"I'm gonna make you love me"

An Avot baraita for Shabbat (Parashat Balak)

Continuing our series of erev Shabbat posts on the perek of the week, we return to Perek 6.

Readers of a certain age may recall a soul number popularised in the late 1960s by Diana Ross and the Supremes, together with the Temptations. Its title was also a catchy refrain, “I’m gonna make you love me”. While the precise means by which this objective might be achieved lie somewhere beyond the parameters of discussion on Avot Today, the need to be loved occupies an important position in Pirkei Avot.

The first Baraita in Perek 6 opens with the words

כָּל הָעוֹסֵק בַּתּוֹרָה לִשְׁמָהּ זוֹכֶה לִדְבָרִים הַרְבֵּה, וְלֹא עוֹד, אֶלָּא שֶׁכָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ כְּדַאי הוּא לוֹ. נִקְרָא רֵֽעַ, אָהוּב,

Whoever studies Torah for its own sake merits many things; not only that, but the entire world is worthwhile for him. He is called “friend”, “beloved”...

Avot 6:6 goes even further, listing being loved as one of the 48 things through which a person acquires Torah.

There’s an obvious problem here. While we can love others—whether they love us back or not—there is no mechanism that can be guaranteed to trigger love for us in someone else’s heart. Love is an emotion; it is not subject to rational analysis. How often do we see the heartbreak of lovely souls whose love for another is not reciprocated. So how do we understand these baraitot?

The simplest answer is to say that “beloved” (in Hebrew, ahuv) means “beloved by God”, but this doesn’t solve any problems. Rabbi Akiva (Avot 3:18) has already established that, even if God were to prefer those of us who study Torah for its own sake, we are all still dear to God because we are created in His image. So it must mean something else.

Rabbis Nachman and Natan of Breslov suggest that ahuv here means “loved by oneself”. Strange as this may seem, there is good reason to adopt this view. We are commanded to love others as we love ourselves—and until we love ourselves properly we cannot demonstrate the right level of love for others. However, this still requires us to explain what connection, if any, exists between self-love and (i) learning Torah for its own sake and (ii) the acquisition of Torah per se. Stretching the word ahuv well beyond its normal meaning, R’ Mordechai Frankel-Te’omim (Be’er HaAvot) suggests that it embraces all types of love that a person has for mitzvot between him and God and other people: someone who lacks this quality is by definition lacking in the degree of interest and commitment one needs in one’s learning in order to make it effective. Ultimately, though, it seems to me that we are left with questions we cannot convincingly answer.

Incidentally, these baraitot in Avot are not the only occasions on which being loved is mysteriously and apparently linked with learning Torah. Twice a day, in the paragraph that immediately precedes the recitation of the Shema, we are required to recite a blessing that is a sort of “love sandwich”: it opens with a declaration that we are loved by God and closes with a declaration that we are loved by God. The “filling” in the sandwich is a prayer that God in His mercy should help us to learn His Torah. This invites us to speculate as to why our desire to learn Torah, with God’s assistance if and when it is available, should come wrapped in His love for us. R’ Chaim Friedlander (Siftei Chaim, Rinat Chaim: Bi’urei Tefillah) offers a possible explanation: the greatest act of love that God has shown to us is His gift to us of the Torah: we should seek to reciprocate this demonstration of love by loving Him in return, as the first paragraph of the Shema requires of us.

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The Topper Rov: a missing page in Jewish history

No, there is no Topper Rov. This title was however an affectionate appellation and a play on words based on phonetic similarity with the surname Toperoff.

Rabbis come and rabbis go. Some make a name that resounds through the ages, while others are little noticed and soon forgotten. I doubt that many readers of this post will have heard of Rabbi Shlomo Pesach Toperoff, but I hope that they will not object if I write a few words about him.

R’ Toperoff was a pulpit rabbi in North East England. While Gateshead is famously known as a leading contemporary powerhouse of Torah scholarship, numerous other communities existed during the past century. These included Sunderland, where R’ Toperoff served as the minister of the Ryhope Road shul from 1934 to 1951, and Newcastle upon Tyne, where he held various positions before he made Aliyah in 1973.  A son-in-law of the saintly scholar Rabbi Tzvi Ferber (author of Higionei Avot), he wrote in his retirement an English-language commentary on Avot which he entitled Lev Avot: A comprehensive commentary on the Ethics of the Fathers.

In the Foreword to Lev Avot, the then Chief Rabbi Sir Immanuel Jakobovits welcomed it with the comment that “The literary output of Anglo-Jewish Rabbis is none too prolific” [this book was published in 1984, six years before Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks was to rectify this situation virtually single-handed with the first of his remarkably popular series of books and writings].  

The style of the book may strike the modern reader as being often somewhat stilted, formal and non-colloquial, as if to echo the solemnity of the Soncino Chumash and the Authorised Prayer Book that were popular in the United Kingdom in the pre-ArtScroll era. Given its slightly archaic flavour, I was surprised to discover that it was reprinted in the United States as late as 1997 under the same title but with the word Lev omitted. I do not know whether anyone apart from me has ever read it; nor have I ever seen any mention made of it in either popular or scholarly writings. If any reader has information to the contrary, I am eager to receive it.

Lev Avot is a strange book. Explaining each mishnah and baraita, R’ Toperoff draws on sources as varied as the Babylonian Talmud, the works of the Me’iri, the Rashba, Rabbenu Yonah, Rav Kook and occasionally Graetz, as well as numerous authors unknown to me, who are referenced solely by their surnames (Lev Avot lacks both footnotes and a bibliography). In each instance the commentary is rounded off with text described as ‘Hasidic Lore’. This feature is quite perplexing, since it is often difficult or even impossible to relate the relevant Chasidic tale to the mishnah or baraita in question. My feeling is that the book would have read better and been far more useful to its readership if the ‘Hasidic Lore’ component was either enlarged and made more relevant to Avot or simply omitted.

The commentary section is interesting as an historical perspective on Jewish life in post-War Britain. The author deprecates the downward trend in public morality and the decline in quality of Jewish education in the absence of Jewish schools. He also offers some highly personal and occasionally original insights into the mishnayot and baraitot of Avot which I hope to mention in future posts.

By the way, when I found my copy of Lev Avot in a small store dedicated to the sale of second-hand and unwanted books and articles to raise money for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, it was in perfect condition—but for the fact that someone had brutally ripped out from it a leaf upon which were printed pages 27 and 28. I should love to know what this gentle and mildly-spoken rabbi might have written that would have attracted the ire of the book’s original owner. Once again, if any reader can enlighten me, I shall be most grateful.

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

Above: R' Toperoff (middle row, third from the left) is easily identifiable by his clerical collar.

Whether anyone has ever read Lev Avot or not, R’ Toperoff deserves an honourable mention for something he did not write for publication but which was avidly consumed by those who laid their hands on it. From 1942 to 1946 he took it upon himself to write a monthly news-and-views bulletin that was sent to every one of the young Jewish men and women from Sunderland who were called up for military service. The entire sequence of bulletins has since been published as a 300-page book, Sunderland Jewry at War. The bulletins contain a good deal of material generated by third parties too: extracts from letters from those on active service, quizzes and even reports on local football teams and sporting events. Together they constitute a remarkable and moving compendium of information about Jewish life during World War 2: they are at the same time poignant, tragic, funny, courageous and immensely moving.

Like rabbis, commentaries on Pirkei Avot come and go. Some are remembered, others sink without trace. But if R’ Toperoff is to be remembered for only one thing in his life, it should be for this.

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Me, judgemental? No way!

The principle that we should judge others favourably is enshrined in one of the most cited mishnayot in Avot, where Yehoshua ben Perachyah teaches:

הֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת

Judge every man on the scale of merit (Avot 1:6).

This maxim gets bandied about so often that we can easily be blinded to it by that most troublesome of ailments, Mishnah Fatigue. This post urges us to refresh our view of it and to recalibrate our responses in two common situations that require our judgement.

First, a preliminary point. While much of the first chapter of Avot appears to be addressed specifically to judges, lawyers and the legal process, from the earliest commentators onwards this maxim has been taken to refer to the judgements we all make in our daily lives. Jewish judicial proceedings are mainly concerned with matters of evidence and proof, not with the moral standing of the litigants. However, we cannot avoid making moral judgements if we are to live our lives in accordance with the standards laid out in Avot. Thus when Nittai Ha’Arbeli (1:7) advises us to distance ourselves from a bad neighbour and to refrain from teaming up with a wicked person, it is assumed that we must take a plainly judgemental view as to who such people are if we are to act upon this guidance.

The two following scenarios indicate typical situations in which we may find ourselves, where we indulge in judgement without perhaps even realising that we are doing do. 

1.        Why isn’t s/he married, then?

Marriage—and nowadays many a permanent partnership that may not technically qualify as marriage—forms an important part of Jewish life. Throughout the ages it has been a popular activity within all sectors of Jewish society to help friends and acquaintances find an ideal match. Once upon a time this activity, though open to all, was largely the prerogative of the shadchan or shadchanit, the matchmaker. In recent times this activity, like so many others, is assisted by computer dating services.

At any given time, there are a good many Jews who are single. They may only just have reached a stage in their lives in which they are old and/or mature enough to marry. They may have yet to meet a person to whom they are confident to commit the rest of their lives. They may be widowed or divorced. They may be driven by career considerations that are so fulfilling that cannot look beyond them. Tragically, they may through no fault of their own be mamzerim.  And there are other reasons too.

When Yehoshua ben Perachyah teaches us to judge others favourably, this warning extends into the habits of thought that we can easily slip into when it comes to matchmaking. If a person has reached a relatively advanced stage in life without finding a partner, there is a temptation to think “why hasn’t s/he married? There must be something wrong with that person”, or “why is s/he so picky, rejecting so many eligible partners? What’s that person’s problem?”  This is a realm in which we should resist the tendency to form opinions when we don’t know what lies inside the hearts and minds of our fellow humans. 

2.        Would you give this man a donation?

The giving of tzedakah, charitable donations—like marriage—is an ancient and hallowed institution of Jewish life. Solicitations come in many forms: glossy brochures that vaunt the credentials of large institutional charities, mass online appeals and, at the bottom end of the market, individuals who go door-to-door or visit synagogues on weekday mornings. The credentials of major charitable institutions and foundations are easy to establish: accounts are prepared, audited and submitted for examination. But what of the individual who collects in person? How do we know who is a genuine charitable cause—and who is not?

Earlier this month the synagogue at which I was praying was visited one morning by a man who sought funds for major surgery for one of his children. At the end of the prayer service he made a speech in which he explained that this surgery could only be performed in the United States and at great expense; that the need to raise funds meant that he had to leave his job in order to do so; and that he could not support his family. The man’s speech was polished and had clearly been given on many occasions. It was supported by a well-presented flyer that reiterated his needs and gave details for the giving of donations, though it appeared to me that these details had been prepared separately and then scanned on to the document.  The man himself was smartly dressed and evidently well fed. He carried with him a portable credit card reader.

My first thought was that I should not trust this appeal; that the man was a professional and highly skilled beggar who was clearly successful at his job. But then I found myself wondering whether Yehoshua ben Perachyah’s teaching would let me reach that conclusion. After all, the need for surgery for the man’s daughter might be perfectly genuine and it might have been his desperation that led him to present his petition in a form that certainly troubled me (it did not seem to worry most of my fellows in the synagogue, who did not hesitate to donate). In the end, I too made a donation—a modest one, I admit—and made a mental note to myself that any reward for the performance of this mitzvah should go to Yehoshua ben Perachyah rather than to me.

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

There are many other instances in which it is easy to slip into judgemental mode and to judge others harshly in one’s professional life and at home. School teachers, medical practitioners, sales assistants—no-one is totally immune. But if we do make critical or damning judgements of others, we should at least be aware that we are doing so and ask ourselves if we are justified in what we decide.

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When morality precedes the law

The very first comment the Bartenura makes at Avot 1:1 is that this tractate differs from all the others in that, while they are all founded on mitzvot contained in the Torah, Avot is based on mussar and middot (moral chastisement and principles of good behaviour). The first mishnah in Avot comes to tell us that, while other nations may have the same rules of good conduct, theirs are based on human reasoning while that of Avot was given at Sinai along with the Torah.

But were the principles of Jewish middot and mussar given together with the Torah at Sinai? To put it another way, we can ask which comes first—Torah or the basics of good behaviour?

There is a midrashic teaching that the Torah existed even before the world was created and that it was used as its blueprint. The notion that Torah comes first is buttressed by a verse from Proverbs,

יְהוָה קָנָנִי רֵאשִׁית דַּרְכּוֹ קֶדֶם מִפְעָלָיו מֵאָז

God made me [i.e. Torah] as the beginning of His way, the first of His works of old (Mishlei 8:22),

which is even quoted in a baraita near the end of Avot (at 6:10), but in another context.

The position is different in the context of human conduct. There, middot—the acquisition of good personal qualities and characteristics—arguably precede Torah.

There are several sources for this surprising proposition. In Psalm 94 we read:

אַשְׁרֵי הַגֶּבֶר אֲשֶׁר תְּיַסְּרֶנּוּ יָּהּ וּמִתּוֹרָתְךָ תְלַמְּדֶנּוּ

Happy is the man to whom You inflict mussar, God, and teaches him from Your Torah (Tehillim 94:12).

The mention of mussar—the instruction that leads to the improvement of a person’s middot—comes first, bearing the implication that one must first master oneself before seeking to master the Torah.

 In the Talmud (Berachot 5b) we find Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai listing Torah as one of three things that can only be acquired through prior suffering. The Maharal in the introduction to his Derech Chaim appears to equate this suffering with mussar.

Further, the kabbalist Rabbi Chaim Vital (Sha’arei Kedushah, chelek 1, sha’ar 2) maintains that the Torah is only given to a person once there has been a tikkun hamiddot (‘repair of middot’) since, in its absence, the Torah cannot dwell in him. The Maharal, along similar lines, analogises mussar as the keli (“vessel”) in which a person’s Torah learning may be held. Also, citing a midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 9) that derech eretz (good interpersonal skills) preceded the giving of the Torah by 26 generations, he appears to liken it to the soil in which the roots of the tree of Torah grow deep so that the tree cannot be budged from where it stands.

When God created the world, in His wisdom, and for whatever reason He chose, he did not give the Torah to any of the 20 generations that preceded the Flood. Nor was there a Sinaitic revelation before such outstanding characters in Jewish history as Abraham, Isaac, Jacob or Joseph (the midrashic tradition that the Patriarchs kept the Torah raises many difficult questions for those who take it literally, and it is easier to learn from it that they were so sensitive to God’s will that they intuited what God wanted of them and acted accordingly).

Now here’s the big question. So (i) God waited 26 generations before giving the Torah at Sinai, (ii) derech eretz comes before the Torah and (iii) mastery of middot and mussar is a prerequisite for learning Torah. Can we conclude from these propositions that, if the generations before Moses had recognised and acknowledged God for what we understand Him to be, and if they had perfected their behaviour towards one another and the development of their character traits, God would not have needed to give the Torah at all?

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The third worm

An Avot mishnah for Shabbat (Parashat Chukkat)

Continuing our series of erev Shabbat posts on the perek of the week, we return to Perek 5.

There are three worms in Pirkei Avot. Two—the rimah (at 3:1 and 4:4) and the tole’ah (3:1—are what one might call conventional worms. But the third, which we meet in this week’s perek is anything but ordinary: it is the miraculous shamir. At Avot 5:8 we learn of 10 things that, the Tannaim agreed, were created at the very end of the sixth Day of Creation, just before all creative work ceased for Shabbat. They are:

פִּי הָאָֽרֶץ, פִּי הַבְּאֵר, פִּי הָאָתוֹן, הַקֶּֽשֶׁת, וְהַמָּן, וְהַמַּטֶּה, וְהַשָּׁמִיר, הַכְּתָב, וְהַמִּכְתָּב, וְהַלֻּחוֹת

The mouth of the earth [that swallowed Korach]; the mouth of [Miriam's] well; the mouth of [Balaam's] donkey; the rainbow; the manna; [Moses'] staff; the shamir; writing, the inscription and the tablets [of the Ten Commandments].

The shamir, which may possibly not have been a worm, was a tiny creature that, in our tradition, was vested by God with the power to cut the huge stones that were used in the construction of Solomon’s Temple.  For two millennia the notion that a tiny worm might cut into solid rock was regarded by many as a laughable fantasy, but the discovery in 2019 of the bivalve shipworm lithoredo abatanica changed all that. This small, unprepossessing creature burrows into limestone and excretes it, creating an as-yet unsolved puzzle as to how it derives its nutrients.

The corpus of the Mishnah deals with law and (in the case of Avot) best principles of behaviour and conduct.  It is not a treatise on natural history. So what is this shamir doing in Avot? What can we learn from it today?

For the father-and-son team of Rabbis Baruch and Amos Shulem (Avot Uvanim) the creation of the shamir resonates an earlier mishnah (Avot 2:13). There Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel recommends that we take steps to foresee possible problems ahead. When God created humans he gave Adam and Eve free will. Had they opted to obey His instruction not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the human race would have lived happily ever in a sin-free world. The Temple, with its mechanism for atonement, would not have been needed and creation of the shamir would not have been called for. From this we learn that even God, in creating the world and everything in it, took the precaution of engaging in an act of creation that was purely conditional. We too should guard against events and misfortunes that may not ultimately occur.

The Ben Ish Chai (Birkat Avot) offers another answer. The ‘stone’ the shamir burrows into is the yetzer hara, the inclination to take an evil course of action.  But no matter how hard the stone is, the shamir represents the potential of even flesh-and-blood creatures such as ourselves to break it into pieces. This is learned by a kal vechomer: if even a small, weak worm can achieve this effect, how much more should we, bigger and possessed of greater strength and will-power, be able to do the same.

Though he does not mention it here, the Ben Ish Chai has support in the Gemara for use of the word ‘stone’ to refer to the yetzer hara: at Sukkah 52a, citing a verse from Ezekiel, ‘stone’ is deemed to be one of seven metaphors by which the yetzer hara is identified in Tanach. The vulnerability of stone to a slow but unremitting attack from a substance less strong than itself is also acknowledged by Rabbi Akiva’s resolution that, if the constant drip of water can wear away a rock, so too, through persistent study, might the words of Torah eventually penetrate even his then-unlearned mind (Avot deRabbi Natan 6:2, citing Job 14:19).

But there is more to the success of the shamir, and by implication to our own success, than this story suggests. Our achievements are not just credited to ourselves. There is a further ingredient—a vital ingredient without which there can be no success. As R’ Mordechai Dov Halberstam (Knesset Yisrael) comments, our efforts depend on the will of God too. We recognise this on Chanukah, when we give thanks for the victory of the Hasmoneans over the Greeks, the triumph of the weak over the strong.

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More to say about saying less

Our previous post discussed Shammai’s advice that we should say a little but do a lot (Avot 1:15), an aphorism that parallels the popular proverb “actions speak louder than words”. This advice is not the only thing that Avot has to say on the topic. Later in the same chapter, at 1:17, Rabban Shimon the son of Rabban Gamliel teaches:

כָּל יָמַי גָּדַֽלְתִּי בֵּין הַחֲכָמִים, וְלֹא מָצָֽאתִי לְגוּף טוֹב מִשְּׁתִיקָה, וְלֹא הַמִּדְרָשׁ עִקָּר אֶלָּא הַמַּעֲשֶׂה, וְכָל הַמַּרְבֶּה דְבָרִים מֵבִיא חֵטְא

All my life I have been raised among the wise, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence. The essential thing is not study, but deed. And one who speaks excessively brings sin.

At first glance, this mishnah seems to echo the sentiment expressed by Shammai—but it does more than that. It praises both silence and action, and it cites excessive speech as a cause of sin.

This post takes a look at the final part of this teaching, that “one who speaks excessively brings sin”.

A preliminary point is that it is natural to assume that “speaking excessively” means “speaking excessively in relation to one’s deeds”—but that is not what the words say. At least in theory a person can speak too much but still demonstrate a great deal of activity. Does the performance of many good deeds justify, or even permit, an excess of verbiage? So far as I’m aware, this question remains unanswered. I invite readers to let me know if this is discussed anywhere.

Moving on to the third part of our mishnah, R’ Chaim Druckman cites an explanation by R’ Moshe Almosnino, presumably drawn from his Pirkei Moshe. This explanation ties the notion of excessive speak causing sin directly to Shammai’s instruction to say little but do a lot. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel relates both to the role of the teacher since it is teacher who should rein in his or her words or face the consequences.

The situation R’ Moshe Almosnino contemplates is where the teacher preaches lofty ideals and principles but can be seen to neglect them in his or her own personal life. It is here that we learn that the instruction to “don’t do what I do, do what I say” is a recipe for disaster. Particularly in fields such as mussar and fear of God, the teacher must be seen to walk the walk and talk the talk if credibility is to be maintained. If you teach fine morals during the day but go clubbing with your debauched and drunken friends at night, you will not only destroy your own good name and reputation. You will also, through your egregious hypocrisy, effectively invalidate everything you have taught your students up till now.

Outside the world of kodesh, I can think of a couple of examples. One concerns a school teacher who patiently explains to the children in his class all about the dangers of cigarette smoking, but is later spotted with a cigarette in his mouth while he was parking his car in the school playground. The second involves a driving instructor who, while clearly a capable driver, persists in driving in an unacceptable manner, saying: ”I can do this because I’ve passed my test. You can’t, because you’ll fail your test if you do”,

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Don't just say less -- say "less"!

This is the first of two posts on the principle that it is better to be sparing with one's words.

From the teachings that have been passed down to us, we see that the rabbis of the mishnah tend to express themselves very much more succinctly than their successors. This is a natural consequence of their shaping a body of law and lore—the Torah sheb’al peh (the Oral Torah)—that was designed to be learned by heart and passed down the generations via the close and intensive relationship of rabbi to talmid. The more words used, the more that had to be memorised and understood and, the greater number of words used in transmitting a teaching, the greater the risk of error.

The need to express oneself with economy is encapsulated in two mishnayot in the first chapter of Avot. One focuses simply on the quantity of words, when Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel states that whoever increases words increases sin (Avot 1:17). The other contrasts words with deeds, when Shammai (Avot 1:15) teaches:

אֱמוֹר מְעַט וַעֲשֵׂה הַרְבֵּה

“Say little—but do much”.

This aphorism is so brief that it can be explained in many ways and need not be confined to the context of learning Torah. A classic example of this is the biblical account of Abraham’s welcome for the three travellers (Bereshit ch.18), where he offers them bread and water but then delivers them a positive banquet. The opposite, saying much but doing little, is a phenomenon with which many of us are uncomfortably aware. Many examples may be found in a category of verbiage known as politicians’ promises.

A quite original explanation of אֱמוֹר מְעַט וַעֲשֵׂה הַרְבֵּה is offered by R’ Chaim Volozhiner in his Ru’ach Chaim and echoed by his son R’ Yitzchak Volozhiner’s Milei deAvot. For them the background to Shammai’s teaching has a somewhat introspective flavour to it. Picture a person who is engaged—as we should all be, if we are honest with ourselves—in a programme of self-improvement. He or she is setting out to learn more Torah, cope better with the demands of prayer and increase both the quantity and the quality of one’s conduct towards others.

For such a person, the big question is not what to do. The Torah already tells us that. Instead, we want to know how to evaluate our performance. Have we learned enough already? Do we need to do even more mitzvot, or perform the same ones again at a higher level?

While God watches and records our every effort (Avot 2:1), He does not provide a running feedback service. We might feel that, because we are performing at a higher level than we did before, we can pat ourselves on the back—but is this permitted? No, says Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai in the context of Torah learning: if you increase your learning, you are only doing what you were created for in the first place (Avot 2:9).  

Shammai, in our mishnah, reinforces the same message. According to R’ Chaim’s reading, one should say of one’s performance only the one word: “מְעַט”.  In other words, we must recognise that however well we do and however much we have accomplished, it is only small fry when we compare it with the deeds that still remain to be completed.

By saying of our own achievements “מְעַט”, we remind ourselves of our own limitations and, ideally, this will assist us to view our efforts not with pride but with humility. Once we have recognised this, we should be inspired and incentivised to push ourselves to the next level.

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Keeping faith -- or merely defining it?

The word אֱמוּנָה (emunah, usually translated as “faith” or “belief”) occupies a major place in theology and an honoured one in halachah, where the BaHag (Baal Halachot Gedolot), according to the Ramban, places emunat Hashem, faith in God, above and prior to the 613 commandments listed in the Torah. However, it doesn’t get much space in Pirkei Avot.

Is this really so? The evidence suggests that this is correct. It’s not one of the three things on which the world stands (Avot 1:2) or one of the three things that keeps it going (Avot 1:18). We are not told to have it, cultivate it, strengthen it or even use it.  Indeed, its only mention in the entire tractate is pretty marginal: in the baraitot that constitute the sixth and final perek, where there is a list of 48 things through which Torah is acquired (Avot 6:6), emunat chachamim (“faith in the sages”) is squeezed in between “having a good heart” and “accepting suffering”. Avot also tells us that God can be ne’eman (“trusted”) to reward us for serving Him (2:19, 2:21) and that anyone who learns Torah for its own sake will be ne’eman (here meaning “faithful”).

There’s actually a lot of fuddle and muddle as to what emunah means and as to how it differs from bitachon, also sometimes rendered “belief” but also “trust” and, in modern Hebrew, “security”. While Jewish thinkers and scholars do not always apply these words consistently, I think that there is a rule of thumb that can help us here. Both emunah and bitachon deal with a state of mind in which an individual accepts a proposition or fact as being true without being able to prove that it is so, emunah and its derivatives (e.g. ma’amin, a believer) tends to refer more frequently to belief in something relating to the past—for example God’s role in creating the world, or the occurrence of miraculous events such as the splitting of the Reed Sea—while bitachon tends to refer to a belief that relates to a future event or state of affairs. There are however many exceptions, where emunah relates to the future.

In ‘Marriage’, a short piece penned by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks for The Times newspaper in 2000, R’ Sacks has this to say:

“We have paid a heavy price for misunderstanding one of the key words of the Hebrew bible, emunah, usually translated as ‘faith’. … [W]e have for centuries thought of faith as a kind of knowledge: intuitive, visionary, perhaps, but cognitive. On this view, to have faith is to know, or believe, certain facts about the world. That is not the Jewish view at all”.

This view, however erroneous it might be, seems to have gained the support of Rambam, who in his Sefer HaMitzvot lists knowledge of God as the first of the 613 mitzvot, occupying the place we might have expected to be filled by ‘belief in God’. R’ Sacks continues, and this is where things get interesting:

“Emunah is all about relationship. It is that bond by which two persons, each respecting the freedom and integrity of the other, pledge themselves by an oath of loyalty to stay together, to do what neither can do alone. It means, not ‘faith’ but ‘faithfulness’, the commitment to be there for one another, especially in hard times. In human terms, the best example is marriage. In religious terms, it is what we call a covenant, of which the classic instance is the pledge between God and an ancient people, Israel, on Mount Sinai thirty-three centuries ago”.

R' Sacks’ comments about human relationships work well for the example of marriage—but it is hard to fit within his explanation the sort of relationship that is described as emunat chachamim. This is because, while marriage is a two-way relationship, our belief, our trust, our confidence in our sages cannot enjoy the same degree of reciprocity. A rabbi must be independent, free from the pressures and obligations of those whose she’elot he answers, if he is to be free from any suspicion of being influenced by them. We, the flock, must follow our shepherds. And where they lead us should be determined by their following the great guide book that is the Torah and its literature, rather than by our telling them where it is that we must go. If that is not the case, we have dispensed with the need for chachamim and there would be no further need to believe in them.

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Just get out of my hair!

An Avot mishnah for Shabbat: Perek 4 (parashat Korach)

At Avot 4:23 Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar teaches four things about respecting the personal space that others need at certain times:

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

Do not [try to] calm your friend down at the height of his anger; don’t [seek to] comfort him while his dead still lies before him; don’t question him about his vow the moment he makes it; and don’t endeavour to see him at the time of his degradation.

There’s much to be said about this mishnah but this post looks only at the last bit (in bold text).

When someone has been caught something wrong or has just suffered a major setback—desertion by one’s life partner, for example—they may crave a bit of quiet time and solitude in which to think seriously about what has happened, to decide how to react and what to do next. The last thing they want is the intrusive company of others offering advice or unwanted comments. This can apply even to well-meaning companions who sit there, empathising with them and waiting for a distressed friend to open his or her heart and tell them all about it. In a modern context the intrusion may be inflicted by journalists and paparazzi who sense a juicy news story in another’s misfortune.

In our crowded and joined-up world, no one can disappear forever. Eventually even the most ashamed and embarrassed people will have to rejoin human society one way or another. When that happens, we find another mishnah in Avot waiting in the wings. According to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananya (Avot 2:13) the “good path” a person should take in their life is to be a good friend. When does one act the good friend? Answer: not before a person is ready to receive that friendship.

Like much of Pirkei Avot, in this mishnah there are no cast-iron rules as to how its guidance is to be applied. A proper approach to putting Avot into practice demands that we first assess every situation in its context, in the light of common sense—a commodity that we struggle to acquire in a rapidly-changing world where yesterday’s norms are tomorrow’s no-nos.

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The kindness you give, the kindness you crave

At Avot 2:1 Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi opens with a piece of advice that accurately reflects the impossibility of defining in real terms what it means to do the right thing:

אֵיזוֹ הִיא דֶֽרֶךְ יְשָׁרָה שֶׁיָּבוֹר לוֹ הָאָדָם, כָּל שֶׁהִיא תִּפְאֶֽרֶת לְעֹשֶֽׂיהָ וְתִפְאֶֽרֶת לוֹ מִן הָאָדָם

Which is the derech yasharah, the right path that one should choose for oneself? Any that is considered praiseworthy by the person who acts upon it and also gains him the praise of others.

For those who like to know where they stand, who enjoy the binary features of halachah (“Is it permitted or forbidden?”, “Is it pure or impure?”) and who appreciate the formal, predictable structure of prayer and Temple services, the pursuit of the right path in Avot epitomises the vague, amorphous nature of middot. Not everyone is comfortable with the thought that getting things right in one’s real life is so often a question of “it all depends”.

Here’s an example drawn from real life of the uncertainty of best behavioural practice, one that highlights the need to get things right.

Let me introduce you to two fine Jewish women. We shall call them Wendy and Mabel. Both care deeply for their fellow humans and are actively involved in providing help and support for those who are ill or recovering from illness. But their perspectives on this noble task are quite different.

Wendy is a firm advocate of ‘tough love’. She believes that, even if a person is unwell or in recovery, they should be expected to do as much as possible to help themselves, particularly in terms of feeding, washing and dressing themselves. In her view, this enables the people for whom she cares to retain their human dignity. She respects their autonomy and treats them as adults, only substituting her own effort for theirs when she sees that they are in difficulty. This approach, she feels, also speeds their recovery and makes it easier for them to regain their position in the world once they are fully functional.

Mabel takes the opposite view. For her, anyone who is ill or recovering needs to be removed as far as possible from having to look after themselves. They both need and deserve to be wrapped in cotton wool. The important thing is to get them better as quickly as possible by maximising the support they need when they are at their most needy. If this means pampering them and insulating them from responsibility for their own maintenance and well-being, so be it.

Which approach is the right one, the derech yasharah?  A serious student of best Jewish conduct might well ask this question. But anyone who does so will be demonstrating a failure to understand the difference between halachah and middot.

The truth is that both approaches are potentially correct, but the facts of each situation will determine which one should be adopted.  Some patients resent being nannied while others need and even crave it.  The same applies to non-patients too, in many social scenarios. For example, some women appreciate and enjoy a spot of old-fashioned courtesy when a man holds a door open for them, while others regard it as behaviour that is sexist, patronising and insulting.   

Whether one or other approach is the right one is decided by the recipient of the care. For some, Wendy will be harsh and inconvenient, while others will feel that Mabel is suffocating them with kindness. It can also be the case that a person is a Mabel-style maximalist when giving help and support to another, but a Wendy-type when it comes to receiving it.

Ultimately, before performing any putatively good act on or on behalf of another person, it pays to know one’s ‘victim’.

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Playing at being lawyers -- or just being helpful?

Yehudah ben Tabbai (Avot 1:8) teaches a rule for dayanim, trial judges in Jewish courts, that at first seems superfluous. They must be above the dispute and not participate in it as if they were engaged as counsel:

אַל תַּֽעַשׂ עַצְמְךָ כְּעוֹרְכֵי הַדַּיָּנִין, וּכְשֶׁיִּהְיוּ בַּעֲלֵי הַדִּין עוֹמְדִים לְפָנֶֽיךָ, יִהְיוּ בְעֵינֶֽיךָ כִּרְשָׁעִים, וּכְשֶׁנִּפְטָרִים מִלְּפָנֶֽיךָ יִהְיוּ בְעֵינֶֽיךָ כְּזַכָּאִין, כְּשֶׁקִּבְּלוּ עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת הַדִּין

[When sitting in judgement], do not act as a lawyer. When the litigants stand before you, consider them both guilty; and when they leave your courtroom, having accepted the judgement, regard them as equally righteous.

It is a matter of common knowledge that the job of judges is to hear disputes and judge them, while lawyers are engaged to help their clients by researching the relevant laws, collecting evidence, constructing favourable arguments, and then by putting the evidence and arguments before the judges in a manner that is most likely to be accepted by them.

The Torah makes it clear that the judge must be impartial and should not side with any party to a dispute. The dayanim are forbidden to let themselves be influenced by bribes or partisan considerations because they are charged with the responsibility of reaching a just decision (Devarim 16:18-20). The Vilna Gaon’s commentary on this mishnah goes further, supporting it with a verse from the prophets (כִּי כַפֵּיכֶם נְגֹאֲלוּ בַדָּם, וְאֶצְבְּעוֹתֵיכֶם בֶּעָוֺן; שִׂפְתוֹתֵיכֶם, דִּבְּרוּ-שֶׁקֶר--לְשׁוֹנְכֶם עַוְלָה תֶהְגֶּה, “For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue mutters wickedness”, Isaiah 59:3). According to Rashi (Shabbat 139a) this verse applies to judges teaching the litigants how to argue their cases.

Does all of this mean that dayanim may not intervene on behalf of a litigant? One might think so—but there is a contrary opinion too.

R’ Ovadyah Hedaya (Seh leBet Avot) cites a little-known work of halachah, the Shulchan haTahor of R. Yitzchak Ayzik Yehudah Yechiel Safrin of Komarno. This work, which seeks to reflect Jewish law as viewed in light of the mysticism of Chassidut and Kabbalah, postulates that a dayan may come to the rescue, as it were, of a litigant whose case has some merit but who is so flustered by the heat of the moment that he is incapable of expressing himself. This sort of intervention is mandated by the principle of petach picha le’ilem (“open your mouth for the one who is dumb”).

Clearly this principle has its limitations and cannot be invoked in order for a dayan to be dan lekaf zechut on behalf of one adversary against another. This is why Yehudah ben Tabbai adds that, before a bet din (Jewish court) gives its decision and the litigants accept it, a dayan must regard them both as being in the wrong.

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One destination, two paths

There is a strange mishnah at Avot 5:21:

כָּל הַמְזַכֶּה אֶת הָרַבִּים, אֵין חֵטְא בָּא עַל יָדוֹ, וְכָל הַמַּחֲטִיא אֶת הָרַבִּים, אֵין מַסְפִּיקִין בְּיָדוֹ לַעֲשׂוֹת תְּשׁוּבָה. מֹשֶׁה זָכָה וְזִכָּה אֶת הָרַבִּים, זְכוּת הָרַבִּים תָּלוּי בּוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: צִדְקַת יְיָ עָשָׂה, וּמִשְׁפָּטָיו עִם יִשְׂרָאֵל. יָרָבְעָם בֶּן נְבָט חָטָא וְהֶחֱטִיא אֶת הָרַבִּים, חֵטְא הָרַבִּים תָּלוּי בּוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: עַל חַטֹּאות יָרָבְעָם אֲשֶׁר חָטָא, וַאֲשֶׁר הֶחֱטִיא אֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל

Whoever causes the community to be meritorious, no sin will come by his hand. But anyone who causes the community to sin is not given the opportunity to repent.

Moses was meritorious and caused the community to be meritorious, so the community's merit is attributed to him; as it says: "He did God's righteousness, and His laws with Israel" (Devarim 33:21). Jeroboam the son of Nevat sinned and caused the community to sin, so the community's sin is attributed to him, as it says: "For the sins of Jeroboam, which he sinned and caused Israel to sin" (I Melachim 15:30).

Let’s leave aside the issues of what the verses cited in support of this teaching actually prove, and why the first of the two does not even refer to Moses, and move on to another point, one that our Sages discuss. They ask: when the mishnah says, of the person who makes the community meritorious, “no sin will come by his hand”, to whose sin does this refer? Is it the person who benefits the community who is saved from sinning—or is it the community itself?

R' Shimshon Raphael Hirsch mentions both possible readings and treats them as being valid, as does R’ Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathes). Some commentators opt for the latter since this is the reward that the community gets for following the example of its righteous leader. R’ Avraham Azulai (Ahavah beTa’anugim) gives the example that, when the leader performs an act which is normally forbidden  but for which he has a heter (permission), it will not happen that others, watching him, will perform the same act in breach of halachah. The Meiri argues however that it must mean the leader, since he should not go to Gehinnom when he dies while his community relishes the joys of the Garden of Eden. R’ Yitzchak Magriso (Me’am Lo’ez) supports this view, which originates with Rambam.

Now here’s a fresh perspective on this Mishnah, based on an idea of Maharam Shik.

Looking generally at people whose actions benefit the community, we can divide them into two camps. There are those who act this way because they love God and are motivated by their love for Him to do His will by assisting His creations to keep on the right path. There are also those who are motivated by love for their fellow humans, with whom they empathise and deeply wish to elevate to heightened standards of behaviour towards God and man.

What is the significance of this distinction? Perhaps it offers a key to unlock the answer to our question above. We can say that, where a person is driven by love for God, it is he who will not be caused to sin in the process of helping others. However, where a person seeks to help others because of his love for them, it is they who will not be led into the grasp of sin.

In reality we do not live in a binary world in which everything is either-or. There is no reason why a person cannot be motivated both by love of God and by love of one’s fellow humans. Indeed, when it comes to either seeking to acquire Torah learning (Avot 6:6) or to learning Torah for its own sake and without any ulterior motive (Avot 6:1), the paradigm figure is one who loves both God and His creations.

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Playing with power

An Avot mishnah for Shabbat: Perek 3 (parashat Shelach Lecha)

Continuing our series of erev Shabbat posts on the perek of the week, we return to Perek 3.

Now here’s a mystery. We have a three-part mishnah in the name of Rabbi Yishmael (Avot 3:16) and our sages only agree about the third part:

הֱוֵי קַל לְרֹאשׁ, וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת, וֶהֱוֵי מְקַבֵּל אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם בְּשִׂמְחָה

Be easy to a rosh, affable to a tishchoret, and receive every man with happiness.

Our problem is that we cannot agree on the meaning of any of the key words, and especially rosh and tishchoret. One rabbi (R’ Marcus Lehmann, The Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth) actually gives our mishnah four quite different translations.

Commentators over the years have maintained that the rosh is one’s head, one’s ego, a ruler, a leader, a superior, an elder, a civic leader, a venerable old man—and even God.

As for the tishchoret, this has been explained as someone who is young, old, black-haired, oppressed, a town clerk, the king’s secretary, or a time at which one should be slow and steady.

R’ Yishmael’s words were incorporated into this tractate over 1,800 years ago and we have lovingly preserved them while losing track of their original meaning. However, we cannot walk away from a mishnah and pretend it doesn’t exist so we must take on the task of giving it our own meaning, one that is both Torah-compliant and suited to the needs of our generation. R’ Reuven P. Bulka (Chapters of the Sages: A Psychological Commentary on Pirkey Avoth) seeks to do just that. He writes:

“The present mishna deals with ego difficulties relative to communal functioning. Primarily, they may be said to focus around individuals who have not reached the position of prominence in the community they felt was appropriate for them. The general tendency of such individuals is to downgrade those who have superseded them and to discourage those who would in the future gain the very positions they have failed to attain”.

Anyone who has been involved in Jewish communal affairs is likely to have come across people who fit this bill. Basically good-hearted and well-meaning souls, they feel they have been taken for granted and are disgruntled at not being voted into positions of authority or being nominated as one of the chatanim on Simchat Torah. They may become sullen and unhelpful towards those who are less experienced than themselves and who might benefit from the assistance of an older person. It can be a struggle to overcome one’s inner demons and, in R’ Bulka’s view, this is what Rabbi Yishmael has in mind.

Or perhaps we can summarise it simply like this: don’t demean the authority of those above you and don’t abuse your authority when dealing with those below you.

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Watering down a warning

Politicians! Can you trust them? Should you trust them? Or are they just so many clowns? In many parts of the world we are in the throes of elections and therefore in need of the guidance of a piece of advice from Pirkei Avot that is as crisply relevant today as it was two millennia ago. It comes from Rabban Gamliel ben Rebbi in Avot 2:3:

הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, שֶׁאֵין מְקָרְבִין לוֹ לְאָדָם אֶלָּא לְצֹֽרֶךְ עַצְמָן, נִרְאִין כְּאוֹהֲבִין בְּשַֽׁעַת הַנָּאָתָן, וְאֵין עוֹמְדִין לוֹ לְאָדָם בְּשַֽׁעַת דָּחֳקוֹ

Be careful with the government, for they befriend a person only for their own needs. They appear to be friends when it is beneficial to them, but they do not stand by a person at the time of his distress.

The meaning of this message is clear and no-one who lives in any country that claims to be a representative democracy should need any explanation.

But there are commentaries on Avot that appear to deny the relevance of this mishnah to our generation. R’ Chaim Druckman (Avot leBanim) points out that there are some old editions of Rambam’s commentary that qualify this teaching with the words בימי קדם (“in earlier days”), and those of the Me’iri which add בדורותיהם (“in their generations”), in other words in the era of the mishnah—but no longer, and therefore without pointing an accusing finger at the governments under which Rambam and the Me’iri were writing.  According to R’ Druckman, it is reasonable to suppose that these extra words were inserted in order to pass the office of the censor, which would have been an arm of the government itself. If so, it is easy to see why, in our time when there is no equivalent degree of state censorship, these words should be omitted.

I have two comments to make.

First, if Pirkei Avot was also taught orally and without interruption from the time Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi redacted it (c.180-200 CE), those students who were familiar with this mishnah would had studied it before its effect was watered down in order to escape the censor’s attention; it would thus be an easy job to delete the added word as soon as censorship ceased to be an issue.

Secondly, the added words do reflect a significance between the days of the Tannaim and the contemporary political scene.  In times gone by, in the absence of any printed or electronic media, contact between ordinary citizens and those holding government positions (or seeking to do so) would have been mainly personal: it is more difficult to say “no” to a person who is standing before you and speaking with you face-to-face than it is to reject the blandishments of those seeking your support when they are delivered remotely. It is therefore far easier for us to dismiss their promises and aspirations as being vacuous or self-seeking than it would have been for our ancestors—which is why the advice of Rabban Gamliel was particularly appropriate in his era, even though it still holds true for ours.

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Avot, AI translation and interpretation

“AI is changing how we’ll work with Torah texts”. This is the title of an article posted to Anash.org on 19 June. It reads, in relevant part:

“The world of AI is still in the infancy of its potential, especially in relation to successfully formulating Torah thoughts and plunging the depths of meforshim and Chassidus. As time passes and AI’s abilities and skills are finely tuned, it will be capable of adding an astounding level of understanding and perspective to our learning …”

The article relates that Rabbi Rayi Stern and his team at Aitorah.org are currently working on AI-generated translations of Pirkei Avot in 12 different languages. It continues:

“Within each language, users can choose a classic translation, a free translation, or other options. In order to keep improving, they encourage users to give feedback—including any suggested edits to the translations, input, or compliments on what they enjoyed of the text. The team is very particular about every step of the output.

“Our goal is to make sure that a responsible and safe approach is adhered to; that all necessary checks and balances are in place—on both a computer and a human level,” a member of the team shared. “With technology able to do so much, the challenge becomes how to use it best. The English translations were fully edited, and extensive work went into the process, in order to ensure consistency…”

This sounds like a fascinating exercise, a sort of multidimensional hafoch bah vehafoch bah (“turn it around and turn it around”, per Ben Bag Bag, Avot 5:26). So long as we recognise borders, never lose sight of the original words of the Tannaim and measure the products of AI against the yardsticks of two millennia of tradition, we should have nothing to lose and plenty to gain.

There are of course certain caveats. One is that, just as there is no single Hebrew text of the entire tractate that has gained universal approval, there is no single English translation that can claim the exclusive right to be accepted as authoritative. The Hebrew does not change, but English does. Variations as between English and American vocabulary, grammar and syntax can be significant, as well as variations generated by changing shades of meaning over the course of time (for example, two hundred years ago it was quite normal to refer to an employer as a “master” and an employee as a “servant”). There are also mishnayot that have never been properly understood even in the original Hebrew (for example Rabbi Yishmael’s teaching at Avot 3:16: הֱוֵי קַל לְרֹאשׁ, וְנֽוֹחַ לְתִשְׁחֽוֹרֶת). But a caveat is not an impenetrable barrier to reaching new understandings of old teachings.

I’m curious to know how many Avot Today readers share my enthusiasm for this project and my optimism that it will bear valuable fruit. Please comment!

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