Setting an example -- for good or otherwise

Avot Today is non-political, for the very good reason that Pirkei Avot is directed at how we humans should behave. It is not a political manifesto. This does not however mean that we do not discuss politicians. The very nature of their profession demands that they be in the public eye and that their words and thoughts receive a high level of publicity. What’s more, since the relationship between politicians and the general public is—or should be—founded on trust, we often demand to hear from them even when they may be reluctant to speak to us. Finally, politicians set an example: their high media profile provides a platform for them to project themselves, deliberately or otherwise, as role models whose words and actions may be copied by others.

In July 2022, Avot Today posed some questions about the sort of behaviour we might expect of politicians (see “Thinking better of politicians: can it be done?” on Facebook and on the Avot Today blog). We return to it now, following a report posted yesterday on the Jerusalem Post website headed: “Almog Cohen apologizes for ‘disrespectful’ insults hurled at fellow MKs” (here).

The article details the words spoken and the reception which they received. Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus (Avot 2:15) teaches that the kavod of one’s chaver (difficult to translate: “the respect to which to one’s fellow human is entitled”) should be as dear to us as the respect to which we are entitled. This suggests a test of reciprocity. Before saying anything to another person, we should stop and think how we might feel if the same words were spoken back to us. If we would feel hurt, insulted or abused, that should set of an alarm bell in our minds that tells us not to say those words.

Politicians will tell us, correctly, that parliamentary debates are often conducted in an atmosphere of anger or frustration in which it is easy to lose one’s temper. They will equally correctly observe that, in the heat of debate, it is easy to say things that are offensive and which one may later regret having said. But Avot does not regard any of this as an excuse. Offensive behaviour towards others and the loss of one’s self-control in a fit of fury are no more permissible in the Knesset (or any other parliament) than they are in family discussions, in traffic jams, in the shops or in hospitals.  In the teaching of Rabbi Eliezer quoted above, we are warned not to let ourselves be easily angered. Later, at 5:14, Avot deems a person who is quick to anger and slow to calm down as being a rasha, evil.  The definition of someone who is strong is that of the person who can exercise self-control (4:1). From this we might reasonably include that a parliament full of people who insult others and lose their temper is a parliament of the weak and the wicked.

Having insulted and disrespected others, the proper course is to apologise. While this is not explicitly stipulated in Pirkei Avot, it is part and parcel of Rabbi Eliezer’s advice to treat the kavod of others as being as dear to us as our own. Just as insulting political opponents does not refute their arguments, so too does apologizing for insulting them not constitute an acceptance or validation of their arguments. In an ideal world, an apology to the person one has offended will be accompanied by teshuvah, genuine repentance for what one has said or done. Since teshuvah is a matter between the offender and God, we cannot know if it is efficacious or not. However, an important ingredient of teshuvah is the commitment of the penitent person not to do the same thing again: since so much of what politicians say and do is open to the public, it is often easy to spot the activities of a habitual reoffender.

Politicians are no more or less human than the rest of us, and we cannot say with confidence that we would behave any better than those we have elected, had we been in the same place, since we are not subject to the same pressures (see Hillel at Avot 2:5).  Even so, we are entitled to expect an acceptable level of conduct from them and we are entitled to express our disappointment and our disapproval when they do not. Two moral qualities in particular, identified by Avot, often appear to be in short supply among our elected representatives. One is that of acknowledging the truth (Avot 5:9); the other is that of being grateful to receive criticism (Avot 6:6). I for one look forward to the day these deficiencies are remedied.

It's not all in the mind...

A popular analytical tool for the study of human conduct is the tripartite categorisation of our output into (i) the things we think, (ii) the things that we not only think but say out loud and (iii) the things we do. 

We all have thoughts, whether we want to or not, and as the Rambam noted in his Shemonah Perakim, there is no effective way to stop a thought entering our heads. But, once a thought has entered our heads, it’s up to us to decide what to do about it. We can dwell upon it, particularly if it is a welcome or comforting thought. We can pend it until we are able to give it enough time to focus on it properly. We can also do our best to kick it into the long grass and hope never to think it again. Most of our thoughts are not shared with our fellow humans. We keep them to ourselves.

Speech is another matter. While many of us talk to ourselves for one reason or another, it is more frequently employed as a means of communication with others. We can be quite undiscriminating in our choice of audience: apart from other humans we address our comments to pets, plants, traffic lights—and, for those who pray, to God.

Then there are our actions, and these usually provide a closer and more accurate measure than thought or speech of what a person is. One can have thoughts and never share them, or speak words and not mean them. However, our actions are the tell-tale sign of what we really are. Proverbs like “actions speak louder than words” and mishnayot in Avot like 1:17 (“It’s not the learning that is the main thing but the doing”), 3:12 (wisdom only endures if it is exceeded by actions) and 3:22 (ditto) reflect this fact.

At Avot 2:1, Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi teaches:

Focus on three things, and you will not come to the grip of sin: know what is above from you: (i) a seeing eye, (ii) a hearing ear, and (iii) all your deeds are written in a book.

In other words, God perceives what you think, say and do—whether anyone else does so or not. Just remember this before you are about to speak, act or even decide to wallow in an inappropriate thought, and you should be able to negotiate the problems and pitfalls of life on earth and yet emerge with credit.

In his Kerem Chemed commentary on Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Yehudah Rabinovitz subjects this mishnah to the tripartite division of thoughts, words and deeds. The “seeing eye” perceives one’s thoughts; the “hearing ear” hears one’s words and the book is quite explicitly the place where one’s deeds are recorded.

But what does the “seeing eye” have to do with thoughts? The author brings a verse from the first Book of Samuel: “Man sees what his eyes behold, but God sees into the heart” (2 Shmuel 16:7). Today it is even more apparent that our thoughts are no longer safe and secret within our brains, since the current state of artificial intelligence (AI) has already brought us close to mind-reading by computers. See eg “New computer can read your mind and turn what you're thinking of into images” (here), “This mind-reading AI can see what you're thinking - and draw a picture of it” (here) and “Mind-reading tech is here (and more useful than you think!)” (here). If a mere machine can do such things, we need hardly wonder that an omnipotent, omniscient creator of the universe can do it better?

For Heaven's sake! We're just having fun

Rabbi Yose HaKohen teaches (Avot 2:17):

(i) Let the property of your fellow be as precious to you as your own. (ii) Apply yourself to the study of Torah, for it is not an inheritance for you. (iii) And let all your deeds be for the sake of Heaven.

Often a teaching in Avot can be conveniently understood from its context, and many mishnayot that are split into three parts can be taken to relate to each other. This is not the case here, where “Let all your deeds be for the sake of Heaven” is not obviously connected to the first two teachings. But what do these words mean?

In his Chesed La’Alafim, at 231:3, Rabbi Eliezer Papo (the ‘Pele Yo’etz’) cites Rabbi Yose’s mishnah as support for the proposition that even ordinary everyday activities such as eating, drinking, sleeping and indeed all one’s bodily needs should be performed as a means of serving one’s Creator. The moment a person does an action—no matter how beneficial or meritorious—with his or her own benefit in mind, it is disqualified from being regarded as “for the sake of Heaven”. Rather, it is a sign of self-love. It is scarcely necessary to mention that the performance of any mitzvah in the hope or expectation of a reward fails the “sake of Heaven” test (Avot 1:3).

The situation for those whose actions result from self-interest, personal gain or even habit is not as bleak as it first appears.  In the case of Torah learning and doing mitzvot, the Pele Yo’etz reassures readers that at any rate a person should do these things even if it is not for Heaven’s sake because ultimately he or she will end up doing them for the right reason (citing Kalah Rabati 5:1).

This still leaves actions that are neither Torah learning nor mitzvot. Do they really all have to be “for the sake of Heaven”? Taking an occasional break from one’s learning in order to freshen up one’s mind has long been accepted as not only permissible but desirable since it helps to preserve one’s learning. But what about tiyulim, holidays, leisure activities? The Pele Yoe’tz expressly disapproves of such frivolities: while it may be necessary for a person to take a walk in the open air in order to lift his spirits and clear his head, the moment this objective is achieved he should head straight back to the Beit Midrash and resume his Torah learning.

Be that as it may, the fact remains that a great deal of our time today is spent on activities that are neither Torah nor mitzvot. We live in an age in which the availability of food, job security and the constant flow of new and improved domestic appliances has left us with more leisure time than the Tannaim could ever have imagined.  Most of us do not spend all our free time learning Torah and doing good deeds. Not just rank-and-file Jews but rabbis and communal leaders freely admit to taking holidays, attending concerts, watching sports events and even “chilling out”. We do not condemn them, but what would Rabbi Yose say to them? And how would they reply to him? Can these leisure activities be compliant with the principle that “all your deeds be for the sake of Heaven”? Are we just having fun, forgetting the observation of Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) that “fun” is not a concept found in Tanach?

There are many possible responses to the challenge as to how we spend our time. For example:

·         Rabbi Yose’s teaching is not intended to be taken literally. Rather, it is a gentle exhortation to us to do things that are good and avoid things that are bad or harmful, things that would bring Heaven’s reputation into disrepute.

·         Rabbi Yose’s teaching only applies to deeds that can be of benefit the person who performs them, even though they may be mitzvot or good deeds, for example assiduously visiting an invalid (a mitzvah) who is wealthy and has no heirs (an ulterior motive based on self-interest).

·         Rabbi Yose is only encouraging us to question our own conduct, asking ourselves “am I doing this for Heaven’s sake?”, because it is a good way of ensuring that we fulfil the verse from Psalms: “I have placed God before me always …” (Tehillim 16:8).

·         Elsewhere in Avot, at 4:7, Rabbi Tzadok warns us not to use Torah as a crown in order to aggrandise ourselves or as a spade to dig with. Rabbi Yose’s words here merely seek to emphasise the same point.

·         God wants us to enjoy our life on Earth to the greatest extent possible, so long as we exercise our freedom of choice so as to keep our conduct lawful and respectable. Rabbi Yose’s teaching is designed to remind us that, even where our actions are pleasure-seeking, we do them in order the better to appreciate God’s beneficence in placing us in this world.

None of these responses really seems totally persuasive. Ultimately, it appears, we have become used to a lower level of commitment to God and to the sake of Heaven than our forefathers possessed. The Chesed La’Alafim, at 231:4, appears to prefer the first of the responses listed above, citing the baraita at the end of the sixth perek Avot (6:11) that everything God created in His world He created for His kavod—His honour or respect. From this the Pele Yo’etz understands that, before contemplating any action, be it going on a shopping expedition, attending a football game or doing a spot of sun-bathing, we should ask ourselves the following question: “does this damage God’s standing in the world?”  If the answer is “yes”, we shouldn’t do it.

That was 200 or so years ago. But what, then, should be the proper response of the committed Jew today to the words of Rabbi Yose? Ae they a threat, a challenge or an opportunity for self-improvement? Comments, please!

If not now, when? A time for focus, a time for family

Hillel’s neat apothegm, “If I am not for me, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” (Avot 1:14) is the subject of many explanations, ranging from the prosaic to the profound. Given the fact that we have so many details of Hillel’s life and times, as well as so many other sayings of his, it is almost too easy to find a real-life context to which this famous saying applies. There are also many context-free explanations, of which I have just came across the following one, brought in the Kerem Chemed of Rabbi Yehudah Rabinovitz in the name of the Chatam Sofer.

The words that open this mishnah—“If I am not for me, who will be for me?”—are spoken by the bachelor who, free of family responsibilities, can pursue his interests without hindrance. Learning Torah, he can push himself to the limit, burn the midnight oil when it suits him, bury himself the Gemara and generally focus fully on the object of his studies. There is no millstone round his neck; no demands are made upon him except those he imposes on himself.

The second part of the mishnah—“And if I am only for myself, what am I?”—is spoken by the married man who also pursues Torah learning. The Torah teaches: “it is not good for man to be alone” (Bereshit 2:18), and a man without a wife is man without Torah, without good and without blessing. And a good wife will help him find time for Torah learning despite his domestic responsibilities.

The final part of the mishnah--“And if not now, when?”—is recited by the bachelor and the married man together. Why, because if the bachelor were to say “if I am only for myself, what am I?”, or the married man were to say “If I am not for me, who will be for me?”, neither would have the right attitude towards the use they should immediately be making of their time.it

While the Chatam Sofer’s words are directed to students of Torah, it seems to me that they are clearly of wider application. In any sphere of activity, the time for focusing on it to the exclusion of all else, like the time for taking risks, is when a person does so at his or her own expense and not at the expense of dependants and loved ones. This is not always possible, particularly where changes in the employment market require the acquisition of complex and hard-to-learn skills, but equally one should avoid change for change’s sake if it jeopardises family security.

 

Learning from the lives of Torah sages

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So do we praise poverty or not?

As a long-time admirer of the flowing prose and majestic articulation of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks’ writings, I find it easy to nod in agreement as I peruse his carefully crafted paragraphs. “How I wish I’d thought of that”, I find myself thinking, or “I couldn’t have put it better myself”.  I have to be careful, though: I recognise that my tendency to enjoy his writings as aesthetic gems can lead to me reading uncritically. That is why, from time to time, I heave a sigh of relief when I read something with which I can disagree, or which at least leads me to challenge it.

I came across such a passage yesterday in The Dignity of Difference, in which Rabbi Lord Sacks writes:

Throughout its history, Judaism resisted any attempt to romanticize, rationalize or anaesthetize the pain of hunger, starvation, or need (p 97).

This stopped me in my tracks. Is this really so?

Starting with Pirkei Avot, a baraita (6:4) vaunts the ascetic approach to acquiring Torah through suffering and self-denial:

Such is the way of Torah: you should eat bread in salt, drink just a little water and sleep on the ground. Live a life of deprivation and toil in Torah. If you do this, "you will be happy and it will be good for you" (Tehillim 128:2)—happy in this world, and it will be good for you in the World to Come.

Less dramatic but pointing in a similar direction is Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota’s teaching (3:8):

Give Him what is His, for you, and whatever is yours, are His. As David says: "For everything comes from You, and from Your own hand we give to You" (I Chronicles 29:14).

This seemingly innocent teaching comes with a context: Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota’s commitment to the ascetic life involved the disposal of all his possessions for charitable purposes, leaving nothing for himself and his family (Ta’anit 24a). Placing everyone one has at the disposal of others is rated as a highly meritorious act in a later mishnah in Avot  (5:13), where the person who says “what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is yours” is a chasid—a person who has perfected the cardinal middah of chesed, “lovingkindness”. And the baraita at 6:6 lists limitation of wealth-generating activities as one of the 48 things that aid one’s acquisition of Torah.

I once assumed that the canonisation of hardship and poverty was the normative position of Judaism since it fitted so completely with the tales I read and the stories that inspired me in my early days as a ba’al teshuvah. Judaism: Hillel nearly freezing to death in the snow in his attempt to eavesdrop a Torah shiur (Shabbat 31a), rabbis subsisting from one week to the next on nothing more than a solitary carob (Ta’anit 24a), and the remarkable episode of Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa, whose wife ordered him to pray for the removal of the golden table leg that offered the prospect of material survival in a life of unremitting poverty (Ta’anit 24b). Then, turning to the children’s pages of the orthodox Jewish newspapers, there were all the Eastern European fables that featured hidden tzaddikim—largely woodcutters, water-carriers and beggars—who turned out to be giants of Torah learning, possessed of superhuman or near-prophetic powers.

My feeling now, for what it is worth, is that Judaism has not resisted “any attempt to romanticize, rationalize or anaesthetize the pain of hunger, starvation, or need”. But nor does it insist that this harsh, punishing route towards a greater understanding of God is the only direction that a person can take. In this, as in many areas of practical application, Jewish tradition provides support and encouragement for the individual, whichever path to God is selected.

As ever, I look forward to receiving opinions from other group members. Please do share your thoughts!

Coming adrift on the Sea of Prayer

While the most widely discussed bits of Pirkei Avot address social (and antisocial) relations between humans, its content extends beyond the social realm and considers the individual’s relationship with God.  One teaching from Avot that touches on this very personal area is brought in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel, who opens his mishnah (Avot 2:18) with this advice:

Be meticulous in reciting the Shema and in prayer. And when you do pray, do not make your prayers keva (routine, by rote), but pleas for mercy and supplications before God…

This is an unexceptional and uncontroversial teaching, and discussion of it tends to stress the importance of understanding one’s words and saying them in the knowledge that one is addressing an omnipotent and ineffable entity who knows one’s every thoughts and upon whom one’s very existence depends. However important the text of the Shema and the template of the daily prayers may be, and however great might be the cosmic impact of their recitation even by rote, this teaching in Avot reminds us that we are supposed to be seeking to create and development a meaningful relationship with God – something best done with sincerity and deep comprehension.

I have recently been pondering the meaning of Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel’s words in the context of my own personal situation.

Last week I underwent surgery which, thank God, was successful, but which entails a long and painful period of convalescence. To this end, I have been prescribed a course of painkillers which include a powerful opioid drug. The efficacy of this drug in providing pain relief is beyond doubt, but it has a number of side effects. Thus, while faced with the prospect of daily prayer and recitation of the Shema, I find myself contending with spells of sudden drowsiness and a marked inability to concentrate reliably on what I am doing.

This morning, waking pain-free and with what felt like a clear mind, I attempted my regular morning prayers. This attempt took over an hour and a quarter, in the course of which I found that I had involuntarily lapsed into sleep three times. Even when awake, I found that I was not fully in control of my thoughts. Vivid images flashed through my mind, a good example being an unexpected recall of a lavishly illustrated colour picture of the splitting of the Reed Sea that I had seen many years ago in a children’s book, and when I recited ‘compilation’ passages in which verses from various sources are gathered together, I was connecting some of those verses with the passages in Tanach from which they originated.

My situation might be described like this: I felt as if I was sailing on a sea of prayer, trying to row back towards the fixed text of the Shema, its attendant blessings and the template of the Amidah, while all the time my mind was pulling me out to sea. I wanted the security of that which was keva, since that was the firm basis of my daily audition with God, but I had to recognise the power of the mind to pull away from it and to celebrate the jumble of images, words and experiences that together make me what I am.

I wonder if any members of this group have had similar experiences. If so, I’d like to know how you coped with them and whether you found them ultimately disturbing or beneficial.

Of rabbis and realities

Two separate mishnayot in Avot (1:6, per Yehoshua ben Perachya, and 1:16, per Rabban Gamliel) urge us to take for ourselves a rav, a rabbi or teacher. Both these teachings have been extensively analysed, from the days of the earliest sages and up till today, and many different strands of advice have been teased out of them. This advice usually focuses on why a person needs a Torah teacher and/or spiritual adviser, what that person needs and how the relationship between them might function to best effect.

The implications of this mishnah run wider than one might initially imagine. Just as the instruction “get yourself a wife” clearly has more immediate meaning and relevance to the person seeking a wife than it does to the prospective wife, so too does “take for yourself a rav” speak more to the needs and interests of the person who lacks one than to anyone who might be that rav. Perhaps this is why commentaries on Avot so rarely examine this guidance from the rav’s point of view.

The role of the teacher, his aspirations and abilities, should not be overlooked. Rabbis and teachers are not like a line of taxis at a railway station, offering highly similar services at broadly similar prices. They have needs, feelings, anxieties and personalised skill sets which, even if they are sometimes shared with others, are not replicated uniformly through their ranks. It is good sometimes to stop and think about our rabbis, and about what their education, status and perceived duties mean to them.

With this in mind, here are two contrasting passages that reflect huge differences in perspective between two eminent rabbinical authors. The first, published in 1999, reads like this:

…As a youngster, my aspiration had been to follow in my father’s footsteps. His study was regularly frequented by people who sought his counsel. … I soon realized that people were not seeking my services as a counselor or as a teacher of Torah. Rather, I was expected to officiate at rituals: bar-mitzvahs, weddings, funerals, unveilings, and whatever other ceremonial events there might be. I was not satisfied with this superficial role, and in order to be the counsellor I had aspired to be, I became a psychiatrist (Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski, Visions of the Fathers, p 336.).

And here’s the second, from 2002:

The deepest insight I received into what makes life worth living was … when I began my career as a rabbi and had, for the first time, to officiate at funerals. They were distressing moments, trying to comfort a family in the midst of grief, and I never found them easy, but they were extraordinarily instructive. In my address I had to paint a portrait of the deceased, whom I might not have known personally, so I would talk first to the family and friends to try to understand what he or she meant to them. Almost always they spoke of similar things. The person who had died had been a supportive marriage partner, a caring parent. He or she had been a loyal friend, ready to help when help was needed. No-one ever mentioned what they earned or bought, what car they drove, where they spent their holidays. The people most mourned were not the most rich or successful. They were people who enhanced the lives of others. They were kind. You could rely on them. They had a sense of responsibility. They gave time as well as money to voluntary causes... As this pattern repeated itself time and again, I realized that I was learning about more than the deceased. I was being educated into what makes a life well lived (Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference, p 80).

Neither of these statements can be marked “right” or “wrong”. They both deal with the experiences and responses of rabbis who were called upon to be the rav in a sense where the skills and services demanded of them were not those they were hoping to deliver. Rabbi Twerski’s response was to go back to the drawing board, as it were, and re-craft himself as the effective counsellor he sought to be, while that of Rabbi Sacks was to identify his inexperience and initial struggle to satisfy congregational demand as the gateway to a unique learning experience. Both rabbis clearly benefited from their respective responses and, in doing so, were able to confer even greater on their respective publics.

In an age of increasing specialisation, rabbis are no different to medical or legal practitioners in that they cannot be expected to master entirely the discipline of their calling. While the call in Avot to take for oneself a rav has not changed, I believe that it has become a little less unusual for a rabbi to suggest gently to a congregant in need of advice, assistance and support that he or she should try instead another rav whose knowledge or expertise is greater than their own. I’d be curious to know if members of this Facebook group have any knowledge or experience of this.

Beshalach, Be Grateful

The Torah reading that is recited in synagogues this Shabbat is parashat Beshalach. This lengthy narrative, taken from the Book of Shemot (Exodus) tracks the story of the Children of Israel as they head away from Egypt, are shielded from their pursuing former slave-masters, dramatically cross the Reed Sea, witness the destruction of the Egyptian host, sing a song of triumph that was subsequently incorporated into the daily Jewish prayer service, receive water from a rock and bread from Heaven, then survive, aided by Divine inspiration, a sudden and unexpected attack by the Amalekites.

The state of mind of the Children of Israel throughout is clearly described in the Torah. They were afraid, they were critical of Moses’ leadership, they complained. Only when they sang their shirah, their spontaneous anthem on the shore of the sea, did their mood of fear and anger lift: they praised God’s might, describing Him as a “Man of War”.  

There is one thing missing from the narrative in Beshalach: we find no explicit record of the Children of Israel saying “thank you” or employing any other verbal formula that expresses gratitude for what either God or their leaders had done for them.

Like this parashah, Pirkei Avot also contains no express guidance or advice to us that we should articulate our gratitude by saying “thank you”. But that does not mean that we should not do so. Ben Zoma (Avot 4:1) describes the person who is rich as one who rejoices in what he has, while the person who wants more, especially in terms of honour or material or bodily desires, is accounted as being in spiritual self-destruction mode (Avot 4:28). Being happy with one’s lot and accepting who one is are among the 48 things that go towards a person’s being able to acquire Torah. Saying “thank you” and feeling grateful towards God and fellow humans is a way in which one can comply with the advice that we should know what our lot is and be grateful for it.

Against that, we see that a failure to express gratitude is not enumerated among the seven signs that a person is a golem, not a chacham (i.e. an uncultivated person, not a wise one: Avot 5:8), and the status of someone who says “what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is yours”—a statement that we should all be content to accept our respective portions in life—is equivocal: this person is either perfectly ordinary or displays the qualities of Sodom (Avot 5:13).

The concept of gratitude is far from unknown in Jewish source materials. Examples of hakarat hatov (recognition of the good that one has received) can easily be found in Tanach and in Midrash. The same applied to the giving of thanks, particularly to God. This all makes me wonder why the need to feel and express one’s gratitude doesn’t get a mention in Avot. Could it be that this very human response to another’s action is so basic that it didn’t need to be spelled out? Or that the need for it is so well covered elsewhere that it would be superfluous to teach it here?

If anyone can provide this group with a good explanation or an insightful comment, I shall not only feel gratitude but will be happy to express it in writing!

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

 In case you missed them, here's a list of items posted to the Avot Today Facebook Group in JANUARY 2023: 

30 January 2023: Pirkei Avot and the Museum of Cultural Curiosities. We look at some pertinent observations by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks and apply them to the current state of (lack of) interest in the Ethics of the Fathers.

27 January 2023: Questions, Answers and the Call of the Caterer. The question-and-answer methodology lies at the heart of Jewish learning, as Avot shows -- but it involves much more than looking for answers.

24 January 2023: Turn it over, turn it over! Here's a novel way to interpret a well-worn mishnah by Rabbi Tarfon that has been seized upon by all sorts of folk.

22 January 2023: 'Some Thoughts on Exile" Revisited. Looking back at our earlier post, we find a source that supports the concept of exile as a state of mind. 

20 January 2023: Dealing With Anger. Pirkei Avot has a good deal to say about anger and the need to control it. We review the topic and pose some helpful practical questions.

18 January 2023: Most-Read Avot Today Posts of 2022. The Facebook metrics show that, whatever thoughts we might have on the subject, readers go for those Jewish ethical posts that most intrigue them.

16 January 2023: The Perils of Teaching and the Danger of Words. Picking up on a point made by R' Mordechai Schiffman in Psyched for Avot, we discuss the value--if there be any--in issuing generalised warnings to people to be careful.

12 January 2023: Some Thoughts on Exile. The concept of exile is something that the Jewish people have had to grapple with for millennia, and Pirkei Avot teaches about it too. But is exile only a physical state? Maybe it is also a state of mind?

10 January 2023: Mishnayot in the Media: Which Bits of Pirkei Avot Get the Most Cites? Avot Today monitored references to Avot that were picked up by Google Alert, to see which soundbites and snappy sayings are most frequently used in the online media.

8 January 2023: The Trouble With Tongs. Avot 5:8 speaks of the creation of "tongs made with tongs". Is this invention a boon for mankind, or proof that man was made to toil?

6 January 2023: Kriat Shema on Our (Death)beds. This shared post, composed by Nate Light, discusses -- among other matters -- Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus's famous proposition that a man should repent the day before he dies.

5 January 2023: You're Telling Me That This Is a Blessing? Hillel (Avot 2:5) makes it plain that one should not say things that can't be understood if the objective is for them to be comprehended. Does the patriarch Jaob breach this guidance in the blessings he gives his sons?

1 January 2023: Is It Ever Possible to Act With a Totally Pure Motive? This post by Shmuel Phillips delves deeply into this question, which was addressed in Avot by Antigonos Ish Socho at Avot 1:3.

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Avot Today blogposts for December 2022
Avot Today blogposts for November 2022
Avot Today blogposts for October 2022
Avot Today blogposts for September 2022
Avot Today blogposts for August 2022
Avot Today blogposts for July 2022 

Pirkei Avot and the Museum of Cultural Curiosities

I brought a copy of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks’ The Dignity of Difference back in 2002, the year in which it was published. Finally, having lent it to various interested parties, I have got round to reading it. Even if one accepts the view that Rabbi Sacks only ever actually wrote one book, but just said the same things in different ways, I always find ideas that are fresh when I read them, if only because they are expressed in a variety of formats.

Last week I came across the following passage:

… Morality has had a hard time of it in the past half-century. It has come to represent everything we believe ourselves to have been liberated from: authority, repression, the delay of instinctual gratification, all that went with the religious, puritanical, Victorian culture of our grandparents. Virtues once thought admirable—modesty, humility, discretion, restraint—are now dusty exhibits in a museum of the cultural curiosities. Words like ‘duty’, ‘obligation’, ‘judgement’, ‘wisdom’ either carry a negative charge or no meaning at all…. (at p 78).

If that conclusion was correct 20 years ago, it seems to me that it is even more so now. If modesty, humility, discretion and restraint are now “dusty exhibits in a museum of the cultural curiosities”, how much more so are terms like “wicked”, “sin”, “honour”, “retribution” and “repentance”, for which there are no obvious acceptable modern substitutes.

I suspect that one of the main reasons why Pirkei Avot has fallen out of favour with contemporary youth is that it is packed with precepts that are largely alien to their culture. If a typical average uncommitted and unaffiliated teenager were to read its maxims and axioms, he or she would be puzzled by much if not most of its content. Where do the ideas of not being judgemental and of giving others the benefit of the doubt fit in with cancellation culture and the precepts of political correctness? How can a person relate to the notion of reviewing one’s conduct and measuring it against moral yardsticks when the feeling that no-one is truly responsible for their own actions has become so prevalent?

Even where there is some recognition of the values of Avot, it is sometimes begrudging and slow to materialise. My own experiences suggest that the idea of returning what one has borrowed is still acknowledged—but that one does not offer to return that which has been borrowed until one is asked to return it. Likewise, the principle that one should acknowledge the truth still holds, but once again it is often not volunteered and is only acknowledged when a person is confronted with it.

Taking the Maharal’s explanation of Avot 1:2 as a starting point, we might hold that every human being has to deal with three relationships: with God, with other people and with him/herself. The six chapters Avot between them address each of these three relationships and offer a spread of suggestions and guidelines as to how to get the best out of them. Ultimately all three require commitment, forbearance, patience and practice if they are to yield any sort of meaningful dividend—but no-one is going to make the effort unless the commitment to do so is already there.

It seems to me that there is big challenge ahead for those of us who see a benefit in learning and internalising Avot and who want to spread the word. This is the challenge to find a sale pitch that will appeal (particularly) to young Jews who either feel quite happy inside their own skin or who feel that any disquiet or dissatisfaction they may be experiencing can be addressed by other means than the practice of a morality-driven self-discipline. For this, neither Rabbi Sacks nor any other contemporary Jewish scholars offer a solution, probably for the very good reason that there is none. While the moral malaise is widespread, the reasons for it and the triggers that might stimulate change are unique to each individual. All we can do is to spread the word, to make Avot as relevant and as interesting as we can, and hope that we can persuade others to keep an open mind for long enough to learn it.

 

 

Questions, answers and the call of the caterer

Asking and answering questions is so much a part of our lives that we can easily overlook the deeper significance of this practice. We routinely ask questions in order to supplement our knowledge (“how much does this muffin cost?”), enrich our understanding (“why does this medication make me feel nauseous?”) and to acknowledge our subservience or obligations towards others (“please may I be excused?”). We likewise use questions in order to criticise others (“are you seriously trying to tell me that you’ve tidied your room?”), to underline one’s own importance or rectitude (“do you imagine that I would be so stupid as to believe such a pathetic excuse?”), and even for purely rhetorical effect (“wouldn’t you pay a king’s ransom for an opportunity like that?”).  Sometimes we use questions as a way of framing advice (“are you planning to take your umbrella today?”) or information (“did you know that the price of eggs has just gone up?”); we also ask questions when we know, or are fairly certain of, the answer (“would you like me to move my car which is blocking your drive?”).  We even ask ourselves questions (“where on earth did I put my spectacles?”).

Pirkei Avot addresses the Q&A process in several places. In particular, when distinguishing between a wise person and a golem, a person who doesn’t know any better, we are taught that we should not answer in haste (5:9) and that we should ask questions that are relevant and answer them accurately (ibid).  If we don’t know the answer, we should admit that we don’t (ibid) and we should only answer a heretic if we know how to do so (2:19).  Asking and answering questions is one of the 48 techniques by which a person can acquire Torah learning (6:6). We should not answer questions in greater length than is required (1:17). When seeking to establish the truth, we should not ask leading questions that put words into the mouth of the person answering them (1:9). Answers that are meant to be understood should be intelligible on a single hearing (2:5). There are other teachings in Avot that can be applied to Q&A, and anyone reading this tractate will soon spot how many mishnayot employ the Q&A technique themselves.

This review of questions and their many functions takes me back to the 1990s, when I was responsible for the administration of the London Beth Din (LBD). Throughout that decade, and indeed thereafter, the LBD was heavily involved in the grant of licences to food manufacturers, restaurateurs and caterers whom it certified as having satisfied the demanding standards for kashrut that are required by Jewish law. This work was done routinely by the LBD’s Kashrut Department under the supervision of the Dayanim of the LBD. I saw very little of our licensees and had little contact with them except when, once a year, they visited the LBD for an interview upon which the renewal of their licences was contingent.

From time to time it was necessary for a licensee to contact one of the Dayanim in order to ask a question relating to kashrut. These questions typically concerned matters such as the kashrut of manufactured food products bearing unfamiliar foreign certifications, the incidence of insects in quantities of fruit and vegetables, the late arrival or non-arrival of a mashgiach to oversee food preparation and the rectification of problems arising from the inappropriate use of utensils. In this pre-smartphone era, it was not always easy to locate a Dayan during office hours, so I often found myself fielding calls from anxious caterers. I would then either try to find a Dayan within the building or to pinpoint a place where one might be found.

I soon discovered that, of the LBD-licensed caterers, some never contacted us at all. Either they had no problems or they knew all the answers, I assumed. There was however one small catering firm that seemed to call the Dayanim with questions far more frequently than any of the others. Indeed, I sometimes wondered if this caterer’s queries outnumbered those of all the other caterers put together. What’s more, many of the questions seemed fairly easy or bordered on the trivial; I had to work hard to suppress the inclination either to answer them myself or to chide the caterer for this apparent ignorance.

After a couple of years I actually met the caterer in question and I somewhat impertinently asked: “how come you keep bombarding my Dayanim with so many questions?”  The caterer’s answer impressed me greatly. This was its gist. If a caterer serves poor quality food, it will lose existing customers and not gain new ones. Its reputation will be damaged and it will suffer commercially. If however a caterer serves food that turns out not to be kosher, the situation is different. The caterer’s reputation will of course be damaged and it will lose goodwill and custom. More importantly, the reputation of the LBD would also be damaged. That in turn would adversely affect customer confidence in all the other caterers, restaurants and manufacturers that bore the LBD imprimatur. It was therefore better to play safe and, in any question where there existed even the smallest doubt, to ask even the most elementary questions and let the LBD satisfy itself of the position, rather than to gamble the reputation of the LBD and other licensees by guessing an answer that, though quite likely right, might also be wrong.

From this we see how the asking of questions can be an effective means of establishing and maintaining a three-way relationship of trust between the questioner, the respondent and the public.

Turn it over, turn it over!

The second chapter of Avot ends with two oft-cited teachings by Rabbi Tarfon. The second of the two (Avot 2:21), is much loved not just by Torah scholars but also by politicians, industrialists and many people who have no particular commitment to Jewish lifestyles and values. It is often assumed to be “It is not for you to finish the task, but neither are you free to absolve yourself from it”. That however is only the opening salvo. The rest of the mishnah, much less frequently cited, goes on to frame those words within the context of learning Torah. 

The first of Rabbi Tarfon’s teachings does not mention the pursuit of Torah study, but most commentators assume that this is the meat of the metaphor and that the task of learning Torah is an unceasing commitment. The mishnah (Avot 2:20) reads:

“The day is short, the work is in abundance, the workers are lazy, the reward is great, and the Master is pressing”.

That these words apply to Torah study is easy to argue. But how do we know whether they also apply to the fulfilment of other obligations towards God?

In considering this proposition, let us take as our starting point another mishnah, this time from the end of the fifth perek (Avot 5:26):

Ben Bag Bag used to say: “Turn it over, turn it over, since everything is in it; see with it; grow old and grey in it; do not budge from it, for there is nothing better”.

Taking these words literally, let us turn Rabbi Tarfon’s words on their head and give them quite the opposite meaning. This leaves us with something like:

“The day is long, the work is light, the workers are industrious, the reward is not so great, and the Master is easy-going”.

Does this inversion of Rabbi Tarfon's words have anything to tell us? Arguably it does, in that it can be said to be capable of applying to many if not most of the positive mitzvot in the Torah—but not to the learning of Torah itself.

We know from our own experience that, if we are not continuously occupied, the day is long and time weighs heavily on our hands. In retrospect, time often seems to have passed swiftly, but our real-time experience tells us otherwise. Ask any confirmed cigarette smoker about those last ten minutes before Shabbat goes out. God has given us an amplitude of time, more than we require for our essential needs, which is why we run the constant risk of bitul zeman, killing time that could have been put to productive use if we only valued it properly.

As for the work being in abundance, relatively little time need be spent performing many of the Torah’s biggest mitzvot. Prayer, the recitation of Shema, recalling the redemption from Egypt, taking and shaking the lulav, eating matzah at the Passover seder—these are examples of commands that we can quickly and easily discharge, tick the box and then move on to some other activity.

We workers are industrious too, creating innovative and imaginative ways to fill our time when we are neither working for a living nor doing our Jewish thing. Even rest and leisure have an active dimension to them, so that we can focus on wearing ourselves out by living our lifestyles to the full and going to bed exhausted in mind and body at the end of each day.

As for the reward, we are encouraged to make every effort not even think about it, and certainly not to work in order to receive it (Avot 1:3), so whether the reward is big or small shouldn’t be allowed to enter the equation.

Finally, is the Master so demanding? It can he argued that He is not. Who but an easy-going God would create the notion of the mitzvah kiyumit, the commandment that one can go through one’s entire life without fulfilling? Tzitzit, mezuzah, challah—these are all examples of precepts that depend entirely upon the circumstance of a person possessing a four-cornered garment, a doorway or a large enough piece of dough. Nor do we have to build a house with a flat roof so that we can oblige ourselves to fence that roof safely.

Arguably, every one of the mitzvot in the Torah, with the exception of the study of Torah, can be said to comply with at least one of the five points described in the “upside down” version of the mishnah we have just discussed. In contrast, talmud Torah complies with none of them—and only Torah study matches all five points listed by Rabbi Tarfon in the real mishnah text.

'Some thoughts on exile' revisited

On 12 January I posted a piece, ‘Some thoughts on exile’, in which I discussed some of the mishnayot in Pirkei Avot that deal with exile. In that post I mentioned the idea, raised in an article by Rabbi Pinchas Winston, that exile was not purely a physical phenomenon because it also had a psychological dimension: a person might be “exiled” in their mind, their conscious thoughts and their emotions. He summarized the position thus:

There is no greater exile than not being yourself. It may sound trivial because, how can you be anyone but who you are? But the very fact that psychological depression is a national disease and anti-depressants are such a lucrative prescription drug today answers that question head-on. It is exhausting to watch how hard people have to work just to maintain an image they want to project, but which has little to do with who they really are.

I liked this idea but questioned whether it was truly sustainable.

Since writing my post I have found that Rabbi Winston is not alone in examining exile in terms of its mental element. Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky’s Netivot Shalom commentary on the Torah, on parashat Vaeira, contrasts two species of exile: communal (galut haperat) and personal (galut hayetzer hara). Communal exile can be remedied by taking the Children of Israel out of Egypt, while personal exile demands that each individual is detached from his negative traits and vested with a fresh set of positive values. Without this process, a person cannot switch his commitment from servitude to Egypt to service of God. In popular parlance, we might say that it’s not enough to take the Children of Israel out of Egypt: we must also take Egypt out of the Children of Israel.

The Netivot Shalom does not claim to be the originator of this idea. He cites the Toledot Yaakov Yosef of Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polonne on parashat Vayishlach, which in turn cites the Ba’al Shem Tov in support of the proposition that personal redemption should precede the communal. He also describes the same concept in his partial but eloquent commentary on Pirkei Avot, at the end of Avot 5:11, but without citing his predecessors. To my embarrassment I must have read this many years ago without it ever sinking in.

Dealing with anger

No-one who follows the narrative of the Torah at this time of year can miss the theme of anger. Pharaoh is angry with the Children of Israel, then rebukes his midwives; both God and the Children of Israel become angry with Moses; the taskmasters are angry with the slaves; the slaves are angry with one other; Jethro tells his daughters off for not inviting Moses home, and so on. It is not a happy time.

Much the same can be said of Israel today, where the politics of anger is reflected in outbursts of abuse, name-calling and demonisation of real and imagined opponents to the extent that extreme views on both sides of the current debates are regarded as normative and prospects for cooperation, compromise and consensus continue to fade.

Pirkei Avot teaches us about anger. It is assumed that we cannot suppress our anger entirely and maybe do not need to do so, but we should at least be slow to anger. Avot 5:2 and 5:3 illustrate how God, as a sort of divine role model, is extremely slow to anger, waiting up to ten generations before making a final decision as to what to do. Avot 5:14 also praises the person who is slow to anger but swift to regain composure while stigmatising as wicked the person who is quick to anger but slow to calm down. Rambam (Hilchot De’ot) recognises the need to keep anger under control rather than attempt to eliminate it completely—the position that Ramban appears to adopt in his much-published letter to his son, the reason being that only by distancing oneself from anger can one internalise the virtue of humility.

Frustratingly, Avot does not offer any simple solutions. Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar (Avot 4:23) warns us not to make things worse by trying to calm someone down when they are in mid-rage. Then, at Avot 4:1, Ben Zoma teaches that the person who is truly strong is one who curbs his yetzer, the evil inclination. Even if one assumes that expressions of anger are the consequence of yielding to one’s yetzer, there can be no catch-all technique for resisting it since every individual feels things differently and responds in his or her own unique manner to the sort of provocations that lead to rage. However, a few thoughts spring to mind.

1. Does your anger correspond to someone else’s happiness? It is common for people to lose their temper on losing a game, an argument or an election. This is potentially a sort of zero-sum rage since, if the outcome was the other way round, the loser might be just as angry in turn. In any situation in which there must be a winner and a loser, anger of this nature is predictable and unproductive.

2. Can your anger only be expressed in one way? Screaming, flailing our limbs and having a tantrum are the first ways we humans demonstrate our anger but, as we grow older and develop a wider range of emotional responses and social skills, we do have options. It is not always possible to do so but, where it is, we should seek to ask ourselves which outlet for our anger is the most effective, constructive or capable of giving the greatest relief or personal satisfaction.

3. Have we identified the object of our anger? In crude terms, anger can be said to be directed at one of three targets: (i) oneself; (ii) other humans and social institutions; and (iii) God. Once we know the target of our anger, we can consider how best to handle it. Anger that is directed against oneself—particularly when we are forced to take responsibility for our own mistakes—can be counterproductive but can also be addressed by looking at the cause of our self-anger and considering how we can avoid repeating it. Millennia of experience indicate that we have no reliable means of measuring how God responds to our anger, but that prayer might sometimes provide a more comforting and constructive substitute for railing against Him. That leaves anger which is directed against fellow humans, and this is the zone which is principally governed by Avot. No, Avot does not offer perfect solutions for all instances of other-directed anger, but it does encourage us to keep a lid on it to stop it boiling over—something that we can aim to achieve by practising the difficult task of self-control.

In raising this topic, I hope to stimulate thought and generate constructive suggestions about anger. Please share them if you have them.