When people eat each other

Avot 3:2 is one of those mishnayot that seems to generate a surprising amount of comment and analysis, despite its brevity. There Rabbi Chanina segan HaKohanim teaches:

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

Pray for the peace of the government; for were it not for fear of it, a man would swallow his neighbour alive.

This mishnah is not one of those cryptic messages that sages have sought to decipher for the past two millennia: it is apparently straightforward in its meaning. The rule of law is a condition of civilised life. Indeed, it is fundamental to not just the Jewish world but to all adherents of the Noahide Code. Without government there is anarchy. We talk of man eating his fellow man, but the nations of the world have a more apt metaphor, that of dog-eat-dog. When we devour each other, we are no better than animals.

Not so straightforward is the explanation given by Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov, cited by Rabbi Mark Dratch in Foundations of Faith, a collection of insights into Avot by Rabbi Norman Lamm. For this early Chassidic master the word מוֹרָאָהּ (mora’ah, “fear of it”) does not refer to fear imposed on citizens by the government, but rather to the fear experienced by the government authorities themselves—this being fear for their own survival. As Rabbi Lamm puts it,

“[Reb Moshe Leib] reads the mishnah thus. Pray for the peace of the government, for if not for fear of its own survival it would permit every man to swallow his neighbor alive. Politicians, all those in authority, do not care for anything more than their own welfare, the survival of the establishment of which they are a part. They could not care less if society as such would fall into total disarray, one man swallowing the other alive. It is just that this anarchy and chaos would jeopardize the government itself, and that is why they are interested in “law and order”. Nevertheless, better a selfish government, whose only motivation is perpetuation of its own political rule, than the wild chaos of anarchy. That is why Judaism has ordained: pray for the peace of the government”.

I’m not sure that this is right.

In the first place, we have seen in our own lifetimes how some governments—notably those of the Assad regime in Syria and what passes for government in Haiti—would appear to depend on the preservation of a situation in which the government’s opponents are played off against each other, thereby weakening both themselves and their enemies. Where governments thrive on anarchy and depend on it for their own survival, we must be careful what we pray for.

Secondly, one can challenge the unsupported proposition of “better a selfish government, whose only motivation is perpetuation of its own political rule, than the wild chaos of anarchy”.  Do the facts on the ground suggest that the regimes of Hitler and Stalin are in any meaningful sense ‘better’ than anarchy? And why should it be assumed that the emotive term ‘anarchy’ is to be equated with ‘wild chaos’? China before the Red Revolution had a largely agrarian peasant population that practised an ancient and apparently stable way of life before it was organized into a regime of Communism. The real threat there was poverty, a condition that is sadly endemic in most parts of the world.

Nonetheless, it is incumbent on us to pray for the peace of the realm. Peace, in its true and absolute form, is one of the three pillars on which the world stands (Avot 1:2)—even if it is in short supply.

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Addendum: here's a list of earlier posts on the same mishnah

• Canadian canaries in the coalmine here
• Praying for the welfare of a bad government here
• Syria after Assad: a question for Avot here
• On the march with Pirkei Avot here

Soul Purpose

Soul Purpose, subtitled “Your Daily Dose of Wisdom from Pirkei Avot”, is the latest text on that popular tractate to emanate from Mosaica Press. The author, Ruchi Koval, is no stranger to the printed word: this is her third title, following Soul Construction and Conversations with God.

So what does Ruchi bring to Avot? Quite a lot, it seems. Her goal is not to produce a learned tome on the subject, replete with footnotes and scholarly reference points. Rather, it is to slice and dice Avot into concise and accessible messages—rarely more than a page in length—that, taken cumulatively, are intended as an aid to personal growth and spiritual reflection. There is a message for every day of the calendar year (including 29 February), each one closing with a personal resolution along the lines of “Today I will/won’t” do A, B or C.

Ruchi’s inspiration is the commentary on Avot by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. The reason for this is not immediately obvious, since there is no similarity of style or repetition of content. Rather, she points to functionality. What was Rabbi Hirsch seeking to do? He was striving to seize and retain the attention of a readership consisting in the main of secularly educated and cultured Jews who may have committed little time to detailed analysis and speculation on issues of Jewish ethical philosophy. In seeking to do so, Rabbi Hirsch was constrained by considerations of space: his commentary was to be wrapped around the text of Avot in the Siddur Avodas Yisroel. With limited scope for spreading the message of the mishnah, every word had to count.

Taken individually, each day’s message bears contemporary relevance, particularly (but by no means exclusively) for the typical educated middle-class Anglo-American Jew with one foot planted firmly in the secular world and the planted perhaps a little less firmly in the world of commitment to Torah study and to the more serious aspects of Jewish lifestyle. Some mini-essays are easier than others to relate to the underlying mishnah, but this is inevitable if repetition is to be minimised.

For the reader who takes this book seriously and actually reads it at the rate of just one page a day, stopping to think about the moral underlying each mishnah (or part thereof), there can be great personal benefits to be derived. But woe to the reader who is tempted to go from day to day at a single sitting: the potential for personal improvement will be in danger of being drowned in a sea of noble aspirations.

For further details of Ruchi Koval click here.

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“I love you because”

Senior readers may recall a song, penned in 1949, with the title “I Love You Because”. It became a minor hit in the 1960s and has since subsided into respectable obscurity. Its theme was that of the ranking of reasons for loving another person, culminating in an endorsement of unconditional love as the highest form (“I love you most of all because you’re you”).

There’s a fascinating anonymous mishnah in the fifth perek that addresses this very them. It reads thus:

כָּל אַהֲבָה שֶׁהִיא תְלוּיָה בְדָבָר, בָּטֵל דָּבָר בְּטֵלָה אַהֲבָה, וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ תְּלוּיָה בְדָבָר, אֵינָהּ בְּטֵלָה לְעוֹלָם. אֵיזוֹ הִיא אַהֲבָה שֶׁהִיא תְלוּיָה בְדָבָר, זוֹ אַהֲבַת אַמְנוֹן וְתָמָר, וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ תְּלוּיָה בְדָבָר, זוֹ אַהֲבַת דָּוִד וִיהוֹנָתָן

Any love that is dependent on something—when that thing ceases, the love also ceases. But a love that is not dependent on anything never ceases. What is [an example of] a love that is dependent on something? The love of Amnon and Tamar.  And one that is not dependent on anything? The love of David and Jonathan (Avot 5:19).

There is an obvious problem for any modern reader who is familiar with the back stories of these relationships, both of which are found in the Tanach in the Books of Samuel. The comparison appears inappropriate in that, while David and Jonathan’s feelings towards one another were reciprocated, there was no loving relationship between Amnon and Tamar. We would describe Amnon’s feelings toward his half sister in terms of infatuation and a lust to possess her sexually, while there is no record of Tamar having any warm feelings towards Amnon at all.

Are there better examples of relationships that failed when the condition that underpinned them no longer prevailed? That of Shimshon and Delilah works no better than our case here, since again we have no indication that Delilah actually loved Shimshon or that Shimshon ceased to love Delilah. Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) however hits the target in Megillat Esther, where he points out that Haman has lots of friends (ohavov, which also means ‘lovers’) when he is in the ascendant at 5:14. However at 6:13, once it becomes apparent that things are going against him, he still thinks of having such friends but they are not. Having seen the beginning of Haman’s downfall they are now chachamov, men who are wise to him.

Reverting to our mishnah, since no love was felt by Tamar towards Amnon, the only thing that could be described as “love” in their relationship was Amnon’s desire to possess her. But on what did that desire depend? Presumably on her unavailability to him, and once that unavailability had been forcibly removed, Tamar no longer appealed to him, The Alshich (Yarim Moshe) puts it another way: it was not her unavailability that drew Amnon to her but her innocence which, once lost, was irretrievable. Additionally, Amnon may have assumed that, once he possessed Tamar, her eyes would be opened and she would see him through fresh, admiring eyes. When this did not happen, he may have felt inadequate and humiliated himself. We shall never know.

Bartenura suggests that Amnon’s attraction was based on Tamar’s beauty, which indicates that the element on which the love was contingent can be subjective. Unless Tamar’s appearance altered radically as a result of the rape, we are given to understand that what changed was not her beauty but Amnon’s subjective assessment of it. Rabbi Eliezer Liepman puts it differently: what changed was Amnon’s self-induced delusion that his feeling towards her was one of love.

Does it actually matter whether we know the trigger that destroyed Amnon’s desire for Tamar, or whether it is what we might today call ‘love’ or not?  Perhaps not. For Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff (Lev Avot) we should focus on the message of the mishnah as a whole and not on the inexcusable behaviour of Amnon. He writes:

“The reader of the mishnah is struck by an obvious omission. The act of Amnon and Tamar is not characterised as shameful, nor is the friendship of David and Jonathan hailed as extraordinary. The mishnah neither castigates the one nor praises the other. The failure of the one and the success of the other rests on our approach to God and man. Do we love God? Do we love our fellow man? This is the burden of our mishnah”.

He continues at length by citing Devarim 6:5 (“You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might”) and implying that this is the yardstick against which we humans should ideally measure our feelings towards one another. In this context he cites the love we owe to the stranger, the violent and even the criminal. It may be a tough challenge, but we should ask what is expected of us and what is needed by others in any relationship we may have with them.

I doubt that this is precisely the message that the author of our mishnah intended to convey, but it is a powerful one. The yardstick of our love for God is an uncomfortable one to measure ourselves against, since it is axiomatic that God is unchanging and represents the highest quality of truth and justice while we humans are, well, human—and we all know in our heart of hearts that there are times when it less easy for others to love us. Thoughts, anyone?

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Licence to hate?

Rabbi Asher Weiss is one of the most popular and respected of contemporary Torah scholars, and rightly so. His opinions are highly sought-after and greatly valued. I have recently been reading his two-volume exegesis on Avot, Rav Asher Weiss on Avos, and was intrigued as to what his take on this fascinating segment of the Oral Law might be.

I think that it is fair to say that, on the whole, the reader will not be treated to a wide variety of personal opinions. Rav Weiss’s objective is to lay Avot open as a platform for the teachings of the Tannaim who composed it and of a selection of the most widely followed commentators who discussed it, rather than to use it—as I try to do—as a means of reflecting how ancient morality plays out in modern times, or as a soapbox from which to promulgate one’s personal prejudices and preferences.

Because Rav Weiss has chosen to follow this path, I tend to place great significance on those relatively infrequent occasions when he chooses to depart from it. One such departure is in his commentary on Avot 3:18 (it’s 3:15 in his book) in which Rabbi Akiva teaches this:

חָבִיב אָדָם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לוֹ שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְּצֶֽלֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי בְּצֶֽלֶם אֱלֹהִים עָשָׂה אֶת הָאָדָם. חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּקְרְאוּ בָנִים לַמָּקוֹם, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּקְרְאוּ בָנִים לַמָּקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: בָּנִים אַתֶּם לַייָ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם. חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי לֶֽקַח טוֹב נָתַֽתִּי לָכֶם, תּוֹרָתִי אַל תַּעֲזֹֽבוּ

Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of God]; it is a sign of even greater love that it was made known to him that he was created in that image, as it says, "For in the image of God, He made man" (Bereishit 9:6). Beloved are Israel, for they are called children of God; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they are called children of God, as it is stated: "You are children of the Lord your God" (Devarim 14:1). Beloved are Israel, for they were given a precious article; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they were given a precious article, as it is stated: "I have given you a good purchase; My Torah, do not forsake it" (Mishlei 4:2).

On this lengthy mishnah Rav Weiss goes off-piste for a moment and focuses sharply, if discreetly, on the world we live in today. He writes:

“The question was posed by someone who employs a non-Jewish manager in one of his businesses. This fellow serves him with great devotion and efficiency. Naturally, the employer feels gratitude and love toward this employee. But his conscience is disturbing him, and he asks whether it is permitted to love this non-Jew or is it perhaps a mitzvah to hate him.

Before you ask whether it is permisslble to love a non-Jew, you should first ask whether it is actually a mitzvah to love him. For hating anyone—even a non-Jew—is a shameful character trait.

I am aware that among those keepers of the faith, those who are exacting in the performance of mitzvos great and small alike, the idea has taken root that we should hate the non-Jews, and that anyone who says otherwise is suspected to be a ‘modernizer’ worthy of scrutiny. However, I will cite two reliable and holy witnesses who have testified otherwise”.

Rav Weiss invokes in support of his position the authority of Rav Chaim Vital and Rabbeinu Elimelech of Lizhensk, following which he delves back into the Talmud Yerushalmi, where the commentary of the Korban HaEidah reminds us of the primacy of the principle that all humans come from the same father.

In an era where hatred, suspicion and distrust of the other seem to have become so deeply and indelibly ingrained in the human psyche, it is refreshing and welcome to see Rav Weiss endorse so positive an attitude.

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Going strong?

At Avot 4:1 Ben Zoma asks and answers four questions, of which the second is this:

אֵיזֶהוּ גִבּוֹר, הַכּוֹבֵשׁ אֶת יִצְרוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: טוֹב אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם מִגִּבּוֹר, וּמוֹשֵׁל בְּרוּחוֹ מִלֹּכֵד עִיר

Who is a gibor (“strongman”)? Someone who overpowers their inclinations. As it states (in Mishlei 16:32): "Better one who is slow to anger than a strongman, and one who rules over his spirit [is better than] than one who captures a city."

For the Sefat Emet this is obvious in quantitative terms: every individual is an olam katan (a miniature world). Anyone who can keep a lid on his own inclinations has thus conquered a whole world—which is a far greater achievement than merely conquering a city. Such a person is a true gibor.

The word gibor literally means “strong” in a physical sense. However, the notion that real strength lies outside the realms of the purely physical can be traced back to the Torah and appears frequently in Tanach. Thus we are taught that power lies in reliance on God rather than on numerical superiority, weapons and chariots (Tehillim 20:8), and that God desires the respect or fear of his subjects, not their might or their horsepower (Devarim 7:7, Tehillim 147:10-11).  The Jewish people are likened to a sheep surrounded by 70 wolves, their protection being contingent on the strength of their belief in God (Midrash Tanchuma, Toledot 6; Esther Rabbah 10:11). The related word gevurah (“strength”) is regarded as the special attribute of one of the three Patriarchs, Yitzchak: his strength as portrayed in the Torah is an inner strength that enables him to place his trust firmly in the hands of his God-fearing father Avraham, letting himself be led unresistingly to what appeared to be a proposed act of human sacrifice in which he was the intended victim (Bereshit 22:1-19).

Ben Zoma adds a further ingredient to this mix: gevurah is a person’s ability to control himself—the exercise of bechirah (“free will”)—that marks him out as truly strong. There are many facets to this degree of self-control and they go way beyond the trifling victories on which it is so easy to congratulate oneself. Politely refusing that deliciously inviting third slice of cake in the company of friends, even though one would rather have liked to eat it, is not solely the result of self-control since it is also the product of subliminal peer pressure on the part of those whose inhibiting presence cannot be discounted. Refusing the same piece of cake when there is no-one but God to watch is an entirely different matter.

Ben Zoma’s vision of strength as self-control may well be the basis for an important midrashic interpretation of a passage in Psalms (Tehillim 103:20) where the term giborei ko’ach (literally “mighty ones of strength”) is understood as a reference to those who exercise stoic self-control during the shemittah year,826 when they can neither farm their land nor stop strangers coming on to their land and eating whatever produce might be found there (Vayikra Rabbah 1:1).

Of all the personalities depicted in Tanach, the one who stands out in terms of sheer physical power is the last of the Judges, Shimshon. In Jewish tradition he is generally referred to as “Shimshon HaGibor” (“Samson the Strong”). Not only is this appellation not to be found in the Book of Judges (the first use of “Shimshon HaGibor” appears to be in the Mechilta deRabbi); in the light of this Mishnah it would appear on a plain reading of the text to be entirely inappropriate. Of all Israel’s Judges, there is none who appears as incapable of exercising self-control as Shimshon. His two unsuitable marriages, each time to a Philistine woman, appear to have been precipitated by passion, his acts of violent revenge extended far beyond the scope of retribution against those who had angered or deceived him, and he was unable to resist the persistent requests of his wife that he reveal the secret of his God-given strength.

Since the recorded description of Shimshon’s physical strength was beyond doubt, the addition of the epithet “hagibor” adds nothing to our understanding, so what is it doing there at all? Might it be that the term is being used in a manner that is ironical or euphemistic, in the same way as the words “sagi nahor” (“sufficient light”) are applied to someone who is blind?

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The real burden?

At Avot 3:6 Rabbi Nechunyah ben Hakanah teaches:

כָּל הַמְקַבֵּל עָלָיו עוֹל תּוֹרָה, מַעֲבִירִין מִמֶּֽנּוּ עוֹל מַלְכוּת וְעוֹל דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ, וְכָל הַפּוֹרֵק מִמֶּֽנוּ עוֹל תּוֹרָה, נוֹתְנִין עָלָיו עוֹל מַלְכוּת וְעוֹל דֶּֽרֶךְ אֶֽרֶץ

Anyone who accepts upon himself the yoke of Torah—they remove from him the yoke of government duties and the yoke of worldly cares; but one who casts off the yoke of Torah is saddled with the yoke of government duties and the yoke of worldly cares.

The thrust of this mishnah is hard to miss, since it speaks of how a person can fill the day. We have a choice, so why not accept the burden of Torah study and dedicate yourself to its study? In theory, God will provide for your every need. For the purposes of reality this means that, assuming that you are truly dedicated to this task and that others around you are aware of this, they will act in accordance with God’s will, shouldering your non-Torah responsibilities on your behalf. This will leave you free to focus fully on Torah study, a pursuit that is not only commendable in itself but benefits the community that supports you.

I recently found a couple of fascinating insights in R’ Yisroel Miller’s The Wisdom of Avos which read the mishnah as meaning something quite different.

The first insight is the surprising one that saddling the person who shrugs off Torah with the burdens of civic duty and having to make a living is not a punishment or a deterrent. Rather, it is a benefit. Why? Because “human beings with too much leisure time inevitably get into trouble”.  This observation might seem strange in the context of this mishnah, but it is quite in keeping with the tone of Rabban Gamliel the son of Rebbi at Avot 2:2: there we learn of the virtue of combining Torah learning with derech eretz (pursuit of a worldly occupation) since the combination of the two makes one forget to sin.

The second insight is a psychological one:

“Too many people are obsessed with keeping up with the news and worrying about it, especially various kinds of political news (the yoke of government). And how much energy do we expend worrying about our finance and our careers (the yoke of derech eretz)?”.

To political news one might add the unceasing stream of what passes for war news, much of which consists of rumour, opinion, unverified statements, bitter accusations and untested suggestions—and which is difficult to resist, irrespective of its low veracity content and its ability to anger and upset those who are compelled to endlessly consume it.

R’ Miller continues:

“The Jew who has voluntarily accepted the yoke of Torah is not oblivious to current event, and he also puts in the necessary effort to making a living, but his emotional energy is not drained away with worry, because the focus of his day is elsewhere”.

These sentiments eloquently build on an observation made many years ago by R’ Reuben p. Bulka (Chapters of the Sages). Acknowledging that both Torah study and commitment to secular activities are capable of inducing stress, he adds:

“There are always forces which drive the individual, and anxieties which confront the individual who is faced with negotiating these forces. It is up to the individual to choose which anxiety will be the primary one”.

The challenge for each of us is to make the right choice, and then to make the best of the choice once we have made it.

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Holding the line

Yesterday I was waiting a little restlessly in line to pay for my purchases. I am rarely impatient, but the line was long, the day was hot and I was holding three Chocolate Magnums which I hoped to bring home in a solid state.

At the head of the line was a man who was holding us all up. His purchases had been checked through and the man at the check-out desk was awaiting payment. Our customer was however in no hurry. He was conducting a social conversation by phone to a friend of his. The phone was in loudspeaker mode so we were all regaled with this dialogue. The customer himself had a stentorian voice and it was difficult and distracting to do anything else while he was speaking. Eventually the next customer in line politely asked him if he would please lower the volume of his voice and also pay for his goods. He turned to her in rage and bellowed at her: "Who gave you authority to tell me how loud my voice should be?" At length, the man paid, took his groceries and left the store, to the manifest relief of those still there. What, I asked myself, were the provisions of Pirkei Avot that might apply to this rude and selfish behaviour? Shopping etiquette is not a topic that gets much coverage in Avot, though Rabbi Akiva (Avot 3:20) reminds us that one can't go shopping on credit and expect not to have to pay in the end. In the end, I decided that the appropriate mishnah in Avot was one authored by the saintly Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa at Avot 3:13:

כֹּל שֶׁרֽוּחַ הַבְּרִיּוֹת נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ, רֽוּחַ הַמָּקוֹם נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ. וְכֹל שֶׁאֵין רֽוּחַ הַבְּרִיּוֹת נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ, אֵין רֽוּחַ הַמָּקוֹם נוֹחָה הֵימֶֽנּוּ

Someone who is pleasing to his fellow humans is pleasing to God. But one who is not pleasing to his fellow humans does not please God.

In a tractate that focuses on good behavioral characteristics and moral conduct, this teaching seems out of place. All it appears to do at first glance is to address our relationship with God. But if it belongs in Avot at all, this teaching must have a message for us in our daily lives—and this is it. Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa is actually cautioning us that, when we have a choice in how we behave, we should act in such a way as to give pleasure to others, and certainly not choose the path that will annoy or antagonise them. Why, because we will not only incur the displeasure of those whom we could have made happy, or not rubbed up the wrong way. We will also incur the displeasure of God.

Oh, and if you were wondering -- the Chocolate Magnums got home safe and sound.

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A message for man, a message for the many

We return to Akavya ben Mahalalel’s mishnah (Avot 3:1) which we considered here just before Pesach in the context of the human decision-making process: we asked how much time, and indeed how much honesty, we need to expend both in deciding that our actions are important enough to think about carefully and in devoting sufficient time to make them. To refresh our memories, his teaching in full reads like this:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה. דַּע מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן.

מֵאַֽיִן בָּֽאתָ: מִטִּפָּה סְרוּחָה. וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ: לִמְקוֹם עָפָר רִמָּה וְתוֹלֵעָה. וְלִפְנֵי מִי אַתָּה עָתִיד לִתֵּן דִּין וְחֶשְׁבּוֹן: לִפְנֵי מֶֽלֶךְ מַלְכֵי הַמְּלָכִים הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא

Reflect upon three things and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know from where you came, where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting.

From where you came—from a putrid drop; where you are going—to a place of dust, maggots and worms; and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting—before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

I’ve laid out the mishnah in two sections: this shows clearly that, the first time round, the three things are listed by themselves, while second time through they are accompanied by what Akavya ben Mahalalel regards as the right thing to be thinking about.  Since Tannaim are notoriously sparing with their words, much thought has been given to the apparently long-winded presentation of this teaching, which could simply have read (in English):

Reflect on three things and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know that you came from a putrid drop, that you are going to a place of dust, maggots and worms, and that you are destined to give a judgement and accounting before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

Some commentators have intuited that the reason for this apparent prolixity is that there are actually two separate teachings here, addressed to different people. Thus the Noam Elimelech understands that there are two archetypes among those who seek to pursue God and live in accordance with His will. One is the person whose aspirations soar ever upwards.  He views God and His creations with wonder and excitement; he rejoices that he lives in a world where he has the chance to demonstrate his love of God and his devotion to His commandments, and he looks forward to the world to come. This person can address Akavya’s issues without need for a prompt from their author since his mind admits of no doubt: where does he come from? From a miraculous process that implants a noble soul into the physical body. Where is he going? To an eternal life after death in which he, as a faithful servant, is assured of his reward? And before whom does he give an account of himself? Before God, his Lord and Master to whom he has dedicated his very existence.

The other archetype seeks closeness to God through the opposite route. He is deeply in awe of the world and its Creator and is constantly aware of his inadequacy and insignificance, and the transient nature of his bodily existence. He seeks to purify his soul through the pursuit of humility and through purging himself of even the suspicion of sin. For him, since he lives in constant terror of transgressing God’s commandments, Akavya provides the answers: remember your low, insignificant origin and the fate that awaits the body that you might be tempted to preen and pamper—and never forget that you are accountable to the Ultimate Authority for your every act, word and thought.

But there are many other possible explanations for the two-part arrangement of this mishnah.

For Gila Ross (Living Beautifully), one part—presumably the second—speaks to a damage limitation exercise regarding one’s soul, How does one return one’s soul unblemished to its Maker? The mishnah spells it out. But the other part refers to the actions that we are about to take and using the questions as a sort of check-list for examining one’s own motivation (this theme takes us back to the theme of our previous post on this topic, mentioned above).

Another example comes from Rabbi Shlomo P. Toperoff’s Lev Avot. For him, recognition by the individual of his or her personal past should be a trigger for thinking about one’s collective past too. He writes:

“[Recognition of an individual’s past] to help us to acknowledge the miracle of our collective survival.

This leads us to the historical interpretation of the words ‘Know whence you came’. We are a people of history, links in an endless chain of tradition. We cannot detach ourselves from the past with its sublime teachings and eternal truths …”.

The same applies to where we are going as a nation, and before Whom we continue to be called to account. So this mishnah, second time through, applies to each of us, while the first version applies to Israel as a collective, to the Jewish people as a whole. May we take to heart the moral of this mishnah and satisfy the giving of an account and the great reckoning that will surely follow it.

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Illicit pleasures of the night?

Does it matter what you do in the middle of the night? And is it anyone else’s business? To any Jew who subscribes to the all-pervasive effect of Torah law and guidelines for Jewish ethics, the answer can only be a resounding “Yes!”  The binding force of Torah and the cultivation of good middot are not subject to such random considerations as whether the sky is sunny or starry, or on the direction in which the hands of the clock are pointing.

At Avot 3:5 Rabbi Chanina ben Chachinai teaches:

הַנֵּעוֹר בַּלַּֽיְלָה, וְהַמְהַלֵּךְ בַּדֶּֽרֶךְ יְחִידִי, וּמְפַנֶּה לִבּוֹ לְבַטָּלָה, הֲרֵי זֶה מִתְחַיֵּב בְּנַפְשׁוֹ

 One who stays awake at night, travels alone on the road and turns his heart to idleness is liable for his soul.

There’s no such thing in Avot as a mishnah with a single meaning and an unequivocal explanation, and this one is no exception. Before we even get to the starting line, as it were, we have to make a big decision about a small letter: the vav (וְ). Does it mean “and”, as it usually does, or the less common “or”? In other words, is Rabbi Chanina thinking of one individual or three? If the former, what of the soul of the person who only ticks two boxes by staying awake at night and travelling alone—but would never contemplate turning his heart to idleness? We can also ask whether there is a hierarchy among the three things listed here: we all spend sleepless nights from time to time, rarely through choice, but how many of us venture out alone at night in the sort of conditions that must have pertained in the wild, lawless days of the Tannaim?

The position of many traditional commentators can easily be guessed: night-time, for one who is not fast asleep, is the perfect time for learning Torah (see eg Rabbenu Yonah, Sefat Emet)—but this is plainly not what the person described by Rabbi Chanina has in mind: a sly and furtive dodger who uses the cover of night to exploit his solo mischief.

Chasidic commentators offer their own original takes on this mishnah. Thus Rabbi Tzvi Chanoch of Bendin sees the real warning of this teaching as to make sure that you are not a yechidi—doing your own thing by yourself.  For as long as you are in the company of others, being up at night is no great problem and you are less likely to lead yourself into a life of abandonment.

As usual, contemporary commentators may not actually explain what the mishnah means, but they use it as a springboard for valuable thoughts and insights of their own. This R’ Yisrael Miller (The Wisdom of Avos) writes:

“If the sin here is bitul Torah, it would not be confined to nighttime or travel. Instead, it refers to thinking about the great questions in life we must ask ourselves, but seldom do. “Why am I here in this world? What will happen to me when I die? What does Hashem want of me? What should I change, and how should I go about it?””.

So far, R’ Miller looks as though he is basically paraphrasing the three things that Akavya ben Mahalalel lists for a person to contemplate in order to avoid sin (Avot 3:1). But then he makes his real point:

“Solitude gives us the opportunity to think about these things and, more importantly, to meditate, to turn the ideas over and over in our minds, and to try to internalize them as realities. Most people will not take the trouble to set aside times for serious thought, but when an effortless opportunity presents itself, e.g. alone on the road or late at night, to ignore it is truly a sin against one’s own soul”

A lovely thought, and a great way to put a positive slant on what might easily be taken as a negative teaching.

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Moses -- not so humble after all?

In an anonymous mishnah at Avot 5:14 we encounter four personality types with whom we are well familiar:

אַרְבַּע מִדּוֹת בְּדֵעוֹת: נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא הֶפְסֵדוֹ בִּשְׂכָרוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא שְׂכָרוֹ בְּהֶפְסֵדוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, חָסִיד. נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, רָשָׁע

There are four types of temperament. A person who is easy to anger and easy to calm down—his loss is cancelled out by his gain. One who is hard to anger and hard to calm down—his gain is cancelled out by his loss. One whom it is hard to anger but easy to calm down is a chasid. One who is easy to anger but hard to calm down is wicked.

Maharam Shik is initially troubled by this mishnah. We are supposed to choose middot that are good, but being quick to anger and slow to cool off are part and parcel of our natural package as humans. These characteristics are surely not things we choose: they are hard-wired within us. Why then stigmatise such a person as being wicked? The answer can only be that one must fight and overcome one’s inherent nature. If we can do this, Ben Zoma (Avot 4:1) praises us for demonstrating our strength of character.

So far we have learned nothing new. Most commentators are not troubled by the designation of the quick-to-anger, slow-to-cool person as wicked: they appear to assume that this is effectively a matter of choice: you are wicked if you don’t change your fundamental character trait of anger. Though this view prevails, it has attracted further refinements. For the Alshich, we regard this person as wicked in order not to learn from his ways and copy him. For the Gemara, one who yields to his anger and serves it is to be equated with an idolator (Shabbat 105b).

Maharam Shik now takes the notion that we can indeed choose to change our nature and applies it in an entirely different context.

There is a remarkable, superficially incomprehensible midrash at the very end of Yalkut Shimoni (VeZot Haberachah 966) which refers to the final verse in the Torah (Devarim 34:12):

וּלְכֹל הַיָּד הַחֲזָקָה, וּלְכֹל הַמּוֹרָא הַגָּדוֹל, אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה מֹשֶׁה, לְעֵינֵי כָּל-יִשְׂרָאֵל

“And by all the mighty hand, and by all the great terror, which Moses wrought in the sight of all Israel”.

According to the Midrash, God wanted to write the factually more correct verse

 וּלְכֹל הַיָּד הַחֲזָקָה, וּלְכֹל הַמּוֹרָא הַגָּדוֹל, אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה יהוה, לְעֵינֵי כָּל-יִשְׂרָאֵל

“And by all the mighty hand, and by all the great terror, which God wrought in the sight of all Israel”.

Moses however objected and asked that he, not God, be named as the one who wielded the mighty hand and great terror—and God agreed to do this. This midrash, Maharam Shik exclaims, is astonishing. Here we have Moses, whom the Torah itself records as being the humblest of men, demanding of God that he and not the Almighty be credited for all time as the one who worked great miracles in the eyes of all Israel. How can this be?

For those who read midrashim literally, there is no hope of a meaningful reconciliation of this message with our understanding of the Torah, and even for those who look beyond the narrative there is a hard task ahead to dress it up as the vehicle to convey a deeper moral. But Maharam Shik is up to the task.

Moses was indeed the humblest of men, but he was also a consummate teacher. He alone of our ancient sages is given the epithet ‘Rabbenu’ (our teacher). So let us postulate that this midrash is telling us a tale about a teacher.

What was the greatest of the miracles that God wrought for the Israelite people during their transition from slavery in idolatrous Egypt to the foundation of an independent monotheistic commonwealth under God? Keri’at Yam Suf, the splitting of the Reed Sea.  How did this happen? What the Israelites saw with their own eyes was Moses stretching his hand out over the sea (Shemot 14:21), which then dramatically parted. They did not of course see God. 

The midrash shows us a man performing an action which produces a result that runs contrary to the natural order and indeed defies it. This scenario depicts the possibility that man can conquer the natural order and transcend the derech teva. Now, if Moses can achieve the apparently impossible through his acts, surely we can learn from this that it is possible for us too to  transcend the same derech teva—by choosing not to flare angrily up when our nature urges to do so and, if we have given in to our inner feelings, by swiftly regaining our composure.

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Out of order

In the very first mishnah in Avot (1:1), the Anshei Knesset Gedolah (“Men of the Great Assembly”) pronounce on three things that we are urged to do:

הֱווּ מְתוּנִים בַּדִּין, וְהַעֲמִֽידוּ תַּלְמִידִים הַרְבֵּה, וַעֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

Be deliberate in judgement, and raise up many pupils, and make a fence around the Torah.

The Anshei Knesset Gedolah don’t specify which fence they have in mind but the consensus view is that they are encouraging us to adopt chumrot, stringencies, in order to distance ourselves from the transgression of the Torah’s many and sometimes pervasive Torah prohibitions (see for example the commentaries of Rambam, Rabbenu Yonah, Bartenura and Rashi). The Meiri takes a similar line though, in line with the baraita at Avot 6:6. he limits its focus to building fences round our words, to guard against improper speech.

At Avot 3:17—the only other place in Avot that mentions fences—Rabbi Akiva advertises the importance of four fences in particular:

מַסֹּֽרֶת סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה, מַעְשְׂרוֹת סְיָג לָעֹֽשֶׁר, נְדָרִים סְיָג לַפְּרִישׁוּת, סְיָג לַחָכְמָה שְׁתִיקָה

Tradition is a fence to Torah, tithing a fence to wealth, vows a fence for abstinence; a fence for wisdom is silence.

If this teaching illustrates his view of the scope of Avot 1:1, Rabbi Akiva’s understanding of it runs wider than that of the commentators we mentioned above, since his four fences deal with the safeguarding of ‘positives’. This point is picked up by Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Vizhnitz (quoted in Zwecker, Ma’asei Avos) when he comments on the word order.  The first three fences are presented in the format of “Y is a fence to Z”, while the fourth is “A fence to Z is Y”. Why should this be so?

According to Rabbi Menachem Mendel, in the first three instances, the fence is mentioned ahead of the object that it is guarding because the fence can itself help the thing which is fenced. Thus, if one forgets one’s Torah, the masoret—the transmitted tradition—can be used as an aide-memoire. If one’s wealth is being lost, giving tithes is a path to protecting it, and if one’s resolve to be abstemious is shaken, a vow may be able to buttress it. This is not the case regarding silence and wisdom. Silence by itself is not a means of increasing a person’s wisdom; it does not really ‘fence’ it in at all. In this fourth case, therefore, Rabbi Akiva is teaching about someone who is already wise: his silence can at least preserve the impression of his wisdom by inhibiting him from saying anything he might later regret.

With the seder service still fresh in our minds, it’s worth pointing out that the four fences in this mishnah loosely correspond to the Four Sons in the Haggadah.  Tradition being a fence to the Torah corresponds to the Wise Son, who asks about the festival’s halachic content but receives an answer that is based on tradition, not on any biblical rule.  Vows to fence in abstinence are relevant to the Wicked Son, whose natural inclination tends towards over-indulgence rather than abstinence.  Silence being a fence to wisdom relates to the she’eino yode’a lishol—the son who is silent—the One Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask. We respond to his silence  by opening the subject of Pesach with him and thereby make him wise.  The remaining fence, of tithes being a fence to wealth, is an allusion to the tam, the Perfect (not ‘Simple’) son. What is the relevance of tithes? The tithe is one tenth of one’s produce. This is depicted in the very word tam (תם), in which the letter ם has a numerical value of 40, exactly one-tenth of the value of ת, which is 400.

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Thinking of doing something wrong?

Akavya ben Mahalalel (Avot 3:1) gives us three things to think about if we seek to avoid transgressing Jewish law and breaching the norms of Jewish morality:

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

Know from where you came, where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give an account of yourself. From where you came—from a putrid drop; where you are going—to a place of dust, maggots and worms; and before whom you are destined to give a judgement and accounting—before the supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.

Human decision-making processes have been a subject of extensive study in recent times. The late Nobel Economics laureate Daniel Kahneman took this topic from the academic sphere to the popular arena in his best-selling book, Thinking, Fast and Slow. One of the most impressive things about his book is not his discussion of the way we make decisions but the vast array of research data and results that he cites, a body of learning that testifies to the near-obsessive nature of our desire to understand why we choose to do one thing over another.

Kahneman’s conclusion can be summarized as follows. Since our lives are shaped by a virtually uninterrupted sequence of decisions as to what to do or not do (choosing to nothing is also a decision), we can only navigate our day by shifting the vast majority of our decisions to a sort of autopilot, leaving just a small number of decisions to be made on the basis of conscious thought. For example, our daily routine for getting up and dressed in the morning requires consciousness but not a great degree of conscious thought (“thinking fast”), while our deciding whether to upgrade our cell phones may consume a considerable amount of time and brain-space (“thinking slow”).

The speed at which we make a decision has a direct effect on how we understand our relationship with God, the Torah and our fellow humans, but that direct effect is ambivalent. Our sages have long taught us that our kavanah, the intention and thoughts that precede the fulfilment of a mitzvah, is important: the more we understand and appreciate the consequences of what we do and our reason for doing it, the more laudable and worthy of reward are our deeds. Against that, the value of a deed is in the doing of it. Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner (Nefesh HaChaim) presses this point: an action done without thought remains an action, while a thought without an action has no substance to it.  And Rabbi Eliezer Berkovitz speaks up for actions that require no thought: is this not how the obedient soldier functions best—when each order (and a mitzvah is an order) is met with immediate execution, not careful deliberation on the part of the soldier instructed to carry it out?

In truth, Jewish philosophy places a value both on the deed and on the thought, since human existence is comprised of them both. But some commentators do show a preference for one over the other. Thus Rabbi Asher Weiss (Rav Asher Weiss on Avos) writes the following:

“Anybody with any sense should consider his ways and plan his path in advance. Before he does anything he should ask himself, “From where have you come? Where are you going to? Based on your experience in the past, what benefit will you gain from the act that you are about to do? Is it correct and worthwhile, or perhaps will the loss outweigh the gain? Could silence perhaps be a better course than speaking?”

In an ideal world, this would be the ideal approach to making a decision. But the reality often poses challenges that the ideal finds difficult to handle. One is that, for most decisions we make in our daily lives and that demand careful thought, it can be hard to see how where we have come from as being a criterion we can helpfully apply. And one of the factors that most commonly makes us stop in our tracks and think carefully is the absence of relevant past experiences that might guide us—for if we had their benefit our decision might not detain us long. Likewise, it is in those situations where we are not about to choose between right and wrong, between gain and detriment, that we find it most difficult to reach a decision at all.

Let us go back to the opening of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s mishnah, before the three things to the reason for the teaching itself:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה

Reflect upon three things and you will not come into the grip of transgression. 

Within the context of seeking to avoid sin, the advice of the mishnah makes sense. If you are the person who is contemplating whether to sin or not, you may gain inner strength and self-discipline from asking yourself: who am I? Am I entitled to do this, and what will the consequences be—both in the here and now and for my long-term emotional and spiritual future?

The efficacy of this advice however depends on a number of variables. One is our ability to recognize which decisions require deep and careful thought and which do not. We all have God-given instincts and impulses, and the decision whether to review and assess them at all itself requires serious consideration.  Secondly, we have to be totally honest with ourselves. Akavya ben Mahalalel is concerned with situations in which we may decide to commit a transgression. This already suggests that we are, as probably the vast majority of humans are, at least prepared to contemplate breaking the rules. For many people the decision they are thinking about is not whether to sin or not, but whether and, if so, how they can justify the sin they would like to commit.

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Desirable donation or procreative proposition?

At Avot 3:18 Rabbi Akiva waxes lyrical about God’s love for humanity, and for His profound affection for His chosen people. The mishnah concludes with the following words:

חֲבִיבִין יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַֽעַת לָהֶם שֶׁנִּתַּן לָהֶם כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי לֶֽקַח טוֹב נָתַֽתִּי לָכֶם, תּוֹרָתִי אַל תַּעֲזֹֽבוּ

Beloved are Israel, for they were given a desirable article; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they were given a desirable utensil, as it says: "I have given you a good purchase; My Torah, do not forsake it" (Mishlei 4:2).

The version we have quoted above is one of two that are commonly found.  I’ve taken it from Chabad.org; it is also found in all ArtScroll’s siddurim and commentaries on Avot. In the Koren Pirkei Avot and the British Authorised Daily Prayer Book, however, we find three extra words: the precious article is described as a כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם – a precious article with which the world was created.

The addition of these three words has great significance. There is a tradition that the Torah was both created before the world and used as a blueprint, as it were, for its creation. This tradition is supported by verses from Proverbs (Mishlei 3:19 and 8:22 et seq). While there are later texts that unequivocally support the proposition that the Torah is ante-mundane, including the Gemara (Shabbat 88b) and the Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer, this reference in Avot appears to be its first mention in rabbinic literature.

Of the early commentators who have the text which includes the words שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם, Rabbenu Yonah and the commentary ascribed to Rashi simply endorse the notion that the Torah was used for the creation of the world. Meiri accepts both this position and the explanation that the world was created for the sake of the Torah (the explanation subsequently endorsed by the Bartenura). Rambam does not however give the additional words their literal meaning. In his view, they teach only that everything that happens is foreseen by God, who knows of its occurrence—a message repeated and reaffirmed in the next mishnah (Avot 3:19) where he teaches that, even though everything is foreseen, we are still given free will.

What I want to know is why these words are here at all? What do they mean to us in our daily lives? Most of us, perhaps to our discredit, are not greatly concerned with the question of whether the Torah was used in the creation of the world at all. We have our Torah mitzvot, our rabbinical mitzvot, our regular habits, customs and practices, which we balance against our need to feed and clothe ourselves and our families, to keep a roof over our heads and to guard against unforeseen contingencies. So what is with this כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה and why should we need to be told that it is something שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם?

In searching for a plausible answer to these questions, I spotted the suggestion of Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) that we take the words כְּלִי חֶמְדָּה to mean not “desirable utensil” but “utensil for desire”.  On this basis, God has given us a utensil through which we may channel our desires in a constructive and legitimate manner.

Now the words שֶׁבּוֹ נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם have a greater significance. The Maharal (Derech Chaim, Avot 1:2) draws on the significance of our teaching that every human being is an olam katan, a small world in his or her own right.  The creation of a world to which our mishnah now refers is the creation of that olam katan that is a new human life, and the appropriate way to create it is given by the Torah itself when it lays down parameters for sexual gratification.  Because of God’s great love for us, He provides the channel for creating the next generation.

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Playing God by refusing to judge?

At Avot 1:6 Yehoshua ben Perachyah teaches:

עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וּקְנֵה לְךָ חָבֵר, וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת

Make for yourself a teacher (or master), acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every person meritoriously.

The third and final part of this mishnah is the source for the injunction to give other people the benefit of the doubt if you don’t know whether they intended to act in a dubious manner. After all, we don’t have a window into other people’s minds. When they do something wrong, can we be sure that they were doing so deliberately? Or did they have an explanation, an excuse that was at least plausible if not deserving of our approval?

This may not have been quite what Yehoshua ben Perachyah meant.  The word safek (“doubt”) does not actually appear in this mishnah. The commentaries of the Bartenura, Rambam, Rashi and Rabbenu Yonah make no mention of doubt either.

According to the commentary ascribed to Rashi, one should not assume that what one hears someone else has done is bad unless there is clear evidence to that effect. This idea that we are talking here about the burden of proof when judging a legal dispute—a subject matter that fits well into the first perek of Avot, where much, if not most, of the teachings are relevant to judicial proceedings. The Bartenura uses “scales of justice” imagery too: when the case is equipoised, one should not treat the person being judged as a rasha, someone who is wicked.

Rambam, whose explanation is endorsed by Rabbenu Yonah and the Me’iri, takes this mishnah beyond the realm of judicial proceedings. In their view it only really applies to someone you don’t know: if you know a person to be bad, even his apparently good actions are probably bad, while a good person’s seemingly bad actions should be viewed as good.

Some commentators seek to link the third part of the mishnah to the teachings that precede it. Thus the Sforno and Rabbi Chaim Volozhin (Ruach HaChaim) both see judging others favourably as the means of preserving the friendship that one has just acquired.

Rabbi Norman Lamm (Foundation of Faith) offers a very different explanation of this mishnah, citing a teaching of Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech Spira of Dinov, Chasidic author of the Bnei Yissaschar.  Here the focus is shifted from subjective doubt to and objective evidence of truth, towards the higher value of emulating God. He writes:

“[I]f your friend does something and you have two ways of judging him, either realistically, attributing his actions to malice and bad motives, or charitably, seeking out the best interpretation of his deeds, you must do the latter and give him the benefit of the doubt. But how can one do this when one knows that a fellowman did indeed perform a transgression out of malevolence or at least indifferent motives? Knowing the psychology of human beings, and the nastiness that lies so close to the soul, are we indeed being truthful in judging another lekaf zechut—charitably?”

This is not a rhetorical question. It is indeed demanded by Pirkei Avot itself, where truth is highlighted as one of the three things that enable the world to function (Avot 1:18) and we are told that conceding the truth is one of the seven signs of the chacham, one who is wise (Avot 5:9). The Bnei Yissaschar however effectively bypasses this issue. As Rabbi Lamm explains, this answer hinges on another mishnah in Avot, an enigmatic statement by Rabbi Akiva at Avot 3:19 that appears to have no obvious connection to our discussion:

הַכֹּל צָפוּי, וְהָרְשׁוּת נְתוּנָה

Everything is foreseen, and freedom of choice is granted.

Rabbi Lamm explains:

“[T]he Almighty foresees everything, yet we are possessed of free will. But is this not a contradiction? Does not divine foreknowledge mean that I must do what He has foreseen, that I am denied free choice between good and evil? The answer of a number of Rishonim is that the Almighty practises tzimtzum, He deliberately curbs His own foreknowledge. He decides not to see, not to know, hence not to coerce man’s choice. So …we must imitate the divine act of self-denial—Imitatio Dei—and man too must refrain from knowing too much of the human proclivity for the base and the ugly. We must not see, not know, not understand our friend’s “real” character; instead, we must judge him charitably, lekaf zechut. This is the essence of Jewish Gevurah [literally ‘strength’,meaning here ‘self-control’]: to know how to pull back, to know when not to look at another person’s character, and to achieve “simplicity””.

These words are so noble and inspiring that we could almost swallow them whole. But in the world of middot and mussar nothing is simple. In the same perek as this mishnah, we are told to distance ourselves from a bad neighbour and to avoid joining up with a rasha, someone who is evil. These assessments are of people rather than of actions (the subject of our mishnah) but there is a fine line to be drawn—for how do we judge a person other than through his or her actions?

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Mind what you wear!

There’s not much in Pirkei Avot about clothing. In fact, clothes don’t get a mention at all—unless you count crowns, that is. But we do learn about being clothed. In the first baraita of the sixth perek, immediately after the prolegomenon, we learn the following in the name of Rabbi Meir:

כָּל הָעוֹסֵק בַּתּוֹרָה לִשְׁמָהּ זוֹכֶה לִדְבָרִים הַרְבֵּה, וְלֹא עוֹד, אֶלָּא שֶׁכָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ כְּדַאי הוּא לוֹ. נִקְרָא רֵֽעַ, אָהוּב, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַמָּקוֹם, אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, מְשַׂמֵּֽחַ אֶת הַמָּקוֹם, מְשַׂמֵּֽחַ אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת, וּמַלְבַּשְׁתּוֹ עֲנָוָה וְיִרְאָה

Whoever studies Torah for Torah's sake merits many things; not only that, but [the creation of] the entire world is worthwhile for him alone. He is called a friend, beloved, a lover of God, a lover of humanity, a person who makes God happy, someone who makes humans happy. And the Torah enclothes him with humility and awe …

This is obviously a metaphor, since any talmid chacham who walks the streets clad in nothing but his humility and awe would soon attract quite the wrong sort of attention—but what is the significance of this metaphor?

Rabbenu Yonah surprisingly states that being wrapped in the garb of humility and awe is comparable to being immersed in water—which itself is a metaphor for water. Midrash Shmuel sticks closer to the concept of clothing when he comments that, just as chochmah, wisdom, is at the head of a person, humility is, as it were, his pair of sandals since, like humility itself, there is nothing lower.  But what does chochmah, rather than yirah, fear, have to do with this teaching? Explains Midrash Shmuel, reshit chochmah yirat Hashem (Tehillim 111:10): the first step towards wisdom is fear itself, fear of God.

Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathers) picks up the metaphor and runs with it: humility is a garment which must be removed when necessary, since there are times when a person must show himself to be firm and decisive. Misguided humility can be destructive, and a true Torah scholar knows when to be humble and when not to be.

I can offer another plausible explanation. We recognise many people by their uniforms: the police, fire fighters, nurses, for example. On this basis we can identify them easily and feel confident that they have the skills and training that have earned them the right to wear their uniforms. So too, if we see a person who is, as it were, clothed in humility and deep respect, we are entitled to assume that the person who “wears” these characteristics actually possesses them. If not, then the clothes are a deceit, a false description of the person beneath them.

Is there any support for this? Possibly. The Chasid Yavetz utilises much the same idea, pointing out that a true tzaddik does not alternate between righteousness and unrighteousness but “wears” his finer qualities all the time (we might add, “like a uniform”). The garments of humility and awe are not undergarments, says the Chasid Yavetz: they are the visible over-garments that advertise a person’s true nature and qualities.

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