Chapter 4, Mishna 1(a)

Chapter 4, Mishna 1(a) "Ben (the son of) Zoma said: Who is wise? He who learns from all people, as it is said: 'From all those who taught me I gained understanding' (Psalms 119:99). Who is strong? He who conquers his evil inclination, as it is said: 'Better is one slow to anger than a strong man, and one who rules over his spirit than a conqueror of a city' (Proverbs 16:32). Who is rich? He who is satisfied with his lot, as it is said: 'When you eat the toil of your hands you are fortunate and it is good for you' (Psalms 128:2). 'You are fortunate' -- in this world; 'and it is good for you' -- in the World to Come. Who is honored? He who honors others, as it is said: 'For those who honor Me will I honor, and those who scorn Me will be degraded' (I Samuel 2:30)." This week's mishna contains such sound words of wisdom, profound in their simplicity, that it hardly needs Dovid Rosenfeld's embellishments. But I have to earn my weekly paycheck, so here goes... (Actually, I do this for free. :-) (But I try to be rich according to our Mishna's definition (sigh).) The author of our mishna is Shimon ben Zoma. He is referred to by his father's name alone because he died at an early age or without having received rabbinical ordination (Rashi, see also Talmud Chagigah 14b). "Who is wise? He who learns from all people:" At its simplest level, the message is that one who seeks wisdom wherever it may be found is the one most likely to acquire it. He or she is willing to ask anyone and everyone. He is not so conscious of his own reputation as to refuse to "lower" himself to seek knowledge from someone not as important or credentialed as he. The Talmud writes that the Torah student who humiliates himself before others in order to understand the Torah (by asking his rabbi "stupid" questions and the like) will eventually be elevated on account of his Torah knowledge (Brachos 63b). The commentator Rabbeinu Yonah writes further that when a person inquires wisdom of everyone, it indicates that he or she has a love of knowledge. His thirst will take him to every person and every place; it will not be quenched until he has drunk his fill. Such a person may be considered wise even before he has studied, since his desire will soon lead him on the straight path to greatness. There is a deeper insight into ben Zoma's words. Why is learning from *everyone* so crucial for accomplishment in Torah? Isn't it true that some people just don't know as much as others? Should we really be spending time trying to glean bits of information from the unlearned when we would make much better use of our time studying ourselves or from our teachers? The answer lies in the true understanding of the Torah's definition of wisdom. When G-d commanded us to study His Torah, it was not just a matter of memorizing dry facts and information. That could be gained from texts and book knowledge alone. We would never need to bother interacting with anyone else (thereby interrupting our own study time). Rather, Torah study is the understanding of the application of the Torah's principles to real people and real life situations -- how do the Torah's eternal truths apply to the human condition. G-d's wisdom is eternal, yet no two people are precisely alike and relate to the Torah in precisely the same manner. Every one of us has his own perspective, his own life story, and his own unique personality. Each of us will see a slightly different message in the Torah, and will have his or her own fresh insights into its beauty and relevance. Therefore, the Torah scholar cannot really understand the Torah if he does not comprehend what it means to other human beings. By my very nature, I cannot understand the Torah in every sense it has to convey. I am bound by my own perspective, my own background, my own intellectual capacities, and my own way of thinking. And the Torah is far too profound and all-encompassing to be fully fathomed by any single individual, no matter how wise. I must therefore branch out, attempting to understand what the Torah means to my fellow -- what are the other equally-valid methods of relating to truth. I must grow out of my own shell. When I realize that truth is far more composite and multifaceted than it appears to me -- that black-and-white to me may be shades-of-gray to my fellow -- I am ready to truly become wise. There is a Midrash which states that there is one letter in the Torah for every single Jew. Every one of us has his own unique understanding of the Torah and his own angle on truth. No one has the monopoly on the word of G-d. And only when the student of the Talmud is prepared to grow out of his own limited perspective and view the Big Picture has he truly embarked on the path to Wisdom. "Who is strong? He who conquers his evil inclination:" Our mishna teaches us that strength should not be measured in physical might and fighting ability, but in restraint and the controlling of one's passions. Rabbeinu Yonah observes that ben Zoma -- as seen from the verse he quotes -- does not even entertain that physical strength might be the determinant of a man's might. Human beings rate pretty low as far as that is concerned. Being one of the weakest, slowest (relative to our size), most delicate (in terms of what our stomachs can take, extreme temperature endurance, etc.), longest to mature of the animal kingdom, we have very little to brag about. G-d did not seem to invent us as His wondrous masterpieces of grace, strength or endurance. If we see ourselves as nothing more than physical specimens -- if our self-image is based on our macho -- we are trading in the far higher goals G-d has in mind for us for something which just does not fit the spec's. The quoted verse does, however, contrast one who is slow to anger to a warrior. (R. Yonah understands the "strong man" of the quoted verse to mean a soldier.) Warriors at least exhibit some level of bravery and self-discipline. A soldier who can survive basic training and endure harsh battle conditions or a commander who can orchestrate a military campaign demonstrate true valor -- of character as well as of body. (One cannot help but notice the high proportion of presidents and national leaders who preceded their political careers with successful military careers. My sense is that this is only in part due to the heroics associated with military distinction. The voting public may also have a sense that someone who has the necessary self-discipline and strength of character to run a battalion may just have the super-discipline required to run a country.) To this ben Zoma states that nothing matches willpower. True strength is that of the spirit; that of the body is different in kind. "Passive" behavior -- not losing one's cool when the kids are infuriating, holding oneself back when insulted, resisting temptation -- may appear more as doing "nothing" than acting with strength. (What could be more "manly" than banging on the table, slamming the door, and yelling at the top of your lungs?) But as our Sages correctly observe, it often takes far greater strength to do nothing than to react and to overreact. Strength is controlling the animal that lurks within. Rashness, violence, thinking with one's muscles -- all of these are forms of losing one's control and one's humanity, and in the final analysis, are signs of weakness. One final interesting observation is the universality of this law. As we know, there are Seven Noahide Laws -- seven fundamental laws which G-d commanded upon all mankind (see http://www.aish.com/jl/jnj/nj/The-7-Noachide-Laws.html). Possibly, six of them are ones we'd "expect" to see -- do not kill, steal, commit adultery, etc. One, however, is a little off the beaten track -- not to eat a limb severed from a living animal. Somehow, that does not strike us as one of the fundamental tenets of human morality. What is so crucial about it? Why did G-d deem it so far-reaching as to command its observance on the entire world? I once heard R. Noach Orlowek of Jerusalem explain as follows. What is the theme of this commandment? In a word, self-restraint. Don't just take whatever you want whenever you want it. You want to eat meat? *Raw* meat? Immediately?! At least wait until the animal is dead. This is not a matter of religious ritual or living ascetically. That was not commanded on all mankind. But one thing was: Don't be an animal. This is universal; it is a simple matter of and fact of our humanity. A person cannot live, nor can society function, if people do nothing more than satisfy their desires -- whenever they want, wherever they want. The Seven Laws do not tell us we must be Jews, but they do tell us we must be humans. Really not so much to ask of us, but above all else this is what distinguishes us -- what crowns us -- as G-d's masterful creations.

without justice, love corrupts

http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/2269078/jewish/Tzedek-Justice-and-Compassion.htm Learning & Values » Parshah (Weekly Torah) » Devarim - Deuteronomy » Devarim » Parshah Columnists » Covenant & Conversation Tzedek: Justice and Compassion Tzedek: Justice and CompassionBy Rabbi Jonathan Sacks As Moses begins his great closing addresses to the next generation, he turns to a subject that dominates the last of the Mosaic books, namely justice: I instructed your judges at that time as follows: “Listen to your fellow men, and decide justly [tzedek] between each man and his brother or a stranger. You shall not be partial in judgment. Listen to great and small alike. Fear no one, for judgment belongs to God. Any matter that is too difficult for you, bring to me and I will hear it.” Tzedek, “justice,” is a key word in the book of Devarim – most famously in the verse: Justice, justice you shall pursue, so that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you. (Deuteronomy 16: 20) The distribution of the word tzedek and its derivate tzedakah in the Five Books of Moses is anything but random. It is overwhelmingly concentrated on the first and last books, Genesis (where it appears 16 times) and Deuteronomy (18 times). In Exodus it occurs only four times and in Leviticus five. All but one of these are concentrated in two chapters: Exodus 23 (where 3 of the 4 occurrences are in two verses, 23: 7-8) and Leviticus 19 (where all 5 incidences are in chapter 19). In Numbers, the word does not appear at all. This distribution is one of many indications that the Chumash (the Five Books of Moses) is constructed as a chiasmus – a literary unit of the form ABCBA. The structure is this: A: Genesis – the prehistory of Israel (the distant past) B: Exodus — the journey from Egypt to Mount Sinai C: Leviticus – the code of holiness B: Numbers — the journey from Mount Sinai to the banks of the Jordan A: Deuteronomy – the post-history of Israel (the distant future) The leitmotiv of tzedek/tzedakah appears at the key points of this structure – the two outer books of Genesis and Deuteronomy, and the central chapter of the work as a whole, Leviticus 19. Clearly the word is a dominant theme of the Mosaic books as a whole. What does it mean? Tzedek/tzedakah is almost impossible to translate, because of its many shadings of meaning: justice, charity, righteousness, integrity, equity, fairness and innocence. It certainly means more than strictly legal justice, for which the Bible uses words like mishpat and din. One example illustrates the point: If a man is poor, you may not go to sleep holding his security. Return it to him at sun-down, so that he will be able to sleep in his garment and bless you. To you it will be reckoned as tzedakah before the Lord your God. (Deuteronomy 24: 12-13) Tzedakah cannot mean legal justice in this verse. It speaks of a situation in which a poor person has only a single cloak or covering, which he has handed over to the lender as security against a loan. The lender has a legal right to keep the cloak until the loan has been repaid. However, acting on the basis of this right is simply not the right thing to do. It ignores the human situation of the poor person, who has nothing else with which to keep warm on a cold night. The point becomes even clearer when we examine the parallel passage in Exodus 22, which states: If you take your neighbour’s cloak as a pledge, return it to him by sunset, because his cloak is the only covering he has for his body. What else will he sleep in? When he cries out to me, I will hear, for I am compassionate. (Exodus 22: 25-26) The same situation which in Deuteronomy is described as tzedakah, in Exodus is termed compassion or grace (chanun). The late Aryeh Kaplan translated tzedakah in Deut. 24 as “charitable merit.” It is best rendered as “the right and decent thing to do” or “justice tempered by compassion.” In Judaism, justice - tzedek as opposed to mishpat - must be tempered by compassion. Hence the terrible, tragic irony of Portia’s speech in The Merchant of Venice: The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: ‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea . . Shakespeare is here expressing the medieval stereotype of Christian mercy (Portia) as against Jewish justice (Shylock). He entirely fails to realize – how could he, given the prevailing culture – that “justice” and “mercy” are not opposites in Hebrew but are bonded together in a single word, tzedek or tzedakah. To add to the irony, the very language and imagery of Portia’s speech (“It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven”) is taken from Deuteronomy: May my teaching drop as the rain, my speech distill as the dew, like gentle rain upon the tender grass, and like showers upon the herb . . . The Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are justice. A G-d of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and upright is he. (Deuteronomy 32: 2-4) The false contrast between Jew and Christian in The Merchant of Venice is eloquent testimony to the cruel misrepresentation of Judaism in Christian theology until recent times. Why then is justice so central to Judaism? Because it is impartial. Law as envisaged by the Torah makes no distinction between rich and poor, powerful and powerless, home born or stranger. Equality before the law is the translation into human terms of equality before G-d. Time and again the Torah insists that justice is not a human artefact: “Fear no one, for judgment belongs to G-d.” Because it belongs to God, it must never be compromised – by fear, bribery, or favoritism. It is an inescapable duty, an inalienable right. Judaism is a religion of love: You shall love the L-rd your G-d; you shall love your neighbor as yourself; you shall love the stranger. But it is also a religion of justice, for without justice, love corrupts (who would not bend the rules, if he could, to favour those he loves?). It is also a religion of compassion, for without compassion law itself can generate inequity. Justice plus compassion equals tzedek, the first precondition of a decent society. articles by r Jonathan Sacka http://www.chabad.org/search/keyword_cdo/kid/194/jewish/Jonathan-Sacks.htm

What do you have against pigs?‏MUMBAI

Telephone us: +44 (0)20 7286 6391 Write to us: The Office of Rabbi Sacks, P.O. Box 72007, London, NW6 6RW, UK Email us: info@rabbisacks.org All speaker requests must be made sent in writing or via email. Press Office Please note that all media enquiries or interview requests must be put in writing or emailed to info@rabbisacks.org. http://www.rabbisacks.org/ ______When I became chief rabbi, I had to undergo a medical examination. The doctor put me on a treadmill, walking at a very brisk pace. “What are you testing?” I asked him. “How fast I can go, or how long?” “Neither,” he replied. “What I am testing is how long it takes, when you come off the treadmill, for your pulse to return to normal.” That is when I discovered that health is measured by the power of recovery. That is true for everyone, but doubly so for leaders and for the Jewish people, a nation of Leadership, especially in matters of the spirit, is deeply stressfulleaders (that, I believe, is what the phrase “a kingdom of priests” means). __________________ Leadership, especially in matters of the spirit, is deeply stressful. Four figures in Tanach—Moses, Elijah, Jeremiah and Jonah—actually pray to die rather than continue. Nor was this true only in the distant past. Abraham Lincoln suffered deep bouts of depression. So did Churchill, who called it his “black dog.” Gandhi and Martin Luther King both attempted suicide in adolescence, and experienced depressive illness in adult life. The same was true of many great creative artists, among them Michelangelo, Beethoven and Van Gogh. Is it greatness that leads to moments of despair, or moments of despair that lead to greatness? Is it that those who lead internalize the stresses and tensions of their time? Or is it that those who are used to stress in their emotional lives find release in leading exceptional lives? There is no convincing answer to this in the literature thus far. But Jacob was a more emotionally volatile individual than either Abraham, who was often serene even in the face of great trials, or Isaac, who was more than usually withdrawn. Jacob feared; Jacob loved; Jacob spent more of his time in exile than the other patriarchs. But Jacob endured and persisted. Of all the figures in Genesis, he is the great survivor.The ability to survive and to recover is part of what it takes to be a leader. It is the willingness to live a life of risks that makes such individuals different from others. So said Theodore Roosevelt in one of the greatest speeches ever made on the subject: It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who It is not the critic who countsstrives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.3 Jacob endured the rivalry of Esau, the resentment of Laban, the tension between his wives and children, the early death of his beloved Rachel, and the loss for twenty-two years of his favorite son Joseph. He said to Pharaoh, “Few and hard have been the years of my life” (Genesis 47:9). Yet on the way he “encountered” angels, and whether they were wrestling with him or climbing the ladder to heaven, they lit the night with the aura of transcendence. To try, to fall, to fear, and yet to keep going: that is what it takes to be a leader. That was Jacob, the man who at the lowest ebbs of his life had his greatest visions of heaven. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Dear Friend, Five years ago this week, I was on my way to Holland to visit my newborn niece. As the plane touched down, my husband turned on his phone to check the news. We knew there had been a terrorist attack in Mumbai, but suddenly the story turned terribly personal: terrorists had occupied the Chabad House. That Shabbat the rabbi sang Av Harachaimim, the prayer for Jewish martyrs, in a voice choked with tears. Six souls had joined millions of others in the prayer's eternal embrace. Reflecting on Mumbai five years later, it is hard to separate the pain of the tragedy from the response it evoked. People did thousands of mitzvahs, Chabad shluchim established tens of Torah centers, and many parents honored the memory of Rabbi Gavriel and Rivkah Holtzberg by naming their children after them. We survived, and we are stronger for it. As Rabbi Sacks writes this week in Light in Dark Times, the ability to recover, to use our pain as an impetus for growth, is a trait passed down to us from our forefather Jacob. For better or worse, this has become a defining characteristic of our people. May we soon merit the time when light will overpower darkness, once and for all. Sarah Ogince, on behalf of the Chabad.org Editorial Team http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/2363199/jewish/Light-in-Dark-Times.htm ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Pain and depression impetus for growth http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/2363199/jewish/Light-in-Dark-Times.htm#footnote1a2363199 What is it that made Jacob—not Abraham or Isaac or Moses—the true father of the Jewish people? We are the “congregation of Jacob,” “the children of Israel.” Jacob/Israel is the man whose name we bear. Yet Jacob did not begin the Jewish journey; Abraham did. Jacob faced no trial like that of Isaac at the binding. He did not lead the people out of Egypt, or bring them the Torah. To be sure, all his children stayed within the faith, unlike Abraham or Isaac. But that simply pushes the question back one level. Why did he succeed where Abraham and Isaac failed? It seems that the answer lies in this week’s Parshah and the next. Jacob was the man whose greatest visions came to him when he was alone at night, far from home, fleeing from one danger to the next. In this week’s Parshah, escaping from Esau, he stops and Jacob faced no trial like that of Isaac at the bindingrests for the night with only stones to lie on, and has an epiphany: He had a dream in which he saw a stairway resting on the earth, with its top reaching to heaven, and the angels of G‑d were ascending and descending on it . . . When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he thought, “Surely the L‑rd is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” He was afraid and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of G‑d; this is the gate of heaven.”1 In next week’s Parshah, fleeing from Laban and terrified at the prospect of meeting Esau again, he wrestles alone at night with an unnamed stranger. Then the man said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with G‑d and with humans and have overcome” . . . So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, “It is because I saw G‑d face to face, and yet my life was spared.”2 These are the decisive spiritual encounters of Jacob’s life, yet they happen in liminal space (the space between that is neither starting point nor destination), at a time when Jacob was at risk in both directions, where he came from and where he was going to. Yet it was at these points of maximal vulnerability that he encountered G‑d and found the courage to continue despite all the hazards of the journey. That is the strength Jacob bequeathed the Jewish people. What is remarkable is not merely that this one tiny people survived tragedies that would have spelled the end of any other people: the destruction of two Temples, the Babylonian and Roman conquests, the expulsions, persecutions and pogroms of the Middle Ages, the rise of anti-Semitism in nineteenth-century Europe, and the Holocaust. After each cataclysm it renewed itself, scaling new heights of achievement. During the Babylonian exile it deepened its engagement with the Torah. After the Roman destruction of Jerusalem it produced the great literary monuments of the Oral Torah: Midrash, Mishnah and Gemara. During the Middle Ages it produced masterpieces of law and Torah commentary, poetry and philosophy. A mere three years after the Holocaust it proclaimed the state of Israel, the Jewish return to history after the darkest night of exile. When I became chief rabbi, I had to undergo a medical examination. The doctor put me on a treadmill, walking at a very brisk pace. “What are you testing?” I asked him. “How fast I can go, or how long?” “Neither,” he replied. “What I am testing is how long it takes, when you come off the treadmill, for your pulse to return to normal.” That is when I discovered that health is measured by the power of recovery. That is true for everyone, but doubly so for leaders and for the Jewish people, a nation of Leadership, especially in matters of the spirit, is deeply stressfulleaders (that, I believe, is what the phrase “a kingdom of priests” means). Leaders suffer crises. That is a given of leadership. When Harold Macmillan, prime minister of Britain between 1957 and 1963, was asked what was the most difficult aspect of his time in office, he replied, “Events, dear boy, events.” Bad things happen, and when they do, the leader must take the strain so that others can sleep easily in their beds. Leadership, especially in matters of the spirit, is deeply stressful. Four figures in Tanach—Moses, Elijah, Jeremiah and Jonah—actually pray to die rather than continue. Nor was this true only in the distant past. Abraham Lincoln suffered deep bouts of depression. So did Churchill, who called it his “black dog.” Gandhi and Martin Luther King both attempted suicide in adolescence, and experienced depressive illness in adult life. The same was true of many great creative artists, among them Michelangelo, Beethoven and Van Gogh. Is it greatness that leads to moments of despair, or moments of despair that lead to greatness? Is it that those who lead internalize the stresses and tensions of their time? Or is it that those who are used to stress in their emotional lives find release in leading exceptional lives? There is no convincing answer to this in the literature thus far. But Jacob was a more emotionally volatile individual than either Abraham, who was often serene even in the face of great trials, or Isaac, who was more than usually withdrawn. Jacob feared; Jacob loved; Jacob spent more of his time in exile than the other patriarchs. But Jacob endured and persisted. Of all the figures in Genesis, he is the great survivor. The ability to survive and to recover is part of what it takes to be a leader. It is the willingness to live a life of risks that makes such individuals different from others. So said Theodore Roosevelt in one of the greatest speeches ever made on the subject: It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who It is not the critic who countsstrives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.3 Jacob endured the rivalry of Esau, the resentment of Laban, the tension between his wives and children, the early death of his beloved Rachel, and the loss for twenty-two years of his favorite son Joseph. He said to Pharaoh, “Few and hard have been the years of my life” (Genesis 47:9). Yet on the way he “encountered” angels, and whether they were wrestling with him or climbing the ladder to heaven, they lit the night with the aura of transcendence. To try, to fall, to fear, and yet to keep going: that is what it takes to be a leader. That was Jacob, the man who at the lowest ebbs of his life had his greatest visions of heaven.