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March 13, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter four, verse three: davar

Let’s see. This is one of those verses that has a swing to it in the original that it is difficult to capture in English, so why don’t I try to transliterate the verse and perhaps embed a sound file, if I can figure out a good way to do it.

Hu hayah omer: al-t’hi vaz l’chal-adam, v’al t’hi mafleeg l’chal davar; sheh’ain lo sha’ah, v’ain l’cha davar lo makom.

21 words (depending on what one considers a word) Jacob Neusner translates it with 35 words:

He would say, “Do not despise anybody and do not treat anything as unlikely. For you have no one who does not have his time, and you have nothing which does not have its place.”

As an ethical precept, it’s pretty straightforward and unarguable, and in fact the commentary tends to leave it pretty much alone, other than giving some examples of sages either giving or not giving the due respect to a person who appears to be wicked or worthless, realizing or not realizing that that person, too, will have his hour. And some disagreement about whether the injunction is against dismissing unlikely things out of hand, with an implication that it is all right to dismiss impossibilities once you have put some careful study into their likelihood, or whether one should never dismiss a thing at all even after it is shown to be nonsense.

There is also a somewhat more mystically oriented tradition that says that the purpose of the verse is to celebrate, not necessarily the person who has his time and the thing which has its place, but time and space themselves, which are the Creations of the Divine without which nothing could, you know, be. Therefore even if a person has no value in himself, showing himself by his own actions to be unworthy of respect, yet those wicked actions take place, by their nature, in time, the gift of the Divine, and are a window into it. And any thing, whether it be a thing of value or a thing of putrescence, is a thing by virtue of taking up space in the Divine Creation, and being a part of it, and is a window into it.

There’s another point I’ll bring up, for which I am indebted to Irving M. Bunim, that the word here for thing is davar, which also means word or communication. The Ten Commandments are the ten d’varim; a davar is the Word (or logos) for a thing, as opposed to the Name for a thing. There’s a fellow on the internet who claims that thing is always a mistranslation, and that there is always a connotation of communication involved with davar. See, for instance, Genesis 11:1, where before the Tower of Babel the whole world was of one language (safah) and one speech (davar), or in the RSV they had few words. As opposed to things, which presumably existed in the same profusion as afterwards.

Digression: Your Humble Blogger was going to attempt not to reference the David Ives one-act play Babel’s in Arms, which contains the immortal line Mankind is in its youth, and hath not a word for every fucker, but I am giving up and putting into a Digression. I saw a production of this brilliant little gem at the theater where we are putting on R3, and hadn’t connected the author with the reviews I have been reading of Venus in Fur. The Babel play is really tailored for me, though: bible humor, slapstick, excessive profanity. What could be better than that? End Digression.

Well, if it is not every thing that has a place but every word that has a place, and must not be rejected therefore, well, that makes things a bit different. Do not reject people, and do not reject their words; people will have their times, and words will have their—what? Their makom, which is very definitely place. But what would it mean for every word to have a place. The word makom is related to kum, to stand up (the word has liturgical significance, for when we are upstanding in the service), so every word will have a place to stand, to rise up. Or, if you will, every word has standing, in the legal sense.

But what is it we are not to do with people and words? We are not to mafleeg, to reject them or dismiss them or carp at them, depending on the translation. Mr. Bunim claims the word is connected via its root to the word for shatter or split apart. Do not split yourself apart from people and their words? For each person has an hour and each word has standing for you to judge?

The point, for me, in all of this, in expanding the possibilities of the text and its connotations, is that (a) this is yet another example of how this kind of Hebrew magnificently compacts these kinds of repetitive aphorisms in a way that English does not, and (2) while the usual translation and idea are straightforward, the application of them is not, and the expansion of connotations, I think, is productive in wondering what, exactly we should do about those people, things, texts, elements that seem to be worthless or a waste of time. It is, of course, not only easy but justifiable to avoid the avoidable and curse the unavoidable.

There’s a story about Abraham and a stranger. Y’all know that Abraham was the epitome of hospitality, that not only would he happily feed any stranger that came to his house, he would go out and seek wayfarers at the crossroads in hopes of being able to provide hospitality for them. Well, it seems that one day he brings home a rotten old man who eats all his cabbage and acts like a savage, swears and blasphemes and generally is a grade-A asshole. So when the old fart has eaten his fill and has been offered water and all, Abraham pretty brusquely gives him the old heave-ho and gets rid of him. And the Divine says to Abraham, saying nu, why in such a hurry? Not even a blessing or a go-in-peace? And Abraham says Lord, I thought I was gonna plotz. I couldn’t put up with that momser in my house for another minute. Says the Divine You couldn’t put up with him for another minute? I have put up with that bastard for seventy years, and you couldn’t put up with him for another minute?

Well, you see? Whatever else that old man was, he was in time and space—and time and space are the Divine Creation. The Divine not only puts up with us all, thank the Divine, but gives us each the gift of Time and Space, which fundamentally cannot be wasted, only misused.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

ETA:

March 6, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter four, verse two: s'char

Ben Azzai said, Run to do even a slight precept, and flee from transgression; for one good deed draws another good deed in its train, and one sin, another sin; for the reward of a good deed is a good deed, and the wages of sin is sin.

I am using Joseph Hertz’s translation, because it so pointedly uses wages instead of reward. If you ask people what are the wages of sin? (or for that matter what is the wages of sin?) the chances are very good that the response will be the wages of sin is death (or are death). I don’t know what the response would be to what is the wages of a good deed?, but I suspect it would not be another good deed. But it should be.

I think that s’char mitzvah, mitzvah; s’char aveira, aveira is not only an excellent first principle to teach and live by, it’s a seriously accurate description of the universe (the one I perceive). Certainly more so than many other ethical precepts. I know that when Saul of Tarsus said that For the wages of sin [is] death; but the gift of God [is] eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord, he wasn’t talking about the death of the body but death of the spirit —but then, see, we’ve stopped describing any universe I recognize. I’m not saying it’s ineffective as inspiration, but when we are talking about how the world turns, Simeon ben Azzai seems to me to be simply telling the truth.

Do a mitzvah, do another, do another, and they start to come easy. Allow yourself to fall short once, fine, nobody is perfect. But the second time is easier, and the third easier yet, and then transgressions follow each other in a train until it seems impossible to stop them. Of course, transgressions of diet are the obvious ones to think about, but peculation, particularly stealing from the workplace strikes me as an even more powerful example. The first time you take a five out of the drawer, or walk out with something in your pockets, you may think you will pass out from the fear and shame. But you get away with it, because most of the time people do get away with it, and so you do it again, and again, and again, until somehow you think of it your right, inviolable, to walk out with a CD or an extra hour’s pay, and any enforcement is an outrage.

The first time you give a dollar as a handout, almost anything could happen. If you do it, though, and then you do it again, and then again, pretty soon you could have a habit, a dollar a day to help the homeless, and you will do it almost without thinking. Not entirely, but without misgivings or trepidation, and even without resentment. A bad habit is harder than a diamond to break; a good habit is more valuable than a diamond to keep.

Which is why we adopted the precept, which ben Azzai refers to as running to do a mitzvah, that any mitzvah should be done as early in the day as possible. Some are time-sensitive, of course, but still, if there is a range of time, it is better to do it at the beginning of that range, as if s’char mitzvah mitzvah you have time for the next one. Whether this applies to, er, marital relations is unclear; ben Azzai, for all his piety, did not run to follow that particular precept and remained unmarried and childless until the Romans killed him after the Bar Koziba catastrophe. Goes to show, doesn’t it?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 27, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter four, verse 1

We are at the beginning of Chapter Four, and one of the great sayings, here in the Chabad translation:

Ben Zoma would say: Who is wise? One who learns from every man. As is stated: “From all my teachers I have grown wise, for Your testimonials are my meditation.”
Who is strong? One who overpowers his inclinations. As is stated, “Better one who is slow to anger than one with might, one who rules his spirit than the captor of a city.”
Who is rich? One who is satisfied with his lot. As is stated: “If you eat of toil of your hands, fortunate are you, and good is to you”; “fortunate are you" in this world, “and good is to you” in the World to Come.
Who is honorable? One who honors his fellows. As is stated: “For to those who honor me, I accord honor; those who scorn me shall be demeaned.”

It’s a marvelous saying, and uses the reversal technique (which we have seen before) particularly well (although the proof texts are a little weak, frankly).

Unfortunately, Ben Zoma was insane.

It seems as if I may not have told the story of the Four Who Entered Paradise. Have I? Well, if I have already told it, settle down, I’ll tell it again. It’s worth telling again. It’s the inspiration (I think) for the novel As a Driven Leaf, and could just about be an inspiration for a play, if I could come up with a setting that worked for me. Anyway.

There were four who entered Paradise. Ben Azzai was one, Ben Zoma the second, another was the third, and the fourth was Rabbi Akiba. Rabbi Akiba said to the others, he said, When ye arrive at the stones of pure marble, don’t cry out ‘water, water!’ says he, for he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight, that is, the presence of the Divine.

Ben Azzai took one look and died.

Ben Zoma took one look and went mad.

The other one became a heretic (which is why we don’t mention his name in the story, not to speak ill, although for a hint, his first initial is E and the second letter is lisha Ben Abuyah).

Rabbi Akiba departed unhurt.

That’s the whole of the story, which is written in the tractate Hagigah, page 14b. It is clearly a strange and unsatisfactory story.

Why were the four of them going to Paradise? What is meant by paradise? Are they actually going someplace, or is the journey a metaphor for deep learning? Did the three get in to Paradise or just look in from the border, as it were. How did Rabbi Akiba know there would be marble that looks like water? What differentiated the four, as they were all known for both piety and learning before this incident? What was the nature of Ben Zoma’s madness? How did this terrible experience affect Rabbi Akiba, who was unhurt in some sense, but must have lived with the memory of it?

Most of all, why did the Divine allow the entire thing to happen? What is there to learn from the story? If the lesson is to stay the hell out of Paradise, what is Paradise for? If the lesson is Rabbi Akiba was extraordinary, then what are we to make of the teachings of the rest of the Four?

Wisdom is learning; Strength is restraint, wealth is sufficiency, and honor is in the honoring. These are terrific lessons. I love these verses, and in particular, I love the way that they allow anyone to be wise, anyone to be strong, to be rich, to be honorable, because those things are not gifts or circumstances but choices.

And yet, Gentle Reader, if you were to make the choice to find wisdom in learning, to find strength in restraint, if you were to find richness in what you have and honor in the way you treat your fellow man, if you were to do all of that, like Ben Zoma did, and then you were to enter Paradise…

Is it not enough?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 25, 2010

Fast, faster, fasted

Today is the Fast of Esther, in preparation for Purim. Y’all know the Purim story, yes? Well, in Esther 4:16, she says

Go, gather together all the Jews that are present in Shushan, and fast ye for me, and neither eat nor drink three days, night or day: I also and my maidens will fast likewise; and so will I go in unto the king, which [is] not according to the law: and if I perish, I perish.

We do not, of course, fast for three days and nights. In fact, most of us don’t fast at all—Your Humble Blogger certainly never has. I have mentioned here, probably most years, that Purim makes me uneasy, altogether. It’s possible that observing the Fast of Esther would help with that, somehow, although honestly I can’t see how.

Still, this is the first time in years that I have thought about the fast of Esther on the day of it, largely thanks to an attempt of mine to find blogs that write about Scripture from a similar standpoint to mine. This attempt has been largely unsuccessful, although I did discover some interesting things about the Purim traditions… anyway, to go along with the drinking and cross-dressing and triangular cookies, there’s a fast day. Which is probably pretty much over for all of you now. Ah, well.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 20, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 23

A. R. Eleazar Hisma says, “The laws of bird offerings and the beginning of a woman’s menstrual period—they are indeed the essentials of the Torah.
B. “Calculations of the equinoxes and reckoning of the numerical value of letters are the savories of wisdom.

This is Jacob Neusner’s translation. Actually, this is an incredibly difficult verse to translate, without actually being a difficult verse to understand. Let me see if I can muddy things a bit.

First of all, there are at least three or four different explanations for Rabbi Eleazar being called Hisma. I’m not going to go into them, as I don’t think they are relevant to this verse, but I will tell one quick story about him, or at least a story that mentions him. When Rabban Gamliel was talking to Rabbi Yehoshua, he expressed wonder that Yehoshua had to travel in trade, since he was so knowledgeable. He replied to Rabban Gamliel, “Don’t worry about me, you have two disciples back home who can calculate the number of drops in the ocean, and they have neither food nor clothes.” One of those two was Rabbi Eleazar Hisma. There is no footnote explaining how one would know if that estimate were correct, but the point is that Eleazar Hisma is known for his skills at natural philosophy, and of course his poverty. So this verse isn’t coming from a scholar of Torah who spurned secular pursuits, rather from a polyglot, albeit one who eventually made a living as a religious official, rather than in secular work. OK, now the two things that are important are kineen and p’tuchay niddah. The words are the titles of sections of the Law. The word kineen means a bird’s nest, evidently, and the nest we are talking about in this case is an offering in the Temple. The laws concerning offerings are extremely complicated, and I know nothing about them (thank the Divine), but I understand that one of the situations in which a bird offering is appropriate (in case you are wondering, there are different circumstances for the offering of birds, goats, oxen, wheat, fruit, etc, etc, and different combinations thereof, with differences for thank-offerings, sin-offerings, free-offerings, offerings associated with holidays, etc, etc) is when a woman has survived childbirth. And we have seen niddah before, as it is the law concerning ritual purity and menstruation, more complicated than it sounds (and perhaps less misogynist than it sounds, although that depends on time and place and the hedge around the Torah).

These are a metonymy, presumably, but for what? Are kineen and niddah representing the complications of the Law? Or are the representing the laws concerning reproduction? Or the laws concerning women? Or, by virtue of their being the last sections of their tractates, do they represent completion?

As for the less important, the word is revolutions, meant as heavenly revolutions and so the equinoxes. This is sometimes translated as astronomy, generally, as nowadays the equinoxes are well-trained and come when people expect them. At the time, presumably, the prediction of the equinox, or of midsummer and midwinter days, would have been a matter of some difficulty, particularly for those using a lunar calendar. Or would it? Anyway, we are talking about the study of the stars, in some manner or other. And then gematria, which is a sort of numerology, could also be a Hebrew transliteration of geometry. Or it could mean the study of numbers more generally, either in connection with their mystical meanings and associations or in matters such as, oh, estimating the number of drops in the ocean, or the number of cuts in a knife.

Finally, there is some dispute over what the relation is between these less important matters and wisdom: they are the pripriyot of wisdom, which could be the dainties or side-dishes to wisdom’s entree, or they could be the circumference or outer edge or fringe of wisdom’s center. Or they could be the support or confirmation of wisdom, which would imply that the study of secular matters should not be neglected as they tend to support the Law, rather than detract from it. This word (along with, perhaps, his surname) seems to be a sort of hobson-jobson, a borrowing of Greek into Hebrew that changes the pronunciation to the point that it is difficult to go back to the original language. Which is not a problem for words that become commonly used (as somebody attempting to figure out what pundits are wouldn’t need to try to find his answer in Sanskrit. But when we don’t have a lot of other examples of the time, it gets tricky.

Ah, well. Despite all the confusion, the concept is actually pretty clear: Rabbi Eleazar Hisma is saying that the Law takes precedence over secular studies, while making it clear that secular studies are a good thing, too. While I generally agree with him, I think it’s worth noting during that agreement the difficulty of understanding this verse yields itself somewhat to the benefits of secular studies of philology. Isn’t the circumference as important a part of the circle as the center? Isn’t the side-dish the thing that brings out the quality of the entree?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 13, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 22

We are still talking about Rabbi Eliezar ben Azariah, from last week. And his saying is not a new idea, but a new expression of Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa’s saying in verse twelve. Only… well, let’s look at the text, first.

He used to say: He whose wisdom is more abundant than his works, to what is he like? To a tree whose branches are abundant but whose roots are few; and the wind comes and uproots it and overturns it, as it is written, He shall be like a tamarisk in the desert and shall not see when good cometh; but shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness. But he whose works are more abundant than his wisdom, to what is he like? To a tree whose branches are few but whose roots are many; so that even if all the winds in the world come and blow against it, it cannot be stirred from its place, as it is written, He shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out his roots by the river, and shall not fear when heat cometh, and his leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit.

So, on the surface, yes, he’s just illustrating the bit about wisdom and deeds. But really, I don’t think he’s having a conversation here with Chanina ben Dosa, but with Jeremiah. When you look at the proof texts in their context, and then look at Rabbi Eliezar ben Azariah’s text, something very different emerges.

Let’s take the first one, the one who is all wisdom and no proverbial; From Jeremiah, he is like the ar’ar ba-aravah, the naked desert. Probably the naked plant, the tree without leaves. Our translator, Herbert Danby D.D., is either making his own translation of the Jeremiah or he is working from an untrustworthy one; a tamarisk is eshel, and this is clearly not that. The tamarisk is known for being shady and moist; Jeremiah is talking about something closer to this, I think. But that is not, clearly not, what Rabbi Eliezar ben Azariah is talking about, with abundant branches and few roots. The Rabbi is, in fact, talking about a tamarisk. Thus, I imagine, Dr. Danby’s confusion.

So we’ve got the tree backwards; but what else? Well, for Eliezar ben Azariah, as we have seen, the fellow who is like that tree is like that tree because his wisdom is more abundant than his works. But in Jeremiah, who is like that tree? The fellow who trusteth in man, and makes flesh his arm is like that tree.

And the other man?

The other man is like ha-aytz shatul mayim, the tree planted by the water. Because he trusteth in the Lord. That is the man who Eliezar ben Azariah describes as having more roots than branches, and having more works than wisdom.

I think Rabbi Eliezar ben Azariah has the whole thing upside-down. But—and here’s the fun part—I think he has it upside-down on purpose. Stick with me.

[YHB rolls out a large chalkboard with the Jeremiah verses on the left and the Avot verse on the right, and starts circling words and drawing lines between them]

The man who trusts in man but not in the Lord, who is he? How can you identify him? Not by his roots, which you can’t see. Not by the trust, which you can’t see. Not by his wisdom, which you can’t see. How can you identify the man who trusts in the Lord? By that trust? By his roots? By his wisdom?

The man who trusts in the Lord can be identified, not by the trust he places in the Divine, but by the active work, the tangible deeds, his relations with men and with the things around him. The man who fails to trust in the Divine cannot be identified by searching the Divine, but by searching the creation of the Divine, and seeing the absence of works.

In other words, the person who acts as if he is concerned about people, who works for the benefit of people, who doesn’t abandon people or exploit them or hurt them—if you are looking at it right-side-up, you think that that is the person who trusts in people. But if you are looking at it upside-down (that is, the correct way), you see that the person who spends time working for people, to alleviate their problems and bring them joy, that is the person who trusts in the Divine, the person whose invisible roots are even stronger than the visible branches.

But the other person, the one who acts as if the Divine Creation was made only for him, the one who does not have works to her credit, the one who builds up wisdom for its own sake and to show off and to lord it over the rest—that person does not trust the Divine but only in man; that is a person with weak branches and weaker roots, a person who will blow over in a storm, who won’t see good things in other people, or even, at last, in the self.

We tend to walk around right-side-up, because it’s easier that way. We look around at things right-side-up. The right-side-up simile is that visible deeds are like branches, and invisible wisdom like the roots that feed them. It’s good to have an upside-down simile, at least now and then, to say that the wisdom is the crown of the tree and the deeds are the roots that anchor it; to reflect that the things you can see are the things that count; to put your crown in the dirt and wave your roots in the air; to trust in the Divine by working for the Creation; to have a naked tamarisk and a leafy Joshua tree; to take things the wrong way around to get to the right answer at last.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 6, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 21

This week we turn to Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah, who is Ezra’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson; he is known as an aristocrat whose vast wealth was exceeded only by his immense generosity, and whose immense generosity was exceeded only by his great knowledge.

Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah says: Where there is no Torah, there’s no right conduct, where there is no right conduct, there’s no Torah; where there is no wisdom, there’s no piety, where there is no piety, there’s no wisdom; where there is no perception, there’s no knowledge, where there’s no knowledge, there’s no perception; where there is no bread, there’s no torah, were there is no Torah, there’s no bread.

Four pairs. I hate pairs. Triples are good, pairs are bad. Hmph.

First pair is Torah and right conduct, or derech eretz, and the idea of the connection between them is not new. We talked about that in connection with Rabban Gamliel). Nothing really new here, except the negative phrasing. Where Rabban Gamliel suggests that that the pairing is fitting and is focused on the presence of both, Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah is focused on the absence of both. I’ll get back to that.

Second pair is wisdom and piety, or hachmah and yir’ah. The latter is sometimes called fear or perhaps better reverence. Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin draws the connection between study of “the heavens and the earth and what is between them”, that is, secular study, and the fear of sin, as “when one perceives the genuine greatness of these things, he begins to understand ” the Divine Creator from the Creation.

Third pair is perception and knowledge. The difference between them is described by different commentators in different ways. The Machsor Vitry says that knowledge is what learned from another, whilst perception is your own ideas. The Meiri, on the other hand, says that knowledge is innate, whilst perception is learned. I have no idea, and probably have neither. Can we come back to this one?

Four and final pair is Torah and bread. Which is where we started, right? Only this time it’s bread, specifically, rather than derech eretz, which can mean either your occupation in the world or good conduct. If this is bread, and thus metaphorically breadwinning, then the other is conduct, yes? Or there is a double meaning, to make the whole verse circle around on itself.

So in the three verses that are reasonably clear, we have on the one hand secular aspects of life (conduct, wisdom and bread) and on the other religious (Torah, piety and, er, Torah). Does this help us differentiate perception and knowledge? Surely, here, one is meant to indicate something close to faith, the knowledge that the Divine exists and that Scripture is Scripture. A basic belief that is not based on evidence and is unshakeable. The other is the ability to judge evidence, to analyze, to perceive when the world is not how you think it is. The sage is here telling us that they are not opposed but complementary, both existing by virtue of the other’s existence. We start with an axiom or a bias. We also start with a world that exists independently of any axiom.

In other words, my belief in the Creator is not dependent on the Creation. But then neither is my belief in the Creation dependent on a belief in the Creator. I don’t think that’s what is meant by the if not x then not y formulation. I think it’s closer to this: if you reject [Torah, reverence, knowledge/axiomatic belief, Torah] in favor of [ethics, wisdom, perception, materialism], you are making a fundamental error. If, however, you are making the opposite choice, rejecting the pragmatic to embrace the spiritual, you are also making a fundamental error. Not in which one you are choosing. The error is choosing.

A world without bread would not be the world. A world without Torah would not be the world. If there is no Torah, there is no bread; if there is no bread, there is no Torah—not because you are too hungry to study or too sinful to be rewarded with food, but because without either of those things there is nothing.

I think that’s why Eleazar ben Azariah is repeating this idea in such a profoundly negative formulation. We cannot take the world a la carte. Rejection—of either side—is nihilism, the great shout of NO that keeps away both the Divine and the mundane, and yourself, too.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

January 30, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 20

This is a long one, so I’m going to use Jacob Neusner’s fancy break-it-down style of translation:

A. He would say, “(1) All is handed over as a pledge,
B.“(2)And a net is cast over all the living.
C.“(3)The store is open, (4) the shopkeeper gives credit, (5) the account book is open, and (6) the hand is writing.
D.“(1)Whoever wants to borrow may come and borrow.
E.“(2)The charity collectors go around every day and collect from man whether he knows it or not.
F.“(3)And they have grounds for what they do.
G.“(4)And the judgment is a true judgment.
H.“(5)And everything is prepared for the meal.”

What do we learn from Rabbi Akiva today? That it’s OK to mix metaphors, that’s what we learn.

The main metaphor is that the world is like a store. Ha-Meiri says that this is because of the infinite variety of its goods—“some are bitter, some are sweet; some are hot, some are cold; some are moist, some are dry; some are hard, some are soft; and the choice is left to the purchaser to buy what he wishes, either the bitter or the sweet.” The shop is open, and not only is credit available, but it is available to everyone. On the other hand, the bill does come due, and there is no escaping the collectors.

And everything is prepared for the meal. Or the feast or the banquet, depending. What is this meal? How does that follow from the shopkeeper metaphor?

In the Machsor Vitry, they extend the metaphor: a shopkeeper, with so much on the AR ledger, may keep a sparse table for every day, as he spends his money on the goods and does not get all the income. What happens, though, when the money comes due? He plans a feast. Is the Divine planning a feast, for that moment when we all pay our debt to Creation? Is there a celebration at hand— and we are holding it up by being deadbeats? It’s a thought.

Other commentators have a different interpretation. Rabbi Meshullam bar Kalonymos says that the feast is death. Why is death a feast? Because, like when the dinner bell rings and everybody goes in to the feast, each to sit at an appointed place, at the head of the table or near the foot, so too when our time comes we much depart from the world, to sit at an appointed place in the hereafter. That doesn’t work for me, but the idea seems to be accepted that the feast refers either to death or to the judgment after death. Men are destined for reward in the world to come, says Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin, unless they are driven away from the feast because they have not settled their account with the Divine in this world. Or, perhaps, the word feast is used as a kind of Schenectady for both reward and punishment, with Rabbi Akiva naturally reluctant to even name the possibility of unrighteousness.

Or, perhaps, as the Meiri says, this feast simply refers to the inevitable outcome of the shopping we have done at the store—if you have purchased meat and greens, you have meat and greens for your feast. If you have purchased nothing, you have nothing. Looking from that angle, everything is prepared for the meal seems to warn that whatever your actions have been, they have been a preparation for your meal, your deserts, if you will. It’s a warning that you may not get further preparation time, but have to eat what you already have in your pantry. You never know when it’s too late to go to the store for more.

Which brings us back, thematically, to the warning in the Machsor Vitry. The problem, my problem, is that I don’t like this eschatological End-is-Nigh stuff. And as much as I think it is helpful to keep the metaphor of the world as a shop, the Divine Creator as a provider of infinite splendor that does not demand payment up front but does keep strict accounts, as much as I do think that metaphor can be helpful in appreciating both the rich variety of life and the sometimes disconcerting gap between (perceived) benefits and burdens, I’ll just stretch it a trifle more to fit my own worldview with a very questionable translation of that last bit:


E.“(2)The collectors go around every day and collect from man whether he knows it or not.
F.“(3)And they have grounds for what they do.
G.“(4)And the judgment is a true judgment.
H.“(5)And look—free samples!”

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

January 23, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 19

We are still on the sayings of Rabbi Akiva, who used to say (in the translation of Judah Goldin):

Everything is foreseen, yet freedom of choice is granted; in mercy is the world judged; and everything is granted according to the preponderance of works.

I love this verse.

To me, this verse is what makes it possible for me to be a believer in the Divine. This is a statement about the Divine mystery, the fundamental irreconcilability of the Divine as we accept it and the world as we learn it. The step is to accept this.

If I were the Divine, I could not make free will and foreknowledge compatible. Oh, there are some rhetorical tricks to get around the more obvious logical problems, but if you follow those out with the ruthlessness of logic, you still run into conclusions that are unacceptable, or that are seriously incompatible with worship. But the great and holy Rabbi Akiva is saying, what if you don’t follow them out? What if you accept that there is a logic that applies in the world, and that the Divine is not bound by that logic? If an essential attribute of the Divine is that the Divine is more than human, more than humanity, more than the world we can test and examine, more even than the world we can imagine, then much of the rest of it falls away, and we can judge ourselves and our worship by our own worthiness, not by the worthiness of the Divine.

All is determined and free will is given. It is a contradiction to us, but the Divine is not bound by rules or laws of any kind; the Divine is not a clockmaker or an attorney, the Divine is ineffable, and exists outside the universe, before it and above it and beyond it.

Now that is the part of the verse that is most often quoted, and is used (by YHB, fairly frequently) as an example of the difference between the Rabbis and the Church Fathers, between Judaism as it has come down to us and the other religions. It’s not that we reject logic. Our legal system is rigorously logic-based. It’s that we do not expect the Divine to be subject to it. And it’s not that we reject philosophical inquiry, either, although the nature of that inquiry tends to be more limited and more focused on the workings of the world and its dwellers. We begin those inquiries, when they reach the Divine, with the understanding that we will not be able to ultimately reduce the Divine to a formula.

More important, though, it seems to me at the moment, is the second half of the verse, the one that says that we are judged with mercy and by the preponderance of works. We know that the Divine is merciful—it’s right there in the Scripture. It’s one of the attributes (it’s the first of them, actually, in the liturgical List of Thirteen Attributes, and also several of the others), so we cannot doubt it. But then, if I were a Judge, I would find mercy in conflict with Justice; if punishment is the inevitable result of transgression, and the preponderance of acts determines the granting or withholding of reward, where is mercy? And if mercy is the first principle, then doesn’t it, logically, undermine judgment?

Yes, if it were human judgment. Or even natural judgment, that is, the working out of cause and effect, in which mercy plays no part and can play no part. But the Divine mercy, and the Divine judgment, are not like ours, nor are they bound by the laws of time and nature.

But—and here’s where we get to the really important part, the existence of Divine mercy, above logic and beyond the boundary, does not in any way invalidate the preponderance of works. The Divine foreknowledge does not invalidate free choice, and the results of that free choice remain our own works, our own world, our own legacy to ourselves. The Divine mercy is not a mercy that lets us off the hook, any more than the Divine foreknowledge is a foreknowledge that lets us off our free will. It is the prerogative of the Divine to be merciful; it is not the prerogative of humanity, or individual people, or for that matter the prerogative of animals and matter and the logic and laws of nature to presume on that mercy. We can accept the ineffability of Divine foreknowledge and logic only if we also accept our free will and our responsibility for our works. They are not separate matters. They are the same thing, in the same verse, in the same world.

That’s why I can accept that (for instance) the world was created in seven days, or that in the endtime we will be resurrected in the body, while simultaneously believing in, say, physics and biology. To the extent that bodily resurrection is true (and we are given that it is, just as we are given the Divine mercy), it is true beyond our understanding. We can’t accept it as invalidating physics and biology, not and be true to Rabbi Akiva. We can’t even accept it alongside physics and biology. To believe in bodily resurrection and be true to this verse, you have to be prepared to set aside your belief in bodily resurrection as part of the Divine prerogative and put your own mind to physics and biology and to the preponderance of your own works—not give it up, not at all, but give it up to the Divine as part of the Divine’s business, while taking care of your own.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

January 16, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 18

This is a long and complicated verse, so I’m going to cut and paste the Chabad translation, to spare myself the typing:

He would also say: Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of G-d]; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to him that he was created in the image, as it is says, You are children of the L-rd your G-d. 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.

The three parts here are each making the point that the knowledge of a thing is greater than the thing itself without the knowledge. Which is a true thing, of course, but in some sense a simple and true thing: how could the thing be greater than the thing plus the knowledge? He cannot be saying that the knowledge on its own is greater than the thing on its own, because the knowledge cannot exist without the thing being known—or—

Let’s play around with that for a few minutes. What if the valuable thing really is the knowledge, not the thing known? That is, let’s examine: what if we know that we are created in the image of the Divine, but we are not, in fact, made in the Divine image? Before we go on, let me add that my intention is to play around with it as a hypothetical, rather than determining in any sense whether humans are or are not made in the Divine image, whatever that would mean, physically or spiritually or whatever. Akiba takes it as a basic fact that humans were made in the image of the Divine, because they had been told it, and so it was true. That’s fine. But what would it mean that we are told it, if it is not in any sense true? Is the telling then a proof of Divine love?

YHB immediately goes to the idea of the Divine-Human relationship being like the Parent-Child relationship. When we tell our children that they are pretty, strong, brave or clever—is the telling a proof of our love even if they do not have those qualities? Is the proof of parental love that we see those qualities in our children even when they are hidden to other eyes? (I am of course reminded here of Coach and his daughter, played by the great Allyce Beasley, from about two minutes or so into this clip) Or is this another example of parents telling comforting lies to their children, well-intentioned but ultimately harmful? Or is this the thing where children find in themselves the thing they are told to find, whether it is bravery or beauty, or incompetence or uselessness?

And, of course, the Divine is not just telling children but telling adults that we are made in the image. I don’t like to rely too much on the Divine as Parent, because it infantilizes us as adults, as if we will never be ready to come into our own inheritance as humans. So if the Divine is just saying it, if we believe mistakenly that we are in the image, is this a contributor to our arrogance and recklessness? Or to our humaneness, our mercy and love for each other—and for ourselves, if it comes to that?

Whether we are made in the Image, we are made (somehow) able to believe that we are made in the Image. That is an astonishing thing about humans—we look at the universe and think that the Divine Creator must be in some way like us, and that we must be in some way like the Divine. We may or may not actually be made in the Divine Image, but we have the ability to conceptualize that we are, and perhaps being Created that way is the proof of extraordinary Divine Love that Akiba is getting at here.

For the others, well, I think that Chosen-ness has not been an unmitigated blessing for the people Israel, and I’m not sure that it wouldn’t have been better to have been Chosen without such a fuss being made about it. Still, in the words of the verse, the special love that Israel is shown is not being children of the Divine (which of course everybody and everything is a Created of the Creator), but in being told that we were children of the Divine. Not an unmitigated blessing, as I say, but there it is. Perhaps the evolution of Judaism is such that (as with human understanding of the Divine Image) we have become capable of understanding what it means to be children of the Divine—or what it could mean, anyway.

As for the special gift of our Tribe, well, it could be said that our special gift is not the Torah, which is available to everyone after all, and which (by certain stories) was offered to everyone, but our love for the Torah, our enduring habit of keeping it precious to us, in different ways for different generations, our secure knowledge that it remains ours, remains our Scripture, remains our gift, whatever its apparent flaws and irrelevancies.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

January 9, 2010

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 17

Well, and we have got to Rabbi Akiba at last. For those who aren’t up on their great and holy sages, I will say that there are three sages that are the most prominent, the chief examples, legendary figures, and inner-circle Hall-of-Famers among them. Those are Hillel, of course, and Akiba and Judah the Prince. Just to mention: in Gershom Bader’s Encyclopedia of Talmudic Sages, there are 23 pages devoted to Rabbi Akiba, compared to 7 for Chanina ben Dosa or five for Rabbi Tarfon. I don’t know if non-Jews have heard of Rabbi Akiva, but I would say that most Jews who go to any kind of Hebrew School in America probably know the name and some of the sayings or stories (and don’t know Chanina ben Dosa or Rabbi Tarfon).

Rabbi Akiba says:
Merriment and frivolity accustom one to unchastity.
Tradition is a hedge about the Torah
Tithes are a hedge about riches
vows are a hedge about abstinence
a hedge about wisdom—silence

Again with the hedges (or fences, or whatever the translator decides). I want to quote R. Travers Herford here who says that the idea of the hedge “is open to abuse and misconstruction, and has found these in abundance; but in itself it is worthy of the profoundly earnest men who made it their rule of life.” I tend to focus on the abuse and misconstruction, because there is so much of it about. In fact, I am skeptical of the worthiness of the principle altogether. On the other hand, Rabbi Akiba was smarter, more pious and more learned than YHB (I think we can all accept that), and some deference is due. So let’s look at this verse with some deference, yes?

First of all, I’m not altogether against unchastity, but leaving that aside for the moment, I think it’s true that merriment and frivolity accustom one to it, or that (to switch from R. Travers Herford’s translation to that of Rabbi Hertz) they lead one on to unchastity. It’s fairly easy (in for instance, a room alone with someone to whom one is attracted but with whom unchastity would be a Bad Thing) to say that I’m just having a good time here, and we’re just friends, and nothing is going to happen—and it’s even easier for something to happen. This does not mean that merriment and frivolity are bad in themselves, or that one shouldn’t engage in them, just that it’s good to be aware of things. And, of course, even if nothing does, quite, happen, there’s a certain emotional cost involved, and therefore a certain ethical cost as well. Again, I don’t want to endorse the idea that because merriment and frivolity can lead to unchastity, or can break down one’s practical opposition to it, that you should avoid them altogether or even avoid them in Certain Situation. I’m just saying that Rabbi Akiba is right that you don’t get them without risk and for free.

Then there’s tradition being a hedge around the Torah, which is, I would think both obvious and profound. There’s a story—I don’t think it’s Rabbi Akiba, I think it’s Hillel, but I can’t remember where I found it—of a scoffer who goes to a sage and says Why should I learn from you, and all of your traditions? I can learn directly from the Scripture itself! The Rabbi, in response, draws an A (well, an aleph, but the story is the same) and asks the scoffer what it is. That’s an A, says the scoffer. The Rabbi nods and draws a B. That’s a B is the response. Again, the Rabbi draws and the scoffer responds That’s a C, I know the letters, I know the whole alphabet, A-B-C, yes, what’s your point? The Rabbi looks at him and asks how do you know these things, if it is not from the tradition?

In fact, aside from the alphabet, there are lots of things in the Scripture that are obscure or capable of a multitude of interpretations, and tradition protects the Scripture by guiding us to an understanding, so we don’t reject the thing altogether. On the other hand, tradition often guides us to the wrong interpretation—I would say an interpretation with which I disagree, which is usually what I mean by wrong, but also in many cases an interpretation which simply is wrong. The book of Wisdom was not written by King Solomon, that’s just not true. Tradition attributes to the Romans, the Egyptians and the local Canaanites habits and norms that they did not have. Tradition can be wrong. And even when it is not wrong as such, tradition can solidify interpretations that would be better served by flexibility; can engrave in the stories cultural biases that we now want to rid ourselves of, which may be worse.

A Gentle Reader recently wrote about the idea that Divine Right of Kings was widely prevalent (in one form or another) for very large chunks of human history in lots of the world, much not having to do with each other but overlapping in a sense that the ruler of the government partook in some sense of the Divine, to the extent that ruler, government and Divine are concepts that albeit ill-defined are recognizable and themselves have substantial overlap. She suggest that “probably 90% or more of the human population agrees that’s a bad idea”, which I think is overstating it, but certainly the idea of popular sovereignty has really remarkably overtaken that concept, and without claiming (and I don’t think she intends to claim) that it is going down without a pretty damned good fight, it does seem at the moment to be going down. I bring this up because that kind of major cultural shift—the concept of government, the idea of human rights and the dignity of the individual, the conceptualization of childhood, the relationships of humans to animals, etc, etc, etc, all really do vary over the centuries and continents. Tradition, by its nature, changes only very, very slowly, and when you want to change the mindset (without necessarily changing the Law), tradition is a hedge in your way.

Now, as for tithes being a hedge about riches, I have never had much experience with either. But the interesting thing for me that the parallelism of the verse makes it clear that (a) riches are a good thing, in and of themselves, and (2) tithes somehow protect that good thing, which would otherwise be in danger. I’m not sure how this works—except as a talismanic kind of thing, which is how it is often interpreted in (yes) the tradition. Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham and Simeon ben Zumah Duran both suggest that he who tithes or gives charity from his riches will, as this verse relates, increase rather than decrease them. Casting your bread upon the face of the water, you know, reassuring the ROI folk that it isn’t wasted. On the other hand, this is one of those cases where it is simply false—at least in any individual sense. Your contributions do not inevitably lead to riches; self-interest is not a good way to get people to tithe.

I will say, in a broader context, that the prosperity of a culture is (I maintain) largely dependent on its stability, which is (again, I maintain) largely dependent on the voluntary contribution of the wealthy toward its institutions and its people, that is, tithing. Tithing in the mass is a hedge around prosperity in the mass. While I don’t believe that an individual who refuses to contribute to anything larger than his family or his own business will necessarily be made poorer because of it, I do think that a society-wide negligence increases the chances of massive economic and political upheavals (not to mention plague, pestilence and war, which are profit drivers for some people, but high-risk for people who already hold riches). So there’s that.

Vows are a hedge around abstinence. Well, and we’re presumably talking about abstinence of various kinds, not just sexual abstinence. I have to say in my experience, trying to cut down on potato chips or other kinds of badformes, that vows and promises are not much of a hedge. And I think that’s all I have to say about that.

And wisdom? And silence? The Rabbis do praise silence, both actual silence and verbal reticence—Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham claims that this verse teaches us silence on the part of a student in the presence of his teacher or anyone greater in wisdom, but he can’t really be talking about silence, just about not blurting out answers, interrupting or holding forth without listening. My inclination is to say that silence is an effective hedge around a reputation for wisdom, but that wisdom is as likely gained as lost in active participation in discussion. But then I would say that, wouldn’t I?

As for the verse as a whole… I don’t know that I have any observations. I will add that I’m thinking that I should, in the new year, to try to keep these avot notes confined to one note for a verse, rather than breaking them up. The purpose of posting them in three or four parts was to facilitate discussion, which (as y’all have probably noticed) isn’t so much happening, so the actual outcome is just aggregator clutter. It may make for long notes, but we have enough pixels for that, don’t we?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

January 5, 2010

A straight apikoros, so, you know, no dog in that kettle.

My Gracious Host points us to a page that Shmuel (sometime Gentle Reader here) put together some great links on a panel on Being Gay in the Modern Orthodox World that was held at Yeshiva University. Y’all know I have little patience with the whole idea of the Modern Orthodox—I feel that much of halacha is as destructive as much of the Temple ritual, and am glad I can be Jewish without participating in either. I should probably write much more about this in general, at some point, but for the moment, I’ll just acknowledge that I do not feel myself constrained by the law against seed-spilling or the law against anal sex. Or the one against shellfish. Mmm, shellfish.

Anyway, I read a transcript posted by a student at YU, and I found it fascinating, moving and provocative. And I wound up reading more posts by that student, who is clearly conflicted about the issue (not about the halacha, which is fairly clear in the middle notwithstanding a good deal of disagreement about how wide the hedge around it should be), and then read a bunch of comments, which was of course a terrible, terrible mistake.

It occurs to me that if I am going to talk about this at all, I should talk just a bit about the Law as it applies here, and not just make an off-hand parenthetical comment. I am not an expert in this, and I want to emphasize that I am not particularly observant as a matter of practice nor as a matter of theory do I follow the sages or the modern Rabbis and their applications. I am very much outside the fold. That will be important to keep in mind. Still, I know a bit about the Law and the traditions, and if any of y’all know more, it would be helpful for me to have any correction or clarification, and if y’all know less, then keep reading.

Here’s the core: Leviticus 18:22 says something like You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. The most liberal interpretation of this within mainstream Jewish Orthodox thought is an absolute prohibition on male-male penile-anal penetration to ejaculation. That is like eating scallops wrapped in bacon. It may be wonderful, but it is a violation of the Law, and there is no way around that. The question is what else is a violation. This is in part an interpretation of the verse itself, and in part an interpretation of the hedge around the Law (which we have discussed before here). So, taking for instance the act of one male pleasuring another by anal penetration with a dildo or vibrator: is this sufficiently different from the proscribed act to be allowed? Probably not. With a tongue? Hm. What about fellatio? Or a hand job? My understanding is that almost all mainstream traditional rabbis consider all those acts to be forbidden, either directly by the verse or by the implication of the verse.

Now, when we are talking about the hedge, there are a couple of things that come into play. First, there’s a categorization of laws (both prohibitions and obligations) into things that make sense and things that are arbitrary. That is, the obligation to honor your father and mother makes sense, and therefore we are obliged not only to honor our biological father and mother, but an adoptive father and mother, and a stepfather or stepmother, or even by extension a teacher, mentor or elder. The prohibition against shellfish, however, is arbitrary, so although we must not eat crab meat, we can eat surimi (assuming it has been prepared properly). We may not be able to taste the difference (how would we, lacking the experience), but there is a difference, and we have avoided the infraction. So when deciding where the hedge is, that’s an important factor: is the prohibition against anal sex a sensible one or an arbitrary one? Unsurprisingly, opinions differ.

The other major factor in determining how big a hedge should be is temptation: if (going back to our topic for a moment) a gay couple are getting tremendous pleasure from their hands, mouths, cocks, asses and vibrators in all the variations they can think of except penile-anal penetration, will they be tempted to violate the prohibition, in a moment of frenzied passion? If so, it is generally considered admirable to avoid that situation (although of course there are stories of rabbis deliberately sleeping in the same bed as beautiful young women and conquering their yetzer ra, and although some commentary does criticize that behavior, the rabbis in question are not considered to have violated the Law and the majority strain of the tradition approves of them, as witness the inclusion of the stories). If the temptation is considered to be great and widespread, the hedge is not considered to be a matter of individual judgement, rather the rabbi can state where the hedge should be. If it’s a matter of leading others off the path, that is, where a person can without infringing the Law themselves lead others into a situation where they will infringe the law, either unknowingly or through overwhelming temptation, there is no question: it is forbidden, even if under other circumstances it might be allowed.

Furthermore (should I have skipped all this?) there is the matter of tradition: if there is a tradition prohibiting a particular thing as part of a hedge around the existing Law, the inheritors of that tradition are bound by it, unless positively released by an authority. The most common example of this is the difference in Passover observance between Ashkenazic Jews and Sephardim: the Sephardim eat rice (among other kitniyot) and the Ashkenazim do not. However, a Jew of an Ashkenazic family cannot simply declare herself a Sephard for the duration of Passover. She is bound by the minhag, the tradition.

Digression: I really shouldn’t add anything else to this note, but I don’t think I’ve ever made the point in this Tohu Bohu that in the case of a Sephard marrying an Ashkenaz, the new household should adopt the minhag of the woman, not the man. This is in part because the woman is assumed to be in charge of the house and particularly the kitchen, so it makes sense to use the traditional recipes that she would know rather than making her learn her mother-in-law’s recipes. It’s also for the same reason that our bloodlines are maternal: we know who the mother is. End Digression.

So where were we? Oh, yes. Orthodox Judaism generally has found that the prohibition against gay sex is sensible, and that tradition has made a very big hedge, and that anyway all that sex stuff is icky, and the hedge against straight sex (which is a mitzvah, after all) is about a mile high and six miles deep, so there. For a man to have a boyfriend, to hold hands and snuggle in the evening, to exchange loving words and looks, is all banned. Forget teabagging, they ban waltzing. Not a surprise, but it’s worth keeping in mind that they could make different decisions about the law. They are bound to keep the prohibitions in the Torah itself, yes, but they have some latitude to make the very broad interpretation of that prohibition much, much, much narrower without giving up that prohibition (the way that I feel free to do).

Good Gumby, this is a long note, and I haven’t got to the point of it, yet. Are y’all still with me? Because I did have a point, this time, and I’m getting to it soon. Well, soonish. Y’all know I tend to do the breaking-down-into-categories thing to think about topics, so that’s what came most clearly to mind, because some of the discussion I saw was so utterly confused about some things I find very distinct. So it seems to me that the Modern Orthodox community must decide how to treat:

A) Gay and lesbian people who grew up in the fold, and have decided as adults to leave the tradition, in part (at least) because it does not allow them to marry their loves and have sex with them. This might be fairly easy, as it is a kind of mutual expulsion, although of course that expulsion is heartbreaking for divided families and friends, and can lead people away from the path of righteousness altogether.

2) Gay and lesbian adults who are, like the panelists appear to be (to me, at any rate), passionate about staying in the fold and concerned with acting according to the Law, but who are certain of their orientation. This is very difficult. Very, very difficult. I tend to think that this panel and the discussion leading to it and from it will help people come up with some ways of thinking about it that are helpful. I do understand that many Rabbis will have a lot of trouble accepting that these people are good observant Jews that are perfectly naturally attracted to members of the same sex. The law may make it difficult on these people, but that isn’t their fault, and they should be treated with care and joy. As a side note, if anybody happens on this that could use the info, or could usefully pass it along, The Gay and Lesbian Yeshiva Day School Alumni Association seems to be a good source of information and links for people in this category.

γ) Young adults who are trying to figure out their sexual identity, preferences and orientation, being guided by the community and the Law. This seems less difficult to me, but it does require a kind of forthrightness about the existence of sexual passions of various kinds, which seems (from what I understand) to be present in the Law and the rabbinic discussion of the Law, but most often missing from conversations with actual children. At any rate, these young people should be able to know where the Law is clear and where it is not, what their obligations are and are not. Most important, they should all know that same-sex attraction is a natural thing, much like shrimp or roast pork, and that while a Jew may be prohibited from acting on it (or at least in acting on it in particular ways, depending on which authorities you follow), there is nothing disgusting about it.

iv) Kids who are ‘different’ and fail to act in exact accordance with gender expectations. The panelists tell stories that would be shocking if they weren’t so terribly, terribly common. I would have thought there would be a consensus of commentators and scholars that these kids have violated no aspect of the Law, and the behavior of the schools, camps, shuls, and families to them is a violation of the kind specifically stated (again and again, in Pirke Avot, by sages who agree on little else) to be outrages against the Divine and the Law, inconsistent with righteousness.

That’s what struck me most—these panelists were describing their histories with specific focus on the harm that they took before they identified themselves as gay frum Jews. Many of the responses (almost all the ones I happened to see) reacted to the question of how to treat gay frum Jews. Well, fine, that’s an issue. But it’s turning away from the harm that was done to those people, and that turning away is another harm, and is absolutely and unquestionably a violation of the ethics that we’ve been reading here at this Tohu Bohu.

Now, I took some grief, myself, as a child, for being different. I have been called effeminate (I have been called a great big poncy ponce, in fact, but not recently), and when I was a kid, I was hurt by the scorn of others on that topic as well as on others. But I wasn’t told, at the age of ten, that I was evil. The idea that anybody could react to this

the next day my parents were called in to Rabbi Monk’s office. And he takes off a book from the shelf by a rabbi who happens to be my father’s great-uncle and he says ‘there’s no natural desire for homosexuality. It must be that it’s only rebellion against God and it only happens after you’ve explored every other taivah’ and then he looked at me. I was TEN. Only ten! And it made sense to everyone in the room. Except me. And I was kicked out of camp.

by criticizing the man who tells the story is an outrage against Judaism’s ethical principles. Remember, the ten-year-old boy who is accused not just of an abomination but of every abomination has not been taking it up the ass. He has not even been holding hands. He said, when asked, that he liked boys. This is not a violation of halacha. And accusing him like that is.

And it is a violation whether the ostracized kid grows up to be frum and gay, or (like me) a straight man who likes showtunes and fancy clothes. You have no way of knowing which is which.

And, of course, it is a violation of ethics even if the kid grows up to eat scallops and bacon, take it up the ass, and charge interest on loans. No excuses. You don’t treat people that way.

Which is why it is so great for the panelists to come to Yeshiva University and say they were treated that way, and for YU, however reluctantly, to invite them.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

December 19, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 16

Rabbi Ishmael says: be suppliant to a superior, submissive under compulsory service, and receive every man happily.

Rabbi Ishmael (ben Elisha) is the grandson of the High Priest, also named Ishmael; he is sometimes confused with his grandfather, and is sometimes himself referred to as a High Priest, although (the Temple having been destroyed) he never served in that capacity. He may possibly have been considered the High Priest in waiting, that is, should the Temple be rebuilt in his lifetime, he would have been chosen. Or, just as likely I feel, people just get confused over names.

Anyway, his relationship with power and authority are… interesting. He is supposed to have been imprisoned by the Romans as a child, and was about to be sold to a brothel when Rabbi Joshua ben Chananiah purchased him from captivity and restored him to learning. His lifespan (roughly contemporary with Rabbi Akiba) is under a Roman rule that went from harsh and oppressive in his youth rapidly downhill. He was an eminent and respected authority, but never held high office; he traveled back and forth to the great gatherings of scholars, rather than residing as a teacher. He must always have had in his mind the idea that, had the Romans not pulled down the Temple, he would have been wearing the jeweled breastplate and golden whatnots. And had the people not revolted against authority, would the Temple have still been standing?

In the second leg of the triple, there’s a word, tishoret, that is obscure, and that leads to two or three very different interpretations of the verse. Judah Goldin (who I’ve used above) sides with the Machsor Vitry; Herbert Danby sides with the Rambam, translating it “kindly to the young”. I have no idea, of course. On the one hand, if Rabbi Ishmael is thinking about power and hierarchies, it makes sense that the reference is to a royal official who enforces the law. On the other hand, it’s possible that he is not thinking about politics but about personal interaction and affection; having been treated roughly as a child himself, he may have wanted to emphasize the extra importance of being kind.

In fact, if one wants to view this apolitically, it is about being receptive: open to those above you and below you, as well as to absolute strangers. This is humility of sorts, putting others above yourself. These three, then, are a progression: of course you should work hard for someone who is in a position of power over you, but even for a youth, you should be helpful and not arrogant—and not only a child, but for every man, without condition.

I don’t know, though. I am inclined to the political reading, which advises against rebellion in favor of hard work. For the political superior, flexibility is required. For the outsider who is in power over you, he advises (in the translation of R. Travers Herford) patience. And for every man, a joyful greeting.

Is not the implication there that every man you meet may be (a) your superior, in the sense of learning and wisdom, in the sense of respect and community authority, in the sense of age and experience; or (2) an oppressor, a force of compulsion, a actor not from ethical authority but from power? If this is the case—and it is the case—how do you greet a stranger? With suspicion, with caution, with guards up and defenses down? No, Rabbi Ishmael is saying (it seems to me) that being aware of the potentials and possibilities, one must still greet every man with joy.

Of course, we already know, from Shammai, that we should receive every man with a cheerful expression of face, which is not so far from receiving the fellow with actual cheer. So are we learning anything new here? We are, of course: the sages are recognizing that there are reasons why a person would not have a cheerful expression of face, or happiness at heart, to meet a new person.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

December 13, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse fifteen: the aftermath

Well, and I’m still trying to think about the verse:

R. Elazar of Modim said, he who profanes things sacred, and despises the festivals, and puts his fellow-man to shame in public, and makes void the covenant of Abraham our father, and makes the Torah bear a meaning other than what is right, such a one, even though knowledge of the Torah be his, has no share in the world to come.

As I have said, I think this is a deliberate reference to the Chanukah story, and an attempt to connect the Roman situation to the Chanukah story, and an attempt to connect our current situation, whatever it is, to all of that.

I am, on the whole, an Assimilationist. Or, rather, I am in favor of the Jewish tradition of incorporating local traditions into our own traditions, flavoring them as seems good, interacting with the local non-Jewish population, adapting, living, growing, changing. I like having other Jews around, but I also like having non-Jews around.

I don’t want to be forced into an us-or-them situation. I don’t want to be part of an insulated enclave that manages to keep the festivals and the sacred things and the Torah all safe from outside influences. But I don’t want to make void the covenant, either. I know that the Maccabees were reacting to an hostile occupation; they are not a good model for how to live in a free and wonderfully heterogenous and hybrid country. Neither is the rabbinic reaction to the Romans, although a marvelous thing and a miracle in itself, more than a starting point for our own choices.

Every year at this time, I grumble (at least in my own head) about the contradictions of American Hanukkah. The commemoration of the fight against assimilation become the epitome of assimilation itself. More than that, the way that our celebration of Hanukkah becomes a half-assed secular Christmas—as if we are simultaneously telling our children that it’s all right that they are missing Christmas while implying that of course they are missing out on the real winter holiday. Or, worse, giving eight presents as a bribe to keep them Jewish—you see? Hanukkah is eight times better than Christmas, because you get eight presents! As if Christmas was nothing more than gift-giving, and as if the religious observances were spreadsheets. A new way of despising the festivals.

I get very cranky about it. If you hadn’t noticed.

Less so, I must say, since my own household has been observing both holidays, having both Jews and Christians in the house, and doing (I think) a pretty good job of it, so far. We muddle through. Eleazar wouldn’t like it, but there you are.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

December 12, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 15: the details

So. Eleazar of Modin and me, Hellenizers and Romanizers, Bar Kochba and the Maccabees, and the question of assimilation. This note is for going through the categories, with an eye on all of that.

R. Elazar of Modim said, he who profanes things sacred, and despises the festivals, and puts his fellow-man to shame in public, and makes void the covenant of Abraham our father, and makes the Torah bear a meaning other than what is right, such a one, even though knowledge of the Torah be his, has no share in the world to come.

Once you start thinking about Hanukkah, the profanation of the sacred is about the use of the Temple for pagan rituals. It’s also fairly simply the use of ritual objects for everyday uses (drinking wine from your Kiddush cup on Thursday, or using your t’fillin to strap your books together), or just irreverence generally. The sage is arguing for a clear distinction between profane and sacred, a kind of insulation from the World. Since Jews under Hellenic or Roman or American rule will have all of the instruments of government and power be almost by definition profane, that insistence seems to me a retreat from interaction, rather than a healthy mindfulness.

As for despising the festivals, one of the things about growing up a Jew in America (unless you are in a real enclave, in which case you are only somewhat growing up in America) is the experience of missing school on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur or the first day of Passover. Or, potentially, any of the other days in which work is prohibited. Not to mention soccer, which practices on Saturday mornings—my Rabbi once told me that soccer is a graver danger to American Judaism than intermarriage. Not to mention that I am at work right now.

R. Travers Herford claims that the bit about shaming in public is an interpolation, and it certainly seems a bit off-topic for the list. But the sages felt very strongly about it. In this context, though, the question: who is the public? Fellow Jews? Fellow westernized Jews? Non-Jews? Surely it isn’t shameful to be outed as a Jew (either actually outed or to have attention drawn to it by conversation, mention of the holidays, conspicuous dietary accommodation, etc), but it can be a bit awkward. And there’s the shanda fur de goyim, the person who embarrasses all Jews by association. I think that this idea of public shame is connected, in a complicated web, with the whole question of assimilation and individuation.

As for making void the covenant, that is another reference to the Hellenizers, and refers literally to disguising the circumcision of the penis so that the Jew will not be visibly different in the bath or the gym. It has been used metaphorically to describe other visual differences (the payess, the yarmulke, or even the black hats and caftans). It is supposed to stand for the faith covenant, I suppose, of which the physical signs are only physicals signs, after all, but then it is difficult to judge anything but the physical signs, isn’t it?

As for making the Torah say what it doesn’t—here I will yield to Menahem ben Solomon ha-Meiri, who gave as an example the prohibition against the meat we get from pigs. He says that while it is possible to suggest that the prohibition is a metaphor for swinish behavior, it is not allowed to argue that it is purely a metaphor. That is, one who says that eating pork is forbidden and it is a metaphor for swinish behavior is all right. One who says that eating pork is forbidden because it is a metaphor is on dangerous ground, as kashrut is one of those laws which applies independent of any intent or context. But one who says that eating of pork is permitted, and that the prohibition really means something else, that one has no share in the world to come.

I provide Meiri’s gloss here precisely because it so clearly describes my own attitude toward kashrut. Not that it is a metaphor for behavior, but that it is all about endogamy and exogamy. Peculiar and difficult to understand dietary restrictions (of which the pork taboo is the easiest example) prevent members of the Tribe from eating meals with outsiders. At the time, and now, eating meals with people is one of the ways in which bonds are formed between people and between families. If you can’t sit down to a meal with your non-Jewish neighbor, you are much less likely to contract a marriage between your children, and your children are much less likely to elope even if you don’t contract such a marriage.

As an assimilated American Jew—a believing Jew, a passionate Jew, a Jew much in love with my own Jewishness, but not an observant Jew, not a traditional Jew, not a Maccabee by any means—I eat pork for dinner most Friday nights, with my Christian wife, who shares the blessings of the shabbos table with me and our lovely Jewish children. I reject the application of the laws of kashrut as thoroughly as I reject the application of the laws of the rededicated Temple. Well, perhaps not as thoroughly, as, you know, ew, animal sacrifice. But the point is that in both cases I take the laws immediate and obvious application as not pertaining to me, except as metaphor. In other words, as having a meaning other than what is (in halakhic terms) right.

And yet, I do not give up hope for the world to come. On the other hand, I am giving up hope for an adequate conclusion to this note, so I will let y’all (if you wish) talk about these details, and start again with a new page.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 15: Chappy Chanukkah

Today is the first day of Hanukkah. Gentle Readers may remember my ambivalence about the holiday—I am forced to admit that in the experience of American Jews, it is a major holiday, but I would prefer to deny that particular minhag and adhere to the older tradition that treats it as a minor holiday. Plus, I have many problems with the story itself, and with the various versions of it as it is taught and told. On the other hand, fried foods and gambling. So. Today is the first day of Hanukkah, and we are looking at the saying of R. Eliezar of Modim. In the translation of Rabbi Hertz:

R. Elazar of Modim said, he who profanes things sacred, and despises the festivals, and puts his fellow-man to shame in public, and makes void the covenant of Abraham our father, and makes the Torah bear a meaning other than what is right, such a one, even though knowledge of the Torah be his, has no share in the world to come.

There could be some issues with the translation. This is one of the ones where the Hebrew seems to bear a particularly heavy weight of connotation, and the translator must do what he can. I don’t think I want to look at word choice, today; I want to talk about Hanukkah.

Why Hanukkah? Well, that’s part of the weight of connotation. Rabbi Eleazar is from Modim. Who comes from Modim? The Maccabees come from Modim.

OK, do y’all know the Hanukkah story? Mattathias (or Matisyahu, and can I point out how interesting it is that we use the Greek version of his name?) was a very devout and strict Temple priest who, when the Temple was profaned and Temple rites were forbidden under Antiochus IV Epiphanes, returned to the Modi’in valley (or Modim, or Modaim, or whatever). Even there, however, the Greeks insisted on the locals participating in the pagan rites. He refused, and when another Jew acceded, Mattathias slew the man at the altar in the middle of the sacrifice, and shouted something quite like All who are with the Lord, follow me!.

He was followed into the wilderness by his sons, including the famous Judah “The Hammer”, or Judah Maccabee. He was also followed by a growing army of Jews who were called Maccabees after their military leader. There was an insurgency, violence, terror, miracles, guerrilla warfare in the towns, forced conversions, wholesale slaughter, and finally—one might say miraculously, particularly if you believe that bit about the white stallion—the liberation of Jerusalem and the rededication of the Temple. Hanukkah is the observance of the rededication of the Temple, which (notionally) occurred on 25 Kislev, and thus the remembrance of the revolt against the Hellenizers and the Hellenized.

Now. That was all three hundred years or so before the Eliezar of this verse. But by identifying him by his hometown (rather than by his father or some attribute such as righteousness or wisdom), the verse calls to mind the Maccabees and the revolt. And, by bringing to mind that revolt, that celebrated and observed revolt, it brings to mind the contemporary revolt of Bar Kochba, who had Eliezar killed (presumably after he said that stuff) and the contemporary questions of interaction with the Western powers and Western ideas.

So, keeping that in mind, who is the one that Eliezar of Modin says has no place in the world to come? It is the Hellenizer/Romanizer; the one who says that it is all right to eat trayf, who works on the holidays because the goyim are working on the holidays, the one who says that the Torah is compatible with the modern world.

In other words, me.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

December 5, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 14: meeting houses of the ignorant

R. Dosa b. Harkinas said: Morning sleep and midday wine and children’s talk and sitting in the meeting houses of the ignorant people put a man out of the world.

One of the things that makes this set of four things a thematic whole, rather than simply four disparate things, is this sense that they are good things in the wrong way. Sleep at night, not in the morning; drink wine in the evening, not at midday; converse with adults, not children; and sit in the meeting houses of the wise, not the ignorant. While the phrase is couched in its negative aspect, it isn’t telling people not to sleep, drink, talk or congregate. It implies that we should be doing all those things, but doing them right. What the self-help books would call doing them mindfully.

On the other hand, it is an odd collection of things. And why four? Why not three? I don’t get a sense from the Hebrew that there were originally three and the fourth was added later, which sometimes happens with these. And if four, why not five? I mean, why not add something like dressing like a fop or hunting for pleasure or cooking with peppers? I want these to be triples, because I like triples, and also in this case because if you take out the one about my kids, I can agree with it. But that doesn’t seem to be what’s going on.

I should say that it’s possible that R. Dosa b. Harkinas really does mean the synagogues of the am ha’aretz. It would make some sense in the context. In fact, that could be the whole point of the thing, making it really a triple: morning sleep, midday wine and children’s talk are like a Reform Shul, they put a person out of the world. Except that of course it’s not a reform shul, which has its own well-thought out traditions, and knowledgeable rabbis and lay leaders, but a shul of ignorant people, who muddle along without leadership or knowledge. Four hours ago, I rejected that interpretation, but now I’m coming around to it.

On the other hand, maybe the sage is actually warning against a K’nesset of amoretzes, a Parliament of Fools. Not likely, but possible.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 14: children's talk

R. Dosa b. Harkinas said: Morning sleep and midday wine and children’s talk and sitting in the meeting houses of the ignorant people put a man out of the world.

OK, here’s where the whole thing comes to the ground. How does children’s talk put a man out of the world? I should point out (probably should have pointed out before) that it is conspicuously this world out of which a man is put out of, not the world-to-come. Which is to say, these are not sins as such, not that there are sins as such in the modern sense within the tannaic conception, but that they reduce the connections between a man and his surroundings, his neighbors and family, the physical world, his work and his food and his life. And that is a Bad Thing. The Rambam’s comment is that these things prevent a man from developing a good character, and that in the end, he perishes from the earth; the threat of early demise is not, I think, meant literally, but metaphorically.

At any rate, however you take it, what’s the matter with children’s talk? And it is children, yeladim, and conversation, sychat; there’s no funkiness in the Hebrew to play around with. Are the children, like the wine and the sleep, Good Things but at the wrong time? In the Avot of Rabbi Nathan, this is explicated as an injuction to go and study in the library/shul, and not expect to get any work done at home when the kids are around. As advice, that’s good. As Scripture, not so much. And if it’s an injunction that children should be Seen and not Heard, then I can just reject it altogether, right?

Only, I hate doing that. So I search for something useful to take away. And what comes to mind, after a bit of searching, is to look for ways in which children’s talk could be a symptom of a deeper problem, all the same sleep and wine. And I suppose there’s this: if you, as a grown-up, prefer to spend your time with children, rather than with adults, perhaps you are doing it as a withdrawal. It could be symptomatic of either alienation from the grupp society, or of a dysfunctional desire to be in a position of unquestionable authority in your interactions. Or, possibly, pederasty, but I don’t go along with the mindset that anybody who likes spending time with kids should be viewed as a potential molester. I don’t think the verse has to be about that to be a warning, anyway.

Or am I stretching too far, here, to make useful sense of a verse? I am willing in theory to discard the views of the sages, who had views of childhood (and women, and (some of ’em) sex) that I do discard. But in practice, when it comes to typing a note about a verse, I’m looking for ways to keep it, not ways to kick it.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 14: midday wine

R. Dosa b. Harkinas said: Morning sleep and midday wine and children’s talk and sitting in the meeting houses of the ignorant people put a man out of the world.

Important to note, here, that wine is a Good Thing almost throughout the history of the Jews. Wine-drinking is required by custom or statute for almost every holiday, including the Sabbath. It took a while, in fact, for Orthodox Rabbis to accept that alcoholics should be allowed to forego ritual wine-drinking as a matter of health, although of course lots of Jews have done without for whatever reasons. Of course drunkenness, or at least excessive, frequent drunkenness is a Bad Thing, but the Rabbis are not teetotalers, nor do they expect anyone else to be.

It is midday wine that R. Dosa says puts a man out of the world. This is a clear match to the first leg (of four, which is odd and I should think about) where sleep (a good thing) done at shacharit time (a good time) is bad, or at least puts a man out of the world. Here wine is a good thing, just not at midday. And I’m inclined to think that the first leg is a symptom of a particular kind of trouble (depression), and the second leg is also a symptom of a particular kind of trouble, alcoholism. It is (to R. Dosa) when you have wine in the middle of the day, rather than in the evening, that you are using it to put yourself out of the world.

The commentary on the verse is (from my quick perusal) focused on the idea that if you drink at midday, you become incapable of using the afternoon hours for either productive work or study. They connect the two legs as the frittering away of daylight hours, and that is certainly the straightforward and correct interpretation. But I think that viewing them in the light of symptoms of deeper problems is a more powerful, and in fact a scarier way of looking at the verse. More useful, past the first reading.

YHB is not a heavy drinker. A glass of wine with dinner, sometimes two. Maybe once a week I will have a third. Of course, my midday is different from R. Dosa ben Harkinas; when the sun goes down in the great green field, I just turn on the electric light and keep working. Or at least, as much working as I ever do. The hours between 2100 and 2300 are the most potentially productive for Torah study or writing, and the ones that my wine-with-dinner habit would most likely affect. But then, I’m not actually doing Torah study during those hours, I’m watching bad BBC corset series. Which is puts me out of the world in a different way, but is not (I hope) a symptom of some deeper problem.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 14: morning sleep

R. Dosa b. Harkinas said: Morning sleep and midday wine and children’s talk and sitting in the meeting houses of the ignorant people put a man out of the world.

That’s Herbert Danby’s translation, and it seems to pretty much nail it, for the English. There is a connotation that seems to be in the Hebrew, although of course I may be misreading it through my own ignorance, that the morning sleep is sleeping through shacharit, that is, through the morning service. And the meeting houses are the b’tay k’nessyot, where a bayt k’nesset is a synagogue, although (a) some manuscripts omit the b’tay, making it the meetings of the am ha-aretzes, and (2) it doesn’t seem from this as if R. Dosa means it in the sense of synagogue but in the sense of meeting house. But the point is that I think there may have been, in the original, an emphasis in the bringing together of disparate terms, or in the use of a positive thing (shacharit, bet k’nesset) in a negative context.

Anyway, to the content. Let’s take them in order.

Morning sleep is a good thing. Oh, how I love to sleep in. Mmmm, mm. Do you know the best part of sleeping in? Is when you actually do wake up at the usual time, and then realize you don’t have to get up at all, and you roll over and you fall back asleep. That’s the best. I mean, if you can fall back asleep. I’m good at that.

That said, I get what the Rabbi is on about here. The ingesleeping thing is about putting yourself out of the world, and although I do like to do that now and then (well, honestly, as often as I can), there is also putting yourself into the world, which takes precedence. And sleep in the mornings can be habit-forming.

And also, bye-the-bye, a sign of what we would now call clinical depression. Taken as a description, rather than a proscription, I think R. Dosa b. Harkinas is quite right. R. Travers Herford is down on this verse, saying it “is true so far as it goes, but it does not go very far. At least it leaves a good deal unsaid, which a wider and wiser charity would wish to say.” I disagree. That is, I think that it’s a wider saying than Mr. Herford gives it credit for, a wider and a warmer warning.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

November 21, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verses eleven through thirteen: the text

We are talking about Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa, the miracle worker and mystic. He has three verses in Pirke Avot, and here they are in the Joseph Hertz translation:

R. Chanina, the son of Dosa, said, He in whom the fear of sin comes before wisdom, his wisdom shall endure; but he in whom wisdom comes before the fear of sin, his wisdom shall not endure.

He used to say, He whose deeds exceed his wisdom, his wisdom shall endure, but he whose wisdom exceeds his deeds, his wisdom will not endure.

He used to say, He in whom the spirit of his fellow-creatures takes delight, in him the Spirit of the All-present takes delight, and he in whom the spirit of his fellow-creatures takes not delight, in him the Spirit of the All-present takes not delight.

This is an odd triple, isn’t it? I mean, literarily. It doesn’t balance. The third doesn’t seem to quite go with the first two. The first two are about precedence—let’s take it for granted (he says) that wisdom is a Good Thing, but is it the Best Good Thing? Or, rather, while we pursue it as a Good Thing, should we pursue it single-mindedly? Of course, no. Good deeds and fear of sin take precedence, because they lead to wisdom and maintain it.

I should digress here a moment to acknowledge that it is not obvious that wisdom cannot endure without fear of sin or without good deeds, nor is it obvious the ways in which those things help wisdom endure. I think it is true, and the commentary has several convincing examples and analogies, but it isn’t obvious. And some of the commentary claims that it is obvious, but they do so by means of a tautology, such that the lack of good deeds is a sign of declining wisdom in itself. That doesn’t work. Wisdom, if the verse is to mean anything, must exist as something separate from good deeds. You can’t just say that anything good is wise and anything evil is folly—or rather, you can, but then you have lost the perfectly good words wisdom and folly, having made them synonyms for good and evil. No, wisdom is something else, having to do with study and learning and experience and sagacity and whatnot, and the argument that the lack of deeds diminishes wisdom over time does mean something.

The third verse is not about wisdom at all, though. Unless it is about wisdom by virtue of placing it with the other two, which is legitimate. But look at it: two are comparing wisdom (an assumed Good Thing) with another Good Thing, talking about people who are assumed to have both, but in different proportions. The last takes the assumed Good Thing (the Divine Delightability) and compares it with a thing of more questionable value (human delightability, albeit a sort of human spiritual delightability), and says that the two are found together or not at all.

That is, when we look at wisdom and good deeds, the text isn’t just saying that you should have both, which is obvious, and it isn’t saying you should have them in equal measure, it’s saying you should have more good deeds, or risk losing what wisdom you have. In the third verse, it is simply saying you should delight both your fellow man and your Creator, or risk doing neither. There’s no question of precedence involved.

Perhaps (now that I’ve written all that) this is because there is no question of precedence, but a more serious question of the nature of the thing itself. The precedence of human and Divine delightability is obvious. But unlike good deeds or fear of sin, there is no prima facie reason to think that him in whom the spirit of his fellow creatures take delight is beloved of the Divine. The other way, in fact. Or at least as plausibly, the prophet being without honor in his own proverbial. But what Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa seems to me to be saying is that (a) the does exist a thing that we can describe as spiritual delightability, human and Divine; (II) although we cannot tell for certain whether the Divine spirit actually delights in a particular person, we can probably tell whether a person is humanly delightable; and (3) the presence or absence of the observable, human, trait implies the presence or absence of the Divine trait. By what mechanism?

Can we say that the answer to this, problematic cap to the triple must be in the previous legs? The way that good deeds and fear of sin imply (or buttress) wisdom? How is this similar?

Jochanan ben Zakkai referred to wisdom and sinfearing as a craftsman’s knowledge and his tools. The fear of sin (or tool) is not well controlled without wisdom (or craft); wisdom is not productive without the fear of sin. Is it possible that the ability to delight other people is a tool? Similarly, Simeon ben Eleazar referred to wisdom and deeds as a horse and a bit. The horse is not well controlled (dangerous, even) without the bit, the bit is useless without the horse. Is it possible that the ability to delight other people is a bit? Is the issue one of controlling the spirit?

If so, we can take the person who does not worry about delighting the spirit of other people as uncontrolled. And then, as one loses (or never achieves) the control that comes from pleasing other people, what comes next is the arrogance to put yourself at the center of the universe. You may intend to put the Divine at the center, but if you lack our metaphorical bit or chisel, you will find that you have taken the center yourself. That pride, arrogance, an uncompromising temper, selfishness, bitterness and contempt have taken over your spirit, making it a thing in which the Divine can no longer delight.

If that is the teaching, it is a powerful warning. That would make the first two verses set-ups, the kind of Socratic trap where you agree to premises without really intending to, and then finding yourself at conclusions you didn’t expect. The spiritual unhealthiness of spiritual unpleasantness, the importance of people in the Divine conception, even the dependence of the Divine on human decisions about what pleases them spiritually. It’s easier, somehow, to accept that Hell is other people, than to accept that other people are a bit in your spiritual teeth. Isn’t it?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verses eleven through thirteen: Chanina ben Dosa

Today, if I manage it, I will do all three of the sayings of Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa in Chapter Three. Chanina was a wonder-worker and mystic, a disciple of Jochanan ben Zakkai. He was Galilean, of course. There seems to be something in his position as geographical outsider; he doesn’t get involved in the Temple politics, the revolt, the Siege of Jerusalem or the destruction of the Temple, nor does he after the destruction join the community at Yavneh. He remains a poor stoneworker in Arav.

Before I get to the saying, let me relate a couple of stories about him, courtesy of Gershom Bader’s Encyclopedia of Talmudic Sages and book of Rabbi Nathan. My favorite is about tithing. It seems that Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa was obsessive about tithing. I mean, obsessive. This is attributed to a meal where the food in front of him suddenly disappeared—poof! like that. He went to his wife to ask if the tithe had been taken from the meal. His wife explained that their larder had been utterly empty, and that a neighbor had kindly provided; she assumed that the neighbor had tithed before sharing. Rabbi Chanina determined that one should not make that assumption, but should tithe from every meal, whether the food is grown in your field, purchased at the market, given as a gift, or received as charity. Having made the pronouncement, his meal miraculously re-appeared on the table, and he took the required tenth from it.

That’s not the story, though. That’s just to set up the story. The story is about his donkey. It seems that once thieves stole Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa’s donkey. When they got it back to their stable, they put hay in front of it, but the donkey would not eat. They offered tasty tidbits, they offered carrots and lettuce and sugar, but the donkey would not eat. Finally, they decided to return the donkey to the sage, who told them that the donkey also insisted on the tithe being taken before he would eat.

Isn’t that a great story? I need to go into the Avot of Rabbi Nathan and find out if the thieves repented them their sin and studied with the pious stonemason, or whether that just found a less scrupulous ass to steal.

Some of the other stories are less crazy, mostly healing stories and so on. One aspect of those is that he doesn’t heal by laying on of hands; a messenger is sent, sometimes at substantial distance, with a request for healing prayer, and is told (after the praying, of course) that the sick person is now healed, or would soon recover. The other interesting aspect is that the message sometimes comes from other pious and learned sages; he heals the Rabban Gamliel’s son and Jochanan ben Zakkai’s son, as well as the daughter of the pious well-digger.

And then, you know, there’s the scorpion who bites him and dies, and the queen of evil spirits who is terrified of him, and lighting the Sabbath lamp with vinegar. But they aren’t as good as the fastidious donkey. I do like the wood-stretching miracle, obviously a response to a similar one about the son of a carpenter, a generation or so before…when Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa stretches the beams so that the poor woman’s house will have a roof, he stretches them so far that they stick out a cubit on either side of the walls. This is all to the glory of the Divine, who of course could have made the beams fit properly, but then who would have known about the miracle?

All right, one last story, and this one isn’t about Chanina ben Dosa at all, but about his wife. You all remember the Chanina was a poor man? Well. Even a poor man’s wife must attempt to keep up appearances. Comes a Friday, all the neighbors are baking bread for the Sabbath, every chimney is smoking away like anything, what does Chanina’s wife do? She heats up the oven and puts in some straw to make a smoke, so that nobody will know that the great sage is without bread on the Sabbath. Now, comes in a neighbor, meddling and nosy, looking for trouble. Chanina’s wife (I wish the text gave names to these women, it is utterly unforgivable on grounds of respect and humanity, but it also makes it very hard to tell the stories) hears the knock, panics and runs upstairs. The neighbor pokes her nose into the kitchen, sniffs at the smoke and opens the oven. And sees… of course, she sees two beautiful, magnificent, immense loaves of challah. Not only are they perfectly formed, but they are just at the moment of being perfectly baked. The neighbor cries out, she says Come quickly! The loaves are ready, and if you don’t come quickly they will burn! At which moment Chanina’s wife comes down the stairs holding the thing, the thing like a flat shovel, you know, that you use for taking bread out of an oven. That thing. I can’t blame the sages for my not knowing what it’s called, I suppose, and it would really make the story run more smoothly if I did. Anyway, she comes downstairs holding that thing, saying Of course! Why else was I upstairs but to get the thing, you know, the implement, this thing, for taking the bread out, whatever it’s called.

I love that story, even if I tell it badly, but I also love the commentary on the story, because of course there is commentary. One rabbi asks how we know the neighbor is so bad? Are we being unfair to her? Perhaps she just came by to wish gut shabbos and smelled smoke? The answer is no, we were correct to say she was a bad woman, for if she were a good woman, why is she not bringing bread of her own to share? Had she come with food, we could say she is misunderstood, but she comes empty-handed, so we know she is up to no good. And what about Chanina’s wife? If she is so pious and so worthy of a miracle, why is it that she lies to her neighbor? She does not lie, is the answer, because her faith is such that she knows that Heaven will provide, so she does in fact go to get the implement. But surely, that raises another question, which is why that implement would plausibly have been kept upstairs anyway? To which the reply is, why not? They certainly weren’t using it to take bread out of the oven, since they had no bread to take out! In fact, it is suggested that the appearance of the bread was only secondary to the miraculous appearance of the implement itself, the one that has a name I don’t know, and which the household did not even own until that day.

The appearance of a needed implement is not unprecedented; there is another story about the miraculous appearance and disappearance of a golden table leg at her request, but I think this note has gone on long enough. In fact, it has gone on so long that YHB is going to put the actual text into a new note.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

November 14, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse ten

We are on about studying, still. This is the Chabad translation, and I’ll quibble after:

Rabbi Dusta’i the son of Rabbi Yannai would say in the name of Rabbi Meir: Anyone who forgets even a single word of this learning, the Torah considers it as if he had forfeited his life. As is stated, "Just be careful, and verily guard your soul, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen". One might think that this applies also to one who [has forgotten because] his studies proved too difficult for him; but the verse goes on to tell us "and lest they be removed from your heart, throughout the days of your life." Hence, one does not forfeit his life unless he deliberately removes them from his heart.

The quibble is about the forfeited his life bit—it’s a bit of sagespeak that we’ve been coming across, and while people translate it differently (mortal guilt, guilt against self, guilt against soul) the connotation is that not only is it a Bad Thing, but it is the mental equivalent of a physical act that is a capital crime. As bad as murder. Only, you know, not actually as bad as murder, but rhetorically as bad as murder—we don’t enforce capital punishment, or any punishment in this world, for these soul-based acts. There is no body of law for them. But this whole ethical discussion takes place within a body of work that is primarily discussing the body of law for physical transgressions, and this idiom is comparing them, while keeping them separate. Am I making any sense? I’m just trying to get across that Rabbi Dusty is not saying that from a legal standpoint we should consider forgetting to be a form of suicide, he is saying that there exist transgressions of the soul as well as transgressions of the body, and that this is a very serious transgression of the soul.

What is? You might, with the backtracking, wonder who is capable of deliberately forgetting the Torah? That’s not how memory works, is it? In the backtracking, isn’t Rabbi Dusty letting everybody off the hook?

I don’t think so. The stated exception is for people who people who can’t learn in the first place, not for people who learn and forget. That is, if you learn a verse on Monday, and then on Tuesday it’s gone, that’s not a mortal transgression. If you learn a verse on Monday and can’t remember it on Tuesday, learn it on Tuesday and forget it on Wednesday, study it on Wednesday and can’t recall it on Thursday, that’s clearly a very sad thing, but not a matter of guilt. It was never really in the heart, so it wasn’t removed from the heart.

The warning is for people who study it on Monday, remember it on Tuesday, and figure well, that’s it, then, I don’t need to study it anymore. Then, when he ultimately forgets, it is as if he had forfeited his life.

A couple of comments from the tradition are important here. Rabbi Asher is quoted as saying that the heart of study is reviewing. When you find something you don’t understand, and you study it in order to understand it, that is for the sake of understanding. But when you study it a second time, that is studying for its own sake, and that is the heart of study. There is no pride in it, no self in it. I don’t altogether accept that, as I think that there’s always (particularly with Scripture) the opportunity to improve my understanding and my self; review is not just review. On the other hand, I haven’t attempted to memorize the text entirely, which would perhaps entail a different kind of review. On the other other hand, I know from running lines that memorization review can lead to new connections and new ideas. So.

The other thing I want to pass along is Rabbi Jonah’s emphasis that the guilt is in not accepting that forgetfulness is common among human beings. The guilt is in the pride that says I won’t forget, when people do forget. And then, when you give a decision that such-and-such a dispute is covered under such-and-such a precedent, that such-and-such a thing is permitted or forbidden, that such-and-such an obligation may be fulfilled in such-and-such a way, the decision is wrong, and not only does the scholar transgress, but he causes others to transgress as well.

I often describe myself has having a “trick memory”. It’s not photographic, it’s not perfect by any means, but in dealing with words (as opposed to pictures or numbers), it’s a lot better than most people’s. Both faster and more accurate. This is a gift that runs in my family; I set it to learning song lyrics and Jeopardy! facts, while my brothers and my father learned batting averages and ERAs. It’s not what it was in my youth, I’m afraid; I now have to actually work at memorizing lines, and, yes, review them to keep them in my head. And I have lost most of the plays I have ever been in. I couldn’t do To be or not to be… or recite This is the Place (which I took to tournaments in my high-school years) or even do the long monologue from Pyggie without putting in some work refreshing my memory.

And, of course, all of that is just entertainment. I should say just, as I’m a big believer in entertainment, but the point if that I put as much mental effort into Scripture as I do into things for my own amusement, I would still need to put a lot more in before I passed this test. Which, I suppose, is one reason why for so many years I did very little at all.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian

November 7, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse 9

This week we have a problematic verse, so let’s jump right in. The translation is Herbert Danby’s:

Rabbi Jacob said: If a man was walking by the way and studying and he ceased his study and said, ‘How fine is this tree!’ or ‘How fine is this ploughed field!’ the Scripture reckons it to him as though he was guilty against his own soul.

This is Rabbi Jacob who appears to have been the grandson of Elisha ben Abuya (the famous apostate who is the central character in As a Driven Leaf), and who appears to have been one of the early teachers of Judah the Prince. Taken literally, it is…well, R. Travers Herford points out that “no text is alleged” in as a proof, “… and it is hard to imagine what text would support such a thesis”. Joseph Hertz agrees that “no text is, or could well be, quoted in support of the statement”.

And, in fact, there are specific blessings for seeing beautiful trees, or for seeing any beauty of nature. There is plenty of Scriptural support for the idea that you are supposed to notice the trees and the fields. So why does Rabbi Jacob say that this is a mortal matter? One way of thinking is to attribute certain superstitions to him and his community: he is talking about someone who is traveling alone, and as such is vulnerable to attack by malign supernatural forces (particularly at crossroads). If someone needs to make such a trip, the best defense is to engage in Torah study on the way (as it is written, When thou goest, it shall lead thee;). In such a case, if a person were to be on defense, as it were, and then succumb to distraction and admire the view, the consequences could well be fatal.

Or, you know, that could be rubbish. Better off with a lamp, says I. And I am not convinced that the ooky-spooky interpretation is founded in any actual superstitions of the time—I don’t know much about the superstitions of the period, but this smells to me like a Medieval thing grafted onto the verse. I would want independent evidence that such a superstition and such a ward were common before that interpretation made sense.

Rabbi Hertz does refer to an argument of somebody named J.H. Kara, who says that the verse is not to be taken literally, but as a metaphor. The person who leaves off Torah study to devote himself to the study of Nature, or more specifically, the person who chooses to seek the Divine through the study of Nature, rather than through the study of Scripture, is the one who is guilty against his own soul. Now, as with the demon-ridden interpretation, this seems to require some sense this idea has some currency in R. Jacob’s community. But in first or second century Rome, the idea of seeking the Divine through natural philosophy, through Aristotle rather than Psalms, that seems like a legitimate fear for the Rabbis.

And, of course, it also is a useful interpretation for me, now, which the warding-off-demons, not so much. On the other hand, there’s good reason to be skeptical of this, too—why not seek the Divine through the Creation of the Divine? Why not admire the trees and the fields? No, the key to this verse has to be in ceased to study, that the man in question not only says good things about the Creation, but fails to go back to the Scriptures.

Seeking the Divine through the Creation is fine, then, as long as it doesn’t involve putting down the Scripture. What is at issue is the arrogance of thinking that the Scripture has no lessons that can’t be found in the trees and the fields, that the stars and the microbes are enough, in themselves, without the tradition and the text.

Or, at least, that’s how I read it. Because my gut reaction is still that Rabbi Jacob was a nut, and that this is one of those sayings that is just wrong. And where’s the lesson in that?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

October 31, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse eight

This is another one that I don’t think bears tremendous weight, although the spirit is nice, of course. This is R. Travers Herford’s translation:

R. Eleazar of Bartotha says: Give to Him of what is His, for thou and thine are His; for thus in the case of David Scripture says For of Thee cometh all, and of Thine own have we given Thee.

There are stories of this Eleazar and his overwhelming devotion to charity, the theme of which is usually how little he kept for himself. There are anecdotes about the fund-raisers would see Rabbi Eleazar of Bartotha coming in the street and hide, not wanting him to empty his pockets to them and leave his wife and children with nothing. He found them, though.

One great story has the sage holding back but a single zuz to purchase grain for his family. This grain he carried home and set in his storeroom before hurrying back to the house of study. His wife, wanting to bake, went to look in the storeroom but had difficulty opening the door, because…the Divine had multiplied the grain until the room was overflowing. It’s a good thing it didn’t explode, but that isn’t the point of the story. The point of the story is that when the miracle was reported to Rabbi Eleazar of Bartotha, he rushed home from the house of study to gather up the miraculous grain—and donate it to the poor.

The rabbis, by the way, tend to view this kind of charity a bit warily; they aren’t against it, exactly, but neither do they think it would be a good idea if everybody engaged in it. A reasonable generosity is called for, taking care of your family first and then others. Hospitality, yes, excellent. But don’t get crazy.

One of the things I do like very much about this formulation, though, is that it presents charity (it is possible to interpret the verse as not having anything to do with charity, but that is the obvious interpretation) as being a matter for a person and the Divine, not for a person and another person. That is, the verse is not concerned with the rights of the recipients of the charity, nor of their moral worth. The question isn’t whether the poor deserve charity, or have a right to it, or will make good use of it. The question is whether you, with whatever wealth you falsely believe that you own, are willing to turn it over to the Divine, who is the true owner of everything.

Of course, that can certainly lead to trouble, what with it being difficult to make out a cheque directly to the Divine. It is always tricky to think that you (or YHB, or anyone else) knows what the Divine wants to do with all of those possessions. People make donations to televangelists because they believe that their money belongs to the Divine and that the Reverend So-and-So is the appropriate steward thereof. And sometimes, I should point out, the Reverend So-and-So is an appropriate steward thereof, but disappointingly often, not. And then, people believe that their Political Action Committee is the appropriate steward thereof. Or that they, themselves, and perhaps the boat builders are the appropriate stewards thereof. This verse is short on applicability.

But I do think that it’s helpful to get away from the I Me Mine mentality. Just as a political point of reference, much of the debate about taxes is spoiled by an insistence that certain money is mine. In fact, when I make my working agreement with my employer, that agreement says that the Employer will pay X amount to the Government and Y amount to me (and perhaps Z amount to various other things such as pensions, insurers, or uniform shops), and that I will pay W amount to the Government (and perhaps V amount to various other things). That W amount is not mine in any really meaningful sense of the word, any more than the X amount or the Z amount. Most of that W amount doesn’t even make a temporary appearance in bank account numbers, such as would constitute some kind of ‘ownership’. And yet, it is mine emotionally, and of course depending on other arrangements with the Government, other employers and whatnot, it could in theory ultimately be mine in practice, at least ultimately until I spent in on something. What I’m saying is that whether income or payroll taxes are appropriately high or low is overwhelmed by the sense that the Gummint is taking something of mine. Keeping in mind that everything that is mine is actually a gift of the Divine might help ease off the emotional response and allow for some more analytical thought.

It doesn’t necessarily follow that a person would want tax cuts any less fervently—the idea that the Gummint is taking something of the Divine’s to do Bad Things could be pretty emotional too—but it might help a little, right?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse seven

I think I’m going to whip through a bunch of verses today, because they are repeating previous ones:

Rabbi Halafta of Kefar Hananiah says: When ten sit studying the Torah, the Shekina resides in their midst, as it is said, Gd standeth in the congregation of Gd. How do we know that the same is true of five? For it is said, This band of His He hath established on the earth. How do we know that the same is true of three? For it is said, In the mist of the judges He judgeth. How do we know that the same is true of two? For it is said, Then they that feared the Lord spoke with one another; and the Lord hearkened, and heard. How do we know that the same is true of one? For it is said, In every place where I cause My name to be mentioned I will come unto thee and bless thee.

This is, of course, just a different version of Chanina ben Teradion’s saying a few verses back, with different proof texts and starting with ten rather than three. Although starting with ten makes it a bit more dramatic, there isn’t a surprise here: of course if the Divine Presence sits with three who sit and study Torah, the same is true for five and ten. Starting with a bigger number is just delaying the big payoff, which is with a single person.

The difference is in the proof texts, which are frankly a little weaker here; most modern translations of Amos don’t think that agudahis referring to a band of people at all. What is nice is the implication about the written word, as the Malachi verse continues with a reference to a sefer zikron, book of remembrance being written before the eyes of the Gd-fearers, and the Exodus quote is about all the places asher az’kir, where the remembrance is, and where az’kir is the same zkr root as zikron. And is not the Pirke Avot a sefer zikron? So I like that. Other than that, though, this is just a repetition. Good to have, but not worth a whole week, right?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

October 24, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse six

We’re on the sixth verse of the third chapter of Avot, depending on how you count. Here’s the translation of Judah Goldin:

Rabbi Nehunya ben ha-Kana says: He who takes upon himself the yoke of Torah will be relieved of the yoke of government and the yoke of mundane matters, but he who removes from himself the yoke of the Torah will have imposed upon him the yoke of the government and the yoke of mundane matters.

This seems straightforward, and straightforwardly wrong. The yoke of government and of derech eretz, the paths of this world, are not lifted from Torah scholars, nor are they necessarily imposed on ignoramuses or the non-observant. If, as Maimonedes says, the imposts and extortions of the ruler are the yoke of government, and the necessity of providing for temporal needs is the yoke of derech eretz, then why was Maimonedes himself compelled to be court physician? Because he had insufficiently submitted to the yoke of Torah? Hard to believe. Nor is it hard to find idle rich who have thrown off the yoke of torah and submitted to no other yoke (but the eventual yoke of Death, of course, which comes to scholars, too).

In the Avot of Rabbi Nathan, though, Hanania the Prefect of priests is quoted as saying that we are not talking about a yoke in the sense of being compelled to action, but the yoke of thought. Or more accurately, the yoke of habits of thought. The person who takes on the discipline of Torah study develops habits of thought that prevent the other, less productive habits. “He who does not take to heart the words of the Torah is given to many preoccupations—preoccupations with hunger, foolish preoccupations, unchaste preoccupations, preoccupations with the evil impulse, preoccupations with an evil wife, idle preoccupations, preoccupations with the yoke of flesh and blood.”

To elaborate. I don’t think it is helpful to say to somebody who is suffering from a passionate crush, for instance, or who is unhealthily refreshing their political-junkie webpages, or who is jonesing for the corn chips that they cannot have, study Torah instead. The helpful thing, it seems to me, is for a person to develop the habit of Torah study without reference to any of that. And then, when that corn-chip jones hits you, you have something to fall back on.

Of course, that assumes that Torah study is (as it was for Nehunya ben Ha-Kana) a rigorous and well-defined discipline, not (as YHB does it) a matter of meandering around a text on your own, following your own thoughts. The only other place in the Mishnah that Nehunya ben Ha-Kana is quoted is in Berakhot, where it is mentioned that he would say a blessing on entering and on leaving the study room (or whatever one would properly call the place where colleagues meet to study together). He was asked what the prayer was, and he said that on the way in, he hoped that nothing bad would happen to anyone because of his rulings or teachings, and going out, he gave thanks that he could spend his day there. This is expanded in the Talmud (Ber. 28b):

I give thanks to Thee, O Lord my God, that Thou hast set my portion with those who sit in the Beth ha-Midrash and Thou hast not set my portion with those who sit in [street] corners, for I rise early and they rise early, but I rise early for words of Torah and they rise early for frivolous talk; I labour and they labour, but I labour and receive a reward and they labour and do not receive a reward; I run and they run, but I run to the life of the future world and they run to the pit of destruction.

What I think this points to, taken with the quote from avot, is that by accepting the yoke of the Torah, he has taken on a particular discipline and a particular lifestyle, to be contrasted with a lifestyle of the sinners, the scorners and the idle. When the concerns of the public good or of simply making a living come up, as they do for everybody, the person who has accepted the yoke of the Torah is able to accept those concerns without feeling them as a yoke; he addresses those that need addressing, ignores those that can be ignored, and returns to his studies. The street-corner idlers turn valid concerns about the government or the world into preoccupations and into occasions for frivolous talk and sinful action (or neglect); it is then that the world becomes a yoke.

That’s how I interpret this verse, anyway. Although, now that I have interpreted it that way, I think it’s overly optimistic. Great rabbis can fall prey to passions, political or sexual or avaricious. The habit of rigorous study is a Good Thing, surely, and it feels like a yoke when you adopt it, and it does protect you from quite a lot of temptation and error, but—

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

October 17, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse five

It’s a beautiful autumn day, thank the Divine, clear and crisp and cool. Just right for…a translatiopalooza! Let’s begin with Michael L. Rodkinson:

R. Hanina b. ’Hakhinai used to say: "He who awakens by night, and he who is walking alone on the road and turns aside his heart to idleness, it is his own fault if he incurs trouble for himself."

And there’s Judah Goldin:

Rabbi Hananiah ben Hakinai says: If one wakes in the night, or walks by himself on the highway, and turns his heart to idle matters, he is mortally guilty.

and Joseph H. Hertz:

R. Chanina, the son of Chachinai, said, He who keeps awake at night, and goes on his way alone, and turns his heart to idle thoughts, such a one sins against himself.

…and R. Travers Herford:

R. Ḥanina ben Ḥachinai said: He who wakes in the night, and he who walks alone by the way, and he who makes his heart empty for idle thoughts, lo he is guilty against himself.

And Herbert Danby:

R. Hananiah b. Hakinai said: He that wakes in the night or that walks alone by the way and turns his heart to vanity, is guilty against his own soul.

And Charles Taylor:

Chananyiah ben Chakinai said, He who awakes by night, and he who is walking alone by the way, and turns aside his heart to idleness, is “guilty of death.”

And Jacob Neusner:

R. Hananiah b. Hakninai says, “(1) He who gets up at night, and (2) he who walks around by himself, and (3) he who turns his desire to emptiness—lo, this person is liable for his life.”

From the Chabad site:

Rabbi Chanina the son of Chachina’i would say: One who stays awake at night, or travels alone on the road, and turns his heart to idleness, has forfeited his life.

And from the Sharei Shechem site:

Rabbi Chaninah ben Chachinai said: He who stays awake at night and goes on his way alone and turns his heart to idle thoughts is liable for his life.

If you can’t tell, the reason I went nuts on these is that the original Hebrew is both unclear and evidently corrupt in an important point. Essentially, there are three actions described: waking in the night, walking alone, and idleness of the heart. It isn’t clear whether Hananiah is talking about one person who does all three, or three different kinds of people, or whether the first two are occasions for the third. Most of the medieval sources seem to have been working with a text that is a OR b OR c, but some using that text still interpret it (a OR b) AND c, and some have a text that is different by one letter and is thus quite clearly (a OR b) AND c, and some seem to have a AND b AND c. Some commentary points out how particularly sinful it is to be mentally idle at night, as during the day one is presumably compelled to be industrious with the body, and the night is thus the opportunity for study. Presumably this applies as well to stretches of solitary walking. I have some of my best thinking time whilst walking alone, certainly, although most of it is devoted to matters of idleness and vanity rather than Scripture.

Mr. Herford calls it “absurd” to condemn somebody for waking at night, or for walking alone, or even for walking alone at night; he insists that there are two types of people described, not three. And yet, I can easily imagine condemnation for someone who chooses to stay up nights; early to bed and early to rise makes a man proverbial, you know. Night wakefulness can lead to all manner of bad things, even if it’s due to insomnia. The deliberate choice to stay up at night would seem, particularly at the time, to be deeply suspicious, and (depending on the sage’s attitude) might well have occasioned the warning that the night-waker is violating his soul, and takes on responsibility for any sinfulness that follows. Similarly, the choice to walk alone, rather than in company—I prefer to walk alone, myself, but then, I live in an area that is frequented by neither footpads nor harlots. This could well be a warning similar to the Catholic statement that those who allow themselves to feel lust are liable on that account for the sin of adultery, whether the added matter of the actual sin is occasioned or not.

I should probably add, since I’ve segued so nicely, that waking in the night and having sex with a spouse is not a matter of idleness or vanity, according to tradition. Which is one of the reasons why the Rabbis are (with few exceptions) so adamant about the importance of marriage, and of living with the spouse and sharing a bed. When one wakes at night, it might be too much to expect contemplation of the Scripture (although good if it happens), but a little conjugal relations is a mitzvah and with luck will get them both back to sleep afterward. I suppose the same could be said for walking in the field, although only between May and September.

I find all of this interesting in itself, without reference to my own life, but when it comes to application, I have some difficulty. I am an insomniac, myself, and have much experience of waking in the night and having idle thoughts. Or delaying bedtime (and its expected sleeplessness) by playing Civ or reading erotica or soaking in the tub. And, as I have mentioned, I do enjoy a solitary stroll, and spend much of that time, when I get it, listening to music and thinking idle thoughts. So, in that sense, I do feel properly rebuked. I could use that time for contemplation of the Divine or study of the Torah. On the other hand, it’s not really ideal time for serious thinking, as I generally am tired (at night) or distracted (on the road).

Digression: I had for some reason never applied the walking verse to driving. In Hebrew it is clearly the walker, but if it applies to him who walks alone, should it not apply to him who drives alone? Although of course if R. Hananiah wanted to apply it to someone who rides a horse or a mule, or to someone who drives a cart, he could have done so. Still, if we make it travels alone, rather than walking, it is not just the solitude but the waste of resources that places the soul in jeopardy. End Digression.

Or I could feel myself rebuked simply for being wakeful at night. And it is true that I haven’t done everything I could to fight the insomnia. Because I’m too tired to bother. No, seriously, I know that people really do have success at falling asleep, trying one thing and another, and I have tried only a few things, which have worked only moderately well. And I’m not a bad case, really—most nights I lie awake only half-an-hour or an hour, and some nights less. The real problem are the nights that I fall asleep and then am woken up by something at one o’clock, as then I am likely to be up for an hour or more. On the plus side, I can sleep in perfectly well. My Best Reader can fall asleep in the evening as easy as anything, but rises at dawn or earlier, sometime much earlier, with no possibility of renewed snoozing. I can be woken at five and be back asleep in moments.

Well. The point is that it is likely enough that Hananiah is rebuking me not just for the idle thoughts but for being too lazy to fight my insomnia, giving myself an opening for the idle thoughts in the first place. And it may be that it is easier to fight the insomnia than to fight the idle thoughts. Hm.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

October 10, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse four

Last week, we saw that Rabbi Chanina ben Teradion begins with two sitting together and concludes with one. The verse that follows appears to be going backwards.

R. Simeon said:—Three who have eaten at one table and have not said over it words of Torah are as if they had eaten of the sacrifices of the dead, as it is said For all tables are full of vomit and filthiness without Gd. But three who have eaten at one table and have said over it words of Torah are as if they had eaten from the table of Gd, as it is said: And he said to me This is the table which is before the Lord.

Now, this is the Rashbi, Reb Simeon bar Yochbai, who was an extremely pious, rather cranky wonder-worker and sage. There are many, many stories about him. Many, many, many. The Zohar is traditionally attributed to him, so all of the Kabbalah stories are the grandchildren of stories about the Rashbi. But even about Simeon himself, there are no end of stories. And his sayings are legion. Why this one? Why not the one about it being forbidden for a man to fill his mouth with laughter in this world? Or perhaps the bit about how croup is caused by neglect of study? Although not on the part of the croup sufferer necessarily.

Or in the tractate Sukkah, appropriate to this week, he is quoted by Hezekiah as saying I see the greatest men in the world are very few. If they are a thousand, I and my son are included; if they are a hundred, I and my son are included, and if they are only two, they are I and my son.

And those quotes are certainly saved and available for perusal and whatnot. But here in Pirke Avot, we get that three people should talk about the Divine when they eat.

When they eat. That’s what’s going on here, I think. Because I think (I think) that this verse is all about the table, the shulchan, which we now have on authority can be made the shulchan shel-makom, the table with a Presence, by saying words of Torah over it. And what is the Shulchan shel-makom? It is the shulchan asher liphnay adonai, the Table before the Lord, which in the first half of the Ezekiel verse is the mizbeach, the Altar. And in the first half of the Rashbi verse, it is the mizb’chay matim, the altar of the pagans.

There are two lessons here, both very important. First is this: The Altar in Jerusalem is gone; now we must take the kitchen table as an Altar to the Divine. The Machsor Vitry (compiled by Rashi’s students) makes this point: that in Temple times, we could atone for our sins with sacrifice at the Temple. Now, we achieve atonement at the table, by giving food and drink to the poor. The lesson about charity is very important, but it is Schenectady for the entirety of Torah (as well it might be) and our relationship to the Divine. Rashbi is telling us that we are not Temple Jews (thank the Divine), but that doesn’t mean we are to become synagogue Jews. We are to be kitchen-table Jews.

Digression: Speaking of charity and food, I know some Gentle Readers will be making charitable donations towards the end of the calendar year. There are always many, many things that money can help with, and you need to make your own decisions, and that’s all good. But y’all should know, and probably already know, that food pantries and direct food assistance are hurting, and hurting badly. Temple Beth Bolshoi does a food drive on Yom Kippur every year, and we have been filling two trailer-trucks in recent years. Not this year; our membership is hurting. And that meant less food for the pantries in Greater Hartford, which were already hurting, as I say. They are squeezing turnip juice from rocks, at this point. So if you are considering where to send money this year, please at least call over to local food pantries and see if they are hurting as badly as ours are. And think about diverting some of that money to the (very worthy) political, environmental, social, and educational stuff that is also hurting very badly. Not easy choices to make, eh? But remember the immortal words of the Fiddler on the Roof schnorrer, who said So you had a bad week, why should I suffer? End Digression.

There is a political metaphor of the kitchen table that my Party used to tremendous effect (I think) in the recent elections, and which I would like to see them continue to bang away at. There is something very powerful about the dinner table, whether it is in the kitchen or a dining room or a breakfast nook. And I think it’s fair to say that what you do (and with whom) at the dinner table says as much about what kind of person you are as what you do anywhere else.

And what, then, is the difference between a kitchen table that is a replacement for the Destroyed Temple and a kitchen table that is an Altar to profanity? Between the mizbeach l’adonai and the mizbechay matim? Or even a mizbeach mi bal’aday mizbeach adonai elohenu, an altar beside the altar of the Divine? Words. Just words. But not just any words. Words of the path of the Torah. Not the ritual blessings, although of course the blessings are words of the path of the Torah, but the precepts and regulations, restrictions and obligations.

Suitably revised for the world we live in, of course, says YHB, before he goes off to have pasta carbonara for lunch.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

October 3, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse three

We were speaking of politics and Pirke Avot, and Rabbi Hananiah’s admonishing to pray for the Empire. This next verse is political, too, although not so obviously. Before I type in the text (and it’s longish), a little about the speaker.

Rabbi Chanina ben Teradion was a teacher who was chided by Rabbi Yosi ben Kisma (his former study partner) for endangering his life by continuing to teach under the Roman interdict. His friend was on his sickbed, and he was dismayed that Rabbi Chanina would put all his knowledge and tradition at risk. He spotted that the teacher had a forbidden book in his pocket at that moment, and predicted that he would be caught with it in his possession, and put to death. Rabbi Chanina said that the Divine would have mercy, and Rabbi Yosi responded that it was up to people to take care of themselves, not to rely on the mercy of Heaven.

Rabbi Yosi died of that illness a short time later, and his funeral was attended not only by Jews but by prominent Roman officials, who (according to the story) found Rabbi Yosi a congenial collaborator. Whilst returning from the funeral, the Roman officials came across Rabbi Chanina ben Teradion, teaching disciples from the forbidden Torah scroll. He was taken, condemned to death, and martyred by burning wrapped in the scroll itself; there are stories about that martyrdom that are less gruesome than one would expect. But the saying in Avot touches on this martyrdom only indirectly.

R. Hananiah b. Teradion said: If two sit together and no words of the Law [are spoken] between them, there is the seat of the scornful, as it is written, Nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But if two sit together and words of the Law [are spoken] between them, the Divine Presence rests between them, as it is written, Then they that feared the Lord spake one with another, and the Lord hearkened, and heard, and a book of remembrance was written before him, for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his name. Scripture here speaks of ‘two’; whence [do we learn] that if even one sits and occupies himself in the Law, the Holy One, blessed is he, appoints him a reward? Because it is written, Let him sit alone and keep silence, because he hath laid it upon him.

So. What’s going on here? This is Herbert Danby’s translation, by the way, and the square brackets are his, not mine, and as usual are a method of indicating in English that the Hebrew idiom allows the verb to be understood, and one hopes, understood correctly. None of my translations show really substantial differences; this seems to be fairly straightforward in its language.

We begin with two sitting together, and the admonition that such opportunities not be wasted. This is fairly common. The proof texts are appropriate and reasonable. The transmission of the tradition from one to another, the disputative tradition, are not possible if the Divine Presence does not sit between two people who exchange words of Torah.

Digression: this Divine Presence is the Shechinah. This is the presence that dwelt in the mishkan (a related word) and in the Temple. The Divine is everywhere, but the Shechinah dwelt in the Temple (dwelt to indicate temporary residence rather than permanence; we sing about the dwelling-places of Israel, mishk’enotecha yisroel, which are more than sukkot, booths, but not permanent homes). After the Destruction, the Shechinah was, if you will, cut loose, to dwell here and there amongst the people in Exile. Now, shechinah is a feminine word (that is, the noun takes feminine forms, plurals, etc, as Hebrew is a gendered language), so the Shechinah took on feminine attributes and became (in some parts of the tradition) a sort of Mrs. JHWH, in a mystical marriage where the male and female aspects of creation are both divided and together. For most of us who aren’t into that whole mystical kabbala business, this really only manifests itself in the Shabbat Queen or Shabbat Bride, who is said to visit every household where the Sabbath is kept, both to partake in and intensify the joy. The l’cha dodi is an invitation to this Presence, sung early in the Friday night service and a very popular hymn (with thirty different tunes). End Digression.

As I said, it is not remarkable that the Divine Presence should sit between two pious men that speak of Torah. Even under Roman persecution, Rabbi Chanina sat to speak of Torah, at great risk, and ultimately was martyred for it. After the martyrdoms, and the Destruction of the Second Temple, as the Rabbis sat to discuss their options, one of the concerns was the status of the written books of the Oral Law. Was it acceptable to write them? Was it acceptable to study alone? When the Law was entirely oral, it was not possible to study alone; it is of course possible to be alone and pious, but solitary study was actively discouraged. The sages that put together the Avot, and the Mishnah, were radicals, engaged in something new and dangerous: the transmission of tradition by the written word. Who died and left them in charge?

Rabbi Chanina did. This verse, to my eyes, is a justification for solitary study, from a sage who was martyred for possessing a book of the Law, and martyred while enfolded in the scroll of the Law. While much of Avot contains as subtext (or explicit text) the transmitted authority of the Sages, that is, the authority of the book itself and the Mishnah that contains it, this verse suggests the conceptual authority of learning your Torah from the book.

In addition to having a teacher of course, as we see explicitly stated several times. But still.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

September 26, 2009

For the Sake of Zion, vaddevah dat means

So my Perfect Non-Reader, now being a big third-grade kid, has progressed to the next level of Hebrew School. They are finally teaching her the aleph-bet with some seriousness, and they are teaching her the liturgical structure of the service, and they are brainwashing her with Zionism.

They gave her, in that first week of classes, a very odd thing: it’s a page out of For the Sake of Zion: Pride and Strength Through Knowledge, by Tuvia Book. This is a work specifically and explicitly devoted to indoctrinating passion for Zion. And it’s aimed at high-school students and college kids. From the press release:

Once Jewish students leave the protective bubble of school, home or intimate social group and enter the “real world” of a mixed college campus, sometimes hostile to Jews and Zionism, they often find themselves uncomfortable, on the defensive and unable to speak about Israel in partbecause they lack the passion for Zion.

In order to respond effectively with a sense of self-respect and to be proactive, students need a sense of commitment and pride, as well as knowledge and tools.

The sheet they gave the kids is a list of statements, and a space to respond whether the reader agrees or disagrees (on an A-E scale, oddly enough). I’m going to type in the whole thing, because—well, because I find it interesting and a trifle disturbing.

  • The Jews are a nation like the French or the Germans.
  • The Jews are a religious group like Muslims or Christians.
  • All Jews should live in Israel.
  • Jewish life in the Diaspora is vital to the continuation of the Jewish people.
  • Jewish life in the Diaspora can never be fully safe or satisfying.
  • Self-determination is the basic right of all peoples.
  • The Jewish claim for national independence is based on Divine promise as recorded in the Torah.
  • The Jewish people have an absolute and singular right to the Land of Israel as their national homeland.
  • The Land of Israel is the national homeland of both the Jewish and the Palestinian Arab people.
  • The State of Israel should be a model of Western liberal democracy.
  • The Torah is the national constitution of the Jewish people and should be the national constitution of the State of Israel.
  • The State of Israel belongs to the entire Jewish people.
  • The State of Israel belongs to the citizens of the State.
  • Israel is primarily a refuge for Jews fleeing oppression and a response to anti-Semitism.
  • Israel is primarily a creative expression of the Jewish people’s will to be an independent community.
  • All citizens of the State of Israel, regardless of religion or national-cultural identity, should share the same rights and privileges.
  • Zionism demands personal fulfillment through Aliyah.
  • Any support of Israel is Zionism.
  • Zionism does not end with Aliyah, but continues through personal work to create a better society in Israel.
  • A person living in Israel has to serve in the IDF to be considered a Zionist.

Well, now. As a conversation-kicker for grupps, or perhaps even more so for college kids, there’s a lot there. I could probably write a note about each of those twenty items (or more accurately, I could begin the project and then peter out after eight or so, despite having plenty to say about the rest). If we all (Gentle Readers and myself) just did the A-E response that the worksheet calls for would generate a wide range of responses. Giving it to a bunch of eight-year-old kids— My Perfect Non-Reader has an immense vocabulary, and I think is able to more or less understand the sentences and what they mean. Or, I should say, what they mean on the simplest level; I don’t claim to fully understand what Self-determination is the basic right of all peoples means, or what national independence means, or personal fulfillment or Western liberal democracy, for that matter. These are not well-defined terms. That doesn’t mean that they have no meaning, or that they can’t be used to communicate effectively, just that there is a limit to the extent that I am willing to say that I understand them. But that limit is very different from the limit experienced by an eight-year-old, who may or may not know what, for instance, the word refuge means. My Perfect Non-Reader does know that word, and its relation to refugee, because her parents are that way.

So I think her trouble is the greater one, close to the one that I have with the list. On the other hand, I have had lots of these conversations before. I have some experience with the tricky parts. It’s fairly easy for me to say it’s more complicated than that to pretty much anybody. I’m thinking not so much for an eight-year-old in class.

And then there’s this: I am an anti-Zionist myself, in the sense that I think Zionism was an error, although I have no solution to offer myself. Certainly I don’t think that immediate abolition of the State of Israel is a good solution, but given a range of solutions, I would rather work toward a future without a Jewish State, if that could be done without making things worse for lots of individual people. It’s hard to see how that would happen. So in terms of practical policy preferences, I am probably in line with, oh, J Street, despite their “support [for] Israel and its desire for security as the Jewish homeland”. I desire security for Jews, both in the Holy Land and elsewhere, but I do not in principle support the State’s desire for security as the Jewish homeland. But then here I’m reminded of the book-dialogue between Michael Lerner and Cornel West, when they are talking about Zionism, and it turns out that neither of them believe in the nation-state as such, so of course the whole concept of Zionism is suspect. I, too, have trouble with the idea of the nation-state, and that puts me in the corner with the guys with the funny haircuts who make trouble, but has almost nothing to do with anything practical.

But practically speaking, I am a Diaspora Jew. I identify myself as a Diaspora Jew, and I practice Diaspora Judaism. When we discuss Jewish matters (which happens fairly often around the house, as you can guess), I respond as a Diaspora Jew. And as an American. And that rubs off. My Perfect Non-Reader filled out this page as a Diaspora Jew, and as an anti-Zionist, to boot. I suspect that she was one of the few people to strongly disagree with the absolute and singular right stuff and give a shrug of a C to The State of Israel belongs to the entire Jewish people. Not that I would fill the paper out exactly the way she did, but on the whole, she wrote a paper as YHB’s daughter.

And that worries me. Not, in this instance, because I am worried about my own indoctrination, pace Akabya b. Mahaleel. But because I think it will be difficult and unpleasant for her to hold such unpopular views. Because she will be torn between loyalty to her Old Dad, who she loves (thank the Divine, although I embarrass her so) and respect for her teacher and the respect of her classmates. This is not like growing up a Yankee fan’s son in Boston. This is like that kid whose dad sued to have the Pledge of Allegiance returned to its original secular text.

I grew up in a New York Liberal Jewish household in a Southwestern town. My dad remains an old Trotskyite, at heart. When the Soviet Union fell apart, I was in college, and at that point I heard echoed in my community his response that this was the best possible news for advancing socialism. But when I was in high school and we read Animal Farm, I caused a major ruckus by making a similar point about Marx and Stalin. And that was high school. When I was Brynnen’s age, more or less, Jimmy Carter was running for President, and I was aware that our household was an Democratic island in a sea of Republicans. I heard dozens of Jimmy Carter jokes from my classmates. Not that I cared, particularly, about politics at the time. And I associated the political thing with the religious thing; we were supposed to be outsiders, after all.

Now I live in a town with seven synagogues. The local A&P put out a huge display of round challah right by the entrance last week, together with raisins, apricots, figs and those sticky nut-honey things that the Sephardim eat. And on the right day, too. The schools are closed on Monday for the Yom, not particularly out of sensitivity but out of logistical necessity, with so many students and teachers out. Being a Jew is not being an outsider in this town, and I am reminded almost every week of how different that is from my own childhood.

And yet, it seems, I am bringing my daughter into an outsider status of her own. I am, how do you say, conflicted about this. I am proud of her and worried about her. I feel guilty for having put her in this position, and I feel good about having protected her against the indoctrination I disagree with. I am frustrated by the whole weight of history that has made it seem almost reasonable for my shul to indoctrinate the kids in their school in Zionism, even while I think it’s a wrong-headed idea. And I want, in the words of the press release for that book, for my Perfect Non-Reader to respond effectively with a sense of self-respect and to be proactive, drawing on a sense of commitment and pride, as well as knowledge and tools. Only, I think I want her to do it in 5777, not this year.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse two

Rabbi Hananiah, prefect of the priests, says: Do thou pray for the welfare of the Empire, because were it not for the fear it inspires, every man would swallow his neighbor alive.

Wow.

That’s Judah Goldin’s translation, by the way, of the second verse of chapter three of Pirke Avot, if you are just joining in at this Tohu Bohu. The only major disagreement amongst my translators is on the welfare question, as the word is more closely related to peace. Which could make a difference in connotation, and I’ll try to look into that, but I don’t think the raw political point is much different.

And it is raw. Rabbi Hananiah is a leader during the last years of the Second Temple and the first years following. That is, during the First Jewish-Roman war. It’s not altogether unlike a Sunni religious leader in, say, Afghanistan saying that his followers should pray for the welfare of the American Empire, because etcetera etcetera. It’s one perfectly valid political position, but make no mistake about it being a political position, and as much about his fellow mullahs as about the Americans. It is said that R. Hananiah later changed sides and joined the Zealots, but that isn’t here or there for this statement, except to underline that it is this verse, from this moment in his political and institutional life (he is a sort of vice-Priest, standing by to take over if the High Priest cannot fulfill his duties), that is put into the Avot.

I think that inclusion must be meant to say something about the importance of political disagreement and dissent. I mean, on the face of it, R. Hananias seems to be almost in step with the neo-cons of our own day. But by the time the redactors put the Mishnah together a hundred years later, R. Hananias is understood to be speaking in a minority within the Jerusalem community. Although, of course, the Jafneh community is protected by Rome, and Judah the Prince himself is on good terms with the Emperor. But that relationship is protecting the Jews from widespread persecution; the Mishnah and this chapter are committed to paper because of the fear that the Romans will utterly wipe out the tradition.

So there’s tension.

So, as I say, I think the thing I take from this advice is not so much to follow the advice itself, but to value the political discussion and dissension. And, I suppose, to value the religious obligation to participate in politics and government. Not to mix the synagogue and the state, not to have the state support the synagogue or the synagogue support the state, but that individuals are obliged to participate, and that Jews are obliged to participate both as individuals (with their own judgments and decisions) and as Jews (with the community tradition and Law). That’s a heavy burden. And we don’t all do it well all the time. I have my complaints about Rabbi Hananiah and his verse, but I have to give him credit for taking sides.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

September 20, 2009

Notes for an blog post

A few notes about the Rosh Hashanah service, and not enough time or energy to arrange them in an essay, or to make a theme and figure out which ones fit the theme and which get discarded—

When people recently were asking why are Jews liberals, my answer, as it always is, focused on the Seder. One reasonable working definition of Jewishness is that Jews are people who every year in the Spring tell ourselves the story of having been slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord brought us out with a strong hand, and an outstretched arm. And while that does not necessarily make us liberals, I think the repetition is a big influence in that direction, at least within the American spectrum of right/left. But when, at the service, we were singing Avinu Malkenu, and I thought, hmmm. The song Avinu Malkenu, which is one of the Big Songs for Rosh Hashanah, and is the conclusion of a part of service unique to Rosh Hashanah, translates roughly like this: Our Father, our King, have mercy on us in your answer, although we are without merit ourselves. Treat us with charity and kindness, to save us. So influencing the idea of merit for Jews is the statement, repeated every year at a moment of heightened ritual meaning, that we have none. On the other hand, I have this tendency to romanticize the importance of the meaning of words within the ritual. After all, one of the advantages of praying in a dead language is that you don’t have to think about what you are saying.

Speaking of the Avinu Malkenu, traditionally we do not say it when Rosh Hashanah falls on a Saturday. But I guess we do say it in the Reform shul. This is a minor matter (mostly because the Reform machzor has a version that is substantially shorter than the Conservative one), but the major thing about Rosh Hashanah falling on Shabbat is that traditionally the shofar is not blown on the Shabbat. So I went through the disappointment of realizing that I wouldn’t hear the shofar, and then discovered that they did blow the Shofar on Shabbat at my (Reform) Shul. And was somehow also disappointed by that. Of course, for Conservatives, it mostly means deciding to go to services on the second day of Rosh Hashanah so you can hear the shofar; we eschew that whole second-day business for the most part.

Another thing I like about the Rosh Hashanah liturgy: zachrenu l’chaim, melech chafetz bachaim, v’chat’venu b’sefer ha-chaim l’ma’an’chu, elohim chaim. Remember us to life, king of life, and inscribe us in the Book of Life, for your sake, Lord of life. I don’t have anything particularly profound to say about it, I just like the line. Life. You know.

Back to this idea of how repeated rituals have an influence on people’s character, and how that might have some effect on the political leanings of those people (many of them, you know, in terms of statistics and trends, not conclusively), I was struck by the way we put a crown on our law book. An actual crown, a great big silver crown, with bells on. There’s something there about our understanding of regality and legality, of the place of people and laws, of the structure of society, of what is worthy of reverence, that is all wound up in that bit where we put a crown on our law book. And then kiss it. OK, we’re a little strange.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

September 19, 2009

Pay heed to the sound of the shofarrrrrrrrrrr!

What day is it? It’s International Daven like a Pirate Day, of course! The day when Pirates everywhere hope to be inscribed in the Log of Life for a good year, a year of peace and a year of mercy, and a bucket of rum. The First of the Ten Days of Arrrrrrrrr, during which we look back on our last piratical year and the ways in which we fell short of the mizzenmast: running before the wind to do evil; sinning with words, with actions, and with eighteen-pounders; avarice, blasphemy, cowardice and double-dealing; sinning by omission, commission, and nailing that man’s foot to the deck that one time.

And we will be observing tashlich, where we sink the boats of the British Navy into running water, letting our sins float downstream with the rest of the flotsam.

For those of ye who will be observing today, a good year to you, and the Mercy of Heaven be upon ye—not the HMS Mercy of Heaven, which is a fine ship, lads, but no match for the Blue Peter. Er, yes, not a great name for a pirate ship, but…avast ye! The next man who snickers will be leyning Jonah in the belly of the great whale itself!

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

September 12, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter three, verse one

Let’s start the third chapter of Pirke Avot with yet another translation, this one by Herbert Danby, D.D. Residentiary Canon of St. George’s Cathedral, Jerusalem, back in 1933.

Akabya b. Mahaleel said: Consider three things and thou wilt not fall into the hands of transgression. Know whence thou art come and whither thou art going and before whom thou are about to give account and reckoning. ‘Whence thou art come’—from a putrid drop; ‘and whither thou art going’—to the place of dust, worm and maggot; ‘and before whom thou art about to give account and reckoning’—before the King of kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed is he.

Well, that’s cheerful.

Can we talk about about Akabya b. Mahaleel? We learn about him in the Talmudic tractate on witnesses and testifying. When Shammai died, Akabya b. Mahaleel was offered his position (Av Bet Din, the head of the court of judges) on condition that he retract some positions that he held on fairly obscure issues. He refused. He said he would rather to hear people call him a fool than to hear people say he sold his principles for high office. He was then excommunicated, although it isn’t exactly clear why; the story is obscure in a bunch of places, and what is most clearly recorded is the protest of R. Jehudah some time afterward that it was somebody else entirely who was excommunicated, and that the record is wrong.

Anyway, there’s a story about Akabya b. Mahaleel as he lay dying. His children all come to him, and he says nu, who’s minding the store? No, wait, that’s a different story. His son comes to him, and he says to the son, about those rules that I held against the majority—you should accept the majority viewpoint. I took my judgment from many people speaking on both sides, but you have heard everybody on one side, and then just me on the other. And if you have to judge between a one-person minority and the majority, you should choose the majority. If you were to side with me, it would only be because I am your father; that is no way to make legal decisions.

And then, after he died, the Bet Din threw rocks at his coffin. (Unless it wasn’t him, of course.)

I want to note that in the Rabbi Nathan collection, the quote is substantially different, saying that we come from darkness and go to darkness. The version here in avot is more physical, less existential. We come from a putrid drop, we go to dust and worms and maggots. And if you keep this in mind—what? You will not fall into transgression. Why not?

After all, if you come from putrescence (and not everyone would agree with the characterization of semen as putrid; the description of semen in the rabbinic literature could itself be the topic of fruitful discussion, pardon the pun) and go to maggots, why wouldn’t you transgress? Wouldn’t keeping that in mind be an encouragement to transgress, rather than an encouragement to piety?

Or is the point that in between the putrescence and the maggots, there is something that is not disgusting?

In the commentary, R. Simeon b. Elazar asks if it wouldn’t be nice if, you know, people pissed perfume instead of piss? I mean. But as proud and haughty as we are, even with the foulness coming out of our body every now and then, if we didn’t have that, we would be utterly beyond everything.

On the other hand, I think this bracketing of your life in putrescence and maggots could highlight just how wonderful your physical body is. I mean, if at some point you are cranky about your bad knee or your sore back, remember that you came from a drop and will be eaten by maggots, but for a few magnificent years, you are something else.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

August 29, 2009

Maurice Sendak is my spiritual leader, too

Last year at this time, Benjamin Rosenbaum wrote that Maurice Sendak is my spiritual leader. Well, not YHB's. His. Well, mine too, as I'll get to in a minute. Mr. Rosenbaum took as his text Pierre: A Cautionary Tale, and explained the concept of teshuvah, turning back to the Divine, which happens to Pierre in the belly of the beast. Since then, though, I have been thinking about a different book, and a different aspect of Yom Kippur and teshuvah.

There is a metaphor, much used in the tradition and occasionally discussed here in this Tohu Bohu, of everybody having two parts to their nature—the nefesh elokit, or the Divine spirit, and the nefesh behamit, or animal spirit. Your Humble Blogger does have problems with this (not least because of the implication that the actual beasts are utterly without Divine nature), but it can be a useful metaphor, so long as we remember that it is a metaphor, rather than a literal description of the universe.

And what better way to remind us of the metaphor than a picture book?

Do you have a copy of Where the Wild Things Are? Get hold of it. Look at it closely, because there's a lot of detail here. If you don't have one in your house, you can go to your local public library, or to your local bookstore. They will have it. And I'd like to get us all on the same page before somebody makes some sort of dreadful movie from it. OK?

So. Where does it start? It starts when Max puts on a wolf suit. When Max leaves his better nature and adopts an animal nature. Instead of self-control and kindness, Max covers himself with rage, instant gratification and impulse. It's all good fun, of course, but I wouldn't tell that to the dog he is chasing with a fork. His Mother enrages him further, when She fails to encourage him in his behavior. She calls him wild thing, which I'm going to go ahead and translate as nefesh behamit; he is doing what his animal nature tells him, rather than tempering that instinct with the Divine. How does he react? As a nefesh behamit. He says, “I'll eat you up!” This is the nature of the nefesh behamit. It devours what stands in its way. It does not think; it eats. It does not communicate; it threatens.

Of course, it threatens beyond its means. Max can't eat his Mother all up. And, in fact, by wanting to eat everything, instead he gets nothing. The Mother does not respond well to threats.

Ah, but Max does not take off his wolf suit, and he is not chastened. Well, if he is a nefesh behamit, then he is happy (says he to himself, says he) being apart from the Presence. He will make himself a new world, without any Presence at all. He will devote himself to being a wild thing.

And he goes to the place where the wild things are.

I don't know if you have ever gone to the place where the wild things are. Most people, I think, or at least many people I have known, have decided somewhere along the line that it's all about the animal nature. That there isn't any better nature, or that if there is, it isn't really them. Have decided to live in their wolf suits, and make mischief with the rest of the wild things. And the thing about wild things, is that they do have terrible roars, and terrible teeth, and terrible eyes, terrible claws, and yet they are quite easily tamed, if they think you are wilder then them. And if you are the wildest thing of all, then you get to be king of all the wild things, and they will dance with you, and carry you on their shoulders, and swing with you.

But they don't know when to stop.

How could they? How could a nefesh behamit know when to stop? Stopping is not in the animal nature. Self restraint is what they rejected when they put on their wolf suits.

Max discovers, after three double pages of glorious rumpus, that it is time to stop. I don't think at that point he knows why. He knows he is missing something. When the rumpus ends, he doesn't yet know that it is his Mother. But (and this is interesting) he sends the rest of the wild things off to bed without their suppers, trying (unconsciously, I think) to mimic his Mother. And that is the pivotal moment.

Max, the king of all wild things, is suddenly lonely, and wants … what? Not more rumpus, wilder things, more instant gratification. No. He wants to be where Someone loves him best of all. And then the smells of home come to him. At the right moment, when he is receptive, it is comfort and love and familiarity, habit even, that bring him to teshuvah, to return.

The rest of the wild things react just as wild things do react: they want to eat him up, to devour him. True, they call that love, and there is certainly passion in it. But it's nefesh behamit love, if it is love, and it's still eating someone up. And Max, in his teshuvah can simply say no, and step into his private boat, and sail back.

Return, or teshuvah, is what we will be looking to do this month as we head into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. And as I try to say good-bye to my own wild things, and sail back in my own private boat, I will keep in mind the end of the book. I know a lot of people interpret the end of the book as a surrender, that they would like to see Max stay as king of all wild things. Not me. I want to push back the hood of my metaphorical wolf suit (although, beautifully, Max is still half inside it, even at the very end, as we all are), and come into the night of my very own room, and find my supper waiting for me.

That's the real miracle of Max's story. After all the rumpus, after rejecting his nefesh elokit and giving in to his appetites, even after being sent to bed without any supper, there is always teshuvah. His supper was waiting for him.

And it was still hot.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

August 22, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verses twenty and twenty-one

Your Humble Blogger has always particularly liked Rabbi Tarfon's sayings. I think that the last saying in this chapter was the first line from the avot that I quoted in this Tohu Bohu, albeit in another context. Anyway, here's R. Travers Herford's translation of verses twenty and twenty-one:

R. Tarphon said—The day is short and the work is great, and the labourers are sluggish, and the wages are high and the householder is urgent.

He used to say—The work is not upon thee to finish, nor art thou free to desist from it. If thou has learned much Torah they give thee much wages; and faithful is the master of thy work who will pay thee the wages of thy toil. And know that the giving of the reward to the righteous is in the time to come.

This continues the metaphor from R. Elazar ben Arach. The first verse is just a description, but of course in a work like this one, it's not just that R. Tarfon thinks that the world is like that, but that he thinks that there is a benefit to you if you adopt that view of the world. That is, if you think of yourself as an employee for the Divine, in a job that is frankly lousy a lot of the time and certainly difficult and dangerous but well-compensated, then you will be more likely to behave ethically than if you think of yourself as, f'r'ex, a child of a loving and Divine Parent. I'm inclined to agree, but then, my idea of the Divine is largely formed by this book, so why wouldn't I?

The bit that I quote—I'll be coming back to the whole metaphor, I promise— is the beginning of the last verse: the job is too big for one person, you won't finish it, but doesn't excuse you from doing all you can. I was arguing welfare policy at one point with a Conservative who brought out with a sense of triumph the argument that welfare payments would not eliminate poverty. Of course not, said I, nothing will ever eliminate poverty (until the end time, I might have said), but that doesn't mean we have the right to stop paying them. I think he was baffled. I didn't reach him, at that point, and it was pretty much the end of any of our conversations (for a variety of reasons, his Conservatism and my Liberalism not least of them) so I never will at this point. But in the spirit of the staircase, I want to attempt to clarify: if eradicating poverty is beyond us, we still have to reduce it and to alleviate it and to measure it and to own it.

Conservatives often think that Liberals believe in the perfectibility of human nature. This is not true; no liberals I have read or talked with think that humans will become perfect (by their own understanding of perfection, much less a Conservative's understanding) in any span of time that can be held in the mind. What Liberals believe in, for the most part, is that human society can be improved—not perfected, not completed, not finished. Not ever finished. But always improved. We can alleviate more misery, provide more opportunities for greatness to more of the population, promote the general welfare better and more generally, provide a little better protection to those who need it and diminish a bit the next generation's need for it. We can, Liberals believe, avoid a few mistakes that our parents made and bring forward a generation able to avoid a few mistakes we made. And another after that, we hope, and another after that. Have more happiness in more places.

We won't finish the job. We won't ever be finished washing dishes, either, or doing laundry; as long as we wear clothes and eat from plates, those jobs won't be finished. But if you neglect them, things get worse.

The work is great, and I am often sluggish. And often enough I feel like quitting altogether. But fortunately this metaphor of employment is not a complete metaphor, and we are both employees and family, both sheep and subjects. We can't quit. But we can't be fired, either. We are freelancers of the Divine Creation, whether we filled out the paperwork or not, and we will be rewarded for what work we do, whether we stand up to it first thing in the morning or slack off until we've finished reading the Internet.

And the reward? Well, the reward is in the world to come, Rabbi Tarfon tells us, and as much as I generally dislike too heavy an emphasis on the eschaton in my religious whatnot, the good thing about the world to come is that it is, like Orphan Annie's tomorrow, always coming.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

August 15, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse nineteen

We are nearing the end of Chapter Two at last. This is the last of the section about the five disciples of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai. Hm. The five disciples… wouldn’t that make a great musical? No? OK, onward, beginning with Joseph Hertz:

R. Elazar said, Be eager to learn Torah; know what answer to give the unbeliever; know also before whom thou toilest, and who thy Employer is, who will pay thee the reward of thy labor.

Jacob Neusner has constant instead of eager; R. Travers Herford has alert; Judah Goldin has diligent (as does the Chabad website); and Michael L. Rodkinson has zealous. I’m afraid I have no idea. It seems as though there’s a lot of guessing. I think Rabbi Hertz is probably the loser here, as eagerness has little connotation of persistence that is common among the others, but then, they might well be reading that in from their own biases. Very difficult.

And what is more difficult about it, what makes it difficult for me to shrug it off and move on from it, is that it seems to be a separate leg of the triple. Unless we bail on the whole idea of the verse matching form and being a triple, which I am reluctant to do. If we break the thing into two parts, instead of three, we can suggest that we need to be [eager/constant/alert/diligent/zealous] in study so that we can respond to the unbeliever. And that is clearly part of it. But if we split it into three, as is our custom and the tradition, we need each part to make sense on its own as well as informing the other two parts. On its own, the admonition to be [eager/constant/alert/diligent/zealous] in study does spark any real interest in me, I’m afraid.

And speaking of translational difficulties, the unbeliever in the second bit is the Epicuros or Epicurean; the Hebrew is a transliteration of the Greek. Or it is a coincidence, but that seems a bit much. Anyway, I do like Rabbi Hertz on this one, as there is some problem with associating the Rabbinic epicuros with the actual Epicureans. Much like talking about skeptics and Skeptics, really. The word came into Hebrew and Rabbinic discussion to mean people who did not believe that the traditions of the tribe were compulsory; it also encompasses people who don’t believe in the Divine miracle of Scripture, or people who don’t believe in a Divine Creator at all, or people who hold beliefs about the Scripture and tradition that differ from the person using the word. Everyone who is more traditionally observant than me is frum; everyone who is less traditionally observant than me is an epicuros.

The distinguishing mark of the epicuros, though, as it is used here, is engagement with the tradition, rather than departure from it. As such, the term is used for non-Jews who argue about the tradition as well. R. Elazar insists on the need to answer the apikorsim (plural, switching now to a transliteration) rather than cutting them off from the discussion. I think that’s tremendously important for the Jewish tradition, particularly now in the modern Diaspora, when we’re all apikorsim to somebody.

Digression: the really frum consider us apikorsim to be the most dangerous group around, much more so than the goyim, worse than the Islamo-fascist Menace, scarier than the Neo-Nazis. I feel bad for them. A little. I wish I could consider them to be the biggest danger to Judaism, but honestly? I would have to stretch it. The argument would presumably go frumkeit to Shas Party to settlers to continuing occupation and oppression to discrediting of Zionism to Anti-Semitism. But then, there are plenty of apikorsim who support the settlers and that particular brand of Zionism, and plenty of Anti-Semites without discrediting Zionism anyway. So, you know? When I pass y’all on Saturday morning, driving to work while you walk to shul, and I shake my fist at you, that’s not because you are dangerous to me and my tradition, that’s because you make women sit behind a fucking curtain. End Digression.

So the first two parts are about, more or less, the relationship of the believing Jew to the Scripture, and the relationship of the believing Jew to the non-believer. And then there’s the relationship of the believing Jew to the Divine, which, it turns out, is like the employer-employee relationship.

Can I say that even as a metaphor, that seems really radical? I am used to the Parent/Child metaphor, which is of course natural, and the King/Subject metaphor, which has its problems but is, again, obvious if those are terms you are used to thinking in, and there’s the potter/clay metaphor, which I like a lot, and there’s the shepherd/flock one, which I don’t. But employer/employee? And yet there’s a lot of that language in the tradition. Which tends to back up Douglas Rushkoff’s idea of Judaism as being radically centered around worker’s rights, with the core stories of Exodus and the Creation/Sabbath as being about working conditions. I tend to view that skeptically, myself, but more because I think it’s incomplete than because I think it’s wrong.

But. I have to wonder, coming to the end of the triple here, what the relationship of the apikoros to the Divine is supposed to be. Is the apikoros an Employee? Is the apikoros considered to be unemployed, fired, on probation? Maimonides said that the have no share in the world to come. That seems to imply a fundamental breach of contract, that the unbeliever is, in essence, no longer working for the Divine at all. I can’t see that. I think there’s got to be a good deal of freelancing going on, is what I think.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

August 8, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eighteen: wickedness

Using Jacob Neusner’s translation, because his is on top of the pile:

R. Simeon says, “(1) Be meticulous in the recitation of the shema and the Prayer.
And (2) when you pray, don’t treat your praying as a matter of routine.
But let it be a [plea for] mercy and supplication before the Omnipresent, blessed be he.
As it is said, For he is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and full of mercy, and repents of the evil (Joel 2:13).
(3) And never be evil in your own eyes.

There are two ways of looking at this verse. Well, more than two, I’m sure, but two that spring to mind and are included in the commentary.

The first is that if you think that an action is wrong, you should avoid it, even if the society permits it. Or, more or less along those lines, don’t give in to temptation and do things that you will later be ashamed of. That line of interpretation takes R. Simeon ben Nathaniel to mean that each person has a sense of right and wrong that is (for his audience, that is, people learned in Torah) largely correct, and that the trouble is following that sense. This is Rashi’s interpretation. It takes wickedness to pertain to specific acts.

Another is that R. Simeon is talking about a sort of ontological status, where one can consider one’s self good or wicked, almost without reference to any specific act. This is the Rambam’s interpretation. When a man has a mean opinion of himself (says he in the Judah Goldin translation), then any meanness he is guilty of does not seem outrageous to him. While, YHB adds, almost any behavior that smacks of virtue or great-heartedness seems as impossible as flying to the moon. Your sense of right and wrong is framed by your sense of yourself, rather than being objective.

And I’ve come across a third already, one endorsed by R. Travers Herford. He says that R. Simeon likely was using in your own eyes to mean in private; the warning then is not to believe that acts of wickedness performed without witnesses are therefore without consequences. This may tie in more closely with the previous two legs of the triple about prayer; no-one is likely to know if you are meticulous in your prayer, of if you are merely mouthing it rather than giving it your full attention, but that does not mean that the actions do not degrade you and your prayer and prevent the benefits from taking place.

This is also a conception of wicked that connects with actions, rather than status. On the whole, I like that conception, but since the phrasing is negative rather than positive, the middle interpretation is consistent with rejecting the whole idea of goodness or badness as accruing to people rather than actions. And that, I suppose, means that the interpretations are to some extent consistent: one commits wicked acts in private because one thinks of one’s self as wicked in some sense, and violates one’s own sense of right and wrong in doing so. But by rejecting that conception entirely, a person will rely on the internal sense of right and wrong, and act accordingly whether there are witnesses or no.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eighteen: routine

Using Jacob Neusner’s translation, because his is on top of the pile:

R. Simeon says, “(1) Be meticulous in the recitation of the shema and the Prayer.
And (2) when you pray, don’t treat your praying as a matter of routine.
But let it be a [plea for] mercy and supplication before the Omnipresent, blessed be he.
As it is said, For he is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and full of mercy, and repents of the evil (Joel 2:13).
(3) And never be evil in your own eyes.

So to combine them: be meticulous, but not routine. I think this gets into the whole thing about liturgy.

And when I say liturgy, I’m not using the word in any accurate sense, I’m just talking about the formal ritualization of prayer. The prayer service. The repetition of formulae, the organization of the group so that they can sing or chant or read together.

Digression: You know when the service includes group reading in English? In Conservative and Reform synagogues there is a fair amount of this, and in the Episcopalian service it seems to come up as well. And I am really, really bad at it. I mean, conspicuously. There’s a rhythm to it, you see, that tells you where to place the emphases in certain lines, and I tend to put the emphasis on the wrong words. I’m really good at reading aloud (if I say so m’self) but really bad at reading in unison. In English. In Hebrew, well, most of the time there’s a tune, and although I do sometimes find myself slower or faster than the chazzan, it’s not so bad. End Digression.

Here’s the thing: I like the prayer service. I don’t, on the whole, pray in my own words. Sometimes, if I’m particularly stressed, I might address the Divine, but often in states of stress, I find comfort in the verses. I feel no real desire to sing a new song unto the Divine; I like the songs we have.

Does that make it a matter of routine? Honestly, sometimes it does. When I was going to service every week (which I do miss), I tasked myself with simply using the prayer service as an excuse to sing songs from my childhood along with other people who know the words and tune—sort of like a weekly campfire sing for those who grew up with campfire songs. And there is something to that, honestly. But there is (I decided) a good deal more to it than that, for me; that I am using the songs to connect (I don’t like that vague new-agey term) with my tradition and my conception of the Divine. And yet it is easy to just sing along, rather than put any thought into it.

This is also true of the prayer rituals at home. On Friday nights, we light the candles and say the blessing: Blessing are you, Lord, our Gd, Master of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and commands us to light candles for the Sabbath. We say the blessing over the wine and the bread as well, if we have them. At night, when we tuck in the little ones, we say the sh’ma (meticulously) (well, the grupps are meticulous, the Youngest Member doesn’t get all the consonants right) and we bless the children. This is a form of the Shabbat blessing, although we use it every night: May Gd make you like [Ephraim and Menasseh/Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah]; may the Lord bless and protect you. Most often, this is a matter of routine (which is part of the point of bedtime ritual anyway), but now and then I find myself really hoping for the blessing and protection of the Divine for these little ones, whether they are like their biblical forebears or not.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eighteen: Tefilah

Using Jacob Neusner’s translation, because his is on top of the pile:

R. Simeon says, “(1) Be meticulous in the recitation of the shema and the Prayer.
And (2) when you pray, don’t treat your praying as a matter of routine.
But let it be a [plea for] mercy and supplication before the Omnipresent, blessed be he.
As it is said, For he is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and full of mercy, and repents of the evil (Joel 2:13).
(3) And never be evil in your own eyes.

This is, I think, the first reference to liturgical prayer we’ve come across. By capitalizing Prayer, Mr. Neusner interprets R. Simeon ben Nathaniel to be referring to a specific prayer, sometimes called T’filah (Prayer), sometimes called the Sh’mona Esray (Eighteen, referring to the eighteen blessings contained in it), and most often in contemporary Judaism called the Amidah (Standing, because the congregation stands whilst reading it). The Shabbat Amidah is usually said silently by the congregation, and then repeated by the cantor or rabbi; the repetition can include the entire prayer or only large chunks of it. Sometimes the cantor will chant with the congregation for parts of it. I’ve been in places where the cantor begins the Amidah with the congregation, and then the congregation finishes it silently, and then the cantor finishes it aloud. In my (Reform) synagogue, it is begun together and then finished silently without cantorial repetition, at least on Shabbat Shacharit (I have only attended Friday night services a couple of times, and don’t really remember how they handled it for those). Also, the Reform siddur’s Amidah is (of course) substantially shorter than the Conservative one (and I assume the Orthodox one is longer still).

Now, for y’all Gentle Readers who don’t attend synagogue, I’m going to attempt to describe the Amidah in a Conservative Synagogue. It’s probably going to be difficult; I’m curious if it is totally alien to those of y’all who are in different churching traditions… Anyway, to understand it, you have to go back a couple of generations. Before the state of Israel and modern Hebrew, Jews in America were taught Hebrew specifically for the purpose of davening, of reciting the liturgy. And they were taught with stopwatches. Speed was critical. Comprehension, not. The difference between a learned Jew and an am ha-aretz was how fast they could daven.

As a result, the time allotted for the congregation to silently read the Amidah was very very short. Nor would it be likely that one would complain that it was too short; the admission that one couldn’t finish the reading in time was tantamount to admitting ignorance. So the congregation learned to, well, be less than meticulous in its silent recitation.

I have never managed to read the entire Amidah in Hebrew in the time allotted by a large or even medium-sized congregation. Or even a minyan, I think. I believe I have had the experience of finishing in a very small group, where people were taking the opportunity for silent meditation, and had near-Quakerly tolerance for it. Many congregations encourage silent meditation rather than (or in addition to) reading the text of the Prayer, but then, silent meditation also doesn’t last long enough for me to read the Hebrew all the way through.

In part, this is because I never managed to memorize the Prayer all the way through. On the other hand, I never managed to memorize it because I never really managed to read it all the way through. If I prayed by myself, daily or even weekly, which I would like to do if I had the discipline and the time, I probably would eventually memorize it, pick up speed, and then (perhaps) be able to finish the whole thing in such a short time, although the weekday version is different from the Shabbat one, so there it is.

What I’m saying, the advice here is good advice, peculiarly suited to my own situation (and that, I think, of a lot of us early-21st Century Jews), all assuming that you believe in liturgy. Which I suppose is the next note.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

August 1, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse seventeen: intention

Yose the Priest, part the third:

Rabbi Yose says: Let thy fellow’s property be as dear to thee as thine own. Make thyself fit for the study of torah, for it will not be thine by inheritance. Let all thine actions be for the sake of heaven.

It is said that Hillel used to reply to any question of the where are you going sort with the response I am going to fulfill one of the commandments. The questioner would then have to ask which one, and be told that Hillel was going to get something to eat or to have a bath or to the market to buy food, or whatever. And then, of course, the questioner asks is this a commandment and Hillel tells him about the commandments concerning that aspect of life, thus of course fulfilling another commandment on the way.

It is difficult to live your life entirely for the sake of heaven. You wake up, is it in order to praise the Divine and all Creation? You work for a living, is it in order to allow you to continue fulfilling the commandments? You have a nice meal, is it to give you strength to do good in the world? You listen to excellent music, is it to inspire you to participate in the Creation? Or, you know, do you just do what you do?

I think this advice is particularly on the lines of what we call mindfulness, these days. An attempt to be consciously aware of what you are doing. Will your understanding of why you are doing what you are doing—why you stay in your job or look for a new one, why you wash the dishes or leave them until morning, why you socialize with friends or read quietly—that understanding will change, from the time you are doing it to a memory of it, and change again and again, most likely. So I think the point is not to be certain, at all times, that what you are doing is for the best of reasons. The point is to form a habit of thinking about what you are doing, rather than just doing it. And then, I would think, the temptation to act for the sake of heaven would be pretty strong, right? Which is a good thing. It’s harder to deliberately do something you know is wrong. Not that you won’t regret things later, but I would think the more you can get into the habit of asking yourself for the sake of what? the better.

Not that I have any such habit myself, but I will try. Or at least I will attempt to try. Right?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse seventeen: inheritance

The second part of the triple of Rabbi Yose the priest is (it seems to me) clearer and more straightforward:

Rabbi Yose says: Let thy fellow’s property be as dear to thee as thine own. Make thyself fit for the study of torah, for it will not be thine by inheritance. Let all thine actions be for the sake of heaven.

I’ll mention again here the thing about inheritance in our Scriptures, that it is both very important and viewed skeptically. Cain does not inherit from Adam; Abraham does not inherit from his father; Ishmael does not inherit; Esau does not inherit, but neither do we see Jacob inheriting; Joseph does not inherit, but neither do his brothers; Moses’ sons do not inherit; Eli’s sons do not inherit; Jonathan does not inherit; Absolom does not inherit. Those that do inherit (Solomon being prominent among them) often squander their inheritance.

What is the inheritance of the Jew? The Torah. I include the Oral Torah in this, of course, but also the accumulation of tradition and commentary. But really, our inheritance is the opportunity to study it and live in it; we are no more born knowing Torah than we are born knowing how to fly.

Obvious? Yes. But then, I grew up learning those things that only came to me as an inheritance: I learned the kaddish because my father said it on Friday nights, I learned a handful of blessings that my mother said, I learned my aleph-bet at Hebrew School that my parents paid for, I learned to daven at the junior service they drove us to most Saturdays, I learned a bunch of Moishe Pipik stories and some jokes and some inflections that are also part of that inheritance. And I’m afraid I pretty much thought that was it. When I left home, I had done very little on my own to prepare myself for the study of Torah. I was lucky; in college I happened to come across a wonderful religion prof, one of those life-changing teachers people blather on about for the rest of their lives. Just by chance, really, and more because I was interested in learning something about Christianity (which I had inherited almost no knowledge of, other than a few dribs and drabs by my cultural Americanism) than because I felt it was incumbent on me to prepare myself for the study of Torah.

I didn’t know anything about the Talmud, really, other than a handful of stories and the Pirke Avot. I didn’t know anything about any of the early commentators. I knew next to nothing about the Sages. I knew very little about the prophets. And what I knew, I didn’t know very well or very deeply.

That was my inheritance, you understand. There is one, and it is a good one, and I’m grateful for it. I’m trying to leave my children a similar one, on the whole (albeit with more midrash and less shoah), and if I succeed in that, it will be wonderful. So Rabbi Yose is overstating things a bit. But I thought at the time that I was done—or at least I think that’s what I thought. That I had inherited my Jewishness, and that was enough. It wasn’t. And that’s what Rabbi Yose reminds me.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse seventeen: property

The third of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai’s disciples is Rabbi Jose the Priest (yosay ha-cohen), who he described as a pious man, or a saint. A chasid, in the Hebrew. I’ll use Judah Goldin’s translation, because I am in the mood for some thees and thous. It’s amazing to me how the KJV totally dominated our idea (my idea, but let’s say the English-speaking world’s idea) of what constitutes religious language for hundreds of years. When the JPS wanted to make an English translation of the Scriptures, back in the first part of the twentieth century when there was no English Bible for Jewish use, the one thing they all agreed on was that they needed to stick to the majestic KJV style, while of course being more accurate as translators.

Rabbi Yose says: Let thy fellow’s property be as dear to thee as thine own. Make thyself fit for the study of torah, for it will not be thine by inheritance. Let all thine actions be for the sake of heaven.

Obviously, he’s not suggesting that you should covet your fellow’s property. Although, you know, that is the clear meaning of the words. No, this is interpreted as being something closer to the Golden Rule, or at least as being an exhortation to fellowship. The Machsor Vitry adds that if you should search just as hard for a neighbor’s lost possession as you would for your own; Joseph ben Judah Ibn-Aknin adds a bit about never badmouthing a competitor’s goods.

This is the sort of thing that makes R. Travers Herford refer to this wisdom as “excellent but not inspiring”. And yet, if you think about it, this is a startling idea: let thy fellow’s property be as dear to thee as thine own.

Here’s one way in to that advice: don’t let yourself get any more attached to your own stuff than you are to someone else’s stuff. You have, let’s say, a standing lamp that is just behind your reading chair. Comfortable chair, good light. You are, I would guess, rather fond of that chair and that lamp. When you visit a friend’s house, you can’t read as comfortably. The light isn’t as good, and there’s nowhere to put your feet. You come home and there they are: your chair, your lamp. And yet… is that a bad thing? Have you become just a little dependent on the thing? And then you start using CFR bulbs, and then suddenly the light isn’t quite right. And then you start to think, well, I can still get those incandescent bulbs, and seriously, it’s one bulb, and I really am more comfortable with the light that I like. Let somebody else switch bulbs and save the world.

And then, just as advice, you know, things do break. You can’t count on them. Don’t (this line of thinking goes) be the sort of person who has to have just exactly the right skillet for frying up bacon, and spends time, energy and money on making sure that the skillet is perfect. There are more important things than that. Think of your stuff as being useful to you, rather than being yours; don’t like it any more than you like your neighbor’s stuff, only it happens to be yours.

Or, as a different path in: don’t make the mistake of thinking that your stuff is important, but other people’s stuff isn’t. The other guy probably likes his chair and his light just as much as you like yours—or maybe he has a lousy lamp and he hates it, and that also is just as important as your happiness with yours. There’s a trap of thinking that it is really important that I have the thing that I want—the right car, the right phone, the right album—and that the world should arrange itself so that it is possible for me to get it. Not that I should steal it, no, just that it should be affordable. And often that’s right, or at least not wrong: we should arrange the world so that you can afford a place to live, a way to get to work and back, medicine, food, entertainment, news, a comfortable chair. But not just you. Everybody. And if we arrange it so that you get what you want, but your neighbor doesn’t get what he wants, well, that’s not right. Nor even if you get what you want and your neighbor also gets what you want.

And another way in: what conceptions of property can we have so that this advice is real and practical? What do we mean by property in the first place? The term is not altogether easily defined. Oh, there is lots of stuff that is easy enough to put in the category of mine or thine; my toothbrush, your wallet, his socks, her house. But there are also lost of things that are difficult to categorize: the air I breathe, the song you made up, her job, his reputation. When we talk about property rights, and we do (eminent domain, pollution, zoning, defamation, copyright, etc, etc), perhaps it’s worth keeping in mind this verse. Not that it will give us any clear answers, but it might frame the way we go about looking for them, and keep some of the worst answers out of that frame.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

July 25, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 16: misanthropy

Still finishing verse sixteen. Here’s Joseph Hertz’ss’es translation:

R. Joshua said, The evil eye, the evil inclination and hatred of his fellow-creatures drive a man out of the world.

And here Jacob Neusner’s:

R. Joshua says, “(1)Envy, (2)desire of bad things, and (3) hatred for people push a person out of the world.”

I’m going to quote from the commentary of Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin, a contemporary of Maimonedes. Interesting guy. Possibly an acquaintance of Maimonedes, although that is disputed. In fact, there seems to be a lot of dispute about his history. Some people say he was born in Barcelona and moved to Fez, where he kept his Judaism secret whilst writing the commentaries. Norman Roth, however, claims that this is all balderdash, the result of confusing him with Joseph ben Judah ibn Shimon. At any rate, keeping in mind his various possible histories, here is his commentary on misanthropy:

When a man withdraws from human beings, hates them, and does not want to associate with them, men begin to hate him, seek to do him evil, and plot to kill him. They will not help him in his need, and so he is left completely on his own to do things he has to do—then he can do these only with the greatest difficulty and pain. Now, this is something we know from psychology, that the association of men with each other and support of each other is an absolute good, for everybody helps his fellow. Withdrawal from human society is an absolute evil, unless of course the people of one’s time are utterly depraved and turn completely from the good way to the evil way and abandon the Lord. In such times a man must of course separate from his contemporaries so that he will not learn their ways and perish with them. (quoted from Judah Goldin)

Joshua ben Judah ibn Aknin is on about the practical matter; the truth is that it is Unhealthy to be Unpleasant, and that will drive you out of the world. I am liking the whole thing right up until we get to the point where the you have to judge whether the people of your time are utterly depraved. Because, you see, misanthropy is an absolute evil, unless you hate people because they are bad. This is where the whole thing falls to the ground. Which is too bad, because I’m afraid one of my greatest temptations is to misanthropy. Not that I dislike people, when I meet them, just that people in the mass seem to provoke in me the worst and most patronizing sort of contempt.

I do know that this is wrong. I struggle with it anyway. Generally, when I’m writing, or when I’m advocating some public policy or other, my better self holds sway. But the urge to just throw up my hands and say Morons! Morons! Morons! is still there.

Which is why I feel some satisfaction in connecting misanthropy to envy and lust—I don’t know that it had ever occurred to me that those were not obviously a triple of connected sins. But they are, and it is largely because they each involve replacing the people (and things) with the idea of people and things. They involve pushing the world away, to deal with the world in your head.

It’s much easier, honestly, to deal with the world in my head. And even with all the warnings of the sages, in fact it’s not at all difficult to combine physical comfort and material success with frequent departures from the actual world to the world in one’s head. But it’s wrong.

People exist. It’s not my option to avoid them, or to set up those distances between them, simply because they fail to live up to my (imaginary) expectations. Well, and it is my option, but it’s not the right thing to do. The correct thing to do is to deal with people as they are, as they actually exist, rather than comparing them to an ideal, or consigning them to a stereotype.

This is the day the Divine made.

You can sleep through it if you want to. You can stay indoors if you want to. But if you want to go out into it, if you want to participate in the Creation of the Divine, if you want to be the Creation of the Divine, then you should keep in mind, with Joshua, that the evil eye, the evil impulse, and misanthropy will push you out of that Creation. They call all be overcome.

And then overcome again tomorrow, because that, too, will be the day the Divine made, so you get another chance.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 16: the evil impulse

Double your translations for double your fun! First Joseph Hertz:

R. Joshua said, The evil eye, the evil inclination and hatred of his fellow-creatures drive a man out of the world.

And then Jacob Neusner:

R. Joshua says, “(1)Envy, (2)desire of bad things, and (3) hatred for people push a person out of the world.”

The Hebrew idiom yetzer ha-ra, the evil impulse, is used a lot in the Pirke Avot, so it would be helpful to develop, as it were, an English idiom to use for it. It’s not just desire for bad things, as Mr. Neusner would have it (not, I must say, that I am qualified to pick at Mr. Neusner’s translation, nor that he is unjustified in his choice of it, given the lack of that corresponding English idiom), but a sort of shorthand for giving in to your passions, for a lack of control. For the bestial nature that requires control. There is a strand (as we’ve talked about before) of mind-body split thinking, of angels and demons on your shoulders, of the impulse for good and the impulse for evil.

The commentary on this verse notes that the evil impulse is older than the good impulse by thirteen years. For everyone is born with an evil impulse. Infants break the Sabbath, they put their hands in the fire, they use profanity and . What prevents a toddler from committing murder is not conscience but a lack of ability; they don’t understand the consequences of their actions, and can’t control their impulses. When a young child does something wrong, minor or major, we don’t consider that child to be responsible. But at thirteen, we consider the good impulse to exist in them, to prevent them from acting on their evil impulse. That all seems wildly reductive, so much so that it misrepresents the world as I know it. I don’t want to reject the tradition entirely, but I will keep looking for ways to incorporate it without accepting this idea of bestial man and angelic man.

And as for lust… well, as you can imagine, there is a strong tradition to associate the evil impulse with sexual appetite (and with gluttony as well, of course). The Avot of Rabbi Nathan takes this verse as an opportunity to relate various stories about sages being presented with beautiful women and refusing to have sex with them. These are disgusting stories (some of them more than others) and frankly speak more to misogyny than virtue.

On the other hand, to the extent that the evil impulse means anything, it must be admitted that lust can lead people to do stupid things, harmful things. Evil things. And can put a person out of the world, both in the sense that having done stupid things for the sake of lust, people will cast off our friendship or even acquaintance, but also in the sense that lust, when it is the evil impulse, is the replacing of the object of the lust with the fantasy of the lusted-after object. Er, that was unclear and pompous. Let me put it this way: if I have a crush on someone, let’s call her, oh, Jezebel. I have a crush on Jezebel. This is not necessarily a bad thing. But there is, in that crush, an evil impulse, which is the impulse to take my crush on Jezebel as being more important than Jezebel. This impulse is Not Good, it leads to bad behavior of various kinds and drives us out of the world as it is, to dwell in the world that is not.

Similarly, the evil impulse for food—hunger isn’t an evil impulse, nor even is a desire for tasty treats or fine foods. The evil impulse is what leads me to eat an entire bag of tortilla chips, not even tasting them properly, just mechanically stuffing them in my mouth and chewing. The evil impulse is what tempts me to have a dessert, even though I am not hungry, even if the dessert is not properly speaking what I want anyway, but it is dessert time. I’ve let the idea of the food take over from the food, and the evil impulse take over from my bodily response. It’s not eating the chocolate, which can be a great thing, it’s sneaking the chocolate bar up to your room without anybody knowing it, that’s the evil impulse. That impulse is driving you out of the world.

And as with that, so with other impulses. The impulse to shout and swear, when I am angry, which replaces the actual people involved with my idea of them as the cause of my frustration, and replaces the actual problem with my grievance. The impulse to belittle people, to replace the actual people with my idea of my superiority. And so on.

I think it does take thirteen years or so for kids to break out of their bubble of self-absorption and solipsism. I think that kids are often pushed out of the world by their impulses. I don’t know that it’s thirteen that’s the issue, and of course children are different one to another, in their development and in their relationships with the world. But I think that understanding of the impulse is one I can live with, and accept that the evil impulse, that pushes us out of the world, is older than the good impulse that keeps us within it.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 16: the evil eye

We are on verse eleven of chapter two. I suppose I’m using two translations together,Joseph Hertz’ss’es

R. Joshua said, The evil eye, the evil inclination and hatred of his fellow-creatures drive a man out of the world.

and Jacob Neusner’s:

R. Joshua says, “(1)Envy, (2)desire of bad things, and (3) hatred for people push a person out of the world.”

So, having taken, for the moment at any rate, the idea that what is being discussed are things that push a man out of fellowship with other people, let’s look at the first one, envy. I like that the Hebrew idiom for envy is the evil eye, as it conjures up the longing look of the envious man. Judah Goldin calls it a grudging eye, which I don’t like as much—if you are going to take the evil off it, you may as well dump the eye as well, as Mr. Neusner does.

Of course, there are also differences of interpretation about what sort of envy we are talking about, and how it comes out in people’s actions. Maimonides says that it is a passion for wealth; Rabbit Nathan says that we are talking about reputation, that “even as no man wishes that his wife and children should be held in ill repute, so should no man wish that his fellow’s wife and his fellow’s children be held in ill repute.” I like that take on envy, that we envy another person’s reputation as much (perhaps) as his money. And, of course, that it winds up being all about one-downing the other guy.

Rabbi Jonah talks out the process by which an envious person is driven from the world: the grudging thoughts consume the man, he cannot work or study for thought of his fellow’s possessions, he is impatient and short-tempered, and eventually his body and mind are ruined. Rabbi David the Prince adds that “nothing satisfies a grudging eye” it is not in its nature to be satisfied.

So. Where I might start by thinking that envy was a matter of this world, of the material things, what we are heading to is an understanding of envy as taking us out of this world. It’s a distraction from the things that actually exist, to fantasies of things that do not. And if there is a benefit, perhaps, in leaving behind this world for study of the Divine (and R. Joshua doesn’t seem so sure about that anyway) surely there is no benefit in being driven from the world by longings for things you will never have, by focusing on what you wish that other people did not have, by desires that are unsatisfied and unsatisfiable. In the world, you relate to people as they are, with their attainments, their achievements and their acquisitions. But when you look at those people through the evil eye of envy, you take yourself out of their world and away from them. I think he’s right about that.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 16: driven from the world

We are on verse sixteen of chapter two, in Joseph Hertz’ss’es translation:

R. Joshua said, The evil eye, the evil inclination and hatred of his fellow-creatures drive a man out of the world.

It’s a bit confusing to use this translation. Perhaps I’ll include Jacob Neusner’s for comparison:

R. Joshua says, “(1)Envy, (2)desire of bad things, and (3) hatred for people push a person out of the world.”

Where Rabbi Hertz is interested in representing the way that the original Hebrew repeats the word evil (ra), Mr. Neusner is willing to leave off the repetition to avoid troubling idioms. The idioms, interestingly, run in both directions, as the English idiom evil eye means, essentially, a curse from one person to another, and the Hebrew one means envy. I don’t know. I like repetition as a writing device, so I am reluctant to give it up.

The end, though, where the translation is essentially the same, is where I have more problem. What does it mean to drive, or to push, a person out of the world? That is an idiom we don’t have in English. R. Travers Herford claims that it “only means exclusion from human fellowship. It does not refer to death, , and still less does it imply exclusion from the world to come…” I can’t quite work with that. I mean, I don’t see how taking the idiom to refer to death makes the verse very useful or persuasive. And I am willing to accept that if Joshua (ben Hananiah) had meant that these three things would exclude a person from the world-to-come, then he had a perfectly good idiom for saying so, and he didn’t use it, so he didn’t mean it. He could have said ha-olam ha-ba, the world to come—and he could have said ha-olam ha-zeh, this world—but he didn’t, he just said ha-olam, the world.

And what makes me really wonder about it is that there is, among some of the Rabbis, a sense that it is better to be a little apart from the world. That overmuch concern with things of this world is detrimental to real virtue, but that we should concern ourselves with the Divine instead. Whatever we take it to mean, it’s clear that Joshua uses a metaphor that implies that driving a person out of the world is a Bad Thing.

Thinking about this made me look back at what we know about Joshua. In verse eleven, we learn that Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai’s feeling for him is “Happy is the one who gave birth to him” (I’ve switched to Mr. Neusner here for modern English clarity); he is the only one of the five disciples who is described in relation to another person. In verses thirteen and fourteen, Joshua’s description of the correct (incorrect) path is a good (bad) friend. He isn’t the only one who chooses to describe it in terms of human relationships, but it is interesting that he does. And now, according to Mr. Herford, the saying associated with his name is about human fellowship.

This seems important to me, because I don’t like to think of the sayings as simply making a list of bad or good things. Yes, envy and lust and misanthropy are Bad Things, but R. Joshua has chosen those bad things, and described them not just as bad but as driving a man from the world. So why those things? And why not say that they make a man a fool, or that they put make a man sin against himself (a phrase that will come up several times) or that they come between man and the Divine, or whatever? That may lead me to accept, at least provisionally, Mr. Herford’s idea about the phrase. But then the trick is to apply it.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

July 18, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 15: Hot Coals

I’m using Jacob Neusner’s verse 15 (although he calls it verse 10); there doesn’t seem to be any significant difference from translation to translation.

They said three things.
R. Eliezer says, “(1) let the respect owing to your fellow be as precious to you as the respect owing to you yourself.
“(2)And don’t be easy to anger.
“(3) And repent one day before you die.
“And (1) warm yourself by the fire of the sages, but be careful of their coals, so you don’t get burned.
“(2) for their bite is the bite of a fox, and their sting is the sting of a scorpion, and their hiss is like the hiss of a snake.
“(3) And everything they say is like fiery coals.”

There seems to be general agreement that this is a second triple, probably not original to the list of five disciples and their triples. Maimonedes (among others) thinks that these sayings weren’t really Rabbi Eliezer’s at all, but that he was just passing them along from older tradition. This is viewed with some skepticism by other interpreters, who see this as a very personal and bitter cry against the sages.

It does seem to stand out a bit, doesn’t it. I mean, amongst all the warnings and admonishments we’ve had so far, I don’t think there’s anything that attacks any category of person with this sort of dehumanizing viciousness. And who is the type that is the target of the attack? Murderers, desecrators, Romans? Sages. Very strange, isn’t it?

But if this is Eliezer’s bitterness, why is it here? Why include it? The sages certainly could have taken this bit out, and since it busts the rhythm of the chapter, it would certainly seem forgivable to do it. But they don’t. I don’t have any good answers, but I certainly have more questions…

Is it possible that Eliezer here is talking about himself? Go into this part of the verse with the idea of repentance held over from the last part—it’s his own fury in disputation that gets him expelled. Before that, he was among the sages, chief among the sages in reputation, if not in office. Are his own words like fiery coals? I think they are, in his mouth as much as in the ears of others. Are his furies those of the scorpion, the snake and the fox? Aren’t they?

But, again: Is it possible that we are ascribing bitterness to words meant in awe? When I think of fiery coals in the context of Scripture, I think of Isaiah 6:6, where the burning of the coal is (on balance) a positive thing. Look also at the story of Moses as an infant, where the angel guides his hand to the burning coal to put in his mouth—he winds up with a speech impediment, but it saves his life. The warning not to get burned has to (I think) be taken in that context.

Or, again, there’s Proverbs 6:24-6:29, which compares someone else’s beautiful wife to hot coals, asking Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned? Are the sages, then, a temptation? If so, how?

The thing to remember, here, is that whether this is Eliezer or not, whether Eliezer is talking about himself or not, the sages described in the verse are the sages who agreed on the final text. Or, rather, the sages who agreed on the final text saw themselves as being the inheritors and conservators of those foxes, scorpions and snakes, and as being in some sense in communion with them. And what about you? And what about me?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse 15: Eliezer's Rules

Why not Jacob Neusner’s translation of the next verse, the one he numbers 10, although we’re calling it 15 (along with Joseph Hertz):

They said three things.
R. Eliezer says, “(1) let the respect owing to your fellow be as precious to you as the respect owing to you yourself.
“(2)And don’t be easy to anger.
“(3) And repent one day before you die.

“And (1) warm yourself by the fire of the sages, but be careful of their coals, so you don’t get burned.
“(2) for their bite is the bite of a fox, and their sting is the sting of a scorpion, and their hiss is like the hiss of a snake.
“(3) And everything they say is like fiery coals.”

Well.

Let’s go back to my favorite story in the Talmud; Rabbi Eliezer (ben Hyrcanus) is clearly beloved of the Divine, but disputes against his fellow sages in anger, far past the point of reasonable argumentation, storms out of the council and is excommunicated. He lives the rest of his life under the ban, until the other rabbis come to him on his deathbed to discuss the laws of purity effectively lifting the excommunication, which they formally do after his death. Within the context of that story, these three sayings become very specific.

When Rabbi Eliezer attempted to browbeat his fellows into agreement with wonders and miracles rather than persuasion, he did not give them the respect that he demanded for himself. When he got angry, he left the company of sages, leading to his excommunication. And his deathbed reconciliation came too late to truly rejoin the community. Looked at in that way, they are warnings. In a conflict, as yourself What Would Rabbi Eliezer the Great do? and then don’t do that. Or rather, ask yourself What Would Rabbi Eliezer the Great Later Regret Having Done? and then don’t do that.

I think the context, in applying the verse to myself rather than to generalize it out of applicability, is in a conflict of ideas. Go back to the story again: There is a dispute over a particular kind of oven, whether it is to be used or not. Rabbi Eliezer finds himself in a minority; he works a series of wonders to claim Divine authority for his position, but the assembly does not give in. He walks out; the group expels him. When he is told about it, there are disasters, tidal waves and crop failures, fires and storms. And he goes off on his own.

Now, this only makes sense, and I think this is important enough to emphasize that I will probably say it several times, it only makes sense if Rabbi Eliezer is absolutely sure that he is right about the oven. Again, not if he thinks there are arguments on both sides, not if he thinks that the conclusion of the majority is probably the wrong one, not if he has any doubt in his mind. And not only does he have no doubts, but he is confirmed in his confidence by miraculous evidence. At each point, his refusal to back down is strengthened by his ability to work wonders. The assembly (quite correctly) will not be browbeaten, but neither are they able to shake Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion, or his passion. It ends badly.

Now, Your Humble Blogger is correct about a bunch of things. I have a variety of opinions, some of them more weakly held than others, but there are a bunch of things on which I simply know I’m right. I believe in compromise, I believe in negotiation, I even believe in consensus sometimes, but that doesn’t really change my mind about being fundamentally correct. If I were in a legislature of some kind, and we wound up discussing something that I am fundamentally correct about (say, some nonsense about tax cuts increasing government revenues, or about health insurance increasing moral hazard, or about suffrage, or about equality under the law), I could easily imagine myself emulating Rabbi Eliezer, refusing to back down or be quiet. And if the world itself seemed to come to my assistance? How could I stop myself?

And again—Eliezer was right. Or, since I know nothing about the laws of kashrut, there is nothing in the story to suggest that the majority of Rabbis were correct in their interpretation than he was. Should he have backed down? When the Voice of Heaven itself was prepared to support him?

And, of course, the system (any system) only really works if there are people prepared to stand for their beliefs. If everybody begins seeking compromise the moment conflicting interests or aims are revealed, then we will lose the chance to be persuaded by somebody who is right, who does have that better idea. If I take the lesson of Rabbi Eliezer to be keep your mouth shut when you are in the minority, surely that is wrong, too, and perhaps more damaging than the tidal waves and crop failures.

So what do we learn from the story? Do we have any guidelines for improving our path between Eliezer’s furious browbeating and expulsion and the silent acquiescence to wrong decisions?

The first two of the three legs here seem to speak to that perfectly: show respect, not because you judge your fellow to be worth respect, but because you are worth respect yourself. When discussion begin on that basis, perhaps they will not get to the walls-caving-in stage. And don’t be easy to anger. Not impossible, mind you. But difficult.

What about the third, the advice to repent one day before your death? The point of this is pretty obvious, but it is made explicit elsewhere in the Talmud: you may die tomorrow, so repent today. I’d like to talk about that a little more, though, in our context. Because when we talk about repenting, and death, what we’re being warned about is that of course after death, we would be too late. There’s a finality there.

Digression: Did y’all see Ghost Town? It was a sweet movie. Very nice. I wanted to see it, but my expectations were middling; I haven’t liked Ricky Gervais much (haven’t seen him in much, and the little I’ve seen hasn’t made me want to see more) (except, I should say, his interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air, where he completely cracked her up (not that hard) and then responded to her forgetting what she was about to ask with something like “That’s all right, I’ll answer it anyway: ducks, swans and then penguins.”) and the whole Ghost-Assisted Romantic Comedy subsubgenre didn’t seem to have a lot of life in it. Still, I watched it and I was charmed. Lots of good stuff. But it came to mind because the whole ghost-hanging-about-with-unfinished-business trope is another way of probing the finality wound. It speaks because we know it isn’t true, that if we don’t finish our business the day before we die, we won’t be able to finish it afterward. End Digression.

But what do we mean, here, by Eliezer advising us to repent the day before his death? Presumably, if the statement is included here, it wasn’t something he said after the deathbed reconciliation. Is it a statement from his exile? Perhaps, by talking about death, we are really talking about the impossibility of taking back actions once taken, of unsaying what is said. The truth is, the time to repent is before the action taken. Before making the carob tree prove your argument about the oven. Before walking out of the assembly. Before the Heavenly Voice speaks. After is too late. You may as well repent after you are dead. Y’all know how YHB hocks about the impossibility of stepping in to the same river twice? Not the same water, not the same foot? It’s impossibly to step back into that stream from the other side. There’s a sense in which the Eliezer that walked out of the assembly died at that moment. Died having failed to repent, the day before. The Eliezer that was reconciled, years later? That was a new Eliezer, as we are all new every day. If you shout at your spouse (or, worse, ignore him) tonight, you can repent tomorrow, but take Eliezer’s advice and repent yesterday. He’s been there. And if you are working on (f’r’ex) health care, or climate change amelioration, or civil rights, work with people who are wrong, respecting them, keeping your temper, and avoiding the point of no return, the thing that can’t be taken back, the thing it will be too late to repent.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

July 11, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verses thirteen and fourteen

We are on verse thirteen of chapter two of Pirke Avot, and Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai is still talking about and to his five disciples. I’ll use the translation of Judah Goldin:

Rabban Johanan said to them: Go out and see which is the right way to which a man should cleave.
     Rabbie Eliezer replied: a liberal eye.
     Rabbi Joshua replied: a good companion.
     Rabbi Yose replied: a good neighbor.
     Rabbi Simeon replied: foresight.
     Rabbi Eleazar replied: goodheartedness.

Said Rabban Johanan ben Zakkai to them: I prefer the answer of Eleazar ben Arak, for in his words, your words are included.

Rabban Johanan said to them: Go out and see which is the evil way which a man should sun.
     Rabbi Eliezer replied: a grudging eye.
     Rabbi Joshua replied: an evil companion.
     Rabbi Yose replied: an evil neighbor.
     Rabbi Simeon replied: borrowing and not repaying; for he that borrows from man is as one who borrows from Gd, blessed be He, as it is said, The wicked, borroweth and payeth not, but the righteous dealeth graciously, and giveth (Psalm 37:21).
     Rabbi Eleazar replied: meanheartedness.

Said Rabban Johanan ben Zakkai to them: I prefer the answer of Eleazar ben Arak, for in his words, your words are included.

Mr. Goldin, by the way, gives a spin on Rabbi Eliezer’s eyes, as the Hebrew is just a good and an evil, matching the other three in form. The phrase good eye doesn’t mean much of anything to us, though, so it makes sense for Mr. Goldin to try to capture the idiom, and of course evil eye is its own idiom and makes no sense in that context. Rabbi Simeon seems to have wedged his way into the conversation without taking into account the form, and I think not only his proof text but his whole answer is pretty clearly added later. But that’s my opinion, and isn’t really relevant to the question of how to apply this teaching, which includes Rabbi Simeon now, even if there was a time when it didn’t.

I’ve always liked these verses; I’ve always thought that being meanspirited or greathearted was (a) the foundation from which a variety of ills and graces come, and (2) really a matter of fundamental worldview, a habit of mind, a bias, not unlike Conservatism or Liberalism. Not, I mean to say, that I think Conservatives are all meanspirited, because, obviously not, but that it’s a sort of attitude, a filter through which you see the universe, and that the adoption of a particular attitude will inevitably color your perceptions and then affect your actions. So the good heart encompasses being (or attracting) a good neighbor and a good friend, being judicious and thinking long-term, and all other manner of Good Things.

And Rabbi Jochanan doesn’t dismiss those Good Things. It’s not that being a Good Neighbor isn’t a Good Thing in itself, or that it isn’t a path to righteousness in itself. It’s that Good Neighborliness follows on Goodheartedness; it’s hard to imagine a man with a good heart being a bad neighbor or even, really, having a bad neighbor. And (as with Christian Grace), if the fruits of the Good Heart are not apparent, that is, if the fellow isn’t a Good Neighbor, then the odds are that there isn’t a Good Heart, either. It’s not a question of faith over works or veezy vurzey, it’s more a matter of using faith to form a habit of works, and the habit of works leading to a situation where the achievement of any particular work is a comfort to the faith.

So I’ve always liked the idea of it. I’ve tried to have a Good Heart, to want to help people, to adjust my attitude so that the other stuff follows. And it has certainly helped. I’m not making a claim to Goodness—my sloth alone disallows any such claim—but I have found that my priority on keeping a good heart has helped me in life more than anything else.

And yet, now that I look at the verses, and now that I’m writing about them, I do wonder if they are any practical use. I mean, I don’t know that very many people think that it is morally and ethically positive to hold grudges, to begrudge other people’s successes, to distrust people, to have a Bad Heart. And can a person really work at good-heartedness? I can work at being a Good Neighbor, in ways that are practical and easily determined. I can work on being a Good Friend. I can work on having a Good Eye, in the sense of looking for the good in everything I see. I can certainly work on prioritizing long-term thinking over short-term gains with unpayable debts. But can I work on having a Good Heart?

If we analogize to Christian Grace, as I understand it, Grace is bestowed on a person. If you are Graced, as it were, you will have a Good Heart and all manner of good things will flow from that. And as Grace not in your power, and is invisible besides, what is incumbent on you is to be worthy of Grace, and to act as if you have Grace. This will only be possible, really, if you do have Grace, but to the extent that you fail to act that way, it reveals that you don’t have Grace. Yet. But you might, after lunch, so start again with the acting as if.

But in this formulation, Rabban Jochanan does not seem to be saying that the path to which you should cleave is acting as if you have a Good Heart, just that it is a Good Heart. If you woke up today feeling crabby and meanspirited, you are Off the Path (and in fact on the derech ra’ah, the evil path), which encompasses all the ills of the world, bad neighborliness, uswusf. How do you get back on the derech tovah? How do you go about cleaving to the good path and shunning the bad one? Is it enough to act as if you have a Good Heart until your spirit changes?

R. Travers Herford, in his note on the verses, points out that the second and third verses seek to answer Rabban Jochanan’s question in the relations between people. The first and last responses are found in the self. Rabbi Simeon’s response, however, he describes as “not so much ethical as philosophical”.

I’m tempted, then, at the moment, to focus on that fourth response: foresight. Or, as Joseph Hertz puts it, seeing the fruit of an action. Perhaps that is a reason for the possible later insertion of the verse. When you find yourself on the wrong path, when you find that your heart is two sizes too small today, the practical advice we have here is to think long-term. To attempt to see the fruits of your actions. As your eye expands to take in the possibilities, then perhaps your heart can grow into a Good Heart (which in turn encompasses foresight as a matter of habit).

I don’t know, just my thought on it today. By the way, we will have a triple from each of the five disciples and then the two famous verses from Rabbi Tarfon; if I look at one a week and miss a week or so, and I miss a week or two as seems likely (I missed last week, after all), that will mean that we finish the second chapter just before Rosh Hashanah. We have thee more chapters after that (and another that is often included as well); I will need to decide whether to continue with another year of Pirke Avot or to come up with some new topic for our studies for the year. I would like some input from Gentle Readers—should I be thinking of something new, and if so, what? Or should we keep plugging along with Pirke Avot? Let me know.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

June 27, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verses ten, eleven and twelve

The next bit in Pirke Avot is about Rabban Jochanan ben Zakkai’s disciples. I’ll take them in a bunch, continuing to use the numbering in Hertz, which makes this verse ten:

Rabban Yochanan, the son of Zakkai, had five disciples; and these are they, Rabbi Eliezer, the son of Hyrcanus, Rabbi Joshua, the son of Chananya, Rabbi Jose, the Priest, Rabbi Simeon, the son of Nathaniel, and Rabbi Elazar, the son of Arach.

Numbering being different, one translation to another, which makes reference interesting and fun, some people do not count this as a verse in itself, but combine it with the next one or even two, and some people count both this and the next two as part of the previous one. But we’re going to call that ten, and this eleven:

He used thus to recount their praise: Eliezer, the son of Hyrcanus, is a cemented cistern, which loses not a drop; Joshua, the son of Chananya—happy is she that bare him; Jose, the Priest, is a pious man; Simeon, the son of Nathaniel, is a fearer of sin; Elazar, the son of Arach, is like a spring flowing with ever-sustained vigour.

… and this is twelve:

He used to say, If all the sages of Israel were in one scale of the balance, and Eliezer, the son of Hyrcanus, in the other, he would outweigh them all. Abba Saul said in his name, If all the sages of Israel, together with Eliezer, the son of Hyrcanus, were in one scale of the balance, and Elazar, the son of Arach, in the other scale, he would outweigh them all.

Is the prodigious memory of Eliezer ben Hyrcanus supposed to be better than the sin-fearing of Simeon ben Nathaniel, or is it some other aspect of his character that outweighs all the Sages? And is Elazar ben Arach, the ever-flowing spring, really to be commended above all the rest put together, or is that second-hand information to be discounted somewhat?

It turns out that Elazar ben Arach, the ever-flowing spring, dried up, or the water ran foul; instead of going to Javneh with Rabban Jochanan ben Zakkai, he chose to go to Emmaus, where is wife’s family was from, and there he was cut off from the sages, where he forgot all his Torah. He turns up in the Talmud only here and as a warning not to separate yourself from the community (one f’r’ex for that fairly frequent warning), and only a handful of other places. Yet at the time, before the Destruction, he was famous.

Eliezer ben Hyrcanus, on the other hand, was one of the most prominent rabbis of the Javneh period, and became known as Eliezer the Great. He is the single most quoted rabbi in the Talmud, Mishnah and Baraita; if Elezar ben Arach descends into obscurity following the removal from Jerusalem, Eleizer ben Hyrcanus ascends into dominance. Until… are you ready for this story? It’s one of my favorites. It’s in Baba Metzia, 59b. I’ll tell it in my own words, though.

So. The rabbis are arguing a point of kashrut. A utensil can be made unkosher through contact with unkosher items, but is an oven a utensil? And there are many different kinds of ovens; what about this kind, and what about that kind, and so on and so forth, and—you understand, all this is actually important, because you can’t eat food that’s been cooked in an unkosher oven, and people make ovens for a living and need to know what the rules are. So, there’s Rabbi Eliezer, the Great, and he is arguing that this particular kind of oven is kosher, and Rabbi Joshua is saying no it isn’t, and Rabbi Eliezer is losing. Right? And he is arguing this, and he’s arguing that, and nobody is buying it.

So he says Come over to the window. Come on, I want to show you something. Look at that tree, there. And Joseph says The carob tree? and Eliezer says If I am right about the application of the law to this particular kind of oven, then the carob tree will prove it. And the tree rips itself out of the ground, roots and all, and flies through the air for a hundred and fifty feet. Some of the rabbis say it was five hundred feet, but that’s clearly ridiculous; let’s be reasonable and say a hundred and fifty feet, or even just a hundred feet. Which is pretty impressive, you must admit. But the rabbis do not change their minds on the law: A carob tree is not proof, they say. There’s admissible evidence, and then there are flying carob trees.

Eliezer says again Come over to the window. I want you to look at that river. If the oven is kosher, the river will flow backwards. And so it does. But does this impress them? Well, yes, it does impress them, but they still think the oven’s no good. Joseph points out that an argument, really, is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition, whilst miracle-working is based on a simple appeal to authority and has no logical structure or consequence.

Now that pisses Eliezer off. So this time he says the walls of this building will prove my point for me. And the walls start to shake and tremble and then tilt inward until the whole building is about to collapse. But Joshua says to the walls, Walls he says, Walls, are you learned in the law? Are you rabbis or are you walls? Because we’re talking about an interpretation of the law, here, and if you don’t have something in the law to back it up, then stay out of it. And the walls stop. They don’t go back to upright, you understand, but they stay kinda tilted like that, as if they don’t know if they are coming or going.

Well, now Eliezer is taking it personal. So he says Fine, he says, You don’t like the testimony of trees and streams and walls? You want more? How about the Voice of Heaven itself? You like that? If I am right, let the Voice of Heaven be my proof! And there’s a hush, you know, from the rabbis, because some things you keep quiet for. And yes, the Voice of Heaven cries out, saying Why are you giving my man Eliezer a hard time, guys? This is my boy! He’s never wrong about the law!

Well, and Joseph stands up, and— let me just stop here for a minute and ask you, Gentle Reader, do you think he’s going to give in? Is Rabbi Joseph going to say, Oh, well, then clearly the oven is no good, seeing that the Divine spoke from Heaven itself to support you. What would you do, Gentle Reader?

Here’s what Rabbi Joseph does: he says that the Divine simply doesn’t have the authority to overrule a vote by the majority of rabbis, disputing Torah together. In fact, he says lo bashamayim hi, it is not in heaven (Deuteronomy 30:12); the law, given at Sinai, is for us to interpret, not for the Divine, for surely if the Voice of Heaven wanted to put something in about this particular kind of oven, the chance was there at Sinai. It’s too late now to go interfering in our discussions; once we allow that, the council loses all independence and credibility.

And you know, he’s right. In fact, when R. Nathan met Elijah (The prophet Elijah visits everywhere, you know, although most of us don’t recognize him) he asked how the Divine reacted to being overruled, and Elijah reported that the Divine chortled with joy, saying My sons have defeated me, my sons have defeated me.

That’s where my version of the story always ended. I had never gone into the text to see what happened next, but come with me, because it’s interesting.

Eliezer ben Hyrcanus, called the Great, stormed out of the council session. The rabbis voted, and the majority ruled against his understanding of the law, and called in all the ovens of that kind to be destroyed. Not only did they do that, but (presumably because of his attempt to improperly influence the Sages on a matter of law with such unfair things as miracles and wonders and the Voice of Heaven) they excommunicated the great Sage. That, however, left them with a difficulty: how do you tell Eliezer that he has been excommunicated, when he clearly has the Divine imprimatur? Well Rabbi Akiba volunteers for the task or else, he says, or else somebody will screw it up and thus destroy the entire world.

Akiba put on mourning clothes, and goes to Eliezer. He sits himself down a good way off, and sighs. What’s up? says Eliezer. Master, says Akiba, Master, I am in mourning because you have been excommunicated. And then Eliezer tore his clothes (a ritual sign of mourning) and sat on the ground and cried. And a third of all the crops in the world, the olives and the wheat and the barley, were all smitten, and withered, and died. And there were tidal waves and fires and destruction everywhere. So that went well.

And off went Eliezer, to live in excommunication for the rest of his life, eventually settling in Caesarea. He was accused of supporting the Christians in his exile, although he denied it, and he wasn’t convicted. And at the end of his life, the rabbis came to him, and on his deathbed he settled various matters of ritual impurity. His last word, in fact, was pure. Rabbi Joshua ben Chananya (happy was she who gave birth to him!) raised the ban on him, posthumously, although it’s not clear what good that did.

The End

So those are the disciples of Jochanan ben Zakkai; the star pupils cut off by stubbornness and inflexibility, and one of the lesser lights winds up heading everything, becoming friends with the Emperor, and generally being the star. And presumably, what with those stories being well-known, that’s what these verses are about.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

June 20, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse nine: Yochanan

There’s some confusion creeping in with the numbering of the verses. R. Travers Herford and Joseph Hertz call this verse 9, whilst Jacob Neusner calls it verse eight, and furthermore only the first part of verse 8. His verse 9 starts with what Hertz and Herford call verse 14. I’m sticking with the old numbering, in part because it’s rather a special day, and I don’t really have much time. Here’s the Hertz translation, which I like in its faux-Elizabethanosity:

Rabban Yochanan, the son of Zakkai, received the tradition from Hillel and Shammai. He used to say, If thou has learned much Torah, ascribe not any merit to thyself, for thereunto wast thou created.

Yochanan was the one who saved Judaism by getting permission from Vespasian to move the Sanhedrin to Yavneh. The story is that he got himself smuggled out of the siege Jerusalem in a coffin; emerging alive to persuade the Roman General on the verge of his becoming Emporer. The coffin thing is a metaphor, of course, although it can’t be stated enough that the Judaism that is carried out of Jerusalem in a coffin is not exactly the same as the one that emerges from it in Yavneh. But that coffin business would change a person, wouldn’t it?

At any rate, the Temple is destroyed, the zealots and separatists die, in caves or fortresses, the other strains of Judaism lose out to the victory of Yochananism, a portable Judaism that is called Rabbinic Judaism, although (have I said this before?) that term puts too much of the focus on the Rabbis. Perhaps siddur Judaism would be better; the real genius of Yavneh was giving us a prayerbook in place of a sacrificial altar. This radical reinvention to suit the times is the heritage of Judaism that is obscured by the trappings of traditionalism. Although, to be fair, I’m overstating the influence of two thousand years ago and understating the influence of the last thousand years, and the last two or three hundred particularly. But still.

So when I come to this saying, thinking about Yochanan in his coffin, the Temple in ruins, and his extraordinary reinvention of Judaism— what stands out for me is the modesty of it. What credit does he deserve for saving the Torah and the people Israel? Well, after all, what else was he there for?

Papa Rabbi at Temple Beth Bolshoi is fond of the end of Esther 4:14, where Mordechai says to Esther who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for [such] a time as this? Yochanan seems to be saying, all of this stuff that needed to be done so that I could study Torah, in safety, in Yavneh, well, all of that was just what needed to be done.

The verse is often interpreted to imply that the study of Torah is the sole reason for your creation, and that all activity that takes away from the study of Torah should be avoided, or even prohibited. I’m not so sure. I look at the verse, and at the speaker, and I think: perhaps I was created to sit and study, or perhaps I was created to reinvent and act, so that then I can study. Certainly it’s hard to imagine that Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, for his first forty years, expected that the moment would come when he would need to change the world to carry out the mission he was created for.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

June 13, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eight: three in one

He used to say:
The more flesh, the more worms.
The more possessions, the more worry.
The more wives, the more witchcraft.
The more maidservants, the more unchastity.
The more slaves, the more robbery.

The more Torah, the more life.
The more the company of scholars, the more wisdom.
The more counsel, the more understanding.
The more charity, the more peace.

If one acquires a good name he acquires something for himself.
If one acquires for himself knowledge of the Torah he acquires for himself life in the world to come.

I would be willing to argue that in structure, this is a triple. It doesn’t look like one, but essentially, it’s illustrative detail to three points: the pursuit of physical comforts leads to physical discomfort, the pursuit of Torah leads to Torah, and the highest reputation is the blessing of the Divine. I think there’s a natural break between the first five warnings, the next four rewards, and the last two, which have a different verb and a different rhythm, although in Hebrew the sentence structure is much more similar to the first nine.

You know, I always took this as standard mind/body split stuff. The cravings of the body are evil, while the soul lifts you above. And that is certainly there as part of the mindset (and Gentle Readers will recall that I reject that mindset), but looking at it today, I think the actual verse takes a different angle on it. It’s not really saying that the physical urges are evil, it’s saying that they are counterproductive. That’s a take on the mind/body split that makes some sense to me.

Is it true, though? I mean I do understand that the pursuit of physical comforts, when taken to excess, reverberates to physical discomfort. But that not true of piety? Is there moderation in all things, or, as we find in the Machsor Vitry, is all increase profitless except increase of learning? If it is true, what separates the two? What separates the accumulation of servants from the accumulation of scholars, that makes the excess of one harmful and the excess of the other glorious? Is it simply selfishness? But it’s possible to gain servants, possessions, wives, even slaves out of something more than selfishness. A hope for a future dynasty, for instance, is more than selfish. Or a desire for charity on a grander scale, a dream of great achievement to be made with great wealth and great power.

Or is it the focus on the material, such that the physical world simply, by the unyielding laws of nature, cannot help but reward success with failure? By this angle, not only Scripture but any learning could escape that fate; we could escape the physical world by studying Torah or by studying music theory or number theory, political theory or literary theory, in endlessly fruitful and endlessly blissful consultations without fear of excess. It’s only when we attempt to apply those theories to actuality that moderation becomes imperative.

Which, circling around again, perhaps what those last two verses are hinting at: this immoderation in learning is fine for the World to Come, Hillel says, but the fellow who acquires a Good Name, who acquires neither worms nor worry, witchcraft, unchastity or robbery, but who is able to apply himself to the World that Is without succumbing to the temptations of excess, that person has something for himself. Not something shadowy and serene to be found after the end of all things, but an actual thing of this world, an accomplishment he can put in his pocket.

I am taking Hillel’s triple here as something closer to thesis/antithesis/synthesis than progression. In the end, we want people (and communities) to combine Torah study and materialism, this world and the world to come, righteousness and flesh, in the right amounts, not split at all, nor joined even, but a single thing.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eight: reputation and learning

This is the last Hillel verse for a while, by the way. I like Hillel, but he takes some work.

He used to say:
The more flesh, the more worms.
The more possessions, the more worry.
The more wives, the more witchcraft.
The more maidservants, the more unchastity.
The more slaves, the more robbery.

The more Torah, the more life.
The more the company of scholars, the more wisdom.
The more counsel, the more understanding.
The more charity, the more peace.

If one acquires a good name he acquires something for himself.
If one acquires for himself knowledge of the Torah he acquires for himself life in the world to come
.

The contrast here is between acquiring a good name and acquiring knowledge of the Torah; a reputation could be for Torah but is more often for other things. What makes a good name? Kindness, charity, integrity. Rabbi Menachem ben Solomon ha-Meiri says that ‘by a “good name” is meant ethical virtues. “He acquires something for himself,” that is to say, something profitable to him, which may serve as an introduction and path to the learning of Torah and wisdom.’ According to Meiri, then the contrast is between Works and Learning; similar to the Christian distinction between Works and Faith, although based not on inner conviction, nor on Divine Grace, but on study.

Is it, then, my old enemy the mind/body split? Or is this an imposition by Meiri?

Another thing that my attention rests on is the acquisition—after discussing the acquisition of so many things that are bad and things that are good, we are now talking about acquiring… what? Hillel is not saying what the man with the good name acquires, just that it is (a) his own, and (2) implicitly in this world, as contrasted to the World to Come. The implication, I think is that it whatever the man acquires, it is a Good Thing, being a pairing of a Good Thing with a Good Thing. That is, it falls into the second set of doubles, rather than the first. Similarly, gaining learning in the Torah gets you life in the world to come, which is traditionally understood to be a Good Thing, at least better than either Sheol or total nonexistence, but is still only the vaguest acquisition compared to, f’r’ex, worms or lewdness or even peace. Certainly it’s not easy to check the accuracy by empirical means.

And then, while by a good name you can acquire something for yourself, can you acquire the World to Come for somebody else? And wait a moment, because although it seems obvious that one cannot inherit a good reputation, I’m not sure that’s true. A bad reputation can certainly be passed along. And a college glories in its brilliant alumni not just to beg money from them but to bask in reflected glory. If the good name is the result of your good deeds, then surely more is acquired than your own good name—my own reputation, after being the recipient of your generosity, is enhanced by being (f’r’ex) a productive and educated citizen rather than an ignorant parasite. Whether I then obtain entry into the World to Come is not, of course, a matter for your reputation in this world, but surely my own reputation is connected to yours in a bond that has some feedback in it? Should I become learned in the Torah, as a direct result of your ethical actions, is that something I have only for myself?

This pair of pairs, then, is much murkier than the earlier ones in meaning and in implication. R. Travers Herford suggests that it is added later, or rather that the sayings are from “a separate group” of Hillel sayings. But they were placed here, and here is where we find them. Is there a path from the paradoxes of the first five verses to the complements of the next four to the… what? the mysteries of the last two? Are we to see the world-to-come as a culmination of a process of leaving aside all the things of this world, from meat to reputation?

I think I’ll try to address that question, and the verse as a whole, in yet another new note.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eight: the good stuff next

We’re on a longish Hillel verse, where he is playing with his doubles and his balances and his whatnot.

He used to say:
The more flesh, the more worms.
The more possessions, the more worry.
The more wives, the more witchcraft.
The more maidservants, the more unchastity.
The more slaves, the more robbery.

The more Torah, the more life.
The more the company of scholars, the more wisdom.
The more counsel, the more understanding.
The more charity, the more peace.

If one acquires a good name he acquires something for himself.
If one acquires for himself knowledge of the Torah he acquires for himself life in the world to come.

The more Torah, the more life. This is where we switch, without any sort of warning, from the doubles that have one good thing and one bad thing to the doubles that have one good thing and another good thing. Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham (thirteenth century) makes the claim that unlike worrying over money, which shortens a persons life, worrying over your studies cannot bring about anything bad. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true? Alas, an all-nighter studying Rashi has the same effect on one’s immune system as an all-nighter studying the history of East Asian pornographic woodcuts. Sorry.

The more the company of scholars, the more wisdom. The Hebrew here is the more yeshiva, the more wisdom. There are a lot of ways to interpret that—the longer one stays in the company of scholars before going out on one’s own? The bigger the yeshiva? The more yeshivas in a town? The more the students congregate in the yeshiva, rather than studying individually? At any rate, Hillel is saying that you can’t go to far in that direction; moderation is not the path to wisdom there.

The more counsel, the more understanding.Again, one might think that whereas taking counsel from one person, or two, or even three would be good, that the more counsel you seek the worse the marginal utility until the search for counsel becomes actively counterproductive. Reading one commentary, good, reading five, good, but is reading twenty better? I think Hillel is here saying that it is better, that there does not come a point where your understanding has reached its limit. Yes, if you are making a judgment in a case, there will be a practical point where you have to stop listening and actually deliver the judgment, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t keep seeking counsel on the matter and continue to learn and understand more about it. Even after it is too late to be useful in that circumstance, there may come another similar case, but with smaller feet.

The more charity, the more peace.This is an interesting one. The more tzedakah, the more—what? The more happiness? The more health? The more community spirit? The more love? Whether you translate it as charity or righteousness, it isn’t obvious that it will be paired with shalom. But it is. And I think it should be. Is it empirically true? Is it a practical path to the end of conflicts, in Gaza or Kashmir or Darfur? I don’t know. I think it’s worth trying, but I don’t know. Still, even if it lacks empirical validity, I think it’s an important philosophical pairing, even if only to make the kind of tautologies that I find so annoying. If you want peace, work for tzedakah; the true tzedakah is the tzedakah that leads to shalom. If your righteousness (or for that matter your charity) leads to conflict, then, Gentle Reader, ur doin it wrong.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse eight: the bad stuff first

We’re almost at midsummer and we’re still on Chapter Two. And I’m afraid to say it doesn’t look like I’m speeding up at all. Rather the reverse. Let’s see if I can at least get through one long verse today:

He used to say:
The more flesh, the more worms.
The more possessions, the more worry.
The more wives, the more witchcraft.
The more maidservants, the more unchastity.
The more slaves, the more robbery.

The more Torah, the more life.
The more the company of scholars, the more wisdom.
The more counsel, the more understanding.
The more charity, the more peace.

If one acquires a good name he acquires something for himself.
If one acquires for himself knowledge of the Torah he acquires for himself life in the world to come.

Let’s start with the details and work our way up to a grand understanding of the verse. The first five verses are clearly warnings against materialism; is there anything to be gained by delving more deeply into the images?

The more flesh, the more worms. I can’t remember the exact image from the volume I read in my youth, but the image in my head, which must have been drawn from that, is of the decomposing corpse of an immensely fat man. It’s worth remembering that a man with a belly was a successful man; until quite recently, the stigma was on being skinny, as a sign of poverty. Oh, yes, fat also connoted laziness, sure. But Hillel’s point assumes the listener wants to have some flesh on his bones, that he would not otherwise want to leave a skinny corpse.

Unless, and I didn’t think of this until I saw that Jacob Neusner translated vashar as meat, that we are not talking about human flesh at all, but the animal flesh in your diet. You can’t (in Roman times) really keep meat very well; you can salt it and cure it and smoke it, but if a greedy person has a slaughtering bill bigger than his stomach, then it follows that the more meat, the more worms. I like this better, as in our culture, this makes it more obvious that it is the pursuit of something wanted which, when pursued past the point of reason and moderation, leads to the acquisition of something unwanted.

The more possessions, the more worry. Particularly in how to spell possessions. Doesn’t it look like there are too many esses there? Anyway, this is pretty straightforward. Although, it occurs to me, at the time of the Rabbis, wealth after a certain point was tied up in land and rent, which had to be taken care of actively if it weren’t to diminish. I tend to think of it as the lock-on-the-door idea that when you have a house full of valuable and expensive things, you have to worry about people stealing them, but I suspect that Hillel was talking about something more active. To follow along with this idea, for years I thought that this verse didn’t strike modern (American) affluent listeners very deeply, as (a) they had locks on their doors anyway, and (2) the bulk of their wealth was tied up in investments and pensions that didn’t require a great deal of worry. In the last few months, however, I’ve been reminded that the more investments, the more worry…

The more wives, the more witchcraft. Joseph Hertz points out that none of the stories of the great and holy Rabbis mention more than one wife (at a time); it is perfectly legal at the time, but frowned upon. Of course, bachelorhood is frowned upon even more; it’s not considered an active sin like, say, pork eating or murder, but it’s a sin of omission. A wife is a Good Thing (her value is above rubies, after all), but the more wives the more witchcraft. Er, Hillel is assuming that witchcraft is a Bad Thing, by the way. Sorry about that.

The more maidservants, the more unchastity. Or lewdness, or lust. This is not necessarily on the part of the maidservants, but upon the part of the master. Or the master’s sons, or his male servants. What’s interesting here (at the moment) is the suggestion that having one maidservant in the house is not likely to lead to lust, but having, say, three is asking for trouble. I might have thought the other way. On the other hand, Hillel may be referring to the sort of person who hires more servants than there is work, just to boast of a large staff (as it were). In that case, the more maidservants, the more idleness, and the idleness is what leads to the unchastity.

The more slaves, the more robbery. Or, perhaps, Hillel is not just talking about an individual and his household, but a community. A community with a lot of maidservants will have a lot of unchastity, in part because they are postponing marriage and householding, which could allow sex lives without lewdness. And having more slaves in a community will lead to more robbery, as the better avenues for economic stability are cut off. One trusted slave, treated according to the Law, might well be an advantage. Even two. But the Law, followed carefully, makes it difficult to hold many slaves (say, to economically work a plantation with mostly serf labor), so the landowner will cut corners, thus robbing the slave of his rights, which in turn leads to a greater chance of the slaves stealing from him, or from each other, or from neighbors, in an attempt to get ahead in a world that is screwing them. And a community with many slaves will be even worse, the lopsided nature of the community would tend to deprecate the Law generally and the ordinary social norms.

We’ll get to the positive verses in the next note, then, shall we?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

June 6, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse six

Today, a short one. Sorry, I know I’ve been skimping. Stuff to do. We’re still going through Hillel sayings, this one in Jacob Neusner’s translation:

Also: he saw a skull floating on the water and said to it, “Because you drowned others, they drowned you, and in the end those who drowned you will be drowned.”

Maimonedes said “This is something borne out by experience at all times and in all places: whoever does evil and introduces violence and corruption, is himself the victim of the harms caused by those very evils he introduced; for he himself has taught an occupation which can only bring harm to him and to others.”

Rabbi David the Prince, his grandson, said (on the authority of the ancients) that this was not Hillel at all, but Moses who said this, and about Pharoah. Furthermore, his contemporary Menachem ben Solomon ha-Meiri said that this verse “is to teach us to believe that misfortunes are a punishment, they are not accidental events.”

I think there’s a wide gulf between those perceptions of the world. I side with the Rambam, that violence begets violence as part of the natural tendency of events, rather than as some directed or miraculous judgment. It’s not that the two are entirely exclusive; one could see the hand of the Divine in that natural tendency of events, or the impersonal pressure of history in the Pharaoh under the Red Sea. But as reactions to the verse, they seem to me to reveal different outlooks on life. Mine is with Maimonedes.

Did Hillel recognize the skull? How did he know that the corpse was that of a murderer? Rashi says that it was decapitated (he saw a skull, not a body) and that he deduced the rest. Not terribly persuasive, to me. I keep in mind that Hillel was a teacher, and that the verse has him speaking to the skull. Was he teaching the skull? No, that would be silly, of course. Who was he teaching? I imagine him crossing a bridge, or sitting by the river, with a disciple or two with him, deep in conversation about—what? Theodicy? Scripture? Saul? The Romans? Anyway, a student points and shouts. A skull! In the water! And Hillel takes a memorable moment to remind his students of the consequences of violence. A skull in the water, even in those days, can’t have been a common occurrence; the students would remember it, and in remembering it, remember the lesson. And they did, enough for it to have become one of his recorded sayings. It’s one of those Hillel verses that is incredibly compact in Hebrew, because Hebrew is built like that. What he says to the skull is al di’atayf’t ateefuch v’sof m’tayfayich yitufun; the root (aleph tet phay, if I’ve got it right) is in four different combinations denoting object, subject and time. If he really did come up with it on the instant of seeing the skull, it’s pretty impressive. Of course they might have been discussing grammar, and he decided to use drown as an example.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

May 26, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse five: wisdom and business

Finishing up this past week’s Pirke Avot verse:

He used to say: There is no boor who fears sin, and no pious man of the world; there is no shy student, and no angry teacher; there is no wise man who puts everything into business. And where there are no men, try to be a man.

I actually have no idea where the everything is supposed to go. Some people have it that not all businessmen are wise, some people have it that the person who is all in business is not wise. There’s definitely an all in there, but it’s not clear where it belongs. However, making it all businessmen ruins the lovely verse, I think, as well as being a fairly trivial piece of information as long as it’s not accompanied by some way to distinguish which businessmen are wise and which are not.

No, I think we have a category here of people who are all business, if you’ll pardon the expression, and they are not wise. And again, I don’t think it’s useful to consider this as a warning against investing everything into your own company, although of course as financial advice, that would be good, too. No, I think this is about, well, workaholics, in some sense, or perhaps the overlapping group of people who can judge their own success only in monetary terms.

Or perhaps, more generally, it’s about the futility of judging everything in monetary terms, or of monetizing everything. And again, it’s easy to look at this as vapid advice of the kind one would expect to find in a religious text; there’s more to life than work, says Hillel, and everybody nods. Is there more to it than that?

Is the wise workaholic like the sin-fearing boor or the pious am ha-aretz? That is, once we understand the category, more or less, is Hillel pointing us to a path away from it? Not very clearly, at least as far as I can see. Is the wise workaholic like the angry teacher or the shy student? Even less so, as in those cases we can draw the line more clearly between the desired activity and the behavioral impediment. No, I think this is a third kind of case, where Hillel really does seem (to YHB) to be simply saying that a narrow focus on work does not lead to wisdom. Which, given how people generally understand wisdom, shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

By the way, Your Humble Blogger will be traveling later in the week; I don’t expect to be posting much if anything between Thursday and Tuesday. If I somehow get time to look at the next verse in advance, I may post it in advance, otherwise it’ll be a week off. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, but tampering with the smoke detectors in the restrooms of commercial passenger airplanes is a federal offense.

May 23, 2009

Pirke Avot, chapter two, verse five: the teacher and the student

I don’t know about y’all, but I’m really enjoying this verse.

He used to say: There is no boor who fears sin, and no pious man of the world; there is no shy student, and no angry teacher; there is no wise man who puts everything into business. And where there are no men, try to be a man.

Again, not perfectly happy with my own translation here. But the point comes through, I hope. I think it would make an excellent motto for a small liberal arts college, don’t you? In the Hebrew, of course, on a shield and a book. The rabbis like to give examples of this verse and the importance of asking questions when you don’t understand something. Bashfulness is a virtue in every respect except in the course of study, says Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham. That would also make a pretty good motto, come to think of it.

The teacher is variously called intolerant, short-tempered or passionate; I like angry, myself, as it indicates a mood rather than a character trait, but that’s my bias. Clearly, though, in addition to the idea that at the moment of anger, the opportunity to teach is lost (just as at the moment of diffidence the opportunity to learn is lost), Hillel is talking about people with a particular habit of mind. The question, then, is whether we take away the idea that a shy person, being shy, should give up attempting to study, or whether a short-tempered person should give up teaching. When you think about it, that’s not really a plausible interpretation, but the first glance does seem to lead that way. But shyness and anger are no more permanent fates than boorishness or worldliness, and I think that’s part of the verse, too.

I would like to go further, though, as long as we have this verse in front of us. one of the themes running through the avot is that you are a teacher anyway, will you or nil you. Everybody teaches their neighbors, their business associates, their children. Judges, it’s true, have a special responsibility to teach the Law, but they also teach by their behavior. This is in one of the warnings (that I sadly can’t find at the moment) about the hedge around the law: if you, for instance, continue to work right up until the last possible moment before the Sabbath, relying on your ability to correctly ascertain the correct moment by the sky and the Law, you not only put yourself in grave danger of contravening the Law (because your judgement is off, or you become distracted at the vital moment), but what is worse you may lead someone else off the Path, as he will say it is permitted to work until such-and-such, which I know from observing a Judge.

Is this a blanket condemnation of anger, then? Well, here’s the thing. It might be. Hillel is known for being slow to anger; there are lots of stories about obnoxious people who attempt to rile Hillel and are greeted with soft words. Often those people become pious, through his teaching as well as his example. Often the obnoxious guy went to Shammai first and was soundly rebuffed; Shammai was evidently known for being short-tempered. So this is to some extent a clear dig at Shammai on Hillel’s behalf. On the other hand, I do think that it is intended to be broader than that, and to be applied to more than professional instructors.

Also interesting: are there bashful teachers? Are there angry students? What does it tell us that Hillel found the one set sufficiently antithetical to say often, and not the other?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse five: the boor and the worldly

Now, we go into the specifics. Again, this is my own translation, and not to be trusted.

He used to say: There is no boor who fears sin, and no pious man of the world; there is no shy student, and no angry teacher; there is no wise man who puts everything into business. And where there are no men, try to be a man.

The boor is in Hebrew bor, and is translated as a rude man, an empty-headed man, a course person, or a boor, of course. Like that. The man of the world is an am ha-aretz, a man of the earth perhaps. The term is complicated and has had several different connotations over time, as happens. In the tanach, it refers to the people who work the land, more or less; it’s meant to distinguish the average joe from the aristocracy and clerisy. If I’m using that word correctly. Anyway, in Hillel’s time, it seems to refer to a Jew who doesn’t entirely follow the commandments. Someone like me, in fact: a pork-chop eating, fringeless, beardless Jew who nonetheless goes to shul now and then and knows a little Hebrew and a little Scripture. Then it became a derisive term for an ignoramus, somebody who doesn’t know the Scripture or the commandments and therefore couldn’t keep them if he tried. And then, much later, it became a mocking term for someone (again, someone like me) who pretends to knowledge he doesn’t actually have.

I’m always cautious with attributing a criterion to a vague term that despite its vagueness has substantial and powerful connotations. It’s too easy to fall into a tautology: an am ha-aretz can’t be a chasid, of course, because really, if somebody is pious, then they aren’t worldly, or perhaps they aren’t really pious, either way you just weren’t looking at it right. Which would be fine if all we were doing was defining two sets with no overlap, but since the terms have power beyond that, it’s not fine.

As an example, although a contentious and probably distracting one: There are lots of people for whom the term Christian is incompatible with a variety of unpleasant behaviors; when faced with what is commonly called Christian support for a particular thing (broader definition of civil marriage, or narrower; the death penalty; abortion rights, or restrictions; social justice or socialism), there is often a declaration that those opposed to the speaker’s interpretation are not true Christians. Which, again, would be fine, if we were just using the word to mean adherence to a particular set of principles, applications and policy positions, and not, you know, eternal damnation or salvation. Among other things. Or for a less contentious example, the emergence of DINO and RINO for an elected official (usually) who is a member of their political party in name only, meaning, presumably, that Olympia Snow is not a true Republican or Max Baucus a true Democrat, defined as such by the speaker. In that case, however, there is (a) some value to the rhetorical battle over connotations of the Party names, and (2) a clear and objective definition that is unrelated to the battleground issues.

Well, and the rhetorical battle can have some value in any case, but also some cost, and you have to work it out. In this case, or these cases, we don’t want to circle around the definitions of boor and worldly if it drains the meaning out of the terms.

So, to go back. What is a boor? Not just an ignoramus, but an unfeeling person, a swinish person, a person who offends other people and perhaps most importantly a person who does not even aspire to higher things. In fact, the description of boorishness tends to include the word unrefined; there is certainly a whiff of the back country about it, an elitist sense, but still. The idea is not generally connected to sinfulness, as such, but bad manners and general grossness. So why can’t we imagine such a person fearing sin?

Well, and what happens to a person who fears sin? I’m using the term in the Jewish sense, by the way, not to indicate actual fright but to indicate an aversion to breaking the commandments, or to leaving the path of righteousness generally. When a person starts to pay attention to those issues, to elevate concern for ethical behavior over transient pleasures, doesn’t that begin to refine a person? When you fear sin, you pay attention to your own behavior and to that of other people as well. You moderate your behavior. You try to avoid offense to other people, because there are many sins that emerge from such offense, and you can avoid those sins by avoiding the offense. You think twice, perhaps, before speaking or acting. You perhaps follow the niceties of your social group, not because of the rules themselves, but out of respect for their traditions and their norms. You refine yourself.

And the am ha-aretz who wants to be a chasid? Well, in Hillel’s view (and at least to some extent in mine), piety leads to study, so that the study can lead to more piety. Rabbi Akiba is the example in the commentary of an am ha-aretz who becomes a chasid through study. And on the other side, within certain contexts, you can see that failure to practice the details of the commandments would interfere with any sort of deep knowledge. For instance, keeping kosher: I know some of the rules but most of them I never learned and I have forgotten most of the ones I did learn. Similarly with the liturgy; I wouldn’t get very far in studying without taking it on myself to practice it frequently, at least for a while.

Now, I don’t go as far as Hillel, or as a lot of people, particularly the Lubovitchers, in saying that a belief-driving study will necessarily lead to traditional observance. It may lead to innovation in one are, it may lead to rejection in another. But it’s clearly a path out of am ha-aretzdom, out of the worldly and into the life of the chasid.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse five: absence

I don’t like any of the translations of this verse, so I’m going to attempt my very own, drawing from all the ones I’ve been using and my own incredibly meager knowledge of Hebrew grammar.

He used to say: There is no boor who fears sin, and no pious man of the world; there is no shy student, and no angry teacher; there is no wise man who puts everything into business. And where there are no men, try to be a man.

I’m not terribly happy with that one, either, but I think it gets the sense and some of the rhythm and emphasis. My translations all treat is as, f’r’ex, A boor cannot be sin-fearing, which puts the negative in a different place, and (to my mind) assumes the existence of the boor rather than the existence of fear of sin. That is, logically, looking at the unions of statements and whatnot, while both statements could be disproved by a boor who fears sin, if there are no boors, the second statement is entirely null but the first statement is true, while if there are boors (who, of course, fails to fear sin), the two statements still apply. Why does this matter? Because if the emphasis is on the presence of boors who do not fear sin, the last part of the verse is detached and irrelevant. If the emphasis is on the absence of sin-fearing boors, then the last part of the verse picks up the theme of absence and carries it to a higher plane.

Why do I care so much? Well, and this ties in to a theme I have been neglecting to blather about regularly, but one I have touched on now and then: people change. The character traits of piety, anger, diffidence, wisdom and sin-fearing are not permanent nohow, which means that you have a way out.

Are you a worldly man? Or woman, of course; Hebrew is even worse than English for the patriarchal tyranny of gender. But are you worldly? Then you are no chasid, used here not as we think of Hasidic Jews with payess and fringes on the outside, but as is g’milut chasidim. But where there is no man, then you should try to be a man, that is, you should engage in acts of loving-kindness and piety. And then, you see, following the logic, you are no longer an am ha-aretz, a man of the world.

Are you too angry to teach? There is no angry teacher; try to act like a teacher, control your temper, and become the thing that is absent. In doing so, the contradiction resolves itself; you master your anger and become a teacher. You overcome your shyness and are able to learn; you overcome your focus on work and gain wisdom.

There are no boors. That is, there are boors, of course, but those boors are not somehow doomed to a life of boorishness. They have choices and pathways and responsibility. They can begin to understand sin, and fear it. And, of course, you, Gentle Reader, who are no boor now, may yet lose your fear of sin, through arrogance or obsession or even absent-mindedness, and begin to act like a boor yourself. It’s not a permanent distinction. It may be that some of us are sheep and some goats, and if a Shepard were to divide us up it could be done perfectly, but unlike actual sheep and goats, if it were done next week, the result would be different.

Absences are constantly being created and filled; we are becoming angry and then teaching again, drowning in work and resurfacing into wisdom, burying ourselves in the world and then resurrecting ourselves in piety. We are all men, there are no men, we strive to be men. We fail, we succeed, we strive again.

I’m going to go into the examples in separate notes, because I think y’all would have interesting things to say about them, but the beauty of the verse as a whole is, I think, in the way Hillel plays with absence and contradiction. The commentary I have, which is very good on the examples, seems to miss that altogether.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

May 17, 2009

Pirke Avot, chapter two verse five: contingency

In the first half of the verse, I was talking about this idea that your spiritual strength derives from the community. This is one of those triads that can’t be massaged into three; we’re on the fourth of five, but we’ll probably go back a bit, because, you know, that’s how I do it.

Hillel was in the habit of saying: “Do not isolate thyself from the community and its interest. Do not rely upon thy spiritual strength until the day of thy death. Pass not judgment upon thy neighbor until thou hast put thyself in his place. Say not a thing which must not be heard, because eventually it will be heard, Say never, ‘Sometime or other, when I enjoy leisure, I will attend to my spiritual advancement’; perhaps thou wilt then never have the leisure.”

So this is warning against complacency, or against the expectation that things will go according to plan. Hillel is reminding us that shit happens. I like the phrasing on the say not, although I am tempted to phrase it tweet not, you know? Anyway, these are pretty straightforward. Right? So, let’s try to look at them, not as the simple and straightforward single statements they are, but according to their place in the verse. How do these statements apply to our idea about drawing strength from the community?

Saying things that must not be heard works nicely as isolating yourself from the community. Again, these are phrased as double negatives, to avoid the bad thing: do not (isolate yourself, say the thing which must not be heard) rather than do (involve yourself, say things that must be heard). They echo each other. But isn’t isolating yourself a way to avoid saying things which must not be heard? Removing yourself from the temptation to lies, idle gossip and blasphemy. No, no, no, Hillel says, not the right way to do to it at all. The strength comes from being in the community and avoiding saying the things that must not be said.

Which is what makes that last statement so interesting, because it is not about putting off spiritual advancement, it is about saying you’ll put off your spiritual advancement. It’s the conversation that Hillel is warning you against. Oh, he’s warning you against putting off the advancement, too, because of course then you don’t get the leisure, etc, but Hillel phrases it so it isn’t a decision made by an individual alone but by a person in conversation with another.

On the other hand, Mr. Rodkinson’s translation might be leading us astray; the Chasids and Mr. Herford have that fourth part something like “Do not say something that is not readily understood in the belief that it will ultimately be understood”, which seems to be somewhat more skeptical about the community. Although, now that I look at it, it is a danger of isolating yourself from the community, this saying things that aren’t readily understood. When you are involving yourself with the community, you will be able to, what I am thinking? Oh, yes, put yourself in the place of your neighbor, and then will be able to speak and be understood. Or more important, you will care if you are understood, rather than just saying what you want to say, shrugging your shoulders and saying that history will vindicate you.

I like the combination of the two themes of this verse, that your spiritual strength is drawn from the community and that you should act as if things will go wrong. I think they go together well, because when things do go wrong, that’s when your neighbors and friends will hold you up. And that a community drawing strength from each other is the best defense against things going wrong in the first place, because we will keep each other in line. There’s some sort of metaphor there from physics, cells or something, probably something about holding up bridges. Can’t think of it at the moment, because the stench coming off the Giants is so overwhelming. Ah, the Giants. Another good lesson in remembering that not only does anything that can go wrong eventually go wrong, but stuff that you never thought of can go wrong, too. And you need your friends.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse five: community

A little late with the fifth verse, which is back to Hillel:

Hillel was in the habit of saying: “Do not isolate thyself from the community and its interest. Do not rely upon thy spiritual strength until the day of thy death. Pass not judgment upon thy neighbor until thou hast put thyself in his place. Say not a thing which must not be heard, because eventually it will be heard, Say never, ‘Sometime or other, when I enjoy leisure, I will attend to my spiritual advancement’; perhaps thou wilt then never have the leisure.”

This is a long fellow, isn’t it. Let’s start at the beginning.

The advice not to isolate yourself from the community and its interest is aimed at rabbis, although of course I insist that you can take the advice without having that position. I mean, I think Hillel is talking about the temptation for a rabbi who acts as a judge to keep himself remote from his neighbors out of either a misplaced desire for dignity (to resound to the benefit of the Law) or a concern about impartiality. Or from being an asshole, of course, but I tend to think that Hillel is more concerned about advising people who are already trying not to be assholes.

Seriously, though, I think that this is important. Don’t keep apart from the community and its interest. Don’t be a hermit. You have to decide what community you’re talking about, of course, and you have plenty to choose from. But I think you have to chose one, or two or three, and then be involved in it. Or you have to choose them all; Hillel puts the phrase in the negative, that you shouldn’t be apart from the community, so it’s not a matter of choosing and getting involved, it’s a matter of never cutting yourself off from any of them. Your work, your family, your neighborhood, your state, your town, the people who do similar work, the people who live in similar towns, the people who read similar books. Don’t isolate yourself from the community. And its interest.

Why not? Take the second leg: your spiritual strength is not enough. Oh, it’s good to have spiritual strength, but you can’t count on it. Your heart may be pure, you may have the strength of ten, but that’s today, under your current circumstances, and frankly, if you are reading this blog, your current circumstances are probably pretty damned good. And maybe they will stay like that. Maybe they won’t. Maybe there will be some sort of temptation, some sort of provocation, something that will overwhelm your own resources. And if you stood apart from the community, then your own resources are all you have.

And, seriously, those resources probably aren’t that great. And, you know, holding yourself apart from the community is a terrible way to build up resources, anyway. So I’ll take these two together as one idea, and a good one, too.

The third bit, here, about not judging your neighbor until you’ve put yourself in his place is one of those trite things that it’s very hard to pay attention to, really, because you’ve heard it since you were six. I’ll try to freshen it up for myself by tying it to the first two. Which is to say, you actually should put yourself in your neighbor’s place, by both being part of the community, and working for its interests. Then, your spiritual strength not being reliable, you rely on that of your neighbor, and he on yours. And then you judge.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

May 9, 2009

Pirke avot chapter two, verse four: will, won't, willn't

We’re working with Chaim Potok’s translation today, or rather the version that he puts into the mouth of Reb Saunders in The Chosen. The tzaddik is notionally speaking Yiddish, and might be quoting the verse in Hebrew, but the book is in English, so that’s what we get.

Do His will as if it were thy will, that He may do thy will as if it were His will. Nullify thy will before His will that He may nullify the will of others before thy will.

There seem to be two major strands of rabbinic interpretation. One is fairly straightforward, and says that if you want a pony (of whatever kind’I don’t actually want a pony, but I would like half-a-dozen nice waistcoats), rather than praying for it directly, or even working toward it directly, you should seek to accomplish the Divine Will instead, and then in reward, the Divine Will provides the pony.

Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin speaks for this interpretation when he says "If you have carried out the commandments of the Torah and acquired wisdom—know in truth that Gd exists, walk in His ways so that you may be like Him—and if you have delighted in and yearned for these just as you yearn for the fulfillment of your bodily needs and pleasures; then the Holy One, blessed be He, will grand you your wishes and desires, He will carry them out as you have carried out His will.

Only, of course, the Divine Will doesn’t always provide the pony. Which means that either you wanted the wrong pony (which is no help, because that’s the pony you wanted) or you carried out the Divine Will insufficiently to be rewarded. I hate that shit. My feeling is that when we try to push that reward-for-service idea too hard, and people don’t get their ponies, we get broken people, bitter atheists (as opposed to the happy atheists, who don’t cause as much trouble), guilt-ridden prigs, and mean-spirited, envious Grundyists. Note to children reading this: You don’t get the pony! Even if you get one pony, there will always be another pony you don’t get! Now get off my blawn.

Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham takes a different view. He says “There should be no distinction between the will of the Holy One, blessed be He, and one’s own will. Both should be the same. That is to say, a man should have no wish except that which is in accordance with what is pleasing to Gd.” This strikes me as almost Buddhist in temperament: remove your own desire, and you will not have unfulfilled desires. My own problem is that (a) we do have desires and will (or at least we perceive ourselves to have them), so saying we should also risks self-recrimination when we don’t get our ponies, and (2) the verse itself clearly draws a distinction between your will and His will, and never identifies them with each other. Rabban Gamliel (son of Judah the Prince) could have said Make thy will His will, that He may do thy will and His will together. He didn’t. So that’s a stretch, for me, as an interpretation of the verse.

Something between them? Something that allows for some sort of distinction between the Divine Will and individual will, while recognizing that the Divine does not always fulfill human will?

I think—for me, the point of the verse is to struggle with the attempt to find that something between them. For me, it’s in a sense a koan, in that the value lies in your struggle with the text. Thinking about the discrepancy between my will and the Divine Will, or even thinking about the overlap between them, helps with the whole project of study and faith. My own struggles with my own missing ponies (corn chips! an outdoor electrical outlet! the ungrudging respect of honest men!) are made easier, somewhat, by the contemplation of Rabban Gamliel (son of Judah the Prince) and his verse. It’s not an answer, though. I don’t know what the sage meant, and I don’t know if I would agree with it if I did.

Reb Saunders (in The Chosen, do you remember we were talking about The Chosen?) has a terrifying certainty that he imparts to the two boys and to his congregation of followers. He raises his boy in silence, to teach him to subsume his will to the Divine Will, to take upon himself (as, in Reb Saunders’ mind, the tzaddik must) the sufferings of his congregation, of the People Israel throughout time, and even of the world. Ultimately, Daniel chooses a different understanding of the Divine Will, one that does not utterly subsume his individual will, but that compels a life of study and service outside the synagogue. Chaim Potok approves of that choice, I think, as do I (although of course it is fiction, and Mr. Potok’s invention, which makes a difference).

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse four: Logic and Fiction

Instead of using one of our usual translations, I’m going to start with the character of Reb Saunders the tzaddik in Chaim Potok’s The Chosen. I’ve mentioned here before that The Chosen has been one of the books that has had the most profound and lasting influence on me. I can’t really imagine that I’d be blogging about Scripture without having read The Chosen at an impressionable age. There are problems with the impetus to Scripture being a novel, but then we live with problems all the time.

For those of you who don’t know the book, it’s told first-person by a teenage boy who is modern Orthodox; his father is a yeshiva teacher, and he studies talmud himself, both at school and with his father, but he wears his tzitzes on the inside, if you know what I mean. He becomes friends with the brilliant (and only somewhat maladjusted) son of a local chassidic rebbe. Daniel is struggling with the stifling world of the chasids; Reuben is struggling with the modern world as well. It’s nearly halfway through the book that Danny brings Reuben to services at his father’s place. This being a chasidic community, it’s not just a service, but a singalong, a meal, and something else as well. I’m picking it up after the meal is over, they’ve been singing for a while, and they have said the Grace. Reb Saunders is speaking.

“The great and holy Rabban Gamaliel,” he said, “taught us the following: ‘Do His will as if it were thy will, that He may do thy will as if it were His will. Nullify thy will before His will that He may nullify the will of others before thy will.’ What does this mean? It means that if we do as the Master of the Universe wishes, then He will do as we wish. A question immediately presents itself. What does it mean to say that the Master of the Universe will do what we wish? He is after all the Master of the Universe, the Creator of heaven and earth, the King of kings. And what are we? Do we not say every day, ‘Are not all the mighty as naught before Thee, the men of renown as though they had not been, the wise as if without knowledge, and the men of understanding as if without discernment’? What are we that the Master of the Universe should do our will?”

Reb Saunders paused, and I saw two of the old men who were sitting at our table look at each other and nod. He swayed back and forth in his leather chair, his fingers stroking his beard, and continued to speak in a quiet singsong voice.

“All men come into the world in the same way. We are born in pain, for it is written, ‘In pain shall ye bring forth children.’ We are born naked and without strength. Like dust are we born. Like dust can the child be blown about, like dust is his life, like dust is his strength. And like dust do many remain all their lives, until they are put away in dust, in a place of worms and maggots. Will the Master of the Universe obey the will of a man whose life is dust? What is the great and holy Rabban Gamaliel teaching us?” His voice was beginning to rise now. “What is his telling us? What does it mean to say the Master of the Universe will do our will? The will of men who remain dust? Impossible! The will of what men, then? We must say, the will of men who do not remain dust. But how can we raise ourselves above dust? Listen, listen to me, for this is a mighty thing the rabbis teach us.”

I’ll stop there with The Chosen. Reb Samuels goes on for a couple of pages, and there’s more yet after that. Reb Samuels answers his question that it is the study of Torah that raises a man above dust, that it is specifically a Jew who is engaged in the study of Torah who has his will become the will of the Divine. And Gentle Readers will have likely figured out that Your Humble Blogger follows that path, at least to the extent that I study the Scripture to attempt to ascertain the will of the Divine, to do the Divine’s will as if it were my will.

Where Reb Samuels questions the appropriateness of the Divine doing the will of a human, I question the idea of individual will within this context. Actually, I question the idea of individual will at all, but we’ll get to that soon enough, I imagine. For now, let’s assume that individual will exists, even if it’s difficult to define clearly, and that we are probably roughly talking about the same thing when we talk about it. If I want the Divine to do my will, what is my will? I’d like good weather tomorrow, when I really should do some gardening. I’d like the plants to grow well, particularly the Rose of Sharon trees, which are a little shabby-looking. I’d like all the dandelions to pull themselves out of the ground and die, preferably already in the big bag of garden cuttings out on the curb. I’d like my children to be well-behaved, healthy, clever, good and strong. I’d like a good night’s sleep. I’d like to have our mortgage paid off. I’d like the Giants to sweep this series. I’d like to see both Waiting for Godots, and I’d rather like to act in one. I’d like to keep my hair. I’d like the Republican Party to work to persuade people to responsible participation. I’d like the climate to be all better now. I’d like to go into space, but comfortably. I’d like to know I was helping people. I’d like to have mental discipline.

Hmph. I wrote out a nice positivist categorization of kinds of individual will, and how they relate to the verse, but I don’t think there was much of anything to them in the end, so I’ll skip them. Let’s see if I can look into the verse without any more lists. It won’t be easy; I do love me some lists. Anyway, there are different kinds of individual will, and some of them definitely seem like there’s no way for the Divine to do that particular will as if it were his will (I’d like Dick Cheney to die and be reborn as a chandelier; I’d like to be able to hold my breath for an hour), so the verse can’t be talking about that. Those are, in Reb Saunders words, dust. But when we restrict the will to something that isn’t dust, we run into a tautology: we know those aspects of individual will which conflict with the Divine will must be dust (from the first part of the verse), so it is only those aspects of individual will which are in common with the Divine Will that are fulfilled by the second part, and therefore the categories of individual will (properly understood and not dusty) and Divine Will are not actually two categories but a single category. Which, unfortunately, deprives the verse of any actual meaning. I don’t like that.

For the verse to have meaning, there must be some aspect of your will that is both different from the Divine Will and not in conflict with the Divine Will.

Think about that for a moment.

I think I’ve reached the limits of logic on this one. Let’s start over in a new note.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

May 2, 2009

Pirke Avot: chapter two, verse three: ruling powers

Is it Saturday again? Judah Goldin’s translation:

Beware of the ruling powers! For they do not befriend a person except for their own needs: They seem like friends when it is to their advantage, but they do not stand by a man when he is hard-pressed

This is traditionally attributed to Rabban Gamliel son of Judah the Prince. It’s odd that it doesn’t really fit the format; it doesn’t begin he used to say; there seems to be some sense that it is properly part of verse two, rather than being a verse on its own, but that’s how it’s numbered, so there.

The Rambam insisted that this verse applied to the Roman government of the time, and was applicable only by extension to those ruling powers who were like Rome. But then the Rambam was attending physician on the Sultan in Cairo. He had experience that one ruling power was not like another, having a variety of experiences with ruling powers both personally (he is said to have treated Richard Lionheart) and through his writings (burnt by the Inquisition in France).

But the Rambam doesn’t so much seem to be interpreting this verse as disagreeing with it. Or, at least, the verse as it stands is general, and if we take it as a description of the ruling powers of the writer’s time, then we aren’t left with much of anything useful, are we? I mean, surely, if some ruling powers befriend people for something more than selfish reasons and stand by men when hard-pressed, but others do not, then what use is the Scriptural verse? How do we tell the difference between the kinds of ruling powers? Surely individual judgment is insufficient, as the moment when individual judgment about the ruling power is most untrustworthy is when that ruling power is befriending you.

My take on it is this: although it is true that governments, powerful people, kings, deans, caliphs and CEOs are different, one to another, the advice of the sage is to act as if the power in question were Rome. You can’t as an individual make power trustworthy or not, and you can’t be sure that you have correctly judged the trustworthiness of that power, but what you can do is act as if you are being used for the advantage of the powerful, and be prepared for that power to abandon you when you are hard-pressed. You may be wrong, but you will be prepared.

Note, though, that this applies only to the Ruling Powers of your time, and to them as ruling powers. You can’t take the untrustworthiness of the powerful as a reason to be stingy with the weak. Nor can you fail to participate in your community our of that suspicion. You have to act with the suspicion, not fail to act because of it.

In the US at this time, we’ve changed from some people who are obviously untrustworthy to some people who are not so obviously untrustworthy. And I don’t say that Our Only President (how odd to say that with pride) isn’t trustworthy, or that Vice-President Biden isn’t, or Speaker Pelosi or Majority Leader Reid. Or the mayor of my town, for that matter, who seems to be a good guy. It’s that I think it’s important to avoid thinking that any of them will necessarily have our backs, if they don’t need to for their own advantage. The key, politically (in the kind of democracy we have) is to keep being advantageous, largely by having a lot of people agree with you and flaunting that mass of people, but also by throwing your weight around within the various structures that influence things.

Which, interestingly, often means getting Your Guy into a position within the Ruling Powers (say, as Secretary of Energy or attending physician to the Sultan), and then remembering that as one of them, you have to remember that Your Guy may also fail to stand by you when hard-pressed. It ain’t beanbag, but then neither is the rest of it.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

April 25, 2009

Pirke Avot, chapter two, verse two: Community Merit

It’s surprisingly difficult to concentrate today, or perhaps not so surprising, what with one thing and another. Have I ever given my rant about how wonderful Spring is? I grew up in the desert, you know, so Spring is still new to me. Well, anyway.

I A. Rabban Gamaliel, son of R. Judah the Patriarch, says, “Fitting is learning in Torah along with a craft, for the labor put into the two of them makes one forget sin.
  B. “And all learning of Torah which is not joined with labor is destined to be null and cause sin.
II C. “And all who work with the community—let them work with them for the sake of Heaven.
  D. “for the merit of their fathers strengthens them, and their [fathers’] righteousness stands forever.
  E. “And as for you, I credit you with a great reward, as if you had done [all of the work required by the community on your own merit alone].”

Jacob Neusner doesn’t indicate here who the speaker is in E, whether it is still Gamaliel son of Judah the Nasi or whether Gamaliel is attributing this sentiment to the Divine. Either way, it’s a bit murky. R. Travers Herford says “The lesson is a fine one, though expressed less clearly than might be wished.” But what lesson?

We’re looking at the question of merit, who accrues it and who benefits from it, and we’re looking at people who work with the community. Mr. Herford distills this into a simple idea: people who work with the community are not judged solely on their own actions, but on the actions of others within the community. Therefore, the merit of their fathers counts to their benefit, as they maintain the traditions within the community, and the merit of people within the community count to their benefit, as they are working with the community for the sake of Heaven. If you are wanting to add up extra merit, here’s a way to do it. A force multiplier. Yes? It is a simple idea, and a profound one, I think. Although it leads to this question of what exactly we mean by merit; are we talking about a worldly merit as we ask ourselves who is worthy of respect and emulation? Or are we talking about a Divine Judgment? Are we talking about what the Divine judges us for as he inscribes us in the Book of Life? Or are we talking about perhaps some objective scale of success? What does merit do for a fellow?

And even if we simply say that merit, whatever it is, is good, what does this tell us about how to act? Can we rely on the strengthening effect of the merit of our fathers? Is the merit of our fathers reserved for those who work for the Community (veddevah dat means)? If the merit earned by our community is put in our column, is this also true of demerits? And what about the demerits of our fathers?

This half of the verse ties, then, into the first half, in the questions of what constitutes useful work for the community, what are the obligations that such work entails, and what are the rewards of such work. I don’t think that Gamaliel son of Judah the Prince is doing very much to answer that with any clarity. But I do think that the merit here in this verse is in the question. I think that the questions this verse provokes are the sorts of questions that are easily ignored because they aren’t easily answered. Is the work that I do for the sake of the Heavenly Name? Is it the sort of work that gathers to itself the merit of the avot? What are the actions of the community that deserve merit, and do I deserve a share of that merit?

For me, I, well, I work in a library, which is a sort of service to the community, although of course a person could say that about working in a toll booth or a coffee shop. And have some justice in it. But I do spend a good portion of my day helping people; it ain’t schoolteaching, but it’s helpful. I do think that the library that employs me is a community resource, and the benefit to the community that comes through here does, I think, come to all of us who work here, a bit. I mean, when one of the Hartford City Councilors came in to do some work on the budget using our computers and resources the other day, I was able to feel that yes, we have helped out a bit. And the fellow who is writing his memoirs, and the woman who needed something for her performance preparation; we’re helping a bit, there, too. And, of course, there are all those students taking courses; I lose track of how that exactly helps the community, but it’s there, anyway.

And, of course, it leaves me enough time and energy, on a Saturday, to blog. That’s important, too.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, chapter two, verse two: a path in the world

I’m off to a late start this morning. Too much drama at the blog, and Spring Fling at the university. Which makes for less traffic within the library on a Saturday, certainly, but not necessarily less work, as for the second week in a row, the student desk worker has not been able to come in. This year, the poor thing was actually sick beforehand with a cold or virus or some such, and is not just hungover, vomiting, useless, newly adult, and full of regrets. So. On to 2:2, and I’ve got my hands on a Jacob Neusner’s translation again, so let’s go with that.

I  A. Rabban Gamaliel, son of R. Judah the Patriarch, says, “Fitting is learning in Torah along with a craft, for the labor put into the two of them makes one forget sin.
    B. “And all learning of Torah which is not joined with labor is destined to be null and cause sin.
II C. “And all who work with the community—let them work with them for the sake of Heaven.
    D. “for the merit of their fathers strengthens them, and their [fathers’] righteousness stands forever.
    E. “And as for you, I credit you with a great reward, as if you had done [all of the work required by the community on your own merit alone].”

At some point, I need to read his introduction to this volume (Yale University Press, The Mishnah) to figure out why he breaks things down the way he does. I’ll accept for now the two parts to the verse (he sees a third and fourth part in the next two verses) and work with those.

I’ll also say that in the Hebrew, the phrase is Talmud Torah combined with derech eretz, study of Torah combined with an earthly path. We use derech eretz to mean both a path through life, so a career or avocation, and the way of the earth, that is, correct action. Both Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin and Menahem ben Solomon Ha-Meiri take this as correct personal relations. Study of Torah combined with a pleasant manner, a polite society, a cheerful countenance—these are what make your students, your neighbors, your associates all want to come to Torah themselves. That view breaks the first two sentence into separate matters: the first discusses the combination of study with good manners, and the second the combination of study with labor. Mr. Neusner sides with those who take derech eretz to connect to the idea of labor in the second sentence, or rather to connect it directly rather than through a sort of pun.

We talked about labor back in verse ten: work; that was m’lacha, which is the word in B up there, and YHB noted his own distinction between creative work and trade. I think here the distinction is less meaningful. Where the injunction there was to love work, here the injuction seems to be a combination of keep busy and make a living. The latter being a way to both avoid the pressures of poverty (“Many are the sins a man is dragged into when he has no food!” -from the commentary of Simeon ben Zemah Duran) and because an occupation provides stability, which is a good thing (“He who does not bring up his son to some occupation, is as if he were teaching him robbery” Rabbi Judah, Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 29a).

The article Ideal Occupations: The Talmudic Perspective by Hershey H. Friedman gives an idea of the rabbinic discussion of what was a good job and what wasn’t. There are differences of opinion, of course. But it’s clear that the question of derech eretz in the sense of a path in life was considered a very important one for rabbinic discussion. A lot of the discussion is crazy, of course, but still. It’s more than keeping your hands busy, more than avoiding idleness.

On the other hand, idle hands are the devil’s proverbial, here as well as elsewhere. I think the twin terrors of idleness and poverty are tremendously powerful, in the rabbinic viewpoint. It’s worth wondering how that would best be put into place as social policy. The obligation to provide a path (a derech) away from those terrors seems inescapable, but one wonders about the nature of the obligation. Does voting for legislators that support jobs programs fulfill that obligation? Does hiring interns? Does hiring a contractor to fix the wiring? Does investing in a business? Does investing in a venture capital fund? Where I’m going is that from this perspective those are all questions of Talmud Torah, to carve out a path on this earth, to keep the two together to avoid sin.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

April 18, 2009

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse one: Three (more) things

Rabbi, being a Prince, gets an extra leg to his triple, and turns it into another triple in itself.

Rabbi (Jehudah the Prince) was in the habit of saying: “In choosing the right path, see that it is one which is honorable to thyself and without offence to others. Be as scrupulous about the lightest command as about the weightiest, for no man knoweth the result of his actions. Weigh the present temporal disadvantages of a dutiful course against the reward of the future, and the present desirable fruits of a sinful deed against the injury to thine immortal soul. In general, consider three things and thou wilt never fall into sin: remember that there is above thee an all-seeing eye, an all-hearing ear, and a record of all thine actions.

The three things here are shloshah d’vorim another three things on which the world stands. Although here it’s not the world standing, it’s just three legs for you to think about. What are those three holding up? Is it the whole world, again? I find that plausible; without keeping those three things in mind, the world will fall. Or you will destroy the world, if you don’t keep those three things in mind. Or it could just be yourself; the three legs are barriers against the path to sin. I like the echo, anyway.

An Eye that sees, an Ear that hears, and all your actions in a Book. There’s a certain amount of rabbinic discussion about the metaphor there, too. Of course there is not an actual Ear that hears everything; the Divine doesn’t have a Divine Ear with Divine Earwax, or for that matter an Immaculate Ear. But the rabbis caution against concluding that as the Divine Ear is only metaphorical that there is only metaphoric hearing, that one should act as if there is a Divine Ear. No, the Divine does hear everything, although the mechanism used is presumably Divinely unlike a natural or man-made system. On the other hand, the rabbis want to avoid a pantheist immanence, where the Divine is everything and everything is Divine, and you are part of the Ear that Hears you. That interpretation is awfully tempting, though, isn’t it? As part of the Ear, you know that the Ear will hear whatever you say, because no matter where you go, there you are. So never imagine yourself unexamined; you examine yourself, and thoroughly, too. Except that empirically, there are lots of things you do or say that you don’t remember, later. It’s true that keeping in mind that you are part of the Ear that Hears makes it more likely that you will actually Hear, though, so there is something to that.

Because it seems to me that Rabbi is not only saying that there is an Eye, an Ear and a Book, but saying that if you believe that they exist, or if you behave as if there is an Eye, and Ear and a Book, then you will never fall into sin. Or perhaps you will not go under the power of sin; I think the idiomatic English obscures the verb, which if I am correct is come, in the sense of travel.

Digression: I think most of us who were taught Hebrew as children in religious schools learned to make a sentence with just the first two letters of the alphabet, aleph and bet, and only one vowel as well. The sentence is abba ba. Abba is the familiar form of father, something like papa or daddy. And ba is comes, present tense indicating motion towards. Abba ba, the first sentence in my primer, with a picture of a house and a man walking toward it, with a briefcase in his hand, and probably a fedora or some similar hat indicating 50s suburbia. When I was in college, a certain Professor had her first child, and on the day this Prof returned to teach class, she found her seminar had decorated the room with inflated condoms with abba ba written on them. End Digression.

I like the idea of come under the power of sin, rather than fall into its clutches, as not only does it connote deliberate action under one’s own power, but it puts the speaker as already under the power of sin, telling the listener to come no further. Rather than go, indicating motion away, where the listener would be, so to speak, in between the speaker and the sin.

This version has a little humility, and in fact that’s why I (with the rabbis) prefer to eschew the pantheist interpretation. I think the thread running through this verse is of the danger of relying on your own judgment, and of the aid that outside judgment can provide, whether it is the praise of the community, an artificial and deliberate flattening of mitzvot, an eye to the long term and its uncertainties, or the belief in an Eye, an Ear and a Book.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse one: Scales

I thought I was going to get through the whole verse today, but it’s not looking good, is it?

Rabbi (Jehudah the Prince) was in the habit of saying: “In choosing the right path, see that it is one which is honorable to thyself and without offence to others. Be as scrupulous about the lightest command as about the weightiest, for no man knoweth the result of his actions. Weigh the present temporal disadvantages of a dutiful course against the reward of the future, and the present desirable fruits of a sinful deed against the injury to thine immortal soul. In general, consider three things and thou wilt never fall into sin: remember that there is above thee an all-seeing eye, an all-hearing ear, and a record of all thine actions.”

This is just good advice. Not only in the sense of being fearful of that something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, but just trying to think long-term about consequences of actions. The present temporal disadvantages (Mr. Herford has loss often seem incredibly large, but that’s just the perspective tricking you. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear, and rewards in the future are larger than they appear now.

On the other hand, I’m not so keen on the theodicy here. Or, rather, I find it hard not to infer, from the text, that the speaker views Divine reward and punishment as altogether just. I find that position difficult, at least for ideas of justice that correlate with our secular ideas of justice. I’m not saying it’s bad advice, just that the terms it’s couched in seem to go along with victim-blaming of the kind that blames Katrina on homosexuals. I’d prefer to take it down to the level of the first two (or to the level that I read the first two); if you decide to neglect a mitvah or to actively break a commandment, don’t do it without thinking.

Or, more generally, everything you do has an ethical component. You can’t just shrug off the ethical implications of your clothing purchases, your diet, your table manners, your work habits, all of the things you do. Or at least if you do shrug them off, you do so at a substantial risk, at least in terms of the Divine Creator.

And I have to say, I’m regularly surprised by how honest most people are. How many laptops are not stolen from my library everyday, how often a thumb drive or mobile phone is turned in to the Lost and Found, how few books are stolen. I shouldn’t be surprised, really, anymore, but I still am, and that’s nice for me.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, chapter two, verse one: Scrupulous

This is a long verse, isn’t it?

Rabbi (Jehudah the Prince) was in the habit of saying: “In choosing the right path, see that it is one which is honorable to thyself and without offence to others. Be as scrupulous about the lightest command as about the weightiest, for no man knoweth the result of his actions. Weigh the present temporal disadvantages of a dutiful course against the reward of the future, and the present desirable fruits of a sinful deed against the injury to thine immortal soul. In general, consider three things and thou wilt never fall into sin: remember that there is above thee an all-seeing eye, an all-hearing ear, and a record of all thine actions.”

Rabbi Hiyya told a story to illustrate this saying: when a king brought laborers into his orchards to pick the fruit, he did not tell them the scale of different payment for the different kinds of fruit. He reasoned that if he were to say that the figs, say, were the most valuable while the olives were the least, all the laborers would go and pick figs, and the olives would spoil on the tree. Thus we are not told which are the major and which the minor Mitzvot, nor are we told the rewards for individual Mitzvot, and it therefore behooves us to fulfill them all, and not neglect any that seem to us to be minor, for the reward for that commandment may be the greatest of all.

Now, that’s a horrible story with a human king, because, you know, the history of migrant farm workers does not lead me to believe that the king will be openhanded with his reward. But presumably the Divine will be both merciful and liberal, and he won’t put all the Wobblies in a freight car and then leave them in the desert to die. But it does illustrate pretty well the idea that as individuals, it’s a mistake to think we can, through logic or prayer or revelation, take the religion a la carte, and not later discover sheep in with the goats.

The problem with this, and with being proud of the humility and whatnot, is that the rabbis did in fact spend lots of time arguing about which where major and which minor commandments. There were arguments about exactly which sins went with which punishments, and arguments about which sins kept somebody from the World to Come, and arguments over which sins require excommunication, and all that sort of thing. So Rabbi’s saying doesn’t really pass into the mainstream of Judaism, after all.

And, of course, I do take the commandments a la carte, as most Jews do. We don’t feel it’s necessary to keep kosher, or if we do, we feel that avoiding pork and shellfish is enough, and keeping two sets of dishes is frum (or ostentatiously religious). We may wear fringes during prayer services, but we don’t wear them to work. We don’t go to three services a day, except perhaps on Yom Kippur, and we feel comfortable with charging interest on loans. We consider the Ten Commandments to be Major, and the mixing of wool and linen in our clothes to be Minor.

So, I think, the key thing to take from Judah the Prince here is that even while we are doing that to keep a certain humility about our own judgements. This is of course similar to my interpretation of the first leg of the tripod. Whether I am interpreting them that way because I feel strongly about humility regarding individual judgment, or whether I feel strongly about humility regarding individual judgment because I have been interpreting the Avot that way is difficult to ascertain. Certainly, I don’t trust my own judgment on that.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse one: Honor

We’re realio trulio going to talk about the first verse of Chapter Two now.

Rabbi (Jehudah the Prince) was in the habit of saying: “In choosing the right path, see that it is one which is honorable to thyself and without offence to others. Be as scrupulous about the lightest command as about the weightiest, for no man knoweth the result of his actions. Weigh the present temporal disadvantages of a dutiful course against the reward of the future, and the present desirable fruits of a sinful deed against the injury to thine immortal soul. In general, consider three things and thou wilt never fall into sin: remember that there is above thee an all-seeing eye, an all-hearing ear, and a record of all thine actions.”

This is Michael L. Rodkinson’s translation, because it’s on-line and I can cut and paste, saving wear and tear on my fingers. Other translations phrase it in a positive, rather than a negative frame (that which brings him honour from others), and I can’t easily tell which is in the Hebrew, and even if I could, I don’t know the nuances of negative and positive phrasing. I think it makes a big difference, whether the path is one that actively brings praise from others, or just avoids their censure.

At any rate, want I usually think about, regarding this verse, is the humility and modesty of it. If you look at the grid of outcomes, nobody really thinks that the actions that both you and other people find dishonorable are good, and the actions that other people praise but you think are dishonorable are probably not so good. It’s the third category, the stuff that you think is fine but other people don’t that is the tricky one, and what I think Judah is saying is that if you can’t persuade the community of the rightness of your actions, you need to consider whether the community is right and it’s you that’s wrong.

Now, there are of course times when the standards of the community are awful, so Judah the Prince doesn’t rule out this category as such. But he implies, I think, that it’s clearly better to persuade the community. There’s no badge of honor in the community calumniating you; even when you must earn their disdain in the service of Justice, Love and Stuff, there’s a bit of fail in it, too.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot chapter two, verse one: Judah the Prince

Well, and shall we begin Chapter Two?

Rabbi (Jehudah the Prince) was in the habit of saying: “In choosing the right path, see that it is one which is honorable to thyself and without offence to others. Be as scrupulous about the lightest command as about the weightiest, for no man knoweth the result of his actions. Weigh the present temporal disadvantages of a dutiful course against the reward of the future, and the present desirable fruits of a sinful deed against the injury to thine immortal soul. In general, consider three things and thou wilt never fall into sin: remember that there is above thee an all-seeing eye, an all-hearing ear, and a record of all thine actions.”

Chapter Two begins with Judah the Prince, who is referred to as Rabbi, without a name, because of his paramount importance in Mishnaic and Talmudic Judaism. It does not state that he got this tradition from anywhere, and if we were following the generational ladder in Chapter One, we have skipped a couple of generations, which tells us that we are no longer concerned with chronology. And Judah, like Hillel, gets more than a simple triple. He gets what looks like a whole paragraph but reads as a long triple followed by a short triple.

It’s an odd thing about Rabbinic Judaism, which I have mentioned before. Growing up in a Conservative Shul, and now with my Perfect Non-Reader growing up in a Reform shul, we never read any of the Talmud, nor did we learn much about the sages. We got a couple of stories, mostly Akiba and Hillel, but we didn’t learn about Judah the Prince. We learned stories from the Five Books, and we learned the stories from the Megillahs (except the Song of Songs, of course), and we learned the liturgy, and we got a few stories of the Judges and the Kings and the Prophets (David and Goliath, of course, and Solomon building the Temple, and maybe Ezekiel and the valley of bones, Jeremiah at the riverside, and Esther and Ruth and Jonah and maybe Job; I don’t remember exactly), but the story of the council of Jamnia didn’t come up, nor did the work of Judah the Prince. Nor, of course, the Amoraim or Savoraim who wrote and redacted the Talmud.

And yet, the Talmud, with its models of disputation and adaptation, is in large measure the defining book of modern Judaism, including the Reform and Conservative branches. It’s a difficult book, so I suppose it isn’t much of a surprise, really, that the text of it isn’t taught to children in Hebrew School, but there are certainly legends and stories of the Amoraim that feel to me as important as the stories of Naomi or Samson.

I wonder, if you surveyed Jews about Jews In History who they felt were Important to Judaism as it is, asking them to name, oh, five, who they would come up with. Moses, certainly, but whether the next few would include Hillel and Judah the Prince and Rashi and the Rambam, I have no idea. I suspect David Ben-Gurion or maybe Golda Meir would be higher on the list. Perhaps King Solomon, which is a pretty good answer, actually. Now I’m curious. Well, I can’t do a survey, so I’ll just move on the the actual text.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

April 11, 2009

Pirke Avot: after Chapter One

Well, and it’s Passover, and finally liturgically time to begin reading Pirke Avot. Or, at least, next week, I think. We’re still in the middle of Passover: Today is three days in the Omer.

Er, the Omer is the period between Passover and Shavuos. Traditionally we count off the forty-nine days by adding a stalk of barley to the ones already placed in the synagogue. I’ve been at a synagogue that does it with a lovely glass vase and stalks of, well, it might have been barley, I suppose. I wouldn’t know barley from wheat for the life of me. Well, anyway, I’ve never done the actual counting, not in the house. Nor have I particularly followed the other traditions of the seven weeks. I did schedule my wedding to be after Shavuos, I think. And there were certainly some years where I neglected to cut my hair during the Spring, but I wore my hair longer then. I’ll be getting a hair cut real soon, you bet, just as soon as I can manage the time.

Anyway, there are seven weeks and six books, so I suspect that this Shabbat during Passover itself we do not read Pirke Avot, but that we read one book during each of the next six weeks. Not a verse a week, a whole book. Whew. I’ll be plodding along the way I always do, at least for the next few weeks.

When we do read the books in shul it is customary to begin each chapter with an introductory verse and end with an…epiloguic verse? A postpended verse? Well, with the following verse:

Rabbi Chananya, the son of Akashya, said, The Holy One, blessed be he, was pleased to make Israel worthy; wherefore he gave them a copious Torah and many commandments; as it is said, It pleased the Lord, for his righteousness’ sake, to magnify the Torah and make it honorable.

I have used the Joseph Hertz translation; the proof text is Isaiah 42:21 Interestingly, in the Talmud, the discussion is not about magnifying the commandments but about reducing them. In a sense. R. Simlayi begins with the famous six hundred and thirteen mitzvoth. Then David is able to reduce them to only eleven.

[[A Psalm of David.]] LORD, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in thy holy hill? He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart. [He that] backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour. In whose eyes a vile person is contemned; but he honoureth them that fear the LORD. [He that] sweareth to [his own] hurt, and changeth not. [He that] putteth not out his money to usury, nor taketh reward against the innocent. He that doeth these [things] shall never be moved. Psalms 5:1-5

So we can count them out: Walking uprightly is one, working righteousness is two, speaking the truth in your heart is three, not slandering is four, doing no evil to your neighbors is five, taking no reproaches against your neighbors is six, despising vile people is seven, honouring people who fear the Divine is eight, swearing even when it hurts you and not recanting is nine, avoiding usury is ten, and taking reward against the innocent is eleven. Down from 613 to 11, an impressive reduction. But Simlayi is not done.

He that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from holding of bribes, that stoppeth his ears from hearing of blood, and shutteth his eyes from seeing evil; He shall dwell on high: his place of defence [shall be] the munitions of rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters [shall be] sure. Isaiah 33:15-16

Isaiah, then, brings the number down to six. Gentle Readers will be unsurprised, I hope, to learn that Simlayi is still not done.

He hath shewed thee, O man, what [is] good; and what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God? Micah 6:8

Micah gets us to three. Do I hear two?

Thus saith the LORD, Keep ye judgment, and do justice: for my salvation [is] near to come, and my righteousness to be revealed. Isaiah 56:1

Keep judgment (mishpat) and do justice (tz’dakah). That’s it. Deutero-Isaiah gets us to two. Or maybe Trito-Isaiah. And two is about as—wait, what? Oh, Simlayi has another blockquote.

For thus saith the LORD unto the house of Israel, Seek ye me, and ye shall live. Amos 5:4

Amos has just one: dirshuni, seek ye me, that is the Divine.

What does all this mean? How do we get from making Israel worthy with many commandments and a copious Torah to simply seeking the Divine? And—which seems even harder to me—how to we get back to the copious Torah and the many commandments? Or do we?

From Passover to Shavuos is forty-nine days, which we count day by day. We were slaves of Pharoah in Egypt, and the Lord brought us out, with a strong hand and an outstretched arm, and with signs and wonders. And over a period of seven weeks, we sought the Divine, in a pillar of fire by night and a pillar of cloud by day, and we went around and around and through the Red Sea and we still sought the Divine. And the Divine brought us to Sinai, and we accepted the Torah, copious as it was.

We say at the seder that every generation should view itself as having personally been liberated from Egypt. And we say on Shavuos that every generation should view itself as having been at Sinai. And every generation has to listen to Chananya and to Simlayi. To find worthiness in the copious Torah for the sake of Divine righteousness. To reduce the precepts to their core. To build them up, with a hedge around the Torah. To escape from Egypt, and to go to Sinai. To seek the Divine, and to live.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

April 4, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse eighteen: peace

This may be the very last entry on the first chapter of Pirke Avot, you know. Or not. Or it could be the last entry of the whole series, if I decide I’m tired of writing about Pirke Avot. Or of the whole Tohu Bohu—I’ve been through a patch of not-enjoying-the-blog lately, if you hadn’t guessed, but I think, or hope, that I’m back. Still. One never knows, do one?

Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel says: By three things is the world sustained: By justice, by truth, and by peace, as it is said, Truth and justice and peace judge ye in your gates (Zechariah 8:16).

The last leg of the last triple in the last verse is peace. Well done, unknown redactor! Well done, Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel.

If there is truth, well and good; if there is justice, well and good, but peace! Rabbi Jonah ben Abraham says that the benefits of peace are without limits, that all mitzvot are encompassed in it. And, of course, that all sins are encompassed in its absence. Peace between nations, peace between people. Surely, as Rabban Simeon says, it sustains the world, and without it, the world would fall.

And frequently does.

You know, I was talking about these three as being connected by this idea of empiricism, and drawing a contrast between the three legs of the tripod of Simeon the Just on that basis. But looking at it again, I am seeing that these three legs are aspirational. Peace is a good thing, certainly, and we have all, I hope, tasted at least a little of it. I have tasted a lot of it, comparatively; I’ve never fought in a war myself, and I haven’t been in a fistfight since I was eleven or so, and I don’t even get into a nasty arguments very often. I don’t have to struggle for resources, particularly. I don’t see violence in my neighborhood, and I don’t have to read about it or watch it on television or in movies if I don’t want to. I have so much peace. And I want more.

And the thing about peace, and truth, and justice, is that pretty much, no matter how much of them you have, either individually or communally, you can always have more. And you should always have more. And you should always be working to have more.

The Law, and worship, and even acts of lovingkindness are things that, yes, you will always fall short of your ambitions, but they aren’t what you might call infinitely scalable. Or at least I could make that argument, depending on certain definitions and contexts, that there is a difference in kind between the two sets. Even if we stopped the wars, and the fights between neighbors, which would be wonderful, there would still be conflicts in need of resolution. And even if we were able to build a justice system capable of resolving those conflicts, there will always be new cases, and new aspects of cases, and new contexts that will require a better, more just system. And no matter how much truth we know, there will always be more to know, more than we can know.

That shouldn’t lead us to despair. No, the fact is that there is always more ice cream in the bowl, always another song on the album, always another, um, bonus level in the video game. Always another metaphor in the blog note.

I like the idea that the world is supported by three legs that are aspirational, that the support itself is aspirational. That fits in largely with my sense of the world, and what (I imagine) Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel must have thought of the world. It’s not stable nohow. It’s not held up by pillars, it’s held up by dreams. The only way to sustain the world is by trying to have peace, and justice, and truth; we won’t fully succeed, but we won’t fully fail, either, and in that middle area, that wobble between stability and instability, in the continuous discontinuity of life, somehow, we can keep the Temple for another generation, for them to see it destroyed as we did, and to pass it along as we did.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse eighteen: justice

We’re sticking with the Judah Goldin translation of this last verse in Book One:

Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel says: By three things is the world sustained: By justice, by truth, and by peace, as it is said, Truth and justice and peace judge ye in your gates (Zechariah 8:16).

Here is where Simeon ben Gamaliel does something that seems odd to me: he uses Zechariah as a proof text, but instead of using the word mishpat that Zechariah uses, he uses din. What’s the difference? And if he was going to use a different word, why not tzedek? I don’t think I can figure that out. They are used in the context of legal cases, and they are used in the context of Divine judgements. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement is also called Yom Din, the Day of Judgment. So there’s that.

In the proof text, Zecheriah does not seem (to me or the translators generally) to be talking about justice in the abstract but concrete judgments. The RSV says render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace; I am not capable of doing my own translation but from what I can see, it seems like the RSV is closer than Mr. Goldin and Rabban Simeon. But that still doesn’t help me with the context in Pirke Avot, other than to think that there was some reason for him to choose din over mishpat, and that it has something to do with his reason for using that proof text in that way. But then I’m stumped.

So. I’m left with the English, with truth, justice and peace. If I was looking at truth as something close to empirical observation, can I look at justice and being closer to judgement and something close to reasoned analysis? Well, I probably could, and I don’t think it would be the most outrageous interpretation out there. But I’m not willing to go that far today. I am willing to say that I don’t interpret the verse as being about justice in the sense of, well, righteousness, of social equality, of fundamental sharing of the joys of the world. Nor am I willing to interpret it in the sense of Divine Justice, of theodicy and retribution and so on. No, I see this as justice in a legal framework. I think that the leg that supports the world is a court system that works by rules and that attempts to render decisions, judgements, in accordance with those rules and with every possible attempt at impartiality and accuracy.

Did I before imply that Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel was warning against zealotry and fanaticism? That he was responding to the particular interactions of Rome and Jerusalem? Here I imply that he was warning against the dangers of a court system that is seen to be unjust.

To address for the moment our contemporary world, I think that many of us on the American Left (howls of derisive laughter) who consider ourselves interested in justice are aware that the US court system (and Justice Department) is badly broken in many ways. But I suspect that I am not alone in thinking that it’s a bit of a low priority, what with, you know, a couple of wars still being fought, a shithole economy, and the carbon in the atmosphere getting too big to fail. I mean, yes, right, problematic, but come on. And, really, given limited resources and all, and the difficulties of finding political levers to move the system, I do think that it’s a bit of a low priority. But I think Simeon is correct in describing it as a pillar of civilization; a criminal and civil system seen to be illegitimate is not just a Very Bad Thing in an abstract sense, but a danger, and a growing one.

The question, or a necessary question, when rambling through the wisdom of the Sages, is when to take a particular piece of wisdom as personal advice for personal and spiritual well-being, and when to take it as advice for personal action within the larger stage for the well-being of the community. I don’t mean to say that the Sages couldn’t tell the difference. Or that they tended to favor one over the other. And perhaps the thing to do, as I do with a lot of these, is to read them again and again, taking their context as changing with my own, because that’s why they call it Scripture. But I think it’s easier for us to take this triple personally, and resolve to be truthful and peaceful and just in our own dealing with our families and neighbors, and miss out on the community meaning. And veesey versey, of course.

Hm. I feel like I should come up with a nifty concluding paragraph, but I still have all of peace to write about and my time for TohuBohufying is almost up. So.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse eighteen: truth

I started with the Judah Goldin translation, which I am starting to regret, but here it is:

Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel says: By three things is the world sustained: By justice, by truth, and by peace, as it is said, Truth and justice and peace judge ye in your gates (Zechariah 8:16).

I’m not sure why Mr. Goldin changed the order of the tripod’s legs. In the Hebrew, the first is emet, truth. Also in the Zechariah quote, the first of the three words is emet. So that’s what I’m looking at first. And as long as I’m looking at translation issues, it seems that Simeon ben Gamaliel’s translation of Zechariah (well, actually Judah Goldin’s) doesn’t line up with most of the other translations. But we’ll get into the difference in the next leg, I think. The word emet is the same, so let’s start with truth.

Joseph ben Judah ibn Aknin says that truth in this context means Truth, that is, the Divine, for one of the aspects of the Divine is Truth. It is “knowing that it is Gd, may He be exalted on high, Who brings into being all creatures” (Mr. Goldin’s translation again) that sustains the world as one of the three legs. Simeon ben Zemah Duran disagrees: “By truth is meant, literally, speaking the truth to one’s fellow.” I am in agreement with the Duran, here; given the context, I think it ruins the verse to say that emet is here referring to the Divine.

But does that get us very far? I mean, I think there has to be a difference between simply saying that truth is a good thing and saying on the other hand that truth is one of three things that sustain the world. And surely as practical advice, it’s not helpful to suggest that all truth be told all the time. For one thing, one doesn’t always know all the truth, and for another, despite our traditional propensity for loquaciousness and disputation, there has to be some limit. Last week we were told that nothing was better than silence, and this week that truth sustains the world. Surely truth and silence are not entirely compatible? And truth is not simply the absence of lies (as silence could be said to be: there is the old saying the fewer words, the fewer lies) but something more positive.

I know I’m speaking from my own biases, here, but I think truth here is something like a commitment to empirical observation. Let me defend that: remember that I am taking this verse with verse two of the same chapter, where another Simeon talks about Torah, worship and lovingkindness; this verse is about truth, justice and peace. Now, it’s true that Torah, worship and lovingkindness are all things of this world; all of Judaism, really, is about the things of this world, even when they are about the World to Come as well. But they are not matters of empirical observation. They are not concrete. They express themselves in concrete manners. Torah is expressed through concretely following the law, worship through concretely following the liturgy, lovingkindness through concretely helping others. And empirical observation is involved as well. But in themselves, they are matters of, if you will, faith rather than works.

Truth, justice and peace, on the other hand, I am reading in this context as matters of observation, of reason and test and examination. Not Truth, but truth. Finding things out. Finding out whether the things that you found out are true. Expanding your knowledge. Being accurate. Testing models against results. The Scriptures are full of the use of truth

I am very comfortable with saying that the world—this world, ha’olam ha-zeh rests on that kind of truth, and that without that kind of truth, there would be collapse into chaos and catastrophe. And further, I think that it is a powerful ethical statement to make: the world rests on truth.

But is it plausible to take that kind of meaning from Simeon ben Gamaliel? Well, the word emet, like the word true, has a lot of meanings in a lot of contexts. In the Scripture, it is more likely to mean loyal than accurate, more like a true love than like a true story. Not always, though. The Queen of Sheba says to Solomon that the reports of his wisdom and his acts were true reports; she has tested them empirically and found them to be true. And in Jeremiah, truth is contrasted with deception and lies. And further: Jeremiah (28:9) says that you shall know a prophet is a true prophet when the word of the prophet shall come to pass, that is, by empirical test. So although probably, when Simeon ben Gamaliel used the word emet, he usually meant either righteousness or fidelity, he would have also presumably used it to mean accuracy, in this sense. And I think it’s reasonable in the context of the saying to take it in that sense. And I think it’s reasonable in the context of his times to talk about the importance of truth in a modern, western, scientific and empirical sense. The dangers of believing what you want to believe and ignoring the world around you must have been evident in Jerusalem under the Romans, and I think the fervor that gripped that generation, the cults and wonder workers, the zealots and the messiahs, were very likely visible to Simeon ben Gamaliel, who surely saw the world shaking, even if he did not survive to see the Temple fall.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse eighteen: eighteen

Here we go, with the last verse of the chapter:

Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel says: By three things is the world sustained: By justice, by truth, and by peace, as it is said, Truth and justice and peace judge ye in your gates (Zechariah 8:16).

Y’all probably remember that back in verse two, a different Shimeon, Shimeon the tzaddik, said that the world rested on shloshah d’varim; torah, avodah and g’milut chasidim. Those were the three things ha’olam omehd, that the world stands on. Rabban Shimeon ben Gamaliel says that there are three things ha’olam kayam, on which the world, er, stands on. Whatever the difference is, it seems obvious to me that the verse-two tripod refers to the relationship between the world and the Divine, whilst the verse-eighteen relationship refers to more worldly, one might even say secular values. Or not, as we will presumably be looking into.

The number 18 is an interesting one in Hebrew numerology, one of the few word-numbers that most Jews are familiar with. For those who know nothing about the Hebrew numbering system, the letters have numerical values, just as in Roman Numerals V=5 and C=100. Except that in Roman Numerals only certain numbers have values, while in the Hebrew system every number has a value, the first ten letters having values 1-10, the next nine go by tens 20-100, then the last three filling in at 200, 300 and 400. The order of the numbers is irrelevant, so any word in Hebrew has a single number value derived by adding up the values of the letters. The word bayit, for instance, house, is bet yud tav or 2+10+400=412. Now, mechaneh, or camp, comes out to 103, so we see that by building four walls, we multiply our camp by four and turn it into a house. And yet we can add yet another camp, the camp of the Divine, and turn our home (412) into tefilah which is 515. And what is a house with that extra camp? If we add the names of Isaac (208) and Rebecca (307), we see that it is the marriage of two pious people that turns a home into a fit place for prayer.

Which is nonsense, of course. Rebecca and Isaac are preposterous role models for a happy home, or even a pious one. The point, though, is to have a good time manipulating the numbers and the relationships between them and playing with the little pencils.

Eighteen, then, is 10+8, which is a yud and a chet, which happen (if put together in the right order) to make the word chai, or life. This is a very important word in our liturgy, and by connection the number eighteen is a significant, one might almost say lucky number. Although it isn’t luck, quite: we don’t do things by eighteens to try to improve our fortune, just to add a layer of symbolism. So one might give a birthday gift of $18, or the shul might ask for a donation of $18 (or $36) for a fundraiser, or something of that nature. I don’t think it’s an accident that there are eighteen verses in this first chapter of the Avot or that there are (notionally) eighteen links in the chain of authority between the Great Assembly and the Fall of Jerusalem. And I think it’s reasonable to look on this verse, the last to precede the destruction of the Temple, as the bottom rung on the notional ladder, and the earlier tripod of Torah, worship and lovingkindness as the higher.

On the other hand, that doesn’t make justice, truth and peace less important. Or any easier to achieve. I am inclined, however, to say that the emphasis is that in times of trouble, we should bring the pursuit of justice, truth and peace to the prominent position. That we should be reminded in our times of crisis and dislocation that although, of course, we cannot neglect Torah, worship and lovingkindness, neither are those things going to clear away the rubble when the Temple is knocked down.

Only—the Temple is always being knocked down, in every generation our Temple is destroyed. The flight from dislocation is a fool’s game.

But how about this…even in the endtime, the world will still rely on Torah, worship and lovingkindness. In our time, perhaps, Shimeon-not-called-the-tzaddik may have harder and more useful advice.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

March 28, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse seventeen: more Silence

So. I am still thinking about Simeon ben Somebody’s saying in Pirke Avot:

Simeon his son says: All my life I grew up among the sages and have found nothing better for anybody than silence; not study is the chief thing, but action; and he who is verbose brings on sin.

The rabbinical CW on the middle part is that study leads to action. The chief thing is action, but correct action, and we don’t know how to act without study. Therefore study is the chief thing, when viewed properly, but when involved in study, we tend to get caught up and fail to view it properly. Therefore Simeon’s warning. Which is not, the rabbis say, to avoid study, but to study with an eye to action. That is, the chief thing is still study, but the chief thing is to study while believing that the chief thing is action, so that study (which is, after all, the chief thing, without which correct action is impossible) does lead to correct action (which is, after all, the chief thing, for which the study is engaged). Study that does not lead to action is not properly speaking study at all; action that does not stem from study is not proper action at all.

Verbosity? I’m just getting started.

My point is this: did you know I was going to have a point? Was it guessable? My point is this: just as the advice not study is the chief thing, but action is good advice for those who like study, but lousy advice for those who like action, I take the advice on silence and verbosity to be for those who are not naturally reticent. Such as Your Humble Blogger.

I am not good at being silent. I’m not good at knowing when to stop speaking, or when not to start. I’m better than I was. I have been trying for fifteen years or more (and a good deal of the credit goes to Simeon, here) to remember that it’s OK not to share my opinion all the time, that it’s often better to let things go without my input, that my voice is not always required. That it’s all right, in the common phrase these days, to go to bed, even if someone is wrong on the internet.

There’s an ethical rule, I can’t remember where in the tradition, that says that saying something bad about someone is a Bad Thing, that is, that it always comes at an ethical cost. Obviously, if the thing you are saying is false, that’s clearly going to be a Bad Thing, whether you knew it was a lie or whether you were passing along a falsehood you thought was true. But even when the piece of information is true, saying it is a Bad Thing (in this view). Sometimes, of course, the consequences of not saying it are worse than the consequences of saying it. If you know somebody is about to go into business with a fraud and a thief, you have to warn her. Silence would be worse. But you have to make that judgment, and unless the consequences are clear and severe, you keep your mouth shut.

Now, I find that very appealing. I don’t adhere to it myself. I like to gossip, and enjoy saying good things about people more than saying bad things, strict adherence to the don’t-say-anything-nasty rule would give me a severe case of nerves. On the other hand, I have found it helpful to keep the rule in mind, even without following it. I have often wondered, when reading baseball threads, whether contributors think about the likelihood that, say, Barry Bonds’ children may spend a little time on-line seeing what people are saying about their daddy. I mean, I’ve Googled my father. And even if some of the stuff is true (and of course most people have no way of knowing that), the effect of it, well, perhaps I have too good an imagination.

On the other hand, the cost of not saying that Our Previous President had surrounded himself with a secretive cabal of crooks and incompetents seemed to me to be quite large. Even though my own knowledge of that statement’s truth is not necessarily any firmer than the abusive allegations against Mr. Bonds. And, surely, there was a cost to the failure to speak of earlier chemical abuses by other ballplayers. So it’s trickier than it seems.

And I think this verse is trickier than it seems. At least, I hope so. Because I’m left with the fact that I think that it’s bad advice, and I have benefited from it enormously.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse seventeen: Silence

Well, and Your Humble Blogger is certainly slowing down on this Pirke Avot project, hunh? Perhaps we need justification for that. Here’s the next verse in Judah Goldin’s translation:

Simeon his son says: All my life I grew up among the sages and have found nothing better for anybody than silence; not study is the chief thing, but action; and he who is verbose brings on sin.

Interestingly, R. Travers Herford spends a good deal of time discussing whether Simeon his son means Simeon the son of Gamliel, who was the speaker in the last verse, or whether the two verses were switched early on and this verse refers to Simeon the son of Hillel. The next verse will specifically refer to Simeon the son of Gamliel, which could mean that this one refers to Simeon the son of Hillel—or the next verse could be referring to Gamliel’s great-grandson, since Simeon the son of Gamliel has a son named Gamliel who has a son named Simeon. You see?

This is important because although Hillel’s son Simeon is briefly head of the House of Hillel, he is not quoted or referred to in the Talmud; if this is his saying, it is his only one, which given the saying, seems appropriate. If, on the other hand, this is a saying of Simeon the son of Gamliel (that is, the son of the first Gamliel), then it is harder (says Mr. Herford) to reconcile with what we know of him as a leader, both in the Talmud itself and Josephus. The rabbinic commentary all is clear that this is the later Simeon, but then the rabbinic commentary is unwilling to accept the possibility that the two verses were switched at some early point.

This leads us to two paths of interpretation: is the speaker, and therefore the advice, actually retiring from public debate, keeping silence as much as possible, minimizing words, and deprecating study? Or is the speaker a leader and speaker, deep in the thick of the political, ethical and academic arguments of his time, talking about silence and speech within that context? My own preference is for the latter. When Simeon (whichever Simeon he is) talks about nothing being better than silence, I don’t want him to be talking about silence as a habit, as a constant practice. No, I want him to be talking about silence as an effort, as a deliberate choice on the occasions that require it. As it would be for me.

I loathe silence, myself. I don’t just mean that I talk a lot, to hear the sound of my own voice, I mean that I find the lack of sound to be creepy and disorienting. I have music playing right now; I have music playing whenever possible. I have the ratatat of my fingers on the keyboard, the shuffle of papers nearby where somebody is working on something, and the fainter noises from outside the wall of a Spring Day on a college campus. And I would describe this as pleasantly quiet. I no longer like very high decibels, but I sure do hate silence. I know that Simeon is not talking about the lack of sound, but the lack of speech, but there, too, I like to fill in silence (or even comparative quietness) with chatter. Yes, I like the sound of my own voice (it’s a pleasant sound, I think) but I also like the sound of other voices. Yours, for instance.

And then, I’m a democrat. I like the voices of the crowd, the vox as it were populi, although as a democrat I am very skeptical of it as a single vox. I like it when lots of difference voices and experiences are brought into the national conversation (and the local ones, too); I think that when as voices drop out, the few that remain are the ones that are most powerful, the ones that already have the privileges, not least the privilege of continuing to speak. Silence = death, politically, and not just politically, either. If, as I once ranted, rust is what differentiates us from the Ancient Egyptians, sound is what differentiates us from the dead.

How, then, do I take the wisdom of Simeon, who grew up among the sages?

Perhaps, we think, that very act of growing up among the sages turned Simeon against sagery and study. All is vanity, sayeth the wise man, and all the wisdom of the wise is less than nothing. A warning, then, not about study per se but about the danger of too much study, of too much wisdom, in fact. An overdose. But then, what does that have to do with me? Not to knock my parents, nor yet my siblings, but I scarcely grew up among the sages all my life.

No, I prefer the other path.

This advice seems to be reminding me that at any given moment, the most perfect response may well be silence. Male Answer Syndrome aside, I do have the guy-training that an emotional problem or life complaint should be answered with advice or practical offers of help. I learned from Simeon (more than from Deborah Tannen or Carol Gilligan, I’m afraid) that where any individual piece of advice may be better or worse in a particular situation, flawed in a different way for different people (people being different one to another, which is what makes the world interesting and fun), silence always applies. A listening silence, not an excluding one. Not the lack of noise, but my conscious effort to refrain from contributing to the noise around.

For a while. At the right time.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

March 7, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse sixteen

Rabban Gamaliel said, Provide thyself a teacher; be quit of doubt; and accustom not thyself to give tithes by a conjectural estimate.

I am using Hertz here, which may be an error; the middle bit has a bit of a wide range of translation. As does the name of the Rabbi; He is Gamliel in Herford. The Hebrew is closer to Gahm’lee-el; I believe that in churches he is Guh-MAY-lee-el. Is that right? This sage is primarily known for two things, I believe: he is the first to be given the title rabban, or rabbi, and Paul of Tarsus, Saul that was, claimed to have studied at his feet. TSOR shows that he is also St. Gamaliel, with a feast day of August 3. I had never known that he was a saint, or that church tradition claims he joined the Jesus-ist camp. The Jewish tradition, of course, does not hold with that; he’s Rabban Gamliel, and that’s it. On the other hand, he conspicuously does not receive the tradition as all of the previous sages do. Are we to understand that he became a rabban without receiving the tradition? Or is the title rabban enough to tell us that he received the tradition, without saying it? Or are the rabbinate and the tradition two separate things, each important but parallel?

I’m not sure what to make of this. After leading in with the absent tradition marker, the first leg of the saying is an exact repetition of verse six: l’cha rav, get a teacher. Only, as will not be a surprise, rav, teacher, is the same word as rabbi and the same word as rabban. Is his advice the same as Joshua ben Perahyah’s advice? Or does he mean something like get a rabbi, as we later understand the term?

And the second leg, about doubt, is also problematic to me. Herford says remove yourself from what is doubtful and Goldin says eschew doubtful matters. The Rashi tradition seems to interpret this as connected to the first: if you are in doubt about whether a particular action is lawful, find a teacher rather than remain in doubt. But they list as another interpretation to avoid those things that may be forbidden, doubtful things, as it were. These seem to me opposed, as of course they seemed to the compilers of the Machsor Vitry; in cases of doubt, should we be cautious and leave it at that, or should we seek for a definite ruling? I lean toward the latter: when peanuts were introduced to Europe, there was doubt about whether they were kitniyot, and instead of getting a rav to rule on the matter, each town seems to have decided on its own. And since there is a rule that minchag, tradition, has the force of halacha, law, that means that when it was eventually decided that peanuts were really nothing like grains at all, the rule became that they were allowed for Passover consumption unless your family came from a town where they were traditionally forbidden. Too confusing.

On the other hand, while I think that the instinct for cautious doubt over a teacher’s ruling leads to problems, I don’t want to eschew doubt altogether. I like doubt. I like the questioning process. I would rather eschew certainty than doubt as things. There’s a distinction, I think, between eschewing doubtful things and eschewing doubt; a distinction between yearning for certainty and yearning for certainty about stuff. The first two together can be read either way. Find a teacher and be quit of doubt could be instructions for the frequent occasions when one is in doubt about a particular matter: don’t stay in doubt, but do something, go get help, resolve the thing, move on. Or it could be a more permanent and general command.

Then the third leg, to avoid getting used to sloppy shit. I can’t imagine this was ever viewed as narrow advice about accounting; this seems to be a specific application of a general rule. And that places the earlier legs into a specific framework as well, and lo! it’s the one I prefer. When in doubt, don’t get used to making guesses, get a teacher, do the math, get it right. This isn’t about not having doubts, it’s about what to do when you do have doubts.

This doesn’t only apply to matters of law, either, the questions of what to eat and not to eat, what to wear and not to wear, how much to donate to the poor and how much to save for your children, what is owed to whom on which occasions. I take it as advice on an even more general level. Perhaps that’s because I have a distressing tendency to avoid difficult decisions.

For example. Our family has been able, more years than not, to have Passover Seder with Gentle Reader Michael and his family and guests. He does a wonderful seder, and my Best Reader often helps with the cooking, and sometimes things are set on fire. When we were all living in Greater Boston, there wasn’t much of a decision to be made: we had seder at Michael’s, and that was that. Now that we live in Greater Hartford, there comes an invitation every winter, followed by a ridiculously long period of dithering. We would like to go, we have stuff we need to do here, there’s this thing and that thing, we could arrange the other, etc, etc. We remain in doubt. Rabban Gamliel says: get off your ass, make a decision, don’t guess or make other people guess, and get advice if you need it. That’s right, you know? Even if it means ruling out going this year.

Now we just have to make some decisions about going to California in May.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 28, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse fifteen: cheer

One of the things that I tend to do, in my arrogance, is divide the advice of the Sages into stuff I need and stuff I don’t. This is a mistake, but I do it anyway: there should perhaps be a verse that says don’t ignore the advice you don’t think you need. But here’s Herford’s English of this week’s verse:

Shammai said—Make thy Torah a fixed duty. Say little and do much; and receive every man with a cheerful expression of face.

Your Humble Blogger is a very cheerful guy. Seriously. I know I gripe a lot, here at this Tohu Bohu, but on the whole I meet everyone with a smile and a song and panim yaphot, a good face. There was a point in high school when I was grumpier. Well, and there was a point in high school that I was suicidal, but that’s a different matter, and has less to do with grumpiness and cheerfulness. Anyway, there was a moment—I remember I was making my bed, which I must tell you was not a regular occurrence—and I was thinking to myself that it was, well, unhealthy to be unpleasant. I think that was actually the year that a local high school produced UTBU, although my memories of any of those years are suspect, and besides if the play had any effect on the epiphany, it was only the title, and not the play itself and the teddy bear business. Anyway, I distinctly remember thinking that it would be better to be pleasant, and that if I was only faking it, it wasn’t such a big deal as all that, and better perhaps to be faking pleasantness than to display unpleasantness.

And I did.

And it became a habit. So much so that it takes some very serious crankiness and/or depression to push me out of my habitual demeanor. If I am having a mildly bad day, or have been mildly thwarted or abused, it doesn’t make a dent. Oh, I will eventually get frustrated with my children and snap at them, although even at that I tend on the whole to evince cheerfulness in the hopes of getting it back. Which works, often enough.

Even for me. I mean, I present the forms of cheerfulness to myself, and get the reality of cheerfulness back. I’m not faking it any more, certainly. I’m a happy guy. Of course, why shouldn’t I be happy? I’ve had a great deal of luck in life, and that’s just observable fact. A conspicuous absence of disability, poverty, bereavement, ill-treatment. Why should I mope?

Shammai himself, of course, is famous for not receiving everyone with a cheerful expression, for beating fools with a stick and kicking mockers down the stairs. It’s Hillel who is famous for turning assholes into tzaddiks. All the more reason to take the advice seriously, I think.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse fifteen: saying and doing

I was thinking, before I started in on this Pirke Avot business, that I would do two or three verses a week. Not so much. We’re on the second part of the verse, in Herford’s translation

Shammai said—Make thy Torah a fixed duty. Say little and do much; and receive every man with a cheerful expression of face.

The rabbis give Abraham as an example of promising little (Genesis 18:5 I will fetch a morsel of bread, and comfort ye your hearts; after that ye shall pass on and doing much (18:8 And he took butter, and milk, and the calf which he had dressed, and set [it] before them; and he stood by them under the tree, and they did eat.). It’s an interesting question, though. Let’s take the four categories:

  • Say much and do little: this is clearly a bad thing.
  • Say little and do little: this is not great because it leads to little being done, but on the other hand there is a basic honesty to it.
  • Say little and do much: as long as the much you’re doing is good, it’s presumably good to do much of it.
  • Say much and do much: again, you are doing much, which is presumably good, and you are being honest about what you are doing, which is also presumably good.

So why the particular advice to fall in the third category, rather than the fourth? Well, one could say that saying you will do something has an element of hubris, and that whether you will or no, the thing may not be done. The crick done rise, and your big plans gang agley, and where’s your honesty now? On the other hand, by saying much to begin with, you make it a bit hard to chicken out later. Several of my friends have had some success by posting to do lists on their personal blogs and then publicly crossing the items off the list: saying much leads to doing much. Easier to claim that the crick done rise and so I can’t do laundry if there’s nobody expecting you to find a damn’ way, damn it, because you said you would. This connects, it seems to me, with the idea of having a fixed time for Torah. You don’t have to say you have a fixed time in order to have a fixed time, but (for me at any rate) it helps fix the time to say the time.

And, of course, there is some overlap between doing and saying; there are lots of occasions in our public life where failing to speak up is failing to do. Mostly saying ain’t doing, but a general admonishment to say little has to be tempered, it seems to me, with a recognition that sometimes the little should be more than a little.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 21, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse 14: when?

Making our way through Pirke Avot, we’re nearly done with the fourteenth verse of the first chapter, meaning we’re nearly through the first chapter altogether, and if not now, when?

He used to say, If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

There isn’t anything special about the Hebrew in this one. If not now, when? And if we go by the most common interpretation, it follows very closely: If you do not make your own way, don’t expect anybody else to help you, but at the same time, don’t concentrate so hard on your own desires that you ignore other people, and don’t procrastinate. Straightforward, good advice.

The other common interpretation is spiritual. Don’t feel that you can rely on the virtues of your ancestors; the spiritual reward or punishment you earn is your own. The way to spiritual merit is to eschew your own self-centeredness and work for others. And don’t put off your spiritual enlightenment, because you could die at any moment, you foolish mortal, you. All good advice, nothing wrong with it, very powerful and motivating stuff, actually.

So if I’m wandering around inside the verse, looking at it upside-down and backwards and through polarized filters to get the 3-D effect, and shaking it around to hear it rattle, it’s not out of any dissatisfaction with the straightforward stuff. Nor do I have any illusion that I’m getting some sort of deeper, truer meaning this way. I do feel that it all adds up, that the meanings layer, one and another and another, or rather weave more than layer, to make a stronger fabric. And I think it’s helpful to me, as I read and re-read the avot, to examine them backwards and sideways and upside-down, and to lick the beaters, too. There’s always more, even if more and better aren’t synonyms.

So, I looked at the first part of the verse by setting it next to the Song of Songs. And for the second part, I chewed on the root, and found other meanings for it. Now the urgency of this third part doesn’t seem to follow from those. After all, one of the things about dodi li is that it’s for the long haul. And the temptation to be mighty is not going away, either. So how can we work our way into if not now, when from where the last two have taken us?

Er. Still thinking.

The Rambam says, you know, in his commentary, that failing to acquire good habits in youth, it is difficult to acquire them later. I think that’s not only true, but I think that force of habit is one of the strongest motivations people have. When we say that youth is wasted on the young, it’s not just that us middle-aged folks lack the vigor to do things things that never came into our horizon when we were young, vigorous and ignorant. It’s also that the discipline we could train ourselves into when we were young seemed at the time not to be worth it. My Gracious Host asked a couple of weeks ago What would your younger self think of you?, and I in response imagined a brunch attended my me at the age of 20, me at the age of 40 and me at the age of 60. Later, continuing to think about that brunch, I was thinking that 20me would be asking all kinds of questions, and 60me would be saying You’re not really going to eat that, are you? You’re killing me, here. And I am not going to tell you anything unless you get up from the table right now and go floss. Now! Go! Little pisher.

What Maimonides is saying, of course, is that if you say when you are young that first you’ll make money and then, when you retire, you will study Torah, that not only is it possible you will never make enough to retire, not only is it possible you will die before that time comes, but if you do make money, and you do retire, and you find yourself a teacher, you may well find that it’s too late to develop the mental discipline and habits that will allow you to succeed in your studies. If not now, when? Then? Good luck to you.

Don’t wait to be your own Beloved until you are out of the habit. Don’t wait to be the Beloved of the Devine. Don’t wait to be the Beloved of your Beloved. Love, too, is a habit you can get into and out of.

Don’t wait to be vulnerable, to be a who rather than a what, to be flesh together with bone, ani and li together. That’s a habit, too.

Today, it’s possible for me to follow Hillel, to be fully human by being fully myself, by being mine. Today, it’s possible. Tomorrow, probably. Next week, I would think very likely, although I have a dentist’s appointment, and I have to take the car in. There’s March, but I’m very busy in March, with the show and all, and then in April it’s Passover. May, though. Maybe May.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse 14: ma or mi?

We are on Pirke Avot 1:14, the famous one.

He used to say, If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

The thing I find startling about this bit (’she-ani l’atzmi, ma ani?) is that it asks not mi ani but ma ani, not who am I? but what am I? I would have expected the question in the second part to parallel the question in the first part, and since the questions seem to be largely the same, the fact that it isn’t quite the same seems to mean something. It isn’t parallel in the beginning part, either; it doesn’t actually ask what if there is onlyani li, only yourself for you but what if there is only ani.

Going back, then, to the first part, the mystics take the ani and the li to be the two parts of the self, the inner and outer, or the mind and body, or the animal and angelic parts of human nature. If your better self cannot control your bestial self, then who will? I am deeply suspicious of any of that two-selves stuff. It always seems to me a fundamental error, a way to claim that humans aren’t really the way they are, that the better self is more human, more real, more worthy than the animal self. Yes, it can be a useful metaphor, but I remain suspicious.

Keep that idea in mind, though, and look at this next sentence. If there is only you, what are you? Are you fully human without other humans? Or, perhaps, are you fully human without the Divine? Are you a what, rather than a who, a thing, a stone, unless and until you have a dodi li, whether we mean a human or a Divine love? Or, perhaps, can we say that an ani without a li is no ani at all? To follow a little further down this path, the two selves are not separate nor meant to be separated, that the animal self is for your angelic self as much as vice versa, and that withdrawing the one from the other turns you from a who to a what.

Or do I mean withdrawing at all? Because I’m not convinced. Again, I don’t know Hebrew well enough to make any claims at all that the traditional translation is not the correct one: Rabbi Hertz is the way to go for accuracy. But when the verse says l’atzmi, the word I know from the root ayin tzadi mem is in Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, the day of Independence. Do we mean independence? Looking it up (thank you Google for leading me to some bat-mitzvah speech) we can see the roots are bone, or as an adjective mighty, drawing from the idea of strength and power. The Hebrew word for independence, as a nation, then, is tied to the word for strength, which isn’t surprising altogether, although of course it’s a fallacy to argue that etymology has a lot of current meaning.

Still, if we’re getting to Hillel, we can look at his word, and what it might have connoted to him. And as much as I’m tempted by independent (If I am independent, what am I?), I don’t think that’s what was going through Hillel’s mind. Oddly enough, there are two meanings of that ayin tzadi mem root pulled up by Mr. Strong and his crew: mighty, as I said, and idiomatically closed, as in eyes. If I close my eyes, what am I? If I am mighty, what am I?

Only, it can’t quite be powerful, as such, because you would translate that with chazak, if you were going in that direction. But I think the connotation is there, and is important as well. Not just if I am only for myself, but if I am for myself independently, for my own power, for my bones, with closed eyes… and isn’t that a temptation? To be a what, rather than a who, a thing of bone and power, blind and mighty and separate and invulnerable. But Hillel reminds us of the cost of that, of being the ani without the li (and vice versa), for who will be for me, who will be my Beloved, human or Divine, if that’s who—and what—I am for myself?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse 14: mi li, dodi li

I may have said this before, but one of the advantages of having the level of familiarity with Hebrew that I have (that is, I have lots of liturgical stuff memorized and a few years of pathetic instruction but no fluency whatsoever) is that I make connections that aren’t actually there, based on words and sounds and whatnot. So. Here’s our verse:

He used to say, If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

The Hebrew for the first leg transliterates as im ayn ani li, mi li?. The last bit, mi li echoes (to my mind’s ear) one of the other famous verses, this one from the Song of Songs: ani l’dodi, v’dodi li. This is usually translated I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine. Following this, we can translate the question If I am not mine, who will be mine?

I am tempted to take the question and answer as question and answer: mi li? dodi li!. Of course, even if I do that, I am left with mi dodi?, who is my Beloved? One answer is my Best Reader, of course, and I do like that answer: If I am not for myself, my Best Reader will be for me, and certainly, she does take care of me better than I take care of myself (and I ought to reciprocate). Or, if we accept (for a moment) the rabbinic interpretation of the Song, perhaps my Beloved is the Divine, which is also a powerful image: If I am not for myself, the Divine will be mine. But that’s not quite the Song of Songs interpretation, because the rabbis take is as love between the Divine and the People of Israel, not an individual Jew. Now we have: If the People of Israel are not for themselves, then will they belong to the Divine. Another powerful idea.

But then, the two verses are not necessarily question and answer. They echo each other, to my ear, but that doesn’t mean I have to restrict the echo to a direct and literal response. Let’s try keeping Hillel’s verse as a rhetorical question, and see if the echo still can inspire something…

I think there’s a profound difference in the English between if I am not for myself and if I am not mine. I can be for myself, in the sense of rooting for myself, doing for myself, keeping to myself. Most of the time, I think of the verse as indicating a necessary level of selfishness, or at least taking care of your own needs. But can I be mine? If this is about loving yourself, respecting and valuing yourself, that’s a different emphasis. The Jewish tradition does tell us to love ourselves; for you the whole world was created. You are the image of the Divine. You are a Creation of the Creator, and should value yourself accordingly. On the other hand, there is the self-help relationship-advice interpretation, that if you can’t love yourself, it’s hard for other people to love you.

Digression: chalked on the wall between where I am usually dropped off and the front door of the library is the instruction touch yourself until you scream with joy. Three or four times a week, I pass that graffito and think who’s got that kind of time? End Digression.

Reading the two verses in the other direction, I can translate the Song of Songs verse as I am for my Beloved, and my Beloved is for me. If we listen to the echoes of the common interpretation of the Pirke Avot verse, we see the two as looking out for each other’s interest, rather than their own. This is, of course, really just a factual description of romantic love, in which the pleasure, satisfaction or achievement of your mate is a deeper source of your own happiness than your own. But then, we hear another echo of the traditional interpretation there combining with it, and see that while the Divine looks out for his Chosen People (however we look at that), the People Israel look out for the interests of the Divine. And if we don’t? mi li?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse fourteen: I, me, mine

There are maybe half-a-dozen famous verses in the Pirke Avot, maybe not even so many. I mean, famous enough to be quoted out of context, famous enough to be familiar to people who haven’t read the thing, famous enough for people to say Oh, that’s where it’s from. Maybe not as many as half-a-dozen. Maybe only this one, Hillel’s third in his three verse triad. I’ll give it in the Hertz, because (I think) that’s the most often quoted version:

He used to say, If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

And because I like to give some sense of the rhythm and sound of the writing, here’s a transliteration of my own:

Huh ayah omer: im ayn ani li, mi li? Uch’she-ani l’atzmi, ma ani? V’im lo achshav, aymatai?

I am impressed, again, by the power of the verse, coming after a dozen triples of varying lengths and structures. Some have been specific (don’t lead witnesses) and some general (Torah good), with some there’s been a struggle to lift them out of their time and place and apply them here and now, and there have been some that I have pretty nearly rejected outright. Some of the triples have balanced nicely, some have shown a progression of one sort or another, and some have been clunkers, at least from my point of view. And now, this one. It kicks me out of the text, while I’m reading it, makes me repeat it, trying different inflections. It’s a tiny hall of mirrors of a verse. It’s also, by the way, in Hebrew again, after the Aramaic of the last verse. The Aramaic sounds (to my ears) clunky and foreign; the Hebrew is pretty and familiar. The words are common words, me, who, what, now, not. Oddly enough, I don’t recognize the word for when, nor can I bring to mind the Hebrew word for when. I must have learned it at some point, right? The Hebrew for horse is sus. I remember that. Don’t know why.

Anyway, I think I’ll do individual notes for the internal triple, perhaps a little different in content, as it’s a different kind of verse. There are two tracks of interpretations that are well trod. The verse for many people shows the balance between individual and collective action; for others it shows the necessity of spiritual humility, as your merit is necessary but insufficient, and your life is brief. I think those are both good interpretations, powerful interpretations, and reason enough to have the verse as calligraphy on your wall or slipped into your sig file. I’d enjoy a conversation about either or both of those interpretations, so I’ll leave this note here for that and go on to a new note for the other stuff.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

February 7, 2009

Pirke Avot, verse thirteen: crown

Last bit of this verse. Next week is a famous one, by the way, so begin the anticipation now.

He used to say: A name made great is a name destroyed; he that does not increase shall cease; he that does not learn deserves to die; and he that puts the crown to his own use shall perish.

There are two strands of commentary. There's the most common rabbinic interpretation that says that the crown, taga, is the crown of Torah, and therefore Hillel is warning against using learning in the Torah for self-aggrandizement. This puts the entire verse in the context of the sages who were the first audience of the book, and discusses humility and arrogance in the context of Torah study. And it does make sense; a learned rabbi can be very powerful, can attract to himself sycophants and toadies just as a secular politician can, can bring suits and win them by superior manipulation of the legal code rather than by justice. Of course, it's scarcely applicable to me; I could not put the crown of Torah to my use if I wanted to, my own crown of knowledge being scarcely a diadem, more of a tiara or a wreath, or actually just a scarf thrown hastily over the balding head of ignorance.

The other way to go is to take taga as actually toga, that he who dons the toga, that is, assimilates in order to further himself and his ambitions, shall perish. I wouldn't be surprised if that were Hillel's observation, that ambitious Jews who sucked up to the Romans didn't live long. The problem here is that again, it doesn't seem to say much to me. My own wardrobe is fully assimilated, at least in the sense that there is nothing in it that marks me as particularly Jewish, nor is there any garment I chose because it was particularly helpful in assimilating. Nor do I assimilate out of ambition; I am philosophically inclined to it, in its best sense.

So where does that leave us? In what way do we put the crown, or the toga, for that matter, to our own use, that Hillel is warning us against? Any thoughts, Gentle Readers?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse thirteen: learn or die!

On to the third of four parts, because he’s Hillel so he get’s an extra one.

He used to say: A name made great is a name destroyed; he that does not increase shall cease; he that does not learn deserves to die; and he that puts the crown to his own use shall perish.

Does this seem a bit harsh?

Some of the commentary says that we are talking, here, about spiritual death, that the fellow who refuses to learn is spiritually dead, or that the person who cuts himself off from the tradition (by refusing to learn it) cuts himself off from the community, which therefore treats him as if he were dead.

There is a tradition, much made use of in films and books about shtetl life, that if your children leave the path of traditional Judaism you not only ostracize the child but say Kaddish for them and treat their memory as if they had died. It’s a vicious and horrible tradition, and I’m against it, but it does exist, and I think that the people who perpetuate it found support in this verse.

So, not actual killing, but ostracizing and metaphorical death. Still seems harsh.

I’ll just throw out two things, neither of them really softening this verse, but there it is, what’s there is there. First, I’ll just say there is a big difference between saying that Chaim Yankel deserves death and saying that it is right or just to kill Chaim Yankel, or even to say Kaddish over him. I’m guessing that the term used (in Aramaic, rather than Hebrew, which is particularly odd here in this portion of the verse) is a legal one, the equivalent of saying that failure-to-learn is a capital crime. If that’s true, then suggesting that some particular person is guilty of failure-to-learn is a very serious matter, requiring witnesses and so on and a very high standard of evidence.

Another is that although the statement is phrased as a moral judgment, it could be viewed as an observation, similar to the first two. People who give up on new learning or new experiences have given up on life; I saw my grandparents give up on learning and on life at more or less the same time, although the bodies took a bit longer to catch up. Furthermore, if life is for learning, if the purpose of life is learning and growing and embiggening, then withdrawing from those things is withdrawing from life; it’s like saying that a player who goes home in the fifth inning deserves to lose. Of course he does. The game is there, and he is there, and at that point is it even a punishment to lose?

And one more thing, before I move on to the bonus clause: it seems that in Aramaic, as in Hebrew, the verb for learn and teach are the same.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Pirke Avot, verse thirteen: increase

Still with Hillel, and the twelfth verse.

He used to say: A name made great is a name destroyed; he that does not increase shall cease; he that does not learn deserves to die; and he that puts the crown to his own use shall perish.

This is assumed to refer to knowledge, and as such is entirely true. It’s true in Torah study, as things committed to memory and not used or added to tend to fade. It’s much more true, of course, in any field of knowledge that deals with the continually changing world. If you knew something about atomic physics or botany or computers or gastroenterology or phonetics or auto repair that you learned twenty years ago and haven’t added to since, the odds are that even if you remember it accurately (and you likely enough don’t) it’s wrong. Or if not absolutely wrong, inapplicable.

Again, as with the great name, this is observable fact about the world. It is also an ethical teaching, as this aspect of the world is easy but harmful to ignore. The commentary on this verse is clear that the verse as a whole is about humility.

When I read the Avot for myself, this is a verse I tend to dwell on, just a bit. My own personal vices are laziness and arrogance; I can’t be arsed to do anything about sloth at this point, but I struggle with pride all the time. This Tohu Bohu has actually become a tool for me in that struggle, although n