Rashi have relatively little to say. They agree that this teaching is featured here because Shmuel HaKatan said it so often and that one should be careful not to rejoice at another’s downfall in case God transfers His anger from the unfortunate subject of His anger to the person who is enjoying the spectacle. But later rabbis have offered a wider choice of explanations.

What a Jew may legitimately celebrate with a full heart is the destruction not of the wicked but of wickedness itself (Berachot 10a).  The Rashbatz (Magen Avot) notes that restraining oneself from rejoicing is a way of emulating God, who does not rejoice at the downfall of the Egyptians who pursued the Children of Israel into the Red Sea (Megillah 10b). Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) adds that we are only human: God therefore does not demand anything of us that we cannot deliver. We cannot force ourselves to love other people but we can at least refrain from hating them or harbouring resentment against them. Not rejoicing at their misfortune is thus part of a process of character improvement. The Maggid of Kozhnitz (Avot Yisrael) links this mishnah to another in Avot: since we do not understand how and why another person acts wickedly, we are expected to judge him favourably if we can (Avot 1:6): our pleasure at such a person’s downfall is actually the consequence of our judgement on him.

I have always felt that a person’s capacity to do evil matches his or her capacity to do good. So when I rejoice when retribution is inflicted on the wicked, I do try to focus on the destruction of the wickedness itself—and also to mourn for the good which that person could have achieved in their life, had they only chosen to do so. When the good that they could have done is lost, we are all the losers.

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Middot at war 4: dealing with death

Death is a virtually inevitable consequence of warfare, whether brought about by the use of weapons, disruption of healthcare services, suicide or anything else. While Pirkei Avot makes numerous references to being judged after one’s death and to the World to Come, it has relatively little to say about how we—mourners, survivors and comforters—should go about our task.

R’ Shimon ben Elazar (Avot 4:23) does however have some practical guidance for us, teaching us this:

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ, וְאַל תְּנַחֲמֵֽהוּ בְּשָׁעָה שֶׁמֵּתוֹ מֻטָּל לְפָנָיו, וְאַל תִּשְׁאַל לוֹ בְּשַֽׁעַת נִדְרוֹ, וְאַל תִּשְׁתַּדֵּל לִרְאוֹתוֹ בְּשַֽׁעַת קַלְקָלָתוֹ

[Translation, with numerals added] (i) Do not appease your friend in his time of anger; (ii) do not comfort him while his dead still lies before him; (iii) do not ask him about his vow the moment he makes it; and (iv) do not endeavor to see him at the time of his degradation.

Of these teachings, the second is right on our topic. It’s practical advice too. Don’t get into someone’s hair while they are trying to organize the funeral of a loved one. With family members often separated from one another by entire continents and time zones, arranging a Jewish funeral nowadays often involves not only dealing with the chevra kadisha—the burial society—but with making urgent arrangements to transport the deceased to Israel. At times like this, it can be distracting for a mourning relative to face a battery of kindly and well-meant expressions of sympathy. You might even antagonize and anger him (Rabbenu Yonah). The commentary ascribed to Rashi gives a different practical explanation: the mourner’s grief and distress before the burial will be so great that he will be unable to absorb any consolation. As R’ Reuven P. Bulka puts it: “The wound is too fresh, the shock too deep and the receptivity too shallow” (in Chapters of the Sages).

But is this the message of the mishnah? Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) clearly thinks so:

“The truths of this mishnah are so self-evident that they do not require any commentary …The teaching of this mishnah is that one should always apply sechel (common sense) in relating to others”.

With respect to this position, which is taken by several commentators (including Rambam himself), I feel reluctant to accept it. It’s not normal practice among Tannaim to preserve as a teaching something that is so obvious that it needs no explanation. So do the words mean more than what we take at face value? And, if so, what? The Me’iri (Beit HaBechirah) has something to add: he takes all four teachings of R’ Shimon together as warning us that doing the right thing is only half the story: we have to get our timing right. The best of words or actions can cause untold distress if delivered at the wrong time.

I wonder whether, in contemporary society, we might add even more. Our words and deeds have an impact on not just others but on ourselves. If we get our timing wrong and our words or actions are regarded as being intrusive or inappropriate, we mind find our best intentions “rewarded” with an angry or hostile response. Feeling upset or embarrassed, we may in turn be discouraged from having another go and neglect important mitzvot when next the opportunity to perform them arises.

In the context of war, there is a further dimension to comforting mourners that we should bear in mind. Sadly there are many people mourning those who were massacred on 7 October as well as soldiers who have fallen since. Their deaths are painful to us all because they have been killed as Jews and/or Israelis. But there are also people who have died of old age and natural causes. We must be on our guard not to think of these as second-class deaths. To those who are left behind to mourn, the loss of a loved one is painful and cannot be repaired—whether that person fell gallantly in battle or died peacefully in
bed. We must not let the nature of death govern the quality of our comfort and condolences to those who are left behind.

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Middot at war 3: how do you pray?

“There are no atheists in foxholes” is a famous aphorism that has often been cited as a proposition that, at times of extreme fear or stress, even a person who does not believe in God in any conventional sense will find himself invoking the aid of a Higher Power.  The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) are a fighting force comprised of those who are deeply pious, those who are conventionally religious and those who have no commitment to any religion at all. We can scarcely imagine what goes on in the minds of its combatants when they are in action. Whether they pray, what they pray and what thoughts lie in their hearts are not for us to inquire.

Many of those of us who remain at home are also praying. We pray for the wellbeing of friends and family at the front, for their safe return, for the full recovery of those injured and for the comfort of those bereaved.

At Avot 2:18 Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel opens with two prayer-related teachings:

הֱוֵי זָהִיר בִּקְרִיאַת שְׁמַע וּבִתְפִלָּה. וּכְשֶׁאַתָּה מִתְפַּלֵּל, אַל תַּֽעַשׂ תְּפִלָּתְךָ קְבַע, אֶלָּא רַחֲמִים וְתַחֲנוּנִים לִפְנֵי הַמָּקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם הוּא, אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם וְרַב חֶֽסֶד, וְנִחָם עַל הָרָעָה

[Translation] Be careful when you recite the Shema and with prayer. When you pray, do not make your prayers routine, but rather [an entreaty for] mercy and a supplication before the Almighty, as it states (Joel 2:13): ``For He is benevolent and merciful, slow to anger and abundant in loving kindness, and relenting of the evil decree'' …

This is the only explicit reference to prayer in the whole tractate of Avot. The concept of prayer has however been read into various other contexts. Thus in Avot 1:2, avodah (“service”)—the usual word for the bringing of offerings to the Temple—is sometimes applied to prayer, the form of service we adopted when the bringing of sacrifices was no longer feasible (as Rambam explains in the first perek of Hilchot Tefillah). Later, in Avot 6:6, we see a list of 48 means of acquiring Torah wisdom, but this list does not mention prayer either. 

At times of war many people, regardless of their religious, philosophical or political opinions, experience an urge to pray to a higher authority of one sort or another. For the observant practising Jew there is a standard set of prayers that cover, among other things, God’s responsibility for delivering salvation, justice and peace as well as relief from illness, pain and suffering. These standard prayers can be, and often are, augmented by additional prayers which may be quite spontaneous.

Using a regular formula for daily prayer offers the advantage of familiarity and fluency: you don’t have to ponder about what to say and you are less likely to stumble over the words when you recite it. But familiarity has a downside too: it’s easy to switch one’s focus from prayer to other thoughts. Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel warns of this but there is no easy way to prevent it. We humans are created with minds that effortlessly associate one idea with another and, once the chain reaction begins, it can be difficult to end.

Those of us who use a regular prayer formula may have another problem to face. Sometimes our hearts and minds can be so preoccupied with our objective that we do not even notice when we reach the relevant part of our template and sail straight past it. This has happened to me on numerous occasions, particularly when recalling or re-living an event for which I was grateful so vividly that I did not notice that I had prayed my way through the prayer of gratitude, Modim anachnu lach. To my embarrassment I have had similar experiences when praying for the well-being or speedy recovery of family and friends.

The Kozhnitzer Maggid (Avot Yisrael) alludes to the difficulty of focusing on one’s prayer when one’s mind is full of other things when he explains the final mishnah in the fifth perek (5:26). There, Ben He He teaches “According to the effort [or ‘pain’, ‘distress’], so is the reward”. For him, the effort comes from the task of keeping one’s mind clear when praying when so many thoughts and ideas persist in trying to enter it.

None of us can bend God to our will, and the words of our prayers—whether “set piece” entreaties or spontaneous utterances from the heart—are not a process for magically getting what we want. However, if we do keep our mind on our prayers we can at least say that we have truly recognized that there are things we want that we cannot achieve for or by ourselves, and that we concede that there exists a greater power in our lives than even our own.

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Middot at war 2: words that wound

My contribution to Israel’s war with Hamas is a small one. As chair of the vaad bayit, the management committee for our apartment block in Jerusalem, I share responsibility for the safety and maintenance of the building—and it is I who am answerable to my neighbours for the decisions we take and the way we implement them.

In times of peace there is little friction in the building. Our disputes are usually small and easy to resolve. At this time of war, however, nerves are frayed and tempers displayed even by residents who are normally placid.

In the past three weeks I have been at the receiving end of two things that feature in Pirkei Avot. One is tochachah (“rebuke”), the other being elbon (“insult”).  We are supposed to love rebuke (Avot 6:6) since embracing rebuke is a way in which we can improve ourselves and, in the case of someone who studies Torah, make ourselves more amenable to acquiring Torah. As for insults, Rabbi Meir promises (Avot 6:1) that one of the benefits derived by someone who studies Torah for its own sake and not for personal gain is that he will be able to forgive insults.

How does this work out in practice? Over the past three weeks, wearing my vaad bayit hat, I have had many opportunities to consider what it means to me.

In the first place, when a neighbour is so angry that he is shouting at you and, far from respecting your personal space, is standing so close that you can feel the heat of his breath, it is not easy to keep one’s cool and separate the words from the person who speaks them. They may be well-deserved words of rebuke or gratuitous abuse, and it is the words to which Avot alludes, not their speaker. As for the person who delivers the rebuke/insult, Avot reminds us that we cannot judge him if we are not standing in his place (per Hillel at 2:5).

So what do I do? The most difficult thing to do is to keep one’s own cool. The temptation to shout back is very great and hard to resist, particularly when you are certain that you are in the right and that any criticism or abuse is undeserved. But Avot reminds us that one should be slow to anger (Avot 5:14), following the example of God (Avot 5:2, 5:3).

I cannot pretend even to myself that I am not hurt at all by criticism, especially when it is justified, and I cannot pretend that I am not stung by insults and abuse. So what I now do is to allow myself to feel the pain—but only for a short and limited period—and then tell myself that, having felt the pain and been genuinely annoyed, the time has come to move on. If a criticism is justified, my job is to be grateful for it and to express that gratitude, disagreeable though this may sometimes be. And if it is not justified, I should explain why this is so and thank the rebuker for taking the trouble to correct me even though, in the event, the rebuke missed the mark.

As for insults, there’s no need to be grateful for them and it certainly doesn’t help to retaliate in like kind. But, in the quiet of my own mind, I do try now to make an effort to see what motivated them and ask if there is any better way to make myself insult-proof.

As a footnote to this piece, I am happy to report that, at least at the time of posting it, we are all on good terms with each other. The issues that divide us are infinitely smaller than the things that bind us together, thank God.

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Middot at War 1: Judging others

Our previous post touched on the importance of practising what you preach. It’s not always easy, as I hope to show in this piece and the one which will follow it.

Israel is at war and a very large number of young men and women have been called to action. Though news is scarce, most of us have been led to expect that a ground invasion of Gaza is imminent.

In the streets of Jerusalem it is not unusual to see youngsters chatting with friends or sitting round a table in one of the city’s innumerable cafes and enjoying a drink together. When these youngsters are in uniform, I find myself gazing benignly at them, feeling happy that they are there to protect me and hoping that they will make the most of their leave before they return to the front.

Yet when I see youngsters who are not in uniform doing the same thing, my first thoughts are unkind ones: why are they not involved in the country’s welfare at this time of great need? Are they shirking their duty? Do they not care?

Under normal circumstances it would never have occurred to me to draw any distinction between those young people who were wearing uniform and those who were not. So is it right for me to do so now?

In reality there are a large number of reasons why people whom I view as potential soldiers might not be serving at the front. Some people suffer from physical or mental conditions that render them ineligible or unsuitable for combat; these conditions are often invisible to the casual onlooker. There are other people who hold government jobs that require them to be here in Jerusalem, or who work in healthcare and other sectors where staff cannot be spared. Others again may be volunteers who have taken a short break from sorting equipment and clothes that are sent to the front or provided for the many families and individuals who have been displaced.

This group has frequently discussed Yehoshua ben Perachyah’s teaching at Avot 1:6 that one should judge others on the basis that what they do has some merit. We should give them the benefit of the doubt. It’s easy to say this and even easier to tell other people that it’s what they should be doing—as I have often done. But now, when it is I who am challenged to live up to my Avot ideals, I still find it an effort to conquer my initial, irrational conclusion.

The moral: I must in future be less judgmental towards other people who have found it difficult to judge others meritoriously themselves.

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Leading astray, going astray

Avtalyon (Avot 1:11) warns us that our rabbis have the potential both to lead and to mislead. He states:

חֲכָמִים, הִזָּהֲרוּ בְדִבְרֵיכֶם, שֶׁמָּא תָחֽוֹבוּ חוֹבַת גָּלוּת וְתִגְלוּ לִמְקוֹם מַֽיִם הָרָעִים, וְיִשְׁתּוּ הַתַּלְמִידִים הַבָּאִים אַחֲרֵיכֶם וְיָמֽוּתוּ, וְנִמְצָא שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם מִתְחַלֵּל

[Translation] Scholars, be careful with your words, in case you are exiled to a place of evil waters. The disciples who come after you will then drink of these evil waters and die—and the Name of Heaven will be desecrated.

The “evil waters” here are generally taken to be distortions of true Torah teaching which, if internalised by one’s pupils and followers, may lead to error and even heresy.

Everyone who has been involved in teaching, at any level, will know how easy it can be for a student to misunderstand a teacher’s words, however sincere and well-meaning, if they are ambiguous or poorly chosen. For many years, at the Universities of London and Alicante, I found myself teaching highly educated postgraduates and often legally qualified lawyers whose first language was not English. In general, their grasp of English was excellent, but I learned to be careful because there was always room for misunderstanding a poorly-chosen word, phrase or metaphor. Avtalyon’s teaching is usually taken to refer to the teacher’s need to take particular care in choosing the right words, especially where the message derived from them might adversely affect a student’s thoughts and conduct in this world and his entitlement in the world to come.

But there is another way of looking at Avtalyon’s teaching. Midrash Shmuel asks us to look at the rabbi or teacher’s words in a different light. Don’t look at whether they are good or bad, right or wrong. Look instead at whether they are matched by the speaker’s actions or not. If a person advises or instructs one thing but personally does another, the gap between what is said and what is done is a zone of uncertainty, confusion and potential error for the talmid: do I do what I’m told—or do I do what my teacher does? If a person’s words are wise, that wisdom should be mirrored in his or her conduct. If not, the inconsistency may be absorbed and perpetuated.

This summary of the Midrash Shmuel’s explanation is culled from R’ Chaim Druckman’s Banim Le’Avot, vol.1.

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Learning from our teachers--and from experience

How do we know anything? The Malbim, in his introduction to Mishlei (Proverbs), lists various ways we can acquire knowledge. There is prophecy, a class of knowledge that is channelled directly to us from God. While this source is not currently open to us, we still have records of much prophecy that has been received by the prophets of the Jewish bible. Then there is wisdom, in the sense of understanding something because we have thought about it and placed it within our general scheme of things. Next comes tradition: we know something because it has been told to us by someone else. Finally there is empirical knowledge, which we can gain through our own research, experimentation and experience.

Of these four sources of knowledge affect, the one that makes the greatest impact is empirical knowledge which we gain from personal experience. This is because of its immediacy and its intensity. Catching one’s finger in the door, gazing lovingly at one’s newborn child, realizing that one has lost one’s way when alone in the dark—these are events which, once experienced, are unlikely ever to be forgotten.  At the other end of the scale lies knowledge gained solely from books and which is unlikely to be personally experienced. However great its importance, we may struggle to internalise it and fully appreciate it.

Pirkei Avot addresses not only the value of knowledge (particularly Torah knowledge) but also the danger of forgetting it. R’ Dostai bar Yannai teaches, in the name of R’ Meir (Avot 3:10) that anyone who forgets even one item of his learning is responsible for the fate of his soul; Avtalyon (Avot 1:11) and R’ Yehudah (Avot 4:16) both warn of the danger of getting one’s Torah wrong—a likely consequence of teaching a topic when you no longer remember it properly. Then there is R’ Nehorai (Avot 4:18), who cautions us to remain in the company of those who will reinforce our Torah knowledge rather than “going solo”.

We know that what we learn when young generally sticks in our memories better than what we learn later (Elisha ben Avuyah, Avot 4:25). But does the likelihood of forgetting one’s learning also depend on how it reaches us in the first place? Maharam Shik acknowledges that what we learn from our own investigations and experiences is recorded more vividly in our memories—but there is always the worry that, when we learn something for ourselves, we may fail to draw the right conclusions from our learning.

So how do we strike the right balance between what we learn from the Torah and what we learn from our own experiences?

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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.

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